HORACE, SATIRES II, 111 14–16
CHAPTER TWENTY
Oh, ‘twas a splendid little victory, the saving of the convoy, on paper, at least! Nine helpless merchantmen (eight of them worthy) assaulted by a French squadron, which might have been consisted of two frigates, and a brace of corvettes, the foes’ fell purposes countered by English Pluck and Daring, superb Seamanship, and Argus-eyed gunnery, all most shrewdly directed and concentrated in a trice by rapid application of a unique night-signalling system invented by the escorts’ commander, a system the Fleet would surely find superior to any other!
And, had the Frogs been possessed of real “bottom,” it could’ve been a spectacularly conclusive fight, resulting in the capture or the utter destruction of a significant number of the French raiders who preyed on British trade in this part of the world’s oceans, adding even brighter laurels to the Royal Navy’s fame, and their Sovereign’s honour.
But, the shivering cowards had done as much as they dared, then scampered away in the face of overwhelming strength, well-peppered and “much cut up” by good British iron, whilst their own sea-gunnery fared as poorly as it usually did…except for sneaking most unfairly and knavishly (but what could one expect of Frogs?) up on HMS Proteus, and whose fault was that, certainly not the “Victorious Squadron’s” alert commander, who was at that instant busy directing the activities of his own flagship, and his squadron’s ships, miles away, so there!
Lewrie looked up from a copy of that report, after gathering the gist of it, and bestowed upon the Flag-Captain to Vice-Adm. Sir Roger Curtis, commanding officer of the Cape Station, a most dubious expression, all but rolling his eyes.
“Indeed, sir,” the Flag-Captain derisively simpered after Lewrie handed it back to him. “Captain Sir Tobias Treghues may make of your encounter with the French what he will, but ‘tis doubtful if Admiralty will find his account much of a success. We shall, of course, despatch it to London….”
“Of course, sir,” Lewrie replied with a knowing nod.
“With an account of our own, of course, anent this odd affair,” the Flag-Captain further said, with a mocking brow raised.
Lewrie had already seen a thumbnail sketch of this report, in a scathing personal letter that Treghues had sent aboard, a letter replete with “Lewrie, how could you spoil such potential glory by your inattentiveness!” by allowing himself to be taken so unawares, salted with “I have always felt uneasy in my mind over your lamentable lack of assiduousness,” and with several “Tsk-Tsks” over his utterly casual and tongue-in-cheek and lack-a-day and dilettantish approach to such a serious and demanding profession as the Navy required, and et cetera and et cetera, in much the same vein, concluding with the supposition “that one could suspect that, to avoid a long and depriving voyage to the Far East, you finagled a way out by letting your ship be damaged by a mere corvette,” along with a closing warning that should any part of the convoy suffer loss due to further French action, with the escort so reduced, then he, Capt. Sir Tobias Treghues, would personally hold Capt. Alan Lewrie responsible for it, and make sure that Admiralty did, too!
Lewrie had not expected to see the official version, though… junior officers were never allowed such a luxury; but, this was Sir Roger Curtis he was dealing with, he had to recall.
They had met, briefly, in the aftermath of the battle that had famously become known as The Glorious First of June, in 1794, on the decks of HMS Queen Charlotte, when Capt. Sir Roger Curtis was Flag-Captain to Adm. Sir Richard “Black Dick” Howe. Lewrie had spent a whole day being pursued by two scouting French frigates, ending penned up against the unengaged side of the entire French line of battle, and had gotten round the end of their line and into the shelter of Howe’s battle line by the skin of his teeth. That exploit had not been mentioned in despatches by Sir Roger, gaining Lewrie no fame of it. And, playing favourites most shamefully, then-Capt. Sir Roger Curtis had also omitted the names of captains and ships that had not been able to come to close grips with the French on the light winds that prevailed that day, denying them Admiralty recognition—and the gold medals!—given to those in the van of the snake-bent line of battle; or, as some spitefully suspected, omitting the names of people with whom he’d served in the past, and still disliked!
Adm. Duncan at Camperdown, Adm. Jervis at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent, certainly Adm. Nelson at the Nile, made sure that all captains were cited for their efforts, for all the world to see in the Gazette and the Marine Chronicle, but, evidently, Sir Roger Curtis, Baronet, still had no truck with the newfangled idea of “We Few, We Happy Few, We Band of Brothers”!
