“Enemy losses?” Lewrie asked, getting to the meat of things.
“We counted fifty-two enemy dead, sir, though some of them were civilian waggoners, I’m sure,” Whitehead said, digging in a pocket of his soiled red coat for his own hastily scrawled jottings. “Eighteen wounded left in Bova Marina to be tended to, out of one hundred twenty troopers in their two cavalry troops. I think sixty men in a troop of cavalry is the average number, sir, but I wouldn’t swear to it. As to material losses, we burned, ehm…” He paused to puzzle over what he had written in the dark. “Aha. Sixty waggons in the western convoy, and fifty-four in the one to the east of town.” Which sum made Lewrie scribble, then pause with a prompting brow up.
“It cut rough with some of my Marines, sir, to slaughter horses and mules,” Whitehead went on, puzzling some more over his notes. “The Colonel told me his count was four hundred and twenty horses or mules shot, along with thirty-six oxen, and about fifty cavalry mounts. It was the Army’s doing, thank the Lord.”
“Hmpf!” Lewrie sniffed, regretting the death of so many horses; like all English gentlemen, he thought horses one of God’s more magnificent creations.
“Damned shame, really, sir,” Whitehead commented between bites of breakfast, “espcially the cavalry mounts.”
“Oh, I agree, Whitehead,” Lewrie told him. “So, barring losses among the Ninety-Fourth which would detract from our success, I’d say we had a very productive morning. Once you’re back in your wardroom, speak with Mister Rutland and Mister Grace about any names you’d wish to be mentioned in despatches in the margins of my report.”
“I shall, sir,” Whitehead replied. “Oh, I forgot to mention the weapons we captured. Sabres, musketoons, and such? Ehm, sixty sabres and sixty-six firelocks … all carried away and dumped into the sea as we rowed back to the ships, sir. As to what weapons, supplies, or gunpowder were in the waggons, there’s no accounting. We were a bit too busy setting them afire to take an inventory, though I’d imagine that the bulk of it was food and drink.”
“I agree,” Lewrie said again. “The French and their unwilling allies in Italy may be well armed, but starvin’ ’em’s the important thing. In Calabria, anyway, so they can’t launch another invasion of Sicily. I just wish we had the force to do the same thing in the rest of Southern Italy.”
“With us as an example, sir,” Whitehead said, “Admiralty and Horse Guards will see the value of our raids, and put together more squadrons like ours.”
“Pray God, indeed, sir!” Lewrie said.
* * *
Once Capt. Whitehead had finished his last cup of coffee and departed, Lewrie had a spell of play with his cat, Chalky, on the settee, all the while forming the proper phrases for his report on the action in his head. He would have started it that instant, but the lure of fresh air was too great. With a last poke at Chalky’s belly, which prompted quick, slashing claws, an annoyed Mrr!, and a roll and run for the dining coach, he rose and went out to the quarterdeck, where a delightfully cool early morning breeze stirred his hair and flapped the turnbacks of his lapels. A glance aft satisfied him that all of his transports were sailing in-line-astern of Vigilance at a neat two-cables’ separation, Union Jacks and commissioning pendants streaming like snake’s tongues as they slowly hobby-horsed across a brilliantly blue sea under a sky blotted with blotches of white clouds.
“Went well, Mister Rutland?” Lewrie asked the officer of the watch.
“Ashore, sir? Aye. Some skinned elbows and knees, but other than that, we had it easy,” Lt. Rutland told him. “The lads didn’t get many chances to pick up souvenirs from the French, but the Marines did. No one got into local wines or spirits, either, and everyone came off sobre. Mostly. Desmond and Kitch stood guard over the only tavern in town and kept our lads out.”
“Desmond and Kitch?” Lewrie asked. “Desmond and Kitch guarded the tavern? Really?” He had to burst out laughing at that news, for it was simply too implausible. He was sure that they’d come aboard most carefully, but at the least half-drunk. “Sly lads, them.”
The Sailing Master, Mr. Wickersham, emerged from the chart room on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, said his good mornings, then went up the ladderway to the poop deck for a moment before clumping back down. “About six miles offshore, now, I make it, sir. Do you wish to come about anytime soon?”
