An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  Both Bromhead and Lewrie leaned forward in their chairs, expecting a gay tale.

  “They showed up, as they always do, round breakfast,” Tarrant began, “setting up their little booths and such, but we were already formed in ranks, and marching out, and you never heard such a caterwauling and wailing, sure that we were leaving for good and there’d be no more money to be made off us, hah hah! Up pops the handcarts and donkeys, chasing after us! The old black-clad women galloping along on their bare feet with their goods slung on their backs, or balanced on their heads to keep up with us, hoping we’d stop and buy something! Locals streaming ahead of us to cry their wares? Then, when we camped for the night, the strongest and the fastest had to camp out with us, with no blankets or shelter, to flog what they had left. We left them in our dust in the morning, the poor devils, for they were simply spent, with their tongues lolling out, and had to eat what they meant to sell, or go hungry! I expect the laggarts limping along far behind us simply got drenched in the rain!”

  Tarrant was right; it was an amusing picture, and all three of them got a good laugh out of the tale. That laughter ended, though, when Dante began to bark outside, and they could hear Quill vainly trying to keep the dog from greeting him with muddy paws.

  “I do believe I hear the call of an ill-omened bird,” Tarrant said in a stage whisper to his guests; he had not forgotten the suggestion Quill had made about Brigadier Caruthers absorbing his regiment.

  “Best let him in,” Lewrie said with a shrug.

  “Do you go rescue him, Carson,” Col. Tarrant bade his orderly.

  A moment later and Mr. Quill appeared in the room, preceded, though, by Dante, who took time to shake himself almost dry, then go to each guest and his master, and sniff crotches and try to place his head and paws in any welcoming lap.

  “Dante!” Tarrant snapped, pointing to a filthy quilt over in one corner of the room. “Beddy by! Go to your pallet!” And, amazingly the dog obeyed, though not without a wee whine of protest. He circled on the quilt, then threw himself down with a huffing sound, to lay his head on his paws.

  “There, that’s better,” Tarrant said. “Welcome, Mister Quill.”

  “Good morning, sir,” Quill replied, taking off a black riding duster and his hat. Dante had managed to smear the duster with mud, so Corporal Carson came to take it for a sponging-off.

  “What’s new in Messina?” Lewrie asked.

  “Ah, sir, to quote the Bard, ‘there’s something rotten in Denmark,’” Quill said with a put-upon sigh. “Don Julio Caesare is back from whatever he’s been up to, and he’s rather wroth with us, and with some of his under-bosses. In his long absence, I paid some of them to go gather information for us, make contact with Mister Silvester and the partisans … pass on a letter and fetch off any from them? Well, Don Julio said that any money from me was his, and his alone, and that ’Tonio had no right to be making decisions without his permission, or getting any big ideas, the greedy bastard. Don Julio, not ’Tonio, I mean as the greedy bastard. He tongue-lashed me to deal only with him, or he’d pull all his co-operation. I’d given ’Tonio fifty pounds, and Don Julio made him hand it over in front of the others. Is that ale, sir? I’d greatly admire a taste.”

  “But of course, Mister Quill,” Col. Tarrant said, finding a fresh mug and pouring it full himself. “That doesn’t sound like a good way to motivate his own people, I must say. Why, one might imagine that this ’Tonio, whoever he is, has gotten some ideas after a humiliation like that.”

  “Perhaps something’s gone amiss with some of his businesses,” Lewrie opined. “Don Julio’s always struck me as shrewd, dangerous, but ingratiating, and clever enough to keep people in line without insulting them. How co-operative is this ’Tonio?”

  “Very,” Quill said after a long draught and a loud “Aah!” of pleasure. “I told you all before that he’s much more patriotic than his boss, more eager to see the French out of Italy, and Calabria in particular. I get the vague suspicion that most of the under-bosses, the capos, are Sicilians of long standing, and that ’Tonio and some few of the others are originally Calabrians, and might still be considered Calabrians, no matter how long they and their families have resided this side of the Strait.”

  “Well, you said Don Julio has business dealings over there, and some of his capos who run things for him in Calabria have to be locals, not Sicilians lording it over them,” Lewrie speculated. “Like the man whose son got us the sketches of the bridge in the first place was a Calabrian capo, right?”

