Lewrie came back aboard littered with chicken feathers after ferrying the last major items on the gun room’s shopping lists, and was told to wash up and muster aft in the captain’s cabins at the beginning of the First Dog Watch. He was welcomed in by the officers and senior warrants. Commander Treghues’ servant was circulating with claret and pouring liberally.
“Gentlemen, I have summoned you aft to announce some good fortune that has come our way,” Treghues began, glass in hand. “Good fortune for every hand, every man-jack.”
Railsford sat nearby, already in on the secret and smiling at his ease for once now that the ship was anchored and nothing could go wrong to upset a first lieutenant’s peace—for a while, at least.
“Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews has informed me that the Admiralty Prize Court has made a determination on some of our recent prizes. In their infinite wisdom they have found time for our tawdry little affairs instead of dealing exclusively with Admiral Rodney and St. Eustatius.”
Bloody hell, quit being coy and get on with it! Lewrie had noticed that Treghues loved the sound of his own voice and wit.
“Since April we have taken two brigs, a brigantine, two schooners and two local sloops in these waters. That does not count our latest two prizes.” Treghues went on to enumerate all the various war supplies denied the rebels, all the outward-bound products, until Lewrie was ready to scream.
“My agent informs me,” Treghues said with the slightest glance to his right, which Lewrie spotted. It was Cheatham! He was the prize agent. There was five percent total in it for him. No wonder he smiled all the time. “We have amassed a total of £14,551, 8 shillings 9 pence. And … we shall receive a partial payout tomorrow … in gold!”
The tumult which resulted would have raised the hair of Mohawk Indians, and Lewrie was sure that the full news was already circulating on the lower deck barely before the words had drawled out of Treghues’ mouth.
Sir Onsley would get an eighth. Two-eighths would go to Treghues. The officers—Railsford, Lieutenant Peck, Mr. Monk, Dr. Dorne and Cheatham—split an eighth; the senior warrants, master’s mates and Admiral Matthews’ secretary split an eighth; the midshipmen, petty officers, quartermasters and their mates, the bosun’s mate and a few others took an eighth; and the rest of the crew received the final two-eighths.
Lewrie did some rapid calculations. He would get a little over seventy-two pounds, more than a lieutenant made in a 1st Rate ship of the line for a year’s work! Naturally, he would not see ten pounds of it in real money, but it was welcome.
“Now there’s going to be about three pounds per man paid out in coin and the rest in certificates. I want you all to warn your men in your watches and divisions to watch out for the sharks who’ll try to buy them out for twenty percent in ready money,” Treghues warned. “I believe there’ll be some few who have allotment papers on the books who’ll want it forwarded all, or in part, to their parents or families. We’re anchored far enough out to prevent someone going out a gun port, and Antigua is an island, after all. Each of you pick out the men most likely to run, and let the rest go ashore for a two-day leave. Mister Lewrie, you have a good copperplate hand. See my clerk and begin writing out blank leave-tickets. Mind you, any man who runs, or overstays his leave, ruins it for the rest of his subdivision or watch, and I’ll have him run the gauntlet when he’s fetched back aboard. I want to see liberty lists tomorrow in the forenoon.”
Another idea foundered, Lewrie thought, amazed at what he learned from Treghues, for all his coyness and preachifying. No one had talked to him of leave. He assumed the men stayed aboard from the beginning of the commission ’til the ship paid off, without a chance to go ashore except in a supervised working party. But if the man was owed back pay and prize money, it made sense to let him have his fun ashore, especially on an island. How could he walk away from two years’ wages, and enough in prize-certificates to set him up for life? And the crew had been together for a long while; they were used to each other, less eager to change their situation for something new. How much had poor Harrison sacrificed back there in Portsmouth when he took “leg-bail” and ran inland with his skinny little wife?
“Admiral Matthews also informs me that whatever we lack in manpower shall be made good at his personal selection,” Treghues told them after they had calmed down from the momentous news. “This is quite an honor for us to receive, possibly the last people personally spoken for by our squadron admiral before he hauls down his flag.”
What? Lewrie thought, almost choking on Treghues’ excellent claret. Hauling down his flag? How soon? God, there goes my one source of interest in the West Indies. Now what the hell’s going to happen to me?
He had been in the Fleet long enough to know that petticoat influence in London did not count for that much—civilians could not get into naval affairs. Petticoat influence was only good when the petticoats controlled naval influence.
Officers normally gathered to them in their ships, and in their squadrons and fleets and staffs, men they could count on, from able seamen to post-captains, and were judged by how wisely they chose protégés to sponsor and promote and aid throughout their careers. They also expected others of their close acquaintance to aid their followers, and were prepared to aid followers of others in a fair swap of “interest.”
There was only one requirement that never varied—you could not advance a total fool, for the abiding needs of the Navy came first, last and always. And it took a certain political skill to play the game right. Admiral Rodney did not, had recommended poor choices and promoted unprepared people when in command of foreign stations beyond the immediate reach of Whitehall, abusing the system, angering friends.
“Do you need some water, Mister Lewrie?” Treghues asked.
“No, thankee, sir. I was already spending my share on a very tasty meal.” Lewrie coughed.
“Got carried away, eh? Remember to swallow first, that’s always the way. A midshipman’s stomach controls his brains, and then there’s all hell to pay.” Treghues chuckled.
Lewrie did not in the least feel like smiling, but it was a social occasion and he had to show a civil face, so he grinned sheepishly, which was what midshipmen were good at … was what Treghues expected from his young gentlemen.
“Do you know how soon Sir Onsley will be going home, sir?” Alan had to enquire.
“His replacement, Sir George Sinclair, is purported to be on his way already.”
“Sir Onsley and Lady Maude have been most kind to me, sir. I shall miss him. Came as a shock.” Alan sighed.
