Sea of Grey

by Dewey Lambdin

  “All my love goes with you,” Theoni whispered at last, going all earnest, staring him directly in the eyes.

  Crikey, what else can ye say t’that? he asked himself; it’s five thousand miles or so, two years at least … well, hmm.

  “And all of mine remains with you, my dear,” he declared, though quickly burying his face in her lush hair and the hollow of her neck to nuzzle, savour and groan a semblance of agreement.

  It ain’t a total lie, he qualified to his conscience; had I not wed so young, not met Caroline, before her, Theoni’d be …

  No matter her suspicion that he was lying like a rug, that made her seem to purr with contentment, to cuddle close and sigh happily.

  “I am yours completely, Alan,” Theoni softly swore. “Forever. Now go!” she suddenly ordered, playing at pushing him away. “Go beat the entire French Navy. Win the war all by yourself, then return to me … soon!”

  “I’ll work on that,” Lewrie said with an honest laugh, letting her go as she played up brave for him, even essaying a playful pat on her rump, a love swat. No, his hand lingered; so soft and wee!

  “I’ll watch from the window. Blow me a last kiss, give me one last smile and wave,” she demanded.

  Dear God, it simply wouldn’t do to saunter off with a last kiss, no matter it was all a sham! He swept her into his arms once more, to devour her mouth with his, to slither his hands beneath her gowns, for her warm flesh.

  “Now that’s a proper sailor’s good-bye!” he cried, breaking away and all but sweeping his boat cloak ’round his body like an actor making a grand exit, stage left. “Good-bye, Theoni. Anything I can fetch you from the West Indies?”

  “You!” she quickly announced, smiling and chuckling, even if she was again at the edge of hot tears. “As hungry for me as when you left me. Oh, perhaps a coconut or two. Well. Good-bye, my dearest Alan … safe voyages … .”

  “Adieu,” he declaimed by the door, ready to sweep out after his congé, hat on his chest, and the other hand on the doorknob. It need not be said that Captain Alan Lewrie, RN, knew a good moment for escape when he saw one!

  “I’ve already paid the inn their week’s reckoning,” she said.

  “Err … uhmm, well, then …” he flummoxed. “Thankee, for all you’ve done for me! Encore, adieu, ma cherie amour!”

  “Bonjour, mon amour … mon vie!”

  He tromped down to the public rooms, made a production of shivering at the cold, of studying the barometer, and japing with the two servants as he stepped outside into the dread chill, stamping his feet along with them as they trundled his chest and bags in a wheelbarrow toward the quays, and a hired rowing boat.

  Once in the street, he turned and looked up at the front of the inn, to see Theoni framed in the windows of the room they had shared. She had fetched a four-arm candleholder to the sill, one that he didn’t recall being lit when he’d departed, that illuminated her as well as the footlights of a Drury Lane theatre.

  He waved widely, blew her that required kiss, which she played at catching and pressing to her own lips, then suggestively sliding it down to her heart, her face half-crumpled ’twixt glee and agony and so bravely bearing up. Her morning gown was parted, revealing amberish candlelit, and ample, bosoms … .

  Damme, if I ain’t ready t’cry off sailin’ and go nuzzle ’twixt those beauties just one more time! Lewrie speculated, feeling the fork of his crotch tighten. Gawd, she knows me too well, already, what sets me goose-brained … witless for it!

  One final wave, a doff of his hat and a “leg” made in congé and he had to turn away and tramp off quickly … before he was tempted to rush back and chuck his active commission!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Hoy, the boat!”

  “Proteus!” the bow-man called back, showing four fingers to indicate the size of the side-party for a Post-Captain, causing a scurry despite the fact that his return was known to the half-hour. Bosuns’ calls shrilled, booted Marines thundered on cold oak decks, bare tars’ feet pounded on the ladders, and icy hands slapped musket stocks, as a well-drilled ship’s crew mustered to greet him.

  As Four Bells struck, Lewrie took a moment to admire his ship, now that he was close-aboard her starboard side. Dawn had made her a shining jewel of fresh paint and linseed oil, of gilt trim and tarred rigging, her yards crossed to mathematical perfection, and fresh as a new-minted guinea. Even up close, she was just about perfection, now that she was out of the yards and back on her own bottom.

