Much Ado About Lewrie

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Slack line, sir!” the leadsman shouted. “With ten fathom o’ line t’go!”

  “Haul in, haul in,” Lt. Rutland shouted back. Thankfully, the dour fellow knew better than to sound eager to know the results. That would irritate the Captain.

  The lead weight only weighed about twelve pounds, and with both hands hauling it came in quickly, finally emerging into the daylight.

  “I’ll be having it, lads,” Mr. Wickersham said, and one sailor clambered up the lower stays from the channel platform as high as the top of the bulwarks to hand it over for inspection.

  Wickersham turned it up to eye the waxed indentation in the bottom, using a fingernail to peel off some shell and rub them between his fingers. He got a daub of a peculiar blue-grey mud and silt on his fingers next, rolled it, sniffed at it, and even touched his tongue to it as if sampling a dainty, unfamiliar foreign made dish.

  “Well?” Lewrie demanded with a curt snap.

  “We are in Soundings, sir,” Wickersham announced at last, “near the mouth of the Channel. Do we come about to Nor’east, I fully expect that Noon Sights will place us about Fourty Eight degrees North, and Five degrees West, roughtly Due South of Land’s End, still over an hundred miles offshore.”

  “Very well,” Lewrie replied to that news, sounding sorrowful. “Damn,” he added.

  “Damn indeed, sir,” Lt. Rutland agreed.

  “Well, thankee, Mister Wickersham, Mister Gore,” Lewrie said to the assemblage. “You may return to your duties.”

  Lewrie and Rutland turned away and went down the ladderway to the waist and upper gun deck together, avoiding the activities on the sail-tending gangways.

  “I wish you well on your rencontre with your wife and family, Mister Rutland,” Lewrie said as they paced shoulder-to-shoulder.

  “Thank you, sir,” Rutland replied, “though, joyous as it will be, I’ll be on half-pay before the month is out, and haunting the Waiting Room for appointment to a new ship.”

  “Aye, a lot of us will be,” Lewrie grimaced. “How goes the inventories, sir?” he asked to change the subject, and avoid too much glooming.

  “Quite well, sir,” Rutland told him. “The yards at Malta and at Gibraltar were able to replace whatever we lacked or got broken during the commission, so we won’t be dunned for anything lacking.”

  Lewrie had taken his own sweet time to enter port at Valletta and at Gibraltar, delaying the inevitable, to requisition new items that were subject to the usual losses, wear, and shipboard accidents. When Vigilance dropped anchor at Portsmouth, H.M. Dockyards would find her as fully equipped as a ship ready to sail to foreign stations after a complete refit.

  Admittedly, Lewrie had used the occasions to prepare for what he feared would be a very long time ashore on half-pay. He had shopped at the vintners and chandleries to stock up on Sicilian white wines, kegs of Spanish tempranillos and riojas, the vihno verdes brought to Gibraltar from Lisbon, along with rosés, brandies, and ports, with even some sherries for Jessica and her lady friends who called or dined at their house. His wine pantry would be bursting with years’ worth of drink.

  “Thank you also, sir,” Lt. Rutland cautiously went on, “For having me back aboard before we sailed.”

  “My dear sir, I couldn’t do without you,” Lewrie replied.

  “At the least, sir, Coromandel won’t have Lieutenant Dickson in command of her, again.”

  “He was a terror, wasn’t he?” Lewrie said with a touch of sour humour. “We did keep a foot on his neck whilst he was part of our wardroom. Pray God he learned from it.”

  “Oh, I rather doubt it, sir,” Rutland dared opine. “A leopard don’t change his spots. He was a secretive, pretending fellow. Let’s hope Mister Dickson doesn’t revert to his old ways, now he’s appointed aboard the Commodore’s flagship.”

  * * *

  The change-over once Commodore Grierson’s two-decker Third Rate 74, HMS Tethys, and her two Fifth Rate frigate consorts, HMS Electra and HMS Hero had entered the bay near Milazzo had been about as spiteful and high-handed as Lewrie had expected it to be. In some cases it was much worse.

  First had come the signal hoist Captain Repair On Board, with Vigilance’s number, summoning Lewrie barely a minute after Grierson’s flagship’s anchors had bitten into the sea bottom.

