Neither could they come up to the wind close enough to attempt a tack, or even fetch-to, for God's sake! Such a swing might rip the tatters right off the sternpost. Besides, it took a sound rudder for fetching-to, to maintain her head when the fore-and-aft sails and the back-braced sails on the yards countered each other in a constantly-shifting balancing act! Are we fucked, or what? Lewrie miserably thought. "Mister Langlie," Lewrie called out. Aye, sir?
"I think it's time we fired some more of those signal rockets," Lewrie said, admitting to himself that he could think of nothing else to do, for once. "What is the number to convey 'Need Assistance'?" "Five at once, sir," Lt. Langlie quickly replied.
"Make up a sea-anchor, get it over the side; and we'll hope for the best, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said, glad that no one could see him blushing with embarrassment in the dark. At once, sir.
About a half-hour later, HMS Stag came looming up in the gloom, surging alongside under reduced sail, but still going a lot faster than Proteus, within a long musket shot of her larboard, seaward, beam.
"Hoy, Proteus!" Capt. Philpott cried through a brass speaking trumpet. "You there, Captain Lewrie? Something amiss, is there?"
"Hoy, Captain Philpott!" Lewrie shouted back. "I'm still here, but we've a wee problem with our rudder. Shot halfway off!"
"That's what happens when you let a bad'un sneak up and spank you on the arse, aye!" Philpott cried, sounding like he was chortling.
God, I didn't know how much I despise him, 'til now! Lewrie took a moment to think.
"Do you request a tow, Lewrie?" Philpott offered.
"Aye… we need a tow into harbour, Philpott!" Lewrie shouted, figuring that if Philpott would drop the honourifics, he would, too, no matter did he outrank him on the Captain's List.
"Be ready when we come round, again, sir!" Philpott ordered. "I'll fetch-to off your bows, do you reduce to bare poles, and lower a boat to transfer the towing cable. Your cable, or mine, ha ha? "
"I will supply!" Lewrie replied.
"Good-ho! Mind, Lewrie… towing you in, I'll not demand that you fly my flag over yours, as my 'prize'!"
Choke on it, an' damn yer sense of humour, ye bastard! Lewrie furiously thought, wondering if it could get any more humiliating.
After a moment, Lewrie took evil glee in the comforting thought that whilst Proteus swung to her anchors at Cape Town, making repairs, it would be Philpott who would have the utter delight in accompanying Grafton and Horatius 'cross the Indian Ocean, with not a jot of shore liberty… and Lewrie would have free access to the Cape, "the tavern of the seas"!
Do I thank that Frenchman for that? Lewrie wondered; Mine arse on a bandbox if I will!
BOOK IV
"Contemnere, miser! Vitanda est improba Siren
desidia, aut quidquid vita meliore parasti
ponendum aequo animo."
"You will earn contempt, poor -wretch.
You must shun the wicked Siren, Sloth,
or be content to drop whatever honour
you have gained in nobler hours."
Horace, Satires II, in, 14-16
CHAPTER TWENTY
Oh, 'twas a splendid little victory, the saving of the convoy, on paper, at least! Nine helpless merchantmen {eight of them worthy) assaulted by a French squadron, which might have been consisted of two frigates, and a brace of corvettes, the foes' fell purposes countered by English Pluck and Daring, superb Seamanship, and Argus-eyed gunnery, all most shrewdly directed and concentrated in a trice by rapid application of a unique night-signalling system invented by the escorts' commander, a system the Fleet would surely find superior to any other!
And, had the Frogs been possessed of real "bottom," it could've been a spectacularly conclusive fight, resulting in the capture or the utter destruction of a significant number of the French raiders who preyed on British trade in this part of the world's oceans, adding even brighter laurels to the Royal Navy's fame, and their Sovereign's honour.
But, the shivering cowards had done as much as they dared, then scampered away in the face of overwhelming strength, well-peppered and "much cut up" by good British iron, whilst their own sea-gunnery fared as poorly as it usually did… except for sneaking most unfairly and knavishly (but what could one expect of Frogs?) up on HMS Proteus, and whose fault was that, certainly not the "Victorious Squadron's" alert commander, who was at that instant busy directing the activities of his own flagship, and his squadron's ships, miles away, so there!
