The French Admiral (55 page)

I am rich enough for even a girl who could bring nothing as her portion but her bedding and linens, he thought. No, best put her out of your mind, laddy. Just 'cause I dallied with her is no reason to even consider such a thing. She's an artless country wench and I'd be bored silly raising pigs—don't know the first thing about farming and bringing in the sheaves and all that. It's London and Lucy Beauman for me, and if I ever rise before ten in the morning, it'll be the Second Coming that wakes me. Only livestock I want to see'll be stuffed removes.

Still, he did not want to waste the paper—it was dear in the islands. He continued the letter, relating his good news about his inheritance, glossing over the reason he had to go to sea, as though he had been cheated in his properly patriotic absence. He was teasingly charming, striking serious notes when asking as to the health of her dad and mother, inquiring about her brothers. He put tongue in cheek and could not resist making the subtlest allusions to their night on deck, and when he read it back, he thought it clever and only mildly romantic, just the very thing to liven the poor gawk's days.

Only then did he put himself in the proper frame of mind and begin a letter to Lucy Beauman, a short one that could go off in the next packet boat.

Desperate
loafed along, conducting a slow cruising patrol on her passage for Barbados to join with the Leeward Islands Squadron, and the Inshore Squadron of smaller sloops and brigs and cruisers now with Hood.

South of Antigua, there were many French-controlled islands, the main one being their base on Martinique, home to de Grasse's fleet and a host of privateers. There was a possibility that
Desperate
could snatch a prize or two, take a privateer, or enter combat with a French naval vessel, as long as she was not of overpowering might. That had been the plan, anyway, but so far it had not come to fruition, for the sea looked as empty as on the dawn of the second day of Creation, when there was but ocean and light, and land had been only a project.

Alan didn't mind particularly; he had had enough excitement in the last few months, and if the war wound down quietly, then that was fine to his way of thinking. The Trades were blowing fresh and cool out of the east-north-east and the ship rolled along gently on a beam reach, a soldier's wind. He was off watch and skylarking on the weather bulwarks, watching the gun crews go through the motions of loading and firing, jumping from one battery to another as the excess crew took care of reloading while the others competed to be the first run out on the other beam. At his most energetic, he conversed with the yeoman of the sheets on the larboard gangway as that gentleman and some of the topmen rerove fresh rope for sheets and braces where they had begun to chafe, or took a splice aloft to remove the chafed portions but save the ropes.

“Sail ho!” the mainmast lookout called. “Dead astern!”

Alan wandered back to the quarterdeck while Lieutenant Railsford studied the sea over the taffrails.

“See her yet, sir?”

“Yes,” Railsford said, trying to suppress his excitement. “Full-rigged, flying everything but her laundry and coming on fast. Topgallants, royals, and stuns'ls, too. Can't tell what she is yet, though.”

“French, perhaps?” Alan speculated.

“We'll know in about an hour, the rate she's coming.”

“Where away, Mister Railsford?” Treghues demanded, emerging on deck from a nap below. His eyes were rheumy with sleep, his pupils mere dots, which Alan put down to more of Mr. Dorne's medicaments. While the first lieutenant passed on what little intelligence he had about their stranger, the captain took the telescope and went up the mizzen rigging to at least the beginning of the futtock shrouds to get a better look. He came down minutes later and handed Rails-ford the telescope again.

“Looks like one of ours, I think,” Treghues said. “Still, let's not be taken by surprise. Suspend the gun drill and get sail on her, all plain sail for now.”

“Aye, sir. Bosun, pipe 'all hands.'”

Treghues went below while the hands lashed their guns down and began to hoist the yards, go aloft, and free the courses and the reefs in the tops'ls, undo the brails on the topgallants and draw them down so they filled with air.
Desperate
ceased loafing and came alive, leaning her starboard side into the sea, creating a creamy white furrow of foam in her wake. The faster she went, the stronger the wind felt and the more the yards had to be angled to take apparent wind at a more efficient angle. When Treghues came back on deck he had scrubbed his face, put on clean uniform, and stood four-square in cocked hat, new neckcloth and sword.

“Eight knots, sir!” Alan reported, coming from the taffrail where they had done a cast of the log and he had gotten soaked in spray.

“Still coming on strong, sir,” Railsford said after another peek at their strange pursuer. “If she's French, she's eager to close with us. Do you wish us to hoist the royals, sir?”

“No, we shall let her,” Treghues said. He took out his silver pocket watch and studied it. “Please be so good as to pipe the rum issue early and have the cooks serve as soon as everything's hot. We may be throwing the galley fires overboard, and can't wait for the proper hour for dinner.”

“Aye, sir.”

Alan thought it odd to let the enemy, if enemy she was, get up close.
Desperate
could go like a Cambridge coach if turned up onto the wind, or could run like a frightened cat to leeward if called upon to do so with stuns'ls and stays'ls. He studied Treghues as he paced the deck, wondering if his eagerness for battle had anything to do with the way the ship had been treated after escaping Yorktown. Did his captain have something to prove, some blot on their name that could only be erased by a victory, a
geste
of such derring-do that no one could comment on her any longer with a sneer? He had been acting odd enough ever since they had taken
Ephegenie
back in the Virgins, and Alan would no longer discount anything. A cautious captain would assume the other ship was an enemy and try to outrun her. A rash captain would put about and charge down offering battle. Only a timid and indecisive captain would allow the stranger to close them in this manner, and Treghues had never shown himself to be a timid or indecisive man. Certifiably eccentric, perhaps, but not that.

“Mister Lewrie,” Treghues said, coming to his side in his pacing.

“Aye, sir?” he responded brightly.

