P
eaceful night in Frigate Bay, with a light breeze flowing over the decks, bringing cooling relief to crowded mess areas through wind-scoops and ventilators. Lanterns burned at the taffrail, binnacle and fo'c'sle belfry, and work-lanterns glowed as the last of the major hurts to
Desperate
were repaired. Saws rasped, hammers and mallets thudded now and again as something was tamped home in the torn deck or bulwarks.
Commander Treghues was propped up by a mound of pillows in his bed-box hung from the overhead below his repeating compass. His midriff was banded about snugly with white gauze and bast, as was his left arm and shoulder. Beyond the hinged-open stern windows in the transom the riding lights of the fleet could be seen, and close-aboard, the lights of their prize, the twenty-eight-gunned 5th Rate
Capricieuse.
Freeling had been borrowed from the midshipmen's mess to tend to the captain's needs, serving him a cup of wine laced with his favorite medication, and to serve glasses of wine to the assembled officers and senior warrants.
Alan nodded over his glass, wishing he could lay his head down on the fine mahogany desk and go to sleep on the spot, as Lieutenant Railsford droned on through a list of repairs still necessary to both their own ship and the captured frigate.
“Admiral Hood's flag-captain has assured me he shall be taking charge of those prisoners able-bodied enough to cause mischief to us, sir,” Railsford concluded. “Doctor Dome has replenished his medical supplies well enough to tend to the wounded, both ours and theirs, and a surgeon's assistant shall be coming inboard at first light to aid.”
“Very good,” Treghues said softly, too sore to take a deep breath or reply with his usual force. “Doctor Dome, how many of our men show a fair chance for recovery?”
“About eighteen, sir. There are nine that I can do little for, limited as we are. Should we get them to hospital, one or two may yet be saved,” Dome replied heavily, looking as exhausted as a man could and still draw breath himself.
“Our casualties, Mister Railsford,” Treghues asked.
“Mister Monk, sir,” Railsford said, referring to a quick tally of the dead and badly wounded. “Mister Weems, the master gunner Mister Gwynn, midshipman Avery, Murray the after quarter-gunner, Sergeant McGregor of the Marines, Corporal Smart, Tate the senior quartermaster, ⦔ Railsford intoned, going through the long list. Altogether, they had lost eleven dead and twenty-seven wounded, with many of the dead from the senior warrants and department heads.
Damned near a quarter of the crew and Marines, Alan sighed to himself, tipping back his glass of celebratory claret without tasting it. He held out the glass for Freeling to refill, and the lugubrious lout sprang to do his bidding, now that he had a chance to strike as servant to a victorious captain instead of a jumped-up midshipman.
David had died just about an hour after Alan had gone back on deck, never regaining consciousness, which Dr. Dome assured him was a blessing, for they could not salve his worst burns without bringing away bits of charred flesh on the bandages.
“Mister Sedge is more senior, I believe?” Treghues asked. “He was appointed acting sailing master by poor Mister Monk himself, I recall?”
“Aye, sir,” Railsford agreed, and Sedge sat up more erect to preen as his name was mentioned.
“Then we shall honor Mister Monk's dying request. Mister Sedge, you are acting sailing master of
Desperate.
”
“Thankee kindly, sir.” Sedge beamed.
“Mister Tully to be advanced to take Gwynn's place, and the Yeoman of the Powder Room advanced to gunner's mate,” Treghues went on, his mind wonderfully clear for all the claret he had put aboard, and his eyes shrunk to pinpoints by the drug. “A deserving quarter-gunner for Yeoman of the Powder Room?”
“Hogan, fo'c'sle chase-gunner, sir,” Alan heard himself suggest. “I sent him aft to clear away the raffle after that brass gun burst, and he did good service.”
“Aye, a good report. Make it so, Mister Railsford.”
“Aye, sir,” Railsford assented, borrowing quill and ink to make corrections in his quarter-bills.
