The French Admiral

by Dewey Lambdin

  Sensing that he had given his men enough to do for the moment, Lewrie went on to speak with Feather, who was at the door of the larger barn with another older sailor.

  Feather made an attempt to knuckle his injured brow as Lewrie joined him. He was chewing slowly on a plug of tobacco he had cut from an opened keg, a huge straight-sided barrel full of twisted leaves.

  “Anything to repair the boats, Feather?” Alan asked him.

  “Rope, nails, barrel staves,” Feather said, pausing to spit a juicy dollop of tobacco to the side. “A full carpenter’s shop, sir.”

  “So we may begin in the morning at first light,” Alan said.

  “Aye, sir. Might take a look at mine, too, sir. ’Twas workin’ more’n I liked. They’s pitch an’ tar out back, so’s we kin pay all the seams while we’re at it. But, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, I don’t know what we’re adoin’ with them boats oncet they’s repaired. The ’ands is askin’.”

  “We’re staying free, Feather,” Alan said. “If that means getting out of the Chesapeake altogether past the French, then so be it.”

  Alan had not really considered a course of action. His only hope had been to get back on dry land without drowning in a leaking boat. Then perhaps they might go back to Yorktown, but Lieutenant Chiswick’s observation upriver had made that moot; there was nothing to go back to, not if Cornwallis had not been able to break out. The French and the Rebels would never have stopped that killing barrage unless they thought the end was near.

  “Outa the Chespeake, sir?” Feather wondered. “Doubt we’d make it in them barges. Why, it must be nigh on forty mile ta the other shore, an’ the ’ands’d never be able ta row that far, not in one night, an’ them old things’d be pure shit ta try sailin’. ’Sides, we ain’t got no masts ner sailcloth ner nothin’. An’ why leave the bay, when the army’s not five mile upriver? The French patrols’d get us quick as ya could say Jack Ketch, sir.”

  “There’s plenty of rope, you said,” Alan pointed out. “Enough to rig them with a mast each, though two short ones would be better with the shallow draft they have. There’s timber enough about for masts and spars, and enough sacking in this barn to sew sails from.”

  Alan did a quick survey of the barnyard. “Those wagon tongues are ready forked to fit around a mast—use ’em for booms. And look here.” He knelt down in the dust and drew quick sketches with his dirk. “Sacrifice two oars for gaff booms, or if nothing else, sew up some lug sails instead of getting too complicated. There’s block and tackle in the drying barns for hoisting. Rig ’em loose footed to the boom, maybe even loose to the mast if that’s easier, like a Barbary Coast lugger.”

  “We could do it, I ’spect, Mister Lewrie, but them barges’d go ta loo’ard like a woodchip, an’ unstable as the Devil,” Feather carped.

  “What would make them more stable?” Alan asked. “More ballast or a heavier keel, a deeper one?”

  “Mebbe any keel at all, sir.” Feather frowned, still unconvinced. “They’s only ’bout six inches o’ four by eight fer keel members now.”

  “Below the hull?”

  “Aye, sir, below the ’ull. Mebbe could nail on some barn sidin’.”

  “You can tear this fucking barn down if you get some heavier timbers out of it,” Alan said. “The barges are what, over forty feet long and nearly nine feet in beam—wider than normal river barges. What if you bolted some heavier timber onto the existing keels? Surely there are some finished about, squared off, maybe twelve feet long or better. Channel ’em in the center to fit over what protrudes below the hull, drill holes and fit pine dowels through the holes, or through-bolt ’em if we find iron.”

  “Wouldn’t swim good.” Feather shook his head. “’Ave ta fair ’em in with somethin’ fore an’ aft o’ the added piece.”

  “We’re not out to win a contract from the Board of Admiralty,” Alan scoffed. “It doesn’t have to be pretty. It doesn’t even have to be all that fast, just as long as it will sail upright.”

  “’N then there’s freeboard, Mister Lewrie. Might ’ave to add on ta the gunnels ’bout six more inches.”

  “Barn siding nailed into the existing gunwales.”

  “Mebbe. But they’d still make a lot o’ leeway.”

