The Invasion Year l-17

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Oh, I’m certain there are hands already poxed, sir,” the Surgeon rejoined with a wry grin, “it’s just that they dread presenting to me. Fifteen shillings is dear to them, and mercury clysters forced up the urethra are painful.”

  “Even after your talks?” Lewrie asked. He’d ordered Mainwaring to give all hands a lecture on the perils of the Pox and its signs… and had nudged the Purser to think of purchasing sheep-gut cundums for the men to buy and use. They’d not be as good as the ones from the Green Lantern in Half Moon Street in London-as protective as the round dozen stowed away in Lewrie’s sea-chest-but perhaps they’d prevent some later sickness. Mainwaring and Cadbury were dubious that the ship’s people would even be interested in purchasing or employing them, just as they had been when Lewrie had ordered them to obtain the citronella candles and citronella oils for lamps in place of the Navy-issue glims for lighting belowdecks in the West Indies to counter the nighttime miasmas and tropical damps that were thought to be the cause of Yellow Jack and Malaria. At least citronella cut down the swarms of pesky mosquitoes, so the crew off-watch could sleep soundly at night, and the lamps on the weather decks kept most of them at bay, too. The ship had suffered very few sicknesses during their year in the “Fever Isles,” though Mr. Mainwaring put that down to their arrival in early Autumn, and their departure before the height of Fever Season.

  It never hurt, though, for junior officers to humour the eccentricities of a ship’s captain, no matter how daft. Captain Cook’s Surgeon might have thought lemons, limes, apples, and pickled German sauerkraut daft, too, but Endeavour had had no scurvy on her long Voyages of Discovery!

  “And we’ll have no gross smuggling of spirits, either, will we, Mister Appleby?” Lewrie turned to enquire of the ship’s Master At Arms, who, along with his Ship’s Corporals, Scammell and Keetch, were to keep good order-or as much as could be enforced-during the riotous doings belowdecks.

  “Count on it, sir!” Appleby barked, as eager as a bulldog.

  “There’s only so many places a doxy can hide a pint o’ rum, or gin, so… perhaps Mister Mainwaring may find some for you, hey, Mister Appleby?” Lewrie japed, raising a snigger from them all as they contemplated how large a woman’s “calibre” would have to be to accommodate that!

  “No more than a dram vial, surely, sir!” Mr. Mainwaring countered, blushing a bit. “Else…”

  “Else you find the reins t’your carriage, and ride out!” Lewrie hooted before turning away for the quarterdeck to leave them to it, and take a gentlemanly separation from the debauchery to come.

  The bum-boats were butting up against the hull on both beams, despite the Bosun’s warning that only the larboard entry-port was open to business, that the pimps and dealers in shoddy goods should already know that, and they should row round and queue up proper, or else. It became a scramble among the boats to be first to board, for the doxies to be first chosen, and tradesmen to be first with their wares, causing mild arguments, the sounds of which were quickly overcome with sailors’ cheers and the giggles, titters, shrieks, and crude shouts of the women.

  Lewrie took himself a bit further aft, towards the taffrails and flag lockers, putting on a grim, dis-interested expression, as if all of it was beneath him; though he did take more than one peek or two at the whores, the younger and prettier especially. He was the only officer on deck; officers did not stand Harbour Watches as a matter of course, and if his subordinates were not pretending dis-interest below in the gun-room, they were off ashore to pursue the same sort of pleasures as the hands, but more discretely. Midshipmen Grainger and Rossyngton, their youngest, paced the quarterdeck that morning… gawping red-faced and gape-jawed, their wee heads aswim at the sights in prepubescent lust.

  It was distantly possible that one or two of the arriving polls were real wives who had found a way to travel to Sheerness once informed of where their husbands’ ship had put in, or the lucky sailor was a Sheerness man to begin with. And it was possible that some women had come aboard only to sell their meat pies, sweet baked goods, and fruit, but… the bulk of them were local whores.

  “Hoy… you on the quarterdeck, there!” a woman loudly bawled from the larboard gangway, just after passing the Surgeon’s and the Master At Arms’s inspections. “Izzat you, Cap’m Lewrie? Bugger me, if ye ain’t! Cap’n Alan Lewrie, t’th’ life, by Christ!”

  Lewrie whirled about to peer at a blowsy, busty bawd with straw-blonde hair beneath a prim little blue bonnet. Her name had been…?

