Dewey Lambdin - The French Admiral

"You'd think there was a better way," Alan complained. "To bear down and break through the other line or something."

"Not for the likes of us to say, Mister Lewrie."

"Goddamme, what a waste."

"War mostly is a waste," Gwynn grunted, cutting himself a plug of tobacco to cram into his cheeks. "Anythin' that takes a man outen a woman's bed and away from easy reach of a bottle is a waste, t' my thinkin'."

By half after six in the evening, Cape Henry was far astern and almost under the horizon. The action still raged, though the broadsides were becoming very ragged and slow, the gun crews decimated and stunned into numb exhaustion from the continual roar and the shock of horror piled upon horror on those gun decks.

It was also possible that ships were running low on powder and shot; a battle that long would have emptied Desperate's magazines hours before.

They had not fired a shot themselves but had stood down from quarters after rendering what aid they could to the crippled Shrewsbury . Alan rotated to signals duty on the quarterdeck as cold food was issued, and small beer or American spruce beer was passed liberally to quench the dry throats among the crew.

With a better vantage point, Alan noted that the worst-damaged French ships were able to slip away to leeward to allow fresh vessels to take their place from that reserve in the rear, still untouched by Hood, who had not budged from his role of disinterested spectator. Alan felt a cold anger seething in his breast at an act which he could only describe as that of the ultimate poltroon. He lifted his telescope to see better as the light began to fade. London was not looking good, nor did any British ship that had managed to engage, and Alan could imagine the letter of rebuke that Graves would send Hood once he had a chance.

There was something different about the London —what was it?

"Signal is down, sir!" he shouted, having discovered what was missing.

"Watch her closely," Treghues said, almost at his elbow. Alan took a sideways glance at his young captain and was shocked. Treghues looked a dozen years older. He was gray in the face and barely a shadow of himself. He held his mouth in a bitter arc of disapproval, and Alan felt that for once the displeasure he evinced was not toward him personally, but toward the entire conduct of the day.

About five minutes later a single flag hoist went up a halyard, a blue and white checkered flag. Lowering his telescope, Alan consulted the short list to find the meaning. "Goddamn and blast," he whispered sadly, almost drained of emotion or the ability to be surprised by anything. "Signal, sir: 'Discontinue action.' Yeoman, hoist a repeat on that."

"I see," Treghues said. "Thank you, Mister Lewrie."

There was no groan of disappointment heard on Desperate , no low curses or signs of reaction. Perhaps men slumped just a bit more on hearing the import of that one colored bit of bunting. The battle had been fought, and it appeared from where they stood that they had just lost it.

CHAPTER 4

Perhaps Midshipman Carey's geste against Midshipman Forrester was not the most aptly timed event in the continual war of wills in the mess that Alan had seen yet, nor was it particularly bright to jape so soon after such a galling failure as the Battle of the Chesapeake. The repercussions did not bear thinking about, and had Lewrie or Avery had a chance to talk Carey out of it, they most definitely would have. But, given Lewrie's own recent history and the series of misadventures that seemed to dog his existence, it was much of a piece, and therefore seemed almost fated.

Once full dark had fallen, the galley stoves had been lit and the steep-tubs began to bubble and boil to prepare the crew's dinner, though few men or officers who had eaten with such gusto at dinner in the forenoon watch had much of an appetite for their plain-commons supper. Avery was in the evening watch, which left Carey, Forrester, and Lewrie in their small mess compartment to be served boiled salt beef and biscuits, livened only by a communal pot of mustard and the watered-down issue of red wine come aboard in New York, with a redolence of varnish. There were only four men in their mess, and the normal issue for a seaman's mess of eight was a four-pound cut of meat. Minus gristle and bone, it might make a third of a pound of meat for each man. Theirs, however, was even tougher than most, composed of more useless junk, and had the consistency, even after boiling, of old leather.

"Freeling, if you do not deal sharply with the mess cook when they choose the joints, I shall see you at the gratings," Forrester threatened, throwing his utensils down in disgust. "This is inedible!"

"Aye, zur," Freeling answered noncommittally. He was half dead already, a toothless oldster of forty who appeared over sixty from a hard life of seafaring, herniated from hoisting kegs with stay tackle once too often, shattered by too many years aloft in all weathers. He had seen too many midshipmen come and go and turn into officers, and held a particular abiding hatred for each and every one of them. Even bribes could not move him to charitable efforts on their behalf.

"I mean it this time, damn your eyes," Forrester snarled.

"You're not going to eat that?" Carey asked, eyeing his plate and the raggled strands of meat. Carey would eat anything.

Forrester did not answer but picked up his utensils once more and began to gouge at the beef to carve it into bite-sized pieces. It was much like trying to slice old rope with the edge of a fork as the only appliance.

"Why not just pick it up and gnaw?" Alan said. Forrester was the only person he had ever seen who seemed to prosper on ships' rations. The lad had been fat as a piglet when Alan came aboard in spring, and now was in such fine and obese fettle as to excite the fantasy that soon some villagers would trice him up by his heels and bleed him for the fall killing. It was September after all, almost time for the first frosts and the slaughter of excess animals for the salt kegs or the smokehouses.

"That would be more your style," Forrester said. "I leave it to you. Such a lot of peasants! God rot the lot of you!"

"Did you hear some snuffling and rooting, Carey?" Alan jibed. "My ears definitely did. Or was it human speech after all?"

"Oink, oink," Carey said through a mouthful of biscuit.

"Do not row me tonight, Lewrie," Forrester snapped. "Perhaps this performance of ours today did not affect you, but, by God, it angered me!"

"But it did not seem to affect your appetite," Lewrie said, happy to have Forrester to abuse to alleviate his own sense of gloom concerning the battle. Desperate had been short two midshipmen when he had come into her—one had drowned, the other was a raging sponge who had been drunk most of the time and was finally dismissed, a hard feat to accomplish at any level of English society in these days. Forrester had been the tyrant of the mess until Avery and Lewrie had sided with Carey and played one prank after another on him until Forrester had been driven almost to distraction. It enlivened the usual drabness of their existence, and there was little that Forrester could do about it. One did not complain to superiors that one could not hold his own against the spiteful cruelty of his peers. It was their rough and tumble microcosm of society, where lads as young as ten or twelve became men along with becoming potential officers, and if one could not cope, one could not hope to prosper. It had come to blows a few times, at which point Forrester could only snarl and withdraw and scheme to gain his revenge, an event that so far he had never achieved, for with three against one, he had no chance. His not being the brightest person ever dropped also had a great deal to do with Forrester's frustrations.