Swords were flourished, boots stamped, muskets were presented, and the calls sang like eagles on high as he stepped in-board, safely on his own decks once more, and doffing his hat to the side-party and his gathered crew, who stood on gangways or in the waist with their hats in hand, their heads bared in their own salute. Some still chewing?
"The hands have eat, Mister Langlie?" he asked.
"In the process, sir," his First Lieutenant responded.
"My apologies for arriving in the middle of their meal, then, and pipe them back below, 'fore it goes cold on 'em. I take it that the galley is still hot?"
"Aye, sir."
"Then I'll have a pot of coffee," Lewrie briskly said, clapping his mittened hands together. "I've a chest and two bags to be got up."
"I'll see to it, directly, sir," Langlie vowed.
"Everything else in order for sailing, Mister Langlie?"
"Aye, sir. Last despatches came aboard just after you went off for shore, last afternoon," the darkly handsome Langlie said, smiling.
"Very well. Dismiss the hands back to their breakfasts, and I will be aft and below, 'til… Six Bells, at which time we'll get her underway. Carry on, Mister Langlie."
He went down the starboard ladder from the gangway to the waist, then aft into his great-cabins, past the Marine sentry; past the dining coach to larboard and the chart-space to starboard, the two dog-boxes where his clerk and his manservant slept, and into his day-cabin where an iron brazier/stove tried its best to banish the cold, its belly stoked with sea-coal and kindling.
Aspinall took his hat, cloak and sword, and his mittens, while Lewrie rubbed his hands over the brazier, thinking that if Admiralty were of a mind to punish him by shooing him off someplace very far overseas, he could at least be thankful that it would be someplace warm!
Riddled with malaria, cholera, and Yellow Jack, but warm! Lewrie chortled to himself. After a futile moment of trying to thaw out, he went aft to his desk, to survey the pile of official despatches bound in canvas and wax-sealed ribbons, his last personal correspondence…
Nope, nothin' new, he thought with a tired sigh. He had tried to call upon Lord Spencer and Mr. Nepean at Admiralty, but had been informed that those worthies had nothing particular to say to him, hence he had not been admitted. A letter had come from them, urging him "… should there be no pressing delay in your affairs, to repair at once to Sheerness to supervise the refit of your ship."
And once in Sheerness, the dockyard officials had been dilatory in supplying his wants, while other letters came down from London that urged a quick return to sea, and slyly asking "whyever not, already?"
Oh, it was harsh! Admiralty was miffed, not for his "affair" or morals; officialdom was miffed because he had had no control over his wife in public! On such things were careers unmade.
If he wished Proteus repainted, it would be at his own expense, though he had written one of those letters asking "… with the supply of paint on hand, Sirs, and the meagre budget allotted for the task, which side of the ship do you prefer that we paint?"
That had not warranted a reply, which was fortunate, for Admiralty was not known for its sense of humour, and any answer would have been a harsh censure, perhaps his relief and replacement as captain!
Finally, orders had come aboard, for the West Indies! Sealed orders, most intriguingly not to be opened 'til he had weathered Cape St. Vincent off Spain 's Sou'west tip, had also accompanied them.
Since the war started in 1793, Prime Minister William Pitt and his coterie had shoved troops and ships into the Caribbean, eager for possession of every "sugar" island. It had cost the lives of 40,000 soldiers and seamen, so far. Once Fever Season struck, regiments and ships' companies could be reduced to pitiful handfuls in a trice!
No matter Lewrie had prospered there in his midshipman days, he had gone down with Yellow Jack in 1781, and had been damned lucky to survive it, even if every hair on his head had fallen out and he had turned the colour of a ripe quince! He was safe, therefore, unable to catch it again, but his hands…?
Whilst Proteus was being re-rigged and re-armed, he had studied every anecdote, every official report he could lay his hands on anent service in the West Indies, looking for any clue as to why some ships
hadn't suffered catastrophic loss, while others turned to ghost ships. He had spoken to Mr. Shirley the Surgeon and his mates, but even they were pretty much clueless.
