The French Admiral l-2

by Dewey Lambdin

  Around ten in the morning, Lieutenant Railsford came aboard from his post on the Gloucester side, bringing some of his gunners with him. There were only two 9-pounders left in operation now with Tarleton and his dismounted cavalry troopers in their fortifications, and the other two had been smashed. Railsford conferred with Treghues, and then they both went over to the shore to talk to Symonds.

  "Something is up, I fear," Avery said softly by Alan's side.

  "Surrender," Alan surmised. "There's nothing left of the fortifications that a lazy cripple couldn't scale."

  "Is it that bad ashore?"

  "Yes, by Heaven, it is," Alan told him, wondering where the hell David had been the last few days. "I wonder how anyone still lives at all."

  "That will mean our surrender as well." Avery shuddered.

  "Most-like," Lewrie cold-bloodedly replied.

  "This has changed you terribly, Alan, I swear. You are so cold and hard now, I hardly know you any longer."

  "I believe it has, too," Alan said, thinking back on his behavior of the last week or so. "Well, you cannot be a child forever. I hope it's merely something that will wear off when I get enough sleep and some decent food. Perhaps a few weeks in a prison before being paroled will do it."

  Treghues and Railsford were rowed back to the ship just before midday and went aft immediately, passing the word for Mister Monk and his charts of the York River. Shortly after, all senior warrants and midshipmen were summoned aft to the captain's cabins.

  They found their officers peering at a chart, and were bade to draw near and look at it carefully.

  "Lord Cornwallis has ordered Captain Symonds to gather boat crews, to transfer the army to the Gloucester shore tonight," the captain began, tapping on the chart with a brass ruler. "We're going to evacuate Yorktown before the enemy overcomes our defenses. We're to start embarking troops here, on the beaches and the docks, at ten o'clock. The artillery has to be abandoned, along with the remaining stores, but we can save the troops and their personal weapons. With so little resistance facing Tarleton and Simcoe there's hope we can break out into Maryland or Delaware, and make a quick march away, before the French or the Rebels can begin pursuit. Carry on, Mister Railsford."

  "Here, on the right of our positions," Railsford lectured, gesturing at the map, "there are French marines there, with artillery enough to break up any landings, so you had better not venture into this inlet or risk being shot to pieces. Steer west of north for the point, or the cove just to the west of the point. You'll want to be careful of the boats; it's a rocky shore thereabouts. At ten o'clock there will be a making tide, but the York flows swift enough to almost cancel it out. Once out from behind the bluffs at the tip of the town, remember to put a little starboard helm on, even if it takes you farther west than you think proper. The Virginia Militia is on the left of the lines, not far past the entrance to the cove, so don't bear too far north. There is to be a small light at the back of the cove to mark the entrance for you. Look for it, for your lives."

  "What about the ship, sir?" Coke the bosun asked.

  "We have Captain Symonds's permission to try and break out after most of the troops are across," Treghues said. "So don't be late in getting back here once you have ferried your last load. I doubt if any of you want to spend any more time with our army than you have in the last few days, so if you do not want to march right out of your shoe leather or end up eating bark and berries, return to Desperate on time."

  Treghues was in fine spirits once more, making his little jokes and exercising the use of his voice, which he had always been most fond of hearing during his briefings and lectures and Sunday services.

  "But, if we cannot break out past the French ships at the mouth of the river, we shall have to burn her to keep her from capture," he said soberly. "The ship's boats are not big enough, for the most part, to take as many troops as necessary, so we will be using those recently constructed barges."

  There was a groan at that. A few weeks in the water had not done anything to improve their watertight integrity, or their handling. They were heavy, ungainly, hard to steer and row, even with a dozen oarsmen aboard, and they leaked like a sieve. What was worse, they were fairly flat-bottomed compared to a boat built with love and care, and made leeway as fast as they could be propelled forward on a windy day.

