"The foremast trunk won't take much sail, sir," Lt. Farley cautioned. "I expect we'll have need of a yard re-fit to replace it. For now, there's a spare main course yard we can use to 'splint' it, sir."
"As you say, Mister Farley," Lewrie glumly agreed, massaging his aching forehead, and clawing the wax plugs from his ears. "Perhaps Sir Hyde thought to bring along spare masts and spars, and will give us one."
No matter how disputatious and insubordinate it was, Lt. Farley heaved a loud, sarcastic snort of derision concerning Sir Hyde Parker.
Even though Riou's small squadron had cut and made sail, both the Lynetten and the Trekroner forts, and the un-damaged Danish ships in the far-off merchant's channel-which showed absolutely no indication that they would up-anchor, make sail, or sally out from their protected positions-still conducted a desultory fire, drumming the frigates out of the battle. They were now smaller targets, with their sterns pointed at the forts, but their fragile transoms were exposed to long-range raking fire.
Thermopylaeslowly gained on Amazon, coming up to within two hundred yards of her starboard quarters. Lewrie went to his larboard side, looking for Capt. Riou. He saw him, the same instant that Riou spotted him, and they both shrugged at each other, shaking their heads at the futility of it all. Riou lifted a brass speaking-trumpet as if to shout something across, just as a fresh salvo from the Trekroner Fort arrived, raising great shot splashes round both frigates, howling overhead like baritone harpies.
"No!" Lewrie cried as one of those heavy 36-pounder shot struck Amazon on the quarterdeck, snatching Capt. Riou from sight. Was Riou slain? A long minute later as Thermopylae slowly crawled abeam of Amazon, a lieutenant appeared with the speaking-trumpet.
"Hoy, Thermopylae, Captain Lewrie?"
"Aye!" Lewrie shouted back through cupped hands.
"What is the date of your 'posting,' sir?"
"April, of Ninety-Seven!" Lewrie shouted back, mystified. "Why?"
"Lieutenant Quilliam here, sir! Captain Riou has fallen! I am to pass squadron command to the next senior officer present. Perhaps to Captain Sutton in Alcmene, then."
"Riou's fallen?" Lewrie shouted, shocked and suddenly saddened.
"Cut in half by a round-shot, sir!" Lt. Quilliam shouted back, his voice shaky with emotion. "Said… 'Let us all die together, my brave lads,' and… not a quarter-hour later, sir…!"
"A damned good man, sir!" Lewrie told him, with a speaking-trumpet of his own, this time. "My condolences to you and all your Amazons. And, by God, may he not have fallen in vain!"
The next salvo from the Danes fell short by two cables as they finally stood out of range, still creeping slowly ahead of HMS Amazon.
"Secure from Quarters, Mister Farley," Lewrie ordered, slumped wearily, un-captain-like, on the hammock nettings. "Fresh water butts are t'be fetched up for our people."
"Aye, sir."
Lewrie plodded back towards the binnacle cabinet and double-helm, but the Ship's Surgeon, Mr. Harward, was slowly dragging himself up to the quarterdeck by the starboard gangway ladder, his breeches and his shirt cuffs still stained with gore despite the long leather apron he wore when at his grim trade.
"Beg to report, sir," Harward wearily said, "we've seven killed and eighteen wounded… four seriously. Midshipman Privette's regained consciousness, but he's taken a hard knock, and must be counted on light duties for a few days, may you spare him."
"And Mister Ballard?" Lewrie had to ask.
"Passed over, sir, sorry," Harward replied, idly wiping hands on a damp towel that thankfully did not bear too many blots of blood. "We succeeded in seizing his femoral artery, the great artery found in a man's leg, and cauterised it, staunching the loss of blood, and we managed to neaten up his thigh bone for a stump, with enough flesh as a covering, for later…"
Lewrie held up a hand to shush him, damning surgeons for being so enamoured of their learning that they just had to prose on about the arcana of their trade.
"Well, the loss of blood was too massive, in the end, sir. He is gone. Sorry. I know he was an old friend and shipmate of yours," Harward told him. He reached into an inside pocket of his unbuttoned waist-coat and produced a letter. "He surely must have had a premonition, sir, for he pressed me to deliver this to you."
