King, Ship, and Sword l-16

by Dewey Lambdin

  Pah-pah and Ma-Ma-that was Governour's and Millicent's doing. When he and Caroline had coached away, it had been Daddy and Mummy and she had been so gay, delighted to spend her time at their estate and play to her heart's desire, visiting her grandfather's estate daily.

  Changin' her into their sort o' Miss Priss! Lewrie fumed.

  Then had come the hateful vindictive, along with a fresh flood of tears and wails. "I'd still have my Ma-Ma if you hadn't taken her off to France! I'd still have my house, the way things were, but for you!"

  She didn't have to add "I hate you, just go away!" to wound him any deeper as she'd stomped her feet, ignored all his attempts to explain it was the French who'd taken her mother; she had shrunk from his attempt to hug her and console her, then dashed from the parlour, and the house, screaming inarticulately, with a flying banshee's wail!

  Recalling that all over again made Lewrie start fully awake and upright in bed, to scrub his face with both hands and wish for dawn, seeing again Millicent's stricken look and Governour's grim satisfaction!

  Awakened at 6 A.M. to dress, scrub up, comb their hair, and (for the adults) to shave, and they were down to the dining room for breakfast, even more subdued than they had been at supper.

  "Say good-byes here, Sewallis, father," Lewrie instructed. "Hugh and I will go on to the docks by ourselves, hey?"

  They were English, of the country gentry, so public displays of emotion were not for them. Sir Hugo chucked Hugh under the chin and told him that he was proud of him and that he should be careful and follow all his orders and remember to uphold the Lewrie name and its honour. "Yer father's brought lustre to it, and ye can do no less."

  "So long, Hugh," Sewallis said, his arms folded cross his chest and his chin up. "I'll write. You be sure to, too, right? Tell us of how you get along. You lucky imp."

  "G'bye, Sewallis," Hugh said in return, sticking out his hand to shake. "Give my regards to the other lads at school. Put ink in the proctor's port, like we planned? And, when you go to grandfather's, make sure you see to my horse now and then. Well?"

  "I've a cart for your dunnage," Lewrie said. "I'll be back in a bit. Have a bit of time before I go aboard Reliant and you coach back to London, and we can say our good-byes. Right? Ready, Hugh?"

  "Aye, sir," Hugh replied, easily turning "nautical."

  The carter trundled along before them as they strolled along behind, past the last of the civilian part of town to the dockyards and the warehouses, then to the docks. It was a raw day, with solid grey overcast clouds and a fitful April wind, damp and a bit chilly, strong enough to clatter halliards and blocks, and make the seabirds complain as Hugh and his father reached the stone stairs down to the boat landing.

  "One for Pegasus!" Lewrie shouted to the bargees, selecting the nearest lug-sailed boat the size of his gig, and leaving it to its two-man crew and the carter to heave Hugh's sea-chest into it.

  "Well…," Hugh muttered, childishly shuffling his feet in his new pair of Hessian boots, eager to be away yet loath to say a real, nigh-permanent farewell.

  "God, how I hate this, Hugh!" Lewrie spat. "I know it's what ye want, what ye were fated for, as my second son, but still… it hurts t'see ye off. Navy's a damned hard life. No matter you're in great hands with Thom Charlton, I'll worry 'bout ye every day."

  "I'll be fine, father, just you see," Hugh assured him, naпve despite all the cautions Lewrie had drummed into him. "We'll put the French in their place."

  "Here," Lewrie said, reaching into his boat-cloak. "Your Navy pay as a Midshipman ain't much, so you'll be needin' some extra funds. Soon as ye report to Captain Charlton, give him this t'dole out t'ye. The Midshipmen's mess'll always have need to whip round for luxuries. Just don't let the others gull ye outta your money on foolishness or gamblin'. And don't let on you're better off than ye are, or you'll be the one they strip, right down to your bones." He gave him a note-of-hand and a small wash-leather purse containing ten pounds of coin. "And this."

  From the small of his back, hooked to his own sword belt under his uniform coat, he withdrew a Midshipman's dirk in its scabbard.

  "Wondered why I didn't buy ye one in London? That's because I was havin' my old one re-gilt. Leather of the scabbard's a bit worn, but that'd happen to a new'un, too, after a few months at sea."

  "Your own dirk?" Hugh exclaimed, turning it over in his hands, drawing it and waving it in the weak sunshine, his eyes agleam in joy.