  “Nancy!” he cried back with a wide grin. “Proteus, durin’ the Mutiny in ’97? Damn my eyes, how d’ye keep, girl?” He made a quick way forward to say his “howdy-dos.”

  When the North Sea Fleet had mutinied in 1797, Lewrie’s first frigate, HMS Proteus, had been fitting out and manning here at the Nore and had been caught up in it. The Committee of “the Floating Republic” had taken over a dockside tavern for their “shore headquarters,” then decreed that the bum-boat trade could continue, and as many women who wished could come board the rebelling warships… perhaps they’d wished for the less-willing sailors to be kept mellow and pliant with the smuggled spirits, and sex. They’d hired bands and paraded with their blood-red flags through the streets of Sheerness, hoping to spread French-style Jacobin revolution throughout England to overthrow the King and House of Lords, dis-enfranchise the aristocracy, beggar the landed gentry, whatever odd notions that had come into their addled heads. But, when they ordered that no women would be allowed to return ashore, the mutineers had given Lewrie and his loyal men new allies.

  When the sailors had run out of money for the doxies’ “socket-fees,” when the authorities had cut off the bum-boat trade and had run the parading mutineers from shore when the Army had shown up, Nancy, and her sisters, had struck a bargain to help Lewrie take back his ship and free the women to get back to earning a living. They had “dealt” with those mutineers who had laid aside their weapons, and their slop-trousers, to be pleasured on the mess deck with what came to hand; a long hat pin, a dagger, a sand- or shot-filled cosh, and other assorted protections natural to their trade, had done for most of the off-watch mutineers, with no mercy for people who could not, or would not, pay them or even share their rum ration with them or feed them a decent portion of their rations.

  That bargain had been struck with guineas from Lewrie’s purse, and the promise of more from his London bank; over an hundred pounds sterling in the account books to prostitutes “for services rendered” had sent his wife into a snarling huff… and his requests to both Crown and Admiralty to issue letters of official thanks had raised an host of senior eyebrows, to boot, but… he’d gotten his ship back!

  Grudgingly, the doxies had gotten letters from Admiralty, even if the “patriotic efforts” had been worded most marvellously vague.

  Nancy had put on a few pounds, but she was still a fetching mort. She took a short clay pipe from her mouth as he got close, and flung her arms round him, almost lifting him off his feet.

  “Oh, ’tis been a long time since ye been t’Sheerness, Cap’m,” she enthused, after setting him back down. “And an’t ye a caution! I ’spect ye’re a senior Post-Captain, by now, t’have such a fine, big frigate.”

  “It’s good t’see you’re still alive, and prosperin’, Nancy,” he replied. “The Navy still treatin’ ye good? And, how’s Sally Blue?”

  “La, a war’s always good t’my sort, Cap’m Lewrie,” Nancy bragged, then turned more sombre. “As for Sally Blue, well… ye know how th’ trade can be, Cap’m.”

  Lewrie winced at that news, recalling the little minx with the large, bright blue eyes of such a startling shade, and her long mane of glossy raven-black hair, a coltish teen who’d worked with an older woman who’d claimed to be her mother… and had possessed the unfortunate skill of being as fine a pickpocket as any in the British Isles, “Three-Handed Jenny” of London, included.

  “Passed away?” Lewrie asked.

  “Oh la, no, sir!” Nancy count
ered. “Sally lifted the purse of a rich’un she’d tumbled with, and got took up for theft. It was a close thing, her hangin’ for it, but the rich’un pled f’r mercy, and she got transported for life t’New South Wales. ’Er Mam…’member her? Got a letter last year, sayin’ h’it weren’t half as bad as they say ’bout h’it… like ye skeered her with tales o’ sea-snakes as long as yer ship, and all… and she’s married a trooper sergeant!”

  “Well, good for her!” Lewrie exclaimed, delighted that she had not died, as most poor whores did. “Even if she cussed like a Bosun, and couldn’t help herself from liftin’ everything in sight.”

  “Hoy, the boat!” Midshipman Grainger was calling overside to starboard, followed by, “Bosun, muster the side-party!”

  “Thankee f’r rememb’rin’ me, Cap’m,” Nancy said as she turned to go about her business, coyly fiddling with her hair and rolling her hips. “Good f’r bus’ness, ye greetin’ me so warm.” She winked.

  “Good enough for a Post-Captain, then good enough for a sailor with money, hey?” Lewrie whispered, winking back.

  “Uhm sir?” Midshipman Grainger intruded. “I think the arrival is… I don’t know what to do about him, sir. How many men to muster, and the Bosun…”

  “An officer, Mister Grainger?” Lewrie asked.

