Much Ado About Lewrie

by Dewey Lambdin

  And when not out shopping, Yeovill kept the house staff busy at pickling all manner of vegetables before they disappeared from the market; beets, turnips, radishes, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, onions, cucumbers, and the last of the fresh tomatoes that the greengrocers had, of any variety. Apples were bought by the ten-pound sack.

  Winter blankets were brought out from cedar-lined chests, eyed for moth holes, and aired in the back garden before being draped at the foot of all the beds. Carpets were vigourously swept with brooms after the swifts were done, wood floors mopped, furniture dusted, and fabrics whisked with stiff brushes.

  Lewrie, for the most part, stayed well out of the way, for it was the housewife’s main duty before the first frost, his wife’s, and Jessica threw herself into the task with brisk efficiency, and there was no telling her to relax, that it would all get done. She had finished her portrait of Hugh standing by his horse’s head and given it to Sir Hugo, but that was the last artwork she did most-likely ’til it was Guy Fawkes Day. She went about in a plain older gown, an apron and a mob-cap, only rarely dressing up when they entertained guests, a married couple or two of their acquaintance, her father and brother, Sir Hugo and Hugh.

  Lewrie had thought that the best place for him would be in the drawing room or his study over the entry hall, reading a new novel or the newspapers, but every time he settled in for some peace and quiet, here came ugly old Martha or Margaret, their substantial bulk shaking the floors as they bustled in to do even more cleaning, stoke one of the fireplaces which were now lit round the clock, or dust something at his elbow with a “Please ya, Sir Alan, just a wee bit o’ dustin’ there” or “If ya’d rise, so please ya, th’ floor’s dirty. Be just a shake of a wee lamb’s tail,”

  As irksome as it was, and how pointless it seemed by then, he dressed in uniform and tottered off to Admiralty for the day, eating at a two-penny ordinary for dinner, and not returning home ’till it was time for supper!

  * * *

  He had been left alone, for the most part, one drizzly morning, following the war in Spain and Portugal even as the campaign season was winding down in those climes, too, when there came a loud and impatient knocking on the front door, not just the genteel rap of the pineapple brass door knocker, but a fist demanding entry, and he cocked an ear to see what the disturbance was, half-rising from his armchair.

  “Oh, welcome, sir,” he faintly heard Pettus say, before feet on the stairs thundered upwards.

  Have t’lay carpetting on those stairs, he told himself; damme, more t’be swept, I s’pose.

  “Father!” Hugh boomed. “Father! The best of news! I’ve got a ship! I’m made Lieutenant!” he chortled as he dashed into the drawing room.

  “Well, halleluah, it’s about time!” Lewrie hooted, spreading his arms to welcome his son in and congratulate him. “Give ya joy!”

  “I just got the letter from Admiralty this morning,” Hugh breathlessly gushed. “I’m appointed Third Officer to the Greyhound frigate, she’s a thirty-two gunned Sixth Rate, now getting re-launched at Deptford! Ain’t it the grandest thing?”

  “Let me congratulate you, my boy,” Lewrie said, taking his son into a snug embrace for a moment, patting his back with both hands. “Remember the last time I held you so,” he said, stepping back and letting go, “the morning you went aboard your first ship in Eighteen Oh Three. I know it ain’t English, but you deserve that ’un, too! How soon d’ya report?”

  “I’ll have to coach to Admiralty to receive my Commission documents, and my active-appointment,” Hugh told him, still giddy with his promotion, “then, I suppose they’ll tell me.”

  “Tomorrow morning, then, a shopping trip’s in order,” Lewrie decided. “New uniforms, a proper sword, and whatever you need for your sea chest, and personal stores, aha. You’ve told your grandfather?”

  “First to know, aye,” Hugh said, nodding. “He said something on that head, that he’d love to come along.”

  “Fine, then we’ll make it a threesome, first thing in the morning,” Lewrie directed.

  “What’s all the tumult?” Jessica asked as she swept into the drawing room in her mob-cap and apron, with a brush in her hand.

  “Hugh’s been promoted to Lieutenant, and orders to a new ship, my love,” Lewrie proudly told her.

