“And a good night to you, Captain Chalmers,” Lewrie bade him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lisbon’s waterfront quays, and the nearby anchorages, were full of shipping, as was the wide and deep bay on the South side of the Tagus River, where they had anchored before. Sapphire and her consorts, and their prizes, had to advance a few miles up-river to find room to swing, under the looming hills of the ancient Alfama district, near the far end of the Avenida Infante Dom Henrique, and a long row or walk from there to the Baixa, the heart of the city.
That made it a little harder to secure the first provisions, the usual firewood and water, and a long row for a ship’s boat over to the naval stores ship, where the squadron’s long-delayed mail was saved pending their return.
Fresh water! Hogsheads of it! After the first fortnight on the North coast of Spain, the rainwater collected in canvas sluices and kegs had been depleted, and the weather had given them but a rare sprinkling, putting all ships dependent upon their stored water, too long in casks, and going a tad brown, with all for cooking and for drinking from the scuttlebutts, with none for bathing or washing of clothing. Sapphire’s Surgeon, Mr. Snelling, had made a pretty penny at lancing salt water boils and daubing salve on irritated rashes, but everyone’s daily wear, from Captain to the “duck fucker” who over saw the forecastle manger, was full of dried saltwater crystals that rubbed them all raw and raised those painful boils and itches.
A long, hot bath! Lewrie thought; And shirts, underdrawers, and bed sheets that don’t scratch … or stink! Pettus and Jessop had bound up a young bale-sized bundle of clothes, bedding, and even tablecloths and napkins ready for the washerwomen of Lisbon. For the moment, though, Lewrie itched, and would for at least one more day; there was too much to do aboard ship before he could be rowed ashore and seek out a bagnio for a long, hot soak and a vigourous scrubbing.
Personal hygiene and relief aside, he was anxious, too, for a word with Mr. Thomas Mountjoy, or his assistant, Danial Deacon, the Foreign Office’s Secret Branch agents in Lisbon, to see how the war was going. And to see if Maddalena Covilhā had arrived.
Would she come to Lisbon? Had she done so, yet? It felt like the better part of a year since he had sailed away from Gibraltar the last time to evacuate General Sir John Moore’s battered, starving army from Corunna, and a lot of things might have changed. Oh, he’d gotten one letter from her that sounded fond and longing, but after writing to prompt her to come to Lisbon and take lodgings, back he’d gone to sea with not one word more on the subject.
It was simpler at Gibraltar, he told himself.
Out and back on specific raids, gone for only a week, or a fortnight, then right back to anchor off the Old Mole, and there were her lodgings up behind the long fortifications, overlooking the bay, and Maddalena standing on her balcony to wave a tea towel or a scarf in greeting as Sapphire ghosted into port, barely hundreds of yards away. If she had removed, he only hoped that Mountjoy had arranged lodgings in the planned and gridded streets of the Baixa district; anything further uphill was an incomprehensible rat’s maze of twisting, narrow streets, and too steep a hike for a sailor’s legs! Some rented rooms on the flat land round the Praça do Comércio would be best of all, he reckoned; there trees, gardens, and parks!
For now, though …
“Yards are squared, sir,” Bosun Terrell reported.
“Ship is securely anchored bow and stern, sir,” Lt. Harcourt, the watch officer, announced, “six fathom depth, with five-to-one scope.”
“Boat’s returning from the stores ship, sir,” Lt. Westcott told him, “with mail, I hope. And Bisquit badly needs a bath.”
“Oh, that’ll be jolly,” Lewrie replied, casting an eye on the ship’s dog, who sat and panted, giving Westcott a brief, wary look at the mention of “bath”. At least at sea, once bathed, there were no mud puddles or dusty spaces for him to roll in to get his accustomed scent back. “Once we’ve fresh water aboard, see that some of the ship’s boys take care of that.”
“Boat ahoy!” Midshipman Chenery shouted to the approaching cutter.
“Returnin’!” came the answering hail, and everyone leaned out eagerly for signs of sacks of mail, and news from home. Lewrie was just as eager, and smiled with delight to spot one very full canvas sack next to the boat’s cox’n.
“Yes, by God!” he whispered.
