The French Admiral (19 page)

“Mostly,” Chiswick said, peering into the woods still. “When our company was raised, my father helped outfit them and thought Major Ferguson was onto a good thing. Some of the other companies had to make do with the Brown Bess or their own guns from home. Do you like it?”

“Aye, sir,” Alan said. “I'd like to try my hand with one someday.”

“Pity poor Patrick Ferguson could not convince the army to adopt it,” Chiswick commented, looking up at Alan for a moment. “Now he's dead and his rifle will most likely die with him.”

“It would be perfect for use at sea, though,” Alan observed. “To fire at long range with aimed fire would play merry hell with officers on a quarterdeck.”

“As long as the enemy did not play merry hell with you,” Chiswick grunted. “I cannot imagine just standing there out in the open like you do in sea fighting.”

“Mostly you are behind a bulwark or a barricade made of rolled-up hammocks, sir,” Alan said. “For my part, I cannot imagine standing out in the open like regular infantry does, trading broadsides or volleys or whatever at a hundred paces.”

“Let the
line
troops do that,” Chiswick sneered. “We're riflemen, by God—out on the flanks where we can do the most good, screening the advance or covering a retreat.”

“So your brother informed me, sir.”

“Well, there are some pines for you.” Chiswick pointed to the low ridge ahead with his rifle barrel. “Do you believe they would suit?”

“It is not for me to judge, sir, but I will fetch the carpenter and the bosun,” Alan said, looking at the trees growing up the hill to the right and left of the road. “They look tall and thick enough.”

“I'll halt my skirmishers at the top of the hill 'til you've made your decision, then,” Chiswick offered.

“Aye, sir,” Alan said, and wheeled his horse about to canter back.

It seemed that those trees would suit admirably, being both tall enough, straight enough, and thick enough to serve as new masts and spars once they were trimmed of limbs and stripped down. The limbs were not so low on them that the best parts of the trees would have too many knots or knurls once they were cut to the right lengths.

“Ya chose well, sor,” the carpenter allowed to Chiswick.

“We used to mill timber and float it down to Wilmington on the river,” Chiswick told them. “They looked suitable to me.”

“Let's get to work, then,” Railsford said, all of a bustle to get something accomplished so they could get out of those woods before dark. “Lewrie, have the hands stack arms and start felling those trees the bosun and the carpenter indicate.”

“Aye, sir,” Alan said, dismounting. “Perhaps we shall finish in time to get a little hunting done, sir.”

“What do you say to that, Lieutenant Chiswick?” Railsford said.

“I'd not stray too far if you do,” he cautioned, “the fewer men the better, and the less shots, as well. We don't know who's out here, and don't want to draw attention to ourselves.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Railsford frowned. “Still, some fresh meat'd be welcome.”

“With a rifle instead of a musket, I could bag something, sir,” Alan said, hoping to get out of standing around supervising the working party. “I would not fire until I was sure of my target.”

“Yes,” Railsford said, “and you're about as useful at this as tits on a man. Bosun, have we a good woodsman to accompany the midshipman?”

“Cony, sir, 'twas caught poachin' afore he joined.”

“I would have to send some of my men, regardless,” Chiswick said. “Poacher or not, this is not some squire's private preserve.”

“I could take Mollow, sir,” Burgess Chiswick volunteered. “And we could use the horses to carry anything we bag.”

“Right,” Chiswick said after a moment's thought. “But do not go too far or stray too far from the road. If you meet up with any trouble, strike for the river to the north and get into the open. No wild firing, or I'll have your hide, see?”

“When did I need more than one shot, dear brother?” Burgess chided.

“True enough,” the elder Chiswick had to admit, albeit grudgingly. “Mollow, do you see the sergeant for the trumpet. Give us a blast on it if you run into any enemy troops.”

“That I will, 'pon my honor,” the private said, slouching over the barrel of his rifle as no English regular would ever be allowed.

“You wished to try a Ferguson,” Chiswick said to Lewrie as his private dashed off on his errand. “Here, use mine.”

He offered the rifle and a cartouche pouch, taking Lewrie's in exchange. “If you think twenty rounds will be enough?”