  “Oh, how grand for you, at last, Hugh!” Jessica cried and came to give him a fierce hug. “Congratulations! I know how long you’ve been waiting on tenterhooks for it. Bored, feeling idle and useless.”

  “Amen to that, Jessica,” Hugh heartily agreed. “I just wanted to dash in, let everyone know of it, then dash out, again.”

  “No time for a glass of something?” Lewrie asked.

  “Well, not really,” Hugh said with a grimace. “Maybe a brandy, once I get back from Admiralty.”

  “And has your new Captain gathered his alloted number of Mids yet?” Lewrie asked him. “If he hasn’t, you might put in a good word for Charlie.”

  “Aye, he’s had some sea time, and he’s a good lad,” Hugh agreed. “And a fighter, too, after serving under you, father.”

  “Aye, he is that!” Lewrie laughed.

  “Oh, poor Charlie,” Jessica said, much sobred. It appeared that the idea of her little brother going back to sea, and its dangers, did not sit well with her.

  “Well, I’m off,” Hugh said, exuberant. “Nine in the morning, is that a good time, father?”

  “Nine it’ll be,” Lewrie agreed, reaching out to slap his son on the top of his arm, “Congratulations, Hugh. God, I’m so proud of you!”

  “’By, father … Jessica,” Hugh said, looking somewhat modest, as he made his way down the stairs to the entry hall, feet clomping as loud as they had on the way up.

  “Think we should carpet those stairs?” Lewrie asked his wife.

  “Oh no, I rather like the shiny hardwood,” Jessica said, shaking her head, openly frowning now. “Alan … I am glad for Hugh, but is it really necessary for Charlie to join him?”

  “He’s the beginnings of a career in the Navy, love,” Lewrie told her, “a gentlemanly career. It’s what he wanted when I took him aboard Sapphire, Your own father couldn’t drive him to taking Holy Orders, as the rest of your family has. Charlie knows the risks, has seen ’em up close, and is still eager to serve, and progress. It’s his decision.”

  “I know, Alan, I know,” Jessica fretted, sinking into the nearest armchair, “He’s sixteen, and almost a man, but Charlie will forever be a pestiferous imp who laughed over every prank he played me, and…”

  “Greyhound’s new Captain may already have all his Mids, six if I remember how many a Sixth Rate carries on Ship’s Books,” Lewrie said, trying to mollify her, “He’s known he’d get her for weeks, so he may’ve taken on cousins, obliged family friends, or brought a couple from his last ship. It’s all favour, interest, and patronage, ye know. Hah!

  “I recall hearin’ about one Captain, a real dandy-prat, who ran up such a high bill with his tailor,” Lewrie sniggered, “that to clear his debt, he took the tailor’s son on as a Midshipman!”

  “So, Charlie may have to wait longer?” Jessica hesitantly asked.

  “Could be,” Lewrie allowed, throwing himself onto a settee, “It ain’t quite as dangerous these days, as it was before. Spain’s turned into our ally, Denmark’s fleet is about gone, Sweden has no argument with England any more, and Russia under their new Tsar Alexander, who isn’t insane like his predecessor, has more on their plate against the Ottoman Turks than us. The Dutch still build warships, but don’t do anything with the ones they have, and the Italian navies … Venice, Naples, Genoa … in all the time I spent at Sicily, raidin’ up and down the coasts, I never saw hide nor hair of an Italian warship, or a French one, either.

  “The French, well,” Lewrie went on, “Bonaparte’s gutted them of men, every time he wins a battle, he loses ten or fifteen thousand casualties, and he’ll draft young, beardless boys and sailors. Our Navy on blockade has ’em bottled up, and
their fleet hasn’t left port since Trafalgar. It’s more a brace of frigates out to raid our convoys that you see. If Charlie does go to sea, again, he’ll most-like be bored, idle, and feel useless as he does now. Except for the daily routine, that is.”

  “I still wish he’d have chosen clerking at a bank,” Jessica said with a wry cock of her head, and a wee shrug. “If you say so, I will no longer worry for him quite so much.”

  “He may still be with us in time for Winter in the country,” Lewrie proposed. “Christmas at Dun Roman?”

  “Oh, I’d love that!” Jessica perked up. “And I could ride Bobs through the snow! How I miss that horse!”

