Dewey Lambdin - The French Admiral

Desperate was for many days almost the only ship in harbor, for Admiral Hood had taken the Leeward Islands Squadron down to Barbados. The ship lolled in almost idleness as they took on a draft of replacements newly arrived from home in the first transports that would brave the mid-Atlantic Trades before the hurricanes truly left the region for another year.

There were three new midshipmen in the once empty and echoing mess. Two were mere boys of twelve or thirteen, fresh-caught newlies still gawking in wonder at the height of the masts. There was an older boy of some years' service named Burney, about sixteen and so handsome-looking that one was tempted to throw a shoe at him on first sight. He and Avery had hit it off and were busy enforcing their superiority on the newlies with all the old pranks that midshipmen played on each other, and Alan found the two younger ones so abysmally stupid that he had no pity for them and let them make fools of themselves quite easily. The new master's mate was an American from Maryland, a painfully thin and awkward thatch-haired man of twenty or so named Micah Sedge, another victim of the Rebels, almost burning with zeal for bloody revenge.

Almost as soon as they had reached port, Alan had been confirmed by Commodore Sir George Sinclair in his position of master's mate, followed shortly thereafter by Hood's approval as well, so he was no longer "acting," and his two pounds, two shillings a lunar month was safe. He still walked small about Treghues, but there had been no sign as of yet that that worthy was contemplating anything frightful because he had not gained Caroline Chiswick's immediate affections.

Sinclair's approbation concerning his new rating had come as a surprise to Alan; he had thought the man nursed a grudge against him because of who Alan's father was and the circumstances in which Sinclair's flag captain, Captain Bevan, had snatched him from London under threat of arrest by the watch for the alleged rape of his half-sister Belinda. Alan wondered if Sinclair really cared one way or another, or if he had been poisoned by his nephew Francis Forrester, now languishing in some Rebel or French prison after his capture at Yorktown. If Sinclair had any animosity at all, it was toward Desperate as a whole for her "lucky" escape, or towards Treghues for losing the commodore his nephew. They were dead last on the list for provision, powder or shot or rigging, a sure sign of a senior officer's displeasure.

"Mail coom h'aboard, zurs," Freeling said mournfully as he dumped a sack on the mess table. The midshipmen dived for it, but Alan had but to bark "Still!" to freeze their grubby paws in midpounce.

"You young gentlemen should know, even from your limited experience, that Mister Sedge and I get first crack," Alan informed them lazily, seating himself at the table to open the sack. "Not so, Mister Sedge?"

"Indeed so, Mister Lewrie," Sedge replied. He was still stiff and uncomfortable in his new berth, but willing to give Alan a grudging try. "And any packages from home get shared, and not hogged to yourselves."

"Ah, what do we have here?" Alan asked, laying out the contents. "A letter for you, I believe, Mister Sedge."

"Thankee kindly, Mister Lewrie. From me dad in Halifax."

Alan sorted out the mail, finding several of his own dating back for months, mostly from Lucy Beauman in Jamaica, a few from London from the Matthews, Lord and Lady Cantner, and one from his father's pettifogging solicitor, Pilchard. He hoped it was his annuity; he was getting short.

"Another missive for you, Mister Sedge, in a fair round hand, from New York. Scented too, I swear."

"Gimme that," Sedge snapped, eager for the letter from some female admirer, and not a man to be trifled with at that moment. He gathered up his few communications from those dear to him and went into his cabin.

Alan decided to save Lucy's letters for later; they would take some deciphering, anyway, since the little mort had the world's worst skill at spelling. He would tackle Pilchard's letter first.

"You missed one, Mister Lewrie," David Avery said, digging into the sack. He held up a large and thick letter, almost a rival to the long, continued sea-letters that Alan wrote between spells of duty. David sniffed at it to the delight of the other midshipmen, who were pawing through their own correspondence. "Damme if this one ain't scented, too. From Charleston."

"Ah?" Alan said, unwilling to be drawn.

"And it's not from Lady Jane's." David grinned innocently.

"Gimme, then," Alan said eagerly, reaching for it, but David held it further away and aloft for a second. "Kick your backside if you don't, you ugly Cornish pirate."

"Very well, then," David said, making to hand it over once more but drawing it back at the last second. Alan grabbed his wrist and took it.

"While you tell our newlies of Lady Jane's, I shall read this," Alan said, smiling to let David know there were no hard feelings. "Boys, I recommend you listen attentively to Mister Avery's tale of sport. You could learn a good lesson from it."

He disappeared into his small dog-box cabin and shut the door, flung himself down on the thin mattress of his bunk and opened the seal of the Charleston letter first. Pilchard could go hang for awhile longer. It was from Caroline, informing him of their new address, of how her father was improving now that Governour and Burgess were on their way to Charleston to bring the survivors of their detachment home to add to the garrison and try and raise a new force of riflemen. He was more excited than he would have expected to be reading her carefully formed words and seeing how sensibly she formed her thoughts and expressed herself; he saw-nothing so formal and stilted as to make him twist his tongue trying to figure it out, but everything straightforward and plain, as though she were talking to him familiarly.

There was a lot of teasing, just shy of saying something fond but twisting the sentiment into japery, skirting about what she really might have wished to say to him. It raised a warm glow in him anyway, and he thought of her fondly, scratching at his crotch and grinning in delight.

It had been scented, with the same light, fresh, and clean aroma that he remembered from their one embrace aboard ship, a citrus sort of Hungary Water overlaid with a redolence of some unidentifiable flower. He folded her letter up after reading it through three times, to save it for later. He opened Pilchard's. It was dated nearly nine months earlier.

"You bastard!" he shrieked, beside himself with sudden anger, nearly concussing himself on the low deck beam overhead his berth as he sat up quickly.

It was Pilchard's sad duty to inform him that his father had had second thoughts about the extravagant sum of one hundred guineas a year as his remittance and that Sir Hugo was suspending the annuity, effective January of 1782. That meant that he would not be getting any more money from home and would have to live on the twenty-five pounds, four shillings of a master's mate, less a pound a month for provisions and whatever he purchased from the purser's stores, which meant just about all of it. He already owed Cheatham near fifteen pounds already.

The Yorktown business had reduced his kit horribly, and he had pledged another part of the annuity to tailors ashore in English Harbor for new uniforms and shoes. He could always dig down into his secret money from the Ephegenie , but it was more the thought that counted.

Sir Hugo's excuse was that from what he had read in the Chronicle , Alan was prospering enough from all the prizes taken and no longer needed to be supported. In short, he was on his own bottom now, and must stand or fall as a man with no crutch from home. It was for his own good.

"Lying shit!" Alan swore. "It's for your own good! You've spent yourself into a hole and it's cut me off or debtor's prison for you! Damme, what did I do to get such a father?"