The French Admiral

"I hide it damn well, just like everyone else does."

"Such language in the presence of an impressionable young lady!" she gasped in mock distress. "Where will it all end? Tsk, tsk."

"My ar…"he began to say, but stopped himself before he could utter his favorite expression. Even joshing with a girl had its limits, especially if he truly nettled her and it was reported.

"My arse on a bandbox?" She blushed, as though she had stepped over her own line and was abashed at her own daring. "Remember, Mister Lewrie, I have two rowdy brothers and have lived in the country around ordinary yeomen farmers all of my life. Could I have been allowed to speak freely when vexed, I might use the phrase myself, instead of just thinking it. I hope I have not shocked you, instead."

"Not a bit of it," Alan replied, grinning widely. "Let there be perfect freedom between us, Mistress Chiswick."

"Then please call me Caroline."

"Caroline, I shall. Could you wait here for a moment, though? I really must see to the helm and the ship for a moment."

"Show me what you must see, I pray."

At her injunction he led her down the deck from the weather rail to the binnacle box before the wheel to speak to the quartermaster.

"Evening, Tate."

"Ev'nin', sir. Ev'nin,' miss," the helmsman said, almost swallowing his quid of tobacco at the miraculous appearance of a pretty young lady on the deck. His assisting quartermaster's mate, Weems as bosun of the watch, and one of the ship's boys drifted closer to ogle her, the boy gazing up in snot-nosed wonder, earning a smoothing of his unruly hair from her gloved hand that turned him into an adoring worshiper.

"How's her head?" Alan inquired.

"Sou'-sou'-west, 'alf south, sir," Tate answered.

Three bells chimed from up forward.

"Mister Weems, I'd admire another cast of the log," Alan ordered. "Turn the glass, boy."

"Aye, zur," the boy replied, fumbling with the half-hour glass on the binnacle, never tearing his eyes away from the pretty lady in the faint light from the compass box lanterns.

"How's the helm, Tate? Any problem with those bronze guns aft, or do we need to shift some stores to lighten the bows?"

"Ah, seems harright, Mister Lewrie." Tate turned to spit into the kid, and flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry, miss."

"We grew tobacco in the Carolinas, Mister Tate." She smiled. "In the backcountry where I was a girl, even the women wouldn't turn their nose up to a chew now and then. My granny smoked a pipe," she coyly confided.

"An' me own, too, miss." Tate, marveling at himself for daring to even open his mouth in the presence of an officer of the watch, grinned foolishly.

Alan looked up to check the set of the sails that shone like pale blue ghosts in the moonlight. There was nothing to complain of in their angle to the winds, and the commissioning pendant stood out in a lazy whip like a black worm on the sky, pointing perfectly abeam towards shore. The yard braces seemed taut enough to leave alone as well.

"So this is how you steer the ship," Caroline said.

"Yes, with this wheel. Though it's not always this easy. Sometimes it takes four or more men to manage the wheel when the sea and the wind kick up. When you want to go left, you put the helm to starboard."

"That sounds backwards," she said, shaking her head in confusion.

"Turning the wheel left turns the rudder so that its leading edge faces right, so it is backwards, in a way. You'd say helm alee to make her head up more into the wind."

"You sailors are a contrary lot." She laughed gently. "And you have to keep adjusting it as Tate is doing?"

"Yuss, miss," Tate said, playing a spoke or two to either side as he spoke. "Back an' forth, hever sa gentle like."

"A wave will push her bows off course," Alan explained. "You watch the compass bowl, the wind pendants, and the luff of the sails and the way the wind strikes them, the way the sea is coming at you and, on a clear night such as this, a star or constellation, as well."

"It seems so complicated."

"Try it," Alan urged. Before she could demur she was behind the wheel to the weather side, hands on two spokes, with Tate off to the lee side to lend his strength just in case and Alan at her side with his hands atop hers.

"It is harder to turn than I thought," she said after a few minutes of effort, as Alan bubbled happily on about what a proper luff looked like. They let her steer by herself, letting her get the feel of it. A bow wave thudded gently and creamed down their larboard side, and the helm fell off, but she corrected, almost grunting with the effort to add a spoke or two to windward. She gave Alan a puff and a smile, but her hazel eyes were gleaming like golden nuggets in the binnacle lights.

"Gentlemen, I thank you for sparing the time for such a weakling to learn a thing or two, but you'd best take your ship back before I run it on the rocks or something," she finally said, and suffered to be led away from the wheel to the nettings over the waist up forward.

"Did you enjoy that?" Alan asked, standing by her.

"Aye, I did, thank you." She smiled. "Much more than the lecture I received today from Captain Treghues. What a strange man your captain is, so enamored of his own voice at one moment and so somber the next."

"He has his moods," Alan replied cryptically, noting that was perhaps the five hundredth time he had heard that said in Desperate.

"After months of this at a stretch, I can imagine that it could grow wearisome, but being at sea can be fun, too, can't it, Alan?" she enthused, leaning forward over the waist and the gun deck. "The ocean is beautiful tonight with the moon on it. Like a blanket made of jewels."

"Yes, it is pretty tonight," Alan admitted as he half froze next to her. "There are many pretty days, and it can be exciting and fun, sometimes. But the sea's a chimera. She can seem peaceful one minute and try to kill you the next. You always have to be on your guard."

"The sea sounds much like life itself in that regard."

"Such sagacity from one so young," he chided her. "And such a cynical outlook. Chary as a burned child. Where will it end, tsk tsk?"

"Had I grown up in London with nothing more distressing in my life than balls and the theatre, it might seem so," she replied, stiffening. He turned to study her face in the moonlight, and saw that the serious mien was upon her once more.

"I am sorry to have raised such a frown from you in the middle of your enjoyment, Caroline," he said. "I've spoiled it for you; if I have, I regret it."

"You've spoiled nothing, Alan," she said, patting the back of his hand that rested on the railing. "You gave me back my brothers, got us aboard a ship and away from retribution of our Rebels, brought joy to my parents, and have provided me with a few precious moments of diversion. God knows I have needed some. You are pleasant company."

"And so are you, Caroline. Very easy to be with," he told her, realizing that it was so. There was no formality with her, as there was with many young women, no call for stilted triteness that passed for decent conversation. "I shall be sorry to reach Charleston tomorrow."

"And you shall go back to the Indies from there?" she said in a softer voice.

"Yes. This Admiral de Grasse still has a French fleet of nearly thirty sail. He'll not rest on his laurels until we've met him once more and beaten him."

"I shall pray God for your safety every moment," she promised. "But I expect there are more than a few young ladies who are already doing the same thing, eh?"

"Your prayers for me would be most welcome, Caroline," Alan said, looking at her and seeing the hesitant nature of her smile. That's not teasing, that's fishing for information, by God, he thought.

"This seafaring life leaves little room for young ladies, much to my regret," he added quickly. "There is no one back in England. Even if there had been, I've not been back in nearly two years."

"But there is the admiral's relation, is there not? Surely, she is kindly disposed towards you, and you her, or you would not have fought to defend her honor." She almost stammered this out, trying to appear nonchalant and only slightly interested.

"No one in her family could ever be enthused about the prospects of a two-a-penny midshipman." He shrugged. "I believe she is in Jamaica now, back with her family. We exchange letters now and then, but…"

"I only ask because of the sisterly affection I feel towards you, and the gratitude for saving Gov and Burge at Yorktown," she insisted, also shrugging most eloquently. "You'll be off across the ocean soon, and we shall never see each other again. Is that not the way of life, that people meet and part so quickly? I and my family shall always hold you in our memories, but…"

"It doesn't have to be that way," Alan said, placing his hand over hers, and he was excited to feel her fingers spread to take hold of his. "Should you still feel the need of diverting moments, we could correspond. If you are willing, I shall ask your parents for permission to write you, and you may keep me informed as to Governour and Burgess, and how your father and mother keep. Why let aimless life dictate to us?"

"'Scuse me, Mister Lewrie, but the last cast o' the log shows no change. Still adoin' five an' a half knots."

"Thank you, Mister Weems," Alan almost barked at him.

"If ya'd be wantin' anything else, sir?" Weems went on. "Almost time to check the lookouts, an' tour below decks with the master-at-arms."

"Thank you, Weems, but that will be all for now. I shall join you shortly!" Alan said, biting his cheek to keep from screaming for the idiot to drop straight to hell.

"Aye, sir."

Alan turned back to Caroline and was amazed to see that she was gazing straight ahead at the bows, one side of her mouth turned up in an attempt to keep from laughing out loud. Once Weems was aft by the wheel, she let go and began to shake with silent glee, and their eyes met in a shared amusement, but she did not let go of his hand; in fact, returned squeeze for squeeze.

"Did I sound half as ridiculous as I thought I did?" he whispered.

"Yes," she said frankly. "Pretty ridiculous." But there was no harm in her critique, or at least Alan felt none. "People who can laugh at themselves are rare, Alan. You're very refreshing."

