An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Now,” Dickson said, softening his rant a bit, “be about it, and bring me the names of the instigators. Go! Get out of my face!”

  Dickson stomped off the quarterdeck, out along the windward sail-tending gangway, to glower at his disreputable crew, eagerly seeking someone who was not doing his duty, someone who smirked or was too jovial, whom he could punish.

  “Jesus weep,” Clough muttered, after letting out a long pent-up breath. “Who’d be a sailor on this barge!”

  “Remember the Hermione frigate?” Kinsey asked. “Her Captain, Pigot I think his name was, was the same sort of Tartar. When his crew mutinied, they murdered him in his bed.”

  “You don’t think…!” Clough gasped. “No, not under the guns of the Vigilance. Surely not! Wasn’t Hermione sailing alone?”

  “Seen a lot of officers in my time in the Navy, man and boy,” Kinsey said with a sad shake of his head. “I know we’re not to say anything about a senior officer, seeing as how it’s dis-loyal, and a court-martial offence. But … I swear he’ll be the ruin of us.”

  “Dasn’t even mention the word ‘mutiny,’ either,” Clough warned him. “Unless we see one brewing, of course. He said it first,” Clough added, sounding like a schoolboy’s plaint to Kinsey’s ears.

  “God, finding who did it’s nigh impossible,” Kinsey told him. “The whole crew could be in on it, for all we know, and not one of ’em will admit to it, or point a finger.”

  “Have to try, though,” Sub-Lt. Clough said with a long sigh of frustration. “I don’t know what he’ll do if we don’t, or can’t, get results.”

  “Aye, I suppose,” the elder Midshipman gloomily agreed. “Here now … recall what Captain Lewrie told Dickson as he was leaving the ship? Something about giving him his decision once we get back from hunting our missing barge? I wonder what that was all about.”

  “Hmm, Lewrie did give him a cobbing, I expect,” Clough said, in well-hidden amusement over his commanding officer’s predicament, “and Dickson looked as happy as a hanged spaniel when they left the great-cabins. A formal complaint to Admiralty, or Rear-Admiral Charlton, a threat to have Dickson exchange with another officer? No idea.”

  “Could be welcome news for some,” Kinsey said with a brief bit of hope as he rubbed his unshaven chin, “or bad news for someone in particular. Well, I think I’ll go below and see if I can turn up those missing oars, before we go laying blame on anyone.”

  “I’ll keep us from running aground ’til the change of watch,” Clough promised. “Good luck to you.”

  * * *

  “Anchored securely fore and aft, sir,” Lt. Farley reported to Lewrie, “five-to-one scope paid out on the hawsers in five and a half fathoms of water. Ehm … do you still wish to hold cutlass drill, sir?”

  “No, I think not, Mister Farley, not today,” Lewrie decided, after a long moment of thought. “Best we inspect our barges, and see to their painters and tow lines for chafing or wear. It wouldn’t do us any good to tear a strip off one ship for laxness, then go and lose a boat, ourselves, what?”

  “Oh no, no good at all, sir!” Farley said with a snigger. “I’ll see to it, directly.”

  “Be sure to point out the markers to the harbour watch, so we can tell if the anchors drag,” Lewrie said, having a look-round for a large barn three points off the starboard bows, and a church bell tower three points off the larboard quarter, in the village of Milazzo, “The flagpole in the Army camp’ll do for one, as well as the signals post by the docks.”

  “And Mount Etna over yonder, too, sir,” Farley pointed out.

  “Very well, I’ll be aft,” Lewrie told him, but only took two steps toward his door before pausing, and going up to the poop deck to watch Coromandel as she completed anchoring closer inshore near the other transports, and putting the boarding nets overside to send her temporary complement of soldiers ashore.

  Since she would soon be departing to hunt up her missing boat, Dickson had only let go her best bower, ignoring a stern kedge anchor, and Lewrie watched closely to see how much scope he’d let run through the hawse-hole. There was a light wind off the sea, but Coromandel was a big ship, with a lot more freeboard than the other transports, and even a light wind could shuffle her about. Had he taken into account for a possible swing that might put his ship crunching into Spaniel or Lady Merton, anchored fore-and-aft nearby?