"Thankee, Mister Harward," Lewrie said, taking it and turning it over and over, for wont of something better to do. "I know you did your best for him.. for all our brave lads."
"Thankee for saying so, sir," Harward said, bowing himself away to the starboard side for a breath of fresh air, after hours cooped up in the foetid horror of the cockpit surgery.
Lewrie looked up at the signal halliards on the main-mast, and saw Number Thirty-Nine still flying. "Mister Tillyard? Now we've ackknowledged it, haul that shameful thing down, sir!"
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Full darkness, at last, after an eerily red and gold sunset that silhouetted Copenhagen's spires, castle towers, and bastioned walls in war-like colours, as if a battle still raged, though by mid-afternoon, the guns had fallen silent. The mild winds had long before blown away the last wisps of gunsmoke arisen in impenetrable thunderheads from ships and shore batteries, and now only a few faint mists from burning or sunken Danish floating batteries or warships remained.
HMS Thermopylae lay peacefully at anchor among her sister ships by the North end of the Middle Ground shoal, near HMS London and her consorts, about three miles off the Trekroner Fort, and well out of range of its cannon, though there was little expectation that the Danes would resume the contest.
They were beaten, after all; seventeen of the eighteen warships, anchored hulks, or floating batteries had been taken, burned, or sunk in action, and the enemy commander's ship, Dannebrog, had taken fire and blown up with stupendous loss of life well after the artillery duel had ended. Nelson and his squadron had persisted despite the "General" signal to discontinue the action, and had won, though at great cost in men.
The rest of Thermopylae's day had been spent repairing; re-roving and splicing cut-up rigging, replacing shattered yards and upper masts. The entire ship needed scouring to erase the stains of gunpowder residue… and blood. Vinegar had been used to ease the odours of rotten eggs from the guns' discharges, the coppery reek of splattered gore, and the foetid stench from Mr. Harward's surgery on the orlop.
When the foremast had been "fished" and banded, the weather decks had had to be re-sanded with bears and bibles. After that, the cannon had to be thoroughly swabbed out and washed down from muzzles to breeching rope cascabels, the truck-carriages touched up with a little paint, and the recoil and run-out tackles replaced in some cases after all the strain and fraying placed upon them.
On top of that, all the ship's boats had been led round from being towed astern, and had spent the entire time since the cease-fire at rescuing Danish sailors from the wrecks of their vessels, taking prisoners, then cooperating with the crews of Danish rowboats in transferring their dead and wounded ashore to the hospitals in the city.
Alan Lewrie had been busy, too, visiting aboard HMS Amazon to attend Capt. Riou's brief funeral, then conduct his own rites for the seven officers and men who had died from Thermopylae's complement, then see to his wounded, some of them in a bad way after amputations, and sure to join the Great Majority, and their slain shipmates, in a few days.
In his gig, he had had to report to Lord Nelson aboard, Elephant, then to Sir Hyde Parker aboard London, and there had been no time for food or drink, or a chance to catch his breath, it seemed, since they had dropped anchors. Finally… finally, the sun was down, and there were no more demands upon him or his crew. A harbour watch was set on deck, with the usual lookouts posted at bow, stern, and both gangways. Marines in full, freshly cleaned kit stood sentry posts to prevent desertion, though it made no sense given a three-mile swim to a hostile shore. It was simply what the Royal Navy did when anchored.
Captain Alan Lewrie touched the brim of his hat in casual salute and nodded with a grin to Marine
Private Leggett, who stood guard by the door to his great-cabins, receiving a musket salute, and a shy hint of a grin in reply as he entered his quarters.
"Thank God," he breathed in relief as he shut the door on care and worry and grief, and the demands of Duty. He hung up his own hat and sword belt, not waiting for Pettus to serve him, and almost limped on weary legs and slightly sore feet to the starboard side settee.
"A glass of something, sir?" Pettus asked, looking as clean and natty as if the day had never been, as well-turned-out as a civilian servant in a London club.
"God, yes!" Lewrie enthused. "It's been a long, dry day." And, as Pettus fetched him a refreshing glass of white wine, as Toulon and Chalky, happily resettled amid their familiar environs with the terrifying din of battle long over, leaped into his lap and made glad mews of joy to be stroked and cossetted in peace, Lewrie could relish the homeyness of his cabins returned to normalcy, with every piece of furniture, every chest, chair, and framed picture put back in the right places.