  "Take good care of it, mind," Lewrie told him, and showed him how to slip it through the white leather frog on his belt, and how to thread the clam-shell catch into the slit in the leather. "There," he said further, satisfied that it was secure. "And when you attain your Lieutenancy, my old hanger will be yours, too."

  "Your Napoleon hanger?" Hugh gasped. "No, Daddy… sir. Not that one. I'll not wear a sword that… murderer touched."

  "This'un, then," Lewrie offered, patting the hanger that hung at his left side. "When the time comes."

  Hugh looked relieved and nodded his beaming acceptance.

  "Well then… might not've said it often enough, but you must remember that I love you, Hugh," Lewrie told him, wishing he could put his arms round the lad, kneel down, and give him a good squeeze. "And I am so proud of you I could bust. My regards to Thomas Charlton, and my thanks for taking you into his ship. S'pose it's time, though," he said, pulling out his watch to check the time. "Might take half an hour t'reach Pegasus on this wind, and it's best did you report just at Eight Bells, and the change of watch."

  "Good-bye, Da… father. Sir." Hugh manfully said, sticking out his hand for an adult shake, though his eyes had suddenly gone a bit tearful. They shook, and, to shun the grief, Lewrie pulled him in to give him that last, brief hug, after all, and thump him on his back. "Remember all the pranks were played on me when I first joined. The molasses in the hammock… come hear the dog-fish bark? Gather dilberries from the main-top, and for God's sake, never go cryin' for a Marine Private Cheeks, and absolutely refuse if they play 'Building a Galley'!"

  "I'll remember, sir," Hugh said with a shaky laugh as he stepped back, settled the fit of his coat, and doffed his hat in a salute, which Lewrie returned in equally grave manner. "Write me, often as you can. I'll write, as well."

  "Good-bye, Hugh. Make us proud."

  Then Hugh was down the slippery, green-coated stairs and into his boat. She shoved off, the lugsail raised as soon as the last of her dock lines was free. Lewrie stood with his hat aloft for another long minute, and Hugh gaily waved back at him with his, 'til the boat was fully under way, already shrunk to a toy. Another minute or so and it was almost lost in the early morning boat traffic.

  And that was the end of a major part of Lewrie's life, his care for his children, his role of a father. Now what he had was a ship.

  And a war.

  BOOK V

  Let the die be cast.

  Begin the war and try your mettle.

  Yet my case is already won-

  With so many brave around me.

  GAIUS PETRONIUS,

  THE ROAD TO CROTУN, 268-271

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Never seen the like, sir!" Lt. Westcott marvelled again as a fresh boatload of real, actual willing volunteers came aboard direct from the rendezvous tavern. "We've almost all our necessary hands rated Able, lack but a dozen Ordinary Seamen, and so awash in Landsmen and boys that the Surgeon, Mister Mainwaring, is rejecting people for piles and lack of teeth!"

  "I told you I was notorious, Mister Westcott," Lewrie drawled as he enjoyed a morning cup of coffee on the quarterdeck. "A bit of fame… good or bad, deserved or otherwise… goes a long way. My sort, well… I've dined out on it for years!"

  Wonder of wonders, people in Portsmouth had flocked to his recruiting "rondy." Free Black sailors from the West Indies who knew him as "Saint Alan the Liberator" (a sobriquet he detested) because he had stolen a dozen plantation slaves on Jamaica and made them free to crew HMS Proteus back in '97. There were Irish an
d West Country men who'd heard that he had a lucky geas upon him, good cess. The lure of prize-money and adventure had brought some eager young lads, that and the fact that frigates had more elbow-room per hand than other ships.

  Will Cony had come through with his offer of local lads from Anglesgreen, two hay waggons of them, for a total of twenty-one. They would be Landsmen, of course, totally ignorant and unable to hand, reef, or steer, but they could learn, and they could man the guns, haul the lines, and fight. "God A'mighty, lads, but for tuppence, I'd gladly sail with ya all!" Will had declared when he'd come out to the ship with them, and assured Lewrie that he'd sternly told them what they'd be in for, so every Man Jack of 'em was there willingly, despite what shipboard life would be like.

  The Third Lieutenant, George Merriman, had shown up, and he had proved to be no threat to Westcott's seniority; Merriman had passed his examinations bare months before the Peace of Amiens, and had lingered on half-pay as a Passed Midshipman 'til the government had decided to go back to war. His name fit him aptly, for he was a cheerful sort.

