Munsell and Grainger found that funny, too.
“More sea-room,” Lewrie said. “Out of the narrows of the Old Bahama Channel and into the Nicholas Channel by morning, is that your reckoning, Mister Caldwell?”
“Aye, sir . . . into deeper water,” that worthy cautiously said. “Cross the Tropic of Cancer by Noon Sights, perhaps, as we enter the Florida Straits. Pray God the weather clears, for the Straits are a boisterous place of their own, quite the equal of the seas we’ve experienced lately.”
“That won’t make Captain Blanding happy,” Westcott said with a smirk as he dabbed his lips with his napkin. “Even with clear skies and steady winds, we’d lose a knot per hour.”
“ ‘Make All Sail Conformable To The Weather,’ hey?” Lewrie added, chuckling. That had been Modeste’s signal for two days.
“Per . . . perhaps the French are slowed by the same conditions, sir?” Midshipman Grainger essayed in a meek voice.
“Sailing two days before us, I doubt it, Mister Grainger,” Mr. Westcott told them. “The worst they’d get, ahead of the squalls, is the gust-front wind, which will only make them faster.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” Westcott said to Lewrie, “for talking ‘shop’ at-table.”
“I’ve always found such constructive, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie assured him. “I know no poetry to recite, ’cept for some doggerel, not fit for young ears. No high-toned books in my library t’discuss, and we’re all most-like horrid at music, so . . . why not?”
“Then, sir . . . should we have stayed at Cape François and taken the French surrender?” Lt. Westcott posed, shifting in his chair and looking a bit distressed. “I know they’re the enemy, but I’d not wish such a fate on anyone.”
“We have explicit orders, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie answered as he dabbed his own lips, then took a sip of wine. “It was, I imagine, a trial for this French fellow in charge of their squadron, Decean. He could have stayed . . . added his last battalion of troops to defend the city, and taken hundreds of civilians aboard for New Orleans. It’s a French city, after all, and every refugee’d be welcome. Same as it is a trial for Captain Blanding. Both have explicit orders.”
“And if we had stayed, sirs,” Mr. Caldwell stuck in, “what are the chances the French would’ve surrendered to us? Their general may have thought he could hold out for months or delayed ’til he could deal with Rear-Admiral Duckworth, a man of rank suitable to his own. They’re touchy, the Frogs. Too proud to admit they’d have to surrender, or accept terms, from anybody.”
“And we’d have failed to execute our orders, to our peril, and Captain Blanding’s career,” Lewrie said as Pettus and his own cook, Yeovill, bustled in with large covered trays, fetching roasted quail raised from the eggs or chicklets bought in Portsmouth, potatoes and beans, and the entrée of salt-beef.
“Are the French really all that bad, sir?” Midshipman Munsell hesitantly asked. “All of them, that is? If their Commodore or whatever took pity on the people at Cape François, and took aboard as many refugees as he could . . . as you said, sir? Their big Indiaman might be full of women and children, ’stead of soldiers. Might we . . . uhm?”
Aye, they bloody are! Lewrie quickly, angrily thought. As for Munsell’s fear . . . We could end up killin’ as many civilians as those Black rebels. No, surely they’d strike their colours, soon as we get to hailin’ distance! Wouldn’t that make Blanding tear his hair out. A bloodless victory? Oh, the poor bastard.
“If this Decean fellow did take civilians aboard, there would not be that many, Mister Munsell,” Lewrie told him after a long frown and think. “Not aboard his armed ships, for certain. He’d have to work his guns, if overtaken . . . to protect the transport. He might’ve kept no more than two or three companies of troops. Mean t’say, how many Frogs does it take t’make a dumb-show or fire a ceremonial volley?”
“His frigates and seventy-four would most-like come about and fight us, Mister Munsell,” Lt. Westcott added, “giving the Indiaman a shot at escaping to leeward. If she’s swift enough, she’s probably already placed ahead of their other ships, against that very chance.”
“To shepherd her, sir?” Midshipman Munsell said, nodding as if he understood the concept . . . almost.
“Just as we’d shepherd a convoy of our own, aye,” Lt. Westcott replied, then lowered his head to finish his cooling soup.
