And cutlasses and boarding pikes and muskets with all their accoutrements, and clumsy and inaccurate Sea Pattern pistols to be put in the locked arms chests 'til needed for drill or combat… it was a never-ending series of barges, of hoisting aboard with the main-mast course yard as a crane, and human muscle power, to hoist it all from the boats over the bulwarks and gangways and down onto the deck, or into the holds just above the bilges, or onto the orlop.
And each and every bit of Admiralty's largesse, seemingly down to each pot of mustard or each shoe buckle, had to be signed for and carefully inventoried, by both Purser and Captain, the usage and depletion of which over the course of the ship's typical three-year commission was to be carefully, meticulously accounted for, as well, or the ones responsible would be at their financial peril.
Ten days it took to prepare HMS Reliant for sea, for journeys to any of the far corners of the world, for battle against the foe… and Alan Lewrie found that he revelled in it!
It was not so much that he sprang from his bed-cot each morning at the end of the Middle Watch at 4 a.m. with joy, no. It was more like being so engrossed in details, in projects, in planning and supervising the labours of stowing and arming that he had no time to brood on his children's fates, the coming loss of his rented farm and his house, or the lingering remnants of grief over Caroline's loss. He found that he could actually go an entire day without thinking of all that, so busy with making decisions that it was only in those rare hours he spent on shore purchasing things he would need three months, six months, at sea, or the evenings when he dined alone and did not invite his officers and midshipmen in a few at a time to get a better grasp of them and their personalities, that he had time, in a proper captain's solitude, for musing.
Over twenty-three years in King's Coat, he realised one evening as he sprawled on his familiar old settee, his stockinged feet rested on his low, old Hindoo brass tray-table before it, with a cat nodding on either thigh and a glass of claret in his hand; and now, this is all I am? My father's house for a home, do I ever set foot ashore again? The Navy a substitute family? Just damn my eyes… mine arse on a band-box! All these young sprogs come aboard… Middies and children of Mids from long ago? Good Christ! He supposed it was natural, and inevitable, did he live long enough. There were only so many warships and only so many officers to command them. Large as the Royal Navy had grown since 1793 and the start of the war with France, it was still a small, esoteric and arcane world of its own, and he had risen to become a somewhat senior member of that salty, tar-stained clique. He had to stumble across former shipmates sometime. Whether they were worth the time to know again, well… that was another matter.
"You ready t'go t'sea again, lads?" Lewrie whispered to Chalky and Toulon. They opened their eyes to stare at him, Chalky yawning as he stretched every muscle, front legs out straight. "By God, I think that I am! No more shore shite. Let's get orders and be about it."
Chalky took that comment as an invitation to stand, arch up, and clamber up his chest, ready to play.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The next two weeks at anchor were spent at Harbour Drill, the basic training of lubbers and Johnny New-Comes in the mystifying maze of sheets, halliards, lines, and cables, of braces, jears, and lifts, clews and brails. The proper way to tie a host of knots at sea; to go aloft and lay out on a yard; to set sail, to reef in or gasket, to strike or hoist up top-masts without being injured, maimed, or killed! Older, experienced hands got the rust scaled off their skills, as well, and were urged to take "newlies" under their tutelage. Men who had never touched a firearm or held anything more dangerous than the hoe, axe, or scythe in their civilian lives learned how to wield the cutlass and boarding pike, and were made familiar with pistol and musket 'til the loading, charging, and firing process could be done with some skill and speed; dry-firing first, then live-firing at a painted target on a scrap sail held aloft by two oars in an anchored rowboat at fifty yards' range off the ship's beam-with no one aboard it, of course, during the firing, and well clear of other ships or work-boats beyond it. The ship's people practiced with the swivel guns, as well.
Then came practice on the great-guns, the quarterdeck 9-pounders and carronades, the 12-pounder chase guns, and the heavy main artillery pieces down each beam, with half the hands hauling quickly on the run-in tackles to simulate recoil, to teach the "newlies" how quickly and brutally arms and legs could be broken, feet torn off or crushed, did they not look lively and keep clear of the truck-carriages and their tackles, blocks, and ring bolts. Lewrie could not risk actually loading and firing round-shot in crowded Portsmouth Harbour, but he could spend powder in full-measure charges to get his people used to the noise and the heart-fluttering, lung-flattening power of their discharge, along with the drill that would, hopefully, result in three broadsides every two minutes.
