"How would you like me to kick your nutmegs up between your teeth, Forrester," Alan warned, grabbing the offending hand and holding it immobile against Forrester's best efforts to free it. "By God, it's blow for blow in here, and well you know it, just like a Scottish feud."
"Goddamn you, Lewrie, unhand me," Forrester commanded, squirming with the effort to free himself. "I'll square your yards for you!"
"The hell you will," Alan said, laughing cruelly. "You may inherit your daddy's title and rents, but you'll always be a churlish, craven pig."
Alan let go of Forrester's arm with a shove that almost unseated him. Forrester glared at him hard while Alan cut himself a slice of the cheese and poured a glass of Black Strap in lieu of port. He knew Forrester's type from civilian life, the bullying sort who would try to get even backhandedly, but would never face an enemy in a fair fight, and he enjoyed taunting him with a merry grin of physical superiority.
"How sadly is our aristocracy fallen, Carey, since the days of the Crusades," Alan scoffed. "Or when they faced Caesar's legions painted blue with woad."
An hour later, the master-at-arms and ship's corporals came about to see that all lights were extinguished for the night to lessen the mortal danger of fire, and they turned in. Alan took a moment while Forrester was forward in the heads to warn Carey to be on his guard in days ahead.
"He doesn't frighten me," Carey said with a smirk. "What can he do to us? Three of us against him."
"But he might get to you when we're not here."
"No matter, you'll settle him for me," Carey said, full of young confidence in his older mates to protect him. "But I'll make him pay for that slap."
"Carey, I think—given the captain's mood—that you leave well enough alone for now." Alan frowned. "Let it go, or you'll get us all in trouble, not just Forrester."
Carey had only smirked at him once more, then skinned out of his clothes and sprang into his hammock to curl up and sleep, and Alan thought no more about it, eager to get to sleep himself for a few hours before his midnight-to-four tour of duty in the middle watch.
Perhaps it was something about blue woad that set Carey off, for at dawn quarters the next morning, all the midshipmen turned up on deck to await the rising of the sun and the possible renewal of the battle with the French fleet, whose riding lights had been visible all night on the south-east horizon, still headed out into the Atlantic under easy sail.
As the grayness of predawn began to lessen the darkness, and the binnacle, belfry, and taffrail lanterns began to lose their strength, some of the men began to titter into their hands and almost bite their tongues to keep from laughing out loud about something.
Must be a grand thing to get them going, Alan thought wearily after another night on deck with only three hours' sleep. There's not all that much to be amused at in this fleet.
"Silence on deck," Lieutenant Railsford snapped, unusually out of sorts.
"Whatever is with the people this morning?" Treghues growled, stalking by the windward rail, unshaven as of yet and unfed.
"Don't know, sir," Railsford replied.
"I'll prove to them they have nothing to laugh about after yesterday, by…" Treghues said, almost blaspheming himself.
I like him better when he has a mug of whatever that stuff is, Alan thought, planning to ask Mr. Dorne if the captain was under any medication; not that he really expected an answer, but he was intrigued anyway by the sudden change in behavior that Treghues evinced whenever he partook of it.
A man next to him on the gun deck began to laugh softly and Alan went to his side. "If you wish to be at the gratings in the forenoon, go ahead and laugh, why don't you?"
"Sorry, sor," the man replied, much too brightly.
"Just what is so all-fired funny to you?" Alan queried, and the gunner jerked a finger in the general direction of the starboard gangway and screwed his mouth shut, trembling with the effort not to laugh.
Alan looked up at the gangway. Nothing funny up there; the yeoman of the sheets looked about as stupid as usual, the marines were mustered properly at the hammock nettings with their muskets, and the landsmen and brace-tenders all seemed normal enough. Lieutenant Peck was pacing slowly, as was his wont, with his burly sergeant in tow, just as every morning.
"Oh, my God!" Alan gaped at Forrester as he came aft from the fo'c's'le belfry. "Carey, you little shit, you've done for us, by God if you haven't! It had to have been Carey… Avery has more bloody sense!"
