“Pettus, I’d admire did you pass word for the First Officer, and the Sailing Master,” Lewrie said, taking only a moment to admire his commission document as Commodore, with all its official seals.
“Aye, sir?” Pettus said, surprised. He paused long enough to pinch his nose with his fingers, then snatched his watch-coat from an overhead beam peg, and dashed out onto the quarterdeck.
Lewrie opened a desk drawer for fresh paper to pen a quick reply to Admiralty confirming his receipt of his orders, and was in the middle of that task when the Marine sentry reported Lt. Westcott.
“We’ve orders, sir?” Westcott asked right off, looking eager.
“Aye, but ye may not care for ’em,” Lewrie told him, intent on his penmanship. “Have we a second class broad pendant aboard?”
“Hmm, don’t think so, right off hand, sir,” Westcott told him, “but congratulations.”
“Sailin’ Master t’see th’ Cap’um, SAH!” the sentry bawled.
“Enter!”
“God help us,” Westcott muttered, pinching his own nostrils.
“Ah, you sent for me, sir?” Mr. Yelland, the Sailing Master, enquired after he had entered. He looked rumpled, as if a good, long nap in his sea cabin had been interrupted.
“Aye, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie replied, looking up. “We are ordered back to the North coast of Spain, with a brief from Cape Fisterre to the French border, and off Bayonne and Arcachon, too. We’ll be in command of Undaunted, the Sterling frigate, and the two brig-sloops that came with us from Corunna. That makes you the senior Sailing Master of the squadron, so I want you to dig out all the charts that you have, or go ashore and find all you can, then get together with the Sailing Masters, and the Commanders of the brig-sloops, and see that there are no discrepancies that might bring one of ’em to grief.”
“Oh, I see, sir!” Yelland exclaimed, looking as if the responsibility was puffing him up with pride. “Fisterre to the French border, Bayonne and Arcachon, too, right. At present, I don’t have much at hand East of Corunna or Ferrol, but, if I may have a boat I’ll go ashore and see what I can find, sir?”
“Aye, at once, Mister Yelland, if you’d be so kind,” Lewrie agreed. “Take one of the cutters, and Crawley and his old boat crew. If you’ll delay a few moments, I’d admire did you bear my letter to Admiralty ashore with you.”
“Of course, sir,” Yelland agreed, eager to be off. Whatever he did when allowed ashore didn’t bear thinking about.
“And when ashore, request a broad pendant, second class, for me, too,” Lewrie added, returning to his letter.
“He’s not quite as fragrant as usual,” Westcott japed once the Sailing Master was gone. “Must’ve scrubbed up for one of the doxies, the other day. The North coast of Spain, is it?” He sucked his teeth in dread. “A damned nasty place, altogether.”
“My manners,” Lewrie apologised, waving Westcott to sit down in one of his chairs. “Jessop, pour Mister Westcott some coffee.”
“Thank you, sir,” Westcott said, “black with sugar, please.”
“We’re ordered to hunt up French ships bringing supplies into all the harbours along the coast,” Lewrie told him, looking up from his letter briefly with a grin of anticipation. “Waggons cross the Pyrenees can’t manage a tenth of what their armies need.”
“Praise God, prize-money!” Westcott hooted in sudden joy. “Bags and bloody bags of it, surely!”
“One can only hope,” Lewrie teasingly agreed as he signed his letter, sanded it, blew on it, then began to fold it upon itself and dug into his desk for a stick of wax and his seal. A last dip of his steel-nib pen into the inkwell to address it properly, sand and dry that, and it was ready to be despatched. “Jessop,” he said to the lad as he fetched the First Officer’s coffee, “take this to the Sailing Master, if ye please.”
“Aye, sir!” Jessop replied, looking eager, for once, to go on deck in raw weather, and Lewrie and Westcott shared a knowing look; what passed in the great-cabins or the wardroom was usually known to the crew within minutes. Jessop would surely drop a hint or two that they would be sailing, with fine prospects for lots of prize-money, in passing.
“So, who’s to be in our little squadron this time?” Westcott asked after a sip of coffee.
“Undaunted, Blaze, and Peregrine,” Lewrie told him, “evidently Admiralty thinks that if we came in together, we’re all old mates by now, and a Sixth Rate, the Sterling, a Captain Yearwood? Know him?”
“Not from Adam, unfortunately, sir,” Lt. Westcott had to admit, “though the name strikes me as familiar.”