  Their last two Midshipmen had reported aboard, both very young and with only a year or two at sea between them. The twelve-year-old was named Munsell, the thirteen-year-old Midshipman was the Honourable Phillip Rossyngton.

  "Rossyngton," Lewrie had exclaimed at the time. "I served with a Midshipman Rossyngton in the old Shrike brig, the tail-end of the American Revolution. Any kin?"

  "My father, sir!" Rossyngton had proudly said. "Soon as we knew who commanded Reliant, he said to extend to you his fondest regards. He said I would be in good hands… though at risk of cat scratches."

  "And are you as big a tongue-in-cheek scamp as he was?" Lewrie had teased.

  "But of course, sir… I'm a Midshipman, and allowed it!" the lad had rejoined with a laugh.

  That had made him feel even more ancient; the last time he had seen Rossyngton, who'd been about seventeen or eighteen, and the lad was his second or third son?

  After that, even more people from his past showed up. Reliant's ship's cook, the typical one-legged, lamed gammer who had been a part of the Standing Officers whilst laid up in-ordinary, a Jack Nasty-Face whose idea of "done" was either burnt black or boiled to the bones, had finally become too feeble to serve, and pled for Discharge and a pension. To replace him, up had popped Gideon Cooke, one of the Beauman plantation slaves Lewrie had freed on Jamaica; he'd cooked for scores of slaves, and when liberated, had taken Cooke, with an E, as his new name, and the crew of the Proteus frigate had sworn they'd never eat so well in any ship.

  Then there was Pettus, his former cabin steward in his previous ship, HMS Thermopylae. He'd practically fallen into Lt. Westcott's arms outside the recruiting "rondy," so eager was he to sign aboard, explaining that he'd been Lewrie's "man" before.

  "What've ye been up to since, Pettus?" Lewrie had just had to ask. "Did you ever get back together with that girl of yours, Nan?"

  "Thankee for recalling, sir," Pettus had told him. "I traipsed about, doing this and that, 'til I landed a place as barman at the Black Spread Eagle. As for Nancy, though… time I finally discovered her whereabouts, and her employment, well… there was another man had her heart," Pettus had said, heaving a world-weary shrug. "She'd married and already had a babe, and… ye know, sir," he resignedly had related. Perking up, though, he asked, "Still have your cats, sir? Toulon and Chalky? Along with Desmond and Furfy? It'd be good to see them again, sir… if you'll have me as your steward, that is, but I'll gladly sign aboard for anything," he'd vowed.

  "I do, and they'll all be glad t'see you again, too, Pettus," Lewrie had assured him, and put him to work straightaway.

  Pettus had proved very useful, too, in discovering a cook for the great-cabins, and a lad who'd serve as the cabin servant. He knew a man who fancied himself a chef who'd lost his position when the chop-house he worked in burned to the ground a few weeks back, and was yet in need of a new place. Pettus was quick to vouch for Joseph Yeovill and his culinary skills; he even came with his own pots, pans, knives, and utensils, and a middling chest of spices and sauces!

  And, from the intake of youngsters who would serve as servants and powder monkeys, Pettus had chosen a likely orphan with a quick wit and a very sketchy year or so of schooling, a twelve-year-old lad by name of Jessop, who, 'til he'd signed ship's articles, looked to be a half-starved street waif, puppy-grateful to be issued clean clothing, have three meals a day, and a pittance of pay, to boot.

  Lastly, Lt. Westcott had presented Lewrie with a likely fellow to be his clerk. James Faulkes had been an apprentice clerk to one of Portsmouth's counting houses and had just completed his terms of indenture. Though he seemed to suffer Pettus's malady, for he'd not only been let go from his position when the previous owner died, but Faulkes had recently been disappointed in love, and, like many a heart-sick young cully, believed that the lass, whoever she was, would take pity on him and accept his suit did he run away to sea. No matter, for his handwriting was copperplate and precise, his sums always added up, and he seemed very organised.

