Gangly Mr. Edgar swarmed his way to the mainmast cross-trees like a spastic spider.
“A flag, sir!” Edgar piped moments later. “Looks British, I think. Yes, sir, Blue Ensign, sir, and a private signal!”
“Might be a ruse,” Alan speculated.
“T' 'ands is at Quarters, sir,” Fukes reported, with Mr. Cox.
“Private signal, sir!” Edgar added in a boyish yelp. “She's the
Drake
sloop, brig-rigged! Now she's flying âAttend Me,' sir!”
“Presumptuous bastard.” Lilycrop snorted at the audacity of another lieutenant master and commander much like himself, in command of a brig below the rate issuing pre-emptive orders without knowing whom he was addressing. “What're the others doin'?”
“Standing on north, sir!”
“Belay, Mister Lewrie,” Lilycrop barked out, rubbing his white-stubbled jowls. “Bring her back to the original course. We can spy out this'n, if she's a Frog in disguise, if the others stay up to windward. Lay us close-hauled as may be and close her.”
Within half an hour, the small squadron was hull-up over the horizon, and the
Drake
was within hailing distance. By the private code signals for the month, they could identify the other ships: the
Albemarle
frigate, a 6th Rate of twenty-eight guns, according to the List under the command of one Horatio Nelson; a 5th Rate frigate, the
Resistance,
of forty-four guns; another twenty-eight-gunned 6th Rate, the
Tartar
, under a Commander Fairfax; and
Drake
, under a man named Dixon. And bringing up the rear was a final 6th Rate twenty-eight-gunned frigate that flew French colors under a British flag, a recent prize.
“Ahoy there!” came a call from
Drake
as she surged close.
“Ahoy,
Drake
!” Lilycrop bellowed. “
Shrike
, twelve-gunned brig o' war! Lilycrop, Lieutenant, master and commander!”
“Captain Nelson in
Albemarle
is senior, sir!” Dixon shouted back. “His compliments to you, and he directs you to fall in astern of us! We are on passage for Turk's Island! The French have taken it!”
“When?” Lilycrop asked.
“Middle of last month, sir!” Dixon yelled. “Captain King in
Resistance
, with the
Dugay Trouin
frigate, were in Turk's Island Passage four days ago! They spotted two French royal ships at anchor off Turk's Island and gave chase. Took
La Coquette
here, and a sloop of war! Captain Nelson thinks we can overwhelm them if we act quickly!”
“Let's be at the bastards, then, Captain Dixon!” Lilycrop agreed loudly.
“Aye, aye, Captain Lilycrop!”
“Not the bloody Frogs again, sir,” Caldwell groused. “Thought we had 'em bottled up proper once de Grasse was defeated. Don't they know to stay in their kennels when English bull-dogs are out on the prowl?”
“Been a year since The Saintes, almost, Mister Caldwell,” the captain said. “Even curs get their courage back sooner'r later. Mr. Lewrie, stand the crew down from Quarters, if you please, and secure. Then proceed with the rum ration and the noon meal. Then I'd admire to have both of you in the chart-space with me.”
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“Dry as old bones, mostly,” Lilycrop mused as they looked at the charts of Turk's Island, or more properly, Grand Turk. “Turk's, South Caicos, and Salt Cay, an' salt tells the storyâ'bout the only export they got. With this slant o' wind, we'll fetch the Passage sure enough, if it holds.”
“Miss the Mouchoir Bank, thank the Good Lord,” Caldwell said. “Turn the corner north and east of the Northeast Breaker. There's said to be rocks and coral heads awash south and west of there. I'd prefer to see waves breaking before I'd turn.”
“Or stand on as we are, into the Turk's Island Passage, staying clear of the Apollo Bank, sir,” Alan said drawing on the chart with his finger. “Leave Sand Cay and Salt Cay to the starboard.”
“Aye, be safer.” Lilycrop nodded. “That's up to this feller Nelson. Hope he's a little caution in his bones.”
“Know anything of him, sir?” Alan asked.
“Not much,” Lilycrop informed him, marching a brass divider over the chart slowly. “Uncle's Sir Maurice Suckling, Comptroller of the whole damn Navy. Never hurts, ey? Funny. Thought Jemmy King in
Resistance
would serve as commodore to our little squadron. He's got a 5th Rate, Nelson only a 6th. James King was Captain Cook's second lieutenant out in the Pacific in
Resolution
, you know. Maybe even with a 5th Rate to command, he's a couple names down the seniority list. No, don't go playin' with that, sweetlin',” Lilycrop admonished one of Henrietta's kittens, who had jumped up for attention, and had become entranced with the movement of the brass divider. She was pouncing on it, her short little stub of a tail wiggling in delight.
“Looks like a good anchorage here, sir,” Alan said, shoving the kitten's rump out of the way long enough to indicate Hawk's Nest Anchorage sou'east of the southern end of the island. “Not much to look at from the chart, though.”
