The French Admiral (34 page)

Alan looked at his watch, then studied the set of the tide over the mud flats. It would be at least an hour, maybe two, before they could expect the tide to refloat Feather's barge, hours in which they would be exposed as naked and helpless as foundlings to the full view of the French blocking ships now working back to their stations in the York. “We'll have to man-haul her into deeper water, then head for those marshes over there.” Alan sighed wearily. “I have nine oars left. We'll share them and the crews out and find some place to hide.”

“That's where I was agoin', sir,” Feather agreed, careful not to nod his head too energetically. “They's a deep inlet round that second point ta the left, an' ya kin see the forests. We lost our water and biscuit, so me lads ain't 'ad nothin' since last night. We wuz gonna see what we could scrounge up afore 'eadin' back.”

“We have some, not much. Share it out with your men, but be sparing,” Alan told him.

“Aye, thankee, sir.”

“Seen anyone else?” Alan asked. “Ours or theirs?”

“Mebbe two er three o' our barges went by upriver just 'bout dawn, but too far out ta 'ail. Frog ships're back in the mouth o' the river, but no patrol boats yit, sir.”

Good as it was to know that they were not alone in their isolation, their situation had not been improved by the addition to the party.

Alan looked about the beach as he sat down at the high tide line among the screening sea oats. There were eighteen sailors, plus Feather the quartermaster's mate and Coe as steady senior hands. There were not thirty soldiers, including officers. They had one barrico of water, which would not make more than a taste for each man, one box of biscuits, which could not sustain life for more than a day or two, two boat compasses, and two leaky and unseaworthy barges. Their powder was soaked, so they could not hunt, and if they did get some game, they might not be able to light a fire to cook with. His sailors had come away with only jackknives and cutlasses for weapons. Lewrie had two pistols on him, both sure to misfire after all the rain, his midshipman's dirk, and a cutlass. Not exactly daunting prospects if they ran across Rebel troops ashore on the neck. Alan cocked his head to listen to the sound of the far-off cannonade around Yorktown. Bad as it would be back within the lines, they would be better off there than out in the wilds on their own so poorly equipped.

“Morning, Alan,” Burgess Chiswick said, plopping down next to him on the sand as though it were merely another morning back in the redoubt.

“Burgess,” Alan replied, “glad to see you still among the living.”

“Not for want of trying on the foe's part, I assure you. The very devil of a quandary we're in here, is it not?” Burgess said.

“Goddamn Admiral Graves.” Alan sighed. “He'll never come now.”

“Nor will General Clinton, so goddamn him, too. Have a sip on this,” Burgess said, offering a flask of liquor; it was corn whiskey.

“We must really be in trouble,” Alan quipped after sliding that liquid fire down his gullet. “I'm beginning to like this.”

After a brief rest, there was enough water over the tidal flat to try to drag Feather's barge off. They shared out the hands to give equal rowing strength to both boats and started heading up north again, close enough together to talk back and forth. Feather, now that he felt rescued, was talkative and full of lore about the Chesapeake.

“Over ta starboard, that's Guinea Marsh.” He pointed. “An' that's Big Island beyond. Now, ta larboard, we'll turn west inta this 'ere inlet. Round t'other side o' 'Og Island, ya'll see solid land. I 'member they's a cove, runs back like a notch offa this inlet. Damn near cuts Jenkins Neck inta an island, an' marshes on either 'and afore we gets to woods an' 'ard ground. No reason nobody'd come down 'ere alookin' fer us, an' mebbe not a dozen farmers down 'ere anyways.”

“Been here before, have you?” Alan asked, weary of the garrulous lecturer. He wished fervently that Feather would shut the hell up and let him be as miserable as he wanted to be.

“Did some tradin' 'ereabouts 'tween hitches, afore the Rebellion,” Feather went on. “Sweet li'l barque outa Boston, an' we'd row in ta pick up baccy an' whatnot an' land trade goods. Mind ye, 'twern't strictly legal, Mister Lewrie, 'cause the King's Stamps wasn't on everythin', but . . .”

“Is this your cove off the inlet?” Alan demanded, pointing to the left at a narrow waterway that led back almost to the south.

“No, sir, that's a false cove. Good beach fer smugglin' at low tide at the back of it, but we got further ta go. Now like I said, we wuz . . .”

I wonder if anyone would mind if I shot him? Alan asked himself.