Treghues is fucked, Lewrie told himself; poor, desperate bastard.
“Ye say your ship was damaged aft, Captain Lewrie?”
“Our rudder was nigh shot off, sir, aye,” Lewrie replied. “Four guns dismounted, two with divots the size of dinner plates shot out of them, and I’m leery of firing full charges from them in future. I have six dead and thirteen wounded, as well, with three of those not long for this world, or so my Surgeon informs me, sir.”
Lewrie unconsciously fingered the St. Vincent and Camperdown medals that hung round his neck for this full-dress interview, as if to reassure himself, and the Flag-Captain, that he had done much better in the past, and that the French ambush had been a rare fluke.
“You may enquire of our stores ship for replacement timber with which to mend, or replace, your rudder, Captain Lewrie,” the man off-handedly allowed. “As to guns, there maybe some captured Dutch twelve-pounders with the local Prize-Court. The Court’s warehouses may also hold bosuns’ stores from prizes taken by the ships of this station in past,” he concluded with a preening smile.
What bloody prizes? Lewrie sourly thought; Don’t tell me that Elphinstone’s are still here, five years later.
In ‘95, Sir George Keith Elphinstone had led a squadron to the Cape; three 74s, two older 64s, and a pair of 16-gunned Sloops of War, along with transports carrying the 78th Regiment of Foot to take over the Dutch colony, which he had done, right handily. Now, the squadron assigned here was little larger— minus the transports—with older and lighter frigates replacing the Sloops of War, a force not much bigger than Treghues’s escort force! Table Bay, treacherous as it could be, was huge, but fairly empty, at present, and once the East India trade sailed onwards, it would be even emptier. For the moment, there were only a pair of 74s, a lone 64, and one old 28-gun Sixth Rate at anchor, besides the stores ship. And… crippled HMS Proteus.
And, neither Cape Town nor Simon’s Town on the other side of the peninsula owned a graving dock or dry dock, where serious repairs could be made. What had the Dutch done before we got here? Lewrie had to wonder.
“I must own surprise, sir, that such an important station, bestride one of our most vital trade routes, does not have an official dockyard establishment,” Lewrie stated. That seemed safer than asking what prizes the Cape Squadron had managed to reel in.
“One’d think so, wouldn’t one,” the Flag-Captain breezily answered, “but, there is a war on, and the Cape is rather far removed from major French naval ports such as Rochefort, Brest, or Toulon. With the Dutch, French, and Spanish round-the-Cape trade nigh-completely ended, and the much smaller neutral countries’ trade so lightly-armed, there is no real threat to Crown interests. Gad, can you imagine the Americans, or the Roosians, coming in on the French side, then mounting expeditions to come here, ha ha?”
“Though the French do hold Mauritius and the Seychelles with a strong force of lighter ships, sir,” Lewrie carefully pointed out; he would get no help if he irritated the local squadron. “And, wasn’t it a rather firm rumour that they have also fortified the old pirate hole on the northern tip of Madagascar? Fort de France on Mauritius is, so I was told, as large and nigh-impregnable as any of their home ports.”
“But rather far from here, sir,” the Flag-Captain replied, with a bit less casu-alness, as if awaiting criticism.
But, ain’t that what
warships are for? Lewrie cynically thought; Go play silly buggers thousands of miles away, t’keep you awake nights?
“I also must own that neither I, nor Captain Treghues, had warning of the French operating on this side of the Cape of Good Hope, sir,” Lewrie added, keeping his face serious, perhaps play-acting perplexity, so the Flag-Captain wouldn’t take affront and kick him in the “nutmegs.” “Is this something new since we left England, sir? I thought their best hunting grounds would be ‘twixt Ceylon and here, not in the Atlantic.”
“Well, despite the tight blockade of the French home ports, some re-enforcements do slip through the net,” the Flag-Captain dismissively—and rather grumpily—answered. “And, though Fort de France on Mauritius has its own dockyard facilities, there are times when ships have need of serious repair… such as is your case, hmm?” he added with a prissy sarcasm. “And, they must sail for France, or replacing warships and privateers must sail out to Mauritius. In the face of a strong Royal Navy presence, it would only make sense for them to sail together, rather than risk a ‘singleton.’ Sir Roger and I are of an opinion that what your Captain Treghues encountered the other night was such a mutually-protective group, on its way to France, that ran across you all by accident, and could not resist the opportunity to sail home with some additional prizes, d’ye see, sir.”