  “Shallops, Mister Feather,” the older seaman finally said through his own cheekful of tobacco twist. “Iver see ’em Dutchie coasters up in N’York? Got leeboards t’either beam. Swings ’em up outen th’ warter on a ’ub.”

  “Well, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that . . .” Feather stiffened at an unwanted suggestion from a common seaman. The hands were trained by society and by the harsh discipline of the Fleet to sit back and let the warrants and petty officers come up with the miracles, with an occasional flash of genius from the gentlemen officers that the middle ranks would translate into organized action. Talking without being given permission was, in some tautly run ships, an offense.

  “Then I suggest you find out!” Alan barked, exasperated with the petty officer’s intransigence. “We have two choices, Mister Feather. We repair these damned barges, make them seaworthy, and get across to the other coast to escape, or we get taken by the French and the Rebels as prisoners of war, if they even give us a chance. We are on our own out here, so the sooner we get on our way, the better!”

  Feather was used to taking orders, used to having an officer at hand to tell him what to do. He was not an imaginative man or a creative one. In the absence of authority, he had been floundering. But with the midshipman making loud noises pretty much resembling those of a commissioned lieutenant, he fell into line readily. His former stubbornness dropped away like a veil, and when Alan left them, after delivering an order that they would begin boat construction at first light the next morning, Feather and the older seaman were busily drawing in the dust, walking about their plans and spitting tobacco in a juicy fit of naval architecture.

  Once the slave cabins had been swept out and prepared for quarters, the men turned to washing up their few garments, scrubbing the worst dirt from their bodies, and getting ready for the evening meal. Alan saw to the simmering pots that contained haunches of a fresh-slaughtered pair of sheep, inspecting the snap beans and ears of corn that would be the hands’ suppers. Women were baking cornbread for them, and there were more smiles and flirtatious looks passing between his sailors and the slaves than before.

  “Let them turn in after supper,” Alan directed Coe. “We’ll start on the boats in the morning. Just as long as there is no trouble.”

  “Won’t be, Mister Lewrie.” Coe smiled. “Once they eat their fill an’ ’ave their grog, they’ll be droppin’ like tired puppies. Won’t be no trouble from ’em tonight, I lay ya.”

  “I can believe that.” Alan smiled back, realizing how bone-weary he was himself. His clothing itched and still smelled like dead fish—foul as a mud flat. He could feel grit every time he moved. “I’ll be berthing in the house, if I’m needed.”

  He entered the house through the back door and clumped to the parlor to pour himself a drink. There was a decanter of rhenish out on the sideboard already, and he filled up a large glass of it, slumping down on the settee once more in weariness. Someone had lit a fire in the parlor, and he stared at the dancing flames as the hard wood began to take light from the pine shavings and kindling beneath it, almost mesmerized by exhaustion. Before his eyes could seal themselves shut with gritty sleep, Governour and Burgess came into the house by the front doors, forcing him to sit up and try to look alert.

  “It’s quite homey,” Governour said happily, plopping down into a large wing chair nearer the fire and putting his legs up on a hassock.

  “How are your men?” Burgess asked Lewrie. He poured himself a drink from the sideboard.

  “Cleaned up, ready to eat and get their grog ration. Coe assures me they’ll sleep like babies after last night.”

  “Mine, too,” Burgess replied, coming to sit next to him on the settee. “Let some of them sleep the afternoon away so they’
d be fresh on guard mount for the night. Lookouts are posted for anything, coming or going.”

  “Good,” Alan said automatically, glad to leave their security in the capable hands of the North Carolina Volunteers.

  “Now, what do we do to escape this muddle?” Governour asked from his chair, leaning back and almost lost behind the wings.

  Alan outlined what they would do to make the barges sea-worthy and where he hoped to go with them once they were ready to take the water.

  “You are confident we can make it?” Governour said.

  “We would have to leave at dusk, since there is no cover out in the inlets and marshes,” Alan said slowly. “We’d be spotted if we left earlier. Only trouble is, the tide will be fully out and slack then, so we’ll have to slave to get the barges poled out into deep water. Once we have depth enough, we may do a short row east through a pass called Monday Creek, north of Guinea Marsh and Big Island, if Feather has his geography right. Hoist sail there. It’s forty miles or more to the eastern shore. With any decent wind at all, even against the incoming tide flow, we could . . .”

