Much Ado About Lewrie

by Dewey Lambdin

  “A little, ye say?” the Stroke-Oar from Lewrie’s boat frowned. John Kitch was in no way musical himself, only able to keep time with spoons on his thigh. “Th’ Cap’um orta find another hobby, Liam.”

  “No, really, John,” Desmond objected. “Afore he got this ship, and th’ squadron, he had more time, and he was much better.”

  “Well, if that disaster puts paid t’all our raidin’, he’ll have all th’ practice time he wants,” Kitch pointed out.

  Above them on the quarterdeck, pressed against the cross-deck hammock stanchions, Midshipman Dunn espied something flying on the signals tower ashore, went to the binnacle cabinet rack to fetch out a day-glass, and read it. He lowered the telescope, tugged down his short coat hem and his sleeves, and went to the Marine sentry.

  “I have to tell the Captain that there’s a signal ashore,” he said with sudden fifteen-year-old importance.

  “Midshipman Dunn t’see the Captain, SAH!” the sentry bawled, stamping his boots and slamming his musket butt on the deck.

  The music stopped of a sudden with a final, surprised tweet.

  “Enter!” came a shout from within.

  Dunn tucked his short-brimmed hat under his arm and stepped in, spotting Captain Lewrie seated on the starboard side settee.

  “What is it, Mister Dunn?” Lewrie asked.

  “Flag hoist ashore, sir,” Dunn crisply reported. “It says ‘Q here,’ and ‘Conference, Query.’”

  “Ah,” was all Lewrie said in reply, leaning forward to place his penny-whistle on the low, round brass table. “Very well, Mister Dunn. Do you hoist a signal to say that I will come ashore, then pass word for my boat crew to muster.”

  “Very good, sir,” Dunn answered, performed a sketchy bow from the waist, more a jerk movement, then turned about and departed, and could be heard yelling for the boat crew.

  “Now we’ll see what Mister Quill has to say for himself,” Lewrie muttered as he rose from the settee and fetched his waistcoat, coat, and cocked hat.

  * * *

  At least he won’t be amused, Lewrie told himself after he left the barge at the make-shift landing pier at the beach; And I won’t have t’suffer Quill’s donkey-bray.

  Mr. Quill was Foreign Office’s Secret Branch representative on Sicily, the unlikeliest spy that anyone could imagine, which might be his salvation from enemy agents. He had been recruited from the libraries at Cambridge, and he looked the part. Tall, lanky as a scare-crow, with a cadaverously lean face, dark hair clubbed back in a short queue, pale skin as if he only stirred out after midnight, and dressed in black from head to toes in a churchman’s “dominee ditto,” replete with black cotton stockings over spindly thin shanks. He resided in the dockyard area of Messina in miserly poor lodgings, where Lewrie and his cabin steward Deavers had had to sleep over one night, half-awake to the sounds of bawdy, drunken revelry outside, and the scurry of rats and mice within.

  And when the poor Mr. Quill found cause to laugh out loud, he did bray, along with a snigger, and a sound somewhere betwixt a man drowning and gasping for air, and consumption. Dis-concerting as he was, Quill was the fellow who gathered the information about where the squadron and the troops of the 94th went ashore, right down to beach conditions, slope, and dimensions, and the depths of the water from the surfline to where the transports, and Vigilance with her supporting artillery could safely anchor, through his contacts among the criminals who could sail over and pretend to fish or trade whilst they gathered their intelligence, all for a hefty fee from British purses and money chests.

  Lewrie made his way up from the beach on a well-worn path that was muddy when it rained, despite beach sand being spread along it, and was dusty today under a mild Autumn sun. Col. Tarrant’s dog, Dante, saw him coming, perked up, and came trotting to greet him with a new toy in his mouth, anticipating play. Mr. Quill and Tarrant sat upon the raised wooden gallery in front of his quarters, most-like with mugs of ale or glasses of fruity white wine in their hands, and, of course, Quill did not deal well with the dog; he sat bunched up with his heels under his chair, elbows close to his sides, dreading a burst of exuberant affection.

  “Well, hallo, Mister Quill, Colonel,” Lewrie said as he neared. “Mister Quill, how d’ye keep?”

  “Only tolerably, Sir Alan,” Quill nigh-mournfully replied, lifting his mug of ale in salute. “Everything’s a muddle, I fear.”

