Dewey Lambdin: The French Admiral

Alan got a pot of ink and a new quill from his chest, laid out some fresh stationery, and went out to the mess table where the light was better to write letters. His grandmother first; then his solicitor and then Cheatham's brother at Coutts'; then Sir Onsley and Lady Maude; then the Cantners. His hand was cramping by the time he got around to writing to Lucy Beauman with the delightful news of his new fortune, but for some reason the first words he scrawled on a fresh sheet of paper were:

Aboard the Desperate frigate, English Harbor, Antigua

January 5th, 1782

Dear Mistress Caroline ,

Now why the devil did I do that? he wondered, ready to cross it out. But that would waste a sheet of vellum, and Lucy would go barking mad if she received a letter headed by another girl's name, even crossed out, and he was not so rich that he could take that liberty with her.

I am rich enough for even a girl who could bring nothing as her portion but her bedding and linens, he thought. No, best put her out of your mind, laddy. Just 'cause I dallied with her is no reason to even consider such a thing. She's an artless country wench and I'd be bored silly raising pigs—don't know the first thing about farming and bringing in the sheaves and all that. It's London and Lucy Beauman for me, and if I ever rise before ten in the morning, it'll be the Second Coming that wakes me. Only livestock I want to see'll be stuffed removes.

Still, he did not want to waste the paper—it was dear in the islands. He continued the letter, relating his good news about his inheritance, glossing over the reason he had to go to sea, as though he had been cheated in his properly patriotic absence. He was teasingly charming, striking serious notes when asking as to the health of her dad and mother, inquiring about her brothers. He put tongue in cheek and could not resist making the subtlest allusions to their night on deck, and when he read it back, he thought it clever and only mildly romantic, just the very thing to liven the poor gawk's days.

Only then did he put himself in the proper frame of mind and begin a letter to Lucy Beauman, a short one that could go off in the next packet boat.

Desperate loafed along, conducting a slow cruising patrol on her passage for Barbados to join with the Leeward Islands Squadron, and the Inshore Squadron of smaller sloops and brigs and cruisers now with Hood.

South of Antigua, there were many French-controlled islands, the main one being their base on Martinique, home to de Grasse's fleet and a host of privateers. There was a possibility that Desperate could snatch a prize or two, take a privateer, or enter combat with a French naval vessel, as long as she was not of overpowering might. That had been the plan, anyway, but so far it had not come to fruition, for the sea looked as empty as on the dawn of the second day of Creation, when there was but ocean and light, and land had been only a project.

Alan didn't mind particularly; he had had enough excitement in the last few months, and if the war wound down quietly, then that was fine to his way of thinking. The Trades were blowing fresh and cool out of the east-north-east and the ship rolled along gently on a beam reach, a soldier's wind. He was off watch and skylarking on the weather bulwarks, watching the gun crews go through the motions of loading and firing, jumping from one battery to another as the excess crew took care of reloading while the others competed to be the first run out on the other beam. At his most energetic, he conversed with the yeoman of the sheets on the larboard gangway as that gentleman and some of the topmen rerove fresh rope for sheets and braces where they had begun to chafe, or took a splice aloft to remove the chafed portions but save the ropes.

"Sail ho!" the mainmast lookout called. "Dead astern!"

Alan wandered back to the quarterdeck while Lieutenant Railsford studied the sea over the taffrails.

"See her yet, sir?"

"Yes," Railsford said, trying to suppress his excitement. "Full-rigged, flying everything but her laundry and coming on fast. Topgallants, royals, and stuns'ls, too. Can't tell what she is yet, though."

"French, perhaps?" Alan speculated.

"We'll know in about an hour, the rate she's coming."

"Where away, Mister Railsford?" Treghues demanded, emerging on deck from a nap below. His eyes were rheumy with sleep, his pupils mere dots, which Alan put down to more of Mr. Dorne's medicaments. While the first lieutenant passed on what little intelligence he had about their stranger, the captain took the telescope and went up the mizzen rigging to at least the beginning of the futtock shrouds to get a better look. He came down minutes later and handed Railsford the telescope again.

"Looks like one of ours, I think," Treghues said. "Still, let's not be taken by surprise. Suspend the gun drill and get sail on her, all plain sail for now."

"Aye, sir. Bosun, pipe 'all hands.'"

Treghues went below while the hands lashed their guns down and began to hoist the yards, go aloft, and free the courses and the reefs in the tops'ls, undo the brails on the topgallants and draw them down so they filled with air. Desperate ceased loafing and came alive, leaning her starboard side into the sea, creating a creamy white furrow of foam in her wake. The faster she went, the stronger the wind felt and the more the yards had to be angled to take apparent wind at a more efficient angle. When Treghues came back on deck he had scrubbed his face, put on clean uniform, and stood four-square in cocked hat, new neckcloth and sword.

"Eight knots, sir!" Alan reported, coming from the taffrail where they had done a cast of the log and he had gotten soaked in spray.

"Still coming on strong, sir," Railsford said after another peek at their strange pursuer. "If she's French, she's eager to close with us. Do you wish us to hoist the royals, sir?"

"No, we shall let her," Treghues said. He took out his silver pocket watch and studied it. "Please be so good as to pipe the rum issue early and have the cooks serve as soon as everything's hot. We may be throwing the galley fires overboard, and can't wait for the proper hour for dinner."

"Aye, sir."

Alan thought it odd to let the enemy, if enemy she was, get up close. Desperate could go like a Cambridge coach if turned up onto the wind, or could run like a frightened cat to leeward if called upon to do so with stuns'ls and stays'ls. He studied Treghues as he paced the deck, wondering if his eagerness for battle had anything to do with the way the ship had been treated after escaping Yorktown. Did his captain have something to prove, some blot on their name that could only be erased by a victory, a geste of such derring-do that no one could comment on her any longer with a sneer? He had been acting odd enough ever since they had taken Ephegenie back in the Virgins, and Alan would no longer discount anything. A cautious captain would assume the other ship was an enemy and try to outrun her. A rash captain would put about and charge down offering battle. Only a timid and indecisive captain would allow the stranger to close them in this manner, and Treghues had never shown himself to be a timid or indecisive man. Certifiably eccentric, perhaps, but not that.

"Mister Lewrie," Treghues said, coming to his side in his pacing.

"Aye, sir?" he responded brightly.

"Walk with me."

"Aye, sir."

"Mister Cheatham informs me that you have had a stroke of good fortune come your way. And, he implies that you may soon be cleared that whiff of shame that followed you from England. For that I am grateful and pleased for you." Treghues spoke softly as they walked the weather rail, to the consternation of the other quarterdeck people. Treghues did not look much gratified, nor very pleased, but the words were kind enough, and Alan expressed his thanks.