“M’sieur, you swear? Zat zey will . . . ?” the interpreter pled.
“Upon my sacred honour and the honour of my country,” he told him. “And I will require the same oath from every officer here. Upon their sacred, personal honour and . . . the sacred honour of France.”
And pray God I don’t have t’say that more’n once a century! he thought, keeping his phyz stern and immobile, though the idea of “the sacred honour of France” almost made him gag.
They swore, some reluctantly, but they swore, then dispersed to be herded below and locked away under Marine guard.
“Desmond? Row back to Reliant and deliver my compliments to Lieutenant Westcott, and bid him ferry over a prize-crew . . . armed to the teeth, mind. We will sail back to re-join the squadron.”
“Aye, sor! Come on, Pat,” his Cox’n replied.
“That Frog shit doesn’t sup with us this evening, sir?” Lewrie asked as Captain Blanding hosted his captains in his poop cabins, ten days after the action, and almost to Kingston, Jamaica.
“Captain Julien Decean . . . our worthy French opponent, is under the weather, Captain Lewrie,” Blanding replied with a wink as his steward indicated that supper was ready to be served. “A dyspeptic distress to his touchy digestion. Don’t much care for English cooking, it would appear,” Blanding added as he thumped his chair close to the table, so the napkin he tucked into his neck-stock could cover his girth. “There is also the matter that he feels we didn’t quite fight fair.”
“Man’s an idiot, sir,” Blanding’s First Lieutenant, Gilbraith, commented. “The very idea that he expected to penetrate a line and separate us into defeatable pieces, ha! Ah, portable soup!”
“Well, Admiral Duncan did at Camperdown, Mister Gilbraith, and doubled on the Dutch,” Lewrie pointed out as a bowl of soup was placed before him. “If he’d had equal numbers, well . . . or, was it tried in a fleet action, with two or three columns.”
“Let us pray that their Navy is full of such dubious tacticians and lofty fools.” Captain Parham chuckled. “Perhaps we should send him back to them, to let him try it on again?”
“As few of our Post-Captains are in French custody, it may be a long while before Decean is exchanged,” Captain Blanding drawled as he tested how hot his soup was, blew on a spoonful, then tasted it. “We may only hope that men of his stripe are entrusted with the command of their ships. And that Napoleon Bonaparte continues to be as ignorant of the sea as he seems, and continues to appoint men like Decean.”
“Hear, hear!” Captain Stroud of Cockerel heartily agreed.
“Upon my word, Captain Lewrie,” Blanding went on, “but I would not have suspected you to possess a shred of charity towards the French, given your, uhm . . . dealings with the devils, but . . . I must own that it would have cut a bit rough with me to be so heartless as to doom those refugees to a Jamaican holding pen. We don’t make war on helpless civilians. It just ain’t Christian!”
“Hear, hear, sir!” Lt. Gilbraith seconded between quick slurps.
“A most fitting end to our endeavour, indeed,” Chaplain Brundish stuck in. “It is one thing to show implacable wrath to those most deserving of it, yet quite another to extend the sweet, kind hand of mercy to those who do not. So British, so English, that it makes me swell with pride to be Church of England.”
“Well said, sir!” Captain Blanding exclaimed. “A most fitting act to gild the laurel wreaths of our victory. For which we have Captain Lewrie to thank for the suggestion.”
“Hear, hear!” Captain Stroud piped up, lifting his glass.
Toady! Lewrie sourly thought.
“Well . . . thankee for sayin’ so, sir,” Lewrie said, striving for proper modesty. “And for acceptin’ my thoughts on what t’do with ’em all. Not their fault they’re French . . . those refugees.”
“I dare say,” Chaplain Brundish said after a sip of wine and a dab at his lips with his napkin, “that news of our victory, as well as our merciful conclusion to it, will make all good Englishmen swell in pride, when it is made known in the papers back home.”
“That, and the casualty list,” Capt. Parham of Pylades added, looking slyly droll.
“Aye, Parham . . . not over a dozen of ours slain, not two dozen wounded,” Captain Stroud proudly said, “The most Modeste’s, sorry to say, but then, you did bear the brunt of the action, sir. Most proficiently and ably. As opposed to the French losses, that is.”