  “Sit you down and join us, sir,” Col. Tarrant invited. “Carson!” he called to his orderly, “A mug of ale for Sir Alan.”

  “Right-ho, sir!” Corporal Carson agreed.

  Lewrie asked no questions ’til the ale had been fetched, and he had taken a welcome swallow, noting that it was not the local swill, but good British ale with a crisp, refreshing taste.

  “So, what’s acting in Messina, Mister Quill?” Lewrie asked.

  “A slightly promising development as regards our cut-throats and criminals, Sir Alan,” Quill said, making a sour face. “A shift in allegiences, as it were. Our new premier capo di capo, Signore Lucca Massimo, has made it clear to his subordinate capos and their henchmen that it is in their best interests to shun future dealings with the French over on the mainland, and show more patriotism that is in Italian interests. I’ve been assured, again, that Don Lucca is our man, heart and soul … and a flood of English guineas, hah!”

  “We’re still being played, you mean,” Lewrie stated.

  “For every shilling, of course, sir!” Quill mirthlessly agreed.

  “And, Mister Quill has brought me a rough copy of his report to his superiors in London, Sir Alan,” Tarrant stuck in.

  “Yes, I explained that it was the late Don Julio’s greed that sold us out, and that despite the well-laid ambush, we acquitted ourselves well,” Mr. Quill related, “as well as could be expected given the odds against us.” He shifted forward on his chair to impart his latest intelligence. “I have learned through Mister Silvestri’s contacts, and a fine set of informants he has managed to recruit, let me tell you, that there is a certain French general, despatched South to deal with us by Marshal Murat in Naples himself. His predecessor has recently been demoted, and sent to count spare boots for his failure. Along with him, the Colonel in command of their cavalry was demoted for his reluctance to advance within range of your guns, Sir Alan, and support the infantry. I included those tidbits in my report,” he added, with a scary-looking grin. “I trust that my observations will go a long way as to your, and Colonel Tarrant’s, absolutions, heh heh.”

  Oh, don’t laugh! Lewrie thought; You’ll frighten the dog!

  And, at those times when Mr. Quill thought that he had done something, or said something, clever and “Spy-ish,” his ill-featured phyz could take on an aspect that could curdle milk.

  “So, what are your thoughts on our new benefactor, sir?” Col. Tarrant asked after a deep sip of ale, and a wee smack of his lips. “He really wasn’t here long enough for me to take his measure.”

  “Uhm, well,” Quill mused after a deep draught of his own. “He is much more civilized than the late Don Julio.”

  “He can eat with a knife and a fork,” Lewrie quipped.

  “And most elegantly, too,” Quill rejoined. “Don Lucca is … ah, dare I say, distinguished. As you saw when he was here to inform us that Don Julio had been … supplanted, he dresses sobrely, without flash, and bears himself with a certain gravity, as if he comes from a middling family of some local importance, from Sicilian gentry … thought certainly one long-involved in the criminal syndicate. He is a most serious fellow.”

  “He’ll have someone’s throat cut and not crack a smile, do you mean?” Lewrie japed again.

  “My but you’re cheery today, Sir Alan,” Col. Tarrant chuckled.

  “I am certain that Don Lucca could prove to be even more dangerous than any of his associates,” Quill said, “but, odd as it may sound, once he’s pledged his word to aid us, I suspect that he’s the sort who would stick to his bargain. Personal honour seems to mean m
uch more to him than Don Julio. I believe we can trust him.”

  “So long as there’s a regular supply of British guineas,” Col. Tarrant supposed aloud, with one leery brow up.

  “Guineas, and weapons,” Mr. Quill told them. “His capos over on the mainland have heard of what a few small bands can accomplish in the wild woods in the mountains since we supplied my assistant, Mister Silvestri, with a couple of hundred-odd muskets and ammunition, and Don Lucca has gotten requests for their henchmen to be armed, as well. Probably for armed robberies, but,” he said, shrugging.

  “Can you lay hands on another lot?” Lewrie asked. “How soon, and how many? I’ll send Lieutenant Farley off in a couple of ship’s barges as soon as they arrive.”

  “No trouble,” Quill assured them. “I’ll write Gibraltar or Lisbon. Both garrisons are storing goodly stockpiles of muskets taken from the French in Spain and Portugal, beyond what General Wellesley issues to Spanish and Portuguese troops.

