Troubled Waters l-14

by Dewey Lambdin

  "Indeed, sir, most casualties occurred among the landing-parties," Capt. Charlton countered quickly. "And, Erato's losses were a part of the shore parties,… bravely standing into the harbour of Le Verdon and right alongside the piers against an entrenched company of French soldiers, who had to be rooted out with the bayonet and cannon fire."

  "That is very true, Captain Charlton, aye," Ayscough mused with a spritely grin. " 'Twould be a damned shame, was our victory marred by such a scurrilous suspicion. As well planned as our adventure was, all thanks to Captain Lewrie, no one could possibly expect to succeed with none of our own blood shed. Do you agree, Captain Cheatham?"

  "Well, now sir…" Cheatham huffed up, taut ringers curling on the stem of his glass. "Mean t'say…! Should we not delve into the matter deeper, put the question to the Erato's people…?"

  "Rear-Admiral Lord Boxham must be informed," Ayscough went on. "He may wish court-martials held, which would result in Erato's crew being broken up among the rest of the ships of our squadron, once the guilty are sifted out, and a new crew and slate of officers appointed into her."

  "I'll not have any of them!" Cheatham hotly exclaimed. "There's no telling what they might imagine they could get away with, next time! Nor would I wish my worst watch officer to go into her."

  "Rear-Admiral Iredell indeed must be informed of the possibility that Kenyon and his… favourites fell accidentally, intentionally, or by a mutinous deed of the moment," Capt. Charlton suggested. "But, it is his decision as to what to do… or, whether it is his appreciation of the matter that a rough form of Justice was done, either way, and the rot aboard her had been… excised. You make a good point, Commodore," he said. "Why mar a rare, if minor, victory? For the good of the Service, it might be best did Lord Boxham put an officer of his choosing in command of Erato, put the crew on notice that they'd best be True Blue Hearts of Oak from now on, and, with the chiefest cause of their grievance gone, well…"

  / can't believe this! Lewrie gawped to himself; Ayscough, and Charlton, turnin' a blind eye t'what amounts t 'murder an 'mutiny? For that'spretty much what - it was, wasn 't it. Never thought I'd see either of 'em bend the rules that far!

  "Send her home," Lewrie said into the tenseness, the heat coming off Cheatham's glowers.

  "What?" they all pretty much barked at the same time. "Erato can't keep the sea more than four months without replenishment of stores, sirs," Lewrie said with a shrug. "She needs to be victualled. Let Lord Boxham place officers into her, men of his own selection. Whoever is her acting captain will surely be confirmed by Admiralty as a Commander, so long as the war continues. Pluck Cottle, her First Officer, out, and place him aboard one of the seventy-fours, as replacement for the Lieutenant whom Lord Boxham names as the second-in-command. Thurston, too, in charge of her Marines, for there's no guilt attached to him, either… yet, and there's no reason he should suffer. Then, once in a home port, Erato can be given a refit, whether she's due or not, and, in the interim, the crew… guilty or innocent, or merely suspect… can be re-assigned to other ships in the Channel Fleet.

  "Even if it was Kenyon's intention to die by the enemy's hands," he quickly added, "and no one's guilty, the scattering of her people'd draw no unwanted notice, sirs. Happens all the time."

  Captain Cheatham of Jersey still looked sour, but he did nod his head in sullen agreement, while Ayscough and Charlton immediately looked relieved, taking Lewrie's scheme as a sensible suggestion.

  "Well, we must leave the details of it to Lord Boxham… agreed, gentlemen?" Ayscough asked. "A toast, then. Fill your glasses. Damme, the port's almost gone, and we'll need another bottle soon. Here's to the memory of Commander James Kenyon… a fallen.., hero."

  "Rather sir, if I may?" Lewrie stuck in. "Perhaps the memory of Commander Kenyon might be, uhm… best soon forgotten."

  "Oh, quite! Lord, yes," Commodore Ayscough said with a cynical laugh. "All topped up, gentlemen? Then here's to the late Commander Kenyon… and the 'Erato Guns.' "

  They all drank their glasses dry, reflective of a ritual empty of real sentiment, and an uneasy silence fell over the great-cabins.

  "D'ye think Hogue will keep his prize, sir?" Lewrie dared ask. "Or, is she not 'Good Prize'?"

