The “lot” who shared the approximation of a wardroom aboard a proper warship were the Ascot’s First and Second Mates, and officers of the 34th. Lt. Thatcher did the introductions. A Captain Veasey was the senior officer of the regiment, and another Army officer, Captain Chadfield.
“Rarin’ t’go and have at the Dutchies, I say!” Captain Veasey hoorawed as Lewrie shed his hat and cloak and took a seat at the table. “All this idlin’ in the holds are bad for our mounts, and rough on our troopers, too, d’ye see. It’s taken two years t’make proper mounts and it’d be a cryin’ shame do we lose some on the voyage. Your trained cavalry horse is worth half a dozen regular prads, even blooded hunters. Horridly dear investment.”
Captain Veasey was more than happy to prose on, relating that there were two troops of cavalry aboard Ascot, one of the four squadrons that made up the regiment, with eighty troopers and horses for each troop, plus Lieutenants, Cornets, non-commissioned Sergeants and Corporals, farriers, blacksmiths, and trumpeters. Naturally, there were more horses aboard Marigold and Sweet Susan, for no officer of the British Army could go to war without his string of extra mounts; even the junior-most Cornets’ parents had bought them at least three. Each transport carried around ninety horses, altogether.
Belowdecks on Ascot, Lt. Thatcher stuck in when Veasey ran out of air, there were fewer than 160 troopers, for someone had to feed and tend to the horses and muck out the narrow stalls daily. Detachments of ten troopers under Lieutenants and a Sergeant had been sent to the other ships … damned if the merchant sailors would do it!
“A large risk of fire, though, sir,” Thatcher cautioned. “The horses are grain-fed, but the bales of hay, and the straw put down in the stalls … brr!”
Lewrie got a brief tour of the troopers’ quarters belowdecks, a series of cabins where bored and irritable soldiers tried to find ways to amuse themselves. They were issued hammocks to sleep sailor-style, but had to store them in the stanchions and nettings during the day, leaving them little comfort before dark. Many napped under and atop the rough wood mess tables, or on the hard decks.
“They’ll tear the partitions down for more room, you wait and see, Captain Lewrie,” Lt. Thatcher gloomed once they were back on deck and in much fresher air; un-washed bodies, wet wool, farts, and other un-identifiable reeks had almost made Lewrie gag. Without access to their horses, the troopers would face weeks at sea with nothing to do except dis-mounted weapons drill and “square-bashing” foot drill, and perhaps some five firing at floating targets with their short Paget carbines. Rather neat weapons, Lewrie thought, with their ramrods permanently attached on a chain and swivel so they could not be lost when one tried to re-load on horseback … if such was even possible.
Ascot was about 250 tons’ burthen, the other two about 200 tons, all of them coppered below the waterline, so all were hired on for nineteen shillings per ton; un-coppered ships were paid from fifteen to seventeen shillings per ton, and contracted for six months’ service, though that could be extended. If that became necessary, Lt. Thatcher could issue Transport Board chits to extend the contracts, on his own authority, and risk.
“A rum business, this, Captain Lewrie,” Lt. Thatcher sourly said as he pointed up at his blue pendant. “The Board names me Agent Afloat, and gives me the semblance of a Commodore, but I’m little more than a baulk of ‘live lumber’, a mere passenger! I can gather them in, order them when to sail, and to where, but beyond that, I have no say in how any of the ships are run, or handled, and civilian merchant masters are a tetchy lot, and damn the Navy, they’ll do things their way and ignore any suggestions from me! God forbid I try to give them orders!
“You’d not have a sickly officer, would you, Captain Lewrie?” Lt. Thatcher asked, only partly in jest. “But for this bad leg of mine I’d still be aboard a warship. I was Third Officer into a frigate when a gun burst and put a hunk of iron into me. Three months in Haslar Hospital, then a year on half-pay, well … wasn’t even in action, but at drill!”
“All my Lieutenants are very healthy, sorry, Mister Thatcher,” Lewrie had to tell him, with genuine sympathy.
“Ah, well then,” Thatcher said with a sigh. “Do you still wish to see one of the horse transports?”
“Aye, I do, if it’s no imposition,” Lewrie said.