  "I would admire that Midshipman Forrester be called off-shore to help with the barges," Treghues said, making sure that his cater-cousin would be close to him at the end, whatever transpired. "He will take one boat. Mister Lewrie, you take another. Avery takes a third, and Carey will supervise a fourth. Mister Coke, the cutter and the launch from Desperate's complement shall be employed as well. Give one to my coxswain, Weems the other. Mister Monk, it would be best if your master's mates stay aboard ready for departure, but the midshipmen could use the quartermaster's mates to assist in pilotage."

  "Aye, sir."

  "No outward preparations until after dark, which shall be before seven this evening. No sign of what we are attempting must come to the attention of the enemy, or there is no point in trying. The army is counting on us to save them." Treghues concluded, saying, "I do not intend to let them down for the last time as…"

  Treghues choked off his possible comments about Graves and the other leaders who had never even shown a royal yard over the horizon in all that time and had muffed the battle at sea that had led to this hopeless condition.

  "We'll get 'em safe across, sir," Railsford promised.

  "We must," Treghues said vehemently, his eyes clouding up with emotion. "We must!"

  "The night seems perfect," Railsford said, sniffing at the wind by the entry port soon after the hands had been fed an early supper. "Be as dark as a cow's arse."

  "Just as long as we can see where we're going, sir," Alan said. "If we cannot show a light, even to peek at a boat compass…"

  "Steer for the shelling and you'll come right," Railsford told him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Off with you now, and pray God for our success."

  "Aye, sir, thank you."

  Alan scrambled down the battens by the manropes and dropped into place at the stern of one of the hastily built barges. The night was indeed perfect for clandestine activities; there was no moon, and if it had been even a sliver, would have been lost in the thick cloud cover that had blown in during the afternoon. There was a slight breeze from the west that predominated over the sea breeze as well, which would require careful balance on the tiller to counteract it and the current of the York.

  "Toss your oars," Alan commanded softly. "Ship your oars. Quiet, now. Who is senior hand here?"

  "Me, sir, Coe." One of the older men spoke from the darkless, leaning forward to be recognized.

  "Rowports muffled with sailcloth?"

  "Aye, sir."

  "Very well. Shove off, bowman. Out oars. Give us way, larboard."

  Desperate was lying athwart the river, anchored with bower and stream hooks, her guns manned to prevent any French spy boat penetrating the upper river. Leaving her starboard entry port, the barge was quickly taken by the current, and by the time they had come about to aim for the town docks, they had lost over a hundred yards downstream.

  "Gonna be 'ard rowin', sir," Coe commented from his position of stroke oar, near Alan's knees.

  "The tide's making," Alan told him. "The rowing will get easier as the night goes on."

  They reached the town docks about nine-thirty in the evening and joined a formless pack of ships' boats and barges that were queuing up to the various piers and gravelly beaches to pick up troops and load them for the trip across the river. By companies, the battalions and regiments were lining up to depart. To avoid confusion, only one regiment or battalion was permitted near the docks at any given time. There were artillerymen whose pieces had been smashed to ruin or who had run out of powder and shell, now armed with muskets taken from the dead and wounded and most uncomfortable in their new role as "light infantry." There were troops from the Brigade of
Guards—the 17th, the 23rd, the 33rd, and the 71st Highlanders, those that had survived the bombardment and the sickness that had finally struck the camp, as sickness would decimate any large military gathering sooner or later. There were troops from the brigade of light infantry, the 43rd, 76th, and 80th regiments. There were German and Hessian mercenaries from the two battalions of Anspach, the Hessian Regiment Prinz Hereditaire, Hessian Bose Regiment, the Jagers, now not much more than a company of about sixty men remaining, and the provincials from Alan's friends, the North Carolina Volunteers. But nearly two thousand men were in hospital still in Yorktown, and they would not be evacuated since they could not march and fight, nor survive on the poor rations or forage expected after the army had cut its way through the French and Rebels on Gloucester. They would be left behind to the mercies of the victors.

  Alan's boat ground ashore on the beach with a rasp of sand and pebbles, and he was immediately swamped with troops intent on escape.