  The welcoming interview if one could call it that, had set Lewrie’s teeth on edge. He had been directed aft to the great-cabins by a senior Midshipman, and had been admitted. Lewrie had been surprised to see that Grierson had assembled all of his Commission Officers and Marine officers in his cabins, all in full best-dress uniforms.

  Lewrie had recalled from his meeting with Grierson in the Bahamas in 1804 that the man insisted on all officers of his ship and squadron be properly attired at all times when on deck. Grierson, of course, probably had spares that he hadn’t even worn yet, for he came from a wealthy family, but that was a burden on Lieutenants and Mids, whose pay could not support that, unless they had family money, too.

  Grierson himself was turned out in a gilt-laced coat, epaulets, and snow-white breeches, silk stockings, shirt, and waistcoat. He introduced his Flag-Captain, who was there to run his ship, taking all the work of seafaring off Grierson’s shoulders, then his officers.

  “Gentlemen, I give you Captain Alan Lewrie,” Grierson announced.

  “Sir Alan, if ye please,” Lewrie had corrected him, rather perkily and sunnily. “The Baronetcy came extra.”

  As soon as Grierson’s ships’ topmasts had hove into sight from the Nor’west, Lewrie had made careful preparations, bathing and shaving closely. And when he’d scaled Tethys’s side, he’d come with a boat crew turned out in Sunday Divisions best, himself dressed in his best, and neatly sponged, gilt-laced coat, breeches, shirt, and waist-coat a pure white match to Grierson’s, and with his rarely used 100 Guinea presentation smallsword at his hip, the star and sash of his knighthood, and his medals for the Battle of Cape St. Vincent and the Battle of Camperdown.

  “Ah … Sir Alan,” Grierson had purred after a stunned second.

  “The ‘Ram-Cat,’” one of Grierson’s Lieutenants whispered to another, hand over his mouth, but still loud enough to be heard, which forced Grierson to snap his head round and glare, as if he’d just heard someone shout “Mutiny!”

  As Lewrie recalled, Grierson had been a rather tall, lean fellow with a square-jawed, handsome face, a man who considered himself quite the ladies’ delight, a charming, well-to-do “comer” in the Navy, and a topping conversationalist, dancer, and a genius at cards.

  Good living had taken Grierson to seed a bit, though, packing on more than a few pounds; one stone or a stone and a half, Lewrie had estimated as he gave him a long, slow once-over, taking note that Grierson’s waistcoat was strained, and that his uniform coat sported no medals. Grierson, in the newest London style, wore a turned-up shirt collar, which added bulk to the flesh below his chiselled chin, and he now combed his hair forward à la Ancient Roman style, and his sideburns had been grown out down to the lobes of his ears, also combed forward. The man stood behind his desk, possibly, Lewrie fancied, to hide how tautly his breeches fit his thighs.

  “As of the minute of my arrival … Sir Alan,” Grierson began with a wee simper and a purse of his lips, “you and your ships come under my command.”

  “What, before the official change-in-command ceremony?” Lewrie had quipped. “Before I bring you up to snuff as to the condition of my transports, and what we’ve accomplished with ’em lately?”

  “Well, if you wish to stand on protocol,” Grierson had purred, “there will be plenty of time for that review afterwards, to ah … discover the results of the pin-pricks you’ve made here.”

  “I note that your ship is equipped with boarding nets for your shore parties and Marines to speed their way, sir,” Lewrie changed the subject, “though I must suggest that you implement some changes we’ve found necessary. It’s the tumblehome, sir.”

  “The tumblehome,” Grie
rson repeated. “What of it?”

  “The slab-sided transports do fine, but your nets will lay flat to your ship’s sides, and your people can’t get a fingernail’s grip on their way up or down, sir. We had to work some four-by-fours onto the inner side of the nets, else we’d have drowned the landing party, first try. Debarking from your warships might prove trouble, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  God, he’d been very happy with that innocent-sounding statement!

  “I am certain that I and my officers shall find a way to cope, Sir Alan,” Grierson had said, almost glowering. “You will depart this station, soon, I take it?”

  “No real rush,” Lewrie had shrugged off, “Vigilance is to pay off once we reach Portsmouth, anyway. There’s bags of time to acquaint you with our doings, assuring your success.”