“Been here before,” Lilycrop said, now busy entertaining the cat. “Nothin' much but coral, salt and mud. Only drinkin' water is what they catch from a rain. More reefs around it than a duchess got necklaces, an' pretty steep-to, close under the shores. Hawk's Nest or Britain Bay up here seem best, 'less we just barge our way into this little harbor on the western side. But I expect the Frogs have a battery there. I would.”
“What about fortifications, sir? Ours, I mean, that they've taken over.”
“Nary a one, sir.” Lilycrop shrugged. “Not much reason for 'em before, since it was only the salt trade that anybody'd come for, and that only in the summer months. God pity the poor French possession of the place, I say.”
“If they landed back in the middle of February, they wouldn't have much time to build fortifications, sir,” Caldwell pointed out. “Sand and log, rubble from the town perhaps. That sort of place would just soak up round-shot.”
“Worth taking, though, sir,” Alan said after studying the chart. “Look at all these passes. Turk's Island Passage, Silver Bank, Mouchoir Passage, and up north, the Caicos and the Mayaguana Passages. Put some privateers in here, and just about any ship using the Windward Passage from the west would have to run the gauntlet by here to get to the open sea for home.”
“Nobody ever said the French were stupid, aye,” Lilycrop said. “A little prospectin' for territory before the war ends. It'd be a year before the peace conference hears of it, and even begins to get the place sorted out in our favor. But,
Resistance
took two ships, and a sloop of war and one 6th Rate frigate can't carry many troops, or land much in the way of artillery. They're cut off on this island for now, without any ships to support 'emâwhat, not more'n one hundred fifty or two hundred troops? We can outshoot 'em with our three frigates, and muster
more men from our Marines an' seamen. Best kick 'em up the arse now an' have done.”
“I'll tell Lieutenant Walsham, sir,” Alan said grinning. “God, he'll love it, after being stuck aboard during the Florida thing. Full âbullock' kit and cross-belts for a proper show.”
“How's the leg, Mister Lewrie?” the captain inquired.
“Still a mite tender, sir, but I'll cope,” Alan offered. “It really is feeling much better.”
“No, I've seen you wincin', try as you will to put a good face on it,” Lilycrop replied, waving off Alan's enthusiasm for action. “If we land troops from
Shrike
, I may go myself. Can't let the young'uns have all the fun, now, can we, Mister Caldwell?”
Damnit, it was Alan's place to go as first officer, and he now regretted his earlier theatrics. But, to act too spry on the morrow would reveal what a fine job of malingering he had been doing; and, he considered, he'd done more than his share of desperate adventuring in the last few monthsâwhy take another chance of being chopped up like a fillet steak if there was no reason to?
“Well, if you really are intent on the venture, sir,” he sighed, trying to give the impression that he was hellishly miffed.
T
heir tiny flotilla arrived in Britain Bay off Turk's Island before sundown, just at the end of the first dog-watch. The holding ground was coral and rock, so getting a small bower and the best bower secure in four or five fathoms of crystal-clear water was a real chore. They had to row out a stream anchor as well. The
Tartar
frigate was driven off her anchorage, losing an anchor in the process, while Captain Dixon from
Drake
rowed ashore under a flag of truce to demand the French garrison surrender. The prize,
La Coquette,
stayed out at sea, standing on and off as the winds freshened.
Once they could pause from their labors and consider
Shrike
safely moored, Alan could see French troops ashore in their white uniforms, drawn up on a summit overlooking the ships, which were not over a cable to two cables' length from the shimmering white beaches. It looked to be, Alan decided after plying his glass upon them, not more than the one hundred fifty to two hundred men that Lieutenant Lilycrop had surmised.
Captain Dixon's boat came off the shore just at the end of the second dog, around eight in the evening, with news that the French had refused to surrender. That response was thought to be pretty much a formality for the sake of their honor, the prevailing view being that once a determined landing party went ashore in the morning and a few broadsides had been fired off, the French would shoot back a few times and then haul down their flag in the face of overwhelming force.
During the night,
Albemarle
and
Resistance
fired a few shots into the woods overlooking Britain Bay to keep the French awake and in a state of nerves for the morrow.
Shrike
's people sharpened their swords and bayonets; the Marines went about hard-faced and grim, tending to their full uniforms (which were only worn for battle or formal duties in port) and seeing to their fire-locks, flints and powder. The rasp of files and stones on bayonets and hangers and cutlasses made a harsh, sibilant rhythm under the sounds of the fiddlers on the mess decks who went through their entire repertory of stirring airs before Lights Out.
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At first light, just at 5 A.M., they stood to, ready to board their boats and set off for the shore expedition. Captain Dixon of the
Drake
brig would lead. Evidently,
Tartar
had not been able to keep good holding ground, for there had been no sign of her since she had lost a second anchor and been driven off shore in the night.
