Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

"He's nothin' to reinforce with," Lilycrop told him with a sour look. "Admiral Hood's off Cape Francois, blockadin' the rest of the French West Indies fleet, and Admiral Pigot…"

"Who the hell is he, sir?" Alan asked.

"Goddamn, but you still haven't learned to keep your ear to the ground, boy." Lilycrop frowned. "Pigot come out to take over from Rodney last year, just after The Saintes, an' after we got transferred. Anyway, one of de Grasse's junior admirals, de Vaudreuil or something, has most of his squadron penned up at Cape Francois, and at Porto Cavallo, on the Spanish Main. That's why there's to be no ships for any expedition to Florida. All the admirals want a last sea battle, a last crack at the Frogs."

"So everything we did was a waste," Alan spat.

"We weren't to know that, not at the time. Admirals change, plans change." Lilycrop shrugged. "Maybe after the war's over, we can run traders or agents in there, anyway, and still achieve somethin'."

"So we're just a little foot-note, sir," Alan went on, getting angry. "Maybe not even that."

"That's the way of it." Lilycrop nodded, reaching over to tap him on the shoulder. "Don't take it so hard, Mister Lewrie. You did all anyone could expect of you, and more, from what I heard. Sometimes all you can do is your duty, and your best just ain't good enough if they go and change the plan on you. Don't you think even admirals get their best efforts rejected now and again? 'Course, those never turn up in their memoirs, or the naval chronologies. Rest assured, Rowley give us a good report. And a nice pat on the arse on the way out."

"Out, sir?"

"Transfer back to Admiral Hood's flag, off Hispaniola. We're to be part of Commodore Affleck's group workin' close inshore to keep an eye on the Frogs at Cape Francois. Be good to get back to sea and have somethin' straight-forward to do, for a change. Maybe get a crack at a merchantman tryin' to supply the damned place."

"I still think we'd have done better going back to Florida," Alan said, shaking his head. "The French will never come out, sir. We waste our efforts blockading them. And if they're blockaded, then we have a clear shot at landing the expedition."

"But if they learned we were doin' it, and took ships off-station, they would come out, and then where'd we be?" Lilycrop countered.

"Then we keep the fleet at sea, waiting for the second chance to defeat them, sir," Alan schemed. "What better lure to draw them out at all! Look here, sir, I'll wager you any odds that Admiral Hood had no idea this expedition was being considered. What if we could write him and let him know of it? He's senior to Rowley, is he not? If he could thin his blockade, provide enough ships to escort the expedition, the French would learn of it. We land our forces at Apalachee Bay, or closer to Pensacola. This de Vaudreuil comes out of Porto Cavallo and Cape Francois, maybe the Dons come out of Havana. Pigot could come west from Antigua or St. Lucie, and Rowley could sortie the Jamaica Squadron. We assemble off the Florida coast, threatening Havana, and meet them in that last glorious battle the admirals want so much!"

"Damme, you don't think small when you take the effort." Lilycrop laughed, then sobered. "But, one thing I've learned in this Navy in my time is, most people wouldn't stir their arses up if you set fire to 'em, Lewrie. They're happier layin' back, lettin' somebody else make the decisions. It's too much of a risk. It'd expose Jamaica again, an' this time, the Frogs an' the Dons might succeed in takin' it. The watchword is, 'when in doubt, don't.' Good for careers, but hell on the country. Been guilty of it meself at times, God help me. No, this time we'd best let our superiors make the decisions. They don't look kindly on lieutenants givin' em advice."

"Bad for the career, sir," Alan said evenly.

"There you are," Lilycrop agreed. "I'd forget about writin' any letters, if I were you. 'Sides, the war's so close to over, it wouldn't make much difference anyway. Now, why don't you see to as much as you feel up to, so we can sail tomorrow. Let Mister Caldwell help you. Him an' Midshipman Rossyngton can do your leg-work for you. Do the lad good to get a little authority. Park yourself in a comfortable chair on the quarterdeck, if you're of a mind."

"Aye, sir, I shall," Alan relented, half of a mind to write his letter anyway. He groped to his feet, got his crutch going, and went to the chart-space, where Cony had begun to lay out his kit and his chest. A small fixed bed-box had been cobbled together and fitted to the partition aft of the chart-table, much like a settee. Athwartship as it was, it would be more comfortable to sleep in, and it was high enough to allow him easy entry and exit, even with his game leg, if the seas got up once they were on-station.

"What career do I have to worry about preserving, anyway?" he muttered to himself once he was ensconced on the mattress, sitting so he could draw out a large-scale chart and study the Caribbean area. "Maybe I should write that letter after all. Not that it'd do much good, I suppose."

Alan thought that even if he did write it, and Hood was receptive, perhaps Pigot would turn out to be chary, or Rowley would be too cautious. It would take weeks to draw a consensus locally, and then they would most likely wish to send off to London for directions, and that would take months more. To act and fail on their own would hurt their careers. No one back home in the Shelburne government would care to strand a British army in the marshes where they would die like flies to alien fevers and agues, not this close to the end of the war, while they were negotiating a peace. It would risk Jamaica, or Antigua.

