He trudged along, stumbling over shallow wagon ruts and loose rocks in the lane between the fences, too shaken to care where they were going.
God, how could any human being with any honor at all do such a murthering thing? he asked himself. Bastard, I may be, but I could never raise my hand against a woman. Maybe Cheatham is right—I am not the basest person that was ever born after all. The Navy would never do such a deed or allow it to happen. Thank God Father shoved me in the Fleet and not some regiment bound for the Colonies, or I'd have run screaming into the backwoods by now, sick of it all.
He tried to harken back to all the women he had known who had done him dirty, trying to discover one who might have deserved such a death, and was amazed that even the Covent Garden whore who had pinched his purse of nearly ten pounds when he was a feckless fifteen could not engage his rage enough to wish her such agony.
And the babe. God in heaven, how could he ever sear that fiendish sight from his memory. He hated babies, usually; squawling little bundles of nastiness best kept out of sight with a nurse and trotted out at bedtime for a cuff on the ead The getting of them was enjoyable, but the keeping of them was not, a matter best left to the sluts who dropped them.
Then there was Lucy Beauman. What if it had been her slashed open like that? What if he and Lucy married someday? And what if it had been his child, his heir, nailed to the wall by some rampaging fiend?
I'd hunt the bastard down and kill him slow, Alan vowed, suddenly full of anger instead of sickness. Whoever did that deserves to die, and to die horribly. I wish I could find him and make him pay, and I don't care if it's that hero Tarleton, or that turncoat Arnold, or Cornwallis himself. The regular army would make him roast, by God.
They reached the main road, Alan never being aware of the dread and anticipation with which the soldiers had walked that sunken farm lane, sure an ambush would occur at any moment. In his anger he was oblivious.
"You are looking positively wolfish," Chiswick commented as they waited for Mollow to scout west against any party advancing on Yorktown to their rear.
"Must be your… what did you call it… whiskey?"
"Liked it, did you?" Chiswick grinned. "There'll be plenty more in camp. The soldiers can brew it themselves from corn, and this country is full of that. Easiest way to get corn products to market from up in the Piedmont, and no taxes to pay for import of claret or port."
"It helps," Alan confessed. "Look here, Burgess. You said to the private that it was the usual, or worse than the usual. So you have seen such an atrocity before?"
"Yes, more than enough, unfortunately."
"Has your unit ever…" Alan asked, wondering what a band of Loyalist volunteers could do in reprisal to the people they ran across who supported the rebellion.
"No, we have not!" Burgess snapped, his eyes narrowing, "How dare you accuse me of such a thing. I've half a mind to call you out for it. We may not be an English unit, by God but we're not a pack of thieving and murthering poltroons, like the Fannings and 'Bloody Bill' Cunninghams."
"My apologies, then, Burgess," Alan said, seeing that Chiswick was indeed ready to kill him for the slur on his unit's honor, and on his own personal honor.
"That is not good enough, sir," Burgess said.
"I most humbly beg your pardon, Mister Chiswick, for by the asking of a question meant in all innocence, that you might have felt that I had cast any aspersions upon you or your company," Alan said in the most formal tone of complete and abject apology, amazed at himself to be backing down from any man, even someone he was beginning to like. He would not have done it in London, and they would have met and crossed swords or stood and delivered a volley out of sheer pride and honor.
He shifted the rifle to his left hand and offered Burgess the right, which Burgess took after a moment. "I am sorry I was so quick to take offense, Alan, but damme, that was a little close to my feelings. We've flogged and hung before to prevent that sort of thing."
"Then I shall be easy in my mind that we are still decent Christians, no matter what sort of service we have seen." Alan smiled as they shook hands heartily.
"Well, not well-churched Christians, I think." Burgess smiled.
"But never capable of such as we saw, so that says something for our salvation," Alan said. "For being a pair of rake-hells?"
"Amen to that."
