At last, after several hours of finger-cramp and ink smudges on his hands, and time to mull over the right word or phrase, he could cite officers and men who had rendered special service, including the sailors and Marines who had scandalised the forges, pleased to mention Desmond and Kitch for how to go about it. He at long last concluded with the required “I am your Most Humble & Obedient Svnt,” sat back and tossed his pen into a drawer, letting out a long, weary, but satisfied sigh. His clerk, Sub-Lt. Severance could pretty it all up as he wrote the fair copy, and Lewrie could turn his mind to happier things.
Another letter to his wife, first off. Over the months he had described what Sicily was like, what the coasts of Calabria looked like, wishing that he had but a tithe of her talent for drawing. He teased her with descriptions of the local fruits, wines, and food, of how the locals dressed. The wind brought the sounds of the impromptu festival taking place ashore, for half a minute, and he began to construct an image in his mind that he could describe the carnival atmosphere for Jessica, casting a longing look at her portrait as he did so.
Along with some boasting, too, he thought with a self-deprecating laugh at himself.
“Midshipman Dunn t’see th’ Cap’um, SAH!” his Marine sentry on the quarterdeck bellowed.
“Enter,” Lewrie idly bade, rolling his head to ease a kink in his shoulders and neck.
“Captain, sir,” Midshipman Dunn said once he was in front of the desk, “The Army has hoisted a signal ashore. It’s Have Mail!”
“Aha!” Lewrie shouted in glee, slamming a hand on the desk-top. “At last!”
It had been weeks since the last time that anything had arrived from home, and everyone’s hope that there would be mail awaiting them once back from Monasterace had so far been dashed.
Dame Lewrie, his darling wife, Jessica, was a prolific writer, and when mail did arrive, Lewrie could usually count on at least ten or twelve letters. Even the inconsequential ones were as precious as golden guineas.
“Care for a run ashore, Mister Dunn?” Lewrie asked, grinning like a schoolboy and rising from his desk.
“Aye, I would indeed, Captain sir!” the lad piped up, ashiver with the prospect of a closer look at the doings ashore.
“Have the Bosun round up a boat crew and go fetch it for us,” Lewrie ordered him. “And let word of the mail’s arrival be known to the ship’s people as you go.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Dunn cried, wheeling about and clapping his hat on with only the sketchiest parting salute.
“How’s that sound, lads?” Lewrie asked his cabin servants, and they were all for it. Deavers hadn’t heard from his widowed mother in Staines for some months, and Dasher, who had no family that he knew of, was almost jig-dancing in anticipation of newspapers and a copy of The Marine Chronicle or The Tatler that he could puzzle over and make out the words slowly. Hope of hopes, might Dame Lewrie send him one, as she had back in the Spring?
* * *
“Come on, come on, come on!” Lewrie muttered under his breath as he stood near the quarterdeck’s hammock stanchions, drumming fingers on the canvas cover that protected the many sausage-like rolled up hammocks from rain. Midshipman Dunn was taking his own sweet time to return to the barge with the mail sacks, and the barge crew seemed too eager to stray from the landing jetty for a quick jesting word with a pretty Sicilian girl, or sneak a wee glass of wine, no matter what the senior Able Seaman who served as the boat’s Cox’n snarled at them.
Vigilance had hoisted an answer to the shore signallers, then put up Have Mail to the four transports. They all had sent a boat over to Vigilance in anticipation, where mail sacks to the various ships would be sorted out.
Lewrie snatched a day-glass from the compass binnacle cabinet and peered hard at the shore to see what the delay was, beginning to fume. As glad an occasion as it would be, he was building up a scathing rant, ready to peel some skin off Dunn’s fundament. At last! The mail sacks were in the barge, the oarsmen had slouched back to the boat, and the boat was finally shoving off!
“Put your backs in it!” Lt. Greenleaf shouted at the boat through cupped hands. “Get a bloody way on, you slow-coaches!” That raised a torrent of jeers from the crew that remained aboard, in full agreement with him.
“Coming? So is Christmas!” Lt. Grace yelled, laughing.