"Well, some people have more to laugh at than others," he admitted easily. "Seriously, do you think your parents would mind if we wrote?"

"I think they would feel honored. As would I. If they did not approve, then I am the final judge, after all. I would hope we could always be friends and correspondents."

"That sounds delightful to me," Alan replied warmly. "Dammit, you are so easy to talk to. So easy to know."

"I was just about to say the very same thing about you, Alan." They stood there, hand in hand for long moments, staring at each other and smiling foolishly until she lowered her eyes and grew shy.

"Well, it must be getting late," she said sadly.

As if in confirmation, four bells chimed from the belfry.

"And you must be freezing up here on deck. You should be snug in your bed," Alan murmured, feeling the urge to tuck the both of them into the same narrow hanging cot and pull the blankets up to their necks.

"I must own to sleepiness, at last."

"Nothing like being bored to make you sleep well."

"Not bored at all!" she replied, her breath coming a bit quicker.

"Lots to do in the morning, packing up and getting ready to leave the ship. We'll cross the bar just before noon, if the wind holds. Let me walk you aft and see you safely into the cabins."

"I would appreciate that," she said.

He led her arm in arm past the helm and the crew, who all took a sudden interest in the rigging, the rails, or the horizon as they passed—all but the ship's boy, who snuffled and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, getting his last look at the awfully beautiful young lady who had touched him so gently, as no one else in his miserable, short life, as though she was a waking fantasy.

They stopped at the top of the ladder that led through the upper hatch to the cabins, stood holding hands for a moment longer, and leaned close together as the ship rolled on a slight surge. Of one mind, they stumbled together, and she raised those great eyes to meet his.

He bent forward and their lips brushed shyly, not too far forward, for she raised her face higher and met him. Her arms took his sleeves, and he put an arm about her waist with as much trepidation as if she were made of porcelain and would shatter at his touch. One of her gloved hands went to the back of his neck, then stroked his cheek, while the other kept a death grip on his arm. They shuffled forward a little more, pressing their lips together, cold lips and hot breath at first, hen icy skin and warm lips, then breaking away; she because of the power of the feeling she felt, and Alan because he did not want her to feel ravished.

"Good night, Caroline," he muttered huskily. "Sleep soundly."

"Good night, Alan," she whispered back, sliding her hand down to his for one last firm squeeze, then she was gone below into the dark.

Something to be said for gawky women, Alan thought, his head in a spin from the warmth and the intense passion that had come on him of a sudden. Her faint scent was still in his nostrils, so fresh and clean and light, his bare hand was still warm from her grip, and he savored the feel of her long body drawn so close to his, wanted to go back and crush her to him and take her true measure. He had not felt like that in a long time, had never felt that overpowering rush to the brain that went with the rush to the groin he was used to. He could not put a name to it, for it was not in his experience, but it was something more than dumb lust.

Did I feel like that with Lucy Beauman? he wondered. I think I did, but that was months ago, and she's not here, nor will I see her anytime soon. God, don't tell me I'm swooning for the mort! She's not got two shillings to rub together, and most like never shall. No future for me with a girl with no prospects. Still, she's so sweet!

He shuddered with more than winter chill as he thought of how shy he had behaved with her, knowing it was not part of his nature to be so backward with women. Even allowing for the fact that he could not take her below and bed her, could not have at her on deck where there was no privacy, could still feel Governour's sharp eyes on the back of his neck, could picture being caught in mid-ravish by Captain Treghues, and had not the slightest intention of ever being in the same hemisphere with her after leaving Charleston, he could not explain it.

Next afternoon, the evacuation fleet reached Charleston, and there was a long bustle to clear all the passengers off the ship. The Chiswicks were among the last to debark, with Mr. Chiswick seeming sprier than in past, as though eager to get ashore and see his sons, or take his pleasures in the larger city. Treghues was hovering around them, but Alan did get to say his good-byes before they were hoisted over the side and into a waiting boat with their belongings. Caroline was fetching in a blue velvet gown, her hair tied back loosely and her eyes shining.

"Mistress Chiswick, allow me to say how delighted I was that I could enjoy your company aboard the Desperate these two days past," Treghues said, doffing his hat to her. He had turned out in his best coat, had shaved closely, and was immaculate from head to toe, fit to appear at the Admiralty or the palace. "All my best wishes go with you and your parents for better fortune in future."

"Thank you, Captain Treghues," Caroline replied.

"I would appreciate your informing me of your progress," Treghues went on, almost squirming with unfamiliar embarrassment as his crew bustled about to assist her into the bosun's chair. "As I told you and your father at supper last night, there may be much I could do to alleviate your distress, perhaps aid in finding your brothers suitable commissions in the regular forces. Governour, pardon my familiarity at using his Christian name, ha-ha, your elder brother sounds like a proper Tartar, the sort we need in a good regiment. And your second brother, Burgess, if he has, as you said, any interest in the Sea Service, there is always the possibility of a berth as a marine lieutenant."

"We would appreciate any interest you could take in us, Captain," Caroline replied. "I cannot speak for my brothers. After Yorktown, I do not know how enamored they are of a continued military career. And truthfully, we do not know where we shall light if the rebellion has any more successes."

"I could write and keep in touch," Treghues suggested. "And, in the meantime, allow me to present you with this, a token only, you know, but every little bit helps, ha-ha."

Treghues was trying to press a small purse of money on her, and Caroline was blushing with embarrassment as well.

"I could not accept such a gift, sir," she said directly, though not eager to pass up free guineas, not in their straitened financial condition. "I wish you had made offer to my father. He is head of our house still, sir. And as to writing to us, that is also his decision, and I am governed by my father's will."

"As a God-fearing girl should be, in faith," Treghues agreed, booming too loud and firm. "I commend your spirit, Mistress Chiswick, but please believe that I lay no conditions on the acceptance of such a paltry gift, but only do it from a heart… a sense of admiration of your plucky… er, spirit in the face of adversity."

God, I almost feel sorry for the artless bugger, Alan thought grinning in silent amusement. It's a wonder there's a Treghues alive if that's the way they court their women. He couldn't get fucked in a buttock shop!

"What conditions could you lay, sir?" Caroline asked archly, getting a little vexed and anxious to be in the boat with her father, who could be heard grumbling about something already.

"A thousand pardons, Mistress Chiswick, if I offend by generosity, but it is a sin of excess only in the sense that…" Treghues blundered on, not knowing how to stop or get himself out of the hole he had dug with his tongue. "You would do me a great honor if I knew you and yours were secure for a time. What else could a fellow Christian mean to another?"

"Then I shall accept, sir, though it is not my place to do so," she finally said, as long as there were no strings attached to that purse. "And I shall consider it a loan made in fellowship and human kindness, as all mercy should be."

"Just as long as you do not consider me a total Samaritan, I beg of you, Mistress Chiswick," Treghues said, sounding almost humble.

"I shall not, sir. And I thank you kindly for all your ministrations to us in our time of need and salvation," she said.

"I shall keep you and your family close in my thoughts and in my prayers, Mistress Chiswick," Treghues said, taking her hand.

"And we you, sir. Ah, Mister Lewrie."

"Mistress Chiswick," he said formally, though their eyes danced at the sight of each other as he doffed his cocked hat.

"Bless you for everything you have done for us, Mister Lewrie." She spoke warmly, though she tried to hide her emotions as the captain was still standing there like a catch-fart waiting for an errand. "We shall never forget you."

"My regards to Gov and Burge when next you meet. Tell them to write to me and let me know how they're faring. And all my thanks to your parents for showing me true hospitality and what it is like to be in the bosom of a family once more," Alan said, stepping close to her as she sat swaying in the bosun's chair before the hands tailed away on the stay tackle to lift her out of his life.

"Hoist away, bosun," Treghues snapped.

Caroline looked annoyed as she began to reach for Alan but she was hoisted out of his grasp before their fingers could even begin to touch. He waved to her and she to him as she went up and over the side.

He stepped to the bulwark to watch her into the boat, and she looked up at him, pantomiming speech, saying "Write to me, please," and much in that warm vein, while he returned her sentiments as well.

"As the Spaniards say, Vaya Con Dios. Go with God," he shouted down to the Chiswicks, then mouthed silently "Caroline."

He watched the civilians begin to row the loaded boat towards the shore, feeling suddenly deprived of her presence. Damme, I wish we'd had longer together, he suddenly thought. There goes the only girl I've ever met who was interesting to talk to for more than half an hour. Easy to talk to, comfortable like. And smart, smart as paint, and don't make no bones about it. A good, sweet nature. Maybe a little artless compared to most I've known, like a country girl. Holds herself so stiff, but I'll wager there's a passionate side hidden deep. Might be amusing to be the one to bring it out. Ah well, that'll be never. If only her daddy had some chink, she might be worth keeping up with.

He waved once more and she waved back, and then their boat swept round the stern of an anchored brig out of sight, so Alan turned back inboard to meet Treghues, who was regarding him with an annoyed look of his own. The captain turned away and stalked off.