* * *
Everything was ready for the morning. His reports to Admiralty were completed and wax-sealed, the registries and manifests from Sapphire’s most recent prizes were sorted in order and ready for presentation to the Prize-Court; he and the other squadron captains would go as a group. Lewrie’s washing bundle sat ready to be dumped into his boat, though at present Chalky lay sprawled atop it, snoozing. Lewrie’s out-going letters, written in the idle hours at sea, were ready to be sent off to the British Post Office. And lastly, his shopping list of personal needs and desires had been handed over to the Ship’s Purser, Mr. Cadrick, along with a purse of solid coin.
Lewrie had another shopping list that he would carry ashore himself, though most of the next day would be taken up with official duties, and a visit to Thomas Mountjoy’s offices. As much as he wished that he could dash off to find Maddalena, first thing, there was too much to see to, just as there had been too much that had needed doing aboard ship before sundown. Awnings had to be rigged, some running rigging spliced or replaced, fresh water fetched off the quays or the barges to fill her novel iron tanks, and fresh meat and baked bread taken aboard, along with lashings of fruit and vegetables to give the crew a welcome break from salt-meat junk and oak-hard issue bisquit.
So, it was with a satisfied sigh of completion that Lewrie could at last sit on the padded cushions of the transom lazarette lockers and savour the sunset that painted the mouth of the Tagus, and the Atlantic, with tinges of roses. The upper halves of the transom sash windows were open, as were the windows in the quarter-galleries, and the glazed wooden door to the stern gallery was open to let a light, cooling breeze into the cabins. The string-mesh screen door was in place, though, so Chalky did not get out to the gallery and tumble off the railings in his pursuit of a bird.
He had a pint piggin of his lemoned and sugared cool tea in one hand and the first of his official letters in the other, now that he had the time to open and read his mail which Pettus and his clerk, Faulkes, had sorted out earlier.
“Bilgewater, bilgewater,” Lewrie scoffed as he quickly went from one to the next, “more bilgewater … aha, Notice to Mariners entering or leaving Galway … and etcetera and etcetera reeking dead rat bilgewater!”
Well, he might file that’un away in the chart space off the quarterdeck; calling at Galway might come to pass … someday.
Wish somebody’d send me some newspapers, he thought, starved for word of what was acting in the world. Newspapers were high on his personal shopping list, but they would have to wait ’til the morrow. Maybe I can cadge some free’uns off Mountjoy.
“Oh, just damn my eyes!” he burst forth after opening one from his London solicitor. “Mine arse on a band-box!”
On-passage to Gibraltar two years before, escorting a small troop convoy along with an old friend’s smaller frigate, they had been intercepted by two French corvettes who had mistaken all the ships for merchantmen. One corvette had been taken, the other had managed to scamper off, and the Prize-Court was still wrangling over the division of spoils, for the very good reason that the troopers’ masters and crews had declared that they’d been ordered to hoist the Blue Ensign and pretend to be National Ships, so they had earned a share. The soldiers, too, posing suddenly at the rails to pretend to be Marines, and overawe the French, had laid claim to the prize-money, too, since Army troops had, in past, been posted aboard warships in lieu of Royal Marines! His solicitor, Matthew Mountjoy and kin to the local spymaster, advised that the fees their hired Advocate charged to argue Sapphire’s case had now risen to the sum of £185, with no end in sight, and Mountjoy had taken t
he liberty of dipping into Lewrie’s London account with Coutts’ Bank to pay him.
Lewrie tossed that letter to the deck, feeling a sudden need for a large measure of his American bourbon whisky!
The next official letter, from the Prize-Court at Gibraltar, he was almost afraid to read.
He had taken a pair of lateen-rigged feluccas that the Spanish garrison at the massive fortress of Ceuta had been using to feed its soldiers, following them from the Moroecan entrepôt of Tetuán in the night. Then, using those two as subterfuges, he’d raided the docks at Ceuta, right under those hundreds of cannon, and had cut out another pair, setting fire to the rest, and putting an end to fresh food for their re-enforced gunners and soldiers.
The feluccas had been exceedingly shabby, badly maintained, and filthy, so Lewrie wasn’t expecting much from the Prize-Court. He was mildly surprised to read that they had been bought up rather quickly by local Gibraltarian merchants, and had fetched the sum of £6,800. It was not all that much, but it would be welcome to his officers and crew.
