The French Admiral (27 page)

“Four-hour watches, Mister Lewrie?”

“Aye. You can use a watch?”

“Ah, I ain't no scholard, Mister Lewrie,” Knatchbull admitted in the darkness. “But I got the hour glass.”

“Good enough, then,” Alan said, making a production of yawning for Knatchbull's and his men's benefit. “I'll turn in. Send a man to wake me if there is an alarm, and without fail at the end of the middle watch.”

Alan wandered back from the ramparts of their new post and found his small tent tucked away under a grove of trees snuggled up on the right side of the draw. Cony had a small fire going that was barely flaming to see by as he stripped off his coat and waistcoat, loosened his neckcloth, and slid off his shoes.

“You turn in, Cony,” Alan told him. “Knatchbull will send someone to wake you for lookout before dawn.”

“Aye, Mister Lewrie,” Cony replied, spreading a hammock for ground cloth by the fire and arranging his blankets.

Alan crawled into the tent and found his own bedding. He stretched out and flung a rough blanket over his body so he could lie in the dark and watch the tiny flickers of the fire on the wall of the tent, wide awake and staring up at the faint shadows of the boughs over his head as they swayed in the faint wind and moonlight.

“Sir?” Cony said softly from beyond the tent flap.

“Aye, Cony.”

“They's a flask o' rum by yer head, sir, ta help ya caulk the better,” Cony told him, already rolled into his own blankets against the damp night chill.

Thank God, Alan thought, fumbling about until his hand fell on a small leather bottle and withdrew the stopper. Neat rum was not something he normally preferred, but tonight it was welcome. He took a small sip and winced at the bite of the rum and its sharp odor.

The bedding rustled as he lifted the bottle to his lips once more, and Alan could swear he could already feel the tiny movements of the many bugs drawn to him by his warmth, his scent, and the hope for blood. That was one of the worst parts of serving on land—being awakened by the bite of something too small to be fought, or finding the welts in the morning and feeling the fleas begin to shift about in his clothing. He had already had several ticks withdrawn from his skin; each time he was filled with loathing at the brutes and the way they had swelled by feeding on him. At least the Navy did not have to put up with the bastards and could fumigate and rid a ship of most lice, fleas, and other insects. Roaches were the main worry on a ship, along with the occasional brave rat that ventured out of the orlop and bilges.

God, I wish I could just scream, or something! he thought; instead of having to sham all this cow-stupid calm! I swear! All these bugs, the filth and ordure . . . sleeping on the cold ground? Do I get back aboard
Desperate
and out to sea, I'll never complain about Navy life again!

Realizing how desperate he was to make such a vow, he could have pinched himself to see if he was not already dreaming. But he had to wait a long time for sleep to come that night, while the ground trembled ever so gently with the vibrations of the approaching army.

“Pull out?” Governour Chiswick spat. “Damme, that's a wrench.”

“Pull out to where?” Burgess asked.

“Back into the inner fortifications closer to Yorktown,” Governour informed them, waving a feeble hand toward the east.

“Bah, das ist . . .” Heros von Muecke searched for the right word in English but failed to find anything suitable. “Sheiss!” he finally spat. “Ve here der bastards can skin!”

“The Star Redoubt can control the western approaches to the town and everything else is either marsh or ravine,” Governour said. “They don't think our position is favorable. It's not just us, mind. The entire outer defense line is being pulled back. On the other bank of the creek's ravines there's high ground . . . where we can dig in. Lord Cornwallis doesn't think he has the spare troops to man such a long perimeter.”

“The hell we can't!” Burgess bragged. “Just let the shits try!”

“We have our orders,” Governour said.

Alan, who had been sitting back in the pavilion and listening to the argument, had only one thought: to get his artillery evacuated. Then there might even be a chance to reembark the guns into
Desperate,
take a much-needed bath, and get aboard ship and away from this nightmare.

“My guns,” he said. “I need horse teams and limbers.”

“Will those carriages hold up?” Governour asked.

“Of course they will,” Alan snapped. “For the two guns mounted on them, that is. The third gun needs a heavy wagon to take the barrel and a second to take the truck and gun tools.”

“I'll send a rider to ask for them, then,” Governour said. “That means we have to stay here 'til Mister Lewrie's guns are out of here, though. I'll tell the staff that, too.”

This time there would be no thought of dismantling the ramparts.

The tents and shelters were taken down and folded up, the personal gear was bundled into field packs, the magazines emptied once more and the guns rolled out of position, ready for the horse teams to arrive. But the third gun could only be held in abeyance. It took the effort of all the naval party to lift the weight of a long nine barrel from the gun truck with heavy tackle slung below the piece, then laid out on the ground on a section of heavy netting.

When the teams did arrive, it was a scrawny pack of beasts that had been despatched. The grazing had not been the best, and the corn and oats were directed to the troops' diet instead of the horses. With the third barrel in the wagon, finally, it took a double team of eight of the horses to draw it, and the men had to assist the remaining animals with their own muscle power, up through the draw, down the back side, along the edge of the marshes to the main road, sometimes unharnessing some horses to double up whenever a gun bogged down.

They rolled into Yorktown and were left on their own after the North Carolina troops and the Jagers were sent off to their new quarters. Alan bade everyone a hearty good-bye, even von Muecke, and then sat down by the side of the road to wait for instructions since the army staff seemed to have forgotten about them completely. After getting thoroughly bored with an hour of inactivity, Alan wandered off to the docks.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, doffing his hat to a naval lieutenant who was directing the work of a party loading barges to supply the troops across the river.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I am in charge of three guns from
Desperate,
sir,” Alan said. “And we were posted on the far bank of the creek until this morning. Now no one has a clue about what we are to do with them. There are three long nines, two on field carriages and one still on a naval carriage.”