Oh shit, Alan thought. The silly clown's jealous. He'll make my life a living hell. He wanted her himself, though for what I can't imagine. Might take him a year to aspire to holding her hand.

Alan felt a cold chill in his innards as he further realized that Treghues had to have heard her pass his jury-rigged cabin during the night to go on deck, and could have peeked from the door to see them embrace as he said good night to her.

There was nothing new, however, in Treghues making his life a living hell; he had had months of it already, so he shrugged philosophically and headed aft. Neither of them could have her, and by the time the war was over, both could be either dead or out of contention, while she followed her own mind thousands of miles away. It had been, Alan assured himself once more, merely an idle flirtation, a passing dalliance just because she was there and grateful to him, nothing more meaningful than what passed in society at any drum or rout among the fashionable in London. He vowed to put her out of his mind. He had duties to fulfill, a ship to run, and an irked captain to mollify, if he wanted to keep his new rating.

CHAPTER 16

English Harbor at Antigua was like an old shoe, familiar and comfortable. Storm season was over and the island was beginning to green up after all the rain. After the chill of the American coast, the lush warmth felt good, and the sun baked the decks daily, not as hot as it had been when they had departed for the Chesapeake back in August, but warm enough to thaw out the tired blood.

Desperate was for many days almost the only ship in harbor, for Admiral Hood had taken the Leeward Islands Squadron down to Barbados. The ship lolled in almost idleness as they took on a draft of replacements newly arrived from home in the first transports that would brave the mid-Atlantic Trades before the hurricanes truly left the region for another year.

There were three new midshipmen in the once empty and echoing mess. Two were mere boys of twelve or thirteen, fresh-caught newlies still gawking in wonder at the height of the masts. There was an older boy of some years' service named Burney, about sixteen and so handsome-looking that one was tempted to throw a shoe at him on first sight. He and Avery had hit it off and were busy enforcing their superiority on the newlies with all the old pranks that midshipmen played on each other, and Alan found the two younger ones so abysmally stupid that he had no pity for them and let them make fools of themselves quite easily. The new master's mate was an American from Maryland, a painfully thin and awkward thatch-haired man of twenty or so named Micah Sedge, another victim of the Rebels, almost burning with zeal for bloody revenge.

Almost as soon as they had reached port, Alan had been confirmed by Commodore Sir George Sinclair in his position of master's mate, followed shortly thereafter by Hood's approval as well, so he was no longer "acting," and his two pounds, two shillings a lunar month was safe. He still walked small about Treghues, but there had been no sign as of yet that that worthy was contemplating anything frightful because he had not gained Caroline Chiswick's immediate affections.

Sinclair's approbation concerning his new rating had come as a surprise to Alan; he had thought the man nursed a grudge against him because of who Alan's father was and the circumstances in which Sinclair's flag captain, Captain Bevan, had snatched him from London under threat of arrest by the watch for the alleged rape of his half-sister Belinda. Alan wondered if Sinclair really cared one way or another, or if he had been poisoned by his nephew Francis Forrester, now languishing in some Rebel or French prison after his capture at Yorktown. If Sinclair had any animosity at all, it was toward Desperate as a whole for her "lucky" escape, or towards Treghues for losing the commodore his nephew. They were dead last on the list for provision, powder or shot or rigging, a sure sign of a senior officer's displeasure.

"Mail coom h'aboard, zurs," Freeling said mournfully as he dumped a sack on the mess table. The midshipmen dived for it, but Alan had but to bark "Still!" to freeze their grubby paws in midpounce.

"You young gentlemen should know, even from your limited experience, that Mister Sedge and I get first crack," Alan informed them lazily, seating himself at the table to open the sack. "Not so, Mister Sedge?"

"Indeed so, Mister Lewrie," Sedge replied. He was still stiff and uncomfortable in his new berth, but willing to give Alan a grudging try. "And any packages from home get shared, and not hogged to yourselves."

"Ah, what do we have here?" Alan asked, laying out the contents. "A letter for you, I believe, Mister Sedge."

"Thankee kindly, Mister Lewrie. From me dad in Halifax."

Alan sorted out the mail, finding several of his own dating back for months, mostly from Lucy Beauman in Jamaica, a few from London from the Matthews, Lord and Lady Cantner, and one from his father's pettifogging solicitor, Pilchard. He hoped it was his annuity; he was getting short.

"Another missive for you, Mister Sedge, in a fair round hand, from New York. Scented too, I swear."

"Gimme that," Sedge snapped, eager for the letter from some female admirer, and not a man to be trifled with at that moment. He gathered up his few communications from those dear to him and went into his cabin.

Alan decided to save Lucy's letters for later; they would take some deciphering, anyway, since the little mort had the world's worst skill at spelling. He would tackle Pilchard's letter first.

"You missed one, Mister Lewrie," David Avery said, digging into the sack. He held up a large and thick letter, almost a rival to the long, continued sea-letters that Alan wrote between spells of duty. David sniffed at it to the delight of the other midshipmen, who were pawing through their own correspondence. "Damme if this one ain't scented, too. From Charleston."

"Ah?" Alan said, unwilling to be drawn.

"And it's not from Lady Jane's." David grinned innocently.

"Gimme, then," Alan said eagerly, reaching for it, but David held it further away and aloft for a second. "Kick your backside if you don't, you ugly Cornish pirate."

"Very well, then," David said, making to hand it over once more but drawing it back at the last second. Alan grabbed his wrist and took it.

"While you tell our newlies of Lady Jane's, I shall read this," Alan said, smiling to let David know there were no hard feelings. "Boys, I recommend you listen attentively to Mister Avery's tale of sport. You could learn a good lesson from it."

He disappeared into his small dog-box cabin and shut the door, flung himself down on the thin mattress of his bunk and opened the seal of the Charleston letter first. Pilchard could go hang for awhile longer. It was from Caroline, informing him of their new address, of how her father was improving now that Governour and Burgess were on their way to Charleston to bring the survivors of their detachment home to add to the garrison and try and raise a new force of riflemen. He was more excited than he would have expected to be reading her carefully formed words and seeing how sensibly she formed her thoughts and expressed herself; he saw-nothing so formal and stilted as to make him twist his tongue trying to figure it out, but everything straightforward and plain, as though she were talking to him familiarly.

There was a lot of teasing, just shy of saying something fond but twisting the sentiment into japery, skirting about what she really might have wished to say to him. It raised a warm glow in him anyway, and he thought of her fondly, scratching at his crotch and grinning in delight.

It had been scented, with the same light, fresh, and clean aroma that he remembered from their one embrace aboard ship, a citrus sort of Hungary Water overlaid with a redolence of some unidentifiable flower. He folded her letter up after reading it through three times, to save it for later. He opened Pilchard's. It was dated nearly nine months earlier.

"You bastard!" he shrieked, beside himself with sudden anger, nearly concussing himself on the low deck beam overhead his berth as he sat up quickly.

It was Pilchard's sad duty to inform him that his father had had second thoughts about the extravagant sum of one hundred guineas a year as his remittance and that Sir Hugo was suspending the annuity, effective January of 1782. That meant that he would not be getting any more money from home and would have to live on the twenty-five pounds, four shillings of a master's mate, less a pound a month for provisions and whatever he purchased from the purser's stores, which meant just about all of it. He already owed Cheatham near fifteen pounds already.

The Yorktown business had reduced his kit horribly, and he had pledged another part of the annuity to tailors ashore in English Harbor for new uniforms and shoes. He could always dig down into his secret money from the Ephegenie, but it was more the thought that counted.

Sir Hugo's excuse was that from what he had read in the Chronicle, Alan was prospering enough from all the prizes taken and no longer needed to be supported. In short, he was on his own bottom now, and must stand or fall as a man with no crutch from home. It was for his own good.

"Lying shit!" Alan swore. "It's for your own good! You've spent yourself into a hole and it's cut me off or debtor's prison for you! Damme, what did I do to get such a father?"

Still, the idea of his father, his half-sister, and his butt-fucking half-brother Gerald turfed out into the street was cheering, if they had fallen afoul of creditors. Alan had no idea how much money the Willoughbys had; they weren't related to the Willoughbys who counted in the scheme of things. There had always seemed more than enough, but only Heaven knew where it came from, or where it went that he did not see.

There was a knock on his thin slat and canvas door, and he snatched it open to reveal the purser's assistant, the Jack in the Bread Room.

"Pusser wants ta see ye, sir. 'Is complamints, an' could ya join 'im in the spirit store, sir?"

"I shall be there directly, thank you," Alan said, shrugging off his foul mood. He dressed quickly in his new uniform and went out to the steep ladder that led to the orlop, then aft to the locked compartments in the stern that held the wine and brandy for the officers' mess and the captain's steward.

"Sit ye down, Mister Lewrie," Cheatham said, looking up from a stack of papers he held on a rough fold-down desk at which it appeared he had been doing inventory of Navy Victualing Board issue spirits; rum, Miss Taylor, and Black Strap. "Have a cup of cheer, my boy."