  “As for their distribution, Don Lucca assures me that he has the boats to smuggle them over, on his own,” Quill went on, between sips of ale, “so your barges won’t have to be risked. After all, his criminals are much better smugglers than we are. I dare say they’d put our smugglers back in England to shame, hah hah!”

  “I don’t suppose that Don Lucca has any specific places in mind that he suggest we raid?” Lewrie asked, wishing that it wasn’t rude to ask for a refill of ale before his host offered.

  “He’s said nothing upon that head, Sir Alan,” Quill told him. “He is more than willing to gather information on what we determine, that would be our bailiwick. Once we choose, he and his syndicate will do all we ask them to to speed our way.”

  “At least he didn’t mention Melito di Porto Salvo,” Col. Tarrant said with a brief snort of relief.

  The late Don Julio had pressed them to strike there, right on the “toe” of the Italian “boot,” a place with some old fortifications behind the town, artillery batteries either side of the harbour entrance channel, commanding the useful beaches on which they could land, surely had a sizeable garrison, and was uncomfortably close to the main French base and its garrison in Reggio di Calabria. Lewrie and Tarrant had been utterly convinced that the town was home to one of his competitors, or that he’d been laying plans for the squadron and its troops to be destroyed there, long before.

  Tarrant’s dog padded over to Lewrie and put his head and shoulders in his lap, sniffing at Lewrie’s ale mug. In a twinkling, the dog had his muzzle deep inside and lapping.

  “Oh, don’t let him do that, Lewrie!” Tarrant snapped, a bit put out. “Down, Dante, bad dog! If he gets into some ale, it makes him as gassy as so many cows!”

  “No no,” Lewrie said, raising the mug above his head, though the dog tried to scramble after it, making Lewrie shove him away. “Damme!”

  “You’ll be needing a fresh mug,” Tarrant said, “and a refill, I expect. Carson? A fresh mug for Sir Alan, and refills all round!”

  Good dog, Dante, Lewrie thought with a grin; It’s rather good ale, even after gettin’ shipped so far!

  “Uhm, pardon my asking, sirs,” Mr. Quill asked, “but … where are we to strike, now? Saddle up, again, after being thrown, all that?”

  “Lewrie?” Tarrant prompted, as if a plan could spring forth all ready for execution from a tactical or strategic genius.

  Lewrie paused for a long moment before confessing “I haven’t a single clue.”

  “Ah, hmm,” Tarrant said, clearing his throat. “No…?”

  “But for Melito di Porto Salvo, we’ve attacked almost all of the seaside ports and villages along the coast, sirs,” Lewrie said, with a negative shake of his head. He summoned the mental picture of the map in his mind; Bova Marina, Brancaleone just East of Cape Spartivento, Bovalino, Locri and Siderno, Marina di Gioiosa Ionica, Rocello Ionica, Monasterace? They had bombarded Catanzaro Lido but had not landed, for there was a large French garrison there; the same for Crotone.

  There was a little place betwixt Monasterace and Catanzaro, the wee fishing village of Soverato, halfway up the instep of the “boot.” And, they had made few appearances on the Western coast as yet, not since destroying the ancient Roman bridge right on the coast above a village called Pizzo, which had caused the supply detour and bottleneck over the mountains that kept French garrisons fed and armed.

  Soverato? What would be the point, far East of where the supplies crossed the mountains and returned to the long coastal road.

  “No, Colonel,” Lewrie slowly admitted, “at the moment, there’s not a place that springs to mind worth attacking again. Locri and Siderno, where we began in the early Spring, and burned up the French invasion depots? They’re on the new supply routes, but we have no idea if they’ve been garrisoned since, or if anything worthwhile is stored there.”

  “I could go back to Messina and confer with Don Lucca to see what he knows,” Mr. Quill offered, looking a bit worried that Lewrie didn’t produce a wickedly sharp idea that instant. “And, he can send a boat with a letter to Mister Silvestri, asking for his input.”

  “That’d be good, thankee, Mister Quill,” Lewrie told him with a lift and tilt of his dog-licked ale mug. Corporal Carson came out of Tarrant’s quarters with a fresh mug, and a pitcher to top them up.