“Well, why do you not ask the teamsters?”

“They only want their animals and wagons back and have no instructions as to taking us anyplace else, sir.”

“Damme, what a muddle!” the lieutenant swore. “Trust the army to have the brains of a crop-sick dominee do-little! See the headquarters, back of the town.”

“Aye, sir.”

He had not gone a hundred yards, though, before he ran into David Avery and gunner's mate Tulley, and gave a great shout to get their attention.

“Alan!” David cried back. “How do you keep?”

“Full of fleas but main well, considering,” Alan replied, very glad to see someone from the ship once more. “Look here, the army has no idea about what to do with my guns, and . . .”

“Gawd a-mighty, Mister Lewrie, wot ya been doin' wi' my guns?” Tulley exploded, seeing the impromptu field carriages.

“I wrote the captain of them,” Alan snapped. “He seemed most impressed, Mister Tulley.” Treghues had indeed replied to Lewrie's letter with a most kind answer, giving faint praise for his initiative and creativity, but it was praise nonetheless, and that from a man who had recently been willing to feed Lewrie to the fires of hell and help shovel some good, hot-burning sea-coal into the bargain, so Alan was having none of it.

“Damn, there's two guns wot we'll never get back now!” Tulley spat.

“Get back?” Alan asked, perplexed.

“Captain Treghues asked for some of his artillery back, since we were the only ship left in harbor of any size that was even partially armed,” David explained. “When Cornwallis decided to withdraw into the inner defense line, the staff said we could have them, since they were on naval trucks and unsuitable for a siege work. But now . . .”

“Even the smashers?” Alan wondered, asking about the carronades.

“Well, no, they do want to hold onto those,” David said, taking a keen interest in the field carriages himself. “Even so, we are leaving four pieces on the Gloucester side, but we got my nine-pounder back aboard this morning, and we can refit your third gun. But these . . .”

“What if we can get them back aboard right away?” Alan pressed, eager to get off the land. “We can knock the trails and limbers off, put them back on their own small wheels and axles. What would you wager the army doesn't even know of them?”

“They know,” David said sadly.

“Damn,” Lewrie groaned in misery.

“They thought it most clever, and if we still had access to all that timber across the ravines, they might convert more. So these two guns stay with the army.”

“Damn,” Alan expostulated, even more miserably.

“Along with the nacky cock who came up with the idea.”

“Oh, hell!”

I have done it again, Alan cursed himself; I got just too bloody sly for my own good! There's no bloody justice in this world, I swear. Damme for being clever, damme for doing something stupid, it's all one. If I tried to do something dumb, I'd get a caning for it anyway!

“Surely, one midshipman is much the same as another,” Alan said. “They could bring Forrester over. Let him take some glory.”

“You want to appear keen, do you not, Alan?” David queried, looking at him askance. “Captain Symonds put it in his reports and asked for you by name.”

“Oh, did he?” Alan said, raising his eyebrows.

Well, perhaps that is a different kettle of fish. When the fleet gets here to relieve us, I could gain favorable interest from Hood and Graves. That couldn't hurt my career.

“I am told,” David Avery told him in a softer voice and from a much closer distance, “that the captain is in his right mind once more, and was flattered that Symonds asked for you. Even commended you for the effort to convert the pieces to field use. Much as he may have liked to do something good for Forrester, you are the one in favor at present. I should make the most of it.”

“It‘s simply that land service is so depriving, so dirty and full of bugs and such,” Alan insisted, finding another reason for his reluctance to stay ashore. “I could use a good delousing, David. Our army is not the cleanest lot I've ever served with.”

“I spent a few nights sleeping rough myself, so I can sympathize.” His friend laughed. “It's most fortunate we ran into you so we can take the third gun back aboard ship this evening. If there is anything you need from your chest or from our mess to ease your burden, do let me know, and I'll see you get it.”

“That's very kind of you, David,” Alan said, hiding the bitterness he felt at being the ship's perpetual orphan, banished ashore until old age, it seemed, while Avery could loll about with few duties onboard
Desperate.
Tulley was still incensed about this gun, but he was glad to take charge of the disassembled piece and move it toward the docks, along with a third of Alan's shore party. Alan had no choice but to sigh and direct the teamsters to tow his converted field guns into town, where an army artillery officer was expecting his arrival. They were shoved into the line on the east side of the town, overlooking the river and the docks, almost on the edge of the bluffs.

The inner defense line, for all the work done on it by slaves and soldiers, wasn't much better than what he had seen out in the hills. The rampart was low enough to jump over, and the trenches behind it were not very deep, either, though they were rooved with scrap canvas and tents to keep the rain and sun off the men, and there were small zigzagging trenches about waist high that snaked back into the town through which rations and relieving sentries could communicate with the ramparts. The line was also zigzag for much of its length facing the enemy forces, which would lead attackers into cross fires from front and sides. In some places easier to approach, the fortifications had been given a crenellation in the form of a small redoubt that jutted out onto a higher piece of ground, or one indented to take advantage of a ravine where the foe could congregate and be struck from three sides, instead of only two.

The walls, though, were not three feet high anywhere, barely able to shelter a man standing in the trenches, faced with
abatis,
strung with
chevaux-de-frise
to deter cavalry in the easier ground. There were also some outlying redoubts beyond the ramparts as strongpoints, especially on the south-east end of the town, nearest the French landings on the James River, a few clustered to the south corner above the ravine by the Hornwork, a large redoubt that overlooked the open ground around Wormsley's Pond and the creek of the same name, and even one still across the York Creek, but better sited than anything Alan had been involved with.