Much Ado About Lewrie

by Dewey Lambdin

  And it was with heavy heads and bleary eyes that the anchors were hauled up the next morning, the hands sent aloft to make sail, and the guns to be manned and loaded with reduced powder charges. For salutes must be fired in departure to honour the senior officer present.

  “If I weren’t a gunner I wouldn’t be here,” the Master Gunner, Mr. Carlisle sang out, pacing down the upper gun deck’s starboard battery of 18-pounders, “Number One gun fire!”

  “Ow, goddamn!” Lewrie hissed, as the first gun erupted.

  “I’ve left my wife, and all that’s dear. Number Two gun, fire!”

  “Christ shit on a bisquit!” Lewrie groaned, hands on his ears. “Mister Farley, keep an accurate count, and tell me when the very last goes off, for God’s sake!”

  “Far, far too much brandy,” Farley moaned. “That’s three, sir, God help me.”

  * * *

  Lewrie and Rutland returned to the quarterdeck, where Lt. Farley, the ship’s First Officer, stood the Forenoon Watch.

  “In Soundings, sir?” Farley asked.

  “Aye, in Soundings,” Lewrie replied, a bit morosely. “Due South of Land’s End, the Master believes.” He looked aloft, beyond the sails and rigging to survey the grey overcast. “Pray God we see the Sun when Noon comes round, else we’ll have t’trust to Dead Reckoning. Sun or no, I wish to come about to Nor’east, perhaps Half North then. England’s up there, somewhere. We’ll bump into it, eventually.”

  “Aye, sir,” Farley said with a sage nod. “Ehm, about the cleaning and last-minute painting, sir.”

  “Aye?” Lewrie asked.

  “The lower decks are touched up, sir, and all that’s left to do is a daily sweep down and swabbing,” Lt. Farley reported, “The sickbay is done, and I’ve a working-party going over the galley, the cookery, steep tubs, and stove and ovens, with brick dust to buff up the brass and such. The only touching up that’s still wanting is the transom and stern gallery, and we’ve enough white paint left for that. The sea is calm enough to put hands over the side in Bosun’s chairs, if you think it safe.”

  Lewrie imagined sailors dangling from the taffrails, level with his stern windows, and shook his head. “It’d be even safer for ’em if we wait ’til we’re anchored at Portsmouth, Mister Farley. Time enough for that then. Carry on with the rest.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Farley said, touching the brim of his hat, and turning away to attend to his list of chores.

  Lewrie crossed the quarterdeck to the windward corner just above the larboard ladderway, his appointed place by right and old custom, and laid an arm along the cap-rails of the bulwarks to lean out for a look forward. Lt. Farley was right; the seas were rather calm today, for the North Atlantic, and the outermost reaches of the Channel. The waves were no more than five feet at their crests, rather long set and marching along in an almost orderly fashion, rolling under Vigilance to lift her on their scendings. The jib boom and bowsprit slowly rose and fell against the far horizon, the ship barely hobby-horsing as it would on a more boisterous day. Inner, outer, and flying jibs curved out to starboard, stiff with wind, and the after leeches almost seemed to vibrate.

  One hundred bloody miles to Land’s End, Lewrie thought, shrugging deeper into his coat and fiddling with the scarf round his neck. As close as a hop, skip, and jump. Couldn’t I just come about to the wind, and head to Halifax? What’d Admiralty say t’that? To the Great South Seas and say I was huntin’ the Bounty mutineers?

  That put a smile on his face for a moment, quickly extinguished.

  There was no way that he was going to keep Vigilance and he knew it, no last-minute reprieve would be forthcoming, and, as dilatory as he had tried, a few more days and this would all come to an end with the anchors down in Portsmouth, and the ship swarming with inspectors and petti-fogging officials from the Dockyards; pay clerks to award back-pay to the crew, and jobbers coming out in the bum-boats to buy up the chits for ready money, but at reduced value of what they’d get if they went up to London to cash them.

  Lewrie leaned out a little further to look straight down over the side to watch the sea cream down the ship’s hull. The bluff bows, forefoot and cut-water, in British fashion, shoved a mass of seawater into a foaming mustachio which spread out to either side, before sucking up against the smoother bulk of the ship, and on a fast day the wake would curve upwards to somewhere almost amidships, baring the quickwork and coppering before it swept on aft into another upwardly-curved wave that joined the maelstrom under the transom and spread out like a fine princess’s gown train.

