Sea of Grey

by Dewey Lambdin

  And set me up for a killin’ duel, Lewrie gloomed; thankee very damn much, you old braggart! You never did me any favours, did ya?

  Sir Hugo further carped that he now took his custom to the Olde Ploughman Inn, and that, sterling beer notwithstanding, he had never been so bored in his life, nor entered such a seedy establishment than that, comparable to a tumbledown Irish shebeen or Hindoo arrack-dive! Poor him, being forced to rub elbows with the common folk!

  It seemed that Caroline, in a raging snit, had determined that all plans for Hugh to take colours as an Army officer, or even see the slightest glimpse of sea water all his born days, much less go in his father’s (disreputable!) footsteps as a Midshipman in the Royal Navy, were quite well “scotched,” too. Sewallis and Hugh, she had written him, would board away this fall, at a school which stressed Christian and Classical preparation for the civilian, country gentry life, if not a career in the clergy; which decision Sir Hugo had deemed a mortal-pity in his letter, decrying the waste, of Hugh at least, who was so suited for a military or naval career.

  Caroline had portrayed the school differently, of course, and spitefully implied that it was the least expensive she could discover that still held the acceptable ton for Hugh and Sewallis’s entry into Society; that they could no longer count upon “their oft-absent, and indifferent Father” in his “meanness” to fund a better schooling.

  Their new school was small, she’d written, but not too far away, in Guildford, and was run by a renowned and respected High Church rector and his equally virtuous wife, well recommended by the Reverend Goodacre.

  “ … at least your Sons will grow up in proper Fear of the Lord, under a strict Christian tutelage that imparts modest and humble Moral Behaviour, even if you were deprived of such, sir. Sewallis and Hugh, I vow, will never emulate you!”

  And, to his greater sorrow, Caroline no longer thought that any purpose would be served by any correspondence from him, nor would they be allowed the distraction of writing back. His sons had greeted that edict with much wailing and weeping, she had confessed, but “ … the least said, soonest mended,’ and ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ I know that boys shed their Grief after a Season, unlike girls. After a time, the rigours of Education, the distractions of games and healthy sports would engross their interests, making your memory an eminence gris, one best left unseen and un-thought of. Hence, sir, sooner or later quite justly Forgotten, as all Ogres merit!”

  Damn, but that felt so unfair! Right, so he’d strayed; rather like a rutting bull run from his pasture, admittedly, but … to turn his children against him, actively encourage their hatred, break their hearts and send them weeping and snuffling, just for spite and revenge, well … that was simply too much! Lewrie shook his head in sorrowful wonder that his sweet and gentle wife, who made such a “do” about the works of Christian charity and forgiveness, would go so far as to seem a Medea, who would slay her children to get her own back against that bootless Jason!

  Poor little tykes, was his first thought; Wonder what this will cost me, was his second.

  In comparison, the thick packet of letters from Theoni Connor, one for every week he’d been gone, were a drink of cool water, ambrosia of the Olympian gods, rather than the gall and dirt that Caroline had offered up. Oh, they were so chatty, so informative about her doings, how her firstborn Michael was sprouting, and how much joy their son Alan James Connor provided her, now that he was toddling and beginning to babble almost comprehensible words! Scandals in Society (in which theirs didn’t signify, thankee Jesus!), political rumours from supper parties among the powerful, notice of naval actions farther afield from his own bailiwick …

  And firm, devoted, fond, and teasing Love!

  Most especially, the non-judgmental kind of Love. To her lights he was still a Paragon, a Hero, her own True Blue Heart of Oak, one who could do no wrong, and “ … though we may never dare show our Affection in Public, yet every night I clutch my pillows, proud to be your Amour, dear Alan, and sometimes find it hard to eschew a ringing Declaration of the fact of Us to one and all, and bedamned to their disapproval.”

  You just keep up that eschewing, old girl! Lewrie thought, with a groan or two for the consequences, squirming some more in his chair, groping at his crutch in remembered fever, and thinking that he should write her back, instanter, to warn her about that anonymous scribbler so eager to ruin his life. Sooner or later he could find a target for his bile closer to home, and heap calumny on her, as well.