Then, when orders came, they came in a rush. Barely after his morning shave and sponge-off, Lewrie was summoned to the deck, noting the arms of the semaphore towers in town working like demented Dervishes.
"Hardinge, sir," a Midshipman said, doffing his hat to present himself. "From the Modeste, sixty-four? Captain Stephen Blanding? He wishes S you, and your First Officer, to attend him on board as soon as possible, sir."
"Indeed, Mister Hardinge?" Lewrie replied, deciding to put on a scowl of displeasure, hands in the small of his back. "Why the haste… and not a written request?" he pretended to grump.
"Haste, indeed, Captain Lewrie, sir," the young fellow assured him, chin up and proud to be his captain's emissary on a vital mission. "I am given to believe a squadron will be formed for a specific duty. And Captain Blanding wishes me to inform you that this morning, word came from Admiralty that the King has given orders to begin issuing Letters of Marque and Reprisal. If that satisfies you as to the urgency of the matter, sir."
"That does, Mister Hardinge," Lewrie answered, feeling a thrill of satisfaction that what all had expected had come to pass. "Mister Warburton, pass the word for Mister Westcott at once. My compliments to him, and that he is to attend me in proper order."
"Aye aye, sir!" his own Midshipman, Warburton, shot back, beaming with joy that it would be war.
"Where away, Mister Hardinge?" Lewrie asked of Modeste's anchorage, after turning aside to summon his Cox'n and boat crew.
"Off the Monkton Fort, sir… yonder," Hardinge supplied. "She will be the two-decker flying a broad pendant with white ball, and has dark red hull stripes, sir. Can't miss her."
"Speak for yourself, young sir," Lewrie japed. "It's a bit too early for my Cox'n's eyes. Captain Blanding plannin' to breakfast us?"
"I am certain he will, sir," Midshipman Hardinge further assured him, smiling for the first time and relaxing his tense pose; he'd not had his head bitten off after all!
A red broad pendant with a white ball upon it denoted a senior officer who would command a small squadron, a Post-Captain who for all appearances might as well be a Commodore but lacked that rank and had to captain his own ship, without another of Post-rank to take that burden. And Modeste, his putative flagship, was a sixty-four gunned two-decker of the Third Rate, with a French name and of obvious French construction-a previous capture for certain. Sixty-fours were a bit too light to stand in the line-of-battle anymore, but were still useful outside European waters. Her lines, the fineness of her entry and bow, and her aft taper made her look fast for a two-decker.
I live long enough, I could do worse, when my frigate days're done, Lewrie told himself as he took the salute from Modeste's Marines and side-party, then was escorted aft to Capt. Blanding's great-cabins under the poop.
"Captain Lewrie, and Lieutenant Westcott, of the Reliant, sir," his escorting Midshipman announced.
"Aha! Lewrie!" Captain Stephen Blanding said with a glad bark of pleasure and welcome as he came from his sideboard in the dining-coach, cup and sauncer in one hand, and the other out for a cheerful shake. "Heard of you, sir. Good things, all! Welcome aboard my wee barge. Mister We
stcott, is it? Welcome aboard to you, as well!"
Blanding was a stocky fellow, no doubt strong as an ox, but giving a roly-poly, aged cherub impression, with his belly girth and his very curly long blond hair, which he still wore clubbed back into a long sailor's queue, bound with black riband. "The others say they know you well, Captain Lewrie," Blanding said, waving his tea cup and saucer hand at the other officers seated in the day-cabin. "Captain Stroud of the Cockerel frigate, and Captain Parham of Pylades?"
"Good God above, it is a family reunion!" Lewrie blurted out at the sight of them. William Parham had long ago been one of his Mids aboard the Alacrity gun ketch, a converted bomb, 'tween the wars in the Bahamas. Stroud…?
"We were together in the Adriatic in Ninety-Six, sir," Captain Stroud more sobrely told him. "I was First Officer in Myrmidon, a-"
"Commander Fillebrowne's Sloop of War, aye!" Lewrie said, going to shake hands with him warmly, even though he barely recalled him. "I do recall," he lied. "Congratulations on your command, Captain Stroud. And Cockerel! My first ship in Ninety-Three, as her First Officer. A fine vessel."