  In the bare stretch, Lewrie could see weed, foot-long strands or better, and the strip of coppering that the heel of the ship exposed looked to be speckled with razor-sharp barnacles.

  Maybe Admiralty’s right, he thought with a defeated sigh; She’s more than due for a cleaning.

  Lewrie shoved himself off the bulwarks and turned about to look the quarterdeck over, hands behind his back, balancing with long-acquired skill on the relatively slight angle of the deck.

  His cabin-steward, Michael Deavers, came out of the great-cabins, his hands wringing the apron that he wore over his shirt, waistcoat, and slop-trousers, with a frown on his face.

  “Ehm, Captain sir,” he began. “We have a problem, aft.”

  “What sort o’ problem, Deavers?” Lewrie asked, wondering what would make the usually calm man look fretful.

  “It’s Chalky, sir,” Deavers almost whispered. “We can’t find him.”

  “What the Devil?” Lewrie blurted, bustling past him into the cabins.

  There he beheld Tom Dasher, cradling his pet rabbit in his arms, tears running down his cheeks, and his lower lip quivering. The other cabin servant, Turnbow, was opening all the transom settee lazarette storage, rummaging round and cooing “Here, puss puss!”

  “We’ve looked in every cabinet, sir,” Deavers told him, “in the sideboard, the wine cabinet, in all your trunks and chests. He’s one fond of quiet, dark places, he is.”

  Lewrie went to the starboard quarter gallery which was usually used as extra cabin storage, now crammed right up to the bottom of the window sills with crates, barricoes, and ankers of wine. Lewrie gave the sash windows a jiggle to make sure that they were fully shut, and latched. “Here, Chalky!” he called out. “Here, catling! Come get a sausage!” There was no response.

  They all prowled the cabins together, looking in the covers of the hanging bed-cot, in the lower part of the wash-hand stand where towels, soap, and washcloths were kept. They looked under the starboard side settee furniture, in the dining coach, even the drawers of the desk in the day cabin.

  “Chalky?” Lewrie cried, louder, turning round and round. Then a thought came to him, and he went to the doors that led to his stern gallery. Long ago, he had had the carpenters of his ships build a door frame without glass of wood panelling, the frame lined with rows of small nails round which twine was tautly stretched, to keep Chalky from off the stern gallery in search of sea birds, bound behind a screen of intermeshed small stuff.

  The iron hook-and-ring latch was open, and the door swung free!

  Fearing the worst, Lewrie touched the stouter wood-panelled door and that one swung free as well! He dashed out onto the stern gallery in hopes that the cat would be hunkered down in a corner, but the gallery was bared and empty, spattered with salt water here and there, and almost keening as the cool, nippy wind sang past the railings and pillars.

  “Who left both doors un-locked?” Lewrie roared.

  “Th … the Carpenter and Loftis, the Bosun’s Mate, were in for a minute or so, sir,” Deavers told him. “The First Officer sent them t’see what needed doin’ t’touch up the transom paint an’ all.”

  “While you woz up forrud, sir,” Turnbow added.

  A half-hour ago, Lewrie thought; a quarter-hour ago?

  Lewrie leaned on the stern gallery’s chest-high railings to peer aft, but what was there to see? A small, mostly white-furred cat trying to swim in the wide, white-foaming
wake? Chalky might have slipped out when the Carpenter and the Bosun’s Mate opened the doors. He was always crying and chittering his jaws at the sight of any sea bird he could see as they swooped round the stern, or perched on the railings. They might not have even noticed the cat, and had closed the doors as they went back inside, leaving him out there to leap up on the railings and over-balance.

  A quarter-hour, Lewrie thought; slumping on the railings; in that short amount of time, Vigilance could have sailed two whole miles!

  “Goddammit!” he muttered.

  Had one of the sailors fallen overboard, there would be no question of coming about and putting boats in the water to recover him.

  But for a wee cat, dear as he was?

  Lewrie felt a wild hope; their four 29-foot barges were still in tow astern. Could Chalky have scrambled up onto one?