“Well…” Lewrie began to say, deeming that wishful thinking.
“We’ve three frigates at sea, this instant, sir, hunting just that sort of movement,” the Flag-Captain insisted. “In your case, it was a fluke. Treghues still retains a strong escort force, so I doubt he’ll have another encounter like that in the Indian Ocean, more’s the pity for his aspirations to glory, what? And, by the time he is back, you might be repaired and ready to re-join his command.”
“But, that’d be months, sir!” Lewrie protested. “With no yard, and no replacement timber …!”
“No more than six to eight weeks, most-like,” the Flag-Captain said with a shrug, doing nothing to reassure him. “Our esteemed ‘John Company’ convoy service is now a monthly business. Put in a request to the yards at Bombay, and you could have a spanking-new rudder shipped here for installation. Request goes with the India-half of Treghues’s trade, the rudder arrives… sooner or later.” To make things worse, the senior officer added, with what felt like a malicious little grin, “Assuming that there would be a homebound Indiaman who’d break their passage at the Cape. They usually don’t, even the trades out-bound from China.” Evidently, Lewrie had rankled the man, even with a pose of innocent perplexity plastered on.
“Dear Lord,” he breathed, his shoulders slumping.
“For the nonce, allow me to advert to you the services of the local Dutch chandlers, sir,” the Flag-Captain cheerfully blathered on, making it sound as if he’d gladly foist all responsibility for repairs and stores well-wide of the Cape Station’s limited funds, and place it all squarely on Lewrie, and his purse. “Have you been ashore, yet?”
“Only briefly, sir,” Lewrie said. “Funeral arrangements.”
“They’re most capable, and passably well-stocked. From the very first days of Dutch settlement, they’ve brought in farmers, servants, and slaves from their Far East colonies. ‘Tis an ‘all-nations,’ like a dram shop, ha ha!” the Flag-Captain chuckled. “Javanese, Sumatrans, Malays, Hindoos, Lascars, even Chinamen. Some of whom are fishermen, boatmen, and pearl and oyster divers, d’ye see, sir? The local Dutch myhneers could put you in the way of some who could survey the damage to your ship, do the preparatory work for you, without need to careen your ship on some beach, what?”
“Well, that’s a grand idea, sir!” Lewrie said, perking up considerably. “I’ll, ah…take no more of your busy time, then, sir.”
“Anything needful, send word, once you conduct your initial survey, and we’ll see what we might possibly do for you, Captain Lewrie.”
“Shore liberty for my people, sir?” Lewrie off-handedly asked, hoping that the Cape Squadron had not yet gotten word of what had happened on St. Helena.
“Within reason,” was the Flag-Captain’s reply. “Cape Province is the Land of The Lotus Eaters, so be wary of allowing your tars any freedom beyond the immediate town environs. ‘Tis all too possible for a man to live well off the back-country. More than half the Dutch are what they call trekboers, who live semi-nomadic …herds, waggons, and kinfolk, native slaves and all, stopping just long enough to plant the staple crops, then moving on when the land plays out…or, they get bored, I expect,” the Flag-Captain said, rising to indicate that their interview was over. “There’s more than a few sailors, well-paid hands off Indiamen and passing traders, who run no risk of battle such as we do, have ‘run’ and taken up the life. Damned fools.”
“Thankee for the warning, sir,” Lewrie told him, gathering up his hat and such. “I will caution my officers and warrants t’be wary.”
” ‘Tis such a pity, though…that so much of the beguiling wildlife can kill you.”
“Kill, sir?” Lewrie asked, trying not to gawp. The two times he had broken his passage at Kaapstad, as the Dutch called it, in ‘84 and ‘86 between the wars, he hadn’t gotten into the back-country; taverns, restaurants, and rich-gentlemen’s brothels had been more beguiling to his tastes. A spirited horseback ride on a hired “prad” from Kaapstad and Table Bay to Simon’s Town on Simon’s and False Bay represented his best effort at “exploration”…and there’d been clean posting-houses and taverns all along the way, too.
