“Jesus, this fucking Navy is making a doddering fossil out of me!” he grumbled. “Let's beat this damned de Grasse and have done with the whole humbug beforeâmy Godâbefore
I
start taking me seriously!”
The bosun's pipes began to cheep then to break his irreverent reveries. “All hands! All hands on deck! Prepare to anchor!”
“Mister Lewrie, do ya take charge o' the fo'c'sle!” Monk bellowed in a quarterdeck rasp that could have cut through a whole gale. “Clear hawse bucklers, seize up ta the best bower with the two-cable line, un prepare ta let go!”
Â
The next morning, de Grasse had at them again. During the night, Hood had ordered his ships to shift their anchorages, so that an unbroken line stood from the point below Frigate Bay. The van ship was about four miles sou'east of Basse Terre, so close inshore not even a sloop could have clawed inshore of her; she was also inside the point and shoal as further cover. Twelve more ships lay astern of her to the west-nor'west, a mile-and-a-quarter to a mile-and-a-half of line-of-battle ships with their artillery ready. The remaining six liners bent about to curve the last of the line to the north, with Admiral Hood's 2nd Rate
Barfleur
at the apex of the bend. All ships had springs rigged on their anchor cables so they could shift their fire right or left as needed to take on a foe at extreme range as she approached, and swing with her to pour more deadly broadsides into her as long as she sailed past them.
Desperate
had upped her own anchors and gotten underway shortly after breakfast, and was now prowling behind the battle line like a caged wildcat, waiting for something to maul should she be given a chance, ready to pass messages, or bear down upon a crippled British vessel to render her assistance.
The Trades were blowing well out of the sou'east, so an attempt
to get round behind the line would involve hours of tacking close-hauled, and the ships drawn up
en potence
guarded that vital flank from the attempt. The French were presented with one hell of a quandary, and the English waited to see what brilliant maneuver the wily de Grasse would pull out of his gold-laced cocked hat.
“Here they come, damn their blood,” Lieutenant Railsford finally spat, after a hail from the lookout at the main-mast crosstrees.
The French fleet was strung out in a perfect order in single line-ahead, a cable's length between ships, aimed like a spear at the head of Hood's line. With implacable menace, they bore down as if they would crash through the anchored ships and smash them in the process. But the lead vessel drifted west, unable to bear close enough to the wind, and now aimed at the third ship in line. When within range, she turned west.
Immediately, Hood's ships returned fire upon her.
“Bless my soul, will you look at that, now!” Treghues rejoiced, slapping his thighs. “Can you mark her, Mister Railsford?”
“Pluton,
looks like, sir, 3rd Rate, seventy-four guns.”
Alan had access to a spare telescope and was standing on the bulwarks with an arm and a leg hooked through the mizzen shrouds for a better view. The French ship staggered as if she had just run aground, surrounded by a thin pall of dust and smoke as she was savaged by the fire of at least four British ships that had swung on their springs to direct their gunfire into her together.
“I can see scantlings flying from her
far
side, sir!” Alan said. “They're blowing her to flinders!”
Pluton,
if that was her as they surmised, passed down that long mile-and-a-half line, being taken under fire in order. And a cable behind her came a second ship, and a third, and a fourth, all taking the same terrible drubbing. Like sheep to the slaughter, the entire French line-of-battle followed that dreadful course, shooting high as was their usual practice, but doing little damage to ships at anchor, who couldn't have cared less whether their rigging was cut up. The British followed their usual practice as well, aiming 'twixt wind and water to punch star-shaped holes into the hulls and gun decks, to kill men and make the wood splinters fly, scything down crews and dismounting guns.
Desperate
's crew was jeering as the lead French man o'war turned away and staggered back toward the south, her masts
sprung and rolling, and her hull ripped apart by high velocity iron.
“Now damme,” Alan relished over the din, “this is more like it!”
Desperate
went about and worked her way to leeward, past the bend of the British line, for a better view of the proceedings, loafing along under reduced sail, away from the predictable thumping that the rest of the French fleet was suffering, to see what would transpire as they bore away. Which was nothing threatening, as they could see after half an hour. The French were making no more attempt to do anything offensive.
“What do you think of Admiral Hood now, Mister Lewrie?” Railsford asked him, cocking one eyebrow in mirth.
“Well, sir, after The Chesapeake, I thought he was the biggest poltroon in uniform, but he's showing well today,” Alan answered.
“If he'd been in charge then, we'd have never swung away. We'd have been in that anchorage among the Frogs, and cut them to pieces. Or we'd have winkled them out of their anchorage as we did yesterday, and put up such a wall of gunfire de Grasse would have shattered his fleet trying to reenter.”
“And gobbled up
their
damned army, 'stead of them gobbling up ours, sir,” Alan concluded with a wolfish expression.
“Not that we could have really won against the Americans, even after such a victory.”
“Indeed, sir?” he said politely, thinking, Mine arse on a band-box!
“Too few men, too big a country, too much hatred by then. Even if we could have bagged Washington and Rochambeau on the march down from New York, there'd be another Washington come out of the backwoods with another army.” Railsford shrugged. “But, we still come out of this Rebellion with Canada. And the important thing now is to beat the Frogs and Dagoes until they scream for mercy, so we'll not have any more of these coalition wars for the rest of the century, if we do it proper.”
“De Grasse isn't as good as we touted him to be, is he, Mister Railsford?” Alan asked, feeling as though there had been an exorcism.
“We
gave
him victory in The Chesapeake. He couldn't help but show well there. To my mind, he's an over-rated clown when up against the sort of admiral we have here today,” Railsford opined. “Lord North's cousin, Graves, was a clown,
appointed by petticoat influence. Hood is not, and. pray God we get him back in the Leewards, neither is Rodney.”