  But it was so hot and still, and he was so very tired and worn down to a nubbin by his cares, that any task involving anything more of him than slouching and brooding felt quite beyond him at the moment.

  Faintly, he heard groans from up forrud and below on the mess-deck. There came a retching noise, a weak “Oh God, save me!” from one of the sick or dying, he knew not which, as one of the fevers caused a sailor to void his stomach.

  There was nothing he could do to help them, he now realised in grim sorrow. Durant’s citron-tar fumes would avail, or not, and only God would decide—it was beyond him. All he could do was bide his time ’til the next death, the next drear funeral, the next grief.

  He closed his eyes, lolled back his head, and tried to nap, to find at least a little mindless, temporary escape in unaware sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Now it was fourteen hands dead and buried.

  Proteus still lay immobile from her best bower and stern kedge anchors, moored seemingly forever in a Slough of Despond, days after the ships of the line had departed to “summer” on the North American Station at Halifax; taking with them hundreds upon hundreds of whole, fit, and healthy sailors, their crews made up to full capacity or even beyond—sailors Lewrie would have happily killed for, just for some of them, the merest pittance of re-enforcement.

  Was there a single bright spot to their situation, Mr. Durant had provided it; for the liberal use of smouldering, guttering citron candles and hot tar and citron oil pots seemed to have cut the number of new men infected almost to nothing, even still moored near the miasmic Jamaican shore, which should have been a ready source of new infection.

  Oh, there were still over fourty hands sick or staggering weakly on light duty as they mended, and of those sick, Durant expected at least five or six more to succumb, mostly to Yellow Jack, which was a much more pernicious disease. The bulk of the crew who had gone sick had caught malaria, which was manageable with chichona bark extract; a man could live with malaria, despite the unpredictable recurring bouts that would follow him the rest of his days, Hodson and Durant had assured him.

  The Surgeon could no longer assure Lewrie of anything; he was the thirteenth corpse to be laid to rest ashore, wearing out his strength in caring for others. Cox’n Andrews had expressed the thought that Mr. Shirley had perished of shame and guilt, for not being able to do more, or save more.

  That had presented Lewrie with a vexing problem, of explaining to Durant that his warrant as Surgeon’s Mate was predated by Mr. Hodson, making him senior, and earning him promotion to Acting-Surgeon instead of Durant. Durant had taken it with seeming good grace, disappointed though he was. Hodson was risen from a doctor’s apprentice before he joined the Navy, whilst Durant had been a trained and certified doctor in France before the Revolution and the Terror, educated even beyond the usual, damned-near as well as a university educated Englishman who could merit the prestigious title of “Physician,” and be addressed as a “Doctor” instead of the “Mister” of a mere surgeon. Lewrie had tried to assure him that it was the perverse way of the service, not a slur upon his nationality. Mr. Durant had squinted his eyes in the faintest expression of pain—Hell’s Bells, perhaps in frustration, or simple bitterness in the face of British prejudice—and had said no more.

  “I assure you, Mister Durant, my reports to superiors mention your stalwart efforts, your acumen, and your dauntless fervour, along with your countering sweet miasma theory with the citron oil extract,” Lewrie had stressed
, almost going to his knees to beg his pardon, “and I know who is the better man, but damned seniority rules me, else I’d name you in charge this instant, sir! The staff-captain …”

  Durant had merely shrugged philosophically once more, then gone forward and below, and Lewrie was sure that he’d lost him. As if one more thing could go wrong.

  Aye, the staff-captain, Sir Edward “Bloody” Charles, too! When Lewrie had taken his reports over to Giddy House and Fort Charles, he had found a new source of worry and aggravation! This time, there had been no “chummy” glass of claret for him, no clubman’s wing chair.

  “Captain Blaylock describes you pretty-much as I expected you to turn out, Captain Lewrie,” Sir Edward had gravelled from behind his desk, face as frownish as a stout bulldog’s, “rash, intemperate, self-centred, obstreperous, and nearly insubordinate! Ah, but you will have your own way, go your own way, orders bedamned, will you not?”