* * *
True to his promise, Lewrie was back aboard Reliant before Noon, just as “Clear Decks And Up Spirits” was being piped and the rum keg was being carried to the forecastle. The welcome ritual was halted for a moment to salute Lewrie back aboard. He lifted his sodden hat from his streaming-wet hair, and made a quick way down the ladderway to the waist, and the door to his great-cabins, shooing off the ship’s dog, Bisquit, whose fur was just as wet, and shaking showers of rain from his hair every now and then.
“Good luck with those,” Lewrie told Pettus as his cabin-steward took his hat and cloak. “You could get a bowl o’ wash water from ’em, do ye let ’em drip long enough. So long as ye don’t mind blue water.”
“I expect they have bled as much dye as they ever will, sir,” Pettus speculated as he hung them up on pegs. “Might you relish a cup of hot tea, sir? I’ve some on the warming stand.”
“Aye, with milk, sugar, and a dollop o’ rum,” Lewrie decided. “A large dollop.”
“Coming right up, sir,” Pettus said, pausing to fetch Lewrie a dry towel for his hair and face.
His cats, Toulon and Chalky, had been napping at either end of the starboard-side settee, but came dashing with their tails vertical to greet him. They found his boots intriguing, and sniffed about them, posing their mouths open to savour the aromas like little lions.
“I hate t’ask it of ye, Pettus, but I seem t’ve trod in horse droppings. Got the most of it off, but…,” Lewrie said with a hapless shrug.
“I’ll see to them, sir. Jessop? The Captain’s boots need a cleaning,” Pettus promised, then shared a secret smile with Lewrie as he passed that onus to the cabin boy.
After changing to an older pair of buckled shoes, Lewrie sat at his desk and scribbled out a set of orders for Lt. Thatcher and the masters of the transports, outlining the signal flags he would be hoisting during the day, and the blue-fire rockets he would launch at night when it was necessary to alert them, or keep them in close order. He tried to keep it simple, given his last chaotic experience of escorting a huge “sugar trade” convoy from the West Indies in 1804. Even if Admiralty was paying them to sail together and trust their escort, merchant masters were indeed an un-cooperative and tetchy lot.
It was hard going, for Toulon and Chalky always found delight in interfering with people that ignored them when at a chore. First it was his oldest cat, Toulon, who would hop into his lap then atop the desk, there to sniff, swat at the steel-nib pen, and squat on the paper. Just after he was shooed off, it was Chalky’s turn to leap up and flop onto one side, then wriggle with his paws in the air for his belly to be tickled.
“Oh, for God’s sake, why’d I ever think that cats make good companions,” Lewrie growled. “There. Satisfied?” he asked as he rubbed Chalky’s belly for a second or two. No, he was not, for he flipped on his side once more and began to snatch at the pen with both paws. Then it was time for Toulon to return and flop and wave for “wubbies”. The requested tea showed up, and that required inspection and more sniffs.
“First Off’cer, SAH!” the Marine sentry announced.
“Enter!” Lewrie bawled back, beyond frustrated, by then.
Lt. Geoffrey Westcott came in and approached the desk, a touch warily, taking a cue from Lewrie’s tone.
“Rescue me, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie demanded. “Take a cat. I can only deal with one at a time.”
“Here, Chalky,” Westcott said, grinning. “Come nip a finger.”
He sat down in a chair before the desk and lifted the younger cat into his lap, which made Chalky flatten his ears, leap down, and run off to the dining coach to sit and furiously groom, insulted beyond all measure.
“How are our brethren in the Army, sir?” Westcott asked.
“Eager t’win their spurs, and gallop through the entire Dutch army,” Lewrie said sarcastically. “Cavalry, by God! I met some of the officers, and I swear they’re as dense as roundshot. Yoicks, tally-ho. The Thirty-fourth was raised round Shaftesbury—”
“I’ve friends from Shaftesbury,” Westcott said with a knowing nod, and a brief, feral grin, “though none of them are dull enough for cavalry.”
“Their Colonel, Laird, raised and paid for them himself,” Lewrie went on, “designed their uniforms, armed them with old-style straight Heavy Dragoon swords and Paget carbines, like Viscount Percy did his regiment. But, I doubt there’s a professional soldier among ’em, from the horse-coper to the top. Must’ve made some of his money back from sellin’ officers’ commissions.”
