Dewey Lambdin - The French Admiral

"You'd cost us the squadron," Railsford told him. "And then Graves would not have the force to do anything more. No, Cornwallis and his men and artillery can hold the bay while we assemble everything that floats to be sure we'll smash him when we come back. If he gains the bay while we are up north, then we can bottle him in anyway. He's most like brought troops as reinforcements, stripped the Indies to do it, and with him gone it'll be a year before the French could put together another fleet to send to the Caribbean, if then."

"Oh, that would be a different prospect entirely, sir," Alan said, seeing the wisdom of it.

"It's good practice, though, to use your mind as you have been doing. Good practice for when you really are an admiral, God help us." The first lieutenant chuckled.

"Now there's another hopeful thought indeed, sir!" Alan agreed.

Four bells chimed from the belfry, halfway through the evening watch on a dark night, as the moon waned further. Alan wandered to the lee rail of the quarterdeck and leaned on the bulwarks, for no one could see him there violating the rule that midshipmen never lean on anything, or slouch.

Someday when I'm an admiral. Alan gave a wry laugh. After we win this battle, the war will most like be over, so there won't even be time enough in service to gain my lieutenancy. I suppose the admirals we have at present know what they're doing, so there's no sense in my getting worked up about things. Still…

Somewhere out to leeward was a black shore, lost in the full darkness, and over the horizon from his vantage point. There was something nagging at him, but what he could not say; not fear this time, such as he had felt when faced with the prospect of action against another ship. His role in this would be that of a properly enthusiastic spectator, then a paid-off veteran soon after—and that was about as valuable in England as a dead rat. Worse. One could always eat the rat and sell the pelt.

It finally came to him that Cornwallis's army could do nothing to stop the French from entering the bay and landing their armament, and that was what was bothering him. Even with only fourteen ships to face up to 24 French and Spanish liners, the real point was to deny the French an anchorage anywhere in the bay; and if it cost a squadron to do that, it would be worth it, for the army would still be in one piece, and whatever the French and Rebels put together in the way of held units would have been smashed or decimated before even stepping ashore.

The air was cool, almost chilly compared to the tropical climate Alan was accustomed to. He involuntarily shivered, and hoped it was merely the damp night that made him do so.

CHAPTER 3

Even if Alan Lewrie and his compatriot-in-crime David Avery had been blood relations to Commander Treghues, and in his best graces, they would have stood no chance for shore leave once Desperate anchored off New York. Alan thought New York a finer port for fun than Charleston, with its atmosphere seething with competing interests, the graft in military and naval stores, the spies and whispered confidences, and betrayals and the threat of the Rebel forces pending over all of it as if it were a besieged Italian city-state intent on survival in the time of the Borgias. It was a place that could turn a vicar into a pimp or fleshbroker and an honest man into a thief. It had most certainly turned many Loyalist women into grateful courtesans for the many handsome young men in uniform.

But Admiral Hood did not wish even to enter harbor, but anchored the fleet without the bar off Sandy Hook. However, the Nymphe , under Captain Ford, did cross the bar into the harbor, bearing despatches.

A flotilla of supply barges rowed ouit to them, but none of the many ships would be allowed out of discipline, pending a rapid assembly of the battle-worthy vessels of the North American Squadron, and an even more rapid return to the Chesapeake.

Boring, Alan decided, definitely boring. I've swung about out here before in the Ariadne and it was always deadly dull. And the way Treghues is acting lately, it's a wonder a boat full of clergy don't descend on us playing sad music, instead of us being allowed out of discipline.

"Bosun of the watch!" Railsford bellowed.

"Aye, aye, sir?"

"A boat for Mister Cheatham. Smartly now!"

Alan looked on hopefully, but it was Forrester who was entrusted with the duty of rowing their purser ashore. Cheatham shrugged eloquently at Alan byway of commiseration, but patted the large packet of letters he carried with him. So it was more than Alan's own letters to Lucy Beauman, Sir Onsley, who was now ensconced in London with the Board of Admiralty, and Lord and Lady Cantner. Cheatham was indeed posting a letter to his brother in London as well, regarding Alan's background.

The more Alan had thought of it since baring his soul to Cheatham in the bread room, the more he was certain that his father, Sir Hugo, had cheated him out of some sort of inheritance—nothing else made sense. Why else get him into Belinda's mutton and then entrap him with a ready-made pack of witnesses to force him to sign all those papers? He kicked himself for not asking for a copy to take with him. Face it , he thought, slapping his memory to life once more, you should have at least read them, instead of just scribbling your damn name to 'em.

He could console himself with the fantasy that somewhere in the near future Cheatham's brother would write back with proof positive of his father's perfidy, which he could dash into Treghues's leering face, at Captain Bevan, and at his master, Commodore Sir George Sinclair. They would fall all over themselves to take him into their good graces in atonement for their beastliness of the recent past. With their influence, and with the influence he had garnered from Lord Cantner and Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews, he would be well on his way to gaining that coveted commission, which would mollify Lucy's daddy and open all the doors to a peacetime future.

Interest was everything, if not second to outright jobbery and bribing his way to the top. Professional skill in ship-handling and seafaring were all right, but even the saltiest tarpaulin man could not advance without interest in those circles that abutted on the crusty older men at the Admiralty. Since he had so little interest as of yet, he was careful to curry to those he had.

May not make much difference anyway, he thought to himself. He must, according to the rules of thumb, be upwards of twenty, of two years' service as a midshipman or master's mate, and have been entered in ship's books for six years before he could even gain admission to an examination for his lieutenancy, and the war could end within a month after they beat de Grasse in the Chesapeake. Then where would he be in regards to Lucy Beauman?

Just the thought of her made him groan. She was so young, so delectably blonde, with startlingly blue-green eyes, the color of a shallow West Indies lagoon. She idolized him, and each time he saw her, she had advanced just a bit closer to the softly feminine ideal of the age. She loved him openly and frankly. She was also as rich as Croesus; or her father was, which was much the same thing. And the match was not totally out of the question—if he cleared his name, if he made something of himself that her father would let in the front door, before someone more suitable came along. Or before Lucy met someone she liked better. It was a long sail to Jamaica, and she might as well be on the other side of the world at the moment.

Did he love her as well? He thought about that as he penned her long, continuous sea-letters. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful, desirable, sweet, and unspoiled (in the biblical sense, at any rate). She was also his key to financial security after the war. No one else had ever fallen so head over heels in love with him (not anyone with that much chink). He had not had a major affair of the heart, having taken the usual route of paying silver for pleasure, or of taking advantage of house servants and country girls, just as any other young buck.