  Go on, Dickson, smash something up so I can dismiss you, Lewrie thought as he peered closer with a telescope; Some damnfool, lubberly idiocy that I can justify as good cause!

  From his vantage point, Coromandel’s stern seemed hellish-close to Lady Merton’s bow-sprit and jib-boom, but no one aboard the smaller trooper was scurrying forward in concern, or shouting warnings as the wind made Coromandel swing round her anchor to point her bows higher into the breeze, and her stern at the beach.

  I’m bein’ perverse, wishin’ for that, Lewrie chid himself; Fine, so I’m perverse! But! If he’s slow gettin’ his anchor up and sails set, he can still put her stern aground!

  But, ever so slowly, Coromandel’s barges returned from the beach and the boarding nets were hauled up over her bulwarks. Jibs and staysails were hoisted, along with the spanker aft, and the ship drew up to her anchor ’til the hawser was “up and down,” and, after a brief stern board, the bower was being rung up to the catheads, and she was under way with a faint mustachio of foam under her forefoot.

  Oh well, better luck next time, Lewrie thought, collapsing the tubes of his telescope and clumping down the ladderway to the quarterdeck. He entered his great-cabins, shedding hat, coat, waist-coat, and neck-stock, delighted to find that the transom sash windows’ upper halves were open for a breeze, as was the wood, glass-paned door to his stern gallery, and, out of the late morning sun, his cabins were relatively cool and comfortable.

  His cat, Chalky, sat by the tight mesh of the strung twine door to the stern gallery, jaws chittering and making wee hunting noises. His paws worked on the taut twine as if he was playing a harp.

  “Something cool before dinner, sir?” Deavers tempted.

  “A mug of ale, if we’ve any left, thankee,” Lewrie told him, going to his fiddled rack of books to find something amusing to read, as Dasher hung his shed clothing on pegs too high for the cat to get to and “adorn” with white fur. “Here, Chalky, leave the seabirds be. You ever do catch a gull, he’d peck your eyes out like raisins in a duff. Here, puss puss! Lap!” he invited, and Chalky finally left off his dream of killing something and trotted over to the starboard side settee, sprang up atop the cushions with his tail up, and pawed his shirt sleeve with talons sheathed.

  “There’s a good catling, yayss,” Lewrie cooed, petting him.

  I may re-write that letter to Charlton, Lewrie told himself; Who knows? I may still have to send it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The next morning, HMS Vigilance did hold the delayed cutlass drill, whilst her officers and Midshipmen practiced with the heavy blades or their personal swords on the poop deck. Older Mids who had been exposed to a fencing master’s salle showed off, instructing the younger lads to the double threat of cutlass in one hand, and their dirks, which were normally worn as a sign of their dignity and their status as officers-to-be, in the other. The ship rang with the sounds of steel clanging and slithering on opposing steel, though the drill steps stressed footwork and balance on the thrust, return, slash, and counter, slowed down from the furious melee of the real thing. Lewrie long before had been trained well in the two-handed work of smallsword and dagger, or the cloak draped over his left hand as a shield and a trap for a too-confident thrust.

  Lewrie delighted in sword practice, for it was one of the few ways for an officer to keep somewhat fit in the confines of a ship at sea; they were not required to manhandle guns and carriages, tail on to hoist in cargo, lift boats off the cross-deck beams, or clamber aloft to handle sail or strike topmasts. There were only so many laps of the ship one could walk! He considered himself hale and fit, even
at the advanced age of fourty-seven years, but was secretly glad when Lt. Farley called for a water break at the scuttlebutts, and a chance to regain his breath.

  “Pointless, really, sir,” Lt. Rutland commented as they stood at the forward edge of the poop deck, looking down into the waist, where sailors and Marines still practiced in facing rows. “As soon as they swarm and board an enemy ship, half their learning goes by the board, and they fight like they were in a tavern brawl.”

  “But, better skilled than the French, who’ve not been out of port two weeks, and half of ’em still green round the gills,” Lewrie joshed.

  “Deck, there!” someone in the main mast cross-trees shouted. “Sail on th’ horizon! Two points off th’ larb’d bows!”

  Lt. Farley was quick to dash down to the quarterdeck to seize a brass speaking trumpet and shout back. “Can you make her out?”