“Well, all we have to do is get them there, and after that, it will be up to whichever General appointed,” Westcott said.
“I was in the middle of tryin’ t’write orders to the transports’ masters, but for the cats,” Lewrie told his First Officer. “We will up-anchor in the morning, at the start of the Forenoon, and fall down to Saint Helen’s Patch. If there’s a good wind, we’ll stand on, but if there’s not, we’ll come to anchor and wait for one. Warn the others to arrange their last-minute necessities from shore, and make sure the Purser knows.”
“Mister Cadbury believes he has everything in hand, but for one or two bullocks for fresh meat, the first few days at sea, sir,” Westcott replied with a shrug. “And the wardroom’s needs are met.”
“Before I have Faulkes make fair copies, I wonder if you would aid me in draughting the orders … see if there’s anything I might miss,” Lewrie asked, shoving the papers towards Westcott, and brushing Toulon to one side of the desk with his arm. Toulon flopped on top of his arm to weigh him down and began to rumble.
“Happy to oblige, sir,” Westcott agreed.
“Tea, with some rum, sir?” Pettus offered.
“Sounds delightful, thank you, Pettus,” Westcott perked up.
“And a second cup for me,” Lewrie added.
“Hmm,” Westcott mused after going over the first two sheets of paper. “I do wonder, sir, if we have to signal changes of course, subject to the weather. It’s not as if they’ll just plod along astern of us and follow our every move.…”
* * *
The orders were thrashed out by half-past Noon, and Westcott departed. Faulkes got to copying, and Lewrie’s mid-day meal arrived, a hearty chicken and rice soup, a middling-sized grilled beef steak with hashed potatoes and some of the black-eyed peas purchased in Savannah in the Spring, brought to spicy life with Yeovill’s stash of sauces, accompanied by brown bread and butter, and a decent claret.
The cats got their own shredded beef, spare rice, and hashed potatoes gravied with dollops of chicken soup in their bowls at the foot of the table, after making a great, adoring fuss over Yeovill when he entered and served out their shares. They came to nuzzle and rub on Lewrie once Pettus cleared his plate, then made for the settee for a long afternoon nap.
Faulkes brought the copies for Lewrie to look over, then folded them and sealed them for one of the Midshipmen to deliver. Whichever one it was, he would be getting wet, for the rain continued, heavier and steadier, and looked as if it would continue all through the afternoon and night.
Lewrie poured himself a fresh cup of tea, minus rum, from the sideboard, and went back to his desk. At last, he could look over his personal mail and respond to some of it. There were some bills from a London shop or two, for which he wrote out notes-of-hand to be redeemed at his solicitor’s, Mr. Matthew Mountjoy. There was one from Peter Rushton, an old school friend from his brief stint at Harrow before being expelled for arson … not only expelled but banned from the grounds forevermore, upon risk of arrest! That’un would be newsy and chatty!
And, there was one from Lydia.
“Oh, Lord,” Lewrie muttered half to himself, feeling wistful and anxious at the same time, turning the sealed letter round in his hands before breaking the wax seal to unfold and read it.
Once Reliant had been turned over to the civilian yard, he had gotten a week in London, lodging at the Madeira Club again, coaching to the West End to call upon her. They had courted!
Paying suit to Lydia had involved a nightly round of going out, to dine at the fashionable clubs like White’s, Boodle’s, Almack’s, and the Cocoa-Tree, seeing the latest plays in the Covent Garden theatres, and, on a sudden whim, going to Plumb’s Comedic Revue in Drury Lane to see the show of that false Sir Pulteney Plumb (only overseas did he claim that title) and his French wife who had been a chorus girl with the Comédie-Française in Paris. It was their quick-change costuming and theatrical talents that had spirited Lewrie and his late wife, Caroline, from Paris to Calais in a variety of wigs, clothes, makeup, and guises, escaping the clutches of Bonaparte’s police agents who’d been set to assassinate them. It had not been the Plumbs’ fault that Caroline had been shot and slain with a bullet meant for him, and he found that their show, with the clowns and scantily-dressed dancing girls as entr’actes, was quite enjoyable and highly amusing.
There were art shows to see at Ranelagh Gardens, subscription balls where anyone could purchase tickets and dance without anyone looking down their noses at Lydia. There were symphonies to attend, and concerts, and music halls where rowdier tunes could be heard.