  Lewrie stood, swept back his boat cloak, and tucked his sword behind his left hip so it wouldn’t tangle between his legs, then clung to a sidestay of the hired boat as it nuzzled up to the ship’s side by the mainchains, the boarding-battens and man-ropes of the entry-port. Judging the slight roll and toss of both boat and ship, he timed a leap and made it on the first try, nimbly ascending the side, with but only the merest twinge of weakness in his now-healed left arm as he gained the deck, fresh-scrubbed and holystoned nigh to parchment whiteness, and still damp from the crew’s predawn labours, about the time he had drunk his last cup of coffee with Theoni, ashore.

  Swords were flourished, boots stamped, muskets were presented, and the calls sang like eagles on high as he stepped in-board, safely on his own decks once more, and doffing his hat to the side-party and his gathered crew, who stood on gangways or in the waist with their hats in hand, their heads bared in their own salute. Some still chewing?

  “The hands have eat, Mister Langlie?” he asked.

  “In the process, sir,” his First Lieutenant responded.

  “My apologies for arriving in the middle of their meal, then, and pipe them back below, ‘fore it goes cold on ’em. I take it that the galley is still hot?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Then I’ll have a pot of coffee,” Lewrie briskly said, clapping his mittened hands together. “I’ve a chest and two bags to be got up.”

  “I’ll see to it, directly, sir,” Langlie vowed.

  “Everything else in order for sailing, Mister Langlie?”

  “Aye, sir. Last despatches came aboard just after you went off for shore, last afternoon,” the darkly handsome Langlie said, smiling.

  “Very well. Dismiss the hands back to their breakfasts, and I will be aft and below, ’til … Six Bells, at which time we’ll get her underway. Carry on, Mister Langlie.”

  He went down the starboard ladder from the gangway to the waist, then aft into his great-cabins, past the Marine sentry; past the dining coach to larboard and the chart-space to starboard, the two dog-boxes where his clerk and his manservant slept, and into his day-cabin where an iron brazier/stove tried its best to banish the cold, its belly stoked with seacoal and kindling.

  Aspinall took his hat, cloak and sword, and his mittens, while Lewrie rubbed his hands over the brazier, thinking that if Admiralty were of a mind to punish him by shooing him off someplace very far overseas, he could at least be thankful that it would be someplace warm!

  Riddled with malaria, cholera, and Yellow Jack, but warm! Lewrie chortled to himself. After a futile moment of trying to thaw out, he went aft to his desk, to survey the pile of official despatches bound in canvas and wax-sealed ribbons, his last personal correspondence … .

  Nope, nothin’ new, he thought with a tired sigh.

  He had tried to call upon Lord Spencer and Mr. Nepean at Admiralty, but had been informed that those worthies had nothing particular to say to him, hence he had not been admitted. A letter had come from them, urging him “ … should there be no pressing delay in your affairs, to repair at once to Sheerness to supervise the refit of your ship.”

  And once in Sheerness, the dockyard officials had been dilatory in supplying his wants, while other letters came down from London that urged a quick return to sea, and slyly asking “whyever not, already?”

  Oh, it was harsh! Admiralty was miffed, not for his “affair” or morals; officialdom was miffed because he had had no control over his wife in public! On such things we
re careers unmade.

  If he wished Proteus repainted, it would be at his own expense, though he had written one of those letters asking “ … with the supply of paint on hand, Sirs, and the meagre budget allotted for the task, which side of the ship do you prefer that we paint?”

  That had not warranted a reply, which was fortunate, for Admiralty was not known for its sense of humour, and any answer would have been a harsh censure, perhaps his relief and replacement as captain!

  Finally, orders had come aboard, for the West Indies! Sealed orders, most intriguingly not to be opened ‘til he had weathered Cape St. Vincent off Spain’s Sou’west tip, had also accompanied them.

  Since the war started in 1793, Prime Minister William Pitt and his coterie had shoved troops and ships into the Caribbean, eager for possession of every “sugar” island. It had cost the lives of 40,000 soldiers and seamen, so far. Once Fever Season struck, regiments and ships’ companies could be reduced to pitiful handfuls in a trice!