His share was two-eighths, with nothing owing to a senior flag officer, since Sapphire had been sailing under Independent Orders at the time; an additional two-eighths would go to his officers, petty officers, and four-eighths to the sailors, non-commissioned Marines, and Marine privates, right down to the ship’s boys.
“Pity they changed the rules,” he muttered under his breath, longing for the old days before 1808, when the captain’s share was three-eighths. “Now, what about the frigates? Ah.”
Their last raid with a hired transport to carry two companies of soldiers in addition to his Marine complement and an equal-sized party of armed seamen had been interrupted before the troops could be landed by the appearance of two big Spanish frigates, 38-gunners, and sister ships, as alike as two peas in a pod, the San Pablo and the San Pedro. Fine ships, but badly handled and their guns just as badly served after idling at anchor at Cartagena or Barcelona far too long. Lewrie had sent his transport haring for Gibraltar, had clawed Sapphire up to windward of the pair, and had forced them to pursue so he could engage them one at a time. One had been so badly mauled that she had sunk with appalling loss of life; the other had taken so much damage from Sapphire’s lower deck 24-pounders and carronades that she had finally struck her colours.
Two years, now, since he’d fetched the survivor into harbour, and the Court was finally issuing its judgement?
Trusting that the number of guns in the surviving frigate’s armament, and the number of men aboard her when she set sail, represented the true numbers for the frigate which sank, we have determined in the case of the San Pedro frigate that she had aboard a total of 325 officers, naval infantry, and sailors, and was armed with 28 18-pounders, two 12-pounders, and eight 9-pounders at the time of her sinking, resulting in a sum in Head & Gun Money the value of £1,815.
Lewrie rose and went to his desk to do his own sums; £1,700 from the feluccas, and roughly £453 and 15 shillings for the sunken frigate for him.
Unfortunately, sir, in regards to the San Pablo frigate which you brought in to Gibraltar for judgement …
“What the bloody Hell d’they mean, ‘unfortunately’?” Lewrie growled, on his guard like a hound with its fur stood on end. He had a damned dim view of Prize-Courts and their venal officials, already, and was firmly convinced that those wretched weasels’ corruption could make the crookedest Purser appear a saint in comparison.
… lay in-ordinary for almost two years, her condition deteriorating and her severe damage, inflicted in her taking, only partially repaired due to the needs of our own ships at H.M. Dockyards, Gibraltar, until Spain abandoned her alliance with France and became an ally of Great Britain. At that point, it was determined the San Pablo should be fully restored and returned to Spanish service as a gesture of good will. Following a Foreign Office request, it was determined that the prize would be declared Droits of The Crown, not Droits of Admiralty. Accordingly, the value of the prize due to HMS Sapphire can only be Head & Gun Money for her taking, amounting to another £1,815 …
“You bloody, fucking thieves!” Lewrie roared. “Pettus! Whisky! A full bumper … now! Droits of the damned … Mine arse on a band-box!”
“Something amiss, sir?” Pettus dared ask as he went to the wine cabinet to fetch out the stone crock of whisky.
“We’ve been robbed, coshed on the head, purses stolen, and our pockets turned out,” Lewrie fumed. “Damn the Prize-Court! Damn their blood, ev’ry one of ’em!”
He got his whisky and tossed back a large swig, grimacing as the bourbon stung all the way down from his gums to his gut, still pacing the cabins ready to lash out, or kick furniture. If he sat, he would end up becoming so enraged that he could gleefully strangle someone.
It took half the bumper to calm him down, when he could trust himself to throw himself into his desk chair and grumble. Once more he scribbled with a pencil. The sums were pitiful.
What o’ my people? What do I tell those poor buggers? Sorry, but ye’ve been robbed by your own government?
And what would it do to the morale of his crew, he wondered.
Fame, glory, high adventure, and lashings of prize-money were not the things that sprang to mind in connexion to a slow, plodding two-decker like Sapphire; one had to volunteer aboard a frigate for those, those swift greyhounds of the ocean.
If he had taken command of Sapphire fresh from the graving docks, even with his repute in the Fleet as a fighting Captain, he doubted if he could have recruited a quarter of the hands needed to take her out beyond a breakwater.