  He paused to use his brain, and it was a painfully dull process.

  “Yes?” Governour asked, thinking Alan asleep with his eyes wide open.

  “Say . . . three knots over the ground at the least. We could make forty miles in twelve hours. Fetch the far shore around half past six the next morning, if we left here about half past four or so.”

  “Have to lay up for the day,” Burgess said. “We don’t know what the Rebels have for a coast watch on the other shore, if any.”

  “Yes,” Alan agreed. “Then, another thirty miles or so the next night to get out to sea. There are islands off the coast we could lay up in until we spot a British ship. Or skulk from one to the other on our way north. There will be someone patrolling.”

  “But how do we get out past the French fleet?” Burgess asked.

  “We stay close inshore round Cape Charles,” Alan told him. “The main entrance they’re guarding is south of the Middle Ground by Cape Henry. Nothing of any size may use the Cape Charles pass, and with our shallow draft we could negotiate the shoals close under the cape in the dark, where even an armed cutter could not pursue us.”

  “What about rations?” Burgess asked.

  “Plenty here,” Governour said. “Bake enough pone or way-bread for all of us. Casks enough for storage. More water kegs. Meat would be a problem once it’s cooked. Or we could slaughter and pack it in brine in small kegs, enough for two or three days at short commons.”

  “Too bad we could not jerk some meat, Governour,” Burgess said. “I have no idea about domestic animals or the chance for fresh game on the eastern shore, or whether it would be safe to hunt.”

  “Johnny cake and jerky.” Governour laughed softly. “Catch crabs and fish for a stew. Alan,” he called out, bringing Lewrie back into their conversation, “how long to repair the boats?”

  “Oh . . .” Lewrie pondered, having trouble lifting the glass to his lips. He concentrated on it hard. “Two days. Three at the outside. You would be amazed by what a British sailor can do.”

  “That long?” Governour said, obviously disappointed.

  “Might take less. I don’t know,” Alan confessed.

  “Two days, then,” Burgess calculated. “Time enough to dry out all our powder. We’re as helpless as kittens right now.”

  “There is that,” Governour agreed. “We have the one box of cartouches that stayed dry, but that wouldn’t make three decent volleys. Lot of smoke for all the labor we shall be doing. I hope it does not attract any curiosity from further up the neck.”

  Their voices droned on, putting Alan to sleep once more. His head slumped down on his chest and his grip on the wine glass loosened until a small trickle into his crotch woke him up with a start.

  “Better get to bed,” Governour said, rising to his feet. “You must be done to a frazzle by now.”

  “No, not yet,” Alan countered stubbornly, forcing himself to stand as well. He slurped down the rest of the wine and headed out for the hall to go out back and find a spot where he could take a quick wash. He met the family of the house as they came down the last flight of stairs on the way to their supper in the dining room.

  “Evening, ma’am.” Alan smiled at their unwilling hostess.

  “Sir,” Mrs. Hayley said, nodding primly. Rodney glared daggers at him.

  “Pardon me delaying your supper, ma’am, but would you have some washing facilities?” Alan asked her.

  “Ask of the kitchen staff, sir,” she replied stiffly.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You shall not dine with us?” the younger sister Nancy asked.

  “No!” Mrs. Hayley decided quickly, echoed by the son, and earning the woman a withering glance to even suggest such a traitorous thing.

  “I thank you for your kind hospitality, ma’am,” Alan said, addressing himself to the sister. “But as Lieutenant Chiswick said, we won’t intrude on your privacy. I expect our supper will be much later. Duties, you know.”

  “I’ve told the cook to set up a table in the parlor for you, sir.” Mrs. Hayley softened slightly. “I will not sit down to table with Tories or oppressors who usurp my property.”

  “Then I shall not delay you further, ma’am,” Alan said, stung by the hostility and confused by how it waxed and waned by circumstances.

  There was a laundry shed out behind the kitchens, and a black maid to stoke up a fire and set some hot water to steeping. Alan discovered a large tub as big as a fresh-water cask aboard ship that had been cut in half for use as a bathing tub. The servants filled it with well water, poured in the buckets of steaming hot water, and provided soap and towels and a lantern, the youngest woman giggling unashamedly as Alan peeled off his coat and waistcoat, until he shooed her out and finished undressing.