“Hmm, let’s put Italy below the horizon before we do so, sir,” Lewrie decided. “Then we’ll wear about to Due West,” He glanced up at the commissioning pendant to gauge the direction of the wind.
“Round-about Sicily again, sir?” Wickersham asked.
“No, not this time,” Lewrie told him, breaking out a wide grin. “I intend to sail right up the Strait of Messina, to rub the French noses in it. Let ’em see us pass by. And when we do, sirs, I will have a broom hoisted to the mainmast truck of each ship. We’ve made a very clean sweep. Let the snail-eatin’ bastards eat that!”
* * *
“Deck, there!” a foremast lookout called down. “Strange ship in harbour … anchored, an’ sails gasketed!”
HMS Vigilance, five miles off the coast of Sicily, and twelve miles short of Milazzo, was plodding along under reduced sail at the head of the column when the lookout sang out, perking the interest of the watch-standing half of the crew, and the idlers off-watch crowding the forecastle and sail-tending gangways to gawk and speculate.
Lewrie left his post at the windward bulwarks and trotted up to the better viewpoint of the poop deck. Planting his feet against the slow roll and hobby-horsing of the ship, and leaning his chest into the cross-deck hammock stanchion racks, he raised his day-glass for a long look. The first thing that sprang to mind was that the bastard had his anchorage where Vigilance always sat. The strange newcomer couldn’t be French, either, he assured himself, for what sort of fool would invade a foe’s harbour and anchor, then lower, or bind his means of propulsion in harbour gaskets? At twelve miles or better, there was little to make out, with the stranger halfway hull-down, and only a forest of masts and yards showing; if there was a national flag aloft, or a long company or commissioning pendant showing, they were invisible at such a distance. Was she naval, or a civilian merchantman?
Whoever or whatever she was, she was big, though, seeming to be about as large and bluff as a Third Rate 74-gunner, or … dare he hope … an Indiaman? An expectant grin grew at the corners of his mouth.
“Ehm … should we go to Quarters, sir?” Lt. Grace asked from below on the quarterdeck.
“Not ’til we’re much closer, no, Mister Grace,” Lewrie called down to him, lowering his telescope for a moment to face him. “I do believe that she’s the Coromandel, the transport we’ve been promised. And if she ain’t,” he added, “she’ll yield and let us have our best anchorage back … at the point of a gun if we have to.”
“Very good, sir!” Lt. Grace said, sounding relieved and pleased.
“When we’re within a mile or so, I’d wish to signal the other ships to enter harbour and anchor, and we’ll haul out of line to let them,” Lewrie said on, lifting his telescope once more. “We should have anchored farthest out, anyway, long before, in case the French try to raid us.”
“I will have the Afterguard make up that signal, sir,” Lt. Grace promised.
“Very well, Mister Grace,” Lewrie replied, eye glued to the ocular. “And pass word for Mister Severance.”
“Aye, sir,” Grace said.
A long minute or two later, Sub-Lt. Severance came out from the great-cabins, where he had been making copies of Lewrie’s latest reports to Admiralty, and trotted up to the poop deck to join him.
“Mister Severance, I’d admire did you look up Coromandel in the latest Navy List,” Lewrie bade him. “Knowing her number’d make speaking her easier on the signalmen. They’d have to spell out Strange Ship, or Hey You, else.”
“I’ll see to it, sir,” Severance said with a grin, doffed his hat, and dashed back below. He was back to report within a minute, shaki
ng his head. “She’s too new to the Fleet, most-like, sir. The list doesn’t show a Coromandel. Ours is over a month old.”
“Oh, very well,” Lewrie said with a shrug. “Hey You it’ll have to be ’til we’re close enough for her to make her number to us.”
* * *
“They look to be about five miles off, now, sir,” Midshipman Kinsey of Coromandel reported to his commanding officer, Lt. John Dickson, who at that moment was shirtless and sponging himself off with fresh, cool water fetched from the Army camp ashore.
“Oh, very well, Kinsey,” Dickson growled. “You may go.”
“Aye, sir,” Kinsey replied, bowing himself out of the cabins.
Dickson shot a silent sneer, and a sad shake of his head, at the departing Midshipman’s back. What sort of fool did it take to be over thirty-five years old and still a Midshipman, living on the miserly £6 annual pay, and seemed lark-happy to get it? Dickson had dismissed Kinsey early-on; the man had no conversation, no wit, a poor education, clumsy manners, and most importantly, absolutely nothing to justify a hope for promotion.
