An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  “If he does, though…” Lewrie mused.

  “By God, I’ll resign my commission!” Tarrant fumed. “And I am certain Major Gittings and half my company officers would as well. Caruthers is a glory-hunting butcher. Were it not for you, he’d have gotten half his regiments knackered at Lucri and Siderno. Give him free rein, and he’ll come a cropper. His luck will run out, and I’d not care to be with him when it does.”

  “Well, if only t’see the look on his face,” Lewrie quipped.

  Col. Tarrant cocked his head to peer at Lewrie, a grim grin on his face. “It might be worth it, at that, but for the fact that the Ninety-Fourth would suffer Caruthers’s fate and be annihilated along with him. Oh, well. Care for dinner?”

  “Be delighted, sir,” Lewrie told him with relish. “I must own to be peckish by now.”

  “Let’s gather it all up, Carson,” Tarrant ordered his man, “and we’ll clean them before we eat. And wash the taste of gunpowder away with another bottle of that delicious white wine.

  “Mind, now,” Tarrant went on, turning sterner, “I’ll demand we speak of anything … utter foolishness and bad jokes … other than what Quill blurted.”

  “I doubt I have more than an hundred good jokes, sir,” Lewrie said, grinning, “but I do try and tell them differently each time.”

  And, by the time they reached Col. Tarrant’s quarters and the welcome shade of his front gallery and its canvas fly, Quill’s mule and two-wheeled cart were no longer tethered under the trees. He was well on his way cross the bridge on the road to Messina, made to feel, Lewrie was certain, like a pariah dog.

  “Good riddance,” Tarrant growled.

  BOOK THREE

  Me nulla dies tam fortibus ausis

  dissimelem arguerit; tentum fortuna secunda

  haud adversa cadat.

  Never shall time prove me unmeet for such bold emprise; so but fortune prove kind, nor cruel.

  —AENEID, BOOK IX, LINES 231–33

  VIRGIL

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Boarding drills, boat work to take soldiers aboard and row them to the beach to splash ashore and form by companies for manoeuvres in the fruit and olive groves, and armed boat crews standing guard on the beach and their barges ’til the soldiers returned and boarded them to be rowed back aboard; both Lewrie and Lt. Fletcher oversaw every evolution aboard Coromandel, and went ashore as far as the beach with the armed sailors, no matter what Lt. Dickson thought of their being there.

  Truth was, Coromandel’s people were slow to catch on, and slower than the other transports when performing their required duties; they needed a goad, and Lewrie was more than happy to give them one. He had already taken Dickson aside to explain why he, and Coromandel, were not the command ship of the transports.

  * * *

  “I chose Mister Fletcher long ago t’be the senior officer for the troop ships,” Lewrie had explained to him, “because he’s senior to Mister Hoar of Spaniel, and Mister Creswell of Lady Merton, and the arrangement’s worked well, so far. Besides, you and Coromandel are new to our game, no matter your ship is nigh as big as mine, so … put that thought out of your mind, and work up your people ’til they’re as efficient as the rest.”

  But damn Dickson, if he still proved truculent over Fletcher’s presence over every exercise!

  “It is confusing my crew, Sir Alan,” Dickson protested as far as he had dared, “whether to follow the orders of Mister Fletcher or me and my officers. His presence undermines our authority.”

  “And does he not brief you on the day’s work beforehand, sir?” Lewrie had asked, “And point out the things to be improved and seen to?”

  “He does, Sir Alan, but … I, we, feel it un-dignified to be ordered about on our own decks,” Dickson had groused.

  “You came to this squadron, sir, with only the haziest idea of what it is we do,” Lewrie pointed out, controlling his temper damned well, or so he thought, “and you and your officers are learning just as the other troopers did before we made our first raids. A skill to be learned, a level of efficiency to be gained, before I can deem you a useful unit of the squadron. You have no trouble with me directing your hands to the proper way of doing things, do you, sir? I do not undermine your authority by coming aboard to witness? Good. Then, consider Mister Fletcher my voice, and my eyes ’til he and I feel that Coromandel’s a fit member, ready to go. Now, let’s be at it.”

