Troubled Waters l-14

by Dewey Lambdin

  "I am, sir," his clerk, Padgett, spoke up from a far corner by the chart-space.

  "Copies of the rocket signals for each captain, and every officer of Marines, before we adjourn, do ye please, Mister Padgett," Lewrie instructed. "Well, gentlemen, if no one has any questions… no? How about comments?"

  "Wish we were cross the river, sir, with the asault on the fort, and all," Lt. Noble wistfully said in the sudden silence. "Theirs the greater honour, what?"

  "I trust there will be enough honour and glory available to all, sir," Lewrie replied with a grin. "Speaking of… might be best, does Commodore Ayscough know our signals, so, should the French have armed vessels up-river, Chesterfield, Lyme, and the 'liners' can come to our assistance with their guns, once they've silenced Fort Saint Georges."

  "I shall see to it, sir," Padgett told him, reaching into the chart-space for a fresh sheet of paper, but recoiling quickly, as soon as he'd gotten hold of it, for Toulon and Chalky, shy of such a noisy gathering, had taken shelter in the shelves 'tween books, and were of a territorial mood, ready to claw and hiss at anything that threatened to enter their refuge.

  "See to it, Captain," Lt. Urquhart also promised, though it was going to be a foul and wet row over to Ayscough's flagship; perhaps he would send a Midshipman, and save his clothing. At any rate, Urquhart looked restless and pleased, for he would be leading Savage's, armed seamen onto the beach, with Marine Lieutenant Devereux his second.

  "Uhm, I do find a bit of oddness to this, though, Captain Lewrie… the timing of our assault, in broad daylight," Lt. Ford commented as he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, "and our beginning a bit before the other operations, sir."

  "Marching distances, Mister Ford," Lewrie told him, tipping him a wink. "Dawn, the traditional time for an attack, rises, and our foes see us deep into the estuary, in strength. We're not doing anything to threaten them, anchored as we are. 'Sacre bleu,' and other such words of consternation, hey? Then, word comes by galloper that more warships are off the Cote Sauvage, blazin' away like Billy-Oh, puttin' down an armada of rowing boats… where probes were recently made, French soldiers were killed, and guns smashed, and their defences still aren't sufficient. From those beaches, perhaps a brigade, perhaps an entire division, could march on La Tremblade, Marennes, or Rochefort. Hour or so later, after they've committed forces to re-enforce the few troops they have there,… at the double-quick with their tongues lollin' out, and the troops from Royan sent off, too, they find out that we 're the real threat, soon as we up-anchor, and it's too late to march all those fellows back in time to counter us.

  "I thought of launchin' things t'other way round, but it would take too long for Commodore Ayscough's force to sail in as far as the town of Royan, and what they might have despatched to the coast up here to the Nor'west could have time t'march back," Lewrie explained, with a wave of his hand over the chart towards the Cote Sauvage. "This way, we show them what they expect t'see, and get their pockets picked… as I did in London by a girl by name of 'Three-handed Jenny.'"

  "So, all that's wanting is a spell of good weather, sir?" Hogue asked, looking as if he wanted to go back aboard Mischief, now that the plan had been thoroughly laid out.

  "Yes, and pray God that's soon, before we roll our guts out on this half-gale," Lewrie agreed. "So, gentlemen… as my Cox'n and my cabin servant serve out glasses, I'd like to propose a toast to success to our landings… and, confusion to the French, of course, for this will be the last get-together before Lord Boxham deems the weather suitable.

  "And, since I cannot dine you all in as I most certainly should, given the size of my cabins… and the state of my purse," Lewrie went on, tongue in cheek "which a barrister in London seems to have seized… allow me to offer you all a stand-up meal… such as you would see at a drum or rout at home… minus the musicians, sorry t'say…'less I could borrow Commodore Ayscough's bagpipers…? "We have the makings for hearty sandwiches, though… or, as my man, Aspinall, always tells me, should be-called 'Shrewsburys,' since it seems that worthy called for sliced tongue and bread, whilst Lord Sandwich was too intent on a losing hand to enjoy eating? "

  Each statement brought a slightly bigger chuckle, then a laugh.

  "Do not, though, sirs, be entreated into slipping my cats a bit on the sly," Lewrie cautioned, "for the little buggers are already well fed, as fat as badgers, and, as my clerk, Mister Padgett yonder, may attest, they'll only go for yer fingers, after."