“The captain once told me something similar, sir, about getting Hood and Rodney together, and sweeping the seas.”
“I'd love to see that. Would you?”
“Aye, sir, I would,” Alan said, realizing that it was so, half-pleased by the prospect, and half-startled that he cared anything more for the Navy than getting out of it with a whole skin.
“Well now, if you were this de Grasse bugger, what would you be thinking of about this time?” Railsford asked by way of instruction.
“Well, sir, I'm French, so I'd go below and have me a good sulk. Maybe boot hell out of my servants for starters.” Alan chuckled. “Some good fortifying brandy. Then, I'd come back up and split my fleet. Half to attack the ships
en potence,
half to beat up past our line as far as Brimstone Hill. It'd take hours, but one could make east-nor'east. Then tack and fall back down on the anchorage. Hood would have to shift the van ships closest the shore to counter. If he did, I'd fight both halves of my fleet for a cross-fire, with us in the center.”
Lieutenant Railsford studied him closely for a long moment, lips parted as though about to sneer, and Alan felt a total fool. Railsford had been an ally in the early days after he had come aboard
Desperate,
an ally even after Treghues had turned on him. From Railsford he had learned much more than he ever had from Treghues' teaching sessions, for Treghues was more fond of his own voice and opinions than in imparting anything worthwhile to his charges. What improvements in his behavior and in his nautical lore he had learned
for
Railsford's sake, and now he had most likely revealed himself a complete, incompetent idiot. Alan blushed and looked away with a shy grimace to show that he was not to be taken totally seriously.
“God be thanked you wear
our
King's coat and not that of
their
slack-jawed monarch,” Railsford finally commented. “Should this bastard try that, he'd have the Leeward Islands Squadron on a plate.”
Fuck me, Alan exulted to himself, have I said something clever?
“Indeed, sir?” he asked with as much false humility as he could muster at short notice.
“I shall say some serious prayers for anyone foolish enough to cross your hawse should you ever hoist your broad pendant,
Lewrie,” Lieutenant Railsford went on. “You think on a grand scale.”
“For such a lowly, sir,” Alan stuck in, the humility now in full ooze. When called upon, and if given warning enough to be on his best behavior, he knew he could toady and suck up with the best.
“That won't last, not if you watch your helm,” Railsford told him with a grin. “Are you considering continuing your naval career?”
“Well, sir, it may not be up to me.” Alan sighed. “If we beat de Grasse bad enough today, the war may be over soon. There was talk about a Peace Commission to parley with the Rebels, some guff about a meeting with all the belligerents to call it off soon. And what use is one more lowly midshipman out of thousands, when nine-tenths of the Navy would be laid up in-ordinary?”
There, I said that right well. Not my bloody fault if they dump me, is it? he thought. Why just blurt out I'd rather be whoring around Seven Dials than put up with another day of this misery and deprivation? Come to think on it, either one's just as dangerous.
“What's left, Mister Lewrie?” Railsford asked with a wry expression. “Trade? Not exactly the
ton
for a young man raised as a gentleman like yourself. Clerking for someone? You're too honest for Parliament and too much a rogue for holy orders. Stick with what you do best, and believe it or not, young sir, what you do best is the Navy.”
“Well, thankee kindly, Mister Railsford, sir,” Alan replied, glad to be complimented, and blushing a bit, genuinely this time.
“Enough praise for the devil today.” Railsford sobered. “Else I shall expect your head to swell and burst.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Deck thar,” came a leather-lunged shout from the lookout aloft. “They'm be comin' h'agin!”
“Now we shall see if de Grasse has discovered something new to try on us,” Railsford snapped, turning back to the rail. “And I hope he does not commune with the same creative muse as you, Mister Lewrie.”
Once more, after reeling off to the sou'west in a long curve, the French came back, their alignment and spacing in line-ahead perfect as they could make it.
“Headed directly for us,” Treghues commented nearby as everyone crowded the larboard bulwarks of the quarterdeck. “Their
turn-away took them down to leeward and beating back to try the line again did not work. They shall assay their luck against the ships
en potence
this time.”
“What if they could get a slant of wind around the rear of this shorter line, sir?” Railsford asked. “The Trades are still out of the sou'east. Three points more would flank our dispositions.”
“Mister Railsford, I would much admire if you do lay
Desperate
as close to the wind as you may and bring her to on the opposite tack,” Treghues said, standing slim, elegant and foursquare with his ornate personal telescope to his eye.
“A 6th Rate to impede the path of a 2nd or 3rd Rate, sir?” Railsford asked, aghast that anyone could even countenance such an idea.
“Not to match broadsides, no,” Treghues said, laughing easily, still intent on the sight of the enemy fleet. “But we should be able to deflect them. They cannot sail closer to the wind to avoid us or they'd be in irons and get shot to ribbons by the ships en
potence.
To bear away to avoid us would deny them precious minutes. It is an acceptable risk.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Railsford nodded in the hush that had fallen on the quarterdeck. A captain's decisions could not be argued, and any unwillingness expressed volubly enough to try and counter a captain's tactics could be construed as direct violations of several of the merciless Articles of War; cowardice in not being courageous enough to fight; insubordination; not doing everything in one's power to ready a ship for a fight. They were all court-martial offenses and usually resulted in the offender being strung up from a yard-arm by the neck.
I knew I should have gotten off when I had the chance, Alan thought shakily. I could be languishing in a Rebel prison right now, training rats close-order drill or something, on parole at the easiest. Maybe it would have been better to have been captured with the Army at Yorktown than to put up with this tripe-skulled clown!