“Not much to the place by daylight, is there, Mister Cox?” Alan asked as their swarthy little master gunner strolled aft to the quarterdeck.
“Little dry on the windward end here, sir, true,” Cox said in a rare moment of cheerfulness as he looked forward to some action for a change. “Same's most islands here'bouts. Might I borrow your glass, sir?”
Alan loaned him his personal telescope and let the man look his fill of the shadowy forests above the beach where the troops would land. There wasn't much to see, not in dawn-light. Sea-grape
bushes, poison manchineel trees, sturdy but low pines and scrub trees that only gave an impression of green lushness rooted firmly in the sandy soil of a coral and limestone island.
“No sign of a battery this end, sir,” Cox commented, handing the tube back. “And I'd not make those heights over forty-five feet above the level of the beach, even if there was. Good shooting for us.”
Lieutenant Lilycrop came on deck in his best uniform coat, wearing his long straight sword at his hip, with a pair of pistols stuffed into the voluminous coat pockets. His face was red and raw from a celebratory shave, his first of the week.
“No stirrings from the French yet, Mister Lewrie?” he asked.
“Nothing to be seen, sir,” Alan replied.
“Might be a white uniform in those trees, sir,” Cox disagreed. “Sentries, most like so far. But no sign of a battery.”
“They've had all night to prepare, even so.” Lilycrop frowned. “Well, Lieutenant Walsham. Rarin' to have a crack at 'em, are ye, sir?”
“Aye aye, sir,” Walsham answered, sounding a lot more somber than his usual wont. He was a recruiting flyer, the very picture of a Marine officer this morning, as if dirt and lint would never dare do harm to the resplendency of his red uniform. The gorget of rank at his throat flashed like the rising sun.
“Doubt we'll need springs on the cables,” Lilycrop mused. “I 'spect the frigates'll cover the landin', and we won't be called for much firin', 'less they try to sweep 'round to flank us once we're ashore. If they do, they'll be in plain sight of our guns over there. And it ain't a full two cables to that low hill.”
“Round-shot and grape should do it, sir,” Alan commented.
“I'd worry more 'bout some Frog ship comin' in from seaward, if I were you, Mister Lewrie,” the captain said, turning to look at the horizon from which the sun was threatening to rise. “Might've been more ships'n
La Coquette
and a sloop of war come here. Maybe a brace o' sloops already sweepin' the Caicos Passage up north to make some profit from this expedition of theirs. You keep a wary eye out for that.”
“I shall, sir,” Alan told him.
“An' you'll not muck about with my little ship while I'm gone, will you now, Mister Lewrie,” Lilycrop said in a softer voice for him alone, not so much a question as an order.
“I'll not, sir, but I cannot speak for any French battery up in those woods.” Alan grinned back, knowing by now that Lilycrop's blusterings were not as dire as he made them sound.
“Signal from
Albemarle,
sir!” Midshipman Edgar called.
“We're off, then,” Lilycrop said with a grin. “Only wished we'd o' packed a heartier dinner. Ready, Mister Walsham?”
“Aye, sir,” the Marine said moving towards the gangway entry port.
“Boats are alongside to starboard, sir, so the French did not see any preparations,” Alan stuck in. “Side-party!”
The seamen and Marines gathered to render salute to their captain as he stepped to the lip of the entry-port for the first boat, doffing hats and raising swords or muskets in honor as Lilycrop swung out and faced inward to lower himself down the man-ropes and battens to the boat.
The entire squadron was issuing forth its landing force, most of it from the two remaining frigates, as they had more men to spare from much larger crews, while the little brigs below the Rate were perenially short of hands even on their best days. By counting heads in the boats nearest him, and then multiplying by the number of boats issuing forth, Alan could determine that they were fielding around one hundred eighty to two hundred men for the effort, minus those whose duty it would be to stay on the beach and safeguard the boats. They would at least equal the estimated French troops ashore. And the gunfire from well-drilled fighting ships would make the critical difference.
“Pendant's down, sir!” Edgar shouted.
“Cast off! Out oars! Give way together!” the captain's cox'n ordered as the signal for execution was given.
It took about half an hour for all boats to gather before the frigates, line themselves up in some sort of order, and then shove off for the silent, waiting beach.
“Albemarle
signals âOpen Fire,' sir,” Edgar said.
“Mister Cox, make it hot for them,” Alan directed. The ships began to thunder out their broadsides over the heads of the rowing boats, thrashing the woods above the beach and the low hills behind with iron sleet.
“Slow but steady, boys,” Cox shouted to his remaining gunnery crews, and
Shrike
's little six-pounders began to bark, one at a time, aiming high with quoins full out, which made the deck rock and seem to sag down with each blast. Cox and his gunner's mate walked from one end of the waist to the other as the guns fired, counting out a pace which would allow the forward-most gun to be reloaded by the time the after-most piece had discharged, so a continual hail of round-shot and grape canister
would keep the French down under cover, never allowing them to rise between broadsides for a musket volley.