  “Yes, but it now seems to me that someone other than Sicilian can be useful, but never can be trusted to run the whole show,” Quill replied, shrugging. “Second-class people. Recall how much Don Julio despises anything or anyone from Naples. Competition? Themselves so insular that they’d sneer at Sicilians?”

  “Gad, it sounds very much like all of Italy,” Col. Tarrant said with a wee laugh. “It’s a wonder the Romans held it together without every little town going at the next one down the road with hammer and tongs!”

  “You get the sense that this ’Tonio might have big ideas of his own?” Lewrie asked. “Might he aspire to be a Don himself? Over in Calabria, or all of Don Julio’s fiefdom? Hmm. That might be useful, and a lot more co-operative with us.”

  “If that happens, Sir Alan, I imagine we’d all be grateful,” Quill said, “but … as a Calabrian, he could never supplant Caesare. I cannot be seen to encourage his aspirations. Too dangerous.”

  “But, you could sympathise,” Col. Tarrant stated in a slow, calculating drawl.

  “Well, I suppose I could, Colonel,” Quill said, just as slowly, “but if Don Julio hears of it, then ’Tonio is surely done for, and we lose all co-operation with any of Don Julio’s organisation. Frankly, sirs … without them, we might as well pack up and go home. We are completely dependent upon their good will.”

  “And we have yet to hit our stride, sirs!” Capt. Bromhead said in protest. “We haven’t hurt the French as dear as we could!”

  “Upon that head, sirs,” Mr. Quill pressed, “have you gentlemen any good news for me?”

  “We finished off the bridge for good and all,” Bromhead boasted at once, and went on to describe the action, the destruction of the French artillery, the impromptu landing by the Marines and the fires they had set.

  “Well, that will force the French to continue routing their road convoys the long, rough way round,” Quill said, somewhat enthused by the account. “And, did you have a peek at Eufemia Lamezia, Sir Alan?”

  “Aye, but it was a dead bust,” Lewrie had to tell him, giving Quill the many reasons why a landing there would be fruitless, and quite dangerous in terms of casualties to the 94th. “The only two places that seem worth the candle would be Monasterace, or Catanzaro, and we still don’t know much about either place. Admiral Charlton’s squadron might have some information from when they bombarded Monasterace, but that’s yet to come, hopefully.”

  “Have you dug up anything on either, Mister Quill?” Col. Tarrant asked him.

  “Before Don Julio got back, ’Tonio was putting together an expedition to Monasterace,” Quill told them, “but that’s scotched, now, and I’ll have to wait for Don Julio to get over his pet before I can approach him with the request, and I can guarantee you that it will not be ’Tonio who goes. Don Julio still has a flea in his ear about Melito di Porto Salvo.”

  “That again?” Lewrie hooted, rising to go re-fill his own mug. “You’ve already told him once about why it may be too tough a nut to crack, Mister Quill? What the Devil’s there that he wants, the Crown Jewels, the Holy Grail, or the bloody Ark of the Covenant?”

  “A competitor’s storehouses, I’d expect,” Quill gloomed.

  “Well, we’re having none of that!” Lewrie declared. “From what we’ve seen of it from close offshore, it looks t’be as well defended as Reggio di Calabria or bloody Naples.”

  “We do, however, Sir Alan,” Col. Tarrant said with a frown on his face, “need to
strike someplace. This whole endeavour is an experiment, and to continue in existence, it must be seen to be doing something grand, now and then.”

  “Believe me, Colonel, I know!” Lewrie all but spat in agreement. He did not return to his chair, but slowly paced to the front of the quarters to look out a window with the canvas drawn up, to sip at his ale and moodily study the anchorage, the moored ships, and the beachside pier, all misted and distanced by a fresher round of rain.

  If this fails, will I even keep my ship? he sadly wondered; If Admiralty cancels us, would I end up ashore on half-pay? Being back in London with Jessica’d be so sweet, but … damme if I’ll let all the people who’d love t’see me humbled have a chance t’gloat!

  For one daft second, he had a thought to sail off instanter and have a go at Monasterace without proper information and preparation, but realised that would be simply too rash, and sure to get a lot of good men killed or wounded, and a clumsy failure he’d have to confess to Admiralty, which might end his command just as quickly.