Dignity, dignity, Lewrie chid himself; Act like a Captain, for Christ’s sake! He put the telescope back in its place and clapped his hands in the small of his back, pacing the quarterdeck play-acting the patience he did not feel. Sub-Lt. Severance came out of the cabins, taking a break from copying the report to Admiralty in a copper-plate hand much more legible than Lewrie’s, and shaded his eyes to watch.
“It appears the other ships’ mail is already sorted into sacks, Mister Severance,” Lewrie told him. “Only the one for us has to be sorted out.”
“Ready and willing for it, sir,” Severance said with a pleasant tone to his voice. “It’ll be nice if there’s some for me in the lot. I’d begun to believe that my parents and friends lived in Siberia!”
“And … at bloody last!” Lewrie muttered as the barge came to the starboard boarding battens. Would he have letters in his hands? No, not yet, for the other ship’s boats swarmed Dunn’s boat, and he had to toss their sacks to them, first.
“Arr!” Lewrie snarled in mock anger, then spun about and went into his cabins, vowing that he wouldn’t have Dunn bent over a gun to “kiss the gunner’s daughter,” not even if it killed him. “Arr!” he growled louder in relative privacy, in his best piratical way.
Long minutes went by before the Marine sentry announced Dunn’s request to enter the great cabins.
“Mail, sir!” Dunn proudly reported.
“Arr!” Lewrie growled, putting on a good frown. “Give it me.”
“Ehm, aye aye, sir,” Midshipman Dunn said, much abashed.
“Mister Severance, let’s be about it, then,” Lewrie ordered.
The sack, a heavy and bulging one, was hefted to the top of the dining table, the lashings undone, and its contents spread out in a heap that threatened to spill to the deck. Chalky, Lewrie’s cat, was there in a twinkling to paw at the pile, skittering letters hither and yon, pouncing on a pile like a hound diving into deep snow.
“You silly little bastard,” Lewrie said, snatching the cat from the table and setting him on the floor, where Chalky found the deep recesses of the mail sack equally thrilling. “Any wager you like to make, for sure he’ll end up peeing on it,” he told everyone. “Whilst I am waiting, I’d admire some cool tea, Deavers.”
“Right away, sir,” Deavers replied, going to pour a tall glass, though with half an eye on the mail over his shoulder.
Lewrie stood apart, though keeping a sharp eye on the pile that was meant for him; something from Admiralty on top, bound in ribbon with a wax seal, aha. What, then? Another from Admiralty? Hmm.
Finally sorted out, Severance stood at the door to the cabins to pass bundles out to representatives from the wardroom, midshipmen’s mess, senior Warrant Officers’ mess, for the Marines, and the biggest for the Bosun and his Mate to take to the waist for delivery to the seamen.
“Your mail, sir,” Severance at last said, delivering a goodly pile to Lewrie at his desk.
“Thank you, Mister Severance,” he replied, “and did you receive what you hoped for?”
“I did, and thank you for asking, sir,” Severance said with a pleased grin.
It was quite a feast to sort through; there were letters from his father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, his son Hugh, even one from his eldest son, Sewallis, something from one of his old compatriots at Harrow, Peter Rushton, now Viscount Draywick, and one from the old scamp, Clotworthy Chute. And of course there were letters from Jessica, a whole nine of them. One of them was much thicker than the rest, a sure sign that she had done a watercolour sketch of something that she had done with their house, or its back garden.
“Ooh!” Dasher marvelled, for Jessica had s
ent him one as well. He squatted far aft by the transom lazarettes to open it and read it.
Official bumf first, dammit, Lewrie thought as he broke the wax seal on the first letter from Admiralty.
To Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Bt.
Sir, it has come to the attention of the Board of Admiralty that your ship, HMS Vigilance, 64, has been in Full Commission for over three Years, and with the better part of this last year past, has served in tropic waters.
You are Required and Directed to make the best of your way to Portsmouth, there to Pay Off and turn HMS Vigilance over to H.M. Dockyards for a total Refitting.
“What? What? What the bloody Hell?” Lewrie spluttered. “They can’t just up and…! God Damn my eyes! Mine arse on a band-box!”
He read it again, then a third time, but it remained the same brutal and direct order, against which he could not argue, even by long distance letters assuring the Lords Commissioners that his ship was still in usable condition! In hopes that the second missive from Admiralty might say “Just kidding!” or provide some amelioration, he ripped it open savagely, turned it right side up and read …
To Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Bt.
