Greenhithe and Swanscombe went by, Gravesend loomed up, little Charlotte thinking they’d come back to London by some conjurement and disgusted with the idea of a Grave’s End—“What a horrid name!”
Forty miles of it, with a stop for a midday meal at a coaching tavern—and many, many more “necessary” stops, it goes without saying. The hired cart had no trouble keeping up with the bowling coach, for it very seldom had the chance to bowl along, not more than a quarter of an hour, at the most, before there was another call to halt.
Just as the scent of the Medway came to his nostrils, signifying nearly an end to their journey, Lewrie was most heartily sick of the lot of them and wondered why he’d ever suggested they all come along, this far along—
Could o’ left ’em in London. He sighed taut-lipped; could’ve had a good nap by now. Deed done. Sophie rescued—head turned and sure t’be entranced by other young men by now. Caroline just’z pleased with things had we parted after breakfast. Though we didn’t get a goodbye tumble, for all the skylarkin’ … Fatherhood, Christ! What man of a right mind’d abide it, did he know goin’ in … !
“Are we there yet?” Hugh bellowed, leaning far out the coach windows for a first sight of the river ’round a bend in the road of the close-by conurbation of Rochester and Chatham just across the way and the steamy, smoky, coal-grate fug of civilisation.
“Aye, by God … we are!” Lewrie roared back. Half in exasperation, having about all he could stand of “family closeness”; half in joy that, by the sight of spires in town and the soaring erectness of mast tips at the dockyard just downriver, they were, finally, there!
“Dear, must you be so short with him?” Caroline chid, clucking her tongue like she was calling pullets to the food-pail. “He was but enquiring.”
“Does he not just, my dear,” Lewrie rejoined, feeling a bile rise as he was forced to swallow what he really had wished to say. Scream, rather! He threw in a sickly smile to show his good intentions.
“Uhm, I must own …” Caroline whispered, allowing a tiny smile to play at the corners of her lips in spite of her statement.
“Quite.” Lewrie nodded, just as Hugh came lumbering back from the coach window to tumble into his lap, step on his right foot, and reach across to draw Sewallis’s notice to the sight he had out of his window. “Ow, God … !”
“Mummy, look!” Charlotte piped, ashiver with bliss. “London!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Commissioner Proby, in charge of Chatham Dockyards and uncrowned king of the Medway all the way downriver to Sheerness, allowed him in for a preparatory meeting. He was, for a very busy man, all affability and hospitality. “Always happy to greet an officer come to take charge of one of our ships, Captain Lewrie.” He beamed quite cordially.
“Proteus was refitted here, sir?” Lewrie asked, over a very good cup of coffee. “Or, built here originally, d’ye mean?”
“Just completed,” Proby told him, pleased to enlighten him.
“My pardons, Commissioner Proby, I thought no more 5th Rate, 32-gun frigates were to be built … especially the 12-pounder 32s. Most of the Fleet prefer the 18-pounder 36s now. So she’s new? Brand-new? Oh, my word!” Lewrie beamed back, most beatifically, soon as he saw how fortunate he was.
“One of the very last to be ordered, and one of the last of her sort constructed.” Proby chuckled. “A variation on the Thames class, with but some minor alterations to her forefoot and entry … borrowed from the French. The Nicholson shipyards built her on speculation for a new class of light frigate, later purchased as a one-off under private contract with the Navy Board, sir. Just ’cross the river they are, at Frindsbury.”
“A private yard then …” Lewrie sobered.
“Nought to fear, sir,” Proby boomed in good humour. “They are completely competent. Nothing done ‘at the back o’ the beach,’ like most new-come builders these days. They built ‘Billy Ruff’n’, one of the finest 3rd Rate 74s in the Fleet.”
“The Bellerophon, indeed!” Lewrie brightened.
“Well-constructed … if I do say so myself, sir,” Proby went on, pouring them a top-up of coffee. “Saw to that. Nothing but good Hamburg or Baltic oak for scantlings, inner plankings, or riders. And Hamburg oak for second and third futtocks—English oak for her keel, first futtocks, decks, knees, and deadwood. ‘Tis gettin’ devilish-hard to find enough English oak for complete construction, what with the demand for warships in such numbers. No, just launched one month ago and straight into the drydock for coppering and her masts. She’s afloat now. And I expect you’re afire to see her, hey?” He winked.
“Most thoroughly aflame, sir,” Lewrie agreed.