“Promote whom you think best into the other positions and give me their names for my report to Admiral Hood,” Treghues said, “along with those Discharged, Dead. How many men shall we need for the prize?”
“A dozen hands, sir,” Railsford reckoned, “and I'd suggest a file of Marines under a corporal to keep an eye on the senior Frogs and the wounded who may try to retake her once she's away from under
Barfleur
's guns.”
“Make it eighteen hands and I shall be grateful to you, Mister Peck, if you could supply ten Marines under a corporal into her.”
“Aye, sir,” Peck agreed, favoring his splinted and wrapped arm.
“Bless me, but we're a damaged lot this evening,” Treghues said with an attempt at good cheer. “Prize-master?”
“Well, I could go into her, sir,” Railsford replied shyly. If he were to take
Capricieuse
into port, he could parley the fame and the glory into a promotion to commander himself, yet badly as he wanted it, he had to act modest, and shrug off his own suggestion.
“No, I shall need you here in temporary command, unless Dome is playing the fool about my hurts.”
“You should not attempt to rise from that bunk for at least a week, sir,” Dome warned him, “until we know there is no lasting harm from the splinters I withdrew.”
Treghues winced at the remembrance of how he had been quilled with wood, and the agony of their extraction, some of them acting like barbed arrow-heads that had torn more flesh as they came out.
“Then I shall rest on my laurels until allowed to rise,” the captain said with a small grin. Laurels indeed: he had taken a more powerful ship in bloody combat, with a casualty list sufficiently impressive to awe the Admiralty and the Mob at home. Men had been knighted for less. Captain Pearson of
Serapis
had been knighted for
losing
to the Rebel John Paul Jones after a splendid three-against-one defense.
“Mister Lewrie,” Treghues said, turning his head to gaze upon him. “In Lieutenant Railsford's stead, I shall appoint you into the prize. And I think the post of acting lieutenant would not be out of order after today's gallantry.”
“Ah.” Alan could only gawp in surprise and weariness. Damme, but don't he shower his favorites with blessings, he thought.
Treghues positively glowed at him. “You did good service today with the guns, and in carrying the boarding of our prize. And I mind you've been prize-master before, after that fight off St. Croix? See, you shall have those paroled French officers aboard, and I doubt they would stand for being guarded by a master's mate. That captain of theirs probably would be insulted with anything less than an earl for his gaoler.”
Everyone chuckled appreciatively at Treghues' wit, and he had a small laugh himself, before a cough interrupted him and forced him to sit still until it had passed.
“You shall take a care not to lose my prize, though, young sir,” Treghues cautioned with only a hint of humor, and Alan knew if he did, he would be hung from a yard-arm in tar and chains until his bones fell apart.
They sailed on the last day of January 1782, passing north-about St. Kitts and to windward of the prowling but ineffective French fleet,
Desperate
repaired enough to accompany them as escort and surety that
Capricieuse
would make Antigua without mischief.
The weather was balmy and the Trades steady, and a carpenter's mate could have commanded the prize, Alan sneered to himself. With the quarterdeck people and the Marines armed to the teeth, and
Desperate
's guns not half a mile off at any time, the French gave them no trouble.
Captain de Rosset sulked in the officer's wardroom along with this surviving officers and senior warrants, and Alan made free with the captain's quarters as prize-master, lolling on fine cotton sheets and tippling the best wines and brandies he had
tasted since he had left London two years before. De Crillart proved a cheerful companion once he had given his paroleâhe was only a year older than Alan but a droll wit, not given to too much sobriety about life in general, and unimpressed by life in the French Royal Navy as well. His family did not have connections good enough to gain him a commission in a good cavalry regiment, so the Navy was for him, though most people in France looked down on that Service as second to its magnificent Army. Minor nobility or not, the de Crillarts were a genteelly impoverished lot, and his purse had not run to the fineries of his marquis-captain, which while on passage he savored as much as Alan did, as his gaoler's guest.