  "Avast there a moment," Alan said as loud as he dared. "Now, this barge is a lump of shit, and I can only take thirty men with the usual kit and gear or we'll founder out there. Is there an officer or sergeant here?"

  "'Ere, sir," a red-coated non-com answered from the darkness. "A comp'ny o' th' 23rd preesent an' haccounted fer, sir. Thirty-h'eight privates, one corp'rl en' me, sir."

  "Give me your corporal and 29 men then. Count 'em oft and the next boat will take the rest," Alan said. "Tell 'em to sit in the middle on the bottom and not get in the way of the oarsmen."

  "Right, sir," the sergeant replied, disappointed that he would not find immediate rescue, but still in charge of his poise and his men.

  "Wy we gots ta wait, sarge?" a plaintive voice wailed from the night. "They's plenny o' room!"

  "My arse on a bandbox there is!" Alan said sharply. "Want to drown out there wearing all that kit? Now hurry up and get aboard with the first thirty."

  Once in the boat, and the boat back out on the black waters, the troops sat still as mice, breathing shallowly as they sensed how unstable and ungainly the barge really was in the grip of the current.

  This is going to be a muddle, Alan thought sadly, realizing how companies were going to be separated upon landing. Even with one regiment or battalion transported at a time, where they would land on the far shore was up to the vagaries of the individual coxswains of the boats involved, with part of one unit landed in the cove, on the point, to right or left of the area still held by Tarleton and Simcoe. They would also be landing into the teeth of a shelling, and it would be hours before each unit sorted itself out into proper military order for the breakthrough at bayonet point. It would be dark, and regimental facings and distinctive uniform trim would be almost lost to the harried officers, who would be searching or their people. Alan was supposed to link up with all the boats under command of a lieutenant from one of the disabled ships who would lead all the boats bearing one unit to a single landing, but in the almost total darkness, he would be lucky to tag onto any group of boats.

  "Twenty-third over here," a strained voice called over the sound of the continuing artillery barage. "All boats with 23rd regiment here!"

  He could only guess as to the direction of the voice, for sound could do strange things on the water at night, as he'd already learned to his detriment from his first experiments in boats. Hoping for the best, Alan put the tiller bar over and steered in the wake of a gaggle of boats who were already under way. The current would not allow any stop for cogitation. Sitting up on the high stern thwart of the barge, he could barely espy the boat ahead and the boat astern of him.

  Once the tide began to flood and counteract the current of the river, the rowing did become much easier. They made two round trips in the first hour while the men were still strong and unwearied, but that slowed down as the night drug on. The only rest was on the beach or beside the pier, and the troops loaded too quickly to allow much.

  "Easy all," Alan called as they drifted into the York side of the river for the third time. With the barge empty, it was not so hard to row, but the very devil to fight across the current. The tide was now pushing them upriver without his having to countersteer, and when Lewrie dipped a hand into the water, he could scoop up a mouthful of very salty water instead of the fairly fresh water of earlier.

  "Boat your oars, stand by to ground."

  Men splashed into the shallows to take charge of the bow and drag it up onto the strand. His crew slumped down in exhaustion as the hull ground and thumped against the shingle.

  "Everyone ashore," Alan said. "Coe, break out the barrico of water. We need a rest."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Coe said with some enthusiasm.

  "Might rotate the larboard men for the starboard men, too, Coe," Alan ordered. "Keep 'em from cramping."

  "Aye, sir, 'at it would. Water, sir?"

  "Aye, I'd admire a cup."

  Another boat ground alongside his, its crew bent low over their own oars with weariness, and seeing what Alan's crew was doing, went over the side for a rest as well.

  "Here, stop that!" a thin voice cried.

  "Carey?" Alan asked out of instinct.

  "Lewrie? They just got out of the boat!"

  "They're worn to a frazzle. Let 'em take a rest for a few minutes. How are you doing so far?"

  "Main well, I suppose." Carey sulked on his stern thwart, still too unsure of himself to exert much authority with the hands, and smarting from being countermanded.