  No matter Lewrie had prospered there in his midshipman days, he had gone down with Yellow Jack in 1781, and had been damned lucky to survive it, even if every hair on his head had fallen out and he had turned the colour of a ripe quince! He was safe, therefore, unable to catch it again, but his hands … ?

  Whilst Proteus was being re-rigged and re-armed, he had studied every anecdote, every official report he could lay his hands on anent service in the West Indies, looking for any clue as to why some ships hadn’t suffered catastrophic loss, while others turned to ghost ships. He had spoken to Mr. Shirley the Surgeon and his mates, but even they were pretty much clueless.

  It was “bad air”—Mal-Aria—the miasmas that rose from the soil of tropic lands at night, but they could not seal every port and hatchway, not without smothering or roasting the “people” in their own sweat and exhalations. They had requested assefoetida herbs to make sachets through which to breathe “bad air,” but had been told that such would come from their own pockets, like much of a naval surgeon’s stock of medicines, no matter the terms of the recent mutinies that required Admiralty to issue them free.

  Empirically, fresh-boiled water was sometimes safer than water kept for weeks in-cask, and water taken aboard in the tropics was best if placed in fresh-scoured casks, and taken only from a clear-running stream. Mr. Durant had suggested going a bit more inland for water, to get above the usual wells or streams where cattle or horses drank, to avoid taking on the obvious turds, but even he didn’t think that would aid in avoiding malaria or Yellow Jack. Cholera, perhaps, he had concluded, with a mystified Gallic shrug.

  Lewrie had even queried his Coxswain, Andrews, once a slave in a rich Jamaican plantation house, about malaria and Yellow Jack as he had seen it when growing up.

  “Wuss in mos‘keeter time, sah,” Andrews had puzzled, “when it’s so hot an’ still, an’ th’ air’s full of ’em. I heered some ships don’t get took so bad, do they stand off-and-on, nor anchor on a lee shore, but …” A mystified black man’s shrug was nigh to a French one, one could safely deduce. For God’s sake, every safe harbour in the Indies was in some island’s lee!

  Shovin’ us off t’sea in February, Lewrie groused to himself, as he pawed through his pile of letters; if that ain’t a sign of their displeasure, I don’t know what is. Lisbon first, despatches to Old jarvy and his fleet … mid or late March, maybe early April before we fetch Antigua or Jamaica, hmmm … a safe month or so, fore it gets hot and the mosquitoes begin to swarm?

  He pondered Jesuit’s Bark, chinchona, what was termed quinine; South American, probably cheaper and more available nearer its source. It was reputed to cure malaria, or ease its symptoms. Could he force the hands to drink chinchona bark tea as a preventative? Or would he have another mutiny on his hands, since it tasted like Satan’s Piss?

  Fresh fruit would be plenteous everywhere they went, and Mr. Shirley was certain that almost any fruit was anti-scorbutic to some degree, so they could avoid scurvy, if nothing else.

  But one had to go ashore to get ’em, he thought; Never anchor in a lee harbour or bay, near marshes and such, stand off-and-on after dark, well out to sea and up to windward of any land … ?

  “Yer coffee, sir,” Aspinall announced, entering with an iron pot cradled in a dish-clout against its heat, to set on the brazier.

  “Oh, good!” Lewrie replied, turning to smile at him, but seeing Caroline’s portrait on the forward bulkhead of the dining coach; back when she was young and new-married, fresh and willowy, in a gauzy off-shoulder morning gown with a wide straw hat bound under her chin with a pale blue ribbon, East Bay of Nassau Harbour behind her, her light brown hair still worn long and loose and girlish, teased by the Nor’east Trades, painted smiling instead of the more common stern visage of most portraits, her merry eyes crinkling in delight, with the riant folds below those eyes … !

  He averted his gaze.

  He had considered taking her picture down, but had feared what gossip that would cause, worse. Busy ashore, and sleeping out of the ship nights, even when she was back in the water … God only knew what the gun-room, the bosun’s mess, the midshipmens’ cockpit on the orlop, and the forecastle hands had made of that! Already there were the averted eyes, the cautiously framed speech … !

  Aspinall brought him a cup of coffee in his silvered tankard, from the HMS Jester days, with shore cream and pared turbinado sugar.

  There were letters of a personal nature on his desk; one from his father Sir Hugo, one from Sophie, and a damned thick one from Theoni … already? He quickly shovelled that one into a drawer. Nothing from Caroline or the children, though.