  "Marvellous prize!" Ayscough bellowed gleefully. "By the time Mischief 'was alongside her, not a shot fired, mind… her master and crew had gone over the side and rowed for Talmont like the very Devil was at their heels. Only people left aboard were a half-drunk ship's boy and a one-legged cook, and both of 'em swearing they were Danish, but all they could speak was Dutch, ha ha! Her master left so quickly, he abandoned her three sets of papers, so he was surely up to something beyond smuggling wine and brandy to Rotterdam."

  "Bung-full of Bordeaux, Lewrie," Capt. Charlton confided with joy. "Casks and kegs and crated bottles of it. She's bound for England, not Lisbon. Wine to Portgual? Like carrying coal to Newcastle!"

  "Wouldn't fetch a shilling to the pound in Lisbon, but, landed in England, she's worth thousands^" Ayscough heartily agreed. "Lucky dog, Hogue, his fortune's made, and no master or ship owner to sue for her return. Abandoned… salvaged, must he claim so, ha ha, and, in the merchant service of the Batavian Republic, a French ally."

  "Something to cheer, sir," Lewrie posed with a smile. "Punch, sir? For you make a fme'un."

  Even if we'll all feel like the Wrath o' God in the mornin', he told himself, but… they needed some good cheer. They had a victory to celebrate!

  "A punch, by God, yes!"

  " 'Give me the punch-ladle, I'll fath-om the bowl!' " Lewrie sang right out, pounding his fists and swaying from side to side.

  "Now from France, we get brandy, from Jamaica good rum!

  Sweet oranges and ap-ples, from Portugal come!

  Add the good old hard cider that England con-trols…

  Give me the punch-ladle, I'll fath-om the bowl!"

  Even Capt. Cheatham joined in the chorus, getting into the spirit of things, as their spirits and flavourings were being mixed and the hot water was fetched, and they all swayed as they loudly sang along.

  "I'll fathom the bowl, I'll fathom the bowl…

  Give me the punch-ladle, I'll fath-om the bowl!"

  EPILOGUE

  On the most exalted throne in the world,

  nothing but our arse.

  Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592)

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The early afternoon was overcast and cold, requiring Lewrie to button the lapels of his uniform coat doubled over to trap what little warmth he had, and huddle inside the folds of his voluminous and heavy boat cloak, with the collar turned up to the base of his cocked hat so the light, but cutting, wind along the Strand didn't freeze his ears off as he, along with his barrister Mr. Andrew MacDougall, his clerk Sadler, and his brother-in-law Burgess Chiswick, paused in their stroll from Whitefriars Street to a chop-house in Savoy Street, near the Thames.

  Normally, the walk was not all that difficult, but for the fact that it was two days before Christmas, and the Strand, the finest shopping district in the civilised world, was infested with hordes of people out to obtain their turkey, their ham or goose, new suitings and gowns ordered weeks before in which to preen at routs, drums, balls, holiday "at-homes," and Divine Services. Children by the thousands, noses and gloved fingertips pressed to large bay windows of stores to drool over the toys displayed, were underfoot as thick as roaches round a butter-tub, hopping, skipping, shrieking, and tittering in boundless expectations, and, when their parents weren't looking, practicing ice-sliding on the sidewalks where old snow had melted, then frozen overnight to a delightful slickness. Some imps without parental supervision, the usual street urchins, also practiced their aim with snowballs at the odd passerby, and all their parties' coats bore white smudges from successful hits… though Lewrie, MacDougall, Burgess, and Sadler had given as well they got.

  Rich, titled, working class, the working or idle poor, criminal and honest, all were out looking for presents, a
lighting from coaches, embarking into coaches walking afoot as densely crowded as corn rows, and could not help but jostle each other, now and then… which was just topping-fine for the pick-pockets and snatchers.

  "Aha, there they are, sirs!" Sadler cried, clapping his mittened hands together as they paused before Somerset House, where crowds briefly gathered__ children, mostly-to gawp at the "Erato Guns." Parents stood by impatiently, for the most part, allowing their offspring a brief "edifying and patriotic experience," before dragging them off so they could be about their errands and gift-buying. There was a temporary wooden plaque, a brace of soldiers to guard the cannon, but that didn't stop young lads from crawling all over them, so thoroughly that not a speck of new snow remained atop the barrels or truck-carriages, as they peeked down the un-tompioned muzzles, pretended that they were loading and firing them, and competing in which lad could go Boom! Bang! or Pow! the loudest, while impatient governesses or dads tapped their toes.

