“Well, I’ve heard of your cool tea,” Chalmers said, sounding as if that beverage was either heathen or un-British, “but the wine sounds refreshing.”
Lewrie steered Chalmers to the settee, chairs, and the large, round brass Hindoo tray-table, calling for the sparkling wine, and Pettus went to the wood bucket hung from the overhead where the wine was cooling in water.
“From India?” Chalmers asked, tapping the table.
“Aye, pretty-well banged up after all these years, from when I was there in the eighties, ’tween the wars,” Lewrie admitted.
Chalmers looked round the cabins as if he’d never seen them before, taking in a glimpse of Lewrie’s almost-wide-enough-for-two hanging bed-cot in the bed space, (and most-like finding it sinful!) just before Chalky came to sniff at his boots and brush round his ankles. Then their wine was there.
“Ah! Cooled!” Capt. Chalmers marvelled. “Where did you discover the ice, Sir Alan?”
He’s pissin’ down my back with all that ‘Sir Alan’ stuff. He must really need something, Lewrie thought.
“A trick I heard of in the West Indies,” Lewrie told him with a grin. “They hang a large clay jar, an olla, filled with water and place it where it can catch a breeze, in the shade, of course. Keeps things cool enough. You’ve something on your mind you wished to discuss, you said?”
“Aye, Sir Alan,” Chalmers replied, shifting in his chair like a travelling chapman ready to start his sales pitch. “As successful as we’ve been up North, we’re only able to stay there for so long, and then the French have a fortnight or longer to play ‘silly beggars’, and…”
“And we need a second squadron up there, threatening them in rotation,” Lewrie finished for him, “or, we need enough ships to keep the coast under constant watch. Is that your thinking, sir?”
“My concern to a Tee, exactly, sir!” Chalmers said, appearing somewhere betwixt pleasure to be so agreed with, or having his idea, and his argument for it, shot to pieces.
“I just finished a letter to Admiralty expressing that very problem,” Lewrie told Chalmers, secretly enjoying the look on the man’s phyz. “Had I not already sealed it, I’d show it you. I also was just about to write the senior officer in the Med, requesting ships, or support in London, but for your timely arrival.”
“Ah, I see, sir,” Chalmers said, looking glum that Lewrie had beaten him to the punch.
“In that letter, I put forward your name, Captain Chalmers, as the best officer on scene to command that second squadron, should it be formed. Would that suit you?”
“Me, sir?” Chalmers gawped. “Well, of course, sir, I would be delighted if such came to pass. Mean t’say, doing the duty’s the only thing.”
Oh, horse shite! Lewrie thought; You came here angling for it!
“If you get command of the second squadron, you’d need two more frigates and three more brig-sloops,” Lewrie went on, “and I’d need a frigate to replace Undaunted, and one more sloop to work with me … the pairing of a frigate strong enough to face any French escorts, and a sloop to aid in the hunting, seems to work well, so far, and three pairs can cover the Spanish coast well, too.”
“It seems to, so far, aye, sir,” Chalmers agreed, looking up at the overhead as if in deep thought; or seeking his own broad pendant. “The fewer pairs, though, the greater glory, and prize-money, what?” Now that the matter seemed to be settled in his favour, he was merrier.
“That corvette you took,” Lewrie asked him, “I did not enquire if she put up much of a fight. How did it go with her?”
“Well, her Captain did fulfill his duty to protect his convoy,” Chalmers explained, shrugging and making a deprecating gesture. “She covered their retreat into San Sebastián, which was only fifteen or so miles to their lee, anyway, and the Caprice a mile seaward of them when we spotted them. She came out to face us, bows-on to Blamey’s ship ’til Peregrine was within a mile’s range, and ahead of me by two cables. It was then that she hauled her wind to lay herself cross Peregrine’s bows and fired off a broadside … for honour’s sake more-like, then altered course to run into San Sebastián, herself, hoping to keep ahead of us and spin out a long stern chase into shallower coastal waters where we’d be forced to break off.”
Capt. Richard Chalmers took great, but properly modest, delight in describing how sloppily the French ship had been handled, and how quickly Commander Blamey’s Peregrine had caught up with her, and had engaged the corvette’s larboard side which had not initially been manned or the guns ready for action. Then, minutes after the French realised that they were in a real fight, up Undaunted had surged to engage her starboard side, and one broadside from Chalmers’s frigate had forced her to strike.