"I'll take a cup, but there's damned little to cheer about," Alan groused, taking a seat on a wine keg. Cheatham poured from a bottle into a clean glass. "Um, this is quite good. Not for the hands, I take it."

"Something I found in port last week," Cheatham said, putting away his quill and ink pot. "Wardroom stuff. I have here some information about you, Mister Lewrie. From my brother at Coutts' Bank and your solicitor. Wondrous and strange things have been going on in London since your departure for Sea Service."

"I don't have a solicitor, sir," Alan said, mystified, but stirring in anticipation. "Perhaps I need one, though. My father has cut me off. Not a penny more for me. Without a mate's pay, I'd be begging rations."

"Where did you hear that?"

Alan explained the letter from Pilchard.

"And when was it dated?"

"March of last year."

"Ah ha, just about the time things got interesting, according to Jemmy." Cheatham smiled serenely. "Your father had to cut you off, for he no longer had a groat to send you. He is in considerable difficulties."

"He is!" Alan beamed in sudden and total joy. He took a deep breath or two, then let out a whoop of glee loud enough to echo off the hull, piercing enough to startle Red Indians. "The bastard got his comeuppance at last! How? When did it happen? Did he lose everything?"

"Slowly now, let me explain this at its own pace, for it's rather complicated a legal and personal matter," Cheatham said. "My brother Jemmy went to work discovering your background after I bade him do so, and he has found some wondrous interesting facts. First of all, as to your heritage and the background of the Lewrie family. It seems that in the winter of 1762, your mother, Elizabeth, then 22 years of age, was in London for exposure at a season, with close relatives, and met your father, at that time Captain Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, just back from service on Gibraltar, where he had won his knighthood in service with a distinguished foot regiment, the Fourth, King's Own. Now, there are under English common law two separate and distinct parts to a marriage, as the law would say, de future, which are the spousals in which a couple pledge public affirmation of their mutual agreement to be wed, which can take form as the banns published in the parish or a short mutual statement in the presence of witnesses that they shall at a future time take the other as husband or wife. The witnesses may be summoned to a court of law, and the exchange of gifts and love letters may be used as proof of their intent. The second form, the nuptials, is termed de praesenti, and is usually celebrated by a certifiable churchman."

"You're losing me, Mister Cheatham," Alan said, his mind already in full yawn, wishing to skip over the legal mystifications and get to the existence of a Lewrie estate… and how much it could be.

"Patience, my boy, patience, and all shall be discovered to you in full measure," Cheatham cautioned. "In 1753, Hawkinge's Marriage Act was passed in Parliament to do away with such scandals as the Fleet St. wedding chapels to save young girls from being robbed by unscrupulous suitors, so that a marriage ceremony with an officiating clergyman is now recognized as necessary to settle all legal questions. Otherwise, two people could leap out of bed, swear themselves wed before witnesses, and it would assign the husband coverture over whatever estate the young lady possessed for the rest of their lives. The Ecclesiastical Courts had the very devil of a time with complaints before this law. But, and this is a very important but, a spousal de futuro is as legally binding on both of the parties who partake willingly in it as a nuptial de praesenti when it comes to settling parenthood of any children. Your parents announced the intention to wed before witnesses at a dinner party, where officers of his regiment and friends of hers were present, so you are not a bastard as you have always assumed, but legally born of a legitimate couple."

"So I am really a Willoughby." Alan sighed.

"A lot more than Gerald and Belinda are." Cheatham grinned. "You see, you are the only living issue from your father's loins. That he may wish to claim, that is."

"I don't understand."

"Let me settle up the Lewrie part, and then I shall touch on the later events, in strict chronological order, so that it shall all be of a piece. Spousals being exchanged, love letters and gifts also being exchanged—'I give my love a packet of pins, and this is how our love begins,' remember that one?—your parents took up lodgings together as man and wife, and you were conceived shortly thereafter in 1762. But the Lewrie family, who reside in Wheddon Cross, Devon, just north of Exeter—"

"How terrible for them," Alan commented, never a fan of the rustic life.

"The father, a Mister Dudley Lewrie, Esquire, was, as the Lewrie family solicitor for many years, a Mister Kittredge, assures us, a most strict religionist and somewhat of a Tartar to deal with. He had hated his only living daughter going off to London for a season, but the mother had cozened him into it to assure Elizabeth a chance to meet a better sort of husband than she could locally, or be assured of bonafides better than the moonshine one hears at Bath or another resort, when a footman with the chink may appear as grand as his master, and the rules of society in a resort town allow perfect freedom between classes."

"Yes, yes, get on with it, I beg you, Mister Cheatham."

"Well, there's your father and mother cohabiting, she pregnant with you, and the parents descending on the town to snatch her back. The happy couple flee to Holland after having a quick marriage performed to make it legally binding. The only problem was that the officiant was not certified as a recognized cleric able to celebrate a nuptial, just some hedge-priest that one of Sir Hugo's fellow officers found for them at short notice, obviously not understanding the need for real clergy. So Sir Hugo never got true coverture over the Lewrie estate, or that share of it that Elizabeth Willoughby née Lewrie would have inherited. And Sir Hugo was not well off at all, his own estate almost an empty shell by his profligate spending and the cost of his commission to remove him from some scandalous doings in '58. She was beautiful, and one of two heirs to a sizable estate, so the temptation must have been the very devil on him."

"I can understand that," Alan said wryly. "So far, sir."

"Well, Sir Hugo abandoned your mother in Holland, taking off with her cash and jewels, quite a valuable prize to purloin, I'm told."

"The sorry bastard!"

"Well, according to this Kittredge fellow, your grandfather Dudley washed his hands of his daughter Elizabeth after that, allowing her to lay in the bed she made for herself. I told you he was a Tartar. But your grandmother, Barbara Lewrie, was made of more charitable stuff. She had borne her husband ten children, but only two were living, and the only son due to inherit was a sickly sort, a man in his twenties named Phillip who was at Oxford, and when he wasn't deathly ill with some disease, he was suffering from either the pox or barrel fever. Barbara Lewrie sent money to pay Elizabeth's way back from Holland, enough to set her up in decent lodgings in London once home, so that her only grandson would be amply provided for. Phillip was showing no signs of giving her grandchildren, or signs of living long enough to wed formally, so you were the only hope for the family name, you see."

Alan smiled greedily at that. It sounded suspiciously as if there would be some "yellow boys" in his future, but he put his questions in abeyance, letting Cheatham get on at his own slow pace.

"Your mother evidently took ill on passage, and never regained her health," Cheatham said somberly. "She passed on just before the turn of the year, in late 1763. Her last parish was St. Martin in the Fields, and with no one to claim you, you were consigned to the parish. There you languished, until 1766, when you were three. Dudley Lewrie died in 1766, and this rescue of you is more than a coincidence. There is record that your father, Sir Hugo, and his solicitor, Pilchard even then, claimed you under your mother's maiden name of Lewrie, and took you in as his son at that time."

"So there would be on record a male heir to the Lewrie estate, a legitimate one," Alan said, suddenly understanding. "If he'd claimed me as a Willoughby I would have been harder to prove. God, what a scheming hound he is. All this time, all these years he told me I was the son of a whore, a poor bastard of no account. I could kill him for that!"

"That was most likely his motive. But, Sir Hugo had landed on his feet. Once your mother died, he was free of marriage in the strict legal sense, and though your grandmother sued him for return of your mother's jewelry, he presented a letter from Elizabeth proving she had given him her paraphernalia. This was obviously forged, but the court could find no fault with it, since it was your mother's hand to the letter, so he got off scot-free. He had remarried almost as soon as he set foot ashore in England. The jewelry must have been turned into cash, for he made a grand show the summer of '64 in Bath, where he legally wed one Agnes Cockspur, a widow of some means with two small children, one Gerald and a girl named Belinda."

"They weren't his!" Alan exclaimed.

"Only in the sense that to make sure that he would have control over their portion of the Cockspur estate, he adopted them as Willoughbys. The widow became pregnant, but was carried off by childbed fever, along with the issue of their marriage," Cheatham said, stopping to drain his glass and top both of them up. "This is dry work, and unsavory, too. In court, your father presented what surely must be another forgery, her conveyance of her entire estate to the care of her husband. You know that a husband only has coverture over the bride's portion of the wife's estate brought to marriage, and the management of her estate by coverture only for the life of the wife, unless she specifically signs it over to him so that after her death he retains possession. Pilchard figured into this again, so we may begin to discern his true skills other than the knowledge and practice of law. The other Cockspur sisters, who had lost a sizable fortune at this conveyance, had no legal recourse, and got farmed out with small annuities to husbands less than what they had expected. I mention this because of their present interest. But, now we come to the meat of the matter, what transpired after you were shipped off aboard Ariadne."

"For God's sake, yes, what happened?"

"Not a month after you were safely at sea, your father and this Pilchard creature went into court with a document you had signed, one giving Sir Hugo control over your estate."

"But what happened to all that stuff I signed about giving up all inheritance from either side?" Alan asked. "What about the agreement that made me leave England and enter the Fleet and never go home?"