  "Let us see them," Sadler pled his employer, dashing across the street to paw them over and marvel for a moment or two.

  "Seen 'em," Lewrie laconically said.

  "Seen odder in In'ja," Burgess said, chuckling.

  "Just clapped-out old naval pieces, sure t'burst with a proper charge down the bores," Lewrie added, feeling hungry.

  "An outstanding feat of arms, e'en so, Captain Lewrie, thanks to you," Mr. MacDougall congratulated, his own eyes alight though he would not lower his dignity to go cross the street and gawk. "Though you do not receive your proper credit for their taking. Were I an officer in the Navy, I'd sue."

  Commodore Ayscough had been right; their victory in the Gironde, minor though it was, had been blown all out of proportion in the papers. The Marine Chronicle, the Times, the Gazette had printed the official report released by the Admiralty, writ large on their front pages, as if it was as grand a triumph as the Glorious First of June, the Battle of Cape St. Vincent, Camperdown, or the Nile. And, Ayscough's canny prediction of how such news could enthuse the populace had proven true, as well. After seven years of unending war, new and higher taxes on a whole host of new items, the scandal of paper fiat money, soaring costs for just about everything, a couple of lean crops, and a dearth of good news from overseas, Britain needed cheering news, and the bulk of them had pounced upon it as eagerly as they would their Christmas gifts.

  Unfortunately for Lewrie, though, who needed a deed to bolster his own odour with potential jurors, the papers had taken Lord Boxham's account as the senior-most officer involved, and Lewrie's name was mentioned in that report just once, in connexion with delivering Marines and armed sailors from Lord Boxham's ships, under command of his officers, to take the battery, with the brief assistance of cannon fire: "HMS Savage, 36, Capt. A. Lewrie, provided brisk fire upon the battery until our parties were ashore and well engaged."

  "A career ender, that, Mister MacDougall," Lewrie said with a wry laugh. "Doesn't matter, really. Other senior officers sent their reports to Admiralty, so they know who authored the plan. Besides, if such a suit were possible, I doubt I could afford it, and, do I call a titled Rear-Admiral a liar in public, it'd be more a cause to duel than go to court."

  "I only hope that some artist paints them before they're taken from public view," Mr. Sadler bemoaned once he rejoined them, feeling very patriotic at the moment. "Even a coloured wood-cut print. Won't that anger Bonaparte over in Paris, does he see a copy, ha ha! English lads capering all over his precious artillery, huzzah!" Sadler exclaimed enthusiastically, peering at the captured pieces as if he wished to paint them forever in his mind.

  "Thumb in his eye, Mister Sadler, thumb in his bloody eye," Mr. MacDougall cackled in like joy. "Well, shall we go on, sirs? I must own to feeling more than a tad peckish, and the chop-house awaits."

  They continued their walk, reaching the crossing of Bow Street and onwards towards Cecil Street and Fountain Court, nearing Savoy Palace… but, even before reaching the chop-house, the aroma of food and cookfires wafted off the Thames, forcing Sadler and Lewrie to hasten their steps towards the river, the piers, and the landing stages.

  "Frost Fair, sir!" Mr. Sadler gaily declared. "The ice is not so thick as I recall when I was a lad, but the Frost Fair will likely go on forever. Just like England, is it not, sirs? A delightful tradition of an English Christmas!"

  There before them, below the edge of the empty quay, the Thames was frozen over from one bank to the other, thick enough for carriages and sleighs to cross it, avoiding the toll for London Bridge, ruining the Lord Mayor's Christmas. Pedestrians plodded carefully over thick ice, or practiced their ice-sliding games, too, adults as well as children. Along with the wonderful scents from the many cooking booths or gaily coloured pavilions, the light, cold breeze brought them sounds of music, of cranked hurdy-gurdies, brass bands, of shrieking children and the snorts of pit-ponies put to work as rides, the jingle-jangle of belled harnesses and reins from the one-horse sleighs, and a happy humm-umm from the thousands of shoppers and celebrants, the precarious dancers who dared some sawdusted places; all celebrating a delightful London tradition, time out of mind.

  "Which would you prefer, Mister Sadler?" Lewrie asked the weedy little scribbler, "a chop-house feast, or a stroll through the Frost Fair, perhaps a sleigh ride, and something meat-ish on a skewer, like as not burned to charcoal?"