  “Don’t know, sir!” Grainger said with a helpless shrug.

  Lewrie crossed over to the starboard side. Bosun Sprague was peering at him, shrugging confusion. Lewrie leaned out to look down into the eight-oared barge that was ghosting up to the main-chains, at its sole passenger.

  “What the Devil is that?” Lewrie gawped under his breath. “Turn-out for a Post-Captain might suit, Mister Sprague. Maybe he… it… won’t know the diff’rence.”

  It wasn’t a Navy officer, nor was it an Army man, either, though the visitor was garbed in a red coat adrip with gilt lace as profusely as a Turkish sultan.

  There were some few Marines on watch in full kit with pipe-clay white belts and accoutrements, but they were posted in the bows and on the gangways to prevent desertion; they were under arms, but not available for a side-party. Neither were any officers with drawn swords… neither was Lewrie ready for punctilio, for he had had no need for his sword belt. Even with a long, intricate Bosun’s call, their arrival’s welcome would be sketchy.

  Hope he likes informal, Lewrie thought; whoever he is.

  He took comfort (some, anyway) in the thought that court bailiffs and attorneys didn’t wear such clothing, and he wasn’t going to be served papers!

  It took an age for the visitor to make his way from the barge to the chain platform, then up the boarding battens; uttering grumbles all the way, and cursing under his breath. As his cocked hat with all the egret feathers appeared over the lip of the entry-port, the calls began. Sprague had to blow it twice before the fellow managed to get all the way up and stagger in-board with a whoosh of surly breath and a sour grimace of distaste as he peered about, owl-eyed.

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” Lewrie offered.

  “I am come to speak with Captain Alan Lewrie,” the very tall and lean older fellow announced, nose-high, and in a very plummy and clench-jawed Oxonian accent. “Might he be aboard, Mister…?”

  “I’m Lewrie, sir, And you might be…?” Lewrie casually rejoined with a mystified grin.

  The visitor seemed to start at that, and gave Lewrie one of those long, head-to-foot look-overs, then another, as if in dis-belief. It did not help that Lewrie was wearing his third-best hat, suitable only for stormy weather, his shirt sleeves and neck-stock, and sailcloth waist-coat and breeches, white cotton stockings, and an old pair of buckled shoes, whilst the visitor was dressed in silk and satin; his coat was red satin (with the aforementioned square yard of gilt lace), a white silk shirt and waist-coat, white satin breeches, white silk stockings, and shoes as light and insubstantial as a lady’s dancing slippers. Under his over-sized cocked hat with all those feathers, he sported a formal powdered wig, and upon his chest and coat breast, he showed the sash and device of the Order of the Garter. To top off his appearance, he held a long walking-stick with a large gold top, more like a Lord Mayor’s ceremonial mace.

  “I am, sir, Sir Harper Strachan, Baron Ludlow, and equerry to the Court of Saint James’s, and His Majesty, King George the Third,” the visitor said as he made a particularly showy “leg” with a flourish of his hat cross his breast.

  How’s he keep the wig on? Lewrie wondered; Glue?

  “Bugger that! Show us yer tits!” a sailor cried over the mild din of music and chatter.

  “Oh,” was all Lewrie could say in response, and whipped off his own hat to make a bow in kind. “Welcome aboard Reliant, milord. Your servant.”

  “I have just spoken with Captain Blanding, sir,” Strachan went on, once he’d plopped his hat back on his wig and straightened back up, “to arrange with him his presentation at Court for his investiture in the Order of the Bath, and his baronetcy. The Crown would find it convenient did you be available to present yourself at the same time, sir.”

  “Oh, that,” Lewrie gawped, for it had completely flown his ken, the last few months or so, and he had never really considered a knighthood earned. “I’d almost forgotten.”

  “Oh… that, sir? Slipped your mind, did it, sir?” Sir Harper bristled, his turkey-wattle jowls quivering, and his drink-veined cheeks reddening. “You hold a knighthood to be of so little moment, sir?”

  “Meanin’ that it was so long ago that Captain Blanding and I were informed of the honour, and we’ve been so busy of late, convoyin’ a West Indies trade the last two months,” Lewrie managed to babble in quick explanation. “Think of the expression ‘herdin’ cats,’ sir, and that’ll give ye the best impression of it. Back o’ the mind, that?” he said with a helpless shrug. “Might I offer you some refreshment in my cabins, sir, and-”

  “Do your quarters reek less than your ship, Captain Lewrie… which I must say you keep in a slovenly, nigh mutinous manner?” their haughty caller enquired, producing a large paisley silk handkerchief from a side pocket of his coat and pressing it to his nose.