  What the Devil do they expect of me? Lewrie asked himself; They imagine I’m a Wellesley, a Napoleon, or Horatio Nelson? I ain’t that clever, never have been!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  If Lewrie was well and truly stumped, he could find an host of useful diversions ’til something, anything, sprang to mind that would not be a total catastrophe—he’d had enough of those lately, thank you very much.

  HMS Vigilance, a two-decker 64, needed a good scouring, fore and aft, from bilge ballast to the mainmast truck. There were frayed and worn rigging to be replaced, pulley blocks to be lubricated, trash to be swept, and decks to be washed, then holystoned to new whiteness. The guns had to be washed, too, blacked with paint, and recoil and run-out tackle and breeching ropes to be seen to, solid iron roundshot had to be filed to a more perfect roundness, then gun drill performed without powder or shot to keep Vigilance’s already experienced gun crews back to the rhythm of three rounds every two minutes for the long 18-pounders on the upper deck, and two shots in three minutes of the lower deck 24-pounders.

  Boarding nets had to be repaired, then lowered to the waiting barges, and the Marines in their shirtsleeves had to practice going over the side and into those barges, then back to the weather decks as quickly as possible. Musket practice fired at bobbing casks, pistol work, then cutlass, hatchet, and boarding pike drill should they have to repel boarders, or fight for their lives on some beach, as they had at Monasterace. And, of course, drill after drill for all ships to row ashore, take troops of the 94th aboard, dis-embark them back into the barges, and land them ashore at their encampment.

  Lewrie’s crew even spent a morning hunting rats when the number of vermin became too obvious, and the many cats and terriers aboard could not keep up. Nest after nest were discovered and decimated, and most admitted that it was a delightful thing to do, with a contest pitting larbowline division against starbowline division after the kills were tossed into casks and tallied up.

  Now, it must here be admitted that Alan Lewrie was, when not pressed by the needs of the Service, and a ship and crew, could be a most indolent fellow, and when ashore on half-pay, was a slug-abed. Nothing delighted him more, at least when he was a young civilian, than to rise late to toast and cocoa, dress smartly and make the rounds of coffee houses and ordinaries with fellow idlers, attend the theatres or bawdier playhouses, drink and be merry, sup late, and go to bed past midnight to do it all again the next day.

  Duty, though, his reputation as a “doer,” forced him on deck to oversee minor evolutions and repairs, the daily loading of bread and fresh water, fruit, milk, and livestock, even going so far as to peek into the galley and pester the Ship’s Cook, Lennox, and his assist
ants when they used the ship’s massive Brodie stove, which could turn out eighty loaves of fresh-baked bread when they had enough ingredients.

  To keep fit, Lewrie paced the length of the ship each morning, and led the younger Midshipmen in spirited practices with cutlasses, small swords, and the use of their ceremonial dirks, working up perspiration. And in the privacy of his great-cabins, he hoisted, then swung small buckets with 9-pounder roundshot in them.

  He spent a fair amount of time ashore at the Army encampment, hiking through the fruit and olive groves and beyond, and at the firing butts to hone his aim with his rifled Ferguson breechloading musket, a lighter long-barrelled fusil, his Girandoni air-rifle, and his sets of pistols, shooting ’til his shoulder ached and the palms of his hands tingled and stung.

  He knew that Colonel Tarrant was right; one must get back on the horse that threw you, soonest. Vigilance and the squadron of troop transports must sail again, stage another raid somewhere on the Calabrian coast before the spirit and morale of both Navy and Army evaporated like steam from a boiling pot.

  For almost the entire year, all five ships had spent long days at anchor following a raid; prompting Lt. Greenleaf to comment that it was an odd sort of war they were fighting. But, informants on the mainland, and criminal Sicilians pretending to fish or trade had to “smoak out” the lay of the land and report back on the nature of the sand beaches, the depths of water close inshore, what was worth striking, and if a garrison was present, and in what numbers before Lewrie and Tarrant could agree on where they would strike next. Everyone in the 94th and everyone aboard Vigilance knew how it worked, why they delayed, and treated the waits like lazy, idle Sundays, ready to go at it again, eager to give the French another good bash on the nose.

  Now, though. Good mates had died, lay wounded and moaning in pain in the hospital pavillion, in ships’ sickbays, some of them yet to expire, and some maimed for life, sure to be discharged back into civilian life without limbs, or eyes, or futures.