“What a crosspatch he is.” Lewrie sighed. From the way Treghues regarded Rodney, he must be one of his—not a good sign. Rodney was famed for incredibly bad judgement in appointments.
But the cobbing he had received could not dampen his joy to be aboard any sort of ship once more, and Desperate was magnificent. She was 110 feet on the range of the lower deck, a bit over 30 in beam, of 450 tons burthen. Piercing her upper deck bulwarks were eighteen six-pounder cannon, with two of the new eighteen-pounder carronades on her foc’s’l, short guns mounted on swivelling slides that fired bursting shot to no great range—“Smashers”—he was dying to try them out.
Desperate carried Treghues, a first lieutenant named Railsford, Mr. Monk the sailing master and two mates, one bosun and mate, one warrant gunner, one gunner’s mate and a yeoman of the powder room, a surgeon named Dorne and a mate, five quartergunners, one carpenter and mate, one armorer, one master-at-arms, two quartermasters and mates, a yeoman of the sheets, one coxswain, four carpenter’s crew, one ship’s corporal, a sailmaker and one sailmaker’s assistant, one captain’s clerk, the young purser named Cheatham and his steward, four midshipmen, four young boy fifers and drummers, eighteen boyservants, and fifty-six men rated as either ordinary or able seamen, or landsmen. She also carried Marines; a lieutenant named Peck, one sergeant, one corporal, and thirty private soldiers.
She was a 6th Rate, the smallest type of ship-rigged frigate in the fleet, and with Lewrie joining her, was fortunate to be only six hands short of full complement.
Desperate was too light for the line of battle with her four-inch oak scantlings and beams on twenty-inch centers. She was too fast to be tied to a squadron, but also too well armed to waste on despatches like Parrot. Desperate was what was coming to be known as a “cruizer”; she was a huntress on her own in the most likely places to seek out, take, or burn enemy merchantmen, privateers and light naval units.
Lewrie entered the midshipmen’s berth to find his new mess mates lounging about the small compartment, sandwiched in without air by storerooms and the mate’s dog boxes. The total space was about twelve-by-ten, with barely five feet of headroom between the beams. There was a polished table down the center for dining, chests for seats, and pegs for storage of handy items.
“Hullo. I’m Alan Lewrie,” he said to them, reliving that scene long ago when he had reported below in Ariadne. But there was a difference; he had nearly fifteen months in the Navy, and knew what sort of drudgery and folderol to expect now. He was introduced to the others. There was Peter Carey, a ginger-haired boy of thirteen with the usual modest squirearchy background. There was a gotch-gutted sixteen-year-old pig named Francis Forrester. He was quick to point out that it was the Honorable Francis Forrester, and his elegant manners and his drawling, superior voice made it abundantly clear that he looked on Lewrie’s arrival as another mark of the reduction in tone of their mess.
Lewrie’s other companion was also sixteen, a dark and merry Cornish boy that Lewrie had known slightly long before when posted to the Ariadne after it had become a receiving ship. He and David Avery had gone roaming English Harbor together, and had enjoyed each other’s company, before Avery had joined an armed transport.
Alan carefully removed and folded up his fine new uniform. He packed the waistcoat away for Sunday Divisions, slipped out of his snowy breeches and dug out a ragged pair of slop trousers. He exchanged his silk stockings for cotton, wrapped his best shoes and donned a cracked pair. His worst faded and stained coat he hung up on a peg. Sadly, he packed the hanger away in his open chest and fetched out his dirk, now showing signs of wear around that “best gold-plate pommel.”
“Pretty hanger.” Forrester pouted like a sow, picking it up and studying it. “But your parents should have known better.”
“It was a recent gift,” Alan said, meaning to get off to a fair start, if allowed. “For saving my last captain his ship.”
“Yess,” Forrester drawled. “Avery has been regaling us with the heroism of your derring-do.” He sheathed the hanger and tossed it into Lewrie’s chest like a poor discard at a secondhand shop.
“Did you really kill a man in a duel?” Carey asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes. Dead as cold, boiled mutton. He insulted a young lady of my acquaintance,” Alan boasted, even-toned.
“Carey, we must remember to tremble before the anger of our new manslaughtering Hector,” Forrester said. “Even if he is, by length of service, junior to you. How long at sea, Lewrie?”