Eudoxia was down from the country and Lydia’s brother Percy was up from his cavalry regiment stationed to guard the coast in Kent, so they attended most events as a foursome. They were almost cloying in their turtledove and open mutual affection; they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and spent a lot of time gazing into each other’s eyes and laughing over things that passed between them silently and unknown to anyone else. All in all, they were highly amusing, even when Eudoxia took Percy sweetly to task when they entered the Long Rooms at the clubs to do some light gambling; seeing her watch him like a hawk would a field mouse to dissuade him from wagering too deeply.
They dined in at the Stangbournes’ Grosvenor Street house, and entertained themselves at cards or music. From her time as an ingénue actress and singer with Daniel Wigmore’s Peripatetic Extravaganza, a combination circus-theatrical troupe-menagerie touring group, Eudoxia could sing well, though Lewrie discovered that Lydia could not, despite tutoring by the most accomplished musicians throughout her girlhood. She wasn’t all that good at the harpsichord or new-fangled piano forte, either. Percy could fiddle away like mad, effortlessly, and Lewrie had fetched along his penny-whistle and had been pronounced “not all that bad”, but, poor Lydia … she adored music, from simple country airs to Haydn, Handel, and Mozart, but was grieved that she would be forever denied the ability to play.
Well, at least she loves t’dance, and does that well, Lewrie reminisced. Lydia might wear her bored, languid, and imperious face at the slower, more formal dances, but could turn girlish, bouncing, and almost whoop with delight doing the faster country dances.
Being a foursome, all in all, though, hardly ever just the two of them together, had turned the courting into a guardedly celibate affair. They had embraced, kissed, panted, yearned (Oh, how Lewrie had yearned!), but they had not had those promised nights at Willis’s Rooms or any other clandestine lodgings. Riding in the parks, shopping for civilian clothes for him, new books to read on-passage (none of those salacious, for a change, either!), it was all so very public!
“Wooing,” he muttered. “What a horrid-sounding word. Woo. Woo woo. Woo hoo.”
Lewrie hadn’t wooed any girl or woman, or couldn’t recall doing so since he was breeched! Flirting with a single aim was a different kettle of fish, and he’d been good at that since his father, Sir Hugo, had gifted him with his first dozen cundums, and cited the sage advice of Lord Chesterfield that “pleasure is now, and ought to be your business”, a motto that the both of them had followed.
It was not so much t
he frustration and denial that bothered him, but the sheer novelty of a seeming chastity that had him bemused and all-a’mort. Oh, he liked Lydia Stangbourne, and not merely because she had struck him as un-conventional from the first instance, and an obliging lover in the second; not because she came from a wealthy family, either. As he had told her early on, he was comfortable, and didn’t have any designs upon her share of the Stangbourne fortune, nor in any need of her standing dowry of £2,000. Stung as she’d been by her first, brutal marriage, and the scandal of Divorcement, she had liked him for not trying to win her hand, and Lewrie, in turn, had liked her for how they could play lovers without a hint of commitment.
Now, though … after a week and a bit of just being together at innocent pursuits … he felt … what?
Well, just damn my eyes if I ain’t growin’ fond of her! Lewrie realised with a wrench; Christ, I do b’lieve I even miss her! What has the world come to?
The touch of her hand, the scent of her hair, the merry, adoring glints in her dark emerald-green eyes, the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed at something, or one of his jests. An odd nose, too, a tad too wide front-on, but almost Irish and wee in profile, and the recollection of that made Lewrie smile in pleasant reverie.
My dearest Alan,
I certainly do not wish for you to feel as if our brief Time together in London was to put you on Trial, for that was the farthest thing from my mind.
Words cannot express, however, the utmost Joy your Patience gave me. Your Jests, your Gallantries, your Good Humour in tolerating my Reticence has endeared you to me beyond all Measure, beyond any Fears which I previously held. I have been shamefully out of Temperance over our star-crossed attempts to see each other, and did not intend to behave so stand-offishly, but, with Percy and Eudoxia in Town, I could discover not the slightest Opportunity to show you how warm is my Heart towards you, or how ardent is my Passion, and I beg you to forgive my Foolishness.
Hostile Shores Page 14