Lt. Dickson towelled himself dry, felt his cheeks to satisfy himself that he was closely shaved, then snapped “Shirt!” to his servant, Ordinary Seaman Ryder.
“Hah hah, by Jove, just look at that!” Sub-Lieutenant Clough could be heard braying to the crew on deck. “They’re all sporting brooms at their mastheads! Gone and done something grand and glorious, I’d wager!”
Dickson winced, for Clough grated on him, too; for being only twenty, and boyishly enthusiastic about everything. Clough was a better seaman than Kinsey, by miles, but he was so young, had perhaps too much conversation, too much wit of the schoolboy variety, exquisite manners and the social grooming of a well-off, well-connected family, like Dickson’s. They should have gotten along like a house afire, but Clough would chatter and prate like a magpie, and felt that the slightest period of silence must be filled with something. Despite all that, Clough’s prospects for advancement were sterling, for his family, like Dickson’s, had the best sort of “interest,” which was the mother’s milk of a successful career in the Fleet.
So what, Dickson asked himself for the hundredth time, was Clough doing aboard a hired-in armed transport that didn’t mount a single gun, carrying smelly soldiers from here to there and back again? It was as if someone at Admiralty had set them all up to be blighted, or for a failure. Coromandel’s crew had come from receiving ships at Portsmouth, from paid-off warships, and from the Impress Service, and none of them were worth a damn, to Dickson’s lights: drunks, malingerers, feeble ignoramuses, and gaolhouse sweepings.
Dickson sullenly stuffed his shirttails into his breeches and carefully tied his black neck-stock before a mirror. “Waist-coat,” he said, and his cabin servant offered it up, slipping it onto his spread arms.
Dickson was the third-born son of his family, and had had no say about his chosen career. At least no one had thought of his taking Holy Orders, like his younger brother, thank God! And if he had had to be in the Navy, going aboard his first ship at age twelve, then he had determined to make the best of it, and to be the best he could at it, no matter how stultifyingly boring sea life was, how dull and ignorant his fellow Mids were, or how dirty, ignorant, and low the common seamen were.
With good family friends’ influence and favour, he’d made Lieutenant by nineteen, and was now twenty-four, and should have been appointed into a proper warship. Everyone had noticed him for his navigational skills, seamanship, his coolness under pressure, and his instinctive leadership qualities; he was marked for great things, all of his patrons had confided to him.
To mollify his dis-appointment of commanding Coromandel, they had pointed out that it was a sea command, and while it was certainly not an attractive posting, he could, on the side, do his patrons a favour.
First of all, he could observe and report to them as to what it was that an amphibious landing force actually did; did it work, or was it worthy of expansion and wholesale adoption, or a mere experiment sure to fail sooner or later? Admiral Sir Home Riggs Popham was doing grand things on the north coast of Spain, but he had not had to resort to specialised ships, or armed transports, and used normal-sized ships’ boats and his squadron’s Marines and armed sailors, not Army troops.
Secondly, if it was determined that the cost was worth it, it would be a plum command for someone much worthier than this fellow, Lewrie. Dickson was to keep his eyes and ears open to see if the man had any flaws that could result in his replacement with someone of their choosing. It was hinted that this Lewrie fellow was already in bad odour with other influential people in the Navy, and government, and that it would be most desirable for the man to be “beached,” or caught out and assigned to the “Yellow Squadron” of incompetents and fools.
Well, if so many senior officers and powerful people who could advance Dickson’s career wished the man laid low, then John Dickson would oblige them, so long as such an onerous job got him advanced!
After buttoning up his waist-coat and donning his best-dress uniform coat, Dickson looked round the great-cabins he occupied. For a week or so, so much space, so much hard-to-find privacy, seemed an advanced reward, but that had palled quickly when he realised that he must share the grand cabins with four Army officers, walled off with deal and canvas partitions, along with Sub-Lieutenant Clough, and the jumped-up Master’s Mate turned Sailing Master. Unfortunately, with more than an hundred sailors aboard, and expected to carry over two hundred soldiers, even a grand East Indiaman, built to carry hundreds of tons of cargo, and so many well-paying passengers, there was not room aboard to swing the proverbial cat, and every meal was a communal meal, including that lout Midshipman Kinsey. At least he swung his hammock at night down in the bread room, where he could be swarmed by the ship’s rats. At least one of the quarter galleries was set aside for Dickson’s sole use, but his share of the cabins was only a slightly larger dog-box of a sleeping space.