No, he’d gotten command by default in the middle of an active commission when her former Captain and First Lieutenant had fought a duel for some damn-fool reason or another, and ended up wounding each other … physically and in their careers. He had read himself in to a chary crew who imagined that they would continue their un-ending dull convoying in the North Sea and the Baltic, with never a chance for the thrill of the chase, a fight, or any excitement whatsoever.
He’d promised them, though, that first morning, that he would seek out opportunities to make Sapphire a true fighting ship. And, he had done so. There was a swagger to them, now, pride in their ship, pride in themselves and what they had accomplished with such a slow barge, able to boast when on shore liberty of their battles, their raids, and their gunnery.
They knew that there was prize-money due them, and those who could do sums would spin fantasies of how much that might be, already spending it, sending money home to their families, starting businesses once out of the Navy … in their minds, anyway.
Now this slap in the face! Oh, there was some prize-money, but it wouldn’t be in their hands ’til Sapphire paid off, perhaps one or two years later, and all they would have would be chits, not real money, even then.
He tried figuring out how much each sailor, ship’s boy, and private Marine would get, but he tossed his pencil down in frustration; it was just too depressing to contemplate. He heaved a sigh, imagining how sullen they might turn, how many times people would be at the gratings for insubordination, fighting, drunk on duty, and how many might feel so cheated that they would try to desert!
What, fourteen pounds and a bit, for all they’ve done? Lewrie thought, taking another deep sip of his whisky; That’s pathetic, not even a whole year’s extra pay for each man and boy.
Still, he considered, looking for any scrap of cheer, the last two cruises along the Northern Spanish coast had resulted in quite a few captures, mainly small vessels, but they were full to the deckheads with military stores, weapons, ammunition, all of which was more than welcome when dispensed to the Spanish and Portuguese armies. Their contents would sell quickly, and the ships themselves might go for at least £5,000 apiece.
That must cheer ’em up! Lewrie hoped to himself.
He drained the last sips of his whisky, rose from his desk, and retrieved his abandoned cool tea, then idly shuffled through his personal mail which was always read last. Father, brot
her-in-law, Governour, brother-in-law Burgess, nothing from his eldest son, Sewallis, which in itself was troubling; he hadn’t written in some time.
Lewrie was sure that his father, Sir Hugo, would be passably amusing to read. He was equally sure that Governour’s letter would be pressing him to consent to sending his spiteful daughter, Charlotte, to London for a “buttock-brokering” Season, or full of his boasts over his elevation in rural Anglesgreen’s society.
There was a letter from Percy Stangbourne, and he contemplated opening that one, but another caught his eye.
“Hello?” he muttered. “Jessica Chenery? What more does she have t’write me about?”
“Light the lanthorns an’ glims, sir?” Jessop asked, drawing Lewrie’s attention to the fact that it was almost fully dark by then.
“Aye, admire it if ye would,” Lewrie said off-handedly as he broke the seal of her letter and spread it out. There were two pages, written front and back, contained in a larger outer sheet of heavier paper, which he found was a remarkably accurate sketch of his own likeness.
Hmm, rather … idealised, ain’t it? he thought, grinning; I was only in her presence, what, half an hour? Damned quick study, done from memory!
Please allow me to offer you this humble effort to make Amends for how icily I behaved towards you when you came to gather Charlie up and bear him away to a dangerous career in the Navy. While I, father, and the rest of our family continue to pray for his good Health and Safety, quite understandibly, his latest letters have greatly eased our minds upon his choice. Indeed, he regales us with tales of how Adventurous his time under your command has been, how many Grand things he has done and seen, so far, and how Merry are his Mess-mates, for the most part.
The young lady had a fine and legible copperplate hand, and he was impressed by how easily and fluidly she expressed herself, framing her sentences as if conversing face-to-face.
Miss Chenery described what a fine Spring had come to London, except for an excess of rain, and perkily told of how she had to don pattens to do her shopping, errands, and calls upon potential clients for her portraits, elevating herself, and the hems of her gowns and cloak above the mud, ordure, and the wet, making her feel as if she clomped about on iron stilts like a performer in a raree show. She’d gained a commission for a portrait from a prominent Bond Street merchant just recently, and had been approached by a book printer to do the illustrations for a childrens’ book.
A Hard, Cruel Shore Page 22