  The charts were rolled up, the slivers of wood discarded, and a brace of seamen from Lewrie's boat crew brought in heaping platters of sliced roast beef or ham, pots of mustard or fresh-whipped sauce a la mayonnaise, with a large stone jar of gherkins in vinegar, roasted potatoes sliced in half and sprinkled with bacon and cheese, and day-old loaves of bread, fat baguettes already quartered and ready for piling on ingredients. Jams, jellies, and apple turnovers occupied another platter, and, for the abstemious after the toast, Aspinall's blackened gallon pot of coffee.

  "To us, sirs," Lewrie said, raising high his glass of Pomerol, "none like us, in the whole wide world. Success when the day comes."

  "And, confusion to the French!" Commander Hogue completed, and, with fierce growls of agreement and a "Huzzah" or two, they tipped the wine back and drank it down to "heel-taps."

  Those few officers who been seated round the dining table were forced to rise and queue up, by seniority, to get at the food laid upon it, Kenyon included. With a loud scraping of his chair on the canvas deck chequer, and a ponderous old man's shuffling, he slipped back, his buttocks brushing hard on the sideboard, almost stumbling. His face was no ruddier that it had appeared when he was seated, and his long, thin, combed-across hair looked even wispier and more pathetic. Kenyon made his way to Cox'n Desmond, who was refreshing glasses, poured one down his gullet, and demanded a top-up before he wandered away from the victuals.

  Kenyon stopped and peered at Lewrie, who had retreated aft to his day-cabin's desk for a moment to stow the charts away, and Lewrie saw his slit-set eyes, and the nigh-lipless hardness of his expression, as if Kenyon had bit into a sour citron.

  "Sorry I could not seat a round dozen, but…," Lewrie said with a shrug of apology; he meant to be civil.

  "It is of no matter to me, Lewrie," Kenyon grumbled.

  "Come aft, sir," Lewrie replied, making it a firm and whispered order. "There's fresher air by the transom windows. You are firm in your understanding of your role, Commander Kenyon? When the time comes, that is?"

  "Of course I am… sir," Kenyon remembered to add. "I must hope that you will play your part… as you did before."

  There it was again, that slightly lop-sided, mocking half-smile, which was so irksome! Why can't 7just knock him silly? Lewrie thought.

  "Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on the day," Lewrie tried to jape off, "as our Yankee Doodle cousins say of eager readiness. Your part is most important, 'til I may land the powder kegs for demolition, and cover the landing-parties with fire."

  "As you did for me, sir? Well, I'm sure you will fulfill that task… elegantly!" Kenyon answered with a soft voice for only them, but his mouth screwing up his smirk into a sour and resentful rictus.

  "Your First Officer didn't have t'go right into the surf, and I ordered a play at landing on the beach,… sir!" Lewrie snapped back at him in an equally soft, but harsh, tone. "The Frogs waited us out too long, and you lost some hands, and for that I'm sorry, but, was I given the task again, I'd do it the same way… with you, or Hogue, Bartoe, or whoever was handy! Despite your long-standing grudge with me, that is, or should be, put aside so we may do our duty. Sober… flinty-eyed… duty, sir!" Lewrie pointed out, noting that Kenyon's glass was suddenly empty, and could not recall him sipping at it that quickly.

  At last, Kenyon's face took on a healthy colour, though it was more suffused with stifled rage than a sudden healing. He puffed up, almost a'tiptoe, as if he wished to strike out with his fists.

  "Those men you cost me, Lewrie…!
" he gravelled in a rasping rattle in his throat, "my brave, fine lads… you…!" And he almost teared up, making Lewrie feel embarrassed to see such a display of emotion; like watching a proud steed expire on a fence post, one wished to look away, but it was too lurid not to watch. "Been with me for years, some of them, so promising, so lively and… and…"

  "Pretty?" Lewrie snapped, and Kenyon recoiled, deflating into his loose uniform coat as if he was a petty thief nabbed in the taking of a silk handkerchief.

  "How dare you, Lewrie, I…!"

  "I-will-not-warn-you-again, Commander Kenyon," Lewrie measured out in heat, "you say Captain Lewrie, or sir when you address me. And-you-will-do-so-with-the-proper-deference. Hear me, sir? I have never made mention of your particular… proclivities, but…! Do ye fail me in your part of our coming assault, by God I will! You've already sent the Commodore a letter of complaint, you were the one who said a grudge lay between us… that I sent you inshore to spite you, and I do believe that Ayscough… or a board of five Post-Captains, may see who it is acted from spite."