  “Something you said off Eufemia Lamezia, Captain Bromhead,” he said without turning round. “About how them seeing us so close offshore might alarm them?”

  “Yes, sir?” Bromhead hesitantly replied.

  Lewrie turned, with the hint of a smile, and with the merest sketch of a plan. “I could take Vigilance and all four transports to sea, round-about Sicily, then make an appearance off Catanzaro, as if we’re going to land. Then, put back out to sea and show up off Melito di Porto Salvo and do the same thing, then up the Strait of Messina to do the same off Eufemia Lamezia.”

  “A long time at sea for my men,” Col. Tarrant said, puzzled.

  “No troops,” Lewrie countered, “transports only. The French know by now what the sight of us might mean. They would have to move troops and guns to re-enforce every place we’re seen, and thin them out. In the meantime, Mister Quill can arrange a scout of Monasterace, which I shall definitely not visit, and Admiral Charlton may supply us with as much information as he has by the time I return.

  “Hell!” Lewrie declared, “I may even come to anchor and get in some gunnery practice to convince them that the Devil and all of his Imps have come to breakfast!”

  “Confusion to the French, ah hah!” Col. Tarrant huzzahed with a lift of his mug. “But, why sail round Sicily, when you can trail your colours right under the noses of their generals in Reggio di Calabria, sir? Right down the Strait, with bands playing!”

  And it’ll look like we’re doin’ something productive! Lewrie could assure himself.

  * * *

  Back aboard Vigilance, though, Lt. Dickson was penning a long letter to one of his principal patrons. With no duties at anchor in port, and with nothing to do on a rainy day, he was doing the bidding of the people who had placed him under Capt. Sir Alan Lewrie, sending them his observations of amphibious operations, how they were conducted, and whether the diversion of badly needed troop transports, and the valuable Navy crews who manned them, was worth the doing, and if the whole scheme was worth the expense of Admiralty funds.

  Of course, Dickson prefaced his accounts with a long complaint of being removed from command and being placed aboard Vigilance as her Fourth Lieutenant before getting to the meat of the matter, but he had already sent off several letters expressing his embarrassment.

  “Good God, a ‘sea letter’!” Lt. Greenleaf commented as he came out of the quarter gallery, headed to the wash-hand stand to clean his face and hands. “You must be very sweet on the girl, Dickson.”

  “He’s not even writing on the back of the pages,” Lt. Farley, the First Officer teased, looking up from his never-ending alterations in the Muster Book, “nor cross the first lines, either.”

  Dickson shrugged into himself and laid a forearm as if to shield it from view. “It you must know, it’s to my father, with a page or two to sisters and brothers included, to save them postage,” Dickson said in explanation. “A little bit for everyone to be shared out when they get together for Sunday dinner.”

  “It’ll weigh nigh a pound before you’re done,” Greenleaf said. “That’ll be a five shilling log!”

  Dickson flashed a brief, polite smile. He was still walking on tiptoes round his fellow wardroom mates, waiting for the first sneer, the first pointed comment, for they all knew the reason for him being among them. In truth, Dickson expected guarded derision, feeling as if he went about stoop-shouldered, waiting for the blow to fall, but, so far, though he’d not won any new friends (nor did he care to do so) he had not made any enemies, so long as he fulfilled his duties with professional skill.

  He had laid out the details of all the previous landings that he had gleaned from his fellow officers, then portrayed their latest off that bridge above Pizzo, and the demonstration off Eufemia Lamezia, paying suitable praise for the impromptu landing of the Marines to set fire to everything under and round the bridge.

  It strikes me, though, that, as daring as the operations have been, they have been few and far between, with weeks on end languishing in harbour before sailing off to strike again. One could assume that the squadron could be put to better use by cruising the Calabrian coast, looking for advantageous places to land, and burn; semaphore towers, enemy batteries, and such, or any town that had a garrison & destroying anything that floats in the ports, as we see in accounts of the doings of Adm. Popham on the N. coast of Spain. Instead, we must bide until adequate information can come to us from a shadowy, frankly criminal gang of smugglers & cut-throats, all under the aegis of a spectral minion of Foreign Office in Messina, a most odd bird or so I am told, and all is done for money, when I imagine that if spies are needful, more trustworthy agents of British blood could be doing the information gathering. Frankly, gentlemen, what little I have seen has been most stultifying, and boresome, so far. I fear, for all his former gallantry, that Capt. Lewrie plays the game too cautiously to be in command of such an experiment.