  * * *

  It was well that they did not hear from Mr. Quill for some time whilst Coromandel’s people slowly gained proficiency. He no longer visited, ashamed perhaps. Col. Tarrant and Major Gittings drilled their newcome soldiers, both ashore and aboard ship, ’til they were as proficient as his older, original troops, and could at last be shuffled round into the ranks, and lodgements, alongside the veterans. As for Quill’s new chore of spying on Brigadier Caruthers and what he intended, they heard nothing, either.

  To broaden his sources of information as to Caruthers’s plans, Lewrie wrote Peter Rushton’s brother Harold at the Secretary of State for War, asking if anyone in His Majesty’s Government was pressing for more troop ships be sent to Sicily for anyone’s use, and wrote to Captain Middleton and his old friend in Foreign Office Secret Branch, James Peel, wondering if he’d heard anything. It might take weeks to receive any letters in reply.

  And, in the meantime, they had no fresh raids envisioned, and Lewrie was getting antsy and bored again, itching to do something.

  He went aboard Bristol Lass to speak with Lt. Fletcher, went ashore to speak with Col. Tarrant, with a plan in hand.

  Did Lt. Fletcher feel that Coromandel was ready enough for some sort of graduation drill at sea? Grudgingly, Fletcher thought that the latest drills showed promise and an acceptable level of ability. Of late, night exercises had come off with no one drowned or harmed, with the troops of the two new companies boarding in the dark, then being rowed ashore with the barges in passable line-abreast, and all done under arms with full canteens, rucksacks, and ammo pouches.

  “Then let’s do it!” Lewrie had decided. “We’ll land on that beach east of here, near Villafranca Tirrena, after a night at sea. I wonder if the Colonel would care to come along … minus his damned dog, of course.”

  A last supper ashore in Col. Tarrant’s quarters, with his new company commanders, Captains Lyndon and Wellman, Lt. Dickson and Sub-Lt. Clough to firm up the plans for the drill, and they were off, Coromandel escorted by HMS Vigilance, as she would be when performing the real thing on the Italian coast.

  * * *

  The two ships put out to sea early the next morning, steering North and Nor’-Nor’west to spend a day prowling round Volcano and Lupari Islands in the Aeolian chain, for the very good reason that those fabled isles of ancient Greek legends piqued Lewrie’s curiosity from his schoolday reading, and he wanted to take a squint at them. Like all myths and legends, though, they proved less than enchanting, for they were rocky, with few landing places, and stank of sulphur far out to sea.

  With favourable winds, the two ships reversed course, reducing sail to time their approach to the wide, sandy beach near Villafranca Tirrena well after Midnight, taking advantage of moonlight and starlight to give the green soldiers, and Coromandel’s crew and landing parties, barely enough illumination to work by.

  The mid-day meal, then supper, was served aboard both ships, and the passengers aboard Coromandel were ordered to turn in early for a few hours of sleep. Lewrie hoped that the soldiers took to their quarters belowdecks, for he had ordered the four-man dog-boxes altered as soon as Coromandel had arrived, before the troops tore them apart to fit their notions.

  Usually, each dog-box featured thin wood plank partitions from the deck to the overhead, and the front of each likewise boarded in, leaving only a doorway. Lewrie had the lowermost planking ripped out below the lower of the solid bunks, and opened up the spaces above the upper bunks to within eight inches of the thin mattresses, to improve the circulation of air. The front panelling w
as torn out, as well, to leave the soldiers easier access to the midships spaces which created a wide aisle where they could mill about or loaf, with easy access to the water butts and the weapons racks.

  It here must be pointed out that Lt. Dickson did not see the sense of those alterations, claiming that what the dockyards built for troop quarters was the norm, and was good enough for other troop transports, so why accommodate, or pamper, them?

  At least they were getting Navy rations to eat!

  After dining in Vigilance’s First Officer, Lt. Farley, the ship’s Marine officers, the Surgeon, Sailing Master, and two Mids who would be going ashore with the barges, Lewrie took a long time on the calm of the poop deck, savouring the cool night winds after a warm day at sea, a rare day at sea after sitting idle too long at anchor waiting for information on places to be raided and plans to be laid.

