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."
"Deck thar!" the lookout called again. "Four… no, five sail to starb'd, now! 'Ard on t'wind onna starb'd tack!"
"On passage for the Bahamas, perhaps," Alan said as Caldwell joined him at the rail. With his telescope, Alan could just barely make out three tiny slivers of whitish-tan that could have been clouds on the horizon. The lookouts aloft would have a better view, at least one hundred feet higher above the decks.
"One sail's 'auled 'is wind, sir!"
"Falling down on us, sir," Caldwell said primly, sounding more annoyed than anything else. "To smoke us."
"I have the deck, sirs," Lilycrop said as he emerged from his quarters and strode to join them. "Hands to Quarters, put out the galley fires, an' stand ready to rig out stuns'ls an' haul our own wind to loo'ard."
"Bosun, beat to Quarters!" Alan shouted with the aid of his brass speaking trumpet.
"Mister Lewrie, sir, once Mister Cox's ready with his batteries, I'd admire we ease her a point free more northerly," Lilycrop ordered.
"Aye, sir."
"Midshipman aloft," Lilycrop snapped, turning to them once more before strolling to the abandoned chair and dropping into it heavily as though he had no real care in the world what was over the horizon.
Gangly Mr. Edgar swarmed his way to the mainmast cross-trees like a spastic spider.
"A flag, sir!" Edgar piped moments later. "Looks British, I think. Yes, sir, Blue Ensign, sir, and a private signal!"
"Might be a ruse," Alan speculated.
"T 'ands is at Quarters, sir," Fukes reported, with Mr. Cox.
"Private signal, sir!" Edgar added in a boyish yelp. "She's the Drake sloop, brig-rigged! Now she's flying 'Attend Me,' sir!"
"Presumptuous bastard." Lilycrop snorted at the audacity of another lieutenant master and commander much like himself, in command of a brig below the rate issuing pre-emptive orders without knowing whom he was addressing. "What're the others doin'?"