"No mention of it," Cheatham said with a shrug. "You see, the grandfather had gone over to a higher reward in '66, the son Phillip had died without issue in 72, and at the last, Barbara Lewrie was reputed to be in ill health and of advanced years, and near her own deathbed in 79. Once again, we may see more than coincidence at work. You would be the only Lewrie still living in line to inherit, your father proved you as legitimate, could show his informal adoption of you as his son and had proof in your own hand that you wished him to administer your estate while you were in the Navy and overseas. There would be a good chance that if the grandmother passed on while you were away, and you were bound never to come home, he could have gotten it all and you none the wiser, fobbed off with one hundred guineas a year, while he got thousands. And should you die in naval service, a distinct possibility, he would be free to use it as his own."

"The scheming dog!" Alan roared, rising to pace the small space of the spirit room. "I'll see him in hell for this."

"It was a nacky plan, but there was only one bad part to it: he had to go to court to prove it, and the Lewrie family had to be informed that the long-lost male heir had resurfaced."

"How did I get lost, then? Wouldn't my grandmother have searched for me? And what did she do when I was revealed?"

"She did, on the sly with her pin money, but your mother's last official parish was St. Clement Dane, and she died in St. Martin's, so after a year or so of searching, you were as good as lost, and few children survive more than a year in a poor-house or foster care, more's the pity, so you may understand why she abandoned hope for finding you. As to her reaction at your discovery, she immediately had this Kittredge claim you as the last male Lewrie heir. Your father had gotten what he wanted, and you were safely out of Barbara Lewrie's reach, so she could not help you or pass this knowledge on to you. She knew Sir Hugo from before, though, and felt that you would be cheated. There was little she could do when presented later with proof in your own signature that you had given up hope of inheritance and had been banished for the alleged rape of your sister. This was not in the courts, the last part, but part of a personal confrontation with her and Sir Hugo, so she never tried to write to you."

"I sound most awesomely poor from all this, Mister Cheatham."

"You might have been but for one thing, the deviousness of women." Cheatham laughed, clapping him on the shoulder and bidding him sit once more. "Your grandmother did not die. In fact, at last report some six months ago she is still, surprisingly, with us. She rallied, sir! If I may paraphrase the noted lexicographer Dr. Johnson, one's impending death concentrates the mind most wonderfully. She not only rallied and left her deathbed, but she immediately was wed to an old friend of hers, a Mr. Thomas Nuttbush, Esquire, of the same parish in Devon."

"But my father still has the estate," Alan said miserably.

"One, not until she passes over, and two, not if the Lewrie estate is signed over to a husband by legal conveyance awarding him coverture after her death. To make matters even worse for Sir Hugo, Thomas Nuttbush is possessed of three fine, healthy sons, so if there is no Lewrie estate but a Nuttbush estate, you are no longer the eldest male issue of either side in line to inherit. He has guardianship over nothing, and when you reach your majority, there is nothing for him to steal from you at that time, or at the death of your grandmother. The legal paper which Kittredge saw informally at the meeting with Sir Hugo lists you as giving up inheritance in both Willoughby and Lewrie estates, assigning everything to your father. But it says nothing about the Nuttbush estate."

"Holy God, am I part of it?" Alan yelled, hoping against hope.

"You are, sir. A codicil to the conveyance assigning Mr. Nuttbush lifetime coverture provides you an inheritance," Cheatham told him with great glee. "Oh, your grandmother's a sly-boots, Lewrie, and I see which side of the family you get your own nackiness from. Your grandmother's paraphernalia does not come under coverture of a husband, so that is what shall be your portion upon your grandmother's passing. My brother Jemmy has been in touch with Mr. Kittredge, and he assures me that there is jewelry and plate to the value of four thousand pounds at present, and your grandmother has purchased more lately, all to be held at Coutts' Bank under her new name in the vault, so your father can never touch it or place lien on it in your name. And Mr. Kittredge has dealt with the bank to make sure that you shall receive the sum of two hundred pounds in annuity for life."

"Holy shit on a biscuit," Alan said, having trouble breathing for a moment. "I'm rich. I'm as rich as Croesus. Goddamme, but I'm rich!"

"Well, perhaps not strictly wealthy, but as well-off as a squire's son back home. With your prize certificates, your new naval pay, and the annuity, you shall get by more than comfortably, better than a post-captain, really," Cheatham said. "There will be money enough to set yourself up in fashionable lodgings in London once the war is over. And still enough left to provide a house and some land when you find the perfect girl to make your wife, with enough money to assure you a comfortable existence, as long as your taste does not aspire to emulate a peer's son, or you let your pleasures rule your purse. It's more than a middling income, though. And should you marry well—and all this allows you entrance to a better sort of selection in young women—you could do very well indeed."

"My God, it's a sight more than what I had half an hour ago." Alan laughed in relief and joy. "To my lights, I'm rich."

"Aye," Cheatham agreed heartily.

"I'm legitimate. I'm not the sorry bastard I was always told."

"True again," Cheatham rejoined.

"And if this letter from Pilchard is correct, if my father doesn't honor his half of the agreement about my banishment, then I no longer have to honor mine," Alan speculated. "By God, I'm free of the old fart. I can go home when the war ends."

"Once again, true," Cheatham said. "In fact, that is what your solicitor is suing your father for. Pay the annuity or you come home."

"I'm suing my father?" Alan gaped, breaking into laughter once he saw the irony of it. "My God, this is lovely. I love it, I truly do!"

"Kittredge could not represent you, since you would be a plaintiff when your grandmother passes over, but he is paying your legal expenses. He found you a younger solicitor, a Matthew Mountjoy, to represent you. He has made presentation that you signed away all hopes to the Willoughby and Lewrie estates and cannot be considered a source of money for Sir Hugo's creditors to fall back on if he does not have enough to clear his debts."

"Sir Hugo's in trouble with creditors?"

"More and more. Evidently, the Cockspur estates are as empty as his own by now, and he's sold off most of the country property to keep going in proper style, and your Gerald and Belinda must be expensive little darlings, too, quite a drain on his resources. It seems Gerald and Belinda are also suing your father for wasting and mismanaging their share of the Cockspur estates."

Alan whooped and kicked his heels against the keg on which he sat, utterly floored by this turn of events. "Serves the bastard right!" he crowed in a joy that almost transported him to ecstasy. "Confusion to his cause, and may he get what's due him at long last. He could go to prison, couldn't he? Debtor's prison at the least, and real confinement as a felon if there is a just God in Heaven! I love it! I love it!"

"To victory," Cheatham proposed, raising his glass to Alan's.

"And revenge, Mister Cheatham. Don't forget sweet revenge!"

"And revenge on your foes," Cheatham said. "Now, I hope you do not mind, but you are now a depositor with Coutts' Bank in London. It seemed a good way to help repay my brother Jemmy for all his research and investigative work. Coutts' is a solid bank, near as good as the Bank of England, even if it is privately held. Your annuity shall be remitted you within the month, less fifty pounds which Jemmy had to spend for postage, travel expenses, and hiring some hungry young lawyers to do the discovery of all the background material. I hope you do not mind."

"Mister Cheatham, that's better than what my father would have sent me. So as far as I'm concerned, I'm fifty pounds to the good. I can't thank you enough, you and your brother James, for doing all this for me. You went to so much trouble to determine my heritage, and got what was due me. You believed in a scoundrel, and I'll find a way to repay you for your kindnesses."

"Well, before you do that, you should reflect on the fact that the Lewrie estate was worth fifty thousand pounds in freehold and copyhold lands, and between the home-farm, the rents and returns on investments, provided over three thousand pounds a year income. You'll not share in that," the purser told him with a shrug of commiseration.

"Hang the money, I'm still delighted," Alan vowed. Hold on, did I just say that? I must be deranged to think something like that. But, I'm due double what I would have gotten from Sir Hugo, and there might be eight or ten thousand waiting for me when my grandmother dies. And I still have my two thousand from Ephegenie, he rapidly calculated.

"Remember what I told you about having friends in this world, in the Navy, who care about you with genuine affection," Cheatham said, his eyes moist with emotion. "You could not have earned that affection unless we thought you worthy of it, no matter what you thought of yourself. Oh, Mister Lewrie—Alan—when you expressed your disgust with yourself months ago, pronounced yourself so unworthy of any love or real friendship in this world, my heart went right out to you. Treated so badly by your father, with the word 'bastard' branded into your soul as a cruel lie all these years, no wonder you thought yourself base and unworthy. Now you know the truth about yourself. You're legitimate, with a fine name that anyone in England could be proud of. Forced to naval life or no, you've done well at it, whether you loved it or not, and have the beginnings of a fine career in the Sea Service, and that's a gentlemanly calling a thousand lads would sell their souls to have. Do not let what you thought of yourself in the past color the rest of your life. Reflect on what you have gained and how a truly just God has brought the wheel of righteous retribution full circle until you may come into your own. Not just the money, but this new beginning, this clean slate upon which you may… oh, devil take it, I…" Cheatham wept.