“Once out in the Gulf of Mexico, though . . . ,” the Sailing Master said with a shrug, slurping up his last spoonful and looking eagerly in Yeovill’s direction as the cook filled plates, “it’s ‘needle in a hay-stack’ as to finding them. The surest wager would be to race on West-Nor’west on a bee-line for the Mississippi Delta. If the French didn’t put into Havana and think it over first. Now they know they are at war again . . . oh, spiced rice with the quail, too? Good oh!”
“Easy to make, sir,” Yeovill said as he and Pettus set plates before them. “And rice is cheap, but filling. Can do wonders with it, Mister Caldwell.”
“Too close to Jamaica, and Duckworth’s squadron?” Lewrie said, frowning again as his soup bowl was removed and the next course was placed before him; he drummed his fingers on the table top, pondering. “If Decean knows we’re at war, and the bee-line is so obvious . . . hmm.”
“Sir?” Lt. Westcott prompted.
“If he sheltered in Havana, he’d fail his orders,” Lewrie said, looking up. “But if he steers closer to Pensacola or Mobile, that’d take him North of the obvious route but still get him to New Orleans, as far out of Duckworth’s reach as he can get. If discovered, he has a chance t’duck into one of ’em, under the protection of a fort and its artillery, and send his troops overland through Spanish territory.
“His mission’s a success even if his ships are interned!” Lewrie exclaimed, fighting the urge to rush to the chart-space to fetch dividers, compass, and ruler, and spread a chart over their supper dishes. “Were I Captain Blanding, I’d steer Nor’west t’hunt for ’em. If we had enough ships, that is. Or . . . spread out what we have to the limit of signallin’ and sightin’ distance, stretched as far North of the usual track, the most direct course, as we can.”
“Glass of hock with the quail, sir?” Pettus suggested, hovering with a fresh bottle of white wine.
“Aye, Pettus, thankee,” Lewrie agreed, tossing back the last of his claret and offering his glass to be filled. “Just a thought,” he told the others with a shrug and a lifted eyebrow.
“Would the Dons let them march through their territory, though, sir?” Lt. Westcott wondered aloud. “From what I’ve read, the Spanish might as well be puppets of the French, but . . . are they that eager to become Bonaparte’s active allies again? Their minister, Godoy, is a spineless wretch, ready to do whatever the French want, I’ve heard.”
“Would it be a hard march, sir?” Mr. Caldwell asked. “On what sort of roads, I wonder. After all, this Captain Decean needs them to be . . . presentable when they reach New Orleans. Alive, too, I should imagine,” he added with a laugh.
Lewrie recalled his time in West Florida, up the Apalachicola; there were no roads, just game trails, Indian trading paths.
“Closer to New Orleans, then,” he announced with a sudden smile. “Much closer . . . almost to Lake Pontchartrain. We need a chart. . . .”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Six days out from Cape François, and the weather relented. The squadron cleared the Florida Straits and entered the Gulf of Mexico at last, with the Dry Tortugas a bit over the horizon on their starboard beams. Drill on the great-guns and small-arms practice resumed on all ships, All sails that could be bared to the winds bloomed aloft again, including stuns’ls; with them came laundry, damp and mildewed changes of slop-clothing, and bedding. While it had rained so hard, canvas sluices had thriftily been rigged, and some of the deluge had been funnelled into spare butts that the Cooper and his Mate had assembled from hoops and staves stored on the orlop, the first depleted casks and butts of the voyage hoisted out, scrubbed,
and rinsed, then re-filled with fresh water and stored below once more. There was so much spare water, for once, that every hand could wash his slops “shore-fashion” instead of soaping the worst smuts, then towing them astern in net bags, hoping the churning ship’s wake would get them mostly clean. That method engrained salt crystals in the cloth, and when worn, resulted in ugly salt-water boils which the Ship’s Surgeon and his Mates spent time lancing and daubing with ointment . . . the cost of such services deducted from the sailors’ pay, the same as a “mercury cure” for the venereal Pox.
Modeste signalled for live-fire exercises on the great-guns at least once a day, demanding three rounds from each gun every two minutes, and God help the ship, and the captain, and the signals party of any ship that did not meet his standards! Captain Blanding would not veer from his urgent chase to the West-Nor’west long enough to set out old kegs for targets, then double back to fire at them in passing in-line-ahead. The rate of fire was paramount, not the proper elevating or aiming, to his mind; after all, would he not bring the French right up to close-broadsides, where proper aim did not matter?