“If not, maybe I can pester a deer to death, sir,” Alan replied, matching Chiswick's sardonic, teasing expression.

“Everyone ready?” Burgess asked once Mollow had joined them along with Cony, the wiry young ordinary seaman. “Here, leave your sword behind. You'll only trip on it in the woods. Got pistols just in case?” Every man carried at least one, with the army man armed with a pair of long-barreled, and probably more accurate, dragoon pistols. Chiswick took off his own sword and tossed it to his orderly, retaining a bayonet.

“Along the creek, or over the hills?” Alan asked the ensign.

“Too late in the morning for game along the creek,” the younger Chiswick decided. “They'd come down to drink at dawn and then go back up into the woods. Best cross the hill and see what's on the other side. We'll lead the horses.”

CHAPTER 6

A
fter
the first hour they had covered only a mile, creeping like slugs through the woods to the south of the road. Mollow and Cony were out ahead on the flanks, almost out of sight, while Lewrie and the ensign formed the central pair, within a long musket shot of each other. Alan was enjoying himself hugely as he picked a way through the underbrush wide and high enough for the led mare to follow. He had not been this far away from uniforms and naval discipline in months, even though he had to admit to himself that he did not know what the hell he was doing. He was not a trained hunter, not like Mollow, Cony, or Chiswick, who had been at it almost since birth. He was indeed a city man, only exposed to hunting in the summers on his father's not-so-large estate, more at home with bird shooting or riding behind a pack of hounds over open fields.

This silent crouching and stalking, listening for the sounds of game and trying to limit one's own clumsy crashings and slitherings was foreign to him, but he was getting into the spirit of it although it was damned dry work. The ground was too dry to see much in the way of a sign, or to recognize it as old or new if he had. Face it, I am not a Red Indian he thought. Still, it was so close to play instead of work that he could easily lose himself in the process, not being dependent on what he shot to be fed that night or not.

The woods began to open up before him, and he could see signs that the trees had been thinned at one time; some stumps were still sticking up. He could stand up fully, and he halted to survey things. There was less shrubbery, and what was evident was low and fairly new. He looked to his left to see Cony halted as well, merely a flash of red-and-white checkered shirt between the trees. He looked to his right to see Chiswick, who was coming towards him without his horse. As Alan watched, Mollow brought up the rear, leading the animal. Chiswick waved at him and pointed, as though shoving him away, and Alan got the idea that he should turn and go south towards Cony. They carried on this silent dialogue until he determined that that was indeed what the officer intended.

They carried on south for some time until Cony waved them to a halt and motioned them down while he snuck deeper into the woods to the right, their original direction before the turn. Alan sat down behind a tree and brought his rifle up to his side, glad for a chance to get off his aching feet in the cracked and pinching shoes. Chiswick came on down to him from the north to join him.

“We're on someone's farmland,” Chiswick said softly, taking a seat near him with his rifle ready as well.

“How can you tell?”

“Stumps, for one,” Chiswick said, as though it was self-evident. “And I ran into a rail fence and a lane heading down this way. You would have, too, in another minute. Low, sunken lane. Great place for an ambush. And there was a pasture and another fence on the other side of that.”

“Did it look occupied?” Alan asked, crouching by a sturdy bush to tie the reins of his horse so both hands would be free to use his rifle.

“Couldn't tell.” Chiswick shrugged.

“Well, is that good or bad?” Alan persisted, a little put off that he had to ask so much information. Damme, I spend nigh on two years getting the lore right at one thing, and here I am a rank amateur again! And the galling thing is, I don't know enough to even ask the right questions. He's going to think me a complete slow coach.

“No way to know until we discover it,” Chiswick said with a grin. “If it's a Rebel farmstead, we can take what we like. Might be abandoned after the armies came through here in the summer, and we can still take what we like, loyalties be damned. On the other hand, we could run into a battalion of troops already using it.”

“In which case, we fade away like startled deer and head back to the working party,” Alan said.

“There's the truth of it,” Chiswick replied, very much on his guard from hard field experience, but reveling in danger. “Ah, I see your man wants us.”