  Five Post-Captains was the minimum number required for a court-martial on a foreign station, or at sea in foreign waters.

  "All I ask of you is to do your duty, Commander," Lewrie hissed, suddenly weary of the fellow. "Chearly, promptly, and whole-heartedly as an Able-rated man o' war's man. I hold no grudge, or spite, against you. I put you out of mind, years ago. But, do you continue in your obstreperous, uncooperative, and sulky fashion…," Lewrie warned.

  Enough was said, and Kenyon, once again, realised that he'd gone too far; the first time months before when he was in drink, and now in anger. "I will take my leave, sir," Kenyon said 'tween gritted teeth, pointedly setting aside his empty glass.

  "I will see that Lieutenant Noble and your First Officer-Mister Cottle, is it?-are provided a boat back to Erato. No need to deprive them of a meal, is there, Commander Kenyon?"

  "Course not, sir," Kenyon said with a grunting sound. He bobbed a short bow from the waist, turned, and went to look for his hat, boat cloak, and sword, waving off Lt. Cottle in passing the dining table.

  "Forgive me if I do not escort you to the gangway, sir," Lewrie said in parting; wasted on the truculent Kenyon. Once the man was past the door to the main deck and gone, Lewrie heaved a bitter sigh, going to Desmond to get a first glass of wine since his toast.

  Damn my eyes, what's wrong with that man? he wondered silently; doesn 't he know how close he is to losing his career?

  "Sure, an' this Pomerol whativer's right-tasty, sor," Desmond said with a snicker as he poured Lewrie a full bumper. "An' so'z them sammidges, too, Cap'm."

  "Took a sample, did you?" Lewrie wryly asked.

  "Well, sor… Furfy helped me tote it all in, like," Desmond answered. "An' faith, who'd pass up a nip'r two, here an' there."

  "God help us," Lewrie chuckled, picturing Patrick Furfy and his two large hands snatching up tasties like a street urchin who had just come upon an abandoned pieman's cart.

  "Be trouble wi' that'un, sor… that Commander Kenyon, beggin' yer pardons fer sayin', Cap'n," Desmond said in a soft whisper, inclining his head towards the sad-looking Lt. Cottle. "There's a young'un jist dyin' t'tell a tale o' woe 'board 'is ship, arrah. Don't ken th' meat of it, but there's somethin' odd 'bout that Erato, sor. Not that it's any o' my 'nivver-mind,' sure."

  "You have no idea, Desmond, how odd Eraco is," Lewrie muttered. "And, aye… I'll speak with him. Mine arse on a band-box, but you've become quite the busybody since I made you Cox'n," he quipped.

  "Me Cap'm's best int'rests're me own best int'rests, sor," the fellow said, turning blank-faced and deferent. "Else Oi'll nivver be in sich a foin p'sition, begorra."

  Like Sophie de Maubeuge sounding more French when she went all coy, Liam Desmond could put on "the brogue" when he worked a "fiddle," or was in a spot where whey-faced "Paddy" innocence might suit.

  Lewrie strolled among the officers, sharing brief comments and gathering impressions of their capabilities, or enthusiasm, for the impending landings. At last, he got to Lt. Cottle.

  "Your captain left early," Lewrie began.

  "Uhm… aye, sir," Cottle replied with a shy gulp, unable to look him in the eyes.

  "Knew each other long ago, in the West Indies," Lewrie prompted. "Ended not liking each other very much."

  "So… so Commander Kenyon has mentioned to me, sir, but…," the young man stuttered in nervousness.

  "Loudly and often, I take, it, sir?" Lewrie said, half in jest.

  "Uhm, aye sir," Cottle admitted, with a brief, rueful wince,

  "Anything you wish to tell me about your ship, Mister Cottle?" Lewrie posed in a soft voice, smiling, so casual observers might think they were merely yarning. "Anything which might endanger the success of the coming landings? A problem of… morale, perhaps?"

  "Don't wish to speak ill of… the hands, they don't," Cottle stammered, "they haven't come together as shipmates, as crews do in my experience, and… there's bad blood, Captain Lewrie."

  "Because your captain plays favourites most shamefully, and cannot master himself?" Lewrie pressed.