“Walk with me.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mister Cheatham informs me that you have had a stroke of good fortune come your way. And, he implies that you may soon be cleared that whiff of shame that followed you from England. For that I am grateful and pleased for you.” Treghues spoke softly as they walked the weather rail, to the consternation of the other quarterdeck people. Treghues did not look much gratified, nor very pleased, but the words were kind enough, and Alan expressed his thanks.

“You should write your friends and patrons and let them know of it. I suppose you wasted no time informing the Beauman family. You are permitted to write the young lady, I remember?”

“Aye, sir, I already have.”

“And your new friends, the Chiswicks in Charleston,” Treghues said. “Heard from them yet?”

Alan looked at him sidelong; his captain's face was almost red with shame, and Alan knew he must be crawling to have to solicit information of such a personal nature from an underling. Treghues had formed an instant affection for Caroline Chiswick, perhaps out of pity, or out of long-suppressed longings brought to the surface by his head injury and the dubious “cure” that had followed. Alan was his only link, his only source of intelligence as to their new address, and hard as it was for a proud man, a commissioned officer, a ship's captain, and a stiff-neck like Treghues to ask, he was asking for a crumb. The girl had not said yes to his proposal to write, after all his charm and pleasantness.

Dammit, captains don't do such things, Alan thought. Does he see the mail come aboard first, does he know I have a letter from her? If he did, he'd have seen the address, so he wouldn't be asking. Is it safe to lie? What the hell, I'll chance it. Caroline did put her name and address on the outside sheet.

“Not yet, sir, though I have hopes.”

“I was quite taken with their plight. The father is not well, is he?”

“Not well at all, sir, mostly in his mind,” Alan breathed out, not catching any sign of true awareness in Treghues's voice or expression. “And Mrs. Chiswick, well . . . she may be in good health, but she is not a person meant for adversity, if you get my meaning.”

“That poor young girl,” Treghues said, with such emotion that Alan thought him ready to shudder. “Forced to cope with all that, barely a penny to their names from all that land and property stolen from them by the Rebels, taking care of her parents so dutifully . . .”

“It's a da . . . a terrible shame, sir, and a burden I marvel she could bear for long,” Alan agreed. “Did you know that her brother, Burgess, told me the principal rogues who turfed them out were their own cousins?”

“Were they?” Treghues said, stopping their perambulations and seizing Alan's sleeve with an iron grip. “Were they, indeed, sir? God, I pity those who could not flee retribution of that pack of Rebels! What sort of country can they hope to have, built on the blood of their betters, allowing just any fool the right to vote, dictated to by the mob and resorting to bloody revolution and civil strife at the merest trifles. We'll have to go back in and restore order some day when they find they cannot govern such a herd of malcontents. How shall they collect taxes when they would not pay what they owed the Crown? How often shall they call out the militia or the troops sworn to this rebellious Congress to put down a new outbreak? You mark my words, within ten years they'll be cheering the sight of a scarlet coat to save them from their egregious folly. I only pray the Chiswicks get away safely to England and are spared the abuse and frightfulness of the mob's fury.”

“They have relatives in Surrey, sir. There was talk they may take passage if Charleston is threatened,” Alan said, wondering if he should try to break loose, for Treghues was gripping him so hard he was fearful for his arm. “Though what they'll use for money, I don't know.”

“Aye,” Treghues almost sobbed, turning Alan loose and resuming their walk toward the taffrail. “I lent them one hundred pounds. I hope it is enough. My heart went out to her . . . and her family. Had I only the means to rescue every loyal Briton who escaped. . . . Do you know the name of their relatives in Surrey?”

“No, sir, I'm sorry, I don't. Chiswick, I should think, though, sir, same as them,” Alan replied, massaging his arm on the sly.

“Should you ever hear from them, I would be deeply obliged to you if you let me know their address, Mister Lewrie. There is much I could do for them if only I was allowed,” Treghues ordered, then looked off into the middle distance. “I feel it my Christian duty as a God-fearing man, as a Briton, to help at least that family, if I cannot do for all of the unfortunates torn loose from all they held dear by this terrible war.”

“Oh, I shall, sir,” Alan promised, lying like a butcher's dog. He tried to keep a straight and uninterested face as Treghues peered at him.

Alan found it hard, even so, to look Treghues in the eyes, but that was alright, for the captain also got a shifty look and could not face him, either.

“Thank you, Mister Lewrie. That shall be all. Again, my congratulations on your good news from home. Return to your duties, sir.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Poor shit, he thought. Mooning away over the girl and having to finagle her whereabouts from a rogue like me must have half killed his soul. He's getting devilish strange, even worse than before. And that funny tobacco he smokes now, whew! God knows where Mr. Dorne found it, but it has to be medicinal as hell, like smoking mildew and oakum. God, if there's a sane captain in the Navy, I've yet to meet him. Command must drive you loony!

Alan realized that sooner or later he would have to tell Treghues the Chiswicks' address, if only to retain the captain's favor, but damned if he'd enjoy doing it. It was rather confusing, the feelings he had for Lucy Beauman, the most perfect beauty of the age he had seen, and Caroline Chiswick, who was pretty in her own quiet way. He still could not call it
jealousy,
but he was a lot closer to that opinion than he had been before.

“Hull up now, sir,” Railsford said with a hint of concern.

Alan turned to look aft and could see all the sails of their pursuer, with the hint of a darker streak now and then above the waves that would be her hull. He took hold of the hilt of his sword and gave it a hitch to a more comfortable position. He might be using it in an hour.

“British, by God!” Monk spoke suddenly, as a distant patch of color appeared on the stranger's foremast top.

“Mister Monk, I weary of correcting your unfortunate habit of taking our Lord's name in vain so frequently,” Treghues said for the thousandth time. “It may be a ruse.”

“Signal, sir!” the lookout called, and David Avery was sent aloft with a glass and the signal book to spy it out.