Once determining that the Williamsburg road was clear of enemy activity, they led their menagerie east, back to the working party, just in time to see the end of labors. Two stout pines had been cut down for replacement masts, trimmed of limbs and laid out to be skinned clean of bark and knurls, Two lighter timbers had been selected for replacement royal and topgallant yards. Other blocks from the butts had been shaped roughly into new trestletree pieces, which the carter and his crew would finish later aboard ship. Not being content merely to satisfy the ready needs of the ship, they had harvested several spare spars as well for future service, the entire gathering slung between the two caissons and the twelve horses reharnessed into a single large team ahead of both wagons.
"Good God above, it's Noah!" Railsford laughed loudly as they hove into sight, leading the cattle and sheep, dragging the pig carcasses.
"Sure you do not want to join the army, Mister Lewrie?" the elder Chiswick asked as he surveyed their small herd. "I could use a good forager such as yourself."
"Though the foraging proved rough on your uniform," Railsford said as he saw the state of Alan's clothes, and his stockings which were little higher than his shoe tops, leaving his legs bare below his breeches.
"The fortunes of war, sir," Alan replied, offering the Ferguson back to Lieutenant Chiswick, who opened the breech and checked the flint professionally in an automatic response to see if the user had fouled it, or done something dumb with a good gun.
"We heard but one shot," Chiswick said.
"That was Mollow killing the second hog." Burgess grinned. "After our sailor here had wrestled and stabbed the first to death, like Samson slaying the lions in the wilderness. That's how he got skinned up."
"Any sign?" his brother asked.
"Quiet as church on a Monday. Looted farmstead, where we found all this, but no sign of French or Rebels. I'll tell you the rest later."
"Good." Lieutenant Chiswick nodded. "You missed dinner, but we've no time to feed you now. I'd like to get back across Yorktown Creek before dark."
"I shall cope," Burgess replied with a shrug.
I shan't, Alan thought, but no one was asking him, and he realized that it was already midafternoon and he had not had a bite to eat since before dawn. Mollow could get a crumb or two from his fellow soldiers, Cony could depend on his mates to have saved him a morsel or two, but Alan had to go without, and it was a long, slow trek back in the heat and humidity, with only stale water for sustenance.
By the time they reached the boat landing and began loading the boats with their prize, it was nearly dark. The army encampments were lit up with squad fires and they could detect the tempting aromas of individual messes in the process of cooking their meals, the smell of bake ovens and the sight of game and domestic meats being roasted for the officers in front of their pavilion tents.
"You would be welcome to eat with us," Burgess offered as he came to Lewrie's side near the docks. "Would your captain allow you?"
"You do not know my captain." Alan grimaced. "I am his prime case of sloth and sinfulness, not to be let out of his sight long enough to get into more trouble."
"A man after my own heart, you are," Burgess chuckled. "But perhaps in future, before you sail, I and Governour could send an invitation aboard for you to dine with us. We could kill one of the fatted calves for you."
"Don't wait for me for an excuse, but I'd enjoy continuing the pleasance of your company indeed, Burgess," Alan said, sure that he had made himself a new friend, if even for a short acquaintance. "I'll bring some wine, even if it's a poor rough-and-ready issue wine."
"Then you should be doubly wel
come. I shall say good evening to you, then, until next time."
"Until next time, aye," Alan replied, shaking hands with him once more and adding his warm respects to the elder brother as well. Then it was into the boats and a row out to Desperate. He would not be going empty-handed, even so. The North Carolina Volunteers had gotten one of the sheep, one of the hogs, and both calves, while Desperate got the cow, one hog, one sheep, and the chickens, one of which Alan still posessed for his own mess.
By the time they had lashed their new spars and masts hoard for hoisting the next morning, it was full dark, and the few buildings in the town were lit up, as well as the ships the anchorage. A cool sea wind had sprung up to blow away the heat of the day, and the cook and his assistants were busy boiling the cow for supper. With the news of their good fortune at foraging, everyone had a good word for Lewrie as he strolled the decks, sniffing at the good smells and almost slavering like a famished dog for his fresh meal. Even Treghues had been kindly in his praise, for he had gotten a chicken out of the encounter.
"A good day's work, was it not, Mister Coke?" Alan said as he met him by the larboard gangway, where the bosun and the carpenter were assaying their precious lumber still.
"A fine day indeed, Mister Lewrie," Coke replied. "Though I'd be easier in my mind ta soak these spars in a mast pond fer a few weeks ta season 'em. Guess a dash o' tar'll have ta do."