Over the last of their coffee, Proby filled him in on her specifications: that Proteus was 105 feet on her keel, and 125 feet on the range of her gun-deck, about 150 feet overall from taffrail to the tip of her jib-boom. She was three inches shy of 35 feet in beam, at her widest midship span, and would draw three inches shy of 15 feet when fully armed, stored, and laden—or so Mr. Nicholson predicted. She would weigh around 740 tons, when on her proper waterline, and carry twenty-six 12-pounder carriage-guns of the new Blomefield pattern on her gun-deck, thirteen to either beam broadside. She was allotted six 6-pounders for her forecastle and quarterdeck as chase guns, and six 24-pounder carronades for close action.
“Part of her crew is already aboard, all her officers,” Proby remarked, as they gathered hats and cloaks to go down to his coach for the short ride to the waterfront. “Short of crew, naturally, but …”
“And her masts are already stepped, Mr. Proby?” Lewrie asked, creasing his brow in thought. “I thought that was a captain’s prerogative … to set her rigging up to his own tastes.”
“Masts set up, top-masts standing, and lower yards crossed, sir,” Proby said to him as they settled into the leather seats of his coach. “Her previous captain had seen to it … ’fore he departed, poor fellow.”
“Sorry, sir, but I was not aware there had been a previous captain,” Lewrie said carefully. “He left recent, then, did he? Why?”
“Not a week past, sir,” Proby replied, turning sombre, shifting uncomfortably on his seat, the fine leather giving out a squeaking as he did so. He leant forward a bit to speak more softly—guardedly.
“You’re getting command of a fine frigate, Captain Lewrie. Oh, a wondrous-fine new ship!” Proby assured him. “But …” he muttered, “there are some things about her a tad … queer-like, e’en so.”
“Such as, sir?” Lewrie enquired, crossing his legs for luck—to protect his “nutmegs” against the eerie chill which took him.
Damme, Jester an’ her doin’s was queer enough! he thought.
“At her launching day”—Proby squinted as if pained—“a fine day, sir. Sunshine and the high tide … a rare event on the Medway, as I’m certain you’ll agree. A retired admiral, come down from London, him and his good lady, to do the actual naming.”
“His lady did her naming?” Lewrie puzzled, nigh to gaping. It was rarely allowed—it was bad luck! He constricted his thighs for more protection against such an odd event.
“As good as, in essence, Captain Lewrie. As good as,” Proby sighed. “The admiral … a most distinguished fellow; he did the actual honours with the port bottle … his lady by his side, no real role in things, as it should be, no. But she was one of those er, what-you-call-’ems … the romantic, literary sorts. Quite taken with this fellow Ossian, d’ye see …”
“And who’s he, when he’s up and dressed?” Lewried scowled, in wonder where this was all going.
“Some deuced scribbler … translated a batch of Irish sagas and such … Gaelic myths and legends set to poetry,” Proby quibbled, not sounding too impressed himself. “The romantic rage of the moment. So I’m told. Elves and brownies, dancing fairies and magic circles, sword-wielding heroes and Druid magicians conjuring up all manner of spells and potions. Singing swords, so please you! Have you ever heard the like? Irish! They probably take
it as history … Gospel!”
“And so this Ossian … ?” Lewrie prompted.
“The lady’s enthusiasms for all this bilge water got the better of her—and she did strike me, right from the first time I clapped eye on her, that she was the forbidding sort o’ mort who’d run her household her way, and Heaven help the husband who gainsayed her—well, it was obvious she’d put a flea in his ear, and him a bloody Rear-Admiral and should have known better. Comes the moment to name her …”
Tell me before I throttle you, you lame twit! Lewrie groaned.
“ … stands up there on the platform ’neath her bows, thousands of folk from Hoo, Rochester, Chalk, and Sheerness watching. Band from the Chatham Marines ready to play her into the water. Officials down from London—Navy Board and all. Bishop of Rochester there too … and that was the worst part.”
Lean a tad closer, just a tad, and … Lewrie thought, furious. And his fingers twitching for the leap from his lap to the throat.
“Adrape with flags from bow-to-stern, cradle all that’s holding her, and all but the dog-shores removed …” Proby whispered, acting as if, were he a Catholic, he’d be flying over his rosary beads like some Chinee merchant at his abacus. “Should have suspected. Had him a nose on at breakfast, ’fore we rowed over to Frindsbury, and her nudging at him like a fishwife all that time, whispering in his ear …”
Right, you’re for it! Lewrie thought, raising one hand, staring at how strong his fingers flexed.