“You can’t imagine how weeded she was, sir,” Chalmers hooted with glee, slapping his knee, “nigh as green as her Captain’s face when we boarded her. The poor devil told me he’d begged the yards at Bayonne for a careening, or fresh coppering, but his superiors told him that there wasn’t enough time, nor material available, to delay his sailing. That’s another reason she was so slow at running away.”
“Hmm, and they only sent one corvette to escort the convoy,” Lewrie mused, stroking his jaw. “Did you press him on the matter, Captain Chalmers? Are we goin’ t’see more of that, in future?”
“I did probe, sir,” Chalmers said with a sly smirk. “I dined him in and ‘liquored his boots’ … in vino veritas, what?… and he boasted that he’d saved an important shipment of troops, artillery, and cavalry remounts for Marshal Ney’s army. I gathered, though, that only vital convoys would be given escort, for now, and that the trade we’ve seen so far, the brigs and coasters, will have to soldier on on their own devices, ’til the French manage to shift more ships South from Bordeaux and ports North past the inshore squadrons of our blockade.
“And, when deep ‘in his cups’, sir,” Chalmers went on with a sly tap alongside his nose, “he complained that France is robbing Peter to pay Paul, as it were … taking hands from their navy to flesh out their armies, and using seasoned timber, and copper for new construction of frigates and ships of the line, instead of properly maintaining their lesser ships, like his Caprice.”
“Still, she’ll fetch you and Blamey a pretty penny,” Lewrie congratulated him, “even if she’s badly in need of a hull cleaning.”
Lucky bastard, Lewrie sourly thought; there’ll be no Droits of the Crown for you!
“I fully expect so, sir,” Chalmers gloated, tilting his glass to request a refill, and Pettus was there to pour him back up.
“I’ve discovered a good place where I can dine you all in,” Lewrie told him. “Dined there the other night and found it grand. Unless there’s a reason to preclude, shall we hold it tomorrow night?”
“Sounds delightful, sir,” Chalmers agreed.
“Then I’ll make the reservations, and send invitations round to all,” Lewrie said. “I’m told that our army officers favour the place, but Wellesley, the new Commander in Chief, has taken most of them off to Oporto with him, and has limited idling in Lisbon, so we won’t have to deal with too many of their sort.”
“Even better, sir,” Chalmers said with a laugh. “Ehm, I say. What is your cat doing?”
Perhaps Chalky took to boot blacking like catnip, for he had been twining and brushing round Chalmers’s boots since he had seated himself. Now, to mark the man completely, the cat was quivering his rump and tail against them.
“He must be taken with you, Captain Chalmers,” Lewrie said in secret glee. “He’s marking you as his.”
“Well, I wish he wouldn’t,” Chalmers rejoined, tucking his heels and knees together very primly. “Shoo, you. Scat.”
To that command, Chalky turned to look up at Chalmers’s face, then leaped into his lap!
“Uh, could you, ah?” Chalmers gawped.
Cats just know who don’t like them, Lewrie thought; and what to do to vex ’em!
“Come here, Chalky, you pesky scamp,” Lewrie cooed, re
aching over to lift him off, then sit with the cat cuddled in his own lap. “Bad cat! Bad boy!” Which only made Chalky purr.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Later that afternoon, Lewrie had that rencontre with his son, Hugh, that Capt. Chalmers had promised, though it was more by accident than arrangement. He had finished reading his personal mail, had penned some replies, and had gone ashore with his letters to the Post Office. It was in the vicinity of the Post Office that he espied Hugh, on the same mission, and hailed him.
“Hallo, father … sir,” Hugh said, grinning broadly, but doffing his hat in proper salute to a senior officer.
“Mister Midshipman Hugh Lewrie, is it?” Lewrie teased, returning the salute. “You sort of resemble him, but damned if I know where my little boy has gone. Just look at you, nigh a man full-grown, and a tarry one, at that! It’s been too long, me lad, even with you not a stone’s throw away from me! Why, we could’ve conversed by letter more easily, the last few months!”
“It’s good to see you, too, father,” Hugh replied, beaming as they shook hands, and Lewrie Senior seized his shoulder for a second.