“I’ll be dining them in tonight, along with you and Mister Yelland,” Lewrie told him, “pick a somewhat clean Midshipman for the bottom of the table, and pass word for my boat crew, and a responsible Midshipman, to deliver the invitations as soon as I scribble ’em out.”
“Very good, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, rushing through his cup of coffee as if he intended to rise and depart that instant. “For supper, I’d suggest Hillhouse.” To Lewrie’s puzzled frown, he added, “After he failed the Examining Board, he’s been as sulky as a bulldog, yet he is the senior-most, and should show more leadership for the other Mids. Being included may perk him up, sir.”
“And just why, again, do you not have your own ship?” Lewrie teased. “That’s a very good idea, worthy of a Post-Captain, or a Commander at the very least. One of these days, you simply must stop hanging around t’watch me diddle, amusin’ though that may be, and allow me to advance you into the next big prize we may take.”
“Well,” Westcott said as if seriously considering the offer, “I suppose I could use the extra pay. Sing out when your letters are done and I’ll see them off. Uhm, any idea where the Sterling frigate might be anchored?”
“Haven’t a clue, sorry,” Lewrie replied, already digging around in his desk for fresh letter paper and his pen. “Hmm, best you pass the word for my cook, and give him advance warning of what’s wanting.”
“Doing it directly, sir,” Westcott said with a cock-headed grin on his way out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was winter-dark enough by the supper’s appointed hour, too dark to make out the fresh, new red broad pendant bearing the white ball that now flew from Sapphire’s main mast, yet Lewrie looked aloft for it as he turned out near the entry-port in his best dress uniform, new bicorne hat, and presentation sword, with the star and sash of his knighthood prominently displayed for a rare once. He could make out a line of rowing boats approaching, though, already sorted out in order of seniority, not quite within hailing distance.
“Hoy, Sapphire!” the leading boat’s Cox’n called out at last, “Undaunted, arriving! Permission to come aboard?”
“Tell them to come alongside, smartly now, Mister Chenery,” Lewrie said to prompt the Mid of the Harbour Watch into action.
“Aye aye!” Chenery began in his newly-acquired “tarry” fashion, “Come alongside, smartly now!”
Oh Christ! Lewrie thought; What a twit!
“The ‘smartly now’ was an admonition to you, Mister Chenery,” Lewrie growled, “not for Captain Chalmers. ‘Smartly’ means ‘quickly’, and ‘handsomely’ means slow and carefully, and I’ll thankee t’remember that in future!”
“Sorry, sir,” Chenery managed to say, shrinking into his coat.
Extra lanthorns had been lit on deck to ease the arrival and departure of his guests, so Lewrie could see the displeased look on Capt. Chalmers’s face as his hat and head appeared above the lip of the entry-port, and the stamp of Marine boots, the slap of hands on presented muskets, and the dual calls from Bosun Terrell and one of his Mates did nothing to make him any merrier.
“Welcome aboard Sapphire, sir,” Lewrie said, going forward and doffing his hat, “Sorry about that. The newest of my new-come Mids,” he apologised with a hapless shrug. “All’s literal to him, yet. Not with us a Dog Watch.”
Capt. Richard Chalmers was the epitome of the public’s image of a Navy Captain, wide of shoulder, lean a
nd tall, and almost rakishly good-looking. That worthy lifted one expressive eyebrow and gave Lewrie a chary look as he doffed his hat in salute. “And you’ve not yet had him flogged, sir?” Chalmers asked, making Chenery blanch.
“I’ll mast-head him, if ye like that better, sir,” Lewrie said, realising that Chalmers was jesting. “Put the Surgeon’s leeches on him?”
“No no,” Chalmers said, relenting and smiling, “thank you for your kind invitation, sir,”
Capt. Yearwood of HMS Sterling was next aboard, and the complete opposite of the immaculate Capt. Chalmers. Yearwood was a dour and heavy-set fellow in his late thirties, Lewrie thought, dressed in a coat with gold lace gone green from long exposure to salt air, with a white shirt and white waist-coat gone pale tan from long use and washing, and in a pair of issue slop-trousers crammed into Hessian boots.
Didn’t shave too close, did he? Lewrie thought; Or, is his beard so dense it doesn’t matter?
“Captain Yearwood, welcome aboard Sapphire,” Lewrie offered as he doffed his hat once more.
“Captain Lewrie, sir,” Yearwood answered in a deep, basso rumble as he lifted his older cocked hat in reply. “Heard of you for ages, and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance at last.”
“Hope it was the good parts only,” Lewrie replied.