“A year. Fifteen months total.”
“Then I am still senior,” Forrester said, pleased to hear it. “June of ’76.”
“We’re not lieutenants, Forrester,” Avery replied. “I actually predate you by a whole month, if the truth be known. We’re all equal here.”
“Ah, the rebellious Adamses and Thomas Paines have been after you again,” Forrester said in a way that Lewrie could only think of as greasy. “Remember that I have the signals and you don’t, so that makes me senior. And I trust that any new errant newlies shall remember that.”
“We had a man who said much the same thing in Ariadne,” Lewrie said, taking a pew on his closed chest. “He died.”
“Would be having the gall to threaten me?” Forrester’s piggy eyes were squinted.
“Now why should I do a thing like that? I’m but stating a fact. You remember me mentioning him, don’t you, Avery?”
“Oh, you mean Mister the Honorable … what was his name?”
“Fotheringfop,” Lewrie said. “Ferdinand Fotheringfop.”
“Choked on his beef bones, didn’t he?” Avery said.
“No, that was Mister the Honorable D’Arcy DeBloat.”
“And what, pray, did he die of?” Avery was playing along, to the great delight of young Carey, who was already stifling a grin.
“Fotheringfop was so elevated an individual, with such an airy opinion of himself that his head swelled one morning at dawn Quarters. We tried to save him and got a gantline to him, but he pulled the maint’gallantmast right out of her. Last seen drifting for Panama. Crew did a little hornpipe of despair at his passing. Sad, it was.” Lewrie pretended to grieve.
Forrester snorted at the foolishness and left the midshipmen’s berth for the upper deck, while Carey dared to laugh out loud and Avery pronounced Lewrie a fellow that would do.
“What a fubsy, crusty thing it is,” Lewrie observed of their mess mate. “What does he expect us to do, carry his scepter for him, or just be his fags?”
“Just a puffed-up dilberry.” Avery shrugged. “Probably afraid we know more than him and show him up before his lord and master.”
“Fat pig,” Carey said, softly.
“Carey, what were the other midshipmen like?” Lewrie asked.
“Dodds was twenty or so. But I’ve never seen anyone drink so much all the time. The captain finally threw him out, said he’d never make an officer, or live long enough to take the exam.”
“Good relations to the captain?” Lewrie probed.
“I think he was a cater-cousin.” Carey frowned. “The other … Montgomery, he was real smart, and nice. He was a year older than me but he knew everything. He got washed overboard in a gale last month north of St. Lucia. He was my friend.” Carey sniffled.
Lewrie shared a look with Avery. They could imagine what the mess had been like for Carey, with one raging sponge in his cups all the time, the brutish Forrester lording it over all the others, and only Montgomery to shield the younger boy. Carey gave no sign that he was a mental giant, or in any way assertive. Just a scared and homesick child, mediocre at best when it came to duty and too small and weak to perform like a real sailor.
“Well, there’s a new order here, by God,” Avery told him with a rap on the shoulder. “Just let the cow-arse try to push his weight around…”
“Of which he has considerable,” Lewrie added.
“Aye, and we’ll fix him,” Avery said. “Right, Lewrie?”
“Amen to that,”
Lewrie intoned with mock piety.
“You can’t go too far, though,” Carey said. “I mean, Treghues and Forrester … they’re not related, but you’d think Forrester was his brother.”
“Plays the favorite, does your captain?”
“I shouldn’t say it, but he—”
“A wonderful berth,” Avery sighed. “And I thought that rotten armed transport was bad.”
“Hell with it,” Lewrie said. “I hear she’s made her people a pot of prize money, and she goes her own way looking for fame and fortune. We’re in the right place. Now all we have to do is to convince our captain that we’re the right midshipmen for him.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Avery said. “Here, Lewrie, you wouldn’t have a neckcloth that would pass Divisions, have you?”
* * *
Just before departure, mail came aboard, and Lewrie was surprised to have two packets. Sir Hugo was actually living up to his end of the bargain and had sent him a rouleau of one hundred guineas. Well, actually, the solicitor Mr. Pilchard had sent it. There was no letter attached, and that was no disappointment, but the money was most welcome.