  Lt. Cottle winced again, so hard his eyes shut, then could only nod and blush in shame. "They could be a fine crew, sir, were some of them weeded out. Erato could be a taut ship, yet…"

  "Under a new captain, who doesn't cosset the 'pretty lads,' and treat them like a private harem, d'ye mean, sir?" Lewrie asked.

  "You know, sir?" Cottle gasped.

  "Suspected," Lewrie countered. "Is he healthy enough to carry out his orders, sir? Of a mind to do so, despite his grudge, and his… peculiarity?"

  "I think so, sir," Lt. Cottle stated. "He's a thorough seaman, and can't be faulted at ship-handling, yet… he will rant at times in nonsense words, just blurt out whatever springs to mind that had nought to do with… he's cautious and conservative, mostly, sir. Not one to dare too much. I took the boats in so close to the beach, sir."

  "And I am glad t'see you survived, sir," Lewrie congratulated. "I imagine he tore a strip off your hide, yes? You say he… rants? He don't look well that's for certain, but, is his mind sound?"

  "I… sometimes am forced to wonder, sir," Cottle confessed, now he had a welcoming ear. "At first, he seemed sound, but lately… Erato'?, his first decent command, sir, and I cannot think that he would take such risks to lose it, and his career, but… there is nought I can do to amend things aboard, short of…," Cottle whispered, edging round the word "mutiny," which a court-martial would call his attempt to usurp a senior officer's place. Unsaid was the fact that Kenyon's ruin would be Cottle's, too, his career forever blighted by connexion to such a scandal. "I know it's 'gainst the Articles of War, sir, and the Good Book, and a mortal sin, but there's little I may do! Yet, if something isn't done, soon, the bulk of our people will…"

  Sling a few "handsome " boys over the side? Lewrie thought, finishing Cottle's dread for him; maybe Kenyon, to boot? Purge Erato like the Hermione mutineers did?

  "As First Officer, you're there to spur him in the right direction, in action, at least," Lewrie told him. "As for his personal life, well… hiding what he is all these years is slowly killing him, we can see that. That, and the amount of drink he glugs down."

  "We let it continue, sir?" Lt. Cottle goggled at him.

  "No," Lewrie grimly said. "You brought the matter to a senior officer's attention, at long last. I will see that it is amended just as soon as I am able." Christ, listen t'me, prosin' like an Admiral! Lewrie marvelled at himself. "I can't do anything this instant since I may need Erato tomorrow morning, does the weather moderate. But, were you to write a report on it and send it to me, I'll pass it on to the Commodore… who will most-like pass it on to Lord Boxham as if it was a red-hot fire poker, as quick as dammit. Would you do that, sir?"

  "Aye, sir, I shall," Lt. Cottle replied, sounding and looking much firmer in his resolves, with what might be called a relieved smile on his face; even a pleased one, in point of fact.

&
nbsp; "Enjoy my improvised buffet, Lieutenant Cottle, and pray for a spell of good weather in the offing," Lewrie concluded, giving the man a last smile, and turning away to sample a few tasties himself.

  But even a sweet apple turnover could not rid his mouth of the bad taste that lingered. Despite his unwillingness to involve himself in such sordid doings, he now knew that he must. There was no looking the other way in the stern world of the Royal Navy, and ending the illegality against Article the Twenty-Ninth: "If any Person in the Fleet shall committ the unnatural and detestable Sin of Buggery with Man or Beast, he shall be punished with Death by Sentence of a Court-Martial." And there was no ameliorating codicil that followed most other of the Articles of War, "… or such other Punishment as the Nature and Degree of the Offence shall deserve, and the Court-Martial shall impose."

  No demotion, no cashiering without half-pay… death!

  Lewrie built himself a ham " Shrewsbury " and stuck with mustard, not too sure if Aspinall had whipped up the eggy-lemony mayonnaise the right way, or how long ago. The sauce was like "made dishes," a foreign "kickshaw," which had carried more than a few trusting souls to join the Great Majority, over the centuries.

  Which made him wonder, Is Kenyon really well enough to continue his command? He looks like Death's Head On A Mop-Stick, and his teeth are chalky-grey. How many times has he had a clyster full o' mercury shoved up his prick t'cure the Pox?

  Live with the Pox long enough, and one's brain rotted away, and one's nose collapsed. Was that why Kenyon behaved so truculently with him… that the Syphilis had destroyed his higher functions to such an extent that he'd just blurt out his inner-most thoughts, was he angry enough? Spiteful and resentful enough? That could explain it.