Forrester had had his countenance adorned during the night. There was blue paint on his face, large dots on each cheek, a false mustache a Hessian guardsman would be proud of, great arching false brows, a streak down the nose and two quarter-circles on the jowls to emphasize their roundness, with a final large blot on the slack chin.
"Jesus," Coke, the bosun, commented as he spotted Forrester. "We're for it now, Mister Lewrie!"
"Amen to that," Lewrie whispered back.
"When'ud ya find the time, sir?" Coke asked once he was past them.
"Me?" Alan yelped. "By God, it wasn't me… honest!"
"Merciful God!" A wail came from aft on the quarterdeck as Railsford spotted Forrester's phyz in the lightening gloom. "Mister Forrester, what is the meaning of this?"
"Mister Railsford?" Forrester snapped back, too sleepy to be wary, too surprised by Railsford tone and totally unknowing the nature of his sin.
"What sort of harlequin are you to appear caparisoned so?"
"Sir?" Forrester replied, on his guard now and feeling about his body to see if he was properly dressed after donning his clothes in the darkness of the midshipmen's mess with no time for a peek in a mirror.
"You… clown!" Treghues shouted in his best quarterdeck voice as soon as he spotted the miscreant. "How dare you turn out like that! Get below and wash that… that foolishness off at once, do you hear!"
"Sir?" Forrester begged, aware that he was in trouble for sure.
"And I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when addressing the first lieutenant," Treghues said.
"But, sir…"
"Now, idiot!" Railsford commanded.
The word "wash" alerted Forrester to the possible nature of his offense. As he saluted and spun away to disappear below decks, he felt of his waistcoat, his breeches, then his face as a last resort, and was appalled to bring his fingers away still sticky-damp with blue paint.
"Mister Lewrie, get your miserable carcass up here instantly!" Treghues bawled, and there was no denying the summons. With a bitter shrug he scampered aft to a quarterdeck ladder and faced his irate captain.
"Sir," he said, doffing his cocked hat in salute.
"I know your brand of deviltry by now, Lewrie, and this time you shall pay for it in full measure," Treghues said, spittle flying from his lips.
"I did not do it, sir."
"Don't bother to lie to me, Lewrie!"
"On my honor, sir, I did not do it," Alan persisted.
"Avery, Carey, come aft at once," Railsford commanded.
"There's no need for that, Mister Railsford. I know who the biggest sinner in my own crew is, you can be assured of that."
"Sir, Mister Lewrie had the middle watch all night."
"Sir," the other midshipmen said as they reported and saluted.
"On your honor, did you paint Forrester's face blue, Avery?" their lieutenant asked of him. Avery had seen Forrester's new appearance and had said nothing, but even the seriousness of the situation could not keep the smirk off his face as he swore up and down that he had not done the deed.
"There's nothing to laugh about," Railsford barked, his own lips quivering at the edge of humor anyway, which did nothing to keep Avery from grinning even broader. "Carey, was it you?"
"Oh, this is a waste of time," Treghues grumbled. "Mister Coke!"
"I did it, sir," Carey said, pleased with his handiwork.
"You?" Treghues gaped.
"Aye, sir. Forrester cuffed me at supper last night."
F
orrester reappeared on deck, the sharp edges of his new makeup now smeared, but still bright blue.
"I told you to go below and wash!"
"It won't come off, sir," Forrester admitted miserably. "It's paint, sir. I tried, sir, honest I did!"
"Did you strike Carey last night?" Railsford demanded.
"I…"
"Did you or did you not?"
"Lewrie stopped him from doing more," Carey stuck in mischievously.
"Sir, they were…"
"Did you strike a fellow midshipman?" Railsford reiterated.
"Aye, sir, I did, but they…"
"Bully!" Railsford roared. "To think of a young man of your size, cuffing a little boy about. You disappoint me, Mister Forrester."