  He closed his eyes and leaned against the cross-deck hammock stanchions, swaying with the motion of the hull as it snored along at seven knots, listening to the creaks and groans of timbers upon timbers, the faint squeaks from aloft as the many turning blocks of the running rigging worked to the ease, then strain. Even at that fairly slow speed, there was a rushing, waterfall sound as the hull parted dark waters, the cutwater and forefoot far up forward chuckling as the ship shoved her way on, before the wake creamed down her sides to burble and blend in the wide, white bridal train of her wake.

  He opened his eyes and turned to pace aft to the taffrails where the lanthorns were lit for the night, their amber glows creating an almost “homey” snugness against the darkness beyond. Clinging to one of the lanthorn’s posts, he could almost make out that wake, broad and a faintly eerie blue of phosphorescence. And there were the lanthorns glowing aboard Coromandel, roughly two cables astern, now and then occluded by masts and sails.

  At least Dickson can keep station, Lewrie thought, still unsure of the man’s competency. Dickson was someone’s pet, else he’d not have command of a rowboat at his age. He hadn’t done anything, so far as Lewrie could learn, grand or brave enough to explain it, else.

  Turning away, Lewrie paced back forward on the windward side of the deck, looking cross the low coach-top amidships of the poop that provided light and air to his great-cabins, and it was amusing to see his cabin servants through the shallow glass panes at their work, at a much more leisurely pace than if he was still below.

  And there on the larboard side sat his most lubberly wood and canvas collapsible deck chair, and for a moment, Lewrie was sorely tempted to ease down into it, stretch out in the dark, and rest for a spell. No, men on watch in the Afterguard were about, and he had no good reason to play idle before them.

  He went back to the windward corner of the hammock stanchions, breathing deep of the innumerable odours of a warship under way, and of the sea itself: some admittedly foul, some pleasant, and all such a part of his life.

  Thirty years in “King’s Coat,” he told himself; and I can’t say it’s been all bad. Or, maybe my idea of what satisfies was warped a long time ago, hah! Let’s see what the morrow brings, though.

  * * *

  Both ships’ crews, soldiers, and Marines were roused from their hammocks or bunks at Six Bells of the Middle Watch, a full hour earlier than the usual “All Hands” at 4 A.M. when the watch ended. Lewrie had drowsed fully dressed with his uniform coat for a coverlet in his hanging bed-cot, napping then waking, napping then waking. He rolled out groggily and stumbled in the dark in search of the wash-hand stand groping like a blind man for the filled pitcher and bowl so he could splash water on his face, scrub up, and wake himself. He was feeling about for a towel when Deavers, Dasher, and Turnbow entered the cabins and managed to get a couple of candles lit.

  “Morning, Captain sir,” Deavers said, yawning widely. “Yeovill says to tell you he’ll have your coffee ready in the shake of a wee lamb’s tail.”

  “Umph,” was Lewrie’s response to that as he poured more water into a handy glass to sluice the sleep taste and dryness from his mouth. “Ah, that’s a bit better. Some, anyway. How’s the weather and sea?”

  “Too dark t’tell, sir,” Dasher told him.

  Lewrie snatched his old cocked hat off a high peg and went out to the quarterdeck to take a sniff, stiffening the backs of the men at the helm, and the officer of the watch, Mr. Greenleaf.

  “Morning, sir,” Lt. Greenleaf said. “We’re steady on Sou’-Sou’ East, half Sou’east. Last cast of the log showed six knots, and the sea and wind are a tad lively. The moon is setting, and the skies are mostly clear.”

  “Thankee, Mister Greenleaf,” Lewrie said, peering over the side to see if he could spot white caps and white horses on the crests of the nearest waves, barely illuminated by the taffrail lanthorns. “Do you feel any roughness, or hobby-horsing?”

  “Ehm, there’s a bit more scending,” Greenleaf opined. “Long-set waves, but perhaps no more than four or five feet high so far, sir.”

  Lewrie went up to the poop deck to peer aft in search of Coromandel, hoping to judge the sea state by watching her movements, but all he could make out were her taffrail lanthorns, which did not sway or pitch much at all.

  “Lookouts aloft?” Lewrie asked once he regained the quarterdeck. “Any reports from them?”

  “They espied faint lights ashore, sir,” Greenleaf said, “much the same farm lights we saw when we last made practice landing on the beaches, and on pretty-much the same bearings as the last time. I’d reckon that we’re within six or seven miles of the coast, but that’ll be up to Mister Wickersham to decide.”