Blanding bowed in place, pleased as punch by the compliment.
“Aye, the Mob’ll be mad for it,” Lewrie commented.
It was what the Publick at home had come to expect of the Royal Navy, the impossible victory by an out-numbered, out-gunned squadron or lighter single frigate ’gainst a bigger, with a pleasing “butcher’s bill” of enemy slain to report in the papers.
That they had accomplished; the leading French frigate had had over 350 men aboard—they always over-manned—and when she had struck and been boarded, nigh half of them were dead or wounded, with the rest staggering round in shock or slumped dead-drunk after breaking into the spirits stores of brandy, wine, rum, ratafia, or arrack. The French flagship had had over 700 in her crew, and a quarter of them had perished or been horribly maimed.
The trailing frigate that had struck to Cockerel and Pylades . . . well, that was another sterling example of British pluck and daring, and French timidity; though she had taken very little damage and very few casualties, her captain had seen the futility of vigourous resistance and had fired off only two or three broadsides before striking her colours and surrendering. Parham, a considerate young man towards his sailors, seemed satisfied, though Stroud, out to make a name for himself, Lewrie suspected, still seemed disappointed.
“As we lay up treasure of a temporal nature in a Prize-Court, I expect we also lay up more treasure with Admiralty, and the nation, for a job well done,” Captain Blanding congratulated himself smugly as his soup bowl was removed and a fresh plate laid before him. “Oh, the sea-pie, good ho!”
“And treasure in Heaven, sir,” Chaplain Brundish added with a deep, blessing-like nod of his head, “for the Christian mercy bestowed upon the innocent at its conclusion.”
“Quite so, ha ha!” Stroud seconded.
“We may only hope that our temporal treasure will be paid out in honest measure, though, sirs,” Lewrie said as he took a fork full of the hearty sea-pie. “There are half a dozen prize-agents at Kingston, and only one or two may be trusted not t’scalp us bald. I know of only one I ever dealt with who played me fair, and God only knows if he’s still in business, after the long peace.”
“Bedad, yes!” Blanding exclaimed. “Why, between the four ships we took, all of them French National ships, not merchantmen, there may be an hundred thousand pounds owing . . . and none of it due to Admiral Duckworth, haw haw!”
“Head-And-Gun Money on the two-decker transport, too,” Stroud reminded them. “All those soldiers, to boot?”
“Be months before they’re condemned and bought in to the Navy,” Blanding cautioned. “Even so, some small advances may be made to us.”
“Enough for a proper wine cellar, I trust,” Captain Parham enthused, chuckling. “Serving with Captain Lewrie in the past, I gained an appreciation for fine wines . . . and lashings of prize-money from our previous captures. Some of the ships we took back then, their masters or captains were possessed of discerning palates, were they not, sir?”
“A few of ’em, aye, Parham,” Lewrie wistfully agreed, “but some with the taste of Philistines. The piratical sorts, mostly.”
“And what might you do with your spoils, Captain Lewrie? Any special wishes?” Stroud asked, trying to be “chummy.”
“You know . . . ,” Lewrie said, sitting back to ponder that query for a long moment. He took a sip of wine, then grinned. “I think I will buy a penny-whistle.”
To the rest, it was a jape, an amazement.
But Lewrie really meant it.
EPILOGUE
. . . that if good men called werriours
Would take in hand for the commons succours,
To purge the Sea unto our great avayle,
And winne hem goods, and have up the sayle,
And on our enemies their lives to impart,
So that they might their prises well depart,
As reason wold, justice and equitie;
To make this land have Lordship of the Sea.
HAKLUYT’’S VOYAGES
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Uhm . . . strictly speaking, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, “the transport we took. The rest of the squadron wasn’t ‘In Sight’ when we took her. Would she not he our prize, alone, sir?”
“In the spirit of amity, I allowed Captain Blanding to present her as a squadron capture, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie told his First Officer. Lewrie looked over his shoulder through the opened sash-windows of Reliant’s transom at their prizes, now safely anchored in Kingston Harbour under guard of the Jamaica Station, with all their prisoners penned up aboard the hulks or in shore prisons, and felt a smug pride to see the French Tricolours idly flapping beneath Union Flags.