"I shall, Mister Cheatham. I promise you I shall," Alan said in all seriousness. He set down his wine glass and the men embraced and thumped each other on the back.

"Well," Cheatham said, stepping back to fetch out his handkerchief and blow his nose and wipe his eyes. "There is a power of correspondence for you in this packet from Jemmy. Legal bumf explaining all the particulars, word from your solicitor Mr. Mountjoy with reports of the progress of your suit, and a letter from your grandmother, too, I believe. You will most likely wish to avail yourself of it, and I have work to do, God knows. My reward in all this is in seeing the salvation of a fine young man from eventual ruin by his own disgust at himself, and your retribution in society, in being restored to the bosom of your rightful family. And the restoration of your birthright."

"Words cannot express my undying gratitude to you, Mister Cheatham. Yes, I'm sort of like Cain restored, I suppose."

"Hmm, those sessions with the captain and the Good Book have done little for your biblical knowledge, I fear." Cheatham smiled. "I was thinking more like an Esau restored his birthright, with the curse falling on Rebekah, where it belongs. Rebekah being Sir Hugo, in this instance."

Alan shook hands with Cheatham and took all the papers back to his mess, to shut himself into the stifling cabin and read, shaking his head over and over at the intricate schemes, either confirmed or implied, that Sir Hugo his father and the solicitor Pilchard had perpetrated over the years against all his children. No wonder he never had a kind moment for any of us, Alan thought. We were just sources of income to him all that time. He never loved anyone but himself.

"By God, no matter how big a sinner I have been," Alan whispered in the privacy of his cabin, "I would never have been such a heartless, evil rogue as to do that to anyone."

Well, perhaps I might have, if pushed to it, he thought sadly. That's the way I was raised in his house, and without two hundred pounds per annum, or one hundred, I would have been up against it devilish hard. Who knows what I might have done to fill my needs? No! He's not that much a part of me, and I'm not the base bastard he told me I was, by God! I'm an English gentleman, a damned rich one, at that. I've my honor and my good name, and no one'll ever put a blot on that again. I've a name to be proud of now, and can hold up my head anywhere.

Even with Lucy Beauman, he realized. Her father had been chary of him even writing to her, safely removed from his presence as she was back on Jamaica. He had had no people he could boast about, no lands, no rents, no hopes of inheritance, and only the Navy as a future, but it was all different now. With his annuity and promised estate, he could support any wife as well as the next man. Lucy, he figured, would be worth at least four thousand pounds as a bride's portion, plus land and slaves in the Indies, or an estate back home. He was suddenly a suitable prospect to come calling on her, as good as even the pickiest daddy could ask for.

With that happy thought in mind, Alan opened the packet of letters from the lovely Lucy and began to read them, which activity took more of his patience as he stumbled over the words she had misspelled so badly that he could not discover what she had meant. There had been almost a letter a week in August and early September, full of "bawls" and "tee's" and a "sworay," whatever the hell that was, many carriage rides, many dances, an accounting of some Gothick novel so gruesome she had not slept in three nights for fear of something coming for her from the night, her screed about a new harpsichord to replace the old one that had been eaten by termites so badly she could no longer play it in public and her undying shame at her father's frugality in not immediately replacing it that very week, a sea voyage from England to import the new one be damned.

The letters became more plaintive in mid-September, shorter and cooler in tone, with much sighing over his silence, much heartbreak that he no longer wished to write her, and more descriptions of the gallants who had "skwyred" her to some party or other. Even though they had been most forthright in their presentations of affection, she still held her heart for Her Sailor.

"Damn the mort, what does she expect, penny post from Yorktown?" he grumbled. He had written to her immediately he had gotten to New York and rejoined his ship, but there was no answer as yet to that one. "I'm dealing with the feeblest woman on God's earth."

But he could vividly remember how beautiful she had looked when last they had been together, that final ball on Antigua, and how stunning a beauty she really was, how fine her figure, how lustrous her eyes, and how every male that hadn't been docked or had the slightest pretension to manhood had panted to be near her. She was short, petite, ripely feminine—and unfortunately, as ignorant as sheep.

"No matter, she's rich as hell, and she'll be mine one day," he vowed. His last letter had been full of derring-do, a flattering account of Yorktown and his escape, just the sort of thing to bring a girl like her to heel once more and excuse his silence. And in so doing, make her feel the worst sort of collywobbles when she reflected on how ill she had used him while he was off risking life and limb for King and Country.

The rest of his mail was interesting; Sir Onsley and Lady Maude back in London were full of chattiness about the Admiralty and the London season, noting how the scandal about his father had been an eight-day wonder and how much sympathy the populace (the better sort, anyway) felt for Midshipman Lewrie. Sir Onsley hinted that there might be a change of command in the Indies, and that he would drop a word in the new admiral's ear regarding his favorites.

The Cantners wrote to say that with the impending end of the Lord North government, they were retiring to the country for a space, but he would be welcome to call whenever he returned home. They also made much over the scandal, providing clippings from the more aristocratic West End papers. There was also a veiled promise that even in the Opposition, Lord Cantner could still do him good, once Parliament reconvened.

The letter from his grandmother he saved 'til last, and it was a poignant tale of how she had been torn between wanting to rescue him from his father's house, but not wanting to give Sir Hugo a penny by recognizing him as heir, and her eternal grief that she had left it so late, and that he would not get the full estate. Barbara Nuttbush (née Lewrie) had evidently not known the full circumstances of his joining the Navy, for she declared him to be a true patriot and a fine English lad to volunteer for Sea Service. Bad as her health was, she lived only to see him once before she passed over, if he should come home when the war ended, and to her poor mind that seemed soon, the way people were talking. There had even been a motion made in Parliament, voted down of course, that anyone who recommended or supported the continuation of the war should be tried for sedition. There was talk of a peace conference, talk of an envoy from the Crown to be sent to treat with this Continental Congress in Philadelphia or Boston.

There was also a postscript full of pride at the honor he had done the Lewrie name by his daring escape from Yorktown, so the report to the Admiralty from Hood, Graves, and the new man, Digby, must have already been released at home.

I can but shew only the most heart-felt Relief and lift up my prayers to the Almighty that you escaped the Clutches of that despicable Monster, and have shewn such Courage and Honour as to be an ever-lasting Credit to the memory of your poor Mother. If it is your Wish to remain a Sea-Officer, then uphold the Lewrie name with Boldness and Pride and pass the name on to your own Sons and Daughters once more untarnished.

Poor old girl doesn't know me at all, does she? Alan thought. Maybe it's best she doesn't. I'd let her down sooner or later.

Still, there was a good name to uphold now. With all the favorable comment in London and in the Fleet once the news got about, he would be remembered, remarked upon, not just for his past deeds, but for Yorktown as well, and for coming out of the scandal with clean hands. Let them say anything about me, as long as they say something, he thought, remembering a piece of advice he had read or heard in conversation. There might be a new admiral in the West Indies soon, to take over from Hood, and he would have gotten a tip in the right direction from Sir Onsley, perhaps even from Lord and Lady Cantner, would have heard the name Alan Lewrie in the papers before he left England, and would know him at least by reputation, which was thankfully good. He had made master's mate—could a commission be that far away? Would he have to wait four more years to strictly fulfill the qualifications Samuel Pepys laid down so many years before? Or could he count on a promotion by the will of a local admiral, whose decisions on promotions were almost never questioned by higher authorities as long as they made the slightest bit of sense?

Alan got a pot of ink and a new quill from his chest, laid out some fresh stationery, and went out to the mess table where the light was better to write letters. His grandmother first; then his solicitor and then Cheatham's brother at Coutts'; then Sir Onsley and Lady Maude; then the Cantners. His hand was cramping by the time he got around to writing to Lucy Beauman with the delightful news of his new fortune, but for some reason the first words he scrawled on a fresh sheet of paper were:

Aboard the Desperate frigate, English Harbor, Antigua

January 5th, 1782

Dear Mistress Caroline,

Now why the devil did I do that? he wondered, ready to cross it out. But that would waste a sheet of vellum, and Lucy would go barking mad if she received a letter headed by another girl's name, even crossed out, and he was not so rich that he could take that liberty with her.

I am rich enough for even a girl who could bring nothing as her portion but her bedding and linens, he thought. No, best put her out of your mind, laddy. Just 'cause I dallied with her is no reason to even consider such a thing. She's an artless country wench and I'd be bored silly raising pigs—don't know the first thing about farming and bringing in the sheaves and all that. It's London and Lucy Beauman for me, and if I ever rise before ten in the morning, it'll be the Second Coming that wakes me. Only livestock I want to see'll be stuffed removes.

Still, he did not want to waste the paper—it was dear in the islands. He continued the letter, relating his good news about his inheritance, glossing over the reason he had to go to sea, as though he had been cheated in his properly patriotic absence. He was teasingly charming, striking serious notes when asking as to the health of her dad and mother, inquiring about her brothers. He put tongue in cheek and could not resist making the subtlest allusions to their night on deck, and when he read it back, he thought it clever and only mildly romantic, just the very thing to liven the poor gawk's days.