  “I consider that an unfair characterisation, sir,” Lewrie told him, as reasonably and as moderately as he could.

  “I decide how you are characterised, sir!” Sir Edward had barked in full dyspepsia. “I’m also aware of your foolhardiness over this ‘indirect’ gunfire support. Good God, man, you could have killed half our own soldiers!”

  “But I didn’t, sir! General Sir Harold Lamb was most appreciative of it. He sent Admiral Parker a letter about it, I have a copy of it,” Lewrie had shot back, unable to stifle his combative nature in the face of an injustice to his repute. “Captain Blaylock of Halifax seemed eager to emulate our work, next morning. Did he, sir?” Lewrie asked, “Did he kill anyone from our side when he took my anchorage, sir?”

  “No, he did not,” Sir Edward had truculently admitted, “but he only fired a few rounds before our troops, re-enforced by the regiments he landed, retook enough of their old perimeter beyond the range of his carronades. Poor Blaylock … lost his First Lieutenant, Duncan, along with three seamen. Shot from ambush, Captain Lewrie, by sneaking, lowdown skulkers! Bad as ‘Jonathon’ riflemen! Officers deliberately targeted, bah!”

  Poor Duncan, Lewrie thought, feeling fey and queasy; knew I was talkin’ to a dead man, last time I saw him! Price you pay, when you go huntin’ fame and glory.

  “My condolences, sir, but I lost two midshipmen under much the same circumstances,” Lewrie had replied.

  “And a damn’ good reason never to engage in such hare-brained idiocy,” Sir Edward had glowered. “Only a perfect lunatic’d dare it, Captain Lewrie … someone daft as you, I dare say. Aye, we received Sir Harold’s letter, but he’s a bloody soldier, so what does he know of things? Both Admiral Parker and I concur in deeming your experiment a mad-hatter exercise, and are considering sending a letter of censure to Admiralty. Unless you are thinking of ever doing it again, hmmm?”

  Things had gone downhill from there.

  No, the ships of the line needed every fit sailor they had, to work them North, so Proteus could not have a one of them. Sir Edward feared that, with the Fleet so reduced by fevers already, sending him healthy men would be “good money after bad,” since Proteus was still a raging pest-house, where valuable hands would quickly sicken and die.

  And no, neither the shore hospitals nor the other vessels could at present spare a Warrant Surgeon to replace poor Mr. Shirley; with so many ill to tend no Surgeon’s Mates were available, either. So Lewrie would have to “soldier on” short-handed.

  No, the cost of citron oil and candles could not be reimbursed from Admiralty funds; did Captain Lewrie wish his ship to “smell” nice and cover the funk of vomit, that was his own lookout and the costs could come from his own pocket.

  “Sir, here’s my report on how Surgeon’s Mate Durant reduced the rate of infection by the use of citron oil, much like the purchase of fresh fruit eliminates scurvy, which is covered by Admiralty—”

  “Well, if your rate of new infection is dropping so precipitously,” Sir Edward had haughtily sniffed, “you really do not have need of a Surgeon or extra Surgeon’s Mate, do you?”

  “I still have fourty hands sick, and they need care, sir! With so many so weak, on light duties, barely able to rise from their beds, sir …”

  “Then you may remain in harbour ‘til they’re well, and take joy of the port, sir.” Sir Edward had chuckled over the rim of a glass of claret. “Though, with your crew still infectious, there will be no more shore liberty, you understand. Might not even be able to fetch off the bum-boatmen and their doxies ’til your diseases have passed and gone.” Oh, but he’d enjoyed ordering that! “You will not place your ship ‘Out of Discipline,’ therefore. Do you wish, as I gather you do, to amuse yourself ashore—you and your officers—liberty will be allowed to you and them, of course.”

  Sir Edward had had himself a hearty simper over that’un, as if gossip about Lewrie’s personal life had made its way as far as the West Indies, at last.

  “Speaking of officers, sir,” Lewrie had said, leaping for the opportunity and letting the slur slide off his back like water off a duck’s, “I am one Commission Officer and two Midshipmen short.”