  “I’m sure my father’d relish it, too,” Lewrie said, reaching out to pat her hand.

  “I’ll get back to cleaning, then,” Jessica said, rising. “There isn’t much left to do for our house to be ready for the season.”

  “Thank God!” Lewrie exclaimed. “Peace and quiet, at last!”

  * * *

  Pettus came up from the entry hall with a packet of letters for Lewrie to read that afternoon, and Lewrie sped through the stack with eagerness, noting that his old First Officer, Geoffrey Westcott had written him, as had Rear-Admiral Sir Thomas Charlton in the Med, Rear-Admiral Benjamin Rodgers from the Eastern Med, and Lt.-Col. Tarrant on Sicily, the commander of the 94th Foot which Lewrie had used for their coastal raiding force. And, wonder of wonders, there was one from his elder son, Sewallis, on the North American Station at Halifax!

  News from old friends and shipmates was one thing, but it was Sewallis’s letter that he tore open first. His frigate, the Daedalus, had just come back from a cruise as far South as the Florida Straits, with no port calls except for St. Augustine, where the Spanish authorities had given them a fine welcome, the ship’s officers a supper and a dance, and a slew of fresh fruit rarely seen in England. Sewallis admitted that he had gorged himself on bananas, oranges, lemons and limes, and even peaches! Barrels of lemon and lime juice had been brought aboard, and now every hand demanded lime and sugar with their rum issues, the same as the petty officers did. Daedalus was a happy ship in most respects with few discipline problems, and the days at sea reeled by as calmly as a peacetime passage, “all cruising and claret.” Sewallis had bought up as much fruit as he could afford, and had just turned a tidy profit off it among the fruit-starved men of the North American squadrons. He was also of a mind to buy up ice during the Winter for sale at St. Augustine or even Havana, which he would love to visit. The Captain and all the wardroom officers were doing it!

  You a Commission Sea Officer, or a street vendor? Lewrie fumed to himself, reading on; He’s a damned … merchant!”

  When in port at Halifax, there were jolly boat races under sail, ship-against-ship, some fine criquet, and scenic horse rides along the rugged coasts and hills. Some local young ladies came along when they took baskets of food and wine for al fresco feasts, and the beauties of Saint Augustine were un-matched.

  “Bah!” Lewrie spat after he read the last lines, and tossed it aside with faint disgust.

  Commander Geoffrey Westcott at least still had a whiff of powder about him. He’d made prize of another Yankee grain ship off L’Orient, pressing two obvious Englishmen into his crew, and had encountered a French corvette similar to his brig-sloop, taking her after only three broadsides. Geoffrey admitted that he was not making as much in prize-money as he had under Lewrie, but his was now a larger share, thanking him for forcing him to strike out on his own, at last!

  Good old Thom Charlton imparted worse news. After a provisioning call at Malta, he had come down with some sort of ague, possibly, or so the Surgeons told him, a form of malaria; sweats, fever, then chills so violent that he could barely stand still, or hold a glass or eating utensils. It came and it went un-predictably, with a few good days in a row, then another bout would lay him low in his bed-cot for two days running, and he had decided to write Admiralty for someone to replace him in charge of his far-flung squadron. He would strike his flag and sail home, where he hoped to restore his health.

  Thankfully, my Captains are well experienced at the work by now, and shew a great deal of Zeal and Initiative, so that my hand is not Necessary for our Foes to be foiled. Except for one Instance. Your replacement, dear Lewrie, is a most cautious Slow-Coach. Commodore Grierson is still training his re-enforced transports and troops, and has yet to launch any coastal raids. His lack of Aggression is most Distressing to me.

  Brig. Caruthers, by the way, is now in command of Grierson’s land force, having taken the 94th, which did us great Service, into his Brigade and trading off one of his former regiments; another fellow who wishes all his Tees crossed and I’s dotted before he will undertake any Action. Despite my Orders to both men to get on with it, they drag their feet, so I do not Envy the task my replacement Inherits.