“Your sword an’ ’at, sir,” his cabin servant said in a flat, dis-interested voice. Truth be told, he’d come to despise Lt. Dickson as much as Dickson despised everybody else.
Dickson bound the white leather sword belt round his waist, and closed the double snake’s head clasp, easing the set of his expensive Wilkinson’s smallsword upon his hip, then took the fine bicorne hat and set it upon his head, looking again in the small mirror over the wash-hand stand, tilting the hat to his favourite rakish angle.
Dickson had always thought of himself as a sterling example of a proper young English gentleman of the better class, handsome and well set up, popular with his early schoolmates and young ladies of the better sort; impressive, too, to those beneath his social standing who would spread their legs to satisfy his desires. He admired himself in the mirror for a bit, then rehearsed a sterner face. How to probe Lewrie would be tricky. Perhaps he could try toadying to ingratiate himself, first? Well, perhaps a touch of hero worship would suit; this Lewrie had made some sort of name for himself, hadn’t he?
“I shall be on deck,” Dickson told his servant, and stepped out onto the quarterdeck, blissfully missing the scowl and quiet-mouthed curse his cabin servant threw at his back.
The lad, Ordinary Seaman Ryder, had been a topman aboard his last ship, and dearly missed the easy camaraderie of life among his peers, of serving far aloft as one of the reigning kings of any crew. But this Dickson shit had looked over a group of idling tars and just pointed at him and told him that he needed a cabin servant, a “catch-fart,” and that Ryder was it, and that was that, whether he knew the first thing about the duty or not.
During the time in Portsmouth to assemble the crew, convert the Indiaman to a trooper, then on the passage from there to here, whereever here was, Ryder had kept his eyes and ears open, and had learned just what a back-stabbing, curt, and sneering pack of fools Coromandel’s officers were. All officers were, to his lights, but this lot?
“I jus’ ’ope th’ Devil takes th’ lot o’ ye,” he m
uttered.
* * *
“The best bower is holding, sir,” Lt. Farley reported after some nervous moments about anchoring farther out than usual, in un-familiar holding ground. “Six and a half fathoms depth, and we’ve paid out four-to-one scope of cable. Same with the kedge astern.”
“Very well, Mister Farley,” Lewrie said with a satisfied nod, and a deep breath let out in relief that the same mud, sand, and gravel bottom could be found almost a mile offshore of their usual spot. He looked shoreward and watched as soldiers seemed to pour like treacle down the sides of the transports, eager to return to their encampment, where they could boast of their deeds to the few men who’d remained to guard the empty camp, and show off their souvenirs taken from the dead Frenchmen.
“And there goes the Colonel’s dog, sir,” Farley said, laughing, as the shaggy hound was slung over the side in an enfolding cargo net and lowered into one of the barges.
“There’ll be an idle day for the Army, I’d expect,” Lewrie said, “and the civilians will be swarmin’ ’em by dusk, cooks, whores, and all. I think we’ve earned one, too, right, Mister Farley?”
“Aye, sir,” his First Officer gladly agreed.
“General signal to all ships, then,” Lewrie decided, “show Make And Mend, ’til sundown. Then, at Seven Bells of the Forenoon, hoist Splice The Mainbrace. An idle morning and afternoon, and a good rum issue, seems t’be in order.
“Has Coromandel shown her number yet?” Lewrie asked, turning to look aft at Midshipman Gadsden, who was in charge of the signalling party.
“She has, sir!” Gadsden sang out. “It’s Nine-Six-Four, sir!”
“Hmpf,” Lewrie commented, looking at Coromandel with his telescope, now that she lay close by. He could hoist a signal with her number preceding Captain Repair On Board, but … he was curious as to what sort of transport the Navy had finally sent him.
Lewrie leaned over the starboard bulwarks to watch the Bosun, Mr. Gore, pointing and yelling for on-watch hands manning the lifts and braces to make adjustments to square away the yards to a taut and mathematical perfection.
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