Lewrie looked up from a copy of that report, after gathering the gist of it, and bestowed upon the Flag-Captain to Vice-Adm. Sir Roger Curtis, commanding officer of the Cape Station, a most dubious expression, all but rolling his eyes.
"Indeed, sir," the Flag-Captain derisively simpered after Lewrie handed it back to him. "Captain Sir Tobias Treghues may make of your encounter with the French what he will, but 'tis doubtful if Admiralty will find his account much of a success. We shall, of course, despatch it to London…" "Of course, sir," Lewrie replied with a knowing nod. "With an account of our own, of course, anent this odd affair," the Flag-Captain further said, with a mocking brow raised.
Lewrie had already seen a thumbnail sketch of this report, in a scathing personal letter that Treghues had sent aboard, a letter replete with "Lewrie, how could you spoil such potential glory by your inattentiveness!" by allowing himself to be taken so unawares, salted with "I have always felt uneasy in my mind over your lamentable lack of assiduousness," and with several "Tsk-Tsks" over his utterly casual and tongue-in-cheek and lack-a-day and dilettantish approach to such a serious and demanding profession as the Navy required, and et cetera and et cetera, in much the same vein, concluding with the supposition "that one could suspect that, to avoid a long and depriving voyage to the Far East, you finagled a way out by letting your ship be damaged by a mere corvette," along with a closing warning that should any part of the convoy suffer loss due to further French action, with the escort so reduced, then he, Capt. Sir Tobias Treghues, would personally hold Capt. Alan Lewrie responsible for it, and make sure that Admiralty did, too!
Lewrie had not expected to see the official version, though… junior officers were never allowed such a luxury; but, this was Sir Roger Curtis he was dealing with, he had to recall.
They had met, briefly, in the aftermath of the battle that had famously become known as The Glorious First of June, in 1794, on the decks of HMS Queen Charlotte, when Capt. Sir Roger Curtis was Flag-Captain to Adm. Sir Richard "Black Dick" Howe. Lewrie had spent a whole day being pursued by two scouting French frigates, ending penned up against the unengaged side of the entire French line of battle, and had gotten round the end of their line and into the shelter of Howe's battle line by the skin of his teeth. That exploit had not been mentioned in despatches by Sir Roger, gaining Lewrie no fame of it. And, playing favourites most shamefully, then-Capt. Sir Roger Curtis had also omitted the names of captains and ships that had not been able to come to close grips with the French on the light winds that prevailed that day, denying them Admiralty recognition-and the gold medals!-given to those in the van of the snake-bent line of battle; or, as some spitefully suspected, omitting the names of people with whom he'd served in the past, and still disliked!
Adm. Duncan at Camperdown, Adm. Jervis at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent, certainly Adm. Nelson at the Nile, made sure that all captains were cited for their efforts, for all the world to see in the Gazette and the Marine Chronicle, but, evidently, Sir Roger Curtis, Baronet, still had no truck with the newfangled idea of "We Few, We Happy Few, We Band of Brothers"!
Treghues is fucked, Lewrie told himself; poor, desperate bastard.
"Ye say your ship was damaged aft, Captain Lewrie?"
"Our rudder was nigh shot off, sir, aye," Lewrie replied. "Four guns dismounted, two with divots the size of dinner plates shot out of them, and I'm leery of firing full charges from them in future. I have six dead and thirteen wounded, as well, with three of those not long for this world, or so my Surge
on informs me, sir."
Lewrie unconsciously fingered the St. Vincent and Camperdown medals that hung round his neck for this full-dress interview, as if to reassure himself, and the Flag-Captain, that he had done much better in the past, and that the French ambush had been a rare fluke.
"You may enquire of our stores ship for replacement timber with which to mend, or replace, your rudder, Captain Lewrie," the man off-handedly allowed. "As to guns, there may be some captured Dutch twelve-pounders with the local Prize-Court. The Court's warehouses may also hold bosuns' stores from prizes taken by the ships of this station in past," he concluded with a preening smile.
What bloody prices? Lewrie sourly thought; Don't tell me that Elphinstone's are still here, five years later.