“You’ve come ashore with the mail? So have I. Do they need you back aboard all that badly, or can I treat you to some pastries so we can catch up?” Lewrie eagerly asked.
“Well, perhaps for a few minutes, sir,” Hugh allowed. “There is my boat crew waiting.”
“Let’s get all this posted, then find us a pasteleria. Lisbon is famous for them, and damned good coffee.” Lewrie tempted.
“Of course, sir!” Hugh was happy to agree.
* * *
Once free of their errands, they found a pasteleria nearby, one with an awninged outdoor seating area, and took a table, ordering wee cups of strong coffee and pastel de natas, creamy, flaky custard tarts.
“Umm, my Lord, I haven’t tasted anything this good in ages!” Hugh raved, after his first bite of his tart.
“That’s the Navy for you,” Lewrie said with a laugh, between bites of his own tart. “Nothing but deprivation, years on end. Have you and your mess-mates had many chances for a run ashore in Lisbon? The food here is a marvel.”
“Not all that much, really,” Hugh admitted. “Captain Chalmers keeps us rather busy, and doesn’t think that shore liberty is good for our morals. The hands, aye, but young gentlemen?” He made a face at that statement.
His sort would, Lewrie thought.
“Actually, when I was aboard my first ship, with Captain Charlton, we never saw a foreign port,” Hugh further confessed, looking up and around in appreciation. “Lisbon is my first exposure to the wider world.”
“And…?” Lewrie posed.
“I like it!” Hugh enthusiastically stated. “A lot!”
“Well, there’s a lot to like,” Lewrie told him.
“The only port we’ve been allowed ashore was Valletta on Malta,” Hugh expounded, returning to his custard tart, “and that was mostly working parties, and perhaps one quick ale before rowing back to the ship. Our Chaplain, Mister Wickes, gave us a tour or two … fine if one likes museums, churches, and architecture … with a shore meal after … and with his keen eye on our wine consumption.”
Chalmers carries a Chaplain? Lewrie thought; Of course!
“Perhaps your Captain thinks that his young gentlemen should be exposed to cultural experiences, if they’re destined to become proper representatives of Great Britain when they make ‘Post’, if they do,” Lewrie said, putting a charitable slant on such doings.
“Perhaps, father,” Hugh replied, “but it makes for very dull going. Our Jacks have all the fun.”
“Depends on what sort of fun you have in mind,” Lewrie said, with one brow significantly raised in query.
“Oh, music, dancing, wine, and ale,” Hugh replied, laughing at the prospects, “meeting foreign young ladies and polishing our linguistic skills? The proper sorts, of course,” he added, rolling his eyes to mock his intentions.
Well, they say that acorns don’t fall far from the tree, and he is a Lewrie, Lewrie thought, surprised by how much his son had grown up these last few years. He was just about to suggest that his boy should invest in some well-made cundums!
“Just be careful,” Lewrie said, instead. “Young foreign girls have strict male relatives with sharp knives, and the ‘commercial’ sorts could be ‘fireships’.”
“Oh, grandfather sent me a packet of, ah … protections,” Hugh told him, blushing a tad. “And a five pound note, which was more than welcome.”
There we are, then! Lewrie thought; He’s a Lewrie and a Willoughby, God help us!
“Used both in the same place, did you?” Lewrie wryly asked.
“Ehm … not yet, father, no,” Hugh admitted. “Do you think I could get another of these tarts? They’re heavenly.”
“Of course, and I’ll have another coffee,” Lewrie agreed, and summoned the waiter to try out his limited Portuguese. As they waited, he thought to ask, “Heard from Sewallis, have you?”
“Not the last two months, no,” Hugh told him. “I’ve written him at least twice, but … perhaps I put his nose out of joint with too much boasting about all the action we’ve seen, and how many good prizes we’ve taken. Poor Sewallis!” Hugh said with a mirthful snort. “Six years in the Navy, and he’s yet to hear a gun fired in anger, nothing but dull plodding off-and-on some French port. Not what he expected when he ran off to sea. I’d wager he thought that he’d have the same sort of adventures that you’ve had, father.”
Hugh was none too sympathetic for his older brother; the few years that Lewrie had spent ashore on half-pay, he had seen how the two had competed with each other, but he’d always thought that it was harmless.
“I haven’t heard from him, either,” Lewrie said, “and in his last few letters, he sounded as if he was becoming a bit of a rake-hell.”