"Vile wretch," Treghues said, frowning heavily at his relative. "I had thought better of you until now, boy! And you, Carey, playing at shines as men such as us bleed and die yonder. All of you, shame on you for being such a spoiled pack of unfeeling prodigals. What did we do yesterday? Watched a battle being lost, good ships shot to pieces, good men shot to pieces, and you dare to cut such a caper and still call yourselves gentlemen-in-training as professional sea-officers. Well, you'll pay for it. Mister Coke, a dozen of your best for Forrester and Carey, and a half-dozen for Lewrie and Avery as well. Mastheading for Forrester and Carey until I remember to let them come down. And get that… stuff, off your face. Carry on!"
"Aye, aye, sir."
Once Treghues was gone below and the strokes had been given out, Railsford turned on them as well. "Goddamn you all for this childish… shit. I shall have the next fool flogged again, so help me!"
The sun was fully up after quarters were stood down, a day of calm seas and light winds. The sixth of September could have been a marvelous day to be sailing, were the circumstances different. The British fleet still sailed in easy column towards the south-east, pursuing the French, who were perhaps five or six miles off to leeward, drawn further and further away from the Chesapeake and the coast. But there was no question of battle being rejoined; too many ships had been roughly handled and needed urgent repair. The light winds were a blessing, allowing shattered topmasts to be struck so they could be fished or replaced with what few spare spars had been available from ships less hurt.
Admiral Drake's van ships had taken the worst of the pummeling; the Intrepid and Shrewsbury looked as though even an easy swell would roll the masts right out of them. But Terrible was the worst off, nearly in sinking condition, and her many wounded being parceled out to the less damaged ships for medical attention. The chain pumps clanked continually to stem the inrush of the sea from her bilge and lower decks.
The frigates still dashed back and forth on their ceaseless errands to scout dangerously close to the French and to keep an eye on their intentions, to carry spare timber and spars from well-endowed vessels to those most needy, and to pass messages too complicated for the meager signaling book.
Or messages too vitriolic to be shared, Alan thought grimly He could imagine the choler with which Graves might be penning a despatch to the Admiralty about the debacle, dashing off irate questions and accusations to Admiral Hood; Drake might be pouring out pure bile about the near destruction of his ships in the van, thrown away without proper support by the rest of the fleet, especially Hood's rear division. Hood and Drake might be countering with invective about Graves's incredible decision to let the French form beyond the Middle Ground and the waste of a splendid opportunity that Providence did not give grudgingly to any admiral.
How long does it take to become an admiral, anyway, Alan wondered as the usual ship's day proceeded to spin out its ordered sameness. Even with a newly like me in charge, we'd have accomplished more yesterday than what this pack of fools did. And if I should ever make flag rank, will we still have a navy at this rate? We should have stood on into the bay and cut the Frogs' gizzards out of them! Even I know that.
The day before, the sight and sound of battle—in the early stages at least—had raised in him a martial ardor and pride in his uniform that he could scarcely credit as coming from such a churl as himself, and now it all seemed like a fever dream. What was the point in becoming an officer in such an inept Service? What sort of honor and credit would it bring him, and what sort of glory was there to reap with such an addled pack of bunglers?
Why are we still following that damned de Grasse like a cart horse on the way to the stable? Alan wondered. There was a French army in the Chesapeake now landed in Lynnhaven Bay, an army that would force Cornwallis to withdraw within his siege-works sooner or later. The fleet needed to go back and aid the army. Let de Grasse bottle them up in the bay. He would be denied entrance until after the hurricane season began, and had no force of note still with him other than his ships to threaten New York or Charlestown or any other port on the coast. A fleet, even a large one, had never succeeded in taking and holding a garrisoned and fortified location on its own with only marines to put ashore. By God, I don't believe one of these ridiculous jackanapes in charge over us has the slightest idea what to do with the fleet now. We'd do better with that damned Frog to lead us.
In the afternoon a flag hoist from the London summoned Desperate to attend her. Once near enough to hail, London's hard-pressed sailors had a chance to laugh at the sight of Forrester at the main masthead, still blue in the face as a Pict, for the paint indeed would not come off.
"A talisman, is your ancient warrior?" a lieutenant from London asked Treghues by way of greeting as he gained the quarterdeck with the usual canvas-bound packet of despatches under his arm.
