Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

"I am Lieutenant Osborne, first into Albemarle, sir. And you are?"

"Alan Lewrie, first officer of Shrike, brig o' war," Alan replied.

"Sir, allow me to name you to the others. Lieutenant Lewrie of Shrike; Captain James King of Resistance, Lieutenant Charles Cunningham of Admiral Barrington, Captain Charles Dixon of Drake. Our second, Lieutenant Martin Hinton, and our Lieutenant Joseph Bromwich. I believe you have already met earlier, have you not? Captain Nelson shall receive you in a few moments."

It was not exactly a pleasant social gathering. They all looked devilishly grim after being checked ashore and obliged to cut and run from the heavier French battery.

"Get that ashore, sir?" Captain King asked, noticing Alan's slight limp.

"No, sir. A few weeks ago on the Florida coast, when we were still part of Sir Joshua Rowley's Jamaica Squadron," Alan replied.

"Any casualties, Charles?" Dixon asked of Cunningham.

"Six wounded, sir," Cunningham replied. "Including the bosun."

"We suffered two, one of 'em our sailing master," Dixon told them all. "Damned fortunate, for all the damage we took. Gaff shattered, rigging cut up pretty well, and we have an eighteen-pounder ball in the timbers. Thank the good Lord they didn't run to heated shot. And how did Shrike fare, sir?"

"No one aboard is hurt," Alan said. "One wounded ashore with you-our captain, sir, Lieutenant Lilycrop."

"Hurt sore?" Dixon asked.

"He's losing his foot at this moment, sir," Alan stated.

"Ah, I'm damned sorry," Dixon sighed. "I tried to keep our casualties to a minimum ashore. No sense making a useless demonstration against their works and getting men killed for nothing."

"Trevenen says we should have reconnoitered last night, sent a boat ashore," King said. "Might have saved us the trouble."

"Oh, him," Lieutenant Cunningham sniffed. "I'm sure young Jemmy will put pen to paper about this."

"Excuse me, sirs, but Captain Nelson will see you now," Osborne told them, coining back on deck. He led them aft and below to the great cabins. Alan stuffed his hat under his arm and waited to see what their putative "commodore" looked like.

Well, stap me, he thought at his first sight. I do believe if they made me a post-captain tomorrow, I'd look older than this'un.

Captain Horatio Nelson was a skinny little hop o' my thumb, not much taller than some minnikin, slim and coltish as a young whippet, and a good breeze looked enough to blow him right away. His light hair was long, lank and unpowdered, tied back in a Hessian tail of such length that it rivaled Lieutenant Lilycrop's seamanly queue. His captain's coat was the full-dress "iron-bound," stiff with gold lace, and of a fashion more suited to the last war, with over-sized pocket flaps. Altogether, he looked like an actor in some Drury Lane production portraying a Sea Officer, deliberately mis-cast in some parody.

"Gentlemen, well met," he began in a high, slightly nasal voice. "Though I fear we meet not in a victory worthy of British Sea Officers. Lieutenants Bromwich and Hinton inform me they were obliged to cut and abandon the cannonade on the town battery. How many guns?"

"At least four or five twenty-four-pounders, sir," Cunningham said. "And near on five or six six-pounders, by my count. A substantial work. And they were manned by seamen, I believe. Very accurate gunners."

"And Captain Dixon, you encountered at least four more guns, of at least six-pounds shot, at a work blocking your advance?" Nelson asked.

"Aye, sir."

"Quite a packet to be transported by La Coquette and that prize sloop now with the Dugay Trouin frigate," Nelson said, playing with the stock of his shirt. "And how many troops did you encounter ashore, sir?"

"I would estimate over two hundred men, sir," Dixon said evenly.

"I want to commend your sagacity, sir," Nelson told him with a small, shy smile on his long, narrow face. "Another commander would have tried to force the issue against that work, and would have been repulsed with heavy casualties. Obviously, there are a lot more men ashore than the captive French officers in La Coquette told us. Captain King, did you learn any more from them?"

"No, sir," King replied. "They said they'd escorted ships here, and La Coquette had given up five of her twenty-six guns to form a battery. I estimated that they could not have landed much more than one hundred fifty troops, plus seamen gunners."

"But to man that many guns, and provide a guard force for both works, and still leave at least two hundred troops free to operate against Captain Dixon, would make how many, do you think?" Nelson asked, trying not to give the impression that he might like to tear King's head off, even if he did. "If there were other ships escorted here, of which I now am informed."

This is damned interesting, Alan thought, watching the young man grill the older (and, surprisingly, senior) post-captain over the coals. So post-captains can act just as ill with each other as any pack of surely midshipmen fighting over shares of a pudding?

"It would make over five hundred men, sir," Alan guessed aloud. "My captain says there's nothing much on the other islands, so Grand Turk is the key, and they must have located all their force here."

"And you are. sir?" Nelson asked, turning to face him. He didn't look pleased to be addressed, and thrown off the topic.

"Lieutenant Lewrie, sir, of the Shrike brig. First officer. I stand in for my captain, Lieutenant Lilycrop, who's in surgery now."

"The officer wounded ashore with me, sir," Dixon added.