  “Mister Farley!” Lewrie yelled on his way to the quarterdeck. “Haul the barges up alongside and look for my cat! He’s fallen overboard and he might have landed in one! Smartly, now!”

  But no. A quick search of the first two barges, closest to the stern transom showed no cat atop their canvas covers, nor inside them.

  “You didn’t see a white cat come onto the quarterdeck, did you?” Lewrie asked the Marine sentry at his door.

  “Nossir,” the Marine told him. And the helmsmen and Quartermasters, and the Master’s Mate on watch had not seen the cat, either. Yeovill, Lewrie’s personal cook, came up from below and strolled aft towards a ladderway to the quarterdeck.

  “Yeovill, have you seen Chalky? Did he follow you to the galley?” Lewrie called down.

  “Oh, no sir,” Yeovill assured him. “He never has, really. Is he not in the cabins?”

  “No, he’s not,” Lewrie said, despairing by then. “He’s fallen overboard.”

  “Oh Lord, I’m so sorry, sir!” Yeovill exclaimed.

  “Carry on, Mister Farley,” Lewrie said, re-entering his cabins. He un-buttoned his coat and threw himself onto the settee.

  “We’re sorry, sir,” Deavers said in a pained voice. “Chalky was good at slinkin’ round and hidin’ himself, then comin’ out t’pounce on a foot or an ankle. Nappin’ in odd places? We never noticed that he wasn’t here ’til we began sweepin’, and he dearly loved t’bat at the brooms and…”

  “C … couldn’t we turn round and look for him, sir?” Dasher asked in a wee, distressed voice, still cradling his doe rabbit.

  “Too late, Dasher,” Lewrie said, massaging his face with both hands, feeling the moisture at the corners of his eyes. “The ocean’s too big, and he’s so small. How long can a cat swim? I don’t know. We’d go back for a man, but…”

  “Our fault, sir,” Deavers asserted. “For not keepin’ our eyes on him.”

  “No,” Lewrie told him. “He was always here, and you had no call to keep watch over him. It’s not the Carpenter’s fault, either. It’s just … bad luck, that’s all.”

  “Would you be likin’ a drink, sir?” Deavers shyly offered.

  “We still have some American corn whisky?” Lewrie asked.

  “Just a little, sir,” Deavers had to admit. “But there’s some of that Portuguese brandy that you liked.”

  “Aye, fetch me a brimming bumper,” Lewrie asked. He lowered his head to rest his chin on his chest in sorrow, trying not to weep, but … upon the bright red settee cushions that Jessica had had made for him, there was white strands of fur.

  Oh God in Heaven, how much more must I suffer? Lewrie thought, close to wailing out loud; how much more must I lose?

  CHAPTER TEN

  My dearest darling wife,

  Any letter I could have sent you from Sicily would have arrived the same time as me and my Ship, if not still languishing in some mail bag at Malta or Gibraltar, but … I am of this moment at Portsmouth, and I am come Home! It will take some time to pay Vigilance off and turn her over to the Dockyards, but I will soon be in London, and in the arms of the sweet Lady whom I dearly Love. My Return is not without some Personal Grievance on my part, but Admiralty ordered us Home, and replaced me in command of my small Squadron, the Details of which I shall relate to you once we are Together again, but, in all Respects, I am Glad of the Results of it, to be with you again.

  A little more time, I assure you, dear Jessica, and my Coach will clatter up to our door, bearing your brother Charlie as well, and we will lay on a Celebration.

  Your loving Husband, Alan

  He folded it upon itself, dribbled some wax to seal it, and put his everyday seal stamp on the wax. That letter joined a substantial pile that he had already written on-passage, to his father, Sir Hugo, his sons, wherever their ships were, to old friends he’d served with, and the ones under which he’d served, whom he could call his patrons. Those letters bore his complaints, and simmering temper, expressing the unfairness of it all.

  “Bloody Hell and brimstone!” he could hear Lt. Greenleaf on the quarterdeck outside, railing at yet another Dockyard clerk. “You’ve had us lay out and account for every bloody sand-glass three times already! D’ye want the egg-timers from the galley, too, hah?”

  “It is my duty, sir, to…” the clerk spluttered back.