The next was from Lucy Beauman. He had been isolated aboard Ariadne following the duel, then rapidly transferred to Desperate and had not been allowed to see her, though he had sent her a letter that he was not sure her aunt and uncle would allow her to see.
There was belated fear for his life, wonderment at his courage, a recital of prayers said for him, a brief screed against Wyndham, who had not struck her as a trustworthy gentleman, a denial that she had encouraged him in the slightest manner (which Lewrie doubted … she was a girl, wasn’t she?), profound relief at his victory and survival, deep despair at being denied his presence, grief and tears at their cruel separation (but more prayers for success at his new endeavors in Desperate) and fond hopes of a quick reunion.
She enclosed an embroidered handkerchief for him, scented and splashed with her tears, binding up a generous lock of her honey gold hair. There was also Old Isaac’s completed juju bag, which he was to hang about his neck immediately and never remove. Lewrie was leery as to that instruction; the bag had a redolence of badly cured goat skin, tidal effluvia and perhaps the slight admixture of chicken guts. She wrote:
I shall wate with constant Longing for your Safe Retern, that we may avale ourselves once more of that mutuol Pleasure in our companyunship, and may agane strole without Cares on that particular Strand I have cumm to regard as a most Blesed and Speshul Place.
Awl my Fondness Goe With You, Lucy
Someone should teach the little mort to spell, he thought, but was touched by her sentiments, and by her evident love for him. He took time to pen her a proper but passionate reply, the sort that would turn a young girl’s head for a while. As a fillip, he enclosed a lock of his own hair (still fairly short). Then it was time to sail.
* * *
Admiral Rodney had plugged one hole in the dyke against all the supplies from Europe that reached the rebellious Colonies by taking the island of St. Eustatius, a major smuggling and transshipment port for naval and military stores and a convenient outlet for American produce and manufactured goods with which they partly paid for all the French, Spanish and Dutch largesse.
By keeping the expected flags flying, and with secret recognition signals, Rodney kept the island open, luring in ships that had no chance to be apprised of the change of ownership. It was resulting in scores of captures.
Desperate was sent north with a roving commission to hunt down ships hoping to use St. Eustatius.
Barely ten days after coming aboard, Lewrie emerged on deck one fine brisk morning sated with a good breakfast of thin-sliced fried pork, boiled egg and crumbled biscuit in treacle. He was still smacking his lips and regretting not being able to enjoy a second cup of coffee when the lookout gave a loud hail to the deck below, ending any thoughts of sail drill for the Forenoon watch.
“Sail ho!” he bellowed. “Three points off the larboard bow!”
Lieutenant Railsford chose Avery to dash aloft to confirm the sighting, and Avery handed Lewrie his hat, brushed back his black hair and ran for the mainmast crosstrees.
Treghues came on deck in breeches and waistcoat and went to the wheel, waiting for a report. Peck, the gangly young blond Marine officer, came up, eager for action.
“Two sail, sir,” Avery said. “Schooner and brig. Headed due north, under all plain sail.”
“Mister Monk,” Treghues called. “Alter course to chase, and we shall crack on all sail she can stand. Stuns’ls, too.”
“Bosun!” their stocky, dark sailing master relayed. “All hands aloft and make sail. Trice up and lay out for stuns’ls.”
The single night reef in the courses and tops’ls was shaken out, and Lewrie went aloft to the t’gallant mast as the yards were raised up by the jears. Below him on the main course yard, hands were extending the stuns’l booms, bending on canvas to spread every stitch their ship could fly. Desperate leaned her shoulder firmly to the sea and began to soar across the moderate seas, smashing into the odd wave, but slicing clean through the regular set of rollers, her wake boiling.
By ten in the Forenoon she had run the schooner hull-up before her, and the brig beyond showed all her sail plan; clearly they were overtaking handily, which suggested ships too heavily loaded to run. Desperate was already towing one boat, and put another down to be ready with boarding parties. Lewrie hoped that he would be entrusted with one of those parties.
Just after Clear-Deck-And-Up-Spirits at seven bells of the Forenoon they beat to Quarters and manned their guns. Lunch would be delayed, but with the prospect of prizes ahead, no one minded.