Lewrie was being his usual lazy self, stretched out on the transom settee cushions in white slop-trousers and shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, propped up on an upright timber.
“A piddlin’ matter, Mister Westcott,” he told his First Officer. “After the fulsome things he wrote about us to Admiralty.” He shrugged and grinned, pointing to the prizes. “They’ll be goin’ home after the hurricane season’s done. Months from now, dependin’ on the ruling of the Prize Court. A man who commands one for the passage stands a good chance of promotion, once back in England. Interested, sir? Should I put your name forward, or let Rear-Admiral Sir John Duckworth reward one o’ his favourites?”
“Not really, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied, shaking his head as he sat in a chair near Lewrie’s desk, nursing a tumbler of cool tea. “I’d prefer to remain in Reliant.”
“Better ‘the Devil you know,’ Mister Westcott?” Lewrie japed.
“More like . . . liking the company I keep, sir,” Westcott said, flashing one of his brief, toothy grins.
“Good, then. For my part, I’d hate to lose you,” Lewrie told him, glad of that news. “Ye never can tell . . . we might get stuck into some new harum-scarum adventures. Or, like the old sayin’ goes, ‘His men’d follow him anywhere . . . just t’see what he’d get into next’?”
Westcott diplomatically said nothing, just laughed, then began to gather up the paperwork they had been going over, preparing to leave. “By the by, sir, the Purser and the Surgeon have found a source ashore for citronella oils and candles to combat the fevers. They’re not at all expensive, in bulk, but they don’t know how much to purchase and, ah . . . it would be an out-of-pocket expense, not covered by the Admiralty Board.”
“I’ll speak to them,” Lewrie replied, though he had left things to his former Ship’s Surgeon, Mr. Durant, and hadn’t a clue how much it would take to fume the ship each day at anchor. He got to his feet to see Westcott to the forrud door of the great-cabins.
“Oh, your mail’s on your desk, sir,” Westcott reminded him.
“Thankee, Mister Westcott. Whilst you find some amusement in the town, I’ll have that and my new penny-whistle to keep me amused. Good day to you, sir.”
“Good day, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, departing.
Once Westcott had left the great-cabins, Lewrie bade Pettus to pour him another glass of cold tea and sat at his desk to sort through his letters. They had left England in late May, and here it was late September, and this was the first correspondence the ship had gotten.
He looked through the official letters first, dealt with what few required answers or explanations, then turned to the personal mail. There was one from Hugh, aboard Pegasus, and he tore into it.
The lad was prospering nicely, Captain Charlton was very kind to him, and he was learning his trade among a swarm of other Midshipmen, most of whom were friendly; he had not fallen for most of their japes played on “newlies,” though he had been the victim of a few new ones that Lewrie had never heard of.
Lewrie grimaced as he picked up one from his father and broke the wax seal, sure that he was now a thousand pounds richer, but a lot poorer in land or house.
My son (his father began)
I write to inform you of the most Distressing turn of Events anene your eldest, Sewallis.
“Oh, Christ!” Lewrie groaned, passing a hand over his eyes; had he not suffered enough this last year?
He did not return to his school, though I assure you I saw him into the coach myself. He has run away to Sea, employing his term Tuition, extracurricular Fees, and a sum of Money he evidently had saved up, including, I regret to admit, ten pounds I gave him as a gift for sweets and such.
“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie yelped, jerking to his feet.
After I did not receive any correspondence from him for a fortnight, he sent me a Letter from Sheerness, just before I was going to coach to his School to ask of him and his Health (his father’s missive continued)
With more Guile and Perserverance than we may have ever given the lad credit for, he kitted himself out as a Midshipman, and has found himself a captain willing to take him on. He boasted in his Letter that he had employed a rough draft of one you penned when first seeking a place for Hugh, copying it and substituting his own name, forging your Signature as best he was able . . .
“Holy shit on a biscuit!” Lewrie gawped. “Forgery does run in the family! Christ, the damned little fool!”