They rose to a crouch and headed down toward Cony, motioning Mollow to bring the other mount down to where they had waited. Mollow understood his ensign's signal and tied both horses to the same clump of brush, then came to join them so that all the party were together.

“Fence, sir.” Cony grinned as though he was at home sneaking into his squire's rabbit runs. “They's a farm t'other side o' this fence. They's somethin' movin', too, sir. Don't sound like men. Cow, maybe.”

“Supper, maybe.” Alan grinned in return. “And without firing one shot to attract attention.”

“Don't eat it before it's skinned, sailor,” Burgess chuckled. “I and Mollow will scout ahead. You wait here with your man. If you hear any to-do, get back to the horses quick as a wink and head for the main road. Don't worry about us.”

Burgess pulled his rifle back to half cock and went off to the left, pointing the private dead ahead. Alan thought about cocking his own rifle, but demurred, not sure enough of himself in case there was a problem until it had presented itself in true colors.

“Smelt like a farm, though, sir,” Cony said almost in his ear, taking dangerous liberty with ship's discipline and the separation expected between a common seaman and a midshipman. “Cain't hide that from my nose, sir.”

“We shall see directly, then,” Alan said, trying to appear as stoical as a post-captain, while ready to squirm with anticipation. It was five minutes before Mollow came sneaking through the brush to them, almost on his hands and knees.

“We're in luck, that we are,” Mollow said, showing the same lack of formality to Lewrie that he had to his own lieutenant before.

“Was it a cow?” Alan asked, still whispering.

“It's a whole damn fuckin' ark over thar,” Mollow said. “Farm paddock an' pastures. They's a cow with two calves, coupla sheep an' two half-grown pigs. Mighty skittish, so we don't wanta spook 'em. Mighta been turned out wild. No sign o' life from the house yit. Mister Burgess is a'checkin' that out now, but we can move up. Mind ya do it quiet, now. I'll fetch the horses.”

They followed Mollow's trail through the woods until they reached a rail fence made of split pine logs stacked zigzag atop each other waist high. Mollow had very quietly taken a stretch of them down to let room for the horses to be led through. There was a dry dirt lane before them that led to a wider clearing to the left and the hint of a house and some outbuildings. In a pasture directly ahead of them, there were some animals grazing or rooting about, warily distanced to the far side of the pasture near the trees, but showing no real signs of distress.

“Put a halter on that cow, an' the little 'uns'll tag along quiet as mice, Mister Lewrie,” Cony said, taking his musket off half cock. “Pigs might be a problem, though, sir.”

“We could pack them back on the horses once they're dead.”

“Better'n venison any day, sir,” Cony said, slinging his gun and heading off for the farmstead to the left.

Ensign Chiswick met them in the middle of the road, his rifle also now slung muzzle down and a rag wrapped around the lock to keep dirt out.

“Place looks abandoned,” he said in a normal tone of voice. “The barn's been burned down and the house appears to have been looted. The doors and window shutters are off and the yard's full of castoffs.”

“It's not hunting, but we'll take something home for the pot,” Alan said, glad that they did not have to take aim and fire at something that would draw attention to themselves.

“And look what else I found,” Chiswick said, holding up his left hand in triumph.

It looked like a rough lump of candle wax, which made Alan wonder just what a colonial thought valuable.

“It's soap!” Chiswick chortled. “Homemade soap. Might take the hide off you, but it'll get you clean enough for a burying.”

“I'd pass on the burying,” Alan said quickly, “but it has been a time since I had a full bath.”

“I had noticed,” Chiswick japed, wrinkling his nose as though he thought Alan stank worse than most people did. “There is a small creek in the place, dammed up below the barn for a stock pond. Once we get these animals rounded up, we may bathe before heading back.”

“Is that safe, way out here?” Alan asked.

“Nothing ran those animals off, so it should be. Now, how are you at roping wild pigs?”

It turned out that Alan was terrible at roping wild pigs. It was easy enough to get a rope around the neck of the mother cow, for they had not been running wild very long. Once she was led into the barnyard, her calves followed along docilely enough. The sheep could be hemmed in with much shouting and waving into a corner of fencing, where Alan could dive onto one and hold it down until a lead could be placed on it. In the barnyard they found two chickens and a rooster, which were despatched with a piece of light wood and gutted on the spot to tie them on the saddles.

