Lewrie and the Hogsheads

by Dewey Lambdin

  The cutter had been led astern for towing, and the boat’s crew had come on deck, and Lewrie turned to face them.

  “Desmond, I’d admire did ye and the lads strip my cabins for action, and whistle up my steward, Pettus, so he can see the beasts to the orlop,” Lewrie bade. “And, he’s to fetch me my everyday sword and a brace o’ pistols.”

  “Aye, sor,” Desmond said, though pausing for a bit before obeying the order. “Ya wish th’ ship’s boats set free for a better turn o’ speed, too, sor?” Desmond asked in a softer voice.

  “No,” Lewrie grimly decided. “We may need them, later.”

  For the survivors should the ship go down, was left unsaid.

  “Clear for action, now, sir?” Lt. Merriman, usually their jolliest, formally intoned.

  “Aye, that’d be best,” Lewrie told him. “Let’s get the gun-deck cleared o’ chests, sea bags, and mess-tables, first, but we’ll not beat to Quarters ’til we’ve made our offing,” Lewrie ordered as he stripped off his best coat and hat. Fortunately, beguiling young women required his best silk stockings and shirt. Silk was better than linen, cotton or wool for battle; it could be drawn from wounds much more easily, reducing the risk of sepsis or gangrene.

  Bisquit, the perk-eared ship’s dog, had been prancing round them for attention and “pets”, making wee whines in confusion as to why he was being ignored. The dog could grin quite easily, but he was not now.

  Lewrie went to the quarterdeck as Pettus emerged from the door to his great-cabins on the weather deck, followed by the younger cabin-servant, Jessop. Jessop had Lewrie’s cats, Toulon and Chalky, in the wicker travel cage, headed for the main ladderway down the hatch for the orlop, the usual place of shelter below the waterline. He gave a whistle and made “Chom’ere” sounds to Bisquit, took him by the collar, and led him below, too.

  “Your plain coat, hat, and weapons, sir,” Bettus said as he took the finery and handed over the wanted items, helping Lewrie put on his coat, and belting Lewrie’s hanger round his waist. The hundred-guinea presen ta tion sword would go below to the orlop, with the cats.

  One of the starboard 9-pounders erupted, echoing that first warning gun from Fort Fincastle, and the quarterdeck was briefly fogged with a sour-smelling pall of spent powder smoke. Lewrie looked aloft to see his ordered signals flying two-blocked to the starboard halliards. He turned to look at his frigate’s consorts and noted that each had hoisted the same signal in sign that they had seen it and were obeying. Gigs or jolly boats were putting out from all three of the smaller ships, bearing their commanding officers to Reliant for a quick conference before they sortied.

  And just what’ll I order them t’do? Lewrie pondered as Reliant thundered to sounds of shoes and horny bare feet as the gun-deck was cleared, as the wardroom was stripped bare, and all the canvas-and-deal partitions which gave a semblance of privacy came down to be piled like unwanted stage scenery and sent below out of the way. From great-cabins aft to the break of the forecastle, the gun-deck would become a single long space, broken only by guns and gun-carriages, the carling posts, and sailors.

  The Ship’s Purser, Mr. Cadbury, was coming alongside with one of the thirty-two-foot barges that Lewrie had borrowed from HM Dockyard better than a year before for experimental work in the English Channel and had conveniently forgotten to return. In addition to the barge’s oarsmen, helmsman, and Midshipman Munsell were the hands in the working-party who would have loaded supplies into it.

  “Mister Cadbury!” Lewrie shouted down to the boat even before it was hooked on to the main chains with a gaff. “Do you release the men of the working-party, but use the boat’s crew to strip the forecastle manger of beasts, and stow ’em in the barge. We’ll tow ’em astern, ’stead o’ tossin’ ’em overboard.”

  “Well, aye aye, sir, but…,” Cadbury replied, looking stunned.

  “There’s a fight in the offing, Mister Cadbury, and there’s no reason for the pigs and goats to be shot to pieces, or drown!” Lewrie told him with hard-summoned false good humour.

  “I see, sir,” Cadbury said, much sobered and subdued.

  “Lieutenant Westcott is coming?” Lewrie asked the Purser.

  “I’m sure he is, sir, though…” Cadbury shrugged and turned to look shoreward for the second barge.

  Coming! Lewrie told himself with an audible snort; I’m bound that he has, the once at least.

  Besides himself in his younger days, Lieutenant Geoffrey Westcott was as mad for strange and lovely “quim” as any man ever he did see, and after better than two years in active commission, so did every Man Jack in Reliant’s crew! His harsh hatchet face and alarmingly fierce and brief smiles to the contrary, Westcott always seemed to find himself a bit of “fresh mutton”, was he set down on a desert isle, and the sailors were right proud of him for it!

  Aha! Lewrie told himself as he spotted the second barge setting out from the town docks; There’s our Lothario! The set of Westcott’s uniform might be askew, but he was up and dressed, after a fashion, and standing by Midshipman Rossyngton near the tiller, urging the oarsmen for more effort.