“Stood up there, ’fore one and all, and called out, ‘Success to His Majesty’s Ship’ … came all over queer he did and waited, with a smirk on his face.” Proby all but groaned and wrung his hands. “At last he says …Merlin”
Uhmhmm, Lewrie thought, feeling an urge to shrug; what’s so bad ’bout that? Old King Arthur’s pet conjurer. So … ?
“Well, the crowd went dead-silent, and the Bishop of Rochester damn’ near swooned away, sir.” Proby grunted. “Mean t’say, Captain Lewrie, a pagan religious figure, a Celt Druid! And there right in front of his nose was one of the Chicheley brother’s best figureheads of the sea-god, driving his chariot drawn by dolphins and seals … !”
Seals, oh Christ!” Lewrie chilled, dropping his hands to his lap for more protection, all thought of mayhem quite flown his head.
“Well, sir, she slipped away right after,” Proby told him, in awe of it still himself. “Dog-shores just gave way, with no one at the saws to free ’em! Everyone whey-faced, and the Admiralty representative steps up and takes the bottle and glass from the admiral. He had drunk off the glass of port but hadn’t thrown the bottle to break on her bows, so it wasn’t quite done, d’ye see, and could still be salvaged. And the Admiralty man takes a quick slug from the neck, throws the bottle, it breaks on her bow-timbers, and he calls out, ’Success to His Majesty’s Ship Proteus, the name they’d already picked. Then the band starts up, and the people start cheering … and …”
“And?” Lewrie pressed, crossing his fingers for good measure.
“She stuck, sir! Stuck dead on the ways, still cradled. Tons of tallow, so slick a rat couldn’t crawl up the slipway, but there she was … stuck firm as anything,” Proby whispered. “And the cradle, it usually starts to fall apart once a launched ship gets way on her on the skids … designed to break up once she’s afloat. Held like it’s bolted together. Not cocked a bit off-centre, not hung up on anything beneath her, Captain Lewrie, but … she just … won’t … move!”
“Dear, Lord,” Lewrie sighed. Very softly and circumspectly, it should here be noted. “A bad-luck ship … a ‘Jonah’?”
“Who’s to say, sir?” Proby groaned, sounding a tad miserable. “But here’s a stranger part. Good sawyer in Nicholson’s yards, he’s out on the slipway with his little boy … to cut the dog-shores. Comes ’round afore her bows, trying to think of what to do. She misses that high tide, and it’s days more before she’s depth enough to launch proper, without damaging her quick-work. Everybody watching, and he just walks up to her forefoot, lays a hand on her cutwater—it appeared that he said something—then … one shove of his little boy’s hand and she gives out the most hideous groan, like the cradle is about to give way and break up. But instead … away she goes, smooth as any launch as ever I did see.”
“Ah, well!” Lewrie felt reason to say with a relieved chuckle, yet a bit of a shiver. “And here I thought you were about to say how she crushed him and his boy … drew blood on her naming day. Wheew!”
“Ah, but the sawyer and his son, sir … they’re Irish!” Proby most ominously pointed out, hunched up in his cloak as if he was fearful of sitting too erect. “Irish, d’ye see. Seen many an odd thing in my time concerning the launching of ships. Most go smooth as silk and no problem, ’cause they’re just a ‘thing’ at that moment and don’t get their soul ’til after they’ve been in saltwater for a spell. Now and then, though, there are the blood-drinkers. A sloop of war once mashed three men when she veered off the straight-and-narrow on her way in, and God help every man-jack who served aboard her, ’til she ran aground five years later and drowned her entire crew off the Hebrides. There’s a two-decker 64 from this dockyard that’s cost the careers of four captains by now, and she’s … I’ll not call down bad luck by naming her … had more strange accidents and deaths among her crew than any other of her type. Man-a-month dying, last I heard of her. Even Bellerophon, sir … blowing a perfect gale the night before her launching. Came to see if the shores would hold ’til morning, and there she was afloat … . Launched herself, d’ye see? Christened her myself, after the fact. I think she was so eager to swim, Captain Lewrie, that she wouldn’t wait. Aye, the ‘Billy Ruff’n’ had an odd birthing, sir. But for the life o’ me I cannot recall an event stranger than Proteus, not in years!”
