The French Admiral by Dewey Lambdin Page B

were now roughly parallel with Cape Fear, slanting landward at a shallow angle to eventual land-fall at Cape Henry and the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, to peek in and see if the French had arrived.
    Alan was in the rigging with a telescope, clinging to the shrouds with arm and knee crooked, leaning back onto the ratlines just below where the futtock shrouds began below the maintop.
    Well, no one’s sunk while we were gone, he decided, counting the ships. There was Admiral Drake’s small group of ships up from St. Lucia, now free of keeping guard on the French base in Martinique and very far from familiar waters; there was Princessa, the flagship, Terrible, Ajax, Intrepid, Alcide, and Shrewsbury. Further north he could espy Admiral Hood’s flag flying on Barfleur; also Invincible, the Alfred, Belliqueux, Monarch, Centaur, Montagu, and Resolution riding in her wake. Fourteen sail of the line all told, and too few attendant frigates, as was usual. If the rumors were correct, and de Grasse had brought fourteen sail out of Port de France and had not picked up other ships at Cape Francois or Havana, then they would be evenly matched ship for ship in line of battle once they fell on their enemy.
    It was so large a problem that his own paled in comparison, and he knew that he was looking forward to the battle with a certain relish, at that time in the uncertain future when upwards of thirty massive warships would come up within pistol shot of each other and begin to blaze away with every gun available.
    Alan had seen single-ship actions since being almost press-ganged into the Navy, and such events as a fleet battle happened too rarely to be missed. He knew he had an extremely good chance to survive it, if it did occur, since frigates would not stand in the line of battle, but would be in the wings, repeating signal hoists and ready to rush down and aid some crippled larger ship. This battle, if it came soon, would truly decide the fate of the rebellion. Without the French fleet, there wasn’t a ship on the coast that could stand up to the Royal Navy, and the blockade of their coast could check the last imports and exports that kept their miserable efforts in the field. This would be the crushing blow, and when it was over, everyone on the losing side would sue for peace, and Alan could go home to England. Maybe not to London, not as long as his father was alive. But he could take off naval uniform and begin to live the life of a gentleman once more, so he had a personal stake in victory and frankly, could not even begin to imagine any other result.
    Then, no matter what career was open to him after getting out of the Navy—which had treated him so abominably—he could brag for the rest of his life that he had, by God, been there! Sword in hand, making every shot count, eye-to-eye with the Frogs, pistoling mounseers right and left, or whatever else his imagination could do to enliven an observer’s role as the tale grew with the telling.
    I’ll probably bore some people to tears with it. He laughed. There I was, hanging upside down from the clew garnets, four third-rates on either beam! Harro for England and St. George and pass the bloody port if you’re through with it! And the best part of it all is, I’ll be safe as bloody houses for a change, instead of scared fartless.
    Unwinding his limbs from his precarious perch, Alan clambered down to the starboard bulwarks along the gang-way and jumped the last few feet to move back aft to the quarterdeck, where Treghues, Railsford, and Monk were plying their own telescopes to survey the immense power spread before them.
    â€œStill fourteen of the line, sir,” Alan said to Railsford.
    â€œBe more than that when we reach New York.” Railsford grinned at him. “Admiral Graves can add at least seven more, plus frigates. We shall have this Count de Grasse on a plate, mark my words.”
    â€œMister Railsford, signal the flag there was no