King`s Captain l-9

by Dewey Lambdin

  "I see, sir," Lewrie sighed, crestfallen, and pondering how he would fare, recruiting at Chatham, in a strange town, without a single old hand ashore at any "rondy" to vouch for him. Did he not gather a proper crew in a set period of time, his precious commission document would be so much bum-fodder-they'd assign another new Post-Captain to take his place, and he'd revert to being a Commander, waiting his turn at another sloop of war, if he was lucky. Or stuck at home back in Anglesgreen with all its distasteful, civilian, and domestic doings, fretting crops and Sophie and Harry Embleton, were he not!

  "Once aboard at Chatham, you may forward to me a list of names you might recall from previous commissions, Captain Lewrie," Nepean suggested-tossed out like a sop he didn't have to spend much on. "Then, are they still in the Navy, and are they presently aboard ship in an untainted port, we may be able to accommodate you, but…" Mr. Nepean lifted his hands palms up and gave him one of those hopeless and powerless shrugs more commonly seen on rug merchants who'd failed to strike a compromise on price.

  "I see, sir," Lewrie sighed, much abashed.

  "Ah, but you're such a knacky and resourceful fellow, Lewrie," Nepean said with a purr, which meant he wouldn't lift a finger more to help him in this regard, "and you've taken command of vessels before, where you were too junior a lieutenant to fetch aboard your favourites. I'm sure, once you explain your plight to the Regulating Captain of the Impress Service at Chatham, he will send you such trustworthy hands and petty officers as he has. I will write him at once, and send a copy on to Vice-Admiral Charles Buckner, flag officer commanding at the Nore. 'Twixt the two of them, I am certain you will find proper redress."

  "That's satisfactory, sir… thankee," Lewrie told him, though it wasn't in the least satisfactory-in normal times.

  "Well then, Captain Lewrie," Nepean said, "allow me to wish success to His Majesty's Ship Proteus… and to her new captain then. May all good fortune attend you, and her, sir."

  'Long as I just go! Lewrie snickered to himself.

  "I'll see what I can 'bout success, sir. Good day."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They'd stayed in London that whole day and the next, for there was so much to see to: visit his solicitor Mr. Matthew Mountjoy to arrange funds and inform him of his new situation; hunt up Aspinall and Padgett; shop for cabin-stores as Nepean had suggested; attend to getting his epaulets shifted. New stockings in both cotton and silk, a new stock or two, a new dress shirt or two; cases and small kegs of wine, brandy, and such, and other foodstuffs specially prepared for a Sea Officer's life at Fortnum Mason's, shopping at Frybourg And Treyer's in the Haymarket. And shopping with the children, shopping with Caroline and Sophie… it was a hellish sudden outlay. But fun. Mountjoy had been happy to inform him that another Ј900 had come in from the Mediterranean prize-courts, less taxes and deductions, less prize-court fees, and his own; a tidy sum to be sure, and half of it gone in a twinkling, but the rest enough to keep his family with real style for at least another five years!

  They'd taken in a military parade in Hyde Park, listened to the bands and cheered, attended the theatres in Covent Garden and in Drury Lane, eaten out both evenings, gotten a spell of decent weather on the first night and strolled Covent Gardens, and danced. The second night there'd been a subscription ball to celebrate the up-coming nuptials of King George's daughter Charlotte, the Princess-Royal, to the German Prince of Wurttemburg. Caroline had been glowing in a spanking new gown, with some of Grannie Lewrie's jewelry and some of that loot which Alan had brought back from the Far East in '86; some of it they loaned to Sophie for the two evenings. Both were as be-gemmed as any royal, and Lewrie had nigh worn out his shoes in dancing almost every dance with them.

  Though after her second turn 'round the chalked floors of that huge salon, Sophie had had all the male company she might have wished, all eager to make the acquaintance of the intriguing young woman who had danced with the naval officer with the medal on his breast. She'd been coyly ecstatic, hiding her eye-rolling and her little chirps of glee behind her fan when on the sidelines, yet archly imperious and seemingly uncaring for even the handsomest partner upon the floor.

  There'd not been much sleep that evening to be sure, what with dancing 'til nearly one, a cold collation with champagne after, then a coach-ride back to Willis's, and Sophie simply had to laugh out loud, purr, or titter (and damn' near shriek! at times) over her success with Society, with her and Caroline chortling over the night 'til all hours.

  Lewrie awoke after a brief four hours of sleep a tad dry-mouthed from all the champagne and wines he'd taken aboard, woke to a bustling as loud (it seemed) as a 12-pounder being hauled 'cross the deck to run-out position, as their household went about packing up for the coach trip to Chatham. Everything in a rush, a search for mis-placed shoes, hats, and last night's fineries which had been flung "will-he, nill-he," the slamming of chest lids and the patter of children's feet at a scamper, too excited to; be shoved into proper clothing. Andrews was there with the sea-going stores stowed away aboard a hired cart, and Padgett was there, shyly avoiding being trampled. Aspinall was back and eager to re-prove his worth, whetting Lewrie's razor on a strop, frothing up shaving soap, proffering a towel, a bowl, and pitcher of hot water on the wash-hand stand… babbling away a mile-a-minute as he got out that fresh shirt and stock, blacked Lewrie's best shore-going boots, and stood ready to shove him into order once he'd sluiced his admittedly thick head, face, and neck, shaved himself half-raw, and slugged down a single cup of chocolate.

  Then down to a boisterous breakfast in the common rooms, everyone chattering and nattering, and the place filled with commercial travelers and chapmen, all eager to chew up something and swallow it, then be out and doing. Pay the establishment the final reckoning. "Mummy, I have to, uhm…!" Into the coach, and they were off by half-past nine. Down to the Thames and across to the south bank. "Mummy, I have to…!" for another stop by the semaphore telegraph station at New Cross and Dept-ford Dockyards. "Are we there, already?" from Hugh, who'd prefer to take a walking tour to look at all the ships under construction.

  Greenwich Naval Hospital went flying by, then the Royal Arsenal at Woolwich, and the testing of an artillery piece-a rather heavy-caliber and loud piece-set them to howling with delight. Putting Lewrie's teeth on edge, it should be noted. He really did need a nap about as bad as any man born by then, but the excitement of the day kept him alert, to point out Gallons Reach and Barking Reach in the Thames to their left-hand side. Halfway Reach and Purfleet, the Long Reach-"Why do they call 'em reaches, Daddy?"-"What ship is that, Daddy?"-"Why do they call it Fiddler's Road, when it's not a road at all?"-"Is that your new ship then?"-"Uhm, Mummy, I have to…!"

  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 sky-larkin'… 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 rpad 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'

  Uhtnhmm, 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 oЈ 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!"