Upon receipt of this letter, the Lords Commissioners inform you that the Ad Hoc Squadron under you current Command is to be Re-enforced by the addition of five more transports rated as Armed Transports with Naval crews and Officers. Horse Guards has allotted one Regiment from the Light Infantry Brigade based at Messina. You are Required and Directed to turn over your Command to First Class Commodore A. Grierson, HMS Tethys, 74, who will arrive Shortly, accompanied by the Frigates Hero and Electra. Once Relieved, you will obey the earlier Instruction to make the best of your way …
“God Damn it!” Lewrie all but howled. “Relieved! By that … that top-lofty sonofabitch? They’ve given him a First Class broad pendant, and Captain t’run his ship for him? Jee-sus!”
He’d met Captain Grierson in the Bahamas back in 1804, and he’d taken an instant dislike to him, which was pretty much mutual. That fool had sailed his squadron up the Nor’east Passage to Nassau, New Providence, flying no flags as a poor jape that had put the island in a perfect terror-ridden panic that a French invasion force had come to conquer them. There had been fearsome rumours that a real French fleet was bound to the West Indies, after all, and Lewrie had taken his frigate and his weak squadron of brig-sloops out to face them, no matter the overwhelming odds against him, and the weight of metal that Grierson’s 64 and his frigates could fire at him.
Grierson had found it a most delicious jape, owl-eyed that anyone would dare take him on, and thinking Lewrie a fool for doing so. It had gotten worse from there, for Lewrie had had fame and battles to boast upon, Cape St. Vincent, Camperdown, and Copenhagen fleet battles, that he knew Horatio Nelson personally. That Lewrie had the leg over an attractive “grass widow” that Grierson desired. It was no wonder that Grierson hated him as much as Lewrie hated him.
Now he would have to stay long enough to go through a formal change of command ceremony, and eat that man’s shite, give Grierson command of the transports he had assembled, give him the boarding nets, barges, and tactics that he had created, use the concept that he had thought up, and let that fool try to accomplish anything with it?
Oh God, Brigadier Caruthers knew all about it before I did, before Tarrant did, Lewrie furiously thought; Perhaps even before Rear Admiral Sir Thomas Charlton did! Grierson and Caruthers, two peas in the same ambitious pod! Poor Tarrant, poor Ninety-Fourth, and whichever regiment that Caruthers picks.
“Something wrong, sir?” Deavers dared ask, whilst the other two lads sat dumb-struck and mouths agape in wonder.
“Something quite wrong, aye,” Lewrie blurted, then waved a hand in the air as if to drive that impulsive statement from their minds. “Something to deal with, is all.”
He turned away with those damning letters in his hands, to go out past the wood door and the screen door that kept Chalky safe from falling overboard, to his rarely used stern gallery.
Who can hate me this much? he asked himself; Who knows how much I detest Grierson? Whoever they are, they couldn’t have picked better if they tried! God rot that simperin’ whoreson! Grierson, in a two-decker seventy-four? He’s not the sort t’close the coast to even decent gun range. Two frigates come with him, hey? That’s generous! I’d imagine they’re Fifth Rate thirty-eights … nothin’ but the best for him! Captained by close relations of his? Some of his toadies?
Lewrie could see no way that this new combination could work.
Grierson’s flagship drew too much water to get in close enough for adequate gunfire support, and even combined with two big frigates, which might be able to get close offshore, none of those ships would have notched their guns or trained their crews in aimed fire.
And where’d they dredge up a brace o’ fine frigates? he asked himself. What had Nelson said when searching for the French fleet in ’98, before he found it at Aboukir Bay? “You will find this lack of frigates graven on my heart.” There were never enough to go round, especially Fifth Rate 38’s; Sir Thomas Charlton was badly in need of a fresh pair, and just might appropriate them and give Grierson a couple of brig-sloops in exchange. The thought of that cheered Lewrie for a brief second. Little else could, or did.
I’ll have t’tell Tarrant and Gittings, Lewrie told himself, and went to the larboard corner of his stern gallery, taking hold of one of the ornately carved and white-painted columns so he could lean out to look shoreward, and cock an ear to the sounds of festivities.