  “Hull down, sir!” was the reply. “Only showin’ tops’ls!”

  “From the East, Nor’east,” Lt. Rutland speculated as he took his turn with the long dipper. “Coromandel must have found her barge, at last.”

  “Took him long enough,” Lewrie said, uncharitably.

  “Ehm, you’ve given my offer some thought, sir?” Rutland asked, pretending that it did not matter which way Lewrie decided.

  “I may give Mister Dickson one last chance to prove himself, Mister Rutland,” Lewrie told him. “But, if he messes up once more, I may place you in command of her. May be temporary, mind. Admiral Charlton may over-rule me.”

  “Depending on Dickson’s, and Grace’s, dates of commission, it may delight Mister Grace to be made Third Officer,” Rutland sniggered, showing a faintest bit of rare humour.

  “Deck, there!” came another hail from aloft. “I kin only see two tops’s! Looks t’be a brig!”

  “So he hasn’t found his boat, yet,” Lewrie chuckled. “Perhaps Don Julio scooped it up and is holdin’ it for ransom?”

  “Who, the smuggler, sir?” Rutland asked. “The one who scouts our missions for us? Never met him.”

  “Consider yourself fortunate, then, Mister Rutland,” Lewrie told him. “He’s an oily, cut-throat who’d kill his children if the price was high enough.”

  They returned to their sword practice after everyone had had a dipper or two of freshwater. This time, Lewrie squared off against Midshipman Charles Chenery, his young brother-in-law.

  “Put your dirk away, Mister Chenery,” Lewrie told him, “and we will simplify things.”

  “Light hanger against a heavy cutlass, sir,” Chenery said with an impish air. “I’d hate to break your sword, sir.”

  “It’s a Gills’, and stouter than you think. Guard yourself!” Lewrie shot back, and for the next ten minutes, ’til Six Bells of the Forenoon rang out, and the drill was ended for the day, Lewrie found himself all but overwhelmed by Chenery’s quickness and supple wrist, though he did manage to dance him backwards and get inside his guard with low-held thrusts or half-slashes, even able to step up chest-to-chest and shove his hanger’s hilt and guard upwards against the lad’s chin. If it had been for real, he would have knocked him sprawling, open to a killing stroke.

  “Desperate men never fight fair, Mister Chenery,” Lewrie crowed, panting. “Elegance against a garlic-breathed Frenchmen’ll get you killed.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Chenery said, still smiling.

  “Go sponge yourself off, and get ready for the rum issue,” Lewrie told him, sheathing his hanger at last, and going below for a full mug of cool tea and ginger beer, and a sponge-off of his own.

  “Deck there,” he heard as he re-donned his damp shirt. “Th’ sail on th’ horizon’s almost hull-up! She’s makin’ her number!”

  A moment later, one of the Midshipmen of the Harbour Watch was at Lewrie’s door to inform him that the strange sail was a warship, one of their own, the HMS Coquette.

  “Huzzah!” Lewrie exclaimed. “D’arcy Gamble’s coming! Now we can find out what’s acting up the coast!”

  He looked at his desk, where his amended letter to Admiral Sir Thomas Charlton sat atop a pile of personal letters that he’d hoped to post to England.

  You’re goin’ anywhere near the squadron, Malta or Gibraltar, you’re a Godsend, Commander Gamble! he happily thought.

  * * *

  Hours later, HMS Coquette came to anchor a quarter-mile off, and in fine style, taking in all her sail by the time she coasted to a stop with her bows in the wind, and letting go her bower at the same time, an impressive feat of seamanship.

  Within moments, Coquette’s wee gig was under way, bearing her captain to Vigilance’s starboard side and entry-port. Lewrie stood by the beginning of the sail-tending gangway near the entry-port, eager to see Gamble aboard, impatient with the ritual of hailing the supposedly “strange” boat, the shouted reply, and the permission to close the ship yelled back.

  The gig thumped against the hull by the main chains, and a long moment later, the hint of a hat above the lip of the entry-port brought the side-party to attention as Bosun’s calls trilled. Once inboard, Commander Gamble doffed his hat to the flag and his welcomers, with a slight bow from his waist.