In '95, Sir George Keith Elphinstone had led a squadron to the Cape; three 74s, two older 64s, and a pair of 16-gunned Sloops of War, along with transports carrying the 78th Regiment of Foot to take over the Dutch colony, which he had done, right handily. Now, the squadron assigned here was little larger- minus the transports-with older and lighter frigates replacing the Sloops of War, a force not much bigger than Treghues's escort force! Table Bay, treacherous as it could be, was huge, but fairly empty, at present, and once the East India trade sailed onwards, it would be even emptier. For the moment, there were only a pair of 74s, a lone 64, and one old 28-gun Sixth Rate at anchor, besides the stores ship. And… crippled HMS Proteus.
And, neither Cape Town nor Simon's Town on the other side of the peninsula owned a graving dock or dry dock, where serious repairs could be made. What had the Dutch done before we got here? Lewrie had to wonder.
"I must own surprise, sir, that such an important station, bestride one of our most vital trade routes, does not have an official dockyard establishment," Lewrie stated. That seemed safer than asking what prizes the Cape Squadron had managed to reel in.
"One'd think so, wouldn't one," the Flag-Captain breezily answered, "but, there is a war on, and the Cape is rather far removed from major French naval ports such as Rochefort, Brest, or Toulon. With the Dutch, French, and Spanish round-the-Cape trade nigh-completely ended, and the much smaller neutral countries' trade so lightly-armed, there is no real threat to Crown interests. Gad, can you imagine the Americans, or the Roosians, coming in on the French side, then mounting expeditions to come here, ha ha?"
"Though the French do hold Mauritius and the Seychelles with a strong force of lighter ships, sir," Lewrie carefully pointed out; he would get no help if he irritated the local squadron. "And, wasn't it a rather firm rumour that they have also fortified the old pirate hole on the northern tip of Madagascar? Fort de France on Mauritius is, so I was told, as large and nigh-impregnable as any of their home ports."
"But rather far from here, sir," the Flag-Captain replied, with a bit less casualness, as if awaiting criticism.
But, ain't that what warships are for? Lewrie cynically thought; Go play silly buggers thousands of miles away, t'keep you awake nights?
"I also must own that neither I, nor Captain Treghues, had warning of the French operating on this side of the Cape of Good Hope, sir," Lewrie added, keeping his face serious, perhaps play-acting perplexity, so the Flag-Captain wouldn't take affront and kick him in the "nutmegs." "Is this something new since we left England, sir? I thought their best hunting grounds would be 'twixt Ceylon and here, not in the Atlantic."
"Well, despite the tight blockade of the French home ports, some re-enforcements do slip through the net," the Flag-Captain dismissively-and rather grumpily-answered. "And, though Fort de France on Mauritius has its own dockyard facilities, there are times when ships have need of serious repair… such as is your case, hmm?" he added with a prissy sarcasm. "And, they must sail for France, or replacing warships and privateers must sail out to Mauritius. In the face of a strong Royal Navy presence, it would only make sense for them to sail together, rather than risk a 'singleton.' Sir Roger and I are of an opinion that what your Captain Treghues encountered the other night was such a mutually-protective group, on its way to France, that ran across you all by accident, and could not resist the opportunity to sail home with some additional prizes, d'ye see, sir."
"Well…" Lewrie began to say, deeming that wishful thinking.
"We've three frigates at sea, this instant, sir, hunting just that sort of movement," the Flag-Captain insisted. "In your case, it was a fluke. Treghues still retains a strong escort force, so I doubt he'll have another encounter like that in the Indian Ocean, more's the pity for his aspirations to glory, what? And, by the time he is back, you might be repaired and ready to re-join his command."
"But, that'd be months, sir!" Lewrie protested. "With no yard, and no replacement timber…!"
"No more than six to eight weeks, most-like," the Flag-Captain said with a shrug, doing nothing to reassure him. "Our esteemed 'John Company' convoy service is now a monthly business. Put in a request to the yards at Bombay, and you could have a spanking-new rudder shipped here for installation. Request goes with the India-half of Treghues's trade, the rudder arrives… sooner or later." To make things worse, the senior officer added, with what felt like a malicious little grin, "Assuming that there would be a homebound Indiaman who'd break their passage at the Cape. They usually don't, even the trades out-bound from China." Evidently, Lewrie had rankled the man, even with a pose of innocent perplexity plastered on.