And after a long, dry-mouthed sip of the light white wine, he could even allow himself a long, happy sigh of near bliss. Pettus had the bottle, and topped him back up for a slower, more meditative drink.
"Galley's up, and Nettles will be fetching your supper in half an hour, sir," Pettus told him. "No hope of fresh vegetables or bread from shore, I'd suppose, sir, but he's putting together a celebratory meal, he said to say. Anything I may do in the meantime, sir?"
"I'd admire did you help me get my boots off, Pettus, and fetch out that old, sloppy pair o' shoes," Lewrie decided. "And a fresh pair of cotton stockings. I fear the silk ones I've worn nigh two days in a row are quite ruined, by now."
"Of course, sir," Pettus said, and went to hunt up the shoes and stockings. Once back, he straddled Lewrie's calves and tugged off the boots; sure enough, the silk stockings were laddered with tears. They were fine for formal occasions, and for battle; silk shirts and stockings could be drawn from wounds more cleanly than linen or wool, limiting the risk of anything left in ravaged flesh to fester or go gangrenous, but such protection was too delicate to wear with boots, and too costly.
Once in fresh, clean stockings, and comfortable old loosely buckled shoes, Lewrie slumped into one corner of the settee, throw pillows and cushions rearranged for comfort. He threw one leg up atop the seat, the other resting on the low brass tray-table he'd brought back from Calcutta so many years before, and let out another blissful sigh. On the smaller side tray-table stood the wine bottle, and Lewrie poured himself a third glass, all but smacking his lips in anticipation. Yet…
As he reached over, then leaned back, something crinkled in his coat's inside chest pocket. Oh, Lewrie sadly thought; Arthur's letter.
He withdrew it and broke the wax seal, thinking that the letter was just like Arthur Ballard; folded evenly, meticulously, and the seal forming a perfectly circular blob of wax covering all four corners of the folds which met at almost mathematical exactitude.
Sir (it began) I would beg that you keep this in the strictest of Confidences. I find myself in the very worst sort of personal Contretemps, and, for want of a better Solution, and at the considerable Risk to my career, must inform you that I find it impossible to serve under you as First Lieutenant. It is my intention to request of Admiralty to be relieved of my Position.
Lewrie furrowed his brows in surprise, wondering just what the fellow might have gotten into; gambling debts, the risk of debtors' prison by over-spending? He'd gotten some young woman in trouble? None of these even remotely seemed likely, not with such a straight-laced prig as Arthur Ballard, he could quickly dismiss.
Though we established a somewhat compatible Cooperation aboard Alacrity in the Bahamas, as Time went by, I found myself loath to call it true Friendship, and, by the end of our joint Commission, felt quite relieved to go our separate Ways.
Truthfully, Sir, I hold that you are Reprehensible, and wish most devoutly to have as little to do with you and your Character as naval Service will admit in…
"Bloody Hell?" Lewrie gawped in a very small voice.
Arthur Ballard laid it all out in precise terms; he despised Captain Alan Lewrie, just as he had come to despise Lieutenant Alan Lewrie in the late '80s. Ballard cited his many reasons; recklessness being one of them; a lewd, lascivious, and adulterous nature, another. He blasphemed freely; he'd shot that captured, kneeling pirate in the head at close range with a pistol in front of the cave on Middle Caicos to urge the rest, and that foul Billy "Bones" Doyle, out and free their captives-just as he'd all but murdered Count Levotchkin's servant not a fortnight before! The theft of a dozen Black slaves to man his ship; Ballard knew it was a crime, despite what the court, and all the newspapers and tracts in praise of him, said.
He got that pretty-much right, Lewrie admitted to himself.
But it was Lewrie's rakehellish, adulterous streak that Ballard found the most despicable. Why, he even recalled the name of the Free Black woman Lewrie had rutted with at Clarence Town on Long Island one sultry and boring afternoon, after all these years-even if Lewrie didn't.
Wyannie Slocum, of course! Lewrie thought, surprised; and, just for a bit, remembering rather fondly…
The rumours of Lewrie quickening a bastard son on a rich Greek widow in the currant trade, the rumour of a mistress in the Mediterranean earlier in the war; the scandal of associating with a "painted circus wench," and how shamefully Lewrie had ignored and abused, and been unfaithful to his wife, Caroline, lo these many years, betraying the… "Betraying the Trust of one of the finest women it has ever been my honour to know…," Ballard wrote.
