Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

It would be impossible for me to begin an Alan Lewrie adventure without the assistance of the U.S. Naval Institute and its reference books-such as John Harland's Seamanship in the Age of Sail, to mention one of many-and the staff of the History Department of the U.S. Naval Academy. To them, my many thanks.

For details about Turk's Island and Horatio Nelson I am grateful to Mr. Iain MacKenzie of the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, England, who was kind enough to dig up lieutenants' journals and material from contemporary accounts, such as Schomberg's Naval Chronology and Beatson's Naval and Military Memoirs.

I would also like to thank Derek Rooke of Memphis, Tennessee, who culled a lot of material for me. I had to repay him by being his only crew when he wanted to race his thirty-three foot sloop, which is the sort of long, painful and humiliating tale I'd rather not go into, ever, even if we did come in seventh in a class of twenty-eight boats.

Clenell Wilkinson's biography, Nelson, provided good insight into the famous admiral's personality. Thanks also to Mr. Herbert Sadler of Grand Turk Island, The Turks and Caicos, who serves as historian to the islands.

John Richard Alden's The South in the Revolution and Gloria Jahoda's Florida, A History provided details on the role of the Southeastern Indian tribes in the Revolution. A debt must be expressed as well to Charles Hudson's excellent one-volume treatise, The Southeastern Indians, for the wealth of information on the social life, customs and language of the Creek and Seminole tribes.

The French fleet made a brave sight to leeward, twenty-nine massive ships of the line bearing up toward the smaller British fleet on a bow and quarter line, their gunports gaping and filled with hard iron maws, the white-and-gold battle flags of Bourbon France streaming in the moderate winds, and their halyards bedecked with signal bunting.

"If this is going to be anything like the Chesapeake battle, we're about to get our arses knackered," master's mate and midshipman Alan Lewrie observed sourly, comparing the twenty-two English vessels against that bellicose spectacle to the west.

"Frogs like ta fight ta loo'ard," said Mr. Monk, the sailing master, shrugging as he worked on a bite of half-shriveled apple. "But we got 'em this time. Cain't work ta windward of us ta double."

Monk waved a stray hand at the shore close aboard to the east past which they barely scraped. Nevis Island ghosted by, crowding the disengaged-side frigates such as Desperate up close to the battle line.

"Un you'll note, young Lewrie, the wind's a prodigy ta loo'ard of an island," Monk went on. "Got a kink in the Trades here that'll bear us along on a nice quarter wind. Too close into shore yonder an' we'd be winded by the hills o' Nevis. Too far out as well, but winds come slidin' down the hills and touch water out here where we are. See how yon French are luffin' and fillin' ta keep station further out? Too far out for this little river o' wind we're ridin'. Second lee."

"If the battle line crowds us much more, we'll be winded. sir."' Alan observed, noting the strip of azure waters that was shoaling and shallows close aboard to starboard. "Even if we don't ran her aground we'll end up in the island's lee under those bluffs. Last in line of the repeating frigates. Last in line for pretty much everything since Yorktown, too."

"Can't go spoilin' the admiral's dinner with our stink, Lewrie," Monk spat-literally and figuratively, for he wandered over to the binnacle to fire a dollop of tobacco juice at the spit kid. How the man could eat and swallow fruit, and reserve his quid in the other cheek, almost made Alan ill just contemplating the feat.

"Wasn't our fault we escaped, Mister Monk," Alan said, going to the wheel to join him and peer into the compass bowl.

"Lord Cornwallis give us verbal orders we could try sailin' outa York River, nothin' in writin', see, Mister Lewrie?" Monk smiled with a weary expression. "Whole army goes inta the sack, titled gentlemen imprisoned'r on their parole for the duration. America lost, and us come out with a whole skin. A damn fine feat o' seamanship gettin' down river an' outa the Chesapeake under Cape Charles, even on a fine day'd be cause fer praise, if you'll allow me t'boast a mite. Night as black as a boot, a whole gale blowin', it'd get most young captains a bloody knighthood. But them dominee-do-littles up in New York sat on their hands an' swore what a damn shame it was losin' the army an' all our other ships, well… it'll take a piece o' time, er somethin' ta rub the shite off'n our boots fer their likes."

"For what we are about to receive, may the Good Lord make us grateful," Comdr. Tobias Treghues, Desperate 's master and commander said as the French fleet began to open fire at long range. With the wind carrying the sound of cannonading to leeward, it sounded no more dangerous than the thumping of pillows, and the sour grey-tan wall of smoke climbed above the bulwarks and lower masts of the enemy ships, to be ragged away to the west. Admiral Hood's ships began to return fire, and their view of the proceedings was obscured as great billows of expended powder blotted out the sky.

"Now we'll give those French, and this de Grasse, a proper English quilting," Treghues prophecied with a tight, superior grin.

Not bloody likely, Alan thought. They had been at the Battle of The Chesapeake, where this self-same Admiral de Grasse had snatched victory from a budding disaster, and the British admirals, including Hood who now commanded their fleet, had stood about in stupefaction until there was nothing left to do but call if off. Hood had kept back the strongest division of the combined Leeward Islands and North American fleets, never even fired a ranging shot all day, and Desperate had been trapped in Chesapeake Bay at the siege of Yorktown, and Alan nearly lost his life ashore; had stood with the Army expecting the Navy to return and break the siege and save the men before they had been forced to surrender. It need hardly be said that Alan Lewrie had a low opinion of Admiral Hood's reputed fighting qualities. In point of fact, he also had a rather low opinion of a naval career, since it wasn't his choice in the first place, but everyone knew that by now, which took the bite out of any carping he might have done in the privacy of his midshipmen's mess.

They had had a hard dash south under a full press of sail for Barbados to carry word to Hood that the island of St. Kitts had been invaded by de Grasse and the French on the eleventh of January. Hood had sailed for Antigua to pick up seven hundred or so troops, all that could be spared, and then made a fast passage to round the southern shore of Nevis, the twin island to St. Kitts, to confront the French, dragging Desperate in the fleet's train like a barely tolerated relative.

Yesterday had been thought to be the day of decision, but all they had accomplished by their presence was to draw this massive Frog fleet out of its anchorage out to sea off Basse Terre. Rumor had it that Hood had wanted to sail right in and fire into the anchored ships, as they should have at The Chesapeake, but that had been postponed.

Once more, this de Grasse had been given a heaven-sent chance to escape the massacre of his fleet. The last time, he had destroyed any last chance to recover the Colonies. Would his luck hold, and would they begin to lose the fabulously wealthy Sugar Islands now?