  Lewrie turned his attention closer aboard, to the gigs bearing Lieutenants Darling, Lovett, and Bury to the main-chains. He glanced at their vessels, satisfied that Thorn, Lizard, and Firefly were being stripped down for action, as well.

  Before his ju nior officers ascended the man-ropes and battens in order of se niority, Lewrie could spare another glance shorewards to the fine houses at the top of the hill behind the fort and the government buildings, and let out a wistful sigh.

  She might’ve refused me, anyway, he sadly thought.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “There’s little I can tell you, gentlemen,” Lewrie said to his ju nior officers as they stood round the dining table in his cabins to hold a quick conference. “There are reports of warships approaching, whose we don’t know, or how many so far. We are it as far as a naval defence goes, so…we will up-anchor and stand out into the Nor’east Providence Channel. Reliant will lead, and draw their initial fire, should it come to that. Lovett, Bury…you must pair together with your six-pounders and get Thorn into range where her carronades might have some effect. After that, you must stay together as a pair, and double on another target…one that looks beat-able.”

  It was a grim crowd, with pursed lips and dark scowls once he told them that. Lt. Oliver Lovett of Firefly, a slim, dark, and piratical-looking fellow, game for anything, usually. Lt. Tristan Bury, their scholar and marine artist, who had surprised them all with his daring and energy, looked pale and stiffly prim. Merry Lt. Peter Darling of Thorn slowly nodded his head, his round face flushed.

  “Of course, if the foe is come in substantial strength, with large frigates and two-deckers, then all bets are off,” Lewrie went on. “Then, discretion may be the better part of valour, and the best we may do will be to return to the harbour entrance and anchor athwart it, delaying their entry to the last of our shot and powder.”

  “If they do plan to land troops as well, sir,” the young but sage Lt. Bury said in cold logic, “might I or Lovett be allowed free rein to cover the shoal waters and beaches West of Fort Fincastle, to take their small boats under fire? Reliant and Thorn can block the entrance channel with eighteen-pounder long guns and carronades for a goodly time.”

  “Hmmm…,” Lewrie pondered, then shook his head. “I fear that your presence may block the fire from Fort Fincastle’s guns, which are already sited to cover those beaches. Best we stick together to the end.”

  “If they do bring troop ships, sir, why not have a go at ’em?” Lt. Lovett said with a chuckle, and a feral look on his long Cornish face. “If we could get round, or past, the escorts, we could make a very bloody meal of ’em? What say to that, hey?”

  “Damned good idea, Lovett!” Lt. Darling congratulated him, with a hearty thump on the shoulder. “Kick them in their ‘nut-megs’, while they expect us to box them toe-to-toe!”

  “A forlorn hope,” Lt. Bury into
ned most gravely, as was his wont. “I believe that is what the Army terms such fights. But…” For once, Bury smiled, adding, “such battles win undying glory for the participants, and gild their honour forever.”

  Mad as hatters, the lot of ’em, Lewrie thought, but feeling a pride in their courage.

  “Very well,” Lewrie instructed. “If there are transports, and I see a chance to get at them, I will hoist the ‘General Chase.’ If we face ships against which it appears we stand a chance, I will make ‘Engage The Enemy More Closely’.

  “If, however, we are hopelessly out-matched,” he went on with a shrug, “and the best we could do would be to deny them entrance to the harbour, Reliant will hoist—”

  “How about the ‘Church’ flag, sir?” Lt. Darling puckishly japed, making them all bray with gallows humour, and amazing Lewrie, again.

  “ ‘Church’ it is, then,” Lewrie allowed. “Gentlemen, my steward left no glasses, but I do have a decanter of aged American corn whiskey. Let’s pass it round t’larboard like we do the port, and take a bit of liquid cheer.”

  “Most welcome, sir!” Lovett roared his approval.

  “And, if this is the last time we may stand together in this life,” Lewrie concluded, “let me just say that I have never served with a group of officers more energetic, more daring and skillful, and full of courage.”

  “Hear him, hear him!” Darling crowed.

  Lewrie took a gulp from the decanter, savouring the whisky as it burned its way down to his gullet, telling himself that there was no spirit to match aged corn whisky. He liked the look of it in a glass, its smoothness on the palate, even its slightly sweet aroma. He passed the decanter on to Lovett, who glugged down a good measure. Darling was next, and he grimaced when the whisky’s bite reached his throat. Bury took the decanter, but paused.

  “Gentlemen, recall when first our little squadron was formed, and we first dined together,” Bury stiffly said. “I give you the toast we made then. ‘Here’s to us, none like us, a bold band of English sea-rovers!’ ”

  Bury took his drink then as the rest loudly echoed their agreement with his sentiment.

  “Now, let us prepare our ships for sea,” Lewrie ordered as he got the decanter back. “Up-anchor and make sail, quick as you can, and follow me out in line-astern.”