At nearly nine in the morning they discovered the cove that Feather went on (and on) about, a long and narrow tongue of open water between salt marshes and some higher ground with scrubby coastal forest on it. Alan could tell Feather to shut his gob in case there were enemy lookouts about, which brought a blissful silence, broken only by the sound of the oars and the birds, and the continual barrage that was by then a natural background sound, much like a ship groaning as it worked across the sea while they slept. It was shallow, and the barges dragged on the bottom now and then and had to be poled across in places, though from the detritus on the shore they could see that there must be at least three feet of water at high tide.

“Lots of trash washed up.” Governour was pointing. “Once we put in we can cut some brush and cover the boats easily enough. You couldn't spot 'em 'til you stumbled across 'em.”

“Thank God for that,” Alan said.

They came to the end of the cove. To the west there was still salt marsh and some barren sand humps broken by stunted scrub growth. On the left hand, to the east, there was firmer beach and a long finger of green land to screen them from the sea. A small creek poured down into the back of the cove and meandered off to the south and west, too shallow to be navigated. All about were thick stands of trees.

“Put in to the east of the creek,” Alan said softly. “Fill that barrico first thing, if it's fresh water.”

“My men can fill their canteens, and then we must needs reconnoiter,” Governour said. “Your sailors should wait near the boats, just in case, ready to shove off. Wait as long as you can, mind.”

“I'll not abandon you, whatever you run into,” Alan swore.

“God bless you, then,” Governour said, readying his arms.

Almost as soon as the barges stuck their bows into shore, the Loyalist soldiers were off and gone as silently as smoke going up a chimney, rifles on half cock and long sword-bayonets fixed in case their cartouches and primings were bad. They faded off into the woods and the underbrush and disappeared, scouting like savages in all directions.

“Coe, take a party to fetch water. Feather, stand ready to cast off in case they run back here and say it's not safe.”

Feather was silent and yawning with nervous trepidation now that they were back ashore in hostile territory, which was a blessing for Alan. The men clutched their cutlasses, those ashore squatting down near the high tide mark, those in the boats flexing their muscles to leap out and push off at the first “View Halloo.”

Alan sat down on the bow of his boat, feet resting on the sand and carefully scraped the caked powder from his pistols' priming pans. He shook some loose powder from his powder flask and rolled it between his fingers to determine how dry it was, and reprimed his weapons. The pine plugs were still in the barrels, so there was a good chance that the charges were still dry in the muzzles. Both ends of the plugs were dry to the touch.

Mollow came creeping back through the scrub, bringing a gasp of alarm from the tense sailors, who were so keyed up even the sight of a red coat could frighten them.

“Mister Governour says 'tis clear,” Mollow reported to Lewrie with his usual lack of formality. “But they's a plantation over yonder.”

“Anyone about?” Alan asked as calmly as he could, repocketing the pistols.

“Looks ta be. Some house slaves, not so many,” Mollow muttered. “That means somebody there ta keep 'em in line. Nothin' stirrin', though. Nobody in the fields, an' that rain las' night wouldna done that tabacca no good. Not much o' hit been harvested. Shoulda been dryin' in barns weeks ago.”

“Big place?” Alan wondered aloud.

“Bigger'n some,” Mollow allowed with a shrug, then busied himself with his damp canteen. “Water's frayush, iffen ya go up the crick a ways.”

Burgess came drifting back to the cove and waved Alan to him.

“Quiet as a country church.” He grinned as he offered his full canteen to Lewrie. “Looks to be only one farm this far down the neck, and it's a big one. Twenty, thirty slave cabins t'other side of these woods. Lots of corn and beans, and a fair tobacco crop gone to rot if they don't get it in soon. Looks like they tried. Most of the slave cabins are empty.”

“Run off?”

“Probably. There's smoke coming from the house and the kitchen shed, so somebody's to home. Only slaves I could see were dressed good.”

“House servants, your man Mollow suspected.”

“Aye, most like. Nice big house, too. And barns and sheds. Four wagons but no stock other than a saddle horse or two, maybe coach horses. Livestock enough.”

“Lumber and tools.” Alan brightened at the possibilities. “No one would come this far to forage, would they?”

“Hard to say exactly. But we could be gone in a day,” Burgess told him. “The cove here almost cuts the neck in two. There's one poor road to guard, and we could see anyone coming across the fields from the edge of the woods. It's not three hundred paces to the far shore, and half of the distance is marshy. It'd be a killing ground for a dozen riflemen.”

“By God, let's do it!” Alan said. “We can take the place and use whatever they have to repair the barges. There's meat on the hoof and a whole parish full of vegetables to eat, plus whatever else we may find for our use.”