One rather sodden night in the privacy of the cabins, Alan and de Crillart dined together, with Lewrie's hammockman, Cony, serving as waiter.
“To 'is Brittaneec Majesty, George the t'ird!” de Crillart proposed, raising his glass on high, which pronunciation of “third” sent Lewrie reeling with mirth.
“'E ees votre roy. What ees so foony?” de Crillart asked.
“Turd, you said,” Alan explained between titters. “Nombre trois, in English, is third, not turd. Turd is merde. Dog merde, merde d'chien, merde d'chat, merde d'homme.”
“Oh, pardon!” de Crillart gasped as it hit him. “Mon dieu!”
“We call him Farmer George, anyway,” Alan went on. “Wants to be thought of as a country squire, when he can't even speak bloody English himself half the time. Vot, Gott in Himmel, eh vot?”
“To 'is Britanneec Majesty, George the ⦠th ⦠third!” the Frenchman managed this time. They drained their glasses, seated. “The King!” Alan echoed. “And to your king. To his Most Catholic Majesty ⦔
“Dat ees the Espagnole, Lewrie.”
“Well, to Louis what's his number, then.”
Then de Crillart had to propose a toast to Treghues, whose name he didn't even attempt to butcher, and Alan countered with one to his own captain, Marquis de Rosset, which drew a flash of anger from his supper guest before the young man drained his glass in a gulp.
“Not too fond of him, are you?” Alan surmised.
“'E ees the buffoon, eh?” de Crillart grimaced. “A fool.”
“So is ours,” Alan confided, leaning over the table.
Alan explained how Treghues had been addled by a rammer, cut at to relieve pressure on his brain, and what odd medicine he
was taking. He also told of the escape from Yorktown, and what the rest of the Navy had thought of that.
“You were in Chesapeake?” de Crillart gasped happily. “Moi, aussi! Une frégate in York Reever? Formidable!
Capricieuse
aussi, le potence to keep you in, n'est-ce pas?”
“Sonofabitch! Really?” Alan barked. “Cony, he was there!”
“Oh, notre capitaine very anger you escape. After 'e swear no one get out. And how tres ironique, we fight at last. Capitaine de Rosset 'e ⦠'e 'ave great anger to pass you. I z'ink 'e 'ave need to be victorieuse, after York Reever.” De Crillart shrugged.
“Ours, too,” Alan agreed. “My God, Charles, look here. If we had had a different captain, we'd never have needed to have fought you, just kept you from getting into Basse Terre with that schooner. Treghues needed a victory to regain his bloody reputation!”
“And de Rosset need le combat to avenge ees criteecs! Merde, eef any ozzer capitaine 'ave
Capricieuse,
we sail avec no challenge!” de Crillart realized. “So many bon hommes are le mort for zees ⦔
“Touchy bastards,” Alan supplied.
“Oui, toochy bastards.”
Â
After that mutual admission, their friendship grew firm, until by the time
Desperate
and her prize were under the guns of the hill forts in the outer roads of English Harbor, he was sorry to see the fellow have to go.
They parted with many cries of “
bonne chance
” and promises to keep in touch, and then the world settled down to a long string of boredom once more. Alan stayed aboard
Capricieuse
for weeks as prize-master. Sir George Sinclair was out with some of his Inshore Squadron, so only Prize Court officials and the Dockyard Superintendent were available to upset their lives. Some more repairs were made, with little help with spares from the dockyard unless heavy bribes were offered, but there were too few hands from shore to take over charge of her as she was laid up in-ordinary awaiting her fate.
Desperate
swung at her anchors, too, repaired as well as could be managed under the circumstances, her burst gun replaced, but with no orders to either join Sir George their commodore, or return to St. Kitts.
Alan was loafing under the quarterdeck, awnings, tasting the last of his morning tea, when a frigate came in from St. Kitts noisily saluting the flag and the forts.