  "No thankee," Burgess demurred, laughing. "Been to In'ja, as I said, and eaten more than my share of dubious."

  Frost Fair, spread out wide before his eyes, was a carnival, a circus, a series of epic snowball fights and impromptu football matches, even one criquet game in which the players spent more time on the flat of their backs than upright, and the ball could skitter half a mile or more on a good pitch, and Lewrie's eyes lit up with youthful joy as he considered spending the rest of the day down there, for he'd had little reason for holiday cheer, so far.

  His appearance before King's Bench was firmly set in the first week of Hilary Term, just after Epiphany Sunday, and, with the date at last known, Admiralty had decided that a well-found Fifth Rate frigate such as Savage could not sit idle in port awaiting his return to her, if things went his way, which Admiralty obviously doubted, so… they had sent orders down to Portsmouth that he was to be relieved of command, and another Post-Captain sent into her.

  So Lewrie was, for the first time since 1793, "beached," and on half-pay, and odds were, even were he most honourably acquitted, there would most likely not be a welcome return to HMS Savage and the circle of officers, warrants, petty officers, and hands he'd come to know so well. His solid support was now trimmed to Aspinall, his cook and manservant, Cox'n Liam Desmond and his mate Patrick Furfy, and the cats.

  Once "beached," Lewrie feared there might not ever be another sea-going command; it would be easy enough for Admiralty to look past him, let him slowly climb in seniority on the Post-Captains' List, pay him the portion of half-pay, and allow his "taint" slowly evaporate as a bad memory, like a fool or cripple who'd been "Yellow Squadroned."

  Oh, when he'd delivered all his accounts to Admiralty, people there had been polite and civil, not even brusque with him at all… though there had been a few cooling their heels in the Waiting Room who had glared at him. Most officers and civil servants, once they'd either recognised him, or learned his name, had gone shy and cutty-eyed as if they really wished to cry "My God, you're tkat'unl" or turned so bland and distracted by other things that they might as well have given him the "cut direct." Some had seemed genuinely sympathetic, those who approved of his slave stealing, but some made cow-eyes to his face, and troweled it on much too thick, "pissing down his back" 'til out of his sight so they might snigger over his predicament, and Lewrie could not decide which half galled him the most. He felt a raging need to hop down the nearest landing stairs and go do something innocent, silly, and mindless, go cut capers on the ice and plaster people with snowballs, chat up just anyone, even toothless harridans from Wapping or Billingsgate!

  "Circus… cross
the river, there," Burgess said at his elbow, in a soft voice. "Wigmore's Peripatetic Extravaganza. They've set up their winter quarters in Southwark, near Vauxhall Gardens."

  "Peripatetic?" Lewrie scoffed. "He's found a dictionary. Was 'Travelling' no longer good enough?"

  "Doing a grand business, I'm told," Burgess said, shrugging his shoulders; most-like to warm himself than anything else.

  "Gentlemen, my feet are freezing," Mr. MacDougall griped, shivering, and punctuating his statement with an actual Brrr. "We need to thaw out in front of a roaring fireplace, at the chop-house."

  "No chance we'll run into the Beaumans there, is there?" Lewrie asked as he reluctantly turned away from the river, after a final peek cross the Thames to see if he could espy anything exotic or circus-y. If he couldn't make a fool of himself at the Frost Fair, then dinner in a warm place would have to do, so long as the said warm place came with lashings of drink, and yes, at the moment, images of hot punch or mugs of mulled wine, laced with spices, and half-aboil from the insertion of a red-hot fire poker, would suit, as would hot chocolate heavily laden with sugar and rum.

  "Lord no, Alan!" Burgess hooted as they resumed their brisk pace into Savoy Street. "Your father, and Mister Twigg, have seen to that. The last I heard, the Beaumans had been hounded far out past Islington… ran out of London lodgings months ago."

  "Lord, what have they done?" Lewrie wondered aloud. "There are few hoteliers or lessors who want loud mobs in their streets, day and night. Rocks through the window glass, pamphlets put up 'gainst their doors, damning them as allies of slavers… heaps of horse dung piled on their stoops? People of the Quality barging in at all hours, denouncing them, and running off their other renters? Your father reckons that even the worst lodgings cost them four or five times the going rate, for the annoyance, and to cover damages."