  There, he told himself after signing it; now we’ll see what my patrons make of this. With luck, they’ll find a way to take Lewrie down a peg or two, and get me a command back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Lay on a special dinner for today, Yeovill,” Lewrie told his cook over breakfast the next day. “I’ll be having Mister Farley, Mister Wickersham, and the officers in command of the transports. Eight, all told.”

  “Very good, sir,” Yeovill replied, his head cocked over to one side in thought for a moment. “Ehm, how would chicken Parmesan suit, with pasta, peas or broad beans, and garden green salad?”

  “What the Devil’s chicken Parmesan?” Lewrie had to ask.

  “Well, normally, it’s a boneless chicken breast smothered in a marinara sauce, with slices of Parmesan cheese atop, sir,” Yeovill explained, “but I can de-bone a decent-sized bird, and add the meat to a serving bowl of pasta, with the sauce and cheese. A little will go a long way. And, may I suggest a monte pulziano to wash it down?”

  “You always amaze me, Yeovill,” Lewrie said in awe of how quickly the man had come up with a solution, seemingly from the top of his head. “I think you could cobble together a feast at the North Pole!”

  “Only do you care for whale or seal meat, sir,” Yeovill said.

  “Very well, let’s serve that,” Lewrie decided, imagining an oil and vinegar sauce for the salad, some wee young Roma tomatoes on the side, perhaps even a sprinkling of goat cheese, which he had come to like. As he finished the last bites of his breakfast, dabbed at his lips with his napkin and pulled it free from his shirt collar, Lewrie patted his stomach, then kneaded his abdomen, wondering if his cook did him too proud. Would he at last batten up like an Autumn hog, and become as rotund as many Post-Captains he had known? No, once he stood to go to his desk, he could still get two thumbs inside of his breeches’ waistband, and they did not feel a bit snugger than they had before.

  Somewhat assured, he sat down and wrote out invitations to all the transports’ commanding officers, folded them over, then sent
one of his servants on deck to summon a Midshipman.

  “Sent for me, sir?” Midshipman Fairfoot reported minutes later.

  “Aye, Mister Fairfoot,” Lewrie told him. “I need you to deliver invitations to transports. Take a boat and a rowing crew. No need to t’seal ’em. Just keep ’em dry and smudge free.”

  “Aye, sir,” the lad replied, knuckled his brow and went out on deck, bawling for a boat crew to be assembled, and buoyed by his bit of freedom from the ship and worse tasks.

  “More coffee, sir?” Deavers asked. “There may be a cup’s worth left in the pot.”

  “Aye, thankee, Deavers, and I think I will,” Lewrie told him.

  * * *

  At the appointed time, First Officer Farley and the Sailing Master came aft to the starboard entry-port, and four barges stroked out from the inshore anchorages of the transports. Lt. Fletcher off Bristol Lass came aboard first, followed by Lt. Rutland off Coromandel, then Lt. Hoar of Spaniel, and then Lt. Creswell off Lady Merton. They mingled, doffing hats to each other, then shaking hands more cordially, with Lt. Farley and Mr. Wickersham joshing Rutland about his new assignment aboard Coromandel, before the door to the great cabins opened, and Deavers bowed them in.

  After surrendering hats and swords to Dasher and Turnbow, they took seats down either side of Lewrie’s twelve-place table, Fletcher and Farley at the top of the table near Lewrie at the end, which made Lewrie cock a brow at Rutland in query.

  “I thought you would be senior, Mister Rutland,” he said.

  “I do supercede Mister Fletcher, sir,” Rutland replied, “but he has been senior over the rest of the transports from the beginning, and that’s gone so well that I saw no reason to claim seniority.”

  “Well!” Lewrie said, a tad surprised. “If you do not stand upon pride of place, and things continue to go as well as they have so far, your arrangement with Mister Fletcher is fine by me. Gentlemen, we’ll begin with a white wine, if you will. You may pour, Deavers. I trust you do not mind if I make this a working dinner?”