  “Aye, yours and the last three cod’s-heads who’ve come asking!” Greenleaf fumed. “Are you in the pay of the French?”

  Lewrie put all his letters in an empty bisquit bag, then went out onto the quarterdeck to whistle up an idle Midshipman to bear them all ashore to the Dockyard’s post office, just in time for the finale of Greenleaf’s tirade.

  “Sir, all I know is that my employer sent me to…” the clerk was whinging, trying to edge round Greenleaf and flee, his dignity and authority be damned.

  “You’re a know-nought!” Greenleaf barked. “Here’s the numbers, which haven’t changed since the first of you lot showed up, so there. Take the account and beggar off!”

  “Something the matter, Mister Greenleaf?” Lewrie calmly asked. The clerk took his interruption as a chance to fly down the starboard ladderway to the waist, and tug his clothes and his feelings back into order.

  “We’ve never seen the like, sir,” Lt. Greenleaf fumed, taking off his hat to run an angry hand through his hair. “Pulley-blocks, rammers, galley implements … the yard clerks say new’uns, perfectly serviceable ones, are dirty, damaged, or won’t believe our accounts one day to the next. It’s as if the senior clerks yonder in the warehouses are determined to find any fault they can. Bosun Gore is about ready to pull his hair out, ’cause his account books have ink smudges, they don’t think he’s truthful, even if his stores are all there, right to the last length of small sutff and waxed twine. I’ve paid off more than one ship, sir, and I’ve never been subject to anything like this … none of the officers and warrants have.”

  “God, wait ’til Gun Wharf sees our guns,” Lewrie said, thinking of the aiming notches he’d had cut into the muzzle bells and base rings and what those worthies might make of them. Might they accuse him of defacing Crown property, declare the guns useless for further service, and charge him for their loss? Gun Wharf hadn’t said a word when he’d paid off Sapphire and landed her artillery, notched in the same way.

  “It’s as if someone’s paid them to find fault, sir,” Greenleaf spat, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Perhaps they are,” Lewrie said, enigmatically. “My respects to Mister Farley, and inform him that I am going ashore for a bit. Call out my boat crew, if you will, Mister Greenleaf.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  * * *

  Lewrie dropped off his mail at the post office himself, then he betook himself to the red brick building which served as the offices of the Port Admiral. He had found that Admiral Lord Gardner, feared by one and all who had ever suffered one of that worthy’s tongue-lashings, was actually a rather easy man to deal with, and he hoped that he was still there. Once inside, he requested an audience from a Post-Captain who served as the Port Admiral’s second. Unfortunately, that office was no longer filled by Captai
n Nicely, who had been the soul of helpfulness, but by another fellow whom Lewrie did not know from Adam. An audience? Simply out of the question this week; Admiral Lord Gardner was much too busy. The best Lewrie could do was to request pen and paper, write the Admiral a letter laying out his grievances anent de-commissioning and the yard’s petti-fogging, and bow his way out, considering a toothsome dinner at The Grapes. That establishment had been his refuge when in need of overnight shore lodgings, and they had always set a fine table, but … he had a boat crew waiting, with time on their hands, with Stroke Oar John Kitch, and his long-time Cox’n, Liam Desmond in charge of it, two fellows who could turn up a keg of ale in the middle of a desert, and make it Fiddler’s Green.

  No, he had to go back to Vigilance before they just naturally got into trouble.

  * * *

  “You account for so many kegs of powder and so many round shot expended during the course of your commission, sir,” a spindly, grey-haired clerk from Gun Wharf quibbled a day later, as the main course yard dipped and swung to hoist out the first of the 18-pounders from the upper gun deck. “Yet, sir. You are now in possession of shot and powder in full sufficiency.”

  He was a very well-dressed fellow for a clerk, clothed as well as a London banker.

  “Whilst operating out of Sicily, we provisioned from Malta when in need, sir,” Lewrie told him, “and on our way home, we put into Valletta to re-stock, then again at Gibraltar, so we would have all that we might need should we run into a fight on our way home, d’ye see?”

  “Hmm … gun tools … flexible rammers, wood-handled rammers, powder spoons, and wormers,” the clerk muttered, running down a list of things which would go ashore with each gun. “Flintlock strikers?”