  He stepped over the side and sank down into the hot water, giving off a moan of pleasure as he settled down chest-deep. All the salt sores and boils a seaman could expect to gather began to yelp painfully to his weary brain. He lathered up the soap with a rag, enjoying the sting of the lye and the pleasant scent of Hungary Water that had been added to the mixture when it was made. He stood and scrubbed every inch of his skin with soap, undid his queue and washed his hair, then found the buckets of fresh water with which to rinse, lifting them high and pouring them over his head.

  “God, that did wonders!” He chuckled as he toweled down. The water had gone grayish brown from all the dirt he had accumulated. There was a knock on the door, the latch lifted, and the young slave girl came back in with a bundle of fresh clothes. Alan yelped in alarm and held the towel close around him.

  “Miz Nancy say I fetch ya some frayush linen, suh,” the girl tittered, cocking one hip at him like a weapon. “They’s planny ta th’ house an’ no mens aroun’ ta wahr ’em.”

  “Uh, thank you,” Alan replied.

  “I take yer duhty thangs an’ warsh ’em fer ya, suh.”

  He had to cross to his clothing and empty his pockets while the maid slunk closer, humming to herself and grinning lasciviously.

  “Ah kin sponge this hyar coat down, suh. Have ta warsh evathin’ aylse. Miz Nancy give ya britches an’ clean stockin’s ta wayur.”

  “That was most kind of her,” Alan said, trying to keep the towel up with one hand and search his pockets with the other.

  “You a real purty mans, suh,” the girl crooned softly. “They calls me Sookie, they does. Laws, ah ’speck ah ain’t seen sich a purty mans ’bout the place in a coon’s age.”

  “Is that a long time?” Alan huffed. Fuck it, she’s only a slave, to hell with modesty, he thought, letting the towel care for itself while he finished emptying his pockets. “What about your overseer, or the boy?”

  “Hmmp, Missa Dan’l, he got his fav’rite,” Sookie sulked. “An’ Missa Rodney, his momma keep a leash on him. An’ Miz Sarah, she done sol’ mos’a the purty slaves. Not much come down the road no mo�
�, ’cept them Franch mens an sich.”

  “What French men?” Alan asked, “How do you know they’re French?”

  “Why, Lordy, they’s awavin’ they han’s an’ bowin’ an’ kissin’ so ovah Miz Sarah an’ Miz Nancy, ah nevuh seen sich goin’s on! Ize Miz Nancy’s gal, suh. Ah seen me lo’sa mens ack the fool ovuh the ladies, but ah ain’t seen nuffin’ lak dat! All blue an’ yaller unifo’ms, an’ thezh hyar big tall caps look lak sewin’ thimbles.”

  “Hussars?” Alan wondered at the girl’s description of a shako. “So they come down the road a lot, do they? When were they last here?”

  “Ah . . . ah, don’t recolleck, suh.” She paused, having said too much.

  “Tell me, damn you!” Alan insisted, taking her arm.

  “Two, three days back,” Sookie finally told him. “They come down hyar ta sniff ’round the white wimmens. Took off the las’a the field bucks las’ time. You ain’t gonna hu’t me none, is ya, suh, fer tellin’ ya ’bout ’em? Miz Sarah’d have me whopped iffen she knew ah tol’ ya.”

  “I won’t tell on you, Sookie,” he said, releasing her.

  “Ah allus git me a spell wif a sargen’ when they come. His name be Al-Bear, an’ he allus gimme a whole shillin’ ta let him top me. Ah cain’ tell what he sayin’ half the time, but he’s some kinda buck, my, my! Ah’d do it wif you fer a shillin’, iffen you was a mind ta.”

  At that moment, had Sookie been a perfumed and powdered Queen of Sheba in his private harem (secretly one of Alan’s favorite fantasies) he could not have mounted her to save his life. Damme, the Frogs and the Rebels have been here, and they might come back before we can sail!

  “I’d normally be honored, Sookie,” he told her quickly. “But I’ve my men to look after, I can’t do anything they can’t.”