  “We’re Out of Discipline, sir.” Lewrie goggled at him. “Can’t allow the people shore liberty, or they’d take ‘leg bail’ and run off, so this is their liberty… short as it’ll be. As for the smells… all ships stink, sir… milord… even though we re-paint, scrub and scour with vinegar, smoke her with tobacco torches…,” he explained, heaving another shrug. “After a time, though… stink happens.”

  “Hmpf!” was Sir Harper Strachan’s comment on that, looking about with amazement and outrage to see half-gowned women dancing with tars in the waist; the nanny goat half up on a gun carriage to get at one of the bread bags full of bisquit hung underneath the larboard gangway, and the assorted livestock in the forecastle manger. Even the musicians and the lusty songs seemed to irk him.

  It didn’t help that Lewrie’s cats took that moment to arrive on the quarterdeck. Chalky, the younger and spryer white’un, patted at Lewrie’s breeches for attention, then sprang aloft and scaled his leg and waist-coat, to perch teetering on his right shoulder, just as Sir Harper returned his gaze to Lewrie. His mouth plopped open.

  “This is Chalky, milord,” Lewrie lamely told him as Chalky put his cheek against Lewrie’s to nuzzle and play-nip. “Came off a French brig in the West Indies in ’98. Nice puss,” Lewrie said as he half-turned his head towards the cat.

  Feeling ignored, Toulon wandered up to paw at Lewrie’s leg, too, mewing most plaintively. The Crown equerry stiffened in even greater distaste.

  This is not goin’ well, Lewrie told himself.

  “That’s Toulon, milord. Evacuated with me when he was a kitten in ’94, so he’s of an age by now,” Lewrie further explained.

  Toulon looked Sir Harper over, and ambled over to see if he’d be more amenable to “wubbies.”

  “You were sayin’, milord… something about a convenient date?” Lewrie prompted as Toulon began to sniff at Sir Har
per’s ankles.

  “Ah, yayss,” Strachan drawled, “Captain Blanding has promised to make himself available for the weekly levee, next Tuesday, which will begin at ten of the… damme!” he yelped as Toulon laid a tentative paw on his silk stockings. “Get your creature away from me!”

  “Here, Toulon… here, lad,” Lewrie bade, clucking and snapping his fingers. “This coming Tuesday, milord?”

  “Yes, this Tuesday next,” Strachan snapped, shuffling away from Toulon, gently shoving with a dainty slipper to shoo him off. “At ten in the morning. In full uniform, and Court dress.”

  “Uniform and Court dress, sir? There’s a diff’rence?” Lewrie asked. He was beginning to enjoy rankling the top-lofty shit.

  “You will have lodgings in London, Captain Lewrie?” Strachan said. “A letter with the particulars could await you.”

  “The Madeira Club, milord… at the corner of Duke and Wigmore Streets. Might I bring someone along with me as a guest?”

  “Hoy, Cap’m Lewrie! These look familiar?” Nancy took that unfortunate moment to open her bodice and shake her impressive poonts in his direction, to the cheers of his sailors as they hustled her below.

  “Not one of your…!” Sir Harper began, aghast.

  “Cats, sir?” Lewrie supplied.

  “Whores, I meant to say, such as that… that…!”

  “Merely an old acquaintance and ally, sir,” Lewrie told him, wincing and wondering how much worse it could get.

  “I dare say,” Strachan sneered with another disdainful sniff.

  “There’s my father, sir, Major-General Sir Hugo Saint George Willoughby, retired,” Lewrie said, “who resides in London. At such short notice, I rather doubt one of my brothers-in-law and his wife could attend, but if he could get away from his regiment in time…”

  Lewrie would not invite his other brother-in-law, Governour Chiswick, not this side of Hell, anyway, even if he and his wife, Millicent, could bring his daughter, Charlotte, from Anglesgreen in a day. She was too young to appreciate it. He didn’t need his disreputable old school chums, like Clotworthy Chute-who’d most-like fleece a naive peer of his year’s rents, or grope up a lady-in-waiting-or even Peter Rushton, now Viscount Draywick, who sat in Lords and got drunk and diddled regularly and was prone to giggle at the most inappropriate moments. Both his sons were at sea, more’s the pity…