“Oh, I’m sure it was, sir!” Yearwood rejoined, chuckling.
Commander Teague of the Blaze sloop was an up-and-comer in his late twenties, well-dressed and obviously someone’s favourite to gain command of a ship so early, a fit fellow with a pleasant face, almost a book-end to Capt. Chalmers. Commander Blamey was older, in his late thirties or so, and Lewrie could almost make him a match to Capt. Yearwood, though he was much better-attired, barrel-chested, somewhat squat, with a hard and rather brutal face. His voice was higher than Yearwood’s bear-like grumble, though, and almost had an Anglo-Irish lilt.
Lewrie led them aft to his great-cabins and did the introductions to Lieutenant Westcott and his Sailing Master, Mr. Yelland, whom Lewrie devoutly hoped had sponged some of his aroma off for the occasion. “Well then, sirs, shall we take our seats and have a glass of something before supper begins?”
Pettus and Jessop had set out place cards in their plates, putting Chalmers and Yearwood at the head of the table to his either hand, the two Commanders next down-table opposite each other, Yelland and Westcott further down, and Midshipman Hillhouse at the foot of the table.
“Shall we lift a toast to our gallant smugglers, sirs?” Lewrie asked as Pettus and Jessop filled their glasses with French champagne, which had been chilled in a wooden tub filled with seawater and what snow had gathered on the decks during the afternoon flurries.
“I heard that you were recently in London, sir,” Chalmers said, smacking his lips after a sip of his wine. “What’s new in the city?”
“Didn’t have time for the theatre, but the political satires were amusing,” Lewrie told him, describing what had struck him most, “the Prince of Wales is takin’ a beating over his new style of wig. It’s called a ‘Jazey’. Puffed up on top and draping like a willow tree, down over the ears, the forehead, the back of the neck? Like an un-combed farm worker. Unfortunately, it’s all the ‘crack’ now.”
If the rest of them hadn’t gone further from their ships than the the shops of Portsmouth, they had all devoured the latest newspapers, so they could converse on an host of safe topics before Yeovill came in with the first course, a tangy cockle soup, and a brimming barge of fresh shore bread. The hearty conversation continued over roast quail with pease porridge, and a nice Spanish white wine, then a fish course of breaded and grilled haddock over a rice pilaf. Lastly, the roast beef turned up, individual steaks with potato skins stuffed with bacon, horseradish, and mashed potato filling, some broad beans, and a very pleasant claret. Yeovill finished things off with eggy caramel flan, sweet bisquits, and a sherry to accompany them. Once the last plate and serving bowl had been removed, and the tablecloth had been whisked away, out came the cheese, nuts, and port bottle.
“A hellish-good repast, Sir Alan, thank you,” Commander Teague commented as he began cracking walnuts for all.
“As delightful as one could expect in Mid-winter, aye,” Capt. Chalmers agreed, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin.
“I suppose you’ve all received your orders by now,” Lewrie began, looking round his guests. “Somewhat mystifying?”
“That we’re to be under your command, aye, sir,” Yearwood said with a firm nod of his head as he pulled an ivory toothpick from his vest pocket. “The where and why, though, no.”
“Perhaps by the time we get where we’re going, there’ll be lashings of fresh fruit and vegetables available, and I can set you all a better table,” Lewrie explained, shifting in his chair as the port bottle made its larboardly way to him.
They had done Fashion, the Arts, Music, Parliament and the Prime Minister, edging round Politics very carefully, then back to Horses and Racing, Boxers, and the new steel-spring suspensions now available for coaches. Lewrie thought it time for Business, and the un-heard of “Shop Talk”.
“Back to Gibraltar, sir?” Commander Blamey enquired with a hopeful expression on his face.
“Oh, I was thinking Lisbon, instead,” Lewrie broadly hinted with an impish grin. “I wrote Admiralty requesting a store ship to be stationed there for our use, placing us closer to the North coast of Spain. That’s right, back where we just came from, gentlemen. Our brief is from Cape Fisterre to the French border, with permission to cruise off Bayonne and Arcachon when we think it profitable. There are French supply convoys landing goods all along that coast, and it’s up to us t’stop all that, and gobble ’em up.”
Supply ships full of goods and military stores meant prize-money, and that realisation made them gape, then pound the table with their fists and cheer their future good fortune.