  They shook hands, then departed. Lewrie lingered in the great-cabins for a moment, looking round at how bare it appeared with only the painted black-and-white deck chequer canvas nailed to the planks, and the eighteen-pounders resting on their carriages, un-manned so far. Even the pillows and padded seats of the transom settee had been sent below for safekeeping, and he wondered if he would ever see his cabins set up properly, again…if anyone aboard Reliant would.

  He took another gulp of whisky, then went on deck, carrying the decanter to the quarterdeck, popping the stopper into place.

  “Take it down, sir?” Bosun Sprague asked at the foot of the larboard ladderway.

  “Aye, Mister Sprague,” Lewrie agreed, and the last deal-and-canvas partitions were taken down, the dining table was collapsed and put to one side, and the great-cabins were now open to the weather deck, just an extension to the rows of guns to either beam.

  Lewrie stowed the decanter in the compass binnacle cabinet forward of the double-wheel helm, nodded to the two Quartermasters’ Mates already manning the helm, noting their avid interest in where liquour would be if no one noticed them pilfering, and walked over to Lieutenant Westcott.

  “All’s in order, sir,” Westcott crisply reported, raising one hand to knuckle his cocked hat in salute. “Hands are ready for ‘Stations To Weigh’ and make sail.”

  “Hands to the capstans, then, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered.

  “Bosun!” Westcott bellowed. “Pipe hands to weigh anchors!”

  “And God help us all,” Lt. Westcott muttered to himself.

  Even with the best will in the world, getting a ship under way took time; time to nip a messenger line to the thigh-thick anchor cable, wrap the messenger round the capstan, place sailors round it to breast to the capstan bars, and haul in the heavy cable, with more hands to lead the in-board end of the cable down below to the tiers where it would be stowed, where it could drip seawater and spread its accumulated mud and gritty bottom sand, and reek of dead fish and tidal flat miasma. The ship would be hauled in to “short stays”, increasing the angle of the cable through the hawsehole, where the strain would be heaviest, and the hands had to dig their toes in and grunt the vessel the last few yards ’til the cable was “up and down”. Then came the order for the “heavy haul” to break the anchor’s flukes, and its weight, free of the bottom. Up it would come, at last, streaming muck, to be “fished” round a fluke or cross-bar to draw the anchor horizontal, so it could be “rung up” and “catted” to the stout out-jutting timber of the cat-head, and the now-empty hawseholes be fitted with “bucklers” to plug the possible in-rush of seawater in heavy seas.

  As the cable came “up and down”, more sailors, young and spry topmen, would be piped aloft to make sail, to scramble up the shrouds and rat-lines of each mast to the top platforms and beyond to the cross-trees where they would trice up and lay out along the yards, balancing on the precarious, swaying foot-ropes with their arms locked over the yards, where they would remove the harbour gaskets and let the canvas fall. Yards were hoisted off their rests while the topmen were aloft, clews hauled to draw down the bottoms of the sails, and even more men on deck manned the yard braces to angle them to the wind.

  In all, it took the better part of an hour for Reliant to make sail and begin to ghost across the waters of Nassau Harbour, heading for the entrance channel, with the three smaller warships following in her scant wake.

  As the sheets, halliards, jeers, and braces were belayed, then stowed in loops over the pin-rails or fife rails, or coiled on the sail-tending gang-ways, Marine Lieutenant Simcock called for the ship’s musicians, his fifer and drummer and a pair of fiddlers, to hoist the men a tune. He did not call for his favourite, “The Bowld Soldier Boy,” which accompanied the rum cask on deck when “Clear Decks And Up Spirits” was piped, but “Spanish Ladies”, and he requested a rousing lilt.

  To watchers ashore who had not yet fled inland or to “Overhill” behind the town, to the soldiers and gunners who stood their posts upon Fort Fincastle’s ramparts, their little squadron made a brave but desperate show. Fresh and bright Union flags fluttered in the wind from every stern gaff or spanker, and larger ones flew from the foremast trucks of the smaller warships, and from Reliant’s main mast tip. The long red-white-blue commissioning pendants stood out like slowly curling snakes.

  The thin, bracing tune reached shore, almost lost in the rustle of sails, and trees along Bay Street. A private gunner who served one of the heavy 32-pounders in a lower embrasure of the fort put his head out the stone port to cock an ear, and savour a faint snatch of cooling breeze. “Gawd ’elp ’em, Corp,” he said to his gun captain.

  “Aye, them poor bastards ain’t got a ’ope in ’Ell,” the Corporal sadly agreed, and spat tobacco juice into the swab-water tub.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  LEWRIE AND THE HOGSHEADS. Copyright © 2012 by Dewey Lambdin. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover painting: Battle of the Nile, 1st August 1798 at 10 pm, 1834 (oil on panel), by Thomas Luny (1759-1837) / Private Collection / Photo © Bonhams, London, UK / The Bridgeman Art Library

  e-ISBN 978-1-4668-3047-9

  First Edition: January 2013

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