Treghues nodded, remembering that Lewrie himself was one of Sir Onsley’s followers. “Then you shall be relieved to know that Sir Onsley shall be appointed to the Admiralty Board upon his return to London,” Treghues said, handing him the tacit reassurance that the admiral could still look out for him even thousands of miles away.
“There is also a scheme that Admiral Rodney wished to put into action regarding these so-called neutral islands,” Treghues informed his gathering. “I cannot reveal any details as of yet, but you can be sure that Desperate shall play a part in it, and it may promise to be a most rewarding part, for the public good, and our private gain.”
* * *
Once Desperate began to let her people ashore in manageable batches for shore leave, Mr. Monk and the bosun discovered a healthy crop of underwater growth on her bottom. She should have put to sea immediately once her people were back inboard, but it was thought a good opportunity to bream her.
This involved everyone in nearly a week of heavy labor, hoisting out all her guns, powder and shot, beef and pork barrels, striking her masts down to maintops and gantlines, and warping her into the inner harbor where she was careened at low tide on a sand bank so the dock workers could burn and scour her bottom clean, then coat her with a mix of sulfur, tallow and pitch to retard future marine growth.
While she was empty, the carpenter and his crew inspected her for rot in her bilges and below-water beams and
keel members. She was pronounced healthy for at least another year in the tropics, where any proud ship could be eaten down to hollow kindling once the teredo worms got to her.
With nearly a knot and a half restored to her best speed, they floated her upright and began to reload her. They had just begun to hoist topmasts once she was back at her moorings when the day’s work was interrupted by the sound of a salute being fired.
Lewrie went up the shrouds with a glass, eager for a chance to take a breather, and watched a handsome thirty-two-gun frigate ghosting into harbor, firing a salute to Hood and the forts. At her mizzen truck she flew a broad pendant, the sign of a commodore or rear admiral.
“So that’s our new commodore,” Lewrie said, half to himself. “We won’t sail right away, not if Matthews will be hauling down his flag. We shall all want to get to know the new man.”
* * *
It was a farewell ball for Sir Onsley and Lady Maude, and the introductory social event for Commodore Sir George Sinclair. The harbor gleamed in another of those splendid West Indies sunsets that Alan had come to enjoy so much, though there was not a breath of wind and the summer evening was close, hot and humid. By the time their party from Desperate had climbed the hill road on foot to Admiralty House, their shirts and waistcoats were glued to them by sweat. Fortunately there was, like a tops’l breeze, a cooling breath of the Trades once atop the hill, and servants offered towels so they could mop themselves down.
Admiral Hood was present, standing tall and slim and beaky over the normal-sized guests, surrounded by a set of admirers. Sir Onsley and Lady Maude were off in a corner with less of a coterie; he was now only a half-pay rear admiral of the red, and sycophants no longer had to be quite so attentive. The crowd had transferred their attention to the newest officer by the buffets, eager to get a first look at their new Commodore. That was where the Dockyard Superintendent, the Master Attendant and the Prize Court Agents lurked and simpered.
Admiral Rodney had gone home with his fabulous prize fleet, so Treghues had to settle for lesser lights, and led them first to Sir Onsley. Their former admiral looked even fatter than ever, ever-strangling in a neckcloth too tight for him, and Lady Maude had chosen a bilious purple-and-grey satin sackgown, a poor comparison to her complexion. If it weren’t for Sir Onsley’s uniform they would have looked like servants.
“Sir Onsley … Lady Maude. Your servant, sir…”
“Oh, Alan Lewrie,” Lady Maude said. “My, they feed you well in Desperate. You must have grown another inch since we saw you last.”
“We have been living quite well for a cruiser, Lady Maude.”
“Mister Lewrie,” Sir Onsley said, offering his hand. “You are looking ‘Bristol Fashion,’ I must say.”
“Thank you, Sir Onsley. I … I was most distressed to hear you and Lady Maude would be going back to England,” Lewrie began, trying to make his prepared speech sound natural. “May I say that I shall always be grateful for your and Lady Maude’s many kindnesses and considerations. I hope your voyage is tranquil, and your next post rewarding.”
“Thankee, Mister Lewrie. Most kind,” Sir Onsley said. “I’ll miss the islands, damme if I won’t. But, you have to make way for younger men.”
“I am certain the islands shall miss you, too, Sir Onsley. I’m sure I speak for many who served under you.” He smiled. Yes, they’ll miss the sight of Glatton sitting out there like the Pharos, Lewrie thought.
“Be odd not to have a sea command after all these years,” Sir Onsley maundered on, now well into his wine cups.
“Sir George Sinclair would have to be a most impressive officer to replace you, sir. Or match our record of success in reducing the number of privateers and all,” Lewrie said, wondering if he really knew when to stop toadying before even Sir Onsley noticed.
“We have stuck a dry bone in Brother Jonathan’s throat, have we not?” Sir Onsley chuckled. Dead-lazy or not, Sir Onsley was going home rich as Croesus from prize money reaped by his squadron.
“Only thing I regret is I’m going to miss the last act out here,” Sir Onsley said. “Here, walk with me and we’ll have some wine, boy. Do you know anything about DeGrasse?”
Something to eat? Lewrie thought. “No, sir.”
“Damn crafty Frog admiral. Left Brest back in the spring and he got down to Martinique with a huge convoy and a fleet of line-of-battle ships. Sam Hood’s crossed swords with him once so far, pretty much of a draw. But he’s here for a purpose, and it won’t be good when it comes. Met Sam Hood yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Then come with me.”
And before Lewrie knew it, he was bowing to that worthy, who looked down that long nose at him. Sir Onsley bubbled on about Lewrie’s record and what ship he was in at present.
“Yes, Mister Lewrie,” Hood said