“Let us allow Governour to decide,” Burgess cautioned. “He's senior to both of us, and more used to this sort of thing.”

Governour Chiswick took another quarter of an hour to make his way back to the beach, his rifle cradled in one arm but no longer at cock. His walk was looser, less concerned with ducking at the first odd noise as he had been when he left.

“I went as far as the far shore,” he began. “Do you notice anything?”

Alan wondered what he was talking about. He looked the same as he had when he had departed on his scout; filthy and unshaven, just like the rest of them, and stinking of tidal flats and wet wool.

“Listen,” Governour said. “The bombardment has stopped.”

Once it was pointed out, Alan could notice the sudden absence of the muffled drumming of artillery. It had been such a part of their lives for the last few days that he had quite forgotten what dead silence was.

“One can see Yorktown from the far shore, just barely,” Chiswick said. “After the smoke blew away, it's fairly clear. Dead as a grave.”

“Then the army's gone on without us,” Burgess said, sagging in weariness and defeat.

“I did not say that.” Governour frowned. “As far as I can see, the army is still there, but there is no more shelling. I thought I saw boats ferrying men back from Gloucester to the Yorktown side. Now what does that suggest to you?”

“They could not break out,” Burgess surmised.

“I believe that Lord Cornwallis's plans were upset by that storm last night, and he may be evacuating Tarleton and Simcoe's men over with his to make a last stand where he at least has entrenchments enough for all of them.”

“No point to that. It was break out or go under last night,” Alan said bleakly. “Maybe the French and Rebels stopped shelling because there is nothing left to shell. Why shell beaten troops ready to . . .”

“Surrender,” Governour agreed softly.

“Does that apply to us?” Alan felt a chill.

“It had better not,” Governour said. “Oh, your Navy men would get decent treatment, but I have little hopes for Loyalists once the regulars march off and leave us in the care of militia or irregulars.”

“Then we don't surrender.” Burgess smartened up. “Alan, you're a sailor, you have boats. You can get us out to sea, can't you?”

“Of course, I can,” Alan promised, wondering to himself just how he was going to accomplish that miracle. Still, they were at liberty, and no one knew where they were . . . yet.

CHAPTER 11

T
hey
took possession of the plantation in the middle of the afternoon, after watching it for hours to see if there would be any surprises in store. They crept up through the empty slave cabins to the back of the house, exploring the barns and sheds as they went. As one party under Burgess Chiswick guarded the road and open ground to the west, the rest of them burst onto the grounds suddenly like a fox in a hen coop, raising about as much commotion until the sight of their weapons silenced all resistance.

There were about thirty-odd slaves, all women and children or very old men worn down to nubbins by a generation of hard work in the fields. There were perhaps half a dozen finer-dressed house slaves to do for their masters, including a cook, maids, and manservants.

There was an overseer, an older man with white hair who had been snoring away under the influence of a stone jug of rum, with a lusty black wench in his tumbledown shack near the main house.

“It's almost like home,” Alan observed after they had secured the place. The house was magnificent, a homey, pale brick construction with a split-pine shingle roof; it was two stories tall and as imposing as any prosperous farmstead back in England. There was a squarish central core, the original house, and two wings extending to either side so that it made an imposing sight facing the York River and the wharves. There was a brick-laid terrace in back that led to various storehouses and the stables. There were six matched horses there, sleek and glossy and tossing their manes as though they were ready for a brisk canter up the road to the west to see the sights. There were also a few saddle horses, as well as a pen of mules for field work. The coach house held an open carriage and a closed equipage, both as freshly painted and shiny as any duke's coach in London, obviously not locally made, and imported at some expense.

Entering the house reminded him even more of home. The floors were tight-laid oak parquet, covered with fine Turkey carpets. Heavy satin and velvet drapes hung by the large windows, and the walls were papered with what looked like new China paper. The quality of the furnishings—the brass and crystal, the framed pictures and the bright painted woodwork—was astonishingly good. The ceiling in the foyer had been painted into an imaginative scene replete with cherubs, clouds, and birds in blue and gilt by an artist of some talent as well. He was lost in admiration of the foyer when the mistress of the house and her entourage came down the stairs to see who had disturbed her peace.

“Well?” she demanded primly, her chest heaving in anger. “To what do I owe this invasion of my property? Who are you . . .
banditti?
”

Alan suddenly felt dirtier and shabbier than he had felt moments before, after being soaked all night, muddied with silt and sand.

“Lieutenant Chiswick, ma'am, of the North Carolina Volunteers. And you might be?” Governour said, sweeping off his wide hat to make a decent bow to her.