Only then did he put himself in the proper frame of mind and begin a letter to Lucy Beauman, a short one that could go off in the next packet boat.

Desperate loafed along, conducting a slow cruising patrol on her passage for Barbados to join with the Leeward Islands Squadron, and the Inshore Squadron of smaller sloops and brigs and cruisers now with Hood.

South of Antigua, there were many French-controlled islands, the main one being their base on Martinique, home to de Grasse's fleet and a host of privateers. There was a possibility that Desperate could snatch a prize or two, take a privateer, or enter combat with a French naval vessel, as long as she was not of overpowering might. That had been the plan, anyway, but so far it had not come to fruition, for the sea looked as empty as on the dawn of the second day of Creation, when there was but ocean and light, and land had been only a project.

Alan didn't mind particularly; he had had enough excitement in the last few months, and if the war wound down quietly, then that was fine to his way of thinking. The Trades were blowing fresh and cool out of the east-north-east and the ship rolled along gently on a beam reach, a soldier's wind. He was off watch and skylarking on the weather bulwarks, watching the gun crews go through the motions of loading and firing, jumping from one battery to another as the excess crew took care of reloading while the others competed to be the first run out on the other beam. At his most energetic, he conversed with the yeoman of the sheets on the larboard gangway as that gentleman and some of the topmen rerove fresh rope for sheets and braces where they had begun to chafe, or took a splice aloft to remove the chafed portions but save the ropes.

"Sail ho!" the mainmast lookout called. "Dead astern!"

Alan wandered back to the quarterdeck while Lieutenant Railsford studied the sea over the taffrails.

"See her yet, sir?"

"Yes," Railsford said, trying to suppress his excitement. "Full-rigged, flying everything but her laundry and coming on fast. Topgallants, royals, and stuns'ls, too. Can't tell what she is yet, though."

"French, perhaps?" Alan speculated.

"We'll know in about an hour, the rate she's coming."

"Where away, Mister Railsford?" Treghues demanded, emerging on deck from a nap below. His eyes were rheumy with sleep, his pupils mere dots, which Alan put down to more of Mr. Dorne's medicaments. While the first lieutenant passed on what little intelligence he had about their stranger, the captain took the telescope and went up the mizzen rigging to at least the beginning of the futtock shrouds to get a better look. He came down minutes later and handed Railsford the telescope again.

"Looks like one of ours, I think," Treghues said. "Still, let's not be taken by surprise. Suspend the gun drill and get sail on her, all plain sail for now."

"Aye, sir. Bosun, pipe 'all hands.'"

Treghues went below while the hands lashed their guns down and began to hoist the yards, go aloft, and free the courses and the reefs in the tops'ls, undo the brails on the topgallants and draw them down so they filled with air. Desperate ceased loafing and came alive, leaning her starboard side into the sea, creating a creamy white furrow of foam in her wake. The faster she went, the stronger the wind felt and the more the yards had to be angled to take apparent wind at a more efficient angle. When Treghues came back on deck he had scrubbed his face, put on clean uniform, and stood four-square in cocked hat, new neckcloth and sword.

"Eight knots, sir!" Alan reported, coming from the taffrail where they had done a cast of the log and he had gotten soaked in spray.

"Still coming on strong, sir," Railsford said after another peek at their strange pursuer. "If she's French, she's eager to close with us. Do you wish us to hoist the royals, sir?"

"No, we shall let her," Treghues said. He took out his silver pocket watch and studied it. "Please be so good as to pipe the rum issue early and have the cooks serve as soon as everything's hot. We may be throwing the galley fires overboard, and can't wait for the proper hour for dinner."

"Aye, sir."

Alan thought it odd to let the enemy, if enemy she was, get up close. Desperate could go like a Cambridge coach if turned up onto the wind, or could run like a frightened cat to leeward if called upon to do so with stuns'ls and stays'ls. He studied Treghues as he paced the deck, wondering if his eagerness for battle had anything to do with the way the ship had been treated after escaping Yorktown. Did his captain have something to prove, some blot on their name that could only be erased by a victory, a geste of such derring-do that no one could comment on her any longer with a sneer? He had been acting odd enough ever since they had taken Ephegenie back in the Virgins, and Alan would no longer discount anything. A cautious captain would assume the other ship was an enemy and try to outrun her. A rash captain would put about and charge down offering battle. Only a timid and indecisive captain would allow the stranger to close them in this manner, and Treghues had never shown himself to be a timid or indecisive man. Certifiably eccentric, perhaps, but not that.

"Mister Lewrie," Treghues said, coming to his side in his pacing.

"Aye, sir?" he responded brightly.

"Walk with me."

"Aye, sir."

"Mister Cheatham informs me that you have had a stroke of good fortune come your way. And, he implies that you may soon be cleared that whiff of shame that followed you from England. For that I am grateful and pleased for you." Treghues spoke softly as they walked the weather rail, to the consternation of the other quarterdeck people. Treghues did not look much gratified, nor very pleased, but the words were kind enough, and Alan expressed his thanks.

"You should write your friends and patrons and let them know of it. I suppose you wasted no time informing the Beauman family. You are permitted to write the young lady, I remember?"

"Aye, sir, I already have."

"And your new friends, the Chiswicks in Charleston," Treghues said. "Heard from them yet?"

Alan looked at him sidelong; his captain's face was almost red with shame, and Alan knew he must be crawling to have to solicit information of such a personal nature from an underling. Treghues had formed an instant affection for Caroline Chiswick, perhaps out of pity, or out of long-suppressed longings brought to the surface by his head injury and the dubious "cure" that had followed. Alan was his only link, his only source of intelligence as to their new address, and hard as it was for a proud man, a commissioned officer, a ship's captain, and a stiff-neck like Treghues to ask, he was asking for a crumb. The girl had not said yes to his proposal to write, after all his charm and pleasantness.

Dammit, captains don't do such things, Alan thought. Does he see the mail come aboard first, does he know I have a letter from her? If he did, he'd have seen the address, so he wouldn't be asking. Is it safe to lie? What the hell, I'll chance it. Caroline did put her name and address on the outside sheet.

"Not yet, sir, though I have hopes."

"I was quite taken with their plight. The father is not well, is he?"

"Not well at all, sir, mostly in his mind," Alan breathed out, not catching any sign of true awareness in Treghues's voice or expression. "And Mrs. Chiswick, well… she may be in good health, but she is not a person meant for adversity, if you get my meaning."

"That poor young girl," Treghues said, with such emotion that Alan thought him ready to shudder. "Forced to cope with all that, barely a penny to their names from all that land and property stolen from them by the Rebels, taking care of her parents so dutifully…"

"It's a da… a terrible shame, sir, and a burden I marvel she could bear for long," Alan agreed. "Did you know that her brother, Burgess, told me the principal rogues who turfed them out were their own cousins?"

"Were they?" Treghues said, stopping their perambulations and seizing Alan's sleeve with an iron grip. "Were they, indeed, sir? God, I pity those who could not flee retribution of that pack of Rebels! What sort of country can they hope to have, built on the blood of their betters, allowing just any fool the right to vote, dictated to by the mob and resorting to bloody revolution and civil strife at the merest trifles. We'll have to go back in and restore order some day when they find they cannot govern such a herd of malcontents. How shall they collect taxes when they would not pay what they owed the Crown? How often shall they call out the militia or the troops sworn to this rebellious Congress to put down a new outbreak? You mark my words, within ten years they'll be cheering the sight of a scarlet coat to save them from their egregious folly. I only pray the Chiswicks get away safely to England and are spared the abuse and frightfulness of the mob's fury."

"They have relatives in Surrey, sir. There was talk they may take passage if Charleston is threatened," Alan said, wondering if he should try to break loose, for Treghues was gripping him so hard he was fearful for his arm. "Though what they'll use for money, I don't know."

"Aye," Treghues almost sobbed, turning Alan loose and resuming their walk toward the taffrail. "I lent them one hundred pounds. I hope it is enough. My heart went out to her… and her family. Had I only the means to rescue every loyal Briton who escaped… Do you know the name of their relatives in Surrey?"

"No, sir, I'm sorry, I don't. Chiswick, I should think, though, sir, same as them," Alan replied, massaging his arm on the sly.

"Should you ever hear from them, I would be deeply obliged to you if you let me know their address, Mister Lewrie. There is much I could do for them if only I was allowed," Treghues ordered, then looked off into the middle distance. "I feel it my Christian duty as a God-fearing man, as a Briton, to help at least that family, if I cannot do for all of the unfortunates torn loose from all they held dear by this terrible war."

"Oh, I shall, sir," Alan promised, lying like a butcher's dog. He tried to keep a straight and uninterested face as Treghues peered at him.

Alan found it hard, even so, to look Treghues in the eyes, but that was alright, for the captain also got a shifty look and could not face him, either.

"Thank you, Mister Lewrie. That shall be all. Again, my congratulations on your good news from home. Return to your duties, sir."