Yet what was war but a series of calculated risks? It was not an exact science, subject to mathematics, so that odds could be drawn from tables. It was an art, he had been told. How often had he seen success or failure balance on the fine-honed edge of a sword? And how many officers would see only hazard and fail to dare, while some other fire-brand would see slight advantage, and would go forth to sow confusion to England's foes.

What forces formed a Hawke, a Rodney, a general like Clive, he wondered? There was no chap-book like Clerk's little book of tactics to guide a run-of-the-mill officer, to turn him into the sort who could achieve a magnificent victory. Most came aboard as cabin-servants at eight years old, or at twelve as midshipmen, blessed with only rudiments of decent educations, and all they learned from school-masters and mates was how to curse, tie knots, drink, and be practical seamen. No one tried to teach them to think. And with material security tied up in first gaining one's lieutenancy, then gaining a commission aboard ship on active service, how much of one's very source of bread would someone be prepared to put at risk, if thinking too much led to half-pay idleness and penury?

He was free of that, thank God. Between his prize-money, his hoard of gold, his grandmother's bequest and his later inheritance, he did not have to depend on the Navy to put food on his table, if he was careful with his money. How much worse an officer would he make than most of the ones he had met, who could only stump about a deck screaming "Luff!" He was from a deeper well of knowledge, and he could think, when he was forced to. Did he really have more promise than most? And was the Navy a place to shine, because of that?

God help me, I think I shall, Alan decided. I'll write that letter, and the devil with the consequences. If the Navy won't have me after that, then that's their loss, isn't it? I'll have said my piece.

Fate, however, did not allow the letter to be delivered. Shrike sailed, and for days, it was as much like yachting, that watery sport of the aristocracy and the idle rich, as any cruise he had ever seen. Trie winds were bracing and fresh, quartering mostly from the nor'east to the sou'east. Once leaving Port Royal and Kingston, Lieutenant Lilycrop was in no hurry to rejoin Hood's squadron off Hispaniola, and the ship loafed along like every day was a "rope-yarn Sunday."

But, while they had good weather, a storm had blown Admiral Hood off-station at Cape Francois, and with a gust-front of wind and gloomy skies from the east, the fleet was blown down onto them the first week of February, on its way to Port Royal. All Shrike could do was to announce her presence, change flags to Hood's Blue Ensign once more, and beat her way east past the squadron of line-of-battle ships to make the best of her way to join the ships remaining on blockade. There was no contact close enough to allow Alan's epistle to be delivered.

Once past the fleet, Shrike took one last lingering look at the southern coast of Cuba, their old hunting grounds, and then a favorable slant of wind took them up the Windward Passage.

Alan finally discarded his crutch. Though the wound still pained him, he could make his way about the decks with more ease. He had to admit that the wood and canvas deck chair was comfortable, an admirable invention that should be standard equipment for the aspiring (but lazy) Sea Officer such as he. He was close to the wheel and the quartermasters, could see the work at the guns or the gangways, and could "stand" his watches in sublime ease for once. And noon sights could be performed just as well from a sitting position as they could be standing by the sunward rail and gritting his teeth with each pitch and heave of the deck.

When called to walk forward, or do his tours below decks, he could wince manfully, with Edgar or Rossyngton or Cony to aid him, and limp about, searching for a convenient handhold for which he could lunge the last few feet and utter a loud whoosh of relief from the titanic effort of performing his duties.

Secretly, the wound was no longer that troubling, but after a little over three years of hard service, he was not going to admit to any more agility than was absolutely necessary, certain he was due some ease. And it was fun to portray the wounded hero, stoically going about his rounds as though he were secretly suffering the agonies of the damned, and making a great show of shrugging off any offers of assistance or sympathy.

He had finished his morning watch and had turned the deck over to Caldwell and Rossyngton, but lingered in his deck chair with a mug of sweet tea, half-dozing with the "injured" limb stuck out stiffly in front of him. His chin rested on his breast and his cocked hat was far forward over his forehead to counter the early morning sun on this their third week of patrolling several leagues to seaward of Monte Cristi off the coast of Hispaniola. He took a sip of tea, then wrote up his lieutenant's journal. He had gotten past the usual bumf: "Fri., Mar 7th, 1783: Winds NW, Course NNE, Lat. 20.05N, bearing at dawn Isabella Pt. Monte Cristi SE by E off shore 5-6 leagues. Fresh breezes Cloudy," and was wondering what else he should write down (and attempting to stifle a rather huge yawn) when the lookout interrupted him.

"Sail ho! Deck thar! Three sail, four points awrf't' starb'd bow!"

That brought him up with a start, almost making him spill his tea and the inkwell all over his journal. There was nothing to their suth'ard, or the east but French or Spanish vessels. Little Shrike would be no match for a squadron of foes that had escaped the blockade.

"Mister Rossyngton, go aft an' inform the captain," Caldwell directed. "You hear, Mister Lewrie, sir?"

"Aye, thankee, Mister Caldwell," Alan said, forgetting how "lame" he was supposed to act as he levered himself out of his chair and got to his feet to hobble (only slightly) to the bulwarks. "I have the deck now, Mister Caldwell."