"Dear Lord," he breathed, his shoulders slumping.
"For the nonce, allow me to advert to you the services of the local Dutch chandlers, sir," the Flag-Captain cheerfully blathered on, making it sound as if he'd gladly foist all responsibility for repairs and stores well-wide of the Cape Station's limited funds, and place it all squarely on Lewrie, and his purse. "Have you been ashore, yet?"
"Only briefly, sir," Lewrie said. "Funeral arrangements."
"They're most capable, and passably well-stocked. From the very first days of Dutch settlement, they've brought in farmers, servants, and slaves from their Far East colonies. 'Tis an 'all-nations,' like a dram shop, ha ha!" the Flag-Captain chuckled. "Javanese, Sumatrans, Malays, Hindoos, Lascars, even Chinamen. Some of whom are fishermen, boatmen, and pearl and oyster divers, d'ye see, sir? The local Dutch myhneers could put you in the way of some who could survey the damage to your ship, do the preparatory work for you, without need to careen your ship on some beach, what?"
"Well, that's a grand idea, sir!" Lewrie said, perking up considerably. "I'll, ah… take no more of your busy time, then, sir."
"Anything needful, send word, once you conduct your initial survey, and we'll see what we might possibly do for you, Captain Lewrie."
"Shore liberty for my people, sir?" Lewrie off-handedly asked, hoping that the Cape Squadron had not yet gotten word of what had happened on St. Helena.
"Within reason," was the Flag-Captain's reply. " Cape Province is the Land of The Lotus Eaters, so be wary of allowing your tars any freedom beyond the immediate town environs. 'Tis all too possible for a man to live well off the back-country. More than half the Dutch are what they call trekboers, who live semi-nomadic… herds, waggons, and kinfolk, native slaves and all, stopping just long enough to plant the staple crops, then moving on when the land plays out… or, they get bored, I expect," the Flag-Captain said, rising to indicate that their interview was over. "There's more than a few sailors, well-paid hands off Indiamen and passing traders, who run no risk of battle such as we do, have 'run' and taken up the life. Damned fools."
"Thankee for the warning, sir," Lewrie told him, gathering up his hat and such. "I will caution my officers and warrants t'be wary."
" 'Tis such a pity, though… that so much of the beguiling wildlife can kill you."
"Kill, sir?" Lewrie asked, trying not to gawp. The two times he had broken his passage at Kaapstad, as the Dutch called it, in '84 and '86 between the wars, he hadn't gotten into the back-country; taverns, restaurants, and rich-gentlemen's brothels had been more beguiling to his tastes. A spirited horseback ride on a h
ired "prad" from Kaapstad and Table Bay to Simon's Town on Simon's and False Bay represented his best effort at "exploration"… and there'd been clean posting-houses and taverns all along the way, too.
"Oh, God yes!" the Flag-Captain exclaimed with a moue. "Snakes and scorpions, spiders, biting ants, biting flies, and such? They are as vicious and deadly as a pack of hungry lions. Wild beasts running in herds so vast they blanket the land, miles across. Not to mention a large assortment of fierce native tribes, simply keen on poisoning their spears and arrows.
"God only knows what the Dutch hoped to make of a toe-hold in Africa, other than a way station on the way to the riches of the Far East. And, now we have possession of it, God only knows of what avail 'twill prove to be to us, hah?"
"Well, at one time, one might've said much the same of North America, sir," Lewrie drolly pointed out.
"Oh, quite right!" the Flag-Captain hooted, in much mirth over Lewrie's quip. "Quite right, indeed! Ah, empire What a grand and glorious thing for Britons to own…'til one must actually go take a squint at it, close up, and be confronted with its sweaty, itchy, and uncomfortably fatal nature. Look at India, for God's sake! Best of luck with your repairs, Captain Lewrie. Any difficulties, don't hesitate to ask," he vowed, though how much aid he'd actually be was a moot question. Beyond the stores ship, it would be up to them, alone.
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