The pigs, though. The pigs were devils in disguise, squealing and snorting and making mock charges at them, almost impossible to grab and fast as the wind for being built so low to the ground. A man on horseback could not keep up with their bursts of speed or match their twists and turns. Mollow was an expert with a length of rope, forming a noose at one end and throwing it in a whistling arc to settle over any target's neck to draw snug, making it look like an effortless skill. Even that did not avail over the thick necks of the pigs.

“The devil with it!” Alan gasped after his fourth trip at a dead run across the pasture. “Why don't we . . . just shoot . . . the buggers?”

“Suppose we'll have to,” Chiswick said, panting on his knees by Lewrie. “Hate to do it, though.”

“I
hate
the bastards,” Alan growled. “I'll do it!”

“The noise is what I meant. Look out!”

One of the pigs had raced back straight for them, evidently wanting to get his own back. He was not a wild boar with tusks to slash a man open, but he had a mean set of teeth anyway. Chiswick jumped free, but Alan could not move in time and could only roll away as the hog slammed into him at full tilt, almost knocking all the wind out of him, rooting with his snout at Alan's crotch.

“Damned if you do!” Alan cried, drawing his dirk with one hand and grabbing a forefoot with the other. He stabbed down, up, sideways, as the hog rolled him like a slopbucket around the pasture and began to squeal in pain. Alan had a chance to roll on top and get a few more strokes in with his dirk while the blood flew like a fountain. Finally, assured the animal was dead, he gladly got to his feet and backed away.

The other pig succumbed to a rifle shot, and their course in animal husbandry was over for the day, leaving them time to laugh at Lewrie's appearance. He was pig blood and pig shit, old, dried cow pats and grass stains from head to foot, his stockings torn down to his ankles, one shoe missing, and the seams of his jacket ripped open. The black ribbon that bound his clubbed-back hair was gone and his hair hung lank and dirty on either side of his face.

“Hurrah, you done fer 'im, sir!” Cony roared, taking an opportunity to get a laugh on an officer-to-be.

“Might be needin' this,” Mollow said, offering him his shoe.

“Still have that soap, Chiswick?” Alan glared, his chest heaving for air after his battle to the death with an enraged porker. “I think I'll take you up on your offer of a bath.”

They slit both pigs' throats, dragged them into the farmyard and hung them up to bleed fully after slicing their bellies open and gutting them. Mollow made a drag from two fence poles depended from one of the horses' saddles and laced them together so that the carcasses could be carried. Then Chiswick gallantly offered to stand guard while Cony and Lewrie got an opportunity for a wash in the stock pond.

Cony was having little of it. He took off his shirt, socks and shoes, rolled up his slop trousers and waded in for a quick splash, not having much use for soap. “'Tis unhealthy ta take too many baths, sir, so it is,” he said firmly. “One at yer birthin', one at yer weddin', one at yer dyin', that's all a good Englishman needs.”

Alan, though, was happy to shuck his clothes and let them soak in the pond while he waded in with soap in hand, naked as the day he was born.

There was little enough fresh water aboard ship, rationed at one gallon per day per man, and most of that used for boiling rations in the steep-tubs, with only a pint a day for sponging or shaving, so it was heaven to lie back with his posterior resting on the shallow bottom and lave himself with water warmed by the sun. He scrubbed with the hard lump of soap until all his saltwater boils and chafes stung, but it felt like a healing sting, like staunching a cut in seawater. He stood up knee deep and lathered his whole body, then dunked and rinsed. He soaped his scalp and rubbed and scratched with his fingers until his hair felt almost squeaky between his hands.

“A little bit of heaven, is it not?” Burgess asked, squatting by the bank with rifle in hand to stand guard for him.

“Maybe it is dangerous to staunch one's perspiration, or bathe too often, but now and then, it's marvelous!” Alan sighed happily.

“I told your seaman to scrub out the worst from your uniform.”