"Aye, aye, sir." Poor shit, he thought. Mooning away over the girl and having to finagle her whereabouts from a rogue like me must have half killed his soul. He's getting devilish strange, even worse than before. And that funny tobacco he smokes now, whew! God knows where Mr. Dorne found it, but it has to be medicinal as hell, like smoking mildew and oakum. God, if there's a sane captain in the Navy, I've yet to meet him. Command must drive you loony!

Alan realized that sooner or later he would have to tell Treghues the Chiswicks' address, if only to retain the captain's favor, but damned if he'd enjoy doing it. It was rather confusing, the feelings he had for Lucy Beauman, the most perfect beauty of the age he had seen, and Caroline Chiswick, who was pretty in her own quiet way. He still could not call it jealousy, but he was a lot closer to that opinion than he had been before.

"Hull up now, sir," Railsford said with a hint of concern.

Alan turned to look aft and could see all the sails of their pursuer, with the hint of a darker streak now and then above the waves that would be her hull. He took hold of the hilt of his sword and gave it a hitch to a more comfortable position. He might be using it in an hour.

"British, by God!" Monk spoke suddenly, as a distant patch of color appeared on the stranger's foremast top.

"Mister Monk, I weary of correcting your unfortunate habit of taking our Lord's name in vain so frequently," Treghues said for the thousandth time. "It may be a ruse."

"Signal, sir!" the lookout called, and David Avery was sent aloft with a glass and the signal book to spy it out.

"Recognition signal, sir!" he screamed down minutes later. "This month's! Tis Roebuck, sir, her private number!"

"Hands been fed, Mister Railsford?" Treghues asked.

"Aye, sir."

"Douse the galley fires and clear for action, just in case."

"Aye, sir."

But the stranger was indeed Roebuck, one of the ship-rigged sloops of war that had accompanied them on their raid on the Danish Virgins back in the late summer of 1781. She surged up close and her captain took up a brass speaking trumpet to speak to Desperate.

"What lit a fire under you, Captain?" Treghues shouted, with his leather lungs and cupped hands around his mouth in lieu of a trumpet.

"The French, Captain Treghues!" the other retorted. "Thirty sail of the line and a transport fleet have fallen on St. Kitts!"

"Jesus!" Alan muttered. St. Kitts was part of a pair of islands, Nevis and St. Kitts, that were not a day's sail from Antigua, and Antigua was the main base of the Leeward Islands. Admiral de Grasse was wasting no time in making use of his splendid fleet after returning to the Indies from the Chesapeake and Yorktown. Lewrie frowned in depression as he thought of his last few months; a failed opportunity at the Chesapeake battle, the loss of England's last field army at Yorktown, the evacuation of Wilmington, and the rumors of a revitalized Rebel army under General Greene closing in on Charleston; now this disaster. If the French took St. Kitts, Nevis was barely five miles across a safe channel. Then what came next, English Harbor? They had already retaken St. Eustatius, Admiral Rodney's treasure trove. If Antigua went, there went the Indies.

"They struck two days ago, on the eleventh," Roebuck's captain was continuing to shout. "Anchored off Basse Terre and marched on Brimstone Hill. They're holding out so far. I am to carry word to Hood off Barbados."

"God speed you, then!" Treghues called back. "We shall follow as best we are able!"

He turned back to them with a hard expression on his face. "Well, gentlemen, we have been here before, have we not? It seems we must deal with this devil de Grasse one more time to rescue a British army as we attempted in the Chesapeake. This time they may have bitten off more than they can chew. Brimstone Hill is on a high cliff ten miles march from Basse Terre Roads, and the island is not big enough to support a large land force by foraging as the Virginias supported Rochambeau and Washington. Brimstone Hill is a proper stone fortress, well stocked with artillery and powder. Their fleet must wait for results ashore, and when Admiral Hood lights into them this time, there will be no timidity such as we saw from Admiral Graves. We shall see something wonderful then, and we'll square this Frog's yards for him for good and all this time! Questions?"

"May I get off here, sir?" Alan quipped, only half kidding, though everyone treated his comment as a jest only, laughing heartily and calling him the very devil of a merry wag and other such complimentary comments.

"To your stations. Stand the hands down from quarters, Mister Railsford, and send them aloft to make sail, all the sail Desperate'll fly. Should Roebuck fall across the hawse of a French ship or fail in her mission, then we may also carry word to Admiral Hood."

Good Christ Almighty, Alan thought sadly. It's not as if I haven't done enough already, is it? There's only so many times I can put myself in the line of fire before I get knackered, and if it's only going to be half as bad as that muddle up in Virginia, then I'm a dead man this time. A very wealthy dead man, at that. Just when things were turning sweet for once. Just when I thought life was giving me a fair hand at last!

Realizing there was nothing for it but to go game, he went forward to Mister Monk's side by the wheel. At least, he could appear enthusiastic.

AFTERWORD

The incident concerning the gruesome fate of the infant and mother really did happen during the Virginia campaign, though not at that time and place; Washington and Rochambeau's troops discovered the scene on their march down from Head Of Elk, Maryland. I ran across it in Barbara Tuchman's book, The First Salute, which provided me with much pertinent information about Yorktown.

The Revolution was not the clean, glorious endeavor so familiar from history books and post-office murals; it was a bloody civil war, as bitter as any armed conflict between neighbors, though never approaching the cruelties of the French Revolution.

David Fanning, "Bloody Bill" Cunningham, and the local commander of Wilmington's garrison, Major Craig, were real people on the Loyalist side during the Revolution, and their memories are still hateful for their depredations as irregular partisans and oppressive occupiers, held in as much contempt as Quantrill's raiders or the James boys during the Civil War.

While the sentiments of the time forbade harm to be inflicted by direct action upon non-combatants, harm was inflicted to civilians nonetheless on both sides, first by the less-disciplined irregular militias and partisan rangers, then later by regular troops. And the fate of the Loyalists and their property after our Rebels had won is still a subject as closed as the fate of the Creek and Cherokee in the American version of history. I do not wish to give the impression, since my events happened in the South, that this was solely a problem limited to the Carolinas; Northern Rebels and Loyalists suffered just as much.

The British did indeed muddle their way to defeat time after time, and one begins to wonder if they ever had mixed feelings about fighting their blood-cousins in the first place. There were few examples of military genius on either side until the impartial French arrived.

The actions of Graves and Hood at the Battle of the Chesapeake and Graves' failure to relieve Cornwallis's army were the final nails in the coffin for British hopes of victory. As one historian wrote, Graves didn't really lose a single ship in the battle (although HM Terrible had to be sunk later); he didn't lose the battle, so much as called it a draw and broke it off; what he lost was America. Hood went on to great success against de Grasse, and with Adm. Sir George Bridges Rodney, won undying fame at the Saintes a year later. His hanging back at the Chesapeake has never been satisfactorily explained.

The contributions of Adm. Paul Comte de Grasse, the unseen eminence in this novel, Gen. Rochambeau, Adm. de Barras (dilatory as he was up in Newport), Gen. St. Simon and his superb artillery trains, and the regiments Touraine, Gatenois, Saintonge, Royal Deux-Ponts, and Soissons are also glossed over, and only Lafayette is given the honor due them all. But, had it not been for direct French intervention in 1781 and material and monetary support in 1778, we would still be subjects of Great Britain.

Unlike the history taught about the Revolution, mostly written by north-east educated historians, the war did not revolve around New York and the upper colonies; most of it was fought in the South, and there are many patriots who should be famous, who did more to capture our freedom than Washington or his New York State generals.

I wish to apologize to those who thought the Pennsylvania (or Kentucky) rifle won the Revolution; opposed to common myth, the piece was a light hunting rifle, stripped down to the basics, slow to load and fire due to the rifling in the barrel, which made ramming home a grease-patched ball difficult. The militia and minutemen who faced up to British regulars did not lay them out in windrows, but usually got themselves tromped and skewered by more rapid smooth-bore musket fire and fixed bayonets, just as the Chiswick brothers described. The Continental Army and the various state militias became a force to be feared in the field, equipped with French muskets and bayonets, captured British arms, or those few American-built copies of European muskets. Much money was spent and little was received from contractors who promised the moon, much like military budgets today.

My apologies to anyone whose ancestors really lived on Jenkins Neck, which only appears as described geographically and in the map; the Hayley plantation never existed except in my imagination.

I'd like to acknowledge a debt to Mrs. Diane Cobb Cashman and her lovely book, Cape Fear Adventure, An Illustrated History of Wilmington, about my favorite seaport town which figured in The French Admiral. Lastly, thanks to Jimmy Buffett for just about everything he ever wrote or recorded, which figured prominently in late-night sessions.

Dewey Lambdin

September 12, 1989

Percy Priest Lake

Nashville, Tennessee

Dewey Lambdin, a self-proclaimed "Navy brat," has been a director, writer, and producer in television and advertising in Tennessee. He spends his free time on his beloved sloop, Wind Dancer.