  Sir Edward had gotten a crafty look, had simpered and chuckled to himself a tad, as if contemplating which of his many lieutenants on the West Indies Station was possibly the most despised and useless to the Fleet … whom he could lumber on Lewrie.

  Lewrie had realised that Sir Edward would rather prefer to deny him everything, but that was too blatant an act of prejudice, one that could be documented and complained about to officials in London. And, sure that Sir Edward was a top-lofty prig, who would have no use for a Midshipman come from the lower deck, up “through the hawsehole,” he’d further said, “I s’pose I could promote a pair of Quartermaster’s Mates or a pair of literate seamen as acting Midshipmen, sir, but …” he winced, as if the very idea was disgusting to him as well.

  “No, no,” Sir Edward had countered at once, waving off the idea and sloshing a few drops of wine over the papers on his desk. “Better I send a brace of young gentlemen aboard your ship … along with a new officer, your lingering maladies notwithstanding. I’ll think of someone … promising and aspiring.” Then he’d gotten a fresh sly look.

  That had almost put a cold chill down Lewrie’s spine, sure that Captain Sir Edward Charles would saddle him with his very best slack-wits, drunks, or droolers.

  “But you cannot spare a Surgeon or Surgeon’s Mate, sir?” Lewrie had queried, as if it were inexplicable to him.

  “With hundreds—nay, thousands—more sick or dying, sir? I think not!” Sir Edward had harrumphed. “You must do your best with what you have in that regard, for I cannot spare anyone.”

  “Very well, sir. And once Proteus is pronounced clean of disease once more, may I have your permission to hold recruiting ‘rondys’ ashore, sir?”

  “But of course, Captain Lewrie,” Sir Edward most grudgingly allowed, knowing that the first sign of a press gang or recruiting party setting foot ashore would stampede every able-bodied male on Jamaica to the hills, the threat of death at the hands of the Maroons, bedamned!

  “Once manned close to requirements, sir, what would be my orders after that?” Lewrie had pressed.

  “Why, put back to sea to patrol, Captain Lewrie.” Sir Edward had come nigh to sneering. “Admiral Parker and I will remain here through hurricane season. I think a close patrol of Hispaniola … both the French half which we just abandoned as well as the Spanish half—you do recall we’re still at war with the Dons, do you not? That’d suit quite admirably. Since you have trouble following orders, perhaps a roving commission, ’til you run out of rations, would do quite well. Time apart, to ponder your … faults.”

  “‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ sir?” Lewrie had dared say.

  “Completely out of mind and sight, Lewrie. Completely!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Lewrie loafed on the quarterdeck, under a vast sailcloth awning stretched beam-to-beam to provide a welcome bit of shade and cool dimness. For some reason,
the awning seemed to create a breezeway that drew zephyrs beneath it, the way a tent never would. The awning trapped the smell of tar and citron-oil pots, now “doctored” with liberal doses of ground sulfur to “improve” their efficacy, but that was a small price to pay for a breeze to chill the sweat on his shirt and “ice” him down in the process.

  Despite the many ill, ship-work continued; stays still had to be tensioned, worn running-rigging still had to be spliced, rerove, or replaced; sails still had to be hung and dried to prevent mildew, and the Sailmaker still had to sew and patch. Emptied kegs still had to be undone and the staves bound up for re-use; decks still had to be scrubbed and washed, laundry still had to be aired, along with bedding, from the gun-deck sleeping quarters, and most certainly from the sick bay. His crew, those of them still on their pins, were having a “make and mend” day, almost a “Rope-Yarn Sunday” of purposeful idleness free of drills, with lashings of fresh fruit and scuttle-butts of fresh water on hand. The gig, launch, and cutter were over-side, angling out from the single bow-painters so their seams and caulking, their planks, could soak up water and swell back to water-tightness.

  More hot tar sulfur smells arose from the gun-deck, where hands knelt and crept as they plied heated loggerheads over freshly tarred deck seams to melt the tar and oakum into the gaps to restore water-tightness against the rain, as well. Lewrie saw Midshipman Grace by his father’s side, helping him take tentative, weak steps to get his strength back, now that the last bouts of fever had left him.