Treghues had gone below to catch up on paper-work with his clerk, interview the purser and pretend that there was nothing to get excited about, while Lewrie fretted and stewed in impatience. And when their captain did emerge he was close-shaved, dressed in a good coat and cocked hat, his small sword hung “just-so” from his belt frog.
When they had the schooner within range of a six-pounder, just about six cables off, she took one look and raised her rebel colors to satisfy honor, then quickly hauled them down and rounded to into the wind. Mr. Feather, a burly master’s mate, and Midshipman Forrester went over in the first cutter to take charge of her with ten hands.
“Good man, Forrester,” Treghues commented to Railsford by the quarterdeck nettings. “He’ll keep our prize safe.”
“Aye, sir,” Railsford agreed dutifully but without much enthusiasm. Lewrie stood close by and heard this exchange and weighed it for what he thought it was worth. In his short time aboard he had found that young Forrester had a reputation much like Rolston in Ariadne when it came to discipline and tautness.
Then they were off again in pursuit of the brig. Treghues ordered stand-easy for the gun crews, but unlike old Bales he had had the ship properly cleared for action, though their chase might be a mere smuggler and not a privateer or warship. He was taking no chances, and Lewrie approved. Their captured schooner fell in line-astern far back, so loaded she was barely able to stay in sight.
Water and cheese and biscuit was brought up to the gun crews as they stood easy for a cold dinner with the galley-fire extinguished. Lewrie stood in the waist of the ship by the mainmast, idling on the jear bitts and chewing his dry dinner. The cheese was a navy-issue Suffolk, more like crumbling rock than cheese. Giving up on making a meal on it, he brushed his hands and stood on the jear bitts for a better view.
The brig was now well hull-up, perhaps a league off and still being overhauled. Lewrie imagined that she was badly laden besides being heavily loaded. Her bow seemed to slough and make a large wave even with her forecourse spread taut for its lifting effect. Had her bow ridden higher, lessening her resistance, she might have made a knot more. And as low in the water as she looked, her shallower draft would be of no avail in the maze of islands ahead to the nor-nor’west, where she could normally expect to lose the frigate with her deeper draft.<
br />
“Got a good view, Mister Lewrie?” Treghues asked, hands behind his back and staring up at him as he paced the gun deck to inspect his hands.
“Aye, sir.” Lewrie climbed down to doff his hat.
“Learning anything?”
“Aye, sir. She draws a foot deeper forrard,” Lewrie said. “He’ll have to shift a pair of guns, or some cargo, or he’s ours before two hours pass.”
“Indeed,” Treghues said, shocked to hear such talk from a midshipman. “But he can always get a favorable slant of wind. Get into those islands.”
“Aye, he could, sir,” Lewrie persisted. “But the Trades hereabouts drop off around the First Dog, sir, and he’s too deep to risk shoal water. We’re balanced, more sail aloft and have a longer waterline,” Alan vowed, preening a bit.
“So you are confident.” Treghues smiled, using the moment to put life into his crew.
“That I am, sir.”
“We’ll have him, lads. Our new midshipman believes so, so we must, eh? A little more gold in your pockets would not go amiss.”
Treghues passed on to trade joshes with the quartergunners, mostly of the squire-to-tenant “how do your sheep keep, old ’un” variety with the expected reply of bright smiles and much tugging of forelocks, leaving Lewrie abashed. He had tried to make a good impression on the captain concerning his skill and nautical knowledge so that he would think of him as competent and equal to Forrester, but now he was the silent butt of the crew’s humor.
Goddamn him, Lewrie fumed, busying himself with looking at train tackles; I didn’t deserve that.
Before another hour had passed, the brig wore to larboard slightly and opened fire at extreme long range with a six-pounder gun, the ball dropping far short but good evidence of her intent to fight.
I’d get the stuns’ls in, Lewrie thought, peering aloft. If I were the chase I’d wear hard onto the wind, lay her full-and-by to the nor’east and beat up toward St. Barts. Maybe gain a league before we got ourselves sorted out … A Molly or not, he had to give Lieutenant Kenyon credit for a superb education in ship-handling and how to draw out a stern chase, as they had once off Anegada, pursued by that privateer.
The King's Coat Page 30