"Yes, Mister Lewrie, over five hundred men, with twenty-four pounders," Nelson said, turning to address all of them. "We put, what, about one hundred sixty-five men up against a French regiment, and a fortification with artillery heavier than any piece we have at our disposal. But, we may still seize the day. I propose to shift the frigates opposite the town to reduce the fortification. If we start now, we may pound upon it all night if need be. As for the brigs, make a demonstration above Britain Bay, at the far end of the island, to get the field troops marching that direction. Then, at first light, we land here, after taking anchor in Hawk's Nest Anchorage, on the other side of the island from the town and battery. They shall have to abandon the work up north, and we may now concentrate our forces against theirs properly."

"Would it not be better to blockade the place for now, sir?" Captain King advised, shaking his head. "Send one of the brigs off to summon Admiral Hood? He must be back on station by now, after watering at Port Royal. Heavy guns and Marines from the liners…"

"Weakening the blockade of Cape Francois, Captain King," the diminuitive "commodore" replied, rejecting the suggestion with an energetic wave of his hands. "Perhaps their expedition had that as a secondary goal. No, we have a chance to confound our King's enemies here and now. With enough energetic action, enough alacrity, we may still prevail."

"I'd like to point out, though, sir," Captain Dixon said with a heavy look, "that even if we stripped every vessel present, the French can still field more troops, and once ashore, we'll have no field guns to counter their battery. It was dirt, and they could dig guns in anywhere they wish, once they see where we land. They hold the upper hand when it comes to moving on interior lines, whilst we are forced to sail all around the island to find another beach."

While Nelson was digesting this view of things, there was a rap on the door, and Nelson bade whoever it was enter, with an exasperated tone to his voice.

The officer who entered was Lieutenant Osborne, first officer of Albemarle. "Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but the winds are come more westerly, and still quite fresh. Another hour and we'll be on a lee shore."

"Yes, thank you for telling me, Mister Osborne," Nelson answered, massaging his brow with long, slim fingers. He used his other hand to spin the map of the island about to stare at it. "There is no good holding ground on the eastern side. Shallow reefs and shoals, and then a steep drop off to truly unfathomable depths. Hawk's Nest Anchorage is possible, but under the guns of the battery, and too far for useful fire from our pieces." He gave a heavy sigh, a bitter realization that even the seas and the winds conspired against him, and Alan felt quite sorry for him. The man had rushed in hoping that he would gain a quick victory against light forces, and he had been misled by the intelligence he had received. The French ships taken by Resistance and the other frigate had not carried the expedition, they had escorted other merchantmen or transports, who had equipped the place for a long defense, with heavy guns. Now Nelson would have to admit defeat, and sail back to his admiral with news of his repulse. Better he had done what King suggested in the first place; keep an eye on the island and send word immediately to bring line-of-battle ships that could shoot the battery and works to flinders, land nearly a regiment of Marines and reduce the garrison.

"Even the sea and winds aid the damned French," Nelson mused, as if God had turned out to be a Hay-Market tout, and had given him a false report on some horse on which he had bet the family estate. "Gentlemen… let us weigh anchor at once and work off this shore before we start dragging anchors in bad holding ground. No sense losing a ship, or another man, on this miserable island."

"And the expedition, sir?" Captain King asked, as if he liked rubbing salt in wounds. Or had the tact of a mastiff.

"I fear I must concur with Captain Dixon's estimate of the situation at the last. No, weigh and head back for the squadron off Cape Francois." Nelson scowled, turning away to look out the transom windows, unable to face them in his moment of failure.

"How is the captain?" Alan asked, once he was back aboard his ship.

"Mister Lewyss thinks he'll live, sir." Caldwell told him in a soft voic. "Left him a good stump, sir. Didn't suffer much, nor make a sound."

"Thank God for small blessings, anyway. Mister Caldwell, I'd admire if you took over as first officer, acting lieutenant. Your mate to rise to sailing master."

"Aye. sir," Caldwell preened. "Though I hate to prosper at the captain's sorrow, sir. I must advise you, sir, the wind's come westerly and…"

"Yes, get us under way soon as you can. Lay out the sweeps if you think they might be necessary. Easier than being towed out by the boats. Mister Fukes, prepare to get under way!"

"Aye aye, sir!"

"We still going to try something else against these Frogs, sir?" Caldwell asked as the bosun's pipes shrilled for all hands on deck.

"No," Alan snapped. "They're too strong. The captain's going to lose his ship for nothing. Goddamnit, I'm getting tired of this."

"You and me too, sir," Caldwell agreed.

They veered out to take up their stream anchor, hauled back up to short stays on the bower, and got under way. The wind and waves were too much, and she paid off immediately, rolling her larboard rail almost under, even under bare poles. "Sweeps, Mister Fukes!"

Like an ancient oared galley, Shrike extended her sweeps, too few to Alan's eyes, but they needed strength to finish hauling up the anchor by the capstan, fish it in and ring it up on the catheads. More hands were already aloft, loosing the spanker and jibs, leaving only twenty or so hands to pull at the long oars. It was enough to hold her head up to the fresh breeze until the rudder could bite, and the fore and aft sails could give her forward motion.