“First thing tomorrow morning,” Lewrie went on after the din had subsided, “I wish all your Sailing Masters t’get together with Mister Yelland, there, and lay your hands on every chart we can find … Lisbon, and on North up to Cape Fisterre, and everything existing about the Spanish and French coasts. Every map maker, every printer, special order what’s lacking, and make sure that we all have charts as accurate as possible, and if there are discrepancies on some of them, we can pencil in fresher information so that we know where to find every rock, shoal, or old wreck.”
All of them seemed eager and agreeable, though Lewrie got the sense that Capt. Chalmers might have thought that talking “Shop” at-table was on the crude side.
“The weather looks as if it’ll continue miserable for a few more days,” Lewrie went on, “which’ll give us time to make sure that we find our charts and correct them … take aboard the last stores you think you’ll need. For myself, I may take on a whole, spare main mast … never can tell when I get struck again, hey?”
“I can finally finally find out if my gunners can aim small,” Commander Teague piped up, “now we know for sure that we’ll encounter lots of targets.”
“Aim small?” Lewrie asked.
“Well, perhaps not as well as you did at Corunna, sir,” Teague said with a seated bow in Lewrie’s direction, “the way you swotted that French battery away the last day of the evacuation, but … I’ve heard some officers wonder whether aimed fire at close quarters might be more effective than broadsides. Direct three or four guns at the enemy’s quarterdeck, the base of his main mast, or right into the gun-ports to dis-mount his guns. I’ve had my nine-pounders notched on the bells of the muzzles and at the tops of the uppermost breeching re-enforcements, so my gun-captains could actually aim their pieces as one does a musket.”
“Hmm, clear the quarterdeck with roundshot and grape,” Capt. Yearwood mused aloud, “right from the start? Maybe double-shot the carronades and dis-mast the foe, right off?”
“Hit ’em where they’re most vulnerable, aye!” Lewrie said with delight. “Take out the helm, the enemy captain, and watch of
ficers at one go? Hmm! Suddenly, I feel very vulnerable!”
“Like using a surgeon’s scalpel instead of a battle-axe, one might suppose?” Capt. Chalmers posed, sounding amused. “All well and good for the Army’s artillery, all scientific and predictable so their heavy siege guns can strike the same section of a fortress’s wall over and over to bring it down.”
“Shooting from gun positions that don’t pitch and roll, haw haw!” Commander Blamey grumbled dismissively. “Give me the battle-axe, or the sledge hammer, every time! The only way that’d ever work, Teague, is to be gunn’l-to-gunn’l with the foe, and anything beyond an hundred yards would still be by guess and by God.”
“Well then, sir,” Commander Teague rejoined with a wee grin, “let us place ourselves hull-to-hull and see if it works.”
“My heartiest sentiment, sir,” Blamey declared, “and will you have a glass with me?”
“That I will, sir!” Teague happily exclaimed.
“A general toast, sirs,” Capt. Yearwood roared. “To good gunnery and smashed foes!”
We’ll be slingin’ ’em into their boats like water casks, they keep this up, Lewrie thought as his glass was refilled, just as eager to second Yearwood’s words. Hardly had their glasses been tipped back to “heel taps” than Capt. Chalmers proposed “Confusion and Death to the French!” which required another quick refill all round, making Pettus and Jessop scramble to open a fresh bottle.
“Ah, gentlemen, before we’re ‘half seas over’,” Lewrie interrupted, “a few last thoughts upon our endeavour. Once the weather lets us out to sea, I wish to sail directly for the coast of Northern Spain without any waste of time at Lisbon, at first. Let us get to grips at once, and trust that when we do re-plenish at Lisbon, we go there with a string of prizes in tow.”
“Hear hear!” Yearwood roared, pounding the table with meaty fists.
“And, I think that we set a ‘rondy’ at five degrees West, about sixty miles out to sea from that coast,” Lewrie went on, hoping that they remembered half of what he was saying in the morning. “First off, I think that you, Captain Yearwood, should pair off with Commander Teague’s Blaze, and hunt West of the ‘rondy’. You, Captain Chalmers, can pair off with Commander Blamey’s Peregrine, to hunt together to the East, and have a squint at Bayonne and Arcachon. You’ve the strongest of our frigates, after all. For my part, I’ll cruise alone from Gijon to Santander and back. You, sirs, have swift ships, while my poor old ship … plods. Once we separate, we’ll give it a fortnight of prowling and raiding before we meet back up to compare notes and plan any future moves. All agreed?” he asked. Seven drink-reddened faces peered, or goggled, back at him, vociferously nodding and crying approval. “I’ll send you all brief notes upon that head in the morning.
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