  “Commander Gamble, very welcome aboard!” Lewrie said, stepping forward to offer his hand.

  “Captain Lewrie!” Gamble said, smiling broadly as he shook with him. “I trust you keep well?”

  “Quite well, sir,” Lewrie replied. “Come aft, take a pew, and a glass of something, and tell me all your latest news.”

  “Delighted to do so, sir,” Gamble said.

  Once seated round the low, brass Hindoo tray table, and Dasher fetching glasses of cool tea mixed with ginger beer, Gamble slung his sword out of the way to settle into the settee cushions. “I did not compliment you on the fineness of your cabin furnishings last time I was aboard, sir. It’s all quite homey.”

  “God, don’t tell Admiralty, then,” Lewrie japed, “else they’ll think me a luxury-loving Corinthian, and I’ll get ‘beached’ forever! A fair amount of it’s my wife’s taste, truth t’tell. Dame Lewrie is an artist, and has an eye for such things.”

  Gamble turned his head briefly to glance at Jessica’s portrait on the forward bulkhead. “You are a most fortunate man, sir. Now! Your bridge!”

  “Aha, have the French repaired it?” Lewrie asked, shifting forward in his chair.

  “Every time I’ve passed it, sir, I’ve lingered to pound at it, as have the other brig-sloops which patrol the coast north of Reggio di Calabria,” Gamble reported with some glee. “They’ve tried to make a start at replacing the central pillar with wood timber frames, and when that got shot away, a weird triangular bracing tower, but that got shattered as well. There’s quite a pile of broken timbers in the gully, by now. And, as soon as they spot a sail coming close, all their civilian workers scatter, whether we fire on them or not. The last time Rainbow, another of our sloops, fired on it, all her captain could see was uniformed French engineers, and they ran off just like the local Italians, hah hah!

  “A few days ago, though, sir,” Commander Gamble said, turning, graver, “when I closed the coast to have another go at it, there were artillery batteries either end of the bridge, or a single, mixed battery … four twelve-pounder guns, and a brace of howitzers with explosive shells. I had to haul off once they got the range of me, sorry to say.”

  “Well, we knew the situation wouldn’t last,” Lewrie said, saddened to hear that. “They score any hits on you, were any of your men hurt?”

  “Some splashes a long musket shot off, one explosive shell off my starboard, another far over on my larboard, and I determined that discretion might be the best course. No one hurt at all, though we got the wind up when those shells burst.”

  “Good,” Lewrie replied. “If only there was a way to fire explosive shells aboard ship, though the storage might prove a problem.”

  “The French have tried to move supplies south from Naples by sea, sir,” Gamble went on, “small coasters and commandee
red fishing boats, mostly, but our continued presence forces them to skulk along the coast, in sight of land, and duck into any fishing port or inlet that’s handy when they see any strange sail to seaward. I doubt if some of them make sixty miles a day.”

  “Just as they did off northern Spain,” Lewrie agreed.

  “And, just as you did off that coast, sir, we’ve been reaping a rich harvest of them,” Gamble boasted, with a nod of his head to honour Lewrie’s past accomplishments. “Most of the crews have turned out to be Neapolitans, people from that kingdom’s navy, out of work now, and in need of some income. The ones we’ve captured seem quite happy to be imprisoned on Malta, out of French clutches. Some of the prisoners are French sailors, rounded up from idled warships, and they’re none too happy. What part of their fleet that was sent to Naples is still in harbour, too fearful to sortie. Frigates mostly.”

  “Hmm, if they haven’t yet re-built that bridge, their supplies must still come by road, the long way round,” Lewrie said, glad to hear of it, and gave Gamble an account of the attack at Bova Marina, and the destruction of the road convoys. “All the rough dirt tracks cross the mountains to shorten their journeys strike the main coast road at Monasterace, still. I assume you’re rejoining Charlton?”

  “Aye, sir,” Gamble agreed.

  “Then I wonder if anyone assigned to bombarding Monasterace back in the Spring kept their notes on the place,” Lewrie said, “for that seems the best place to hit. Our spies and informants were not asked to smoak the place out, since I, and the Army, weren’t going to land troops there. Hell, I just may take all my ships to sea and cruise off the place, just t’put the fear o’ God in ’em!”