“Mrs. Elihu Hayley,” she replied. “And was it necessary to come bargin' into my land and my house at the point of a gun, sir?”

“I assure you, ma'am, were circumstances different we would have come calling decently. You have nothing to fear as long as we are forced to remain, which shall not be any longer than necessary. We shall attempt not to discomfort you and yours, as much as the situation will admit of.”

“I have quartered soldiers before, sir,” she said, warming to the situation but still a bit peeved. “My husband is a captain in the Virginia Militia, or should I say, he was. Had I known, or been asked . . .”

“Hmm.” Governour colored. “I fear you do not quite grasp our identity, ma'am. We are a Loyalist unit. This is Midshipman Lewrie of His Britannic Majesty's Navy.”

“Your servant, ma'am,” Alan said, making a leg to her as well.

“God save us!” She blanched at the news. “I thought . . .”

“Your pardon for any misunderstandings, ma'am,” Governour said. “There is only you in the house, I take it?”

“There is my son and my sister—and the servants o' course,” she stammered, her chest still heaving in alarm. Alan thought it quite a nice chest, better than he had seen lately, at least.

“Your pardon, ma'am, for casting any aspersions on a lady of quality, but I must assure myself as to the veracity of your statements,” Governour said. “You will not mind if my men search the house? Good. Corporal Knevet? Search the house, carefully, mind. Don't break anything.”

“Raght, Mister Governour,” the dour corporal drawled, fetching a pair of troopers to help him.

“Now look here!” the woman began, but she was carefully shouldered out of the way as the men went up the stairs, and she had no choice but to descend to the foyer level and fume.

Governour went to a handsomely carved wine cabinet and opened it. He lifted out a decanter of port and sniffed at it, then poured himself a glass. “Alan?”

“Don't mind if I do, sir.” Alan grinned.

“Don't stand on ceremony. It's Governour. Ma'am, do you have spirits in the house or sheds besides this cabinet?”

“Go to the devil!” Mistress Hayley shot back, her back up once more. “Do you think you can take whatever you want from us?”

“Yes, ma'am, I do,” Governour replied sternly. “You are admittedly a Rebel household, wife of a man-in-arms against his rightful King. We shall not, however, loot you. My men are hungry and we need certain items to stay in the field. Other than our immediate needs, your property will be safe. But I must know about the spirits.”

“I'll not give you or your men the pleasure!” she hissed, eager to dash the glass from Governour's hand if she could.

“It is a question of your safety, ma'am, I assure you.”

“I shall say no more. Excuse me,” she said regally, turning to go.

“If my troops or Mister Lewrie's seamen find drink, ma'am, I cannot guarantee what sort of discipline or courtesy you may expect,” Governour warned. “Better I know where it is so it may be guarded by trusted men than should they get cup-shot and forget all decency.”

That stopped her in her tracks, and she whirled about, lifting the bottom of her skirts so that Alan could glimpse some rather fine ankles as well. She was pretty enough for an older woman, late thirties at best, with piles of dark hair and snapping brown eyes. A bit of a dumpling, but that had never stopped him before.

“Very well,” she snapped. “There is the cabinet. There is a butler's pantry by the kitchen and there is rum and brandy kegs in the cellar we dole out to the field hands. Nothing is kept outside the house lest the slaves get to it and run wild.”

“Your slaves seem rather thin on the ground,” Governour observed. “Your crop will be ruined if you don't get it in.”

“I sent the men off to Gloucester for labor at the request of a militia officer. I hope to have 'em back soon when your army is beat.”

“Then that may be awhile yet, ma'am.” Governour smiled as though Cornwallis was winning.

Corporal Knevet came back down the stairs, escorting another woman, this one a little younger and prettier than Mrs. Hayley, along with a frightened colored maid and a boy of about fifteen, dressed in a fine suit of dittoes—snuff-colored coat, waistcoat, and breeches. If his mother had been termagant, then he was a spitfire from hell, unsure whether to yell, cower against his mother's skirts, or try to kill someone all at the same time.

“Damn ya,” he hissed. “Damn ya all ta hell! We got ya beat, and you're all gonna die. When the soldiers come, I wanna watch ya die!”

“Then I hope you do not mind waiting a few days for the sight,” Governour said, raising his glass in toast to the boy's spirit.

“House is clean,” Knevet informed them. “Huntin' guns is all in the parlor, an' I took all the pistols and such I could find.”