"Anything to get us off this wretched coast and back to the fleet," Alan said. The chime of the last bell in the second dogwatch freed him from the deck, and he went below to partake of his dinner, knowing that even Freeling could not make the chicken that awaited him unpalatable.
"A tasty looking dish," Avery said as the roasted bird was placed on the mess table alongside the fresh joint of beef that had also resulted from the trip ashore.
"Wish you could have found some potatoes, though," Carey said.
"You ungrateful little whelp! I put my life on the line for this, and you want something else!"
"I like potatoes with all this good gravy," Carey said.
"But it wasn't much trouble, was it," Forrester stated, Unwilling to give Lewrie credit for his pains, even if he shared the resulting largesse. "I mean… you were escorted and all."
"But in the middle of Rebel country," Alan reminded him. "Woods as like as not full of enemy scouts way beyond reach of the lines. Miles out in those dark woods like nothing you'v ever seen."
He laid it on thick, stressing the alien nature of the forests and the dangers even the skilled troops of the North Carolina provincials had worried about. As he talked, though, he took a breast and leg from the bird and a large slice of roast beef dripping juices and piping hot, to leave the rest of the bird to them. They had wine, more pease pudding, and biscuits fresher than ship's issue from the naval stores ashore. There were whole ears of boiled corn that even rancid ship's butter could not ruin—as much as they liked for once. Carey's face was glinting with the greases as he crammed himself full as only a perpetually hungry midshipman could when offered a decent chance. Even Forrester shut up and wolfed his victuals with more than his usual relish.
Not wishing to spoil anyone's supper (even Forrester's) with the account of what he had seen in the farmhouse, he kept silent on that subject, trying to dismiss it from his own mind as much as he was able.
"What smells of rough spirits in here?" he finally asked, wondering if anyone had been painting below decks in his absence.
"Forrester's face." Avery smiled. "Still won't come off, Francis?"
"I am still laying for you, and I will have my revenge."
A day's scrubbing with paint remover had not done much for the splendor of Forrester's countenance.
"When pigs can fly," Avery grumbled through a particularly tasty bit of biscuit soaked in steak juices and mustard.
"What's for dessert?" Carey asked, leaning back from the table and displaying a belly taut as a drumhead. "Any apples left? Freeling?"
"Apple dowdy, zur," Freeling said, making even that welcome pronouncement like an undertaker's greeting. "Thev wuz gone over, zo noothin' ta dew but smoosh 'em un' make a dowdy."
"How appetizing you make it sound," Alan replied as a howl of hot dowdy was put down before them. Half flour, some crushed biscuit, mashed apples with molasses, and a toasty crust that might have been also sprinkled with some sugar. Alan was sure that if Freeling had had a hand in it, the cores and stems and seeds were still there, along with the peels, but he was game enough for something sweet to sort out the odd bits.
"Then yew wooden be warntin' any, ah takes it, zur," Freeling said mournfully, but with a glint to his eyes, which meant that he had been planning to eat what was left of it. Damned if he would!
"Dish me a goodly portion," Lewrie said, gleaming back at him. "A goodly portion, mind you, Freeling."
"Aye, zur."
When spooned out, it was evident that a fair measure of rum had made its way into the dowdy as well, which made them all smack their lips.
"You know," Alan began between heavenly bites, "I wish we could get together with those soldiers again and go back out to that farm on the Williamsburg road. There must be other farms that have been abandoned. I saw beans and potatoes going to waste in the fields, fodder for whatever stock that survived the looting around here. Must be orchards, too."
"Then they may as well be the Golden Apples used to lure Diana," Avery said, frowning. "We will be at sea day after tomorrow after we refit. And I doubt if Captain Treghues would let us ashore for any more scavenging."
"Not us, perhaps, but if I know anything about those Chiswick brothers and their men, they'll be scouting out there at first light for anything they can grab." Alan laughed easily, now getting very tight in the middle and wondering if he had room for two more bites of the dowdy, even in such a noble effort as depriving Freeling of a single morsel. "I could send a letter ashore at first light and let them know we would pay well for anything they could bring us. They did invite me to dine with them, too."