  All his official correspondence was up to date; his clerk Mr. Padgett had seen to that the past afternoon, all his bills paid. There was nothing to do but stew and fret and drink his coffee ’til Six Bells and 7 A.M. when it was time to sail, after the mists had burned off.

  “Yer dunnage, sir,” Aspinall said as two of his Irish sailors, the dim giant Furfy and his mate Liam Desmond, came traipsing in with his shore bags and the chest of last-minute stores.

  “Mornin’, men.”

  “Mornin’, Cap’um, sor … top o’ th’ mornin’, sor. That eager we be, t’see th’ Indies … beggin’ th’ cap’um’s pardon, sor.”

  “At least it’ll be warmer, there’s a blessin’,” Lewrie replied, smiling in spite of himself. “Thankee, men. That’ll be all.”

  Toulon bestirred himself after an impressive stretch or two and a gargantuan yawn, to come sniffing and pawing at the chest that held his “treats” for the coming months, mewing with expectant delight.

  “Toulon … look!” Lewrie enticed, taking a new knit ball from his coat pocket. Theoni had made it, complete with a wee harness bell and some ribbons firmly sewn to it. “Tinkle, tinkle, see?”

  “Murr-errf!” was the cat’s glad cry. In a trice, he was hounding it from transom settee to forrud bulkhead, tail up and thundering.

  “Up and down, sir!” Midshipman Grace, their youngest and newest, called from the forecastle.

  “Heave and haul away!” Lt. Langlie shouted back. “Bosun … ! Pipe topmen aloft! Trice up, lay out, and make sail!”

  Lewrie paced his quarterdeck, wondering if he would ever be warm again, gazing upward with his hands in the small of his back, watching as his well-drilled crew scrambled to free gaskets, take hold of clews, and begin to bare canvas.

  “Atrip … heave and awash!” The best bower anchor broke free of the sandy bottom and swayed above the surface.

  HMS Proteus sidled a bit, swinging free of the ground, taken by the Nor‘Nor’east winds, a quickly hoisted outer flying jib backed cross-deck up forrud to force her to fall off to larboard tack, taking the wind on the left-hand side of her bows, her square sails on her yards swinging about and luffing end-on, blocks clattering, canvas snapping and rustling.

  Free!

  Langlie was an able deck officer; Lewrie left it to him and his juniors to get way on her, as Proteus’s bows swung more Easterly, s
till not under control. He stepped over to the double-wheel and the compass binnacle, to stand by the quartermasters on the helm.

  “Full and by on larboard tack, Mister Motte,” Lewrie ordered as he looked out to weather. “Nothing to loo’rd. Make her head Due East … or as close as you may manage.”

  “Aye, sir … Due East, an’ nothin’ t’loo’rd,” Motte echoed as he tentatively spun the wheel to find a “bite” to the rudder.

  The forecourse and main course were now drawing, being braced in to cup the wind. Inner, outer, and flying jib were bellied alee, as were the middle stays’l and main topmast stays’l; the mizen tops’l and the main and fore tops’ls were stiffening with the wind’s press, and their frigate began to heel a bit, beginning to make her sweet way, churning salt water to a slight froth close-aboard, chuckling and muttering back to the sea as she got a way on, and hardening up on the wind’s eye, on larboard tack.

  There! A first lift of the bows as the scend off the North Sea found her as she gained the Queen’s Channel, the first burst of spray under her jib-boom!

  Free! Lewrie exulted, taking a deep, cleansing breath of iodine tang; Caroline, Theoni, rage, bills … shore-shite!

  He paced over to the windward railing, up the deck which was now slightly canted as more sail sprouted to gather free, willful winds. A faint chorus sang in the rigging, a faint applause rose from her wake as she laid the start of a wide bridal train astern, fought to make the “mustachio” of foam before her bows.

  He felt like singing, at that moment!

  “Do you wish more sail at the moment, sir?” Lt. Langlie asked, once the t’gallants were set and drawing.

  “No, Mister Langlie, that’ll do quite nicely,” Lewrie said as he turned to face him, smiling, at ease at last. “Stand on as we are, ’til we make a long offing.”

  “Aye, sir.”