  "We're making good progress." Alan sighed, sipping at his water. "Most of the Brigade of Guards across by now. My last trip was light infantry, I think. Hard to tell in the dark."

  "Mine, too," Carey said. Then, in a wheedling tone, "Lewrie, may we trade boats?"

  "Is yours sinking?" Alan chuckled, stepping ashore and looking as close as he could at Carey's barge. Carey scrambled ashore to stand with him so he could speak privately.

  "They won't work for me, Alan, not like they'd work for you. I have Fletcher as senior hand, and he simply ignores me half the time. I… I think they have some rum. I could hear them giggling and getting groggy."

  "Fletcher, that farmer," Alan said. "I expect the troops have some small bottles on them and they're sharing out. You put him straight right now."

  "Who's your senior man?"

  "Coe. One of the foresheet men. Good and steady."

  "Then why don't we trade boats? I can get along with Coe, Alan, but I can get nothing out of Fletcher, he's such a surly bastard."

  "No," Alan said, after thinking about it for a long moment.

  "But, Alan, I…"

  "Look here, Carey," Alan whispered, reaching out in the dark and taking the younger boy by the upper arm. "Most of the seamen I've ever met have been surly bastards. They're not your favorite uncles, so one senior hand is just as good as another. If they won't work for you as chearly as you want, then it's up to you to make 'em do it. You're not in the mess now. You're a midshipman in the King's Navy, so why don't you start acting like one? Avery and I are not here to cosset you anymore. You're on your own bottom, and you have a job to do, so you had best be about it the best way you can."

  By God, I'm sorry I said that, Alan told himself as Carey took himself off, for a quick weep most likely. But it had to be said sooner or later. We've been shielding him long enough and letting him get away with his puppy shines, 'stead of putting some spine into him.

  "What is the delay here?" a cultured voice called fruitily.

  "A short rest, sir," Alan called back. "We've done three trips so far and the hands are fagged out and thirsty."

  "There's no time for that," the owner of that plumby voice dictated. "It's near midnight and there are thousands of troops still waiting to get across. Here, corporal, begin loading these two boats."

  Several infantrymen began approaching Alan's boat laden with an assortment of boxes and bags. Alan could hear the clink of metal and glass from them.

  "Military stores, sir?" Alan queried with a lazy sneer.

  "
Of course they are, sir."

  Alan stopped one of the soldiers and took a heavy canvas bag off him. He undid the knot at the top and pulled it apart to reach down into the burden and see for himself what was in it. He smiled in the dark.

  "Silver candlesticks might make good langridge if cut up, I suppose, sir," Alan drawled archly. "They're a bit too expensive to be melted down in a bullet mold, and I doubt anyone would appreciate being so expensively shot, sir."

  "Now look here…"

  "No, sir. I am taking troops only. No personal baggage."

  "Do you know who I am, sir?" the fruity-voiced officer snapped.

  "A suddenly much poorer man, sir," Alan shot back. "Other than that, I could not give a fart who you are. Take your loot somewhere else, sir."

  Thwarted, the officer railed for a few minutes longer, then made off up the beach for the piers to try other boats, pressed by the urgency of escape before dawn.

  "That's enough rest," Alan called out. "Fletcher, Coe, fetch your men back to the boats."

  "Aye, sir," Coe replied. "'Ere, lads, back ta work, now."

  "Jus'a minute more, Mister Lewrie?" Fletcher whined, as usual. "We bin 'ard at it, sir, an' it's 'at tahred we are."

  "Come here, Fletcher," Alan commanded with a good imitation of a quarterdeck rasp. The man approached, close enough for Lewrie to smell the scent of rum on his breath.

  He took him by the front of the shirt and drew him closer. "You will assemble your boat crew and get back to work right this instant, and you will work chearly for Mister Carey or I swear to God above, I'll see you flayed open like a Yarmouth bloater for drunkenness and insubordination, if I have to chase you down in hell!"