“Sewallis?” Hugh exclaimed, then laughed aloud. “Father, you must be joking! Why, one couldn’t get his nose out of a book, and a hymn book, at that! Mister ‘sobre-sides’ … hah! What has he been up to, then?”
“Well, the few times his ship’s put in for provisions, he says he’s attended subscription balls, danced and flirted with the girls,” Lewrie related, “gotten ‘half-seas-over’ with his mess-mates, and says he’s the best dancer aboard … so good that he’s been playin’ ‘hop master’ to the other Mids. Hmpf … rather short letters, too, with little said of doings at sea, or his prospects for promotion.”
Sewallis was twenty-one, and only had one more year at sea to go before he could qualify to stand before a board of Post-Captains’ oral examinations to gain his Lieutenancy. Yet …
“His first Captain, my old friend, Benjamin Rodgers, said he was studious, and sopped up skills and sea lore like a sponge, navigation and all,” Lewrie mused. “I expected him to be made ‘Passed’ and gain his Lieutenancy first try, but now…”
“Perhaps he’s lost interest, father,” Hugh speculated as their fresh order arrived. “I always thought that he’d read for the law, or attend university, even become a churchman, anyway. He’s the eldest, after all. That’s what elder sons expect to do. Inherit the estate, learn to manage it properly, beforehand.”
“Well, I hope he hasn’t … lost interest,” Lewrie said as he stirred sugar into his strong, black coffee.
“Have you heard from Charlotte, father?” Hugh asked him.
“Oh, Lord no!” Lewrie said, scowling. “What I learn of her, I get second-hand from your Uncle Governour, or Aunt Millicent. I have written her, but I might as well drop stones down a well for all the good that’s got me. Have you?”
His only daughter was a touchy subject, one that Lewrie hoped his boys learned the least about. Charlotte was his late wife’s, Caroline’s, darling, who had absorbed all of Caroline’s spite and vitriol over his dissolute ways. Yes, he’d been unfaithful when half-way round the world, and years from home, even though, in his own defence he could call his dalliances “serial monogamy”, quite unlike his “
buck-of-the-first-head” youth. Yes, he’d fathered a bastard—at least he thought there were only two!—one with a wealthy Greek widow, heiress to a currant export fortune. Unfortunately, Theoni Cavares-Connor didn’t care to be dropped, and had written a series of scathing letters, providing Caroline a litany of his affairs, some invented, but the most of them alarmingly well-informed and detailed. Why, it was as if the jealous bitch had better sources than John Peel or Thomas Mountjoy of the Foreign Office’s Secret Branch!
Charlotte was utterly convinced that Lewrie had been the one to drag her mother to Paris on their reconciliation “honeymoon” which had resulted in her mother’s death at the hands of the French police, too, and could not be dissuaded by anyone. By now, the girl was hateful in the extreme, arch, sneering, and dismissive of her father, and her grandfather, too, when her blood was up, barely able to behave in a civil fashion when she and Lewrie were in the same vicinity.
“Aye, I have, father,” Hugh told him with a rueful shake of his head. “She wrote me about a month ago, or so. On and on about how deprived she was, and how beastly you are to deny her a proper allowance, the promise of a dowry, and the funds for a London Season, so she can make her entry into Society,” Hugh sneered, grimacing over the word. “Snag herself a rich husband, before she wastes away back in dull old Anglesgreen, where there are so few prospects?”
“Oh, Lord,” Lewrie said with a groan. “What does she expect, t’be presented at Court, meet the bloody Prince of Wales, and marry a titled twit? That’s far above our lot, and my meetin’ the King was a fluke. Just like my baronetcy’s a fluke ’cause the King was havin’ one of his bad days. I’ve written Governour and told him I’d put an hundred pounds out there for the ‘buttock-brokers’ … two hundred if that’s what it takes, but damme if I’ll lay out more as long as Charlotte treats me like a red-headed, cack-handed leper!”
“She really is spiteful,” Hugh commented. “Pity, ’cause she was so sweet and biddable when she was little. A very lovable sister … as sisters go,” he quipped. “What’s her rush, anyway, father? She isn’t even twenty, yet. Far too young to marry anyone. Oh, upon that head, she wrote that she has been squired about by the Oakes’ son, and Sir Harry Embleton’s middle son.”
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