It was "bad air"-Mal-Aria-the miasmas that rose from the soil of tropic lands at night, but they could not seal every port and hatchway, not without smothering or roasting the "people" in their own sweat and exhalations. They had requested assefoetida herbs to make sachets through which to breathe "bad air," but had been told that such would come from their own pockets, like much of a naval surgeon's stock of medicines, no matter the terms of the recent mutinies that required Admiralty to issue them free.
Empirically, fresh-boiled water was sometimes safer than water kept for weeks in-cask, and water taken aboard in the tropics was best if placed in fresh-scoured casks, and taken only from a clear-running stream. Mr. Durant had suggested going a bit more inland for water, to get above the usual wells or streams where cattle or horses drank, to avoid taking on the obvious turds, but even he didn't think that would aid in avoiding malaria or Yellow Jack. Cholera, perhaps, he had concluded, with a mystified Gallic shrug.
Lewrie had even queried his Coxswain, Andrews, once a slave in a rich Jamaican plantation house, about malaria and Yellow Jack as he had seen it when growing up.
"Wuss in mos'keeter time, sah," Andrews had puzzled, "when it's so hot an' still, an' th' air's full of 'em. I heered some ships don't get took so bad, do they stand off-and-on, nor anchor on a lee shore, but…" A mystified black man's shrug was nigh to a French one, one could safely deduce. For God's sake, every safe harbour in the Indies was in some island's lee!
Shovin' us off t'sea in February, Lewrie groused to himself, as he pawed through his pile of letters; if that ain't a sign of their displeasure, I don't know what is. Lisbon first, despatches to Old Jarvy and his fleet… mid or late March, maybe early April before we fetch Antigua or Jamaica, hmmm… a safe month or so, fore it gets hot and the mosquitoes begin to swarm?
He pondered Jesuit's Bark, chinchona, what was termed quinine; South American, probably cheaper and more available nearer its source. It was reputed to cure malaria, or ease its symptoms. Could he force the hands to drink chinchona bark tea as a preventative? Or would he have another mutiny on his hands, since it tasted like Satan's Piss?
Fresh fruit would be plenteous everywhere they went, and Mr. Shirley was certain that almost any fruit was anti-scorbutic to some degree, so they could avoid scurvy, if nothing else.
But one had to go ashore to get 'em, he thought; Never anchor in a lee harbour or bay, near marshes and such, stand off-and-on after dark, well out to sea and up to windward of any land…?
" Yer coffee, sir," Aspinall announced, entering with an iron pot cradled in a dish-clout against its heat, to set on the brazier.
"Oh, good!" Lewrie replied, turning to smile at him, but seeing Caroline's portrait on the forward bulkhead of the dining coach; back when she was young and new-married, fresh and willowy, in a gauzy off-shoulder morning gown with a wide straw hat bound under her chin with a pale blue ribbon, East Bay of Nassau Harbour behind her, her light brown hair still worn long and loose and girlish, teased by the Nor'east Trades, painted smiling instead of the more common stern visage of most portraits, her merry eyes crinkling in delight, with the riant folds below those eyes…!
He averted his gaze.
He had considered taking her picture down, but had feared what gossip that would cause, worse. Busy ashore, and sleeping out of the ship nights, even when she was back in the water… God only knew what the gunroom, the bosun's mess, the midshipmens' cockpit on the orlop, and the forecastle hands had made of that! Already there were the averted eyes, the cautiously framed speech…!
Aspinall
brought him a cup of coffee in his silvered tankard, from the HMS Jester days, with shore cream and pared turbinado sugar.
There were letters of a personal nature on his desk; one from his father Sir Hugo, one from Sophie, and a damned thick one from Theoni… already? He quickly shovelled that one into a drawer. Nothing from Caroline or the children, though.
All his official correspondence was up to date; his clerk Mr. Padgett had seen to that the past afternoon, all his bills paid. There was nothing to do but stew and fret and drink his coffee 'til Six Bells and 7 a.m. when it was time to sail, after the mists had burned off.
"Yer dunnage, sir," Aspinall said as two of his Irish sailors, the dim giant Furfy and his mate Liam Desmond, came traipsing in with his shore bags and the chest of last-minute stores.
"Mornin', men."
"Mornin', Cap'um, sor… top o' th' mornin', sor. That eager we be, t'see th' Indies… beggin' th' cap'um's pardon, sor."