“Fair enough, Mister Rahl,” Lewrie congratulated the grizzled older Prussian. Their Master Gunner had suggested that they shift the guns as far forward in the ports as they could, fire a round from one of the forecastle chase guns, then let the individual gun-captains aim at the shot-splash as they sailed past it, and it seemed that most of the crews of the all-important 18-pounders were catching on quickly. “One more from the starboard chase gun, and we’ll see how close they come with a full broadside before we cease for the morning.”
“Sehr gut, Kapitän! Sofort!” Mr. Rahl barked, standing at the base of the starboard companionway to the waist, so stiffly at attention that he resembled one of Kaiser Friedrich the Great’s grenadiers. “Ja, very gut, sir, at once!” he amended before turning to speak to Lt. Spendlove and Lt. Merriman, relaying Lewrie’s orders.
“Quite the odd duck, sir,” Lt. Westcott commented. “Once a soldier, forever a soldier. Crash-bang, about turn, hep hep!”
“Damned good gunner, though,” Lewrie replied. “Though I don’t know what he’d do if he ever ran out of wax for his mustachios. Go mad, I expect.” He pulled out his pocket-watch to check the time; it lacked a quarter-hour to Seven Bells of the Forenoon, and the morning rum ration. “Last broadside, then Secure from Quarters. Can’t delay the grog!”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott said with a grin. “And may I say that I envy you your chair, sir?” he added tongue in cheek. “I must admit I own to a certain wish to sit through part of a watch, whether the Navy approves or not.”
“Sprawl, rather, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie corrected him. “Even snooze! I already stand accused o’ bein’ an idle, improper bastard, and freely confess to the charges. In my last days in the West Indies, I was even known to sprawl and tootle on my penny-whistle.” The Carpenter, Mr. Mallard, and his Mate, Swift, had cobbled together a canvas-and-wood collapsible sling-chair to his directions, and it was now almost a permanent fixture on the windward side of the quarterdeck, the weather permitting. “We both know that half the captains in the Fleet are eccentric, so . . . ,” he said with a shrug and a pleased grin.
“Starb’d batt’ry . . . by broadside . . . fire!” Lt. Spendlove was shouting.
“Stop ears!” Lewrie warned. The gun-captains properly waited for the scend of the sea, the up-roll, before jerking their lanyards to trip the flintlock strikers. Then the guns exploded.
“Oh, well shot!” Westcott enthused to see the tall feathers of spray rise all round the chase gun’s first fading shell-splash, close enough to satisfy even Captain Blanding’s standards. “Mister Merriman, Mister Spendlove! Sponge out and secure from Quarters!”
“Signal, sir . . . our number, and it’s ‘Well Done,’ ” Midshipman Warburton reported from the taffrail flag lockers. “And, ‘Secure’ . . . then ‘Rum,’ sir. Spelled out.”
“How oddly terse of him!” Lewrie said with a laugh. “Must have too much on his mind.”
“God help us, sir, when he does have so much on his mind, he’ll signal it to one and all!” Westcott snickered. “ ‘Flag Flux.’ ”
Lewrie had come to appreciate Lt. Westcott; not only was he an experienced and tarry-handed officer, he was a likeable one. Firm but fair was his manner in bringing Reliant to nigh-perfect competence, to present the frigate on a serving-plate to her captain as a going concern. Any crew appreciated a Commission Sea Officer who seemingly had eyes in the back of his head, his finger on the pulse of everything yet was not a Tartar or a soured tyrant. Westcott did almost all duties with long-practised ease and a quirky grin on his face, a brow cocked in perpetual amusement over the failings of humankind, and rarely had to rage or shout, except to call from the quarterdeck to someone halfway to the foc’s’le to pass an order. Where other officers might yell and fume, a stern look from Westcott was sufficient to let his men know he was wroth with their performance. And Westcott rarely had to bring a defaulter to Lewrie for corporal punishment; he was not a flogger, but for the most extreme faults.