  Of course Reliant had to resort to the Impress Service, drawn mostly from the Quota Men, a group that most officers, most tars, looked on askance. They were the derelicts, the drunks, the chronically underemployed and desperately poor; the turfed-out farm labourers who had nothing once the crops were in for the winter; the foolish and unwary civilians who had been swept up "will-he-nill-he" from the streets, public houses, and brothels by Press Gangs eager to make their numbers whether the men they collared were sailors or not; and the petty criminals from the gaols. With them came the risk that they'd been got at by radical, Levelling troublemakers and their French Jacobin ideas, as well as the theft and pilfering that came with them. Some of them surely would be insubordinate, obstreperous "sea-lawyers," constant discipline problems, the leaders and enforcers of the sly-boot cliques that would try to dominate their decent mess-mates, prey on the others' rations, tobacco, and rum issue, their better slop-clothing and shoes, with violence or the threat of it.

  Given his druthers, Lewrie would have gladly arranged a swap with the Army-his worst men for cash-and spent the proceeds on Joining Bounties or bribes to the Regulating Captain of the Impress or one of his more venal subordinates, but… needs must in war time.

  And, as Reliant filled with men and boys, she filled herself to the gills with supplies. A constant stream of barges, hulks, and hoys came alongside beginning at Eight Bells and the start of the Forenoon Watch at 8 a.m. and might not cease 'til the middle of the First Dog at 5 p.m. Clean new water casks first, then thousands of gallons of water from the hoys were pumped below to fill them. Bales of slop-clothing to garb the hands; blue chequered shirts, red neckerchiefs, and white slop-trousers, cotton and wool stockings and waist-length dark blue jackets with brass buttons; bags of shoes and steel buckles; square wood trenchers or cheap china plates and bowls; bales of blankets and bed sheets, piles of thin batt-stuffed mattresses and pillows, and the canvas hammocks in which they'd be placed.

  Kegs of salt-beef and salt-pork came aboard from the Victualling Board warehouses, all carefully inspected by the Purser, Mr. Cadbury, to ensure that none were spoiled, rotten, or previously condemned and the brand marks effaced. There was no guarantee, though, that the kegs actually contained eight-pound chunks of preserved meat, and not more bone and gristle than meat… or, folded scraps of old sailcloth masquerading as rations, dropped in to bring the keg up to the proper weight!

  Cheeses, oatmeal, small beer (safer to drink than water after a couple of months in cask!), wine both red and white, better known among sailors as "Black Strap" and "Miss Taylor," respectively; vinegar and tobacco, dried raisins, currants, and plums for duffs and puddings, in the rare instances, came aboard as well. And bread! Each man aboard got a pound of it a day (though issued at fourteen ounces to the pound, else the Purser would not profit!) in the form of pre-baked biscuit, a tooth-breaker unless soaked when it was fresh, and a crumbling, dusty slab of cracker ri
ddled by weevils after six months at sea. Salt and pepper, meat sauces, sugar, honey, and ever-desired mustard to liven the taste of the rations, and the flour for the duffs were solely in the cook's possession, though mustard pots could be purchased by each eight-man mess… for a fee to the Purser.

  Two complete sets of sails, plus spares and acres of sailcloth for repairs, patching, or whole refashioning came to the frigate, along with tar, pitch, resin and turpentine, miles of cable and rope, from thigh-thick cables for the anchors to small-stuff twine, and enough spare yards and upper masts to totally replace any shot away in battle or lost to weather; all the sail-maker's or the bosun's vital stores, and hundreds of board-feet of lumber for at-sea repairs.

  The upper masts had to be set up to Lewrie's and Lt. Westcott's standards, the miles of standing and running rigging roved, and blocks of varying purchase placed at the most efficient locations. Belaying pins in pin-rails and fife-rails had to be sent for from shore once the rigging was set up. Lewrie found that Lt. Westcott agreed with his notion that their ship would be more weatherly if the jib-boom and bow sprit were steeved at a shallower angle than the usual up-thrust boar-toothed manner, and the jibs and upper foretopmast stays'ls were made larger and deeper.

  Then came the artillery. HMS Reliant rated twenty-eight 18-pounder great-guns, eight quarterdeck 9-pounders, two 12-pounders for chase guns, and eight 32-pounder carronades, all with the wood truck-carriages or pivotting wood recoil slides; the carriages came aboard first, the cannon second. Then came the kegs and kegs of black powder to fill the belowdecks magazine, all the gun tools to load, worm out, swab, or shift the united carriages and barrels, and a bale or two of empty cartridge bags for the Master Gunner, his Mate, and the Yeoman of the Powder to fill and stow away.