"At least it'll be warmer, there's a blessin'," Lewrie replied, smiling in spite of himself. "Thankee, men. That'll be all."
Toulon bestirred himself after an impressive stretch or two and a gargantuan yawn, to come sniffing and pawing at the chest that held his "treats" for the coming months, mewing with expectant delight.
" Toulon… look!" Lewrie enticed, taking a new knit ball from his coat pocket. Theoni had made it, complete with a wee harness bell and some ribbons firmly sewn to it. "Tinkle, tinkle, see?"
"Murr-errf!" was the cat's glad cry. In a trice, he was hounding it from transom settee to forrud bulkhead, tail up and thundering.
"Up and down, sir!" Midshipman Grace, their youngest and newest, called from the forecastle.
"Heave and haul away!" Lt. Langlie shouted back. "Bosun…! Pipe topmen aloft! Trice up, lay out, and make sail!"
Lewrie paced his quarterdeck, wondering if he would ever be warm again, gazing upward with his hands in the small of his back, watching as his well-drilled crew scrambled to free gaskets, take hold of clews, and begin to bare canvas.
"Atrip… heave and awash!" The best bower anchor broke free of the sandy bottom and swayed above the surface.
HMS Proteus sidled a bit, swinging free of the ground, taken by the Nor'Nor'east winds, a quickly hoisted outer flying jib backed cross-deck up forrud to force her to fall off to larboard tack, taking the wind on the left-hand side of her bows, her square sails on her yards swinging about and luffing end-on, blocks clattering, canvas snapping and rustling.
Free!
Langlie was an able deck officer; Lewrie left it to him and his juniors to get way on her, as Proteus's bows swung more Easterly, still not under control. He stepped over to the double-wheel and the compass binnacle, to stand by the quartermasters on the helm.
"Full and by on larboard tack, Mister Motte," Lewrie ordered as he looked out to weather. "Nothing to loo'rd. Make her head Due East… or as close as you may manage."
"Aye, sir… Due East, an' nothin' t'loo'rd," Motte echoed as he tentatively spun the wheel to find a "bite" to the rudder.
The forecourse and main course were now drawing, being braced in to cup the wind. Inner, outer, and flying jib were bellied alee, as were the middle stays'l and main topmast stays'l; the mizen tops'l and the main and fore tops'ls were stiffening with the wind's press, and their frigate began to heel a bit, beginning to make her sweet way, churning salt water to a slight froth close-aboard, chuckling and muttering back to the sea as she got a way on, and hardening up on the wind's eye, on larboard tack.
There! A first lift of the bows as the scend off the North Sea found her as she gained the Queen's Channel, the first burst of spray under her jib-boom!
Free! Lewrie exulted, taking a deep, cleansing breath of iodine tang; Caroline, Theoni, rage, bills… shore-shite!
He paced over to the windward railing, up the deck which was now slightly canted as more sail sprouted to gather free, willful winds. A faint chorus sang in the rigging, a faint applause rose from her wake as she laid the start of a wide bridal train astern, fought to make the "mustachio" of foam before her bows.
He felt like singing, at that moment!
"Do you wish more sail at the moment, sir?" Lt. Langlie asked, once the t'gallants were set and drawing.
"No, Mister Langlie, that'll do quite nicely," Lewrie said as he turned to face him, smiling, at ease at last. "Stand on as we are, 'til we make a long offing."
"Aye, sir."
"And I'll have a tune, Mister Langlie," Lewrie added. "Summon the fiddlers. Spanish Ladies, I should think."
"Er… aye aye, sir."
The hands were piped down from aloft, the last tug of a brace was tugged. Sheets and halliards were gathered on pin-rails and fife-rails, the hawsers were hosed down and stowed below in the cable tiers, the hawse bucklers fitted to block spray and sluices from high waves. Excess ropes were flemished down in neat piles. Proteus was ship-shape.
Farewell and adieu, to you Spanish ladies,
farewell and adieu, you ladies of Spain!
For we've received orders t'sail from old England,
and we hope in a short time t 'see you again.
We'll rant and we'll roll, like true British sailors,
We'll rant and we'll roll, all across the salt seas!
Until we strike soundings, in the channel of old England,
from Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues!"