"Your japery is out of place, Lieutenant," Treghues said with icy harshness.
"Your pardon, Commander Treghues," the lieutenant stammered, taken off guard and remembering his place in the scheme of things when facing a senior officer, even if the lieutenant was blessed to be the senior in the flagship of a major fleet. "Admiral Graves sends his most sincere respects and directs you to make the best of your way into the Chesapeake to deliver despatches to Lord Cornwallis and then return to the fleet."
"And where shall the fleet be, I wonder?" Treghues asked of him. "Halfway to France? Still tagging along behind de Grasse?"
"I would not presume to know, sir. We shall still be at sea, certainly, to the east'rd of the capes."
"Hmm," Treghues sniffed in a lordly manner. "My deepest compliments to Admiral Graves, and I shall assure him the safe arrival of despatches or die in the attempt."
"Very good, sir. I shall take my leave, then, and not detain you."
"Good day, sir," Treghues said. "Mister Railsford! Mister Monk! Stations to tack ship and lay her on the most direct course for the Chesapeake. Drive 'em, bosun. Crack on all the sail she can fly."
Before the lieutenant from London had even regained his seat in the flagship's cutter, Desperate was boiling with activity as every reef was shaken out, as she wore about to pinch up close-hauled preparatory to tacking across the wind to a course opposite that of the fleet.
Even with a light north-east wind, she began to fly like a Cambridge coach with the wind broad on her starboard nuarter, one of her fastest points of sail.
"Be in soundin's agin by around two bells o' the evenin' watch, sir," Monk announced after they had taken several casts of the log. "We're nigh on nine knots. Will ya be wantin' ta enter the capes afore dawn, sir?"
"High tide should be making around then?"
"Just the start of the flood, sir. But we'll be off the entrance 'bout six bells. Be full dark, sir, and no moon ta speak of. Even so, I wonder if ya wants ta stand in under full sail er plain sail, what with no idea of what the Frogs left behind."
"Might not be a bad idea to reduce sail, especially the royals and topgallants before sundown, sir." Railsford stuck into the plans. "Even if the sun is going down behind the French watchers and we'll be out in the gloom, they'd shine in the last light."
"You'd have us loiter off the channel 'til dawn and the turn of the low dawn tide, Mister Railsford," Treghues
countered, "and our orders brook no delay. Royals down in the second dogwatch, topgallants down after we fetch the coast, but we'll enter just as the tide is beginning to flow inward. We shall just have to chance any French warships."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"I'll have the ship at quarters, no lights showing, as we enter."
Treghues looked about the deck once more, then went below to his quarters, bawling for his steward Judkin to attend him.
"Probably wants to look his best when he sees Symonds or Cornwallis," David whispered once he was off the quarterdeck.
"He'd have to wear coronation robes to sugarcoat this disaster," Lewrie observed. "What a shitten mess."
"Oh, don't be such a Cassandra," David sighed. "Once Graves gets his fleet in any sort of order, he'll turn about and come back into the bay, and where will de Grasse be then?"
"The only reason they harvested Cassandra's liver is because she was always right," Lewrie said, grinning. "Keep that in mind, my lad."
"I love you dearly, Alan, but there are times when you have absolutely no faith in our superiors," David replied, withholding most of his vexation. "If you weren't so jaundiced in your outlook, you'd fare all the better. Think on this: there's a clutch of French transports in that bay, most likely without decent escorts, what with de Grasse and de Barras off ahead of Admiral Graves. We could snap one or two of them up tonight on our way in."
"What if Symonds and his frigates have already done so?" Alan countered. "They might not have left much for us. At least, for once, I hope they haven't."
"God, you're hopeless," David grumped.
"But still alive and prospering," Alan retorted.
The seas had begun to rise once they got in soundings. They reduced sail bit by bit as it got darker and darker, so that not even the faintest reflection of the setting sun would gleam from the upper yards. Just before entering the black channel near midnight, they even brailed up the main course to reduce the chance of fire if they were intercepted by a lurking French vessel. They then went to quarters.
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