And his personality off-duty was slyly, wryly witty and worldly, causing Lewrie to imagine that they were kindred spirits, “two peas in a pod” rascals, with the same sort of tongue-in-cheek humour. Ballard, now dead and gone at Copenhagen, he’d mistakenly thought was a friend, but that had been a dutiful sham; Ralph Knolles in HMS Jester had been earnest, likeable, and immensely competent, but had never attempted to cross the line from subordinate to friend. Anthony Langlie had come as close to being a companionable confidant as any of his officers in the Proteus frigate. Then had come “Ed’rd” Urquhart in Savage; intensely sobre and determined, so new to the frigate and dumped into her long-serving officers, mates, and crew which had “turned over” from Proteus, entire, and they’d barely spent a year together before Lewrie had lost her to another, before his trial. Geoffrey Westcott was as close as Lewrie had come in his entire career at sea to finding someone he could un-bend with . . . or he thought he could. Lewrie liked him! It was risky to do, lest a friendship could be taken advantage of, detrimental to good order and discipline and the enforced separateness required of a captain; like favouring one of his offspring over another, it could lead to bad feelings in the wardroom.
“Permission t’pipe ‘Clear Decks and Up Spirits,’ sir?” Westcott asked as Seven Bells chimed from the forecastle belfry.
“Carry on, sir.”
The guns were swabbed out, tompions replaced, muzzles washed, and the barrels and carriages bowsed below the port sills, the ports secured, and all gun-tools returned below. The Marine drummer began to beat, and the fifers launched into “The Bowld Soldier Boy,” one of Lt. Simcock’s particular favourites. The Purser, his clerk, and assistant, the Master-At-Arms Mr. Appleby, and the Ship’s Corporals, Scammell and Keetch, escorted by Marine Sergeant Trickett and Corporals Mogridge and Brownlie, brought up the red-and-gilt painted rum keg, raising a chorus of Huzzahs and Hurrays from the waiting sailors.
I like that tune! Lewrie told himself; my father and I sang it once in Hyde Park . . . drunk as lords, most-like. Or well on the way to it. Where did I pack my penny-whistle?
He strolled about the quarterdeck as the ship’s people queued up for their tots. Hands in the small of his back, he studied the sails and rigging for a way to wrench a bit more speed from her, where the winds stood off her starboard quarters, by craning up at the commissioning pendant. Looking ahead, then astern to the other ships, lined up with a mile between them. Hum-tootling the tune under his breath, and
. . . while up the street, each girl ye meet
will cry! Oh, isn’t he a dar-uhl-lin’
my bowld soldier boy!
Mouthing the words, almost silently.
This won’t do, Lewrie thought, suddenly losing his good mood. “Mister Warburton!” he called, heading aft. “A signal to Modeste . . . ‘Submit,’ then ‘Form Line-Abreast.’ After that, send ‘Extend Hunt to Nor’west.’ Take this d
own . . . ‘Believe Chase Will Hug North Coast.’ ”
“Aye, sir,” Midshipman Warburton said, scribbling it down with a pencil stub on a scrap of paper, then turning to his signalmen and the flag lockers.
Some of that only took one or two flags in the Popham Code, but the rest took a long time to spell out, letter by letter. It was nigh to Noon Sights before Modeste replied, and that was a laconic set of flags for “Acknowledged.” After that, nothing.
And it was mid-afternoon, after Lewrie’s mid-day meal, before Modeste sent up hoists, first a General for all ships, prefaced by one gun to get their attention.
“ ‘Alter Course West-Nor’west, Half North,’ sir,” Midshipman Mr. Entwhistle spelled out.
At least he’ll compromise, halfway between, Lewrie thought.
“Then, uhm . . . ,” Entwhistle continued, thumbing through his book to interpret the rest. “ ‘Form Line-Abreast . . . Order of Sailing . . . Northernmost Number Three.’ ”
“Pylades,” Lewrie said aloud.
“Number Two, that’s us, sir . . . Number Four, then One. Distance Between Ships . . . Ten Miles Day . . . Five Miles Night,” Entwhistle read off haltingly. “The Preparative is up, sir.”
“Very well. Mister Westcott? All Hands! Ready to haul up to windward and form line-abreast,” Lewrie ordered.
At the drop of the Preparative, Modeste surged on West-Nor’west while Cockerel wheeled off to her starboard side, and Reliant and Pylades swung onto a beam reach, bound Due North, headed for the horizon. Though it was hard on Captain Blanding to change his mind or take heed of a suggestion, Lewrie was learning, he wasn’t entirely pig-headed.
Modeste could scan the seas out to twelve miles to larboard and ahead, and have Cockerel ten miles North of her, looking ahead another twelve miles, as would Reliant ten miles North of her; lastly, Pylades could see twelve miles ahead and to the North, making a scouting line that could search a swath of ocean fifty-four miles across during the daylight hours.
King, Ship, and Sword Page 36