“Check the cellars,” Governour said. “You'll find some kegs of rum and brandy, most like the cheapest swill ever turned a black's toes up. Issue at the normal rate with supper, but post a reliable man to guard it, else. No one to enter or leave the house but us.”

Mrs. Hayley crossed to her son to shush him after his outburst, but he was having little of it. “Hush up, Rodney, or they'll kill us all this very instant!” she admonished.

“Dirty oppressor Tories, and press-gangers! Momma, what call they got ta trample on us? They're finished an' they know it!”

“Ma'am, your child is getting tiresome. Perhaps you might want to tuck him in for his nap?” Governour frowned.

“Come, Rodney,” the sister said. “Sarah, I'll take him.”

“I'll not!” Rodney spat.

“You will,” his mother fumed.

“Governour,” Alan muttered close. “I have some guineas on me. Perhaps we slipped them some chink, they wouldn't make such a fuss.”

“You do? Sounds like it might work. Why don't you try?”

“Mrs. Hayley, we are not looters,” Alan began. “There is no need for anyone to be put out by our brief stay, and I am empowered by my Sovereign to make recompense for anything we are forced to requisition.”

“What good are promissory notes?” she complained.

“We have guineas, ma'am,” Alan replied, digging the purse from his coat. He had at least one hundred guineas in it, and they gave off a pleasant jingle as he hefted them.

“Don't do it, mother,” the boy named Rodney said.

“Go to your room, Rodney,” she said to him. Prosperous as they all looked, there had been a shortage of specie in the Colonies since '76, and isolated as they were from the major smuggling cities or garrisons, they would be living on barter and the produce of the farm, with no outlet for the tobacco they had grown. She could at least be mollified by gold.

“I think it is an equitable offer,” the sister said, and Alan saw that she was indeed very pretty, perhaps five or more years younger than her sister
la
Hayley. “Quite kind of you, considering.”

“They killed my papa!” the boy cried. “They killed your Robert, and you'd take their filthy money?”

“Rodney, go to your room, now!” Mrs. Hayley sharply said, and the boy relented, sulking back up the stairs. “I will consider your offer, sir. I may not accept, but I will at least consider it. Come, Nancy. Sir, we require our body servants to cook and do for us while you're here.”

“If they remain in the house and the immediate grounds, there shall be no problem, ma'am,” Governour told her quite cordially. “I must keep your overseer separate, of course, if his presence is not needed.”

Mrs. Hayley and her sister swept out of the room and up the stairs to their rooms. But the sister named Nancy did look back and give Alan a glance, lowering her lashes before turning to complete her ascent.

“Damme, what a pack of cats!” Alan chuckled once they were gone.

“Have some more port,” Governour offered. “Damned interesting.”

“What is?” Alan said, flinging himself down on a settee to take his ease. Governour poured him a healthy bumper.

“Here we have a framed portrait of a rather simple-looking man named Elihu Hayley, trimmed in black.” Governour was observing a painting on the wall of the front parlor, hanging in a prominent position. “And by the brass plaque we learn that he died in 1778, so she has been a widow for some time. The sister practically slavered when you mentioned gold and she got most missish over us. That long, flirtatious look from the top of the stairs. You did not notice?”

“Yes, I did,” Alan said a little smugly.

“My black mammy once said that if times got hard, a rat'd eat red onions. There's not enough slave women or children to fill a quarter of those cabins, so the slaves did not go off suddenly, but were most likely sold a few at a time to raise money to keep all this style going,” Chiswick said. “There's room in the stables for twenty horses, and that crop of tobacco is nothing like what this place could grow. Hardly any of it harvested to dry and the rest rotting. Not even been wormed or suckered.”

“Whatever that means, Governour,” Alan drawled lazily.

“Trust me. The drying barns are empty, and the storehouses do not have previous crops kegged up for shipment. I think your offer of gold mollified them into more positive sweetness than we could expect.”

“Don't tell me we've stumbled into a knocking shop,” Alan said.

“Hopefully, we won't be here long enough to know. Now, what may we do to guarantee our security here? Have any ideas, Alan?”

Alan leaned back and rested his head on the settee, his feet asprawl across the carpet as he thought on it.

“The overseer is no problem,” he opined. “Keep him drunk and in with his black piece. Slaves aren't a worry, either, except for that butler and the manservant, but they'll stay locked in the house. And that boy ought to be chained to the wall. I'd watch him like a hawk.”

“Very good. Go on.”

“Anyone wanting to carry word of us would need a horse, so we keep them guarded. And perhaps we shouldn't let them see our numbers.