Even if her old captain and all his kin aboard drove us nigh to mutiny and madness! Lewrie recalled to himself.
"And Parham! Look at how you've risen since!" Lewrie went on, greeting yet another old shipmate. "And Pylades… I'm sure you know that she was with us in the Adriatic, too, with Captain Stroud. Captain Benjamin Rodgers's old ship, and you surely recall him from the Bahamas, ha ha!"
"Indeed I do, sir!" Parham enthusiastically replied. "Happy to serve with you again, happy indeed. And pray do express my greetings to your good lady when next you write her, and say that I recall her kindnesses to callow young Mids in those days quite fondly."
"Ah," Lewrie said, "I… " He stumbled as a chill came over the cabins, with Blanding coughing into his fist and "ahemming."
"Mistress Lewrie was most foully murdered by the French last year, sir," Blanding told Parham. "By that tyrannical despot Napoleon Bonaparte's orders to murder Captain Lewrie, here, as well."
"God, I am so sorry, sir, I didn't… The news of it did not reach me 'til this very instant!" Parham stammered, blushing deeply.
"The bastard," Parham's First Officer spoke up.
"Condolences, sir," Stroud's First Lieutenant said, and Lewrie gawped to see that that worthy was Martin Hyde, yet another of his Midshipmen from HMS Jester.
"Hyde, by God! I've an old friend of yours as my Second Lieutenant… Clarence Spendlove," Lewrie informed him as they greeted each other.
"Spendlove, sir? Aye, I'd admire a chance to come aboard and renew his acquaintance before we sail," Lt. Hyde said, glowing with delight.
"Well, now I've drug you all from your breakfasts, pray allow me to provide one whilst we get further acquainted and I discover to you what this is all about," Capt. Blanding chearly offered. He introduced Parham's First Lieutenant, Bilbrey, and his own, Lt. Gilbraith, all round as they took their seats.
There were hot slices of ham-slabs, rather!-there were crisp rashers of bacon, sizzling spiced sausages, even smoked kippers. With all that came fresh eggs, scrambled or fried to individual order, shredded potato hash, and fresh loaves of bread from a shore bakery, cut two fingers thick, offered with a hunk of butter as big as a man's fist, and four different pots of jam! All sluiced down with coffee or tea, to each officer's preference!
They reminisced for a time, and it was all quite jolly, sharing memories and hi-jinks of younger days. Modestes First Lieutenant, Mr. Gilbraith, mostly followed his captain's example as a trencherman par excellence, chuckling over others' "war stories" now and then whilst piling it down as heartily as Captain Blanding did. Stroud, well… as Lewrie remembered him, he'd been a drab, much-put-upon figure who made very little impression; a grey sort of fellow of unremarkable expression and wit, or looks.
Two of 'em with but the one epaulet on their right shoulders, Lewrie took note as he ate; less than Three Years' Seniority, and both Parham and Stroud commandin' Fifth Rate 32-gunners? Anyone to join us later, I wonder? Or am I t'be second in seniority, in whatever this turns out t'be?
"All stuffed?" Captain Blanding asked at last. "Won't eat this well where we're going. Belcher, clear away, then take everyone out on deck for a spell. I'll call should I have need of you."
A bit more conversation of the idle sort, as the tablecloth and plates were cleared, and fresh pots of coffee or tea set on the sideboard for their convenience, and the steward and cabin-servants left.
"Now then!" Blanding said by way of beginning, rubbing his hands together with as much eagerness as he'd greeted his first helping of breakfast. In point of fact, Capt. Blanding put Lewrie in mind of Commodore Ayscough, with all his boisterous bonhomie and energetic way. Minus the haggises, boiled mutton, and bag-pipers, of course!
"The Crown's decided there's no living with the French, so we're going back to war. No secret, there. What we're to do is to seek out, intercept if possible in European waters, but if they slip past us, go in chase of and bring to action a French squadron preparing to sail to the Americas… specifically, from Bonaparte's little puppet Batavian Republic-Holland to good Christians-for New Orleans. Any of us familiar with New Orleans and Spanish Louisiana?"