  By the by, your Protege, Cmdr. D’Arcy Gamble, recently distinguished himself by intercepting a small convoy of coasters running down from Bari to Crotone in the dark, and made prize of all five of them. His family will be proud to see his name in the Naval Chronicle and the Gazette, and I am sure, Gamble will be greatful for the prize-money, which is become harder to garnish.

  If I am forced to retire, I am sanguine. Fourty one years in my naval career may be long enough, and I recall all of it fondly.

  Best regards to you, you old scamp, and to your good lady,

  I am, your Humble & Thankful Friend

  Sir Thomas Charlton

  “Grierson, Grierson and Caruthers?” Lewrie fretted aloud, then went to Colonel Tarrant’s letter, thinking that a bad combination of arrogance and aspiration.

  Tarrant wrote that what he and Lewrie had dreaded had come to pass. The senior General commanding British forces on Sicily, having been favourably impressed with the work they had done before, should be re-enforced to achieve even greater results on the mainland of Italy. Since Caruthers had won the only battle against the French since the Battle of Maida years before, and was a “comer,” it was only to be expected that he should be appointed to employ his brigade of three regiments in even larger operations.

  Caruthers had been training one of his regiments in how to climb down boarding nets, then re-embark up them, on the sly even before Commodore Grierson had turned up with more transports in which to accommodate them, laying the groundwork for taking everything over under his sole command. Now, he would have a trained three regiment brigade to hand, and Tarrant feared that he would use them to make bigger raids; not just raids, but invasions that might last overnight and into the next day, drawing the attention of French forces in Calabria, so he could have himself a proper battle like his first at Siderno and at Locri, winning for himself even more fame, possibly a knighthood, or a promotion.

  Sir, he simply won’t stop harping upon the use of artillery, and is scouring Messina’s harbour for big barges that could carry a fieldpiece, team of at least two horses, caisson and limber, and he has put a flea in Commodore Grierson’s ear that he simply must scrounge something up. It’ll be big cooking cauldrons and tents, next, as if he thinks to make a semi-permanent lodgement.

  Tarrant despaired that they would attempt any moves before the Winter weather set in, for both Grierson and Caruthers needed to satisfy themselves that everything was “all tiddly.” The 94th went aboard their transports twice a week, boarded their barges and rowed ashore, then back to the ships to sleep overnight, before being rowed back ashore for a ten mile route march and overnight camp, supposedly to “toughen” them up. Inspections and dismissive complaints ensued over the conditions of their uniforms, boots, headgear, brass, their lack of pipeclay to whiten belts. All the 94th who’d picked up those desirable French leather packs had had to revert to British issue. Tarrant’s big and shaggy dog, Dante, had developed the habit of growling at the many officers of Caruthers’s staff who came round to fuss over his soldiers’ neatness. Oddly, Caruthers wished to conserve the ammunition, ’til they actually did something, so time on the firing
range had been reduced.

  Imagine, Sir, a British Army, the only one in Europe that regularly practices live, aimed, fire, being kept from doing so? It beggars the mind! At least we are still allowed to skirmish in the groves, though Caruthers has promised that we will be training in brigade movements.

  Our superiors have a great mis-trust in our means of gathering information, so much so that the games we held in camp, Army vs. Navy, are curtailed, in fear that local Sicilians, who attended, might be in the pay of the French. Our Mr. Quill is close to pulling his hair out with both hands. I have given him your London address, so you may hear from him in future. If you wish to write Quill, do so at the regimental address, and I will give them to him.

  “I told Caruthers, over and over, it’s a raidin’ force, not an invasion force!” Lewrie growled. But this sounded like the very sort of impending disaster that he’d warned Caruthers against, that Colonel Tarrant had deemed too ambitious. Did the over-ambitious bastard even care? And Commodore Grierson; he and Lewrie despised each other like the Devil hated Holy Water. He’d come into command in triumph, getting one over on Lewrie, changing everything about whether it needed to be changed, just because it had been Lewrie’s way of operation. And, if Brigadier-General Caruthers had expansive plans that might lead to new glories, Grierson would willingly go along with it, whether he and his flagship and two frigates could support Caruthers’s raids or not.

  Just how few pieces of wit does Grierson possess? Lewrie asked himself; Just enough t’order supper? Make change? Un-button the flap of his breeches t’pee?