Free The French Admiral by Dewey Lambdin Page A

self-deprecation. “Who would have thought that of all places, I would find . . . a home . . . in the bloody Navy! I’ve spent the better part of my service scheming to get out of it!”
    â€œWhy would you, when you’re so deuced good at it?” Cheatham asked. “Oh, I suppose it is natural to be suspicious, growing up a London boy in such a household as you described, but there is good in this world, and you have some of it in you.”
    â€œA streak perhaps,” Alan allowed. “A thin one, sir. I doubt I’ll be buried a bishop.”
    â€œWho can say what you’ll amount to?” Cheatham said, cuffing him on the head lightly. “No, I would not go so far as to say you could ever take holy orders. But you are who you make of yourself, not what others have told you you are. Think on what you have accomplished in the short time you have worn King’s Coat—other than wenching and brawling your way through the streets of Charleston, of course. Consider the people you know that think well of you. You could not have earned their approbation without being worthy.”
    I don’t know about all that, Alan thought. You’ve never seen me toady when I’ve my mind set on something. Still, there was the good opinion of Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews and his Lady Maude; also their lovely niece, Lucy Beauman, who was all but pledged to him. And then there were Lord and Lady Cantner, whose lives he had saved in the Parrot. There were probably as many others who hated the sight of him, but he wasn’t particularly fond of those either, so to hell with them.
    But with Railsford, Cheatham, and, most likely, Mr. Dorne to improve his chances, and even Mister Monk’s professional acceptance as a seaman, and the willing cooperation of the other warrant and petty officers who took him at face value, there was suddenly a lot less to fear than he had thought. He took another deep draught of beer, and his prospects suddenly seemed that much brighter.
    â€œI cannot tell you how much this means to me, sir,” he told Cheatham. “I was despairing that I would be chucked onto the beach to starve if it was up to the captain alone. Maybe there’s an answer in my past that would force me to think I’m someone better than the image I have formed of myself ere now. But I’m not betting on it, mind. What if I’m much worse than what I know of myself now?”
    â€œThat’s our Lewrie,” Cheatham said kindly. “As chary a lad who ever drew breath. Now let us take a peek into this salt beef cask to see if it’s fit to eat, shall we?”

CHAPTER 2
    O n the 25th of August, 1781, Desperate went inshore once more, to Cape Henry in the Virginias, acting as the eyes of the fleet. Should she run into danger, there was another frigate with her with much heavier artillery to back her up, but being of deeper draft she wasn’t much help close inshore.
    â€œPassage’ll be ’bout a mile off Cape Henry,” Mister Monk said, referring to one of his heavily pencilled and grease-stained charts by the binnacle. He was partly teaching, partly talking aloud to himself. “Far enough offshore ta avoid the Cape Henry shoals, an’ ’bout two mile off a the Middle Ground. Ya young gentlemen mark the Middle Ground? Silt an’ sand shoal.”
    Forrester, Avery, and Lewrie peered over his shoulder to mark it in their minds, while Carey, who was much shorter, wormed his way through to peek almost from Monk’s capacious armpit.
    â€œWhat about north of the Middle Ground, sir?” Carey asked, turning his gingery face up to their sailing master. “Up by Cape Charles?”
    â€œNo, main entrance is this’n, south o’ the Middle Ground. To the north of it, ya’d never know how much depth ya’d have, wot with the scour. At high tide, ya might find a five-fathom channel, ’un then agin ya could pile her up on a sand