  “Oh aye, that,” Grierson had said with false sympathy. “Most-like to end up a stores ship, transport, or harbour hulk. There’s not much call for sixty-fours any longer. Why, she even may end up here,” he’d said with amusement, “as an addition to my squadron!” And he had spread his arms as if to encourage the toadies and lick-spitters in his wardroom that they should laugh along, as well, which they did.

  “One can only hope that she will continue to give a good account of herself, sir,” Lewrie pretended to agree, and not spit flames.

  “In point of fact, Sir Alan,” Grierson had gone on, “when looking over the names of the transports coming into harbour a day behind us, I found a remarkable co-incidence. An old Fourth Rate fifty, that you once commanded … HMS Sapphire, hmm?”

  Now that had felt like a studied insult, at Grierson’s request, or a slur dreamt up by Lewrie’s powerful detractors, one more of the Death of A Thousand Cuts he must endure. He had felt as if he’d been sliced halfway to the bone, then doused with salt and lemon juice!

  “We did quite a lot with her when I had her, sir,” Lewrie told the assembled officers. “Raiding the South coast of Spain when they were French allies in Eighteen Oh Seven and Oh Eight, then raiding the North coast after the French marched in, and Spain changed sides. We took a lot of prizes, and Sapphire and the other ships of my squadron took on and beat four big French frigates, and sent them to England, where they were all bought in,” he could not resist the urge to boast, “and made us all a pretty packet of prize-money, sir. It will be a delight to see Sapphire again, still in service to the Fleet. She was never the swiftest ship in the Navy, but she was the stoutest and the bravest.”

  “Well, the French do not seem to have the nerve to come out and offer combat,” Grierson had said, as if to shrug off that boast as an old war story, “but, we shall do what we can to discomfit the French over on the mainland. Ehm … you flew a Second Class broad pendant then, Sir Alan?”

  “Once in the Bahamas where we met, and then off Spain,” Lewrie replied.

  “A pity Admiralty did not see fit to let you fly one here,” the Commodore simpered, rubbing in the fact that he had been a First Class Commodore with a red pendant, not the inferior one with the one white ball in the centre. He dared smile, in a superior way.

  Lewrie had answered that gloating with one of his best “shite-eating” grins, and felt that Grierson’s attempt to top him and bring him down was not going his way.

  “You’ll be going ashore to speak with Leftenant-Colonel Tarrant, I take it, sir?” Lewrie had posed.

  “Oh, not right away … Sir Alan,” Grierson had waved off as if shooing a pesky fly, “Plenty of time for that, whilst they lick their wounds after your latest raid on … where was it … Monasterace? We heard of it when we put into Valletta for provisions.”

  “Why, we’ve just come back from Monasterace, sir,” Lewrie said, “Our covert information people over there told us that the French who tried to entrap us had dispersed, and the place was back to normal business. We burned six whole supply waggon convoys, over three hundred, destroyed their repair facilities, grain and feed stocks, drove off the cavalry escort troops, and killed or wounded over an hundred Frenchmen. You heard old news, sir. And, did it with very light loss.”

  He had adored the disgruntled look of Grierson’s face as the man came round from behind his desk, one hand out as if to steer Lewrie to the door. Lewrie shrugged and grinned. There had been no offer to a seat, and no gracious glass of wine had been forthcoming, though all the officers in the great-cabins had sported full glasses.

  “Speaking of news, sir,” Lewrie had said, standing his ground, refusing to take the hint to see what Grierson would do to evict him, “you must make the acquaintance of our covert people, who bring us information on what the French are up to, and where the plum targets are. Sicilian criminals, smugglers, perhaps even cut-throats, run by a mysterious man by name of Don Lucca Massimo … and our local spymaster, one Mister Quill. They’re a quite colourful lot, I assure you. Though … I’d not amuse Quill too much. The results are quite ghastly.”

  “Aha … I see,” Grierson had said, sounding perplexed and out of his depth, which Lewrie had quite relished. “I am certain that we will, soon, Sir Alan. If there is nothing else, my First Officer, Mister Ridley, can see you back to your boat.”

  “Adieu, sir,” Lewrie had said, making the slightest parting bow.

  “Sir Alan,” Grierson had frostily replied.

  And that had been their rencontre.

  * * *

  “Allow me to say, Sir Alan, that it has been an honour to make your acquaintance,” Lt. Ridley said as they emerged onto the quarterdeck, as the side-party stood to attention to render departure honours. “To actually meet one of our authentic and rightly famed sea-dogs and true heroes, is quite notable.”