"I am, sir," Lewrie piped up, wishing he could let out the buttons of his breeches after such a feast. "I was there once."
"Excellent!" Captain Blanding barked with delight. "I trust your experience in those waters will prove of eminent use in our endeavour, sir."
"Why Spanish Louisiana, sir?" Captain Parham asked, raising one hand like a dutiful student. "I'd think the French would wish to establish a stronger naval presence at Martinique, or Guadeloupe, after we handed those colonies back to them last year, before we place all their coast under blockade once more."
"Or a new squadron at Cape Franзois, on Saint Domingue. We'd not winkle them out of there without an army," Lt. Martin Hyde added.
"Sensible conjectures, all," Captain Blanding congratulated as he stirred sugar into his fresh cup of coffee. "But the fact of the matter is, about two years ago, Napoleon made a secret treaty with the King of Spain to exchange Tuscany, or Etruria, or whichever piss-pot conquest of his in Italy, for the return of Louisiana and New Orleans. Seems the King of Spain has a new brother-in-law with nowhere to hang his crown… or needs a crown and a place to hang it suitably grand-sounding to suit his dignity. Bonaparte would get the incredibly rich trade entrepфt of New Orleans, and territory to the west of the United States so vast that no one knows how far it goes.
"Well!" Blanding hooted. "Neither Great Britain nor our republican American cousins would ever stand for that! And even the Corsican half-breed ogre could realise the fact. Yet for a time he did consider building an American empire, and gathered an army in Holland to go take formal possession. This whole past winter, there's been a General Victor in Holland, with an army of three or four demi-brigades, whatever the Pluperfect Hell those are… anyone?"
"My brother-in-law tells me a demi-brigade is about two thousand men, sir," Lewrie contributed. "With engineers, artificers, and a large artillery contingent to fortify New Orleans and the forts strung down the Mississippi at the major bends. That might be an army as big as ten thousand men. Can't cram much more than five hundred of them aboard each transport, so that'd be… twenty ships, plus escort?"
"Damme, that would mean at least six or eight line-of-battle ships and frigates," Capt. Parham spoke up. "Mean to say, sir… are we all that's meant to oppose them?"
"Thank the Good Lord, this Victor chap was iced in all Winter and has had foul winds all Spring, during which time the situation has changed," Captain Blanding was quick to assure them, laughing the thought away. "Even before Easter, anyone could see the war's renewal, if they paid the slightest bit of attention or read but one newspaper a month! We will not face such a large force. You see… " Captain Blanding got as close to the dining table as his girth would admit, hunching bear-like on his elbows as he imparted h
is news in a softer mutter. "There are sources in Paris, d'ye see what sort I mean? They tell our people who deal in such matters that Bonaparte has given up on his dreams for an American empire and will settle for cash… with which to expand his army and navy, and prepare to fight us.
"The French Foreign Minister, Talleyrand, has been negotiating the sale of New Orleans, and all of formerly Spanish Louisiana, to the Yankee Doodles!"
Holy shit on a biscuit! Lewrie thought, stunned; and what will Charitй de Guilleri make o' that, I wonder? Hide a pistol up her bum, get to hand-kissin range, and shoot that bastard Bonaparte? Serve her right… serve him right, and spare us a sea o' bloodshed!
"So they'll still send a squadron to Louisiana, sir?" Parham enquired, puzzled. "And do our… sources say how big it is?"
"Much smaller, for certain," Captain Blanding said, leaning back and making his poor collapsible dining chair creak alarmingly. "Else, Admiralty would not be sending only four ships in pursuit of them. I expect that the French will now use the formal exchange as a pretext for despatching more warships to the West Indies, perhaps even using the suddenly neutral port of New Orleans as a shelter for frigates and privateers. If there are transports, I also expect that they will be sent into Cape Franзois on Saint Domingue to re-enforce what's left of their army fighting the slave rebellion, poor Devils. Perhaps only one or two of those demi-brigades will sail, with a much smaller escort, which might see a single battalion to New Orleans to make the ceremony of handing the place over all elegant and shiny. Fireworks, cannonades, a saluting volley or three? A band playing ' La Marseillaise'?" he disparaged with another hearty chuckle. "Then the French warships are free to pursue a guerre du course against our West Indies trade."
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