"No large hopes for that with all the work we'll be doing," Forrester said, scooping his spoon around his bowl for the last crumbs and streaks and licking the spoon thoroughly. "But if they could provide us with some fresh fruit and vegetables I'd gladly go shares on it."
"Might be dear. They're a famished lot," Alan warned.
"What else do we have to spend our money on?" Forrester countered. "What would they be worth—a peck or two of potatoes, some peas or beans and a keg of apples or something sweet? A pound altogether?"
"The thought is intriguing," Avery said, "else we'll be back at sea with Graves and Hood, and God knows when we put into a port, again. This might be our last chance for weeks."
"I'd best write that letter now," Lewrie said. "Even if I can't accept their supper offer. Mind, now, I said I'd take them some wine. What do we have left?"
"Four bottles of red, one of claret, but we were saving that."
"That's good enough for soldiers, provincial soldiers at that," Forrester sneered. "Let's send them a half gallon of Miss Taylor for their swill."
"If we did that, we'd not survive our next reencounter with them," Alan said. "They'd kill us on sight after one glass!"
"Have to be the red, then." Avery summed up: "Two bottles of the red… and the claret, too."
"Here, now," Forrester protested.
"A good trade, don't you think? We could even get some meat on the hoof. Surely there is more where this livestock came from?"
"Freeling, bring me ink and paper," Alan said. "And some rum."
CHAPTER 7
The next morning, the ninth of September, dawned with a light fog and a chill to the air, which none of the men were accustomed to after long service in the Indies. It was a welcome chill, though, for they would be put to very hard labor during the day, and under tropical conditions it would have wrung the sweat from them until they left as much water on the decks in their shadows as they could imbibe.
Alan's quickly penned letter
went off with Weems, who wanted to secure some new cordage from the other ships in the anchorage, if there was some to spare. In his absence Toliver filled in, with Feather, the quartermaster's mate, who had done the chore a dozen times in his career.
First, the newly carved and formed trestletrees and cheek pieces were hoisted aloft into the maintop, to be lashed and bolted to the upper butt of the mainmast ready to receive the new topmast.
"Ahoy, there!" Coke bellowed. "Ready ta tail on the yard purchase! Haul away handsomely, now! Mister Forrester, do ya ready yer people on the stay tackle as she leaves the deck."
Slowly, the fresh new mast rose from the horizontal until the butt end was all that kept it on deck. A party of men took up tension on the stay tackles to either side and aft to keep it from rolling, swinging, or dashing forward to do hurt to the doublings of the lower mainmast.
"Haul away, my bully boys! Haul, boys, haul!" Coke ordered. "Now walk yer stay tackles forrard, handsomely now!"
He was in his element and enjoying every minute of it, waving even Railsford and Treghues on the sidelines to keep silent and only jump in if something untoward happened.
"Up an' down, Mister Coke!" Toliver cried, leaning down to eye the alignment of the topmast with the lower mast and lubber's hole in the top.
"Snub ya well yer preventers! Hoist away all aloft!"
Up the new topmast went, one foot at a time until it threaded through the gap in the trestletrees and cheek pieces where it was to rest. The new foot piece was inserted, and the roving of the doubling bands was wrapped firmly about it, even as other hands began to set up the newly made upper shrouds. With everything torn away, it was a lot more labor to reset the topmast than the usual drill, for the fore and aft stays had also to be installed and then fiddled with until everyone in charge was satisfied with their tension and the upper mast's angles.
It was halfway into the forenoon watch before the old tops'l yard, now "fished" with one of the precious, seasoned stuns'l booms and lashed about like a giant splinted bone for rigidity, could be rerigged with all the blocks, sheaves, and hardware for the braces, clew-lines, halyards, and jears. They rove it to the top tackles first to be hoisted aloft to the top platform, then secured it to the new halyards and jears to hoist it firmly into its proper position so it could be overhauled for complete trim and reef control. Once in place, the sailmaker and his crew fed the resewn and patched original tops'l up through the lubber's hole into the maintop where the sail handlers could bend it back onto the yard, apply new sheets to help draw it down to its full length, and then brail it up.
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