“Oh, God yes!” the Flag-Captain exclaimed with a moue. “Snakes and scorpions, spiders, biting ants, biting flies, and such? They are as vicious and deadly as a pack of hungry lions. Wild beasts running in herds so vast they blanket the land, miles across. Not to mention a large assortment of fierce native tribes, simply keen on poisoning their spears and arrows.
“God only knows what the Dutch hoped to make of a toe-hold in Africa, other than a way station on the way to the riches of the Far East. And, now we have possession of it, God only knows of what avail ‘twill prove to be to us, hah?”
“Well, at one time, one might’ve said much the same of North America, sir,” Lewrie drolly pointed out.
“Oh, quite right!” the Flag-Captain hooted, in much mirth over Lewrie’s quip. “Quite right, indeed! Ah, empire! What a grand and glorious thing for Britons to own …’til one must actually go take a squint at it, close up, and be confronted with its sweaty, itchy, and uncomfortably fatal nature. Look at India, for God’s sake! Best of luck with your repairs, Captain Lewrie. Any difficulties, don’t hesitate to ask,” he vowed, though how much aid he’d actually be was a moot question. Beyond the stores ship, it would be up to them, alone.
At least armed with some more-than-credible things for his crew to dread when they went ashore, preventing mass desertion, Lewrie went back aboard his frigate. Once the ritual salute was done, he went aft to the taffrails to stare long and hard at the inviting shore, leaning on the cap-rails on his elbows, most lubberly.
Two guns short, even if there was enough seasoned timber ashore or in stores to re-mount them on new truck-carriages; unless the Prize Court really had captured 12-pounders, he would have to accept sailing with a weaker gun battery. Assuming Bombay had a slab of seasoned oak big enough for a new rudder, the stores ship had it, and would really give it up!, the Dutch chandlers had it, well… sailing might be a moot point, too. Six, possibly nine, hands short, if Mr. Hodson’s sad diagnoses proved correct, with nigh a dozen more prime sailors recuperating from wounds, and on light duties for weeks more, to boot. There wasn’t even an official naval hospital ashore, not yet, and Admiralty seemed loath to spend ha’pence more on the Cape Town Station than absolutely necessary, so Lewrie supposed that he would have to rent a place in the town, something airy, clean, and shady where his wounded sailors could recover, for the small sick-bay near the forecastle aboard ship was the worst sort of make-shift sick-berth.
One comfort: the long-settled Dutch, no matter how much rancour ex
isted ‘twixt them and the English, were also Protestant Christians, with none of the intolerance for other faiths that obtained in Spanish, or Catholic, lands. There had already been an established, but small, Church of England parish to serve the needs of transient British sailors in Cape Town, and the church’s rector had most-kindly offered his services, and his graveyard, where Lewrie’s dead were now buried. With a real churchman to officiate, a hand-pumped organ and organist to accompany the heartfelt hymns, and altar boys to both assist the rector in his duties and form the core of a tiny choir which had turned out to honour fellow Englishmen as they went under the earth, the service had been much more satisfying to one and all than anything that Lewrie could have done, with his battered Book of Common Prayer in one hand, and equally tattered hymn book in the other, awkwardly reciting ritual by the starboard entry-port as the dead were tipped over the side, one by one, sewn into a canvas shroud with round-shot at their feet, a last stitch through their noses, sliding from the carrying board from under the Ensign to plunge into the unfathomable, abyssal depths.
It was best, though, that his dead had come ashore already sewn into their sail-canvas shrouds, for two of the six had come from among his “Black Jamaican volunteers”—Landsman George Anson and Ordinary Seaman Jemmy Hawke—and Lewrie was mortal-certain that the vigourous youngish rector, kindly as he’d seemed, would have raised a torrent of objections had he seen Blacks going into the ground beside Whites!
“They were related to those august gentlemen, were they?” he had comfortingly enquired in a private moment. “How horrible ‘twill be for such famous naval families to learn of such early demises for kin, who had their promising careers ended so tragically early. Should I write letters of condolence, perhaps…?”
“No kin to former admirals, nossir,” Lewrie had had to say with a straight and mournful face, suddenly amused nigh to titters with the astonishment everyone would evince were the shrouds opened, or letters sent to the Anson and Hawke families back in England. “In fact, they were but common sailors, good men, but without any ties to gentlemanly families, I fear. Men volunteer, or declare themselves when ‘pressed,’ under false names. Take false names to avoid being taken up by civil authorities, were they wrongdoers before, d’ye see.”
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