  “Oh, pish, sir!” Lewrie had scoffed with a laugh. “I ain’t Nelson. Just a simple sailor, me. Put it down to good fortune, and stumbling into the right place at the right time.”

  “Your modesty does you great credit, Sir Alan,” Ridley had said, blushing a little and tentatively offering his hand to be shaken before doffing hats in salute.

  “Oh, not all the time, Mister Ridley, not all the time!” Lewrie had japed.

  * * *

  The official change-in-command had been held two days later, after the new transports had come into harbour. Once more Lewrie had gone aboard Tethys in his best, and had stood at attention as Grierson had read himself in, savouring each phrase of his Admiralty Orders.

  “Commodore Grierson, I stand relieved of command of the squadron,” Lewrie had had to intone, hat aloft in salute.

  “Sir Alan, you are relieved,” Grierson had replied, stressing the word “are” and doffing his ornately gilt-trimmed bicorne. “I assume command,” he’d snapped, eyes alight with glee and triumph. Silver Bosuns’ calls had trilled as his First Class broad pendant soared up a halliard on the mizen mast.

  It was right after that that one of Tethys’s Lieutenants had been sent over to the Coromandel transport to read himself into command and relieve Lt. Rutland, then had sent orders aboard Vigilance to transfer Lt. John Dickson into his ship to replace the favourite who had been given a plum position.

  Dickson, free of having to pretend that he’d been reformed, had smirked his way off, a quim-hair shy of mute insubordination as he’d made his goodbyes, waving laconically once he was in the boat, shouting “Adieu, you lot, and thank God my Purgatory is done!”

  Lewrie did try to fill Grierson in on their doings, but he got a brusque rebuffing. He had no wish to get to know the officers off the flagship, nor the officers of the two frigates, though he and his wardroom officers and senior Mids did attempt to alert the officers and crews of the newly-arrived transports what they would be doing in the future, and how best to go about it. They got a warmer reception.

  As the Purser, Mr. Blundell and his “Jack In The Breadroom” made their last forays into Milazzo for provisions and fresh fruit enough to last ’til the ship reached Valletta on Malta, Lewrie spent most of his remaining time ashore at the 94th Regiment of Foot’s encampment, either trying t
o smooth the waters ’twixt Grierson and Col. Tarrant, or commiserating with Tarrant and Major Gittings over the rapid changes.

  The regiment that Brigadier-General Caruthers had secretly begun to train for amphibious work had left its brigade camp and had marched to Milazzo Bay to begin erecting their own quarters, laying out a large area on the East side of the creek and freshwater source on the other side of the rickety wooden bridge. First, tents went up in company lines, then lumber from the towns about had arrived to floor them and raise sidewalls. Some of the soldiers had been put to well-digging for a surer source of water, and Col. Tarrant had thought that a good idea for his 94th, too, now that they had to share the waters of the creek.

  The 102nd had been one of the two regiments that Caruthers had gotten ashore back in the Spring to fight the French, and win the Brigadier some fame, so they were at least “blooded” and understood a modicum of what their new role would entail. Col. Tarrant had developed a wary working relationship with their Colonel, even if he was from Cornwall, and could only be understood half the time.

  Near the bridge, a rather lavish headquarters and lodgings had gone up to quarter Caruthers and his immediate staff, though thankfully he had not yet made his presence permanent, and only showed up now and then to strut, preen, and rub his hands in glee.

  Naturally, he and Grierson took to each other like a house afire.

  Finally, there had been no more plausible reason for delaying HMS Vigilance’s departure. Lewrie and his wardroom officers and the Marine officers had been invited to the 94th’s officers’ mess for a supper and drink-sodden party, during which perhaps too many toasts and too many “A glass with you, sir!” happened, resulting in a comic return to the ship long after Lights Out at Nine P.M., in which tarry-handed, experienced Commission Sea Officers could barely find the boarding battens and the man-ropes to aid them up to the entry-port, and Lt. Greenleaf and Lt. Rutland, “tarpaulin men” both, had come aboard in a cargo net, bawling out “Misty, Moisty Morning” at the top of their lungs, unable to find a way to seat themselves in Bosun’s chairs.