“Well, that’s coincidence, surely …” Lewrie objected. “That she came from the same yard. And the matter of the sawyer …”
“Like she approved of Merlin, though the Church wouldn’t, then balked at being Proteus,” Proby rhapsodised, as if in awe of the odd. “And only a Gaelic blessing made her accept it … groaning over it but going in, at last … at the touch of a mere lad.”
“Well, since then at least there’s been no sign …” Lewrie said. He thought sign too close to portent, and after a slight cough, amended that to, “There’s been no troubles in her or with her?”
Proby shrugged, as if forced to say it, like a reluctant witness giving damning testimony against a friend.
“There is the matter of her previous captain.”
“Aye?” Lewrie posed, wondering if his leg was being pulled.
“Captain The Honourable William Churchwell. Man in his earliest fourties, as best I could judge, sir,” Proby went on. “A bit of the Tartar, or so I gathered from others, a real taut-hand. But a most experienced officer. Dined with him several times, once he’d come down to read himself in command—Just after she went into the graving dock for her coppering. A most righteous man too, Captain Lewrie, brought up strict in the Church, and … for a Sea Officer … a very proper and sober Christian. Would have the hide off a seaman did he hear even a slight blasphemy or profane oath. Rare in the Navy, his sort.”
Bloody right they are, Lewrie thought, keeping a non-committal glaze to his features; a sea-goin’ parson. Damn’ rare breed those … thankfully!
“Abstemious too, sir. Rarely touched more than a single glass of wine an entire meal, sir, and could only be pressed by the convivial folk to a rare second. Seen it myself,” Proby related. And they both shook their heads in wonder at Captain Churchwell’s contrary nature; it was a rare gentleman who’d put away fewer than two bottles of wine a day—it was the expected thing, part of a gentleman’s ton.
The coach slowed, rocking on its leather straps as it came to a stop just by the King’s Stairs, which led to a boat-landing. They alit, which activity delayed the rest of Proby’s tale. Below the stairs lay a gaily painted ten-oared barge, Commissioner Proby’s own, flying his personal fl
ag; and hard by, a more plebeian hired cutter occupied by Aspinall, Andrews, and Padgett, laden with cabin-stores and furnishings, and Toulon in his wicker travelling basket.
“Ah, there she is, Captain Lewrie,” Proby said, filled with pride of his latest creation for the Royal Navy. “A beauty, is she not?”
“All ships are, sir … but aye! This ’un … !” Lewrie swore, at his first sight of her. “She’s lovely!”
Tall, erect, trig, and proud, glistening with newness, her tarred and painted sides shining and reflecting back the prismatic light flash of river water, HMS Proteus was indeed a lovely, new-cut precious gem of the shipbuilders’ arcane science. Her bowsprit and jib-boom were steeved slightly lower than most frigates he’d seen, the way he liked ’em, for that meant larger heads’ls with more draw, closer to the deck, and more ability to go like a witch to windward. Her entry was not an apple-cheeked bulb from the waterline up, but angled slimmer and tapering narrower, to merge far before her cutwater in an aggressive, out-thrust extension of her sprit and head timbers, her cut-water angled a few degrees more astern than was customary to give her grace. Even at a quarter-mile’s distance, without a glass, Lewrie could discern Frenchness in her pedigree, with a touch of stocky English usage aft, where she widened and flared for accommodation space and storage as far forrud as possible. He knew, just from looking at her, that her forecastle could be burdened by a pair of 6-pounder chase-guns and a pair of 24-pounder carronades, and still have the buoyancy and form to her front third to ride up and over even the tallest storm-wave without ploughing under, like a ship with a too-fine entry might.
Tumble-home inward from the chain-wale and gunwale, narrowing to save top-weight, all neatly proportioned like a surface-basking whale, broken by the row of gun-ports and the upper gunwale, which was painted a rather pretty buff tan. There was the glitter of gilt paint ’round her larboard entry-port, which at that angle as she lay bows upriver, streaming from a permanent moor, faced them; gilt glitters too, further aft where the quarter galleries jutted out from her curved sides and nearly upright stern timbers. A commissioning pendant swirled and curled high aloft, a small ensign in the eyes of her bows—a harbour jack—and the Red Ensign of a ship yet to be assigned to a particular squadron or fleet, an “independent ship,” now and then outfurled to a lazy breeze. And all as pristine-new as the ship herself.
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