  Even as he said the man’s name, the Sailing Master emerged from his sea cabin on the starboard side under the overhang of the poop deck, shrugging himself into a grogram watch coat.

  “Ah, good morning, sir,” Wickersham called out, recognising Lewrie in the faint light from the compass binnacle cabinet. “I trust you slept better than I did. I’ll borrow a night-glass if I may?”

  He took one from the rack on the cabinet and went up to the poop to peer shoreward for a long minute, then clumped back down, loudly clearing a phlegmy throat. “I make us about six miles off the beach, Captain, and, unless the locals have moved their bedroom windows, we are spot-on to where we landed our people the last time. Damme, are the galley fires lit yet? I’d gladly throttle someone for a cup of coffee.”

  “At six knots, we’ll be coming to anchor round five A.M.,” Lewrie estimated aloud. “Almost pre-dawn grey. Not too bad.”

  “Aye, sir,” Wickersham agreed, making a grunt-yawning noise.

  More shoes clumped on the larboard ladderway from the waist to the quarterdeck. It was Yeovill, bearing a battered old coffeepot by its bail, and lidded brass barge usually used to fetch Lewrie his solitary breakfast. “Morning, sirs,” he said.

  “Once you’ve poured mine, Yeovill, do fetch Mister Wickersham and Mister Greenleaf a mug of coffee,” Lewrie instructed.

  “That I will, sir!” Yeovill promised.

  “Thank you kindly, Captain sir,” the Sailing Master said, seconded by Greenleaf’s, “Thankee amen, sir.”

  “I’ll be aft, then,” Lewrie told them, re-entering his cabins to avidly accept a mug of sugared black coffee from Yeovill.

  “If you’re feeling peckish, sir, there’s a boiled egg and some of last night’s shore bread,” Yeovill told him as he quickly poured two more mugs to carry out to the quarterdeck. “Oh, and there’s some sausage for Chalky in the barge, and some sliced cabbage for Dasher’s rabbit.”

  “You do us proud, as always, Yeovill,” Lewrie made it a point to tell him, for personal cooks as talented as Yeovill simply must be praised if one wished to keep them.

  “Some butter f’r yer bread, sir?” Turnbow offered, setting out a plate on which Lewrie could shell his egg. “’Tis only a week old.”

  “Aye, Turnbow,” Lewrie said, sitting down at his table. “Think it might turn out to be a good morning, after all.”

  * * *

  The moon had gone under the
horizon, and the sea and sky were beginning to be revealed by the faintest hint of lighter grey light when both ships rounded up to the wind, coasted to a stop, and let go their best bower anchors, even as hands aloft took in the last scrap of sail.

  “Draw up the barges, Mister Farley, get the boarding nets over the sides, and prepare to dis-embark troops,” Lewrie ordered, then went forward to the cross-deck hammock stanchions at the forward edge of the quarterdeck to look down into the ship’s waist. “All ready to go, Whitehead?”

  “Ready, sir!” the Marine officer called back, looking cheerful, “And the signals party, too.” There they were alongside Lt. Rutland and Lt. Grace, the tall canvas sea bag stuffed with signal flags, and the long spar which would be planted on the beach, upon which the flags would be displayed. This morning, it was Midshipman Langdon, the oldest, and Midshipman Chenery, who would man it. Langdon, at twenty-five, looked as if he would take it all in professional stride, but younger Charles Chenery still looked boyishly cock-a-whoop.

  “Damned good navigation, sirs!” Lewrie praised the people on the quarterdeck as he raised his telescope to look at the beaches, recognising a church steeple in Villafranca Tirrena, a tall stone barn, and a dead, bare tree from their earlier landings. They were indeed, spot-on! He crossed the quarterdeck to look at Coromandel.

  “So far so good,” Lewrie muttered under his breath, for the transport’s boarding nets were being laid out overside, and barges were being drawn alongside from being towed astern in trots. It looked seamanlike and efficient for once, which elicited a pleased grunt from him.

  “Very well, let’s be at it,” Lewrie said louder, shouting aft to the hands at the signal halliards. “Hoist the signal to man boats and land the landing force!”

  A moment later, and Coromandel showed the same, lone signal flag, two-blocked at the peak of the halliards.