Damme, it could've been Ballard, wrote those bloody letters, not Theoni, if I didn't know better, Lewrie thought, re-reading what Ballard had penned about Caroline one more time, then leaning back on the settee and taking another long sip of his wine.
He never wed, Lewrie recalled; Turned up his nose at every promisin' lass we introduced to him. Betsy… whats'ername? He thought her… all of 'em… too "fly" and "flibberty-gibbet." The way Arthur writes of Caroline, though… Mine arse on a band-box, he was in love with her, all these years! he realised with a start.
Lewrie had always fancied that Caroline could coax Ballard out of his grave and aloof manner, and for several hours loosen up in her, and his own, presence ashore… Arthur would even laugh and smile!
At a subscription ball or party at Nassau, Ballard would actually dance with Caroline-no more than two in an evening, Lewrie recalled; and, oh, he'd be gracious enough to ask other women and girls to dance as well in the course of the night; the dutiful sort of thing one did with the older ladies, with fellow officers' wives, or the unmarried damsels and daughters, yet… he'd never followed through.
Do I go through his sea-chests, do I find a shrine to Caroline? Lewrie wondered; The unattainable, the unrequited… paragon of womanhood, t'his lights. The poor, sad, unloved bastard!
Yes, there was his affair with Tess cited as the last straw for Ballard; that Lewrie would stoop to associating with common trollops, no matter their feminine charms, and imagine such a sordid item reason for a duel of honour, well! And why was he not home in Anglesgreen in his wife's company, anyway? How could he be so dismissive and beastly towards such a splendid lady? Ballard had demanded.
No, Arthur Ballard hadn't had a premonition, as Surgeon Mister Harward had imagined; he'd expected to survive the action, request a posting aboard another ship (perhaps after a brief spell of leave, for medical reasons?) and put Lewrie in his place for good and all.
Coach to Anglesgreen, and place his heart in Caroline's hands, as he always wished he could? Lewrie mused; Surely, in fiften bloody years, he must've met somebody else… given some proper girl a go! Poor, sad, lonely… deluded… prig.
Lewrie finished his glass of wine and stuffed Ballard's letter into a side pocket of his coat, wondering what to do with it now that he had read it. Toulon butted his head against Lewrie's thigh, while Chalky came trotting from back aft with his tail u
p to rejoin them and mewing for more pets, too, from the litter-box of dry sand stowed in the larboard-side quarter gallery. With a firm nod, Lewrie rose and headed for the quarter gallery himself, in need of relief after three glasses of wine.
He shut the door, lifted the lid of the "jakes," and undid his breeches buttons for a long, easing piss down the metal tube that led past the tuck of the transom directly to the sea. With his buttons re-fastened, he turned to stare out the window panes at the riding lights of the anchored fleet, and the lanthorn-glades upon the waters dancing and sparkling in the dark.
Meditatively, Lewrie withdrew the letter once again and shredded it into tiny bits, letting the fingernail-sized pieces drop into the cat's litter-box. With the small, long-handled fireplace shovel, he stirred the pieces in deep, as if turning grass under a fallow field before Spring planting. Hoping that no "seeds" would ever sprout from that epistle.
Best leave Lt. Arthur Ballard, RN, a brave and honourable memory to his family, his associates… and everyone else. Courageously lost in the King's Name… and not a jealous, love-sick, and ascetic fool.
"Ah, there you be, sir," Pettus gaily said as Lewrie came back to the cabins. "Your supper is here, sir. Can't speak for the quality of the boiled carrots, but the potato hash with bacon is fresher, and there's half one of the gun-room's chickens, with some of your good Cheshire cheese rolled in biscuit crumbles, and toasted. Claret with it, sir?"
"Capital, Pettus," Lewrie said with genuine eagerness for food, though feeling a pang of conscience to sound too eager, after the death and ravaging of some of his men… of Ballard's passing. He sat down at his solitary place at the head of his dining table and scooted up to his place setting, whipping the napkin cross his lap.
Just as a bowl of portable soup was put before him, he caught a strain of music from up forward on the gun-deck. "They sound in decent spirits, considerin'," Lewrie commented.
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