Lewrie shook his head, and thought that bad news would best be delivered on the morrow.
He would be going home, his long naval career seemingly at an end, and with so many un-named opponents standing against him it would be un-likely if Admiralty ever offered him command of another ship. At least he would not be “Yellow Squadroned” as a fool or incompetent, but would still be on Navy List, perhaps even slowly climbing the ranks to the top of the Captain’s List and make Rear-Admiral, as people senior to him and older died or were forced to step ashore due to their infirmities.
And he would be with Jessica.
He thought to write her, that instant, before realising that any letter to her would probably arrive the same time he anchored at Portsmouth, or later. Admiralty would not receive his report of the first action at Monasterace, much less the more-successful second ’til long after Vigilance began to pay off.
“Surprise, surprise, girl,” he whispered, picturing her opening the door of their house to find him standing there. “Hope you like it.”
BOOK TWO
O shore and sea more sweet to me than life!
What luck to come so soon to lands I love!
GAIUS PETRONIUS, XL AL474
CHAPTER NINE
Grey, overcast, and gloomy were the seas and skies far out in the Bay of Biscay, which HMS Vigilance had all to herself. Once leaving Gibraltar and sailing past the bustle of merchant traffic and military convoys that sustained Wellington’s campaigns in Portugal and Spain, and so far out to the Westward of the coasts of hostile France, there had not been any sail to be seen in days.
Vigilance practically snored along at an average of eight knots, under all plain sail, heeled a bit to starboard by the Westerlies off the open Atlantic. Admiralty’s order to summon her home had used the usual phrase, “making the best of your way,” not the more-demanding “with all despatch,” and Lewrie felt no desire to hasten his passage. Seven or eight knots was perfectly fine with him; why rush with wild abandon to lose his ship, his command, and his pride?
The winds were a bit nippy, so he emerged from his great-cabins in an older undress coat, buttoned over his chest for a rare once, and a dingy white civilian wool scarf round his neck. He took the doffed hat salutes of his watch officers with a grumpy nod of his head, and went down the ladderway to the waist for a quick overview of the gun deck, taking his time to get to the forecastle ladderway up to the bows. Vigilance’s sailors and
Marines were accustomed to their Captain’s strolls, several in succession at least once a day for exercise, fore and aft, then over again. They were also accustomed to Lewrie’s usual good mood, his grin and nod to people on deck, on watch or out for fresher air and some skylarking. He would actually speak to some, even go so far as to josh. But not today. Taking a cue from Lewrie’s faint frown, they busied themselves at their assigned tasks, turned away to avoid eye contact, and silenced their conversations ’til he was past.
“Poor fellow,” someone whispered, who blacked an 18-pounder.
“Poor us,” one of his mates in the gun crew added. “‘Ere we fin’lly get a good Capum an’ a jolly ship, an’ Admiralty pulls h’it h’out from under us.”
“We’ll be scattered like chaff t’the wind in a week,” another said with a sigh.
Lewrie made his way up to the bows by the starboard cat-head which hung the second bower anchor, joining Lt. Rutland and the Sailing Master, Mr. Wickersham, and the Bosun, Mr. Gore.
“Ready, sir,” Wickersham told him.
“Right, then,” Lewrie said with a nod. “Heave away.”
“Heave away!” Wickersham shouted to a leadsman in the starboard foremast chains, and the heavy deep sea lead, the “dipsy,” was swung as far ahead of the bows as the man could, splashing into the water, and him and his mate paying out the hundred fathom line.
“Well-waxed, was it?” Lt. Rutland asked in a grunt.
“Oh, aye Mister Rutland,” Bosun Gore assured him. “I seen to it myself.”
Lewrie leaned on the bulwarks to look overside to watch the deep sea line pay out rapidly, then took a few more steps forward where he lifted his gaze to the far Nor’east horizon. He’d consulted charts before leaving his cabins, and knew that yesterday’s Noon Sights had marked their progress and position as well to the Nor’west of France, and the peninsula of Ushant. His ship was close to the Channel approaches, even at the “slow-poke” pace he’d determined. Lewrie could imagine that they would be able to make out the landfall of the Lizard by sundown, though Vigilance was still far short of that mark.
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