. . . two, actually, one to Admiralty, and one to give to a Captain Benjamin Rodgers, fitting out his Third Rate, Aeneas,for Channel Fleet. He posted his Letter the very hour of Sailing, so I was unable to retrieve him, and, I must confess, am loath to take the Matter to the attention of Admiralty, or his new Captain, lest our family’s good Name, and Sewallis’s Repute, be tainted forever by the admission of Forgery. In short, I am at a loss as to what to do which would not redound to our good credit.
“Didn’t know we had any!” Lewrie gravelled as he paced about.
For the nonce (his father went on) I have sent the lad a note-of-hand for fifty pounds’ spending Money with which to keep himself in his Mess, along with a stern letter of Admonishment, but I do not know what else we may do!
“And neither do I, Goddammit!” Lewrie spat, fetching up near the open transom windows once more, his shock deflating with a long sigh of exasperation. “What got into him?” he muttered. “He ain’t cut out for this life! He ain’t tough enough t’prosper!”
“Bad news, sir?” Pettus asked as he and Jessop tidied up the great-cabins.
“Uh, no, not really,” Lewrie lied. “S’prised, more-like.” He looked down to the letter once more, reading . . .
It may be for the best, Alan. Sewallis has need of exposure to Life and its Harshness. In the end his Actions may make a Man of him. He is a Lewrie, and partly a Willoughby, may I so imagine. At any rate, it is his Choice, rash and foolhardy though it may be. He has made his bed; perhaps we must allow him to lie in it, and make his own Way.
But, if he’s a miserable failure at it, he’s ruined forever, Lewrie thought, sitting down on the transom settee again, the letter drooped from a limp hand, conjuring how crushed the gentle, scholarly, and stiffly withdrawn Sewallis would come out of it; of how jaundiced he would be against himself for his failure, or any other career open to him once sent ashore as a cack-handed, cunny-thumbed “lubber.”
“Why the Hell did God ever let me be a father?” Lewrie whispered. “Surely, He knew I’d be so miserable at it . . . poor, wee chuck.”
Still, Sewallis was scholarly, and learned quickly, retaining facts like a sponge. If he was reticent, he was bookish and good at mathematics, so he might turn out to be a dab-hand navigator. They’d taught him how to shoot and ride and handle a sword. If he was shy, he’d be the butt of all the japes in his mess, perhaps be bullied by the older
, crueller lads, but . . . surely he’d already survived treatment like that at his schools.
It wasn’t as if the lad had gone to sea with stars in his eyes, after all, and it hadn’t been done on a passing whim; he’d schemed to get ready for it. He was determined.
I never knew he had the pluck! Lewrie realised; I’d’ve expected it of Hugh, were he the eldest, but . . . Sewallis?
“So be it,” Lewrie muttered. “He’s on his own bottom. Least he’s Benjamin Rodgers for a captain, in a seventy-four.”
There would be fifteen or more other Midshipmen aboard . . . HMS Aeneas, was it? No one would expect too much, right off, of a “Johnny New-Come” in such a large mess. And if Aeneas was down for Channel Fleet, she’d most-like serve on the blockade of France, far out to sea with a squadron of line-of-battle ships, not close inshore with the frigates and sloops, in almost constant risk of going aground, or much in the way of fighting, either. The lad might never hear a gun fired in anger! Which fact settled Lewrie’s fears, somewhat.
Now, what Anglesgreen, his neighbours, and his family and in-laws would make of it was another matter. They would naturally decide that he’d deliberately sent Sewallis to sea, the facts bedamned!
He looked back to his father’s letter, noting that Sir Hugo had urged Sewallis to write and confess it all, to be a man about what he had done. That’ll be a wonder, when it comes, I’d wager, Lewrie told himself with a cynical snort.
As for other matters (his father continued) your Property is still in negotiation, with Phineas Chiswick unwilling to pay more than £1,000, though I hear that he intends to garner £4,000 when he sells to the Trenchers. We hold out for £1,500.
My pardons if the subject is still Grievous, but you mentioned one Sir Pulteney Plumb and his wife, Lady Imogene, whom you said had been of great Avail when you & your late Wife fled Paris, and France, shortly after the Services. After consulting DeBrett’s, I could find no evidence that a man of that Name has ever been Knighted, nor any Plumb, for that matter.
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