Fiddles, tin-whistles, the youngish Marine drummer, and Desmond on his uillean lap-pipes, made it sweetly longing.
" 'So let ev'ry man, raise up his full bumper,' " Lewrie joined in, bellowing (as was his wont when singing) the words out, " 'let ev'ry man drink up his full glass… for we'll laugh and be jolly, a-and chase melancholy… with a well-given toast to each true-hearted lass!' "
A few lances of sunshine broke through the dawn clouds, spearing HMS Proteus, making her glisten as bright as a new-minted coin, as she proudly made her way to sea, all bustle and swash, gleaming fresh canvas and giltwork flashing… out where she properly belonged.
No matter where those sealed orders took them.
CHAPTER NINE
Is he reading them?" Lieutenant Catterall, the sly and waggish rogue who had risen from senior Midshipman to Third Officer, asked.
"Aye, just now," Lieutenant Langlie answered as he paced along the windward side of the quarterdeck, stepping over the ring-bolts and tackles of the light 6-pounders and 24-pounder carronades.
"Opened 'em, sir?" Bosun Mr. Pendarves enquired.
"I do believe, Mister Pendarves," Lt. Lewis Wyman replied with an abrupt nod, as he stood at the top of the larboard gangway ladder.
"So we'll soon know our orders, won't we, Mister Pendarves?" Mr. Midshipman Sevier (the shy one) opined near the ladder's foot.
"Or, not," Mr. Midshipman Adair, a clever Scots lad, jeered at him. "He has no duty to tell us anything, if it's secret doings."
"Gracious!" little Midshipman Elwes gasped. "Secret work?"
"Work o' some sort's in order, young sirs," Bosun Pendarves told them, noting that all six "mids" were hanging about, ears cocked for a bit of gossip and doing nothing, which was sinful in boys, either nautical or civilian. "Go on, now… back t'yer duties, lads."
"Bloody Christ, this is lunacy," Lewrie muttered aloud once he had broken the seals on his canvas-bound supplemental "advisories."
"Sir?" Aspinall idly asked from his wee pantry.
"Someday I'd love t'meet a one-armed Admiralty clerk, Aspinall. Someone who can never say 'but on the other hand'," Lewrie griped. At least Aspinall was amused.
The Royal Navy was infamous for over-vaunting orders. Sending a small brig o' war to patrol off Leith was too easy, too simple. No, additional tasks were always larded on, like sketching the headlands, taking new soundings when not chasing smugglers, amassing a new dictionary of Scots' slang, trawling for a 1588 wreck rumoured to contain Spanish Armada gold and silver, or fetching back some pregnant female sturgeons for the royal table!
His advis
ories did not require any new tasks of a secret or more perilous nature than usual, but…
On the other hand! Lewrie most snidely thought, snickering.
They were secret, nonetheless. Lewrie suspected that they had been so labeled because no one responsible for their issuance was willing to let himself be known as a complete lack-wit!
Lewrie got to his feet, shaking his head in wonder as he paced aft to the transom settee, to gaze out upon the ship's wake. It was a grey and blustery day, the horizon a bare two miles of visibility even from the mastheads, when Proteus was rolled and scended upwards atop a salty hillock. The ocean was a'heave, grey-green and spumed by white caps and white horses. Proteus groaned and creaked, then roared as she soared aloft on a wide, rising wave, her sails and masts, her standing rigging strained wind-full. Moments later, the sluicing roar was even louder as she coasted and surfed down into an equally wide, but deep, trough, where her courses were robbed of wind and slatted, whilst her tops'ls and t'gallants remained taut, and her stout bows thundered as they met a low hedge of water that ran a shudder through her timbers from stem to stern.
He unconsciously shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if he were riding a short seesaw atop a drum, as Proteus metronomically rolled about fifteen degrees either side of upright every thirty seconds or so-all the while soughing or rising, by turns, at least one every forty-five seconds, now that the weather had moderated, the seas had flattened a bit, and the space between great waves had increased.
The last cast of the log a half-hour before showed that Proteus was making about twelve knots, even under cautiously reduced sail, but the winds were finally out of the Nor'east on her starboard quarters, presaging the first of the Trades that would bear her slantwise for the West Indies. With a clean and newly coppered bottom, Proteus was always fastest on a quartering wind.
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