“A little low, Mister Cox?” Alan asked as he saw the trees and bushes just above the beach tremble to a well-directed shot.
“Aim'll lift as the barrels get hotter, sir,” Cox said, replying with a touch of petulant whine to his voice, unwilling to be questioned at his science, or his skill in the execution of it. But Alan did note that Cox then sent a gunner's mate to correct the elevation of Number 4 larboard gun, which had been shooting too low.
The boats were having a lively time of it, even inside the reefs that should have protected them from the worst of the offshore rollers that swept in, driven by a fresh Sou'east Trade Wind. They rocked bow to stern, with the oarsmen slaving away to keep them moving.
Then the first stems were grounding on the sands, and Captain Dixon was ashore and waving back at the frigates. A signal went up from
Albemarle
, ordering “Cease Fire” so their broadsides would not hurt their own landing parties.
“Cease fire, Mister Cox!” Alan shouted down into the waist. “Mister Biggs, water butts for the gunners.”
“Aye, sir,” their weasely purser replied, sounding as if he even begrudged issuing “free” water.
“Looks like the landing is unopposed,” Alan said. “Might be some French troops up in those woods, but they couldn't form for volleys under our fire.”
“Marines are going in, sir,” Caldwell pointed out.
Through the glass, he could see the thin red ranks form shoulder to shoulder, open out in skirmish order, lower their bayoneted muskets and start off for the interior, being swallowed up by the thick undergrowth almost at once, with the seemingly disordered packs of seamen in their mis-matched shirts following.
From then on, it was anyone's guess as to what was happening inland. There was no mast available for flag signals from the men ashore. Muskets popped, sometimes a whole squad fired by volley, and the rags of spent powder-smoke rose above the greenery, perhaps just above where they had been fired or perhaps blown through the trees before rising. It was impossible to know which side had fired, or where the true positions of whoever had done the shooting were. All in all, it didn't sound or look like much of a battle so far; just a little skirmishing and skulking, very desultorily conducted.
“Can't see a damned thing from the deck, sir,” Caldwell growled.
“Aye,” Alan agreed. “Nothing for it, then.”
“Oh, send the lad, do, sir. Mind your leg,” Caldwell replied, and, was it perhaps Alan's imagination, but he felt from Caldwell's tone that he was “on to him” about his earlier malingering.
“I told the captain I was spry enough, and I am, sir,” Alan shot back, going to the main-mast shrouds. He ascended slowly, but he gained the fighting-top; though instead of trusting his leg's strength to go outboard on the futtock shrouds where he would have to dangle by fingers and toes like a fly, he took the easier path up through the lubber's-hole like a Marine or landsman.
Damme if I'm acting, he thought, massaging his thigh as it complained loudly at the demands made upon it. He sat down on the edge of the top facing inland, legs and arms threaded through the ratlines of the top-mast shrouds, and rested his telescope on one of the dead-eyes. Even from there, sixty or more feet above the deck and higher than the low hills of the island he could see nothing of note. The sun was up high enough to show him the small town on the western side, further down the coast. Was there a battery there, he asked himself, or was that a row of houses with their blank backsides to the offshore winds for comfort?
Mister Edgar came up soon after, scrambling and puffing at the exertion of ascending the shrouds (properly using the fut-tocks) and the concentration necessary to coordinate his body and mind to the task. He went on up past Alan to the cross-trees with the lookout, saying, “Mister Caldwell sent me, sir,” on the way up.
As if his clumsy arrival had set events in motion, the lookout shouted not five minutes later. “Sail ho, to seaward!”
“Where, away?” Alan demanded, getting to his feet with a thrill of dread. Perhaps Lilycrop had been right, and a French ship had come back to check up on her new base. “Mister Cox, prepare the starboard battery to engage!”
“There, sir!” Mister Edgar called with excitement in his voice.
The ship headed for the anchorage was a brig, about five miles off, but she had the wind free and was making good progress. Perhaps a privateer or a Frenchâwhat did they call them,
corvette
?
“Think you she's French, sir?” Edgar called down from his higher perch.
“If she is, we'll serve her like Hood did de Grasse at St. Kitts,” Alan answered him. “Keep an eye on her, Mister Edgar.”
“Oh, I shall ⦔ Edgar replied as Alan glanced up at him, and Alan winced and sucked in his breath as Edgar, in swiveling back to gaze seaward, almost lost his seat on the slight support of the thin timbers of the cross-tree platform. Only the lookout's quick action in grabbing the lad by the collar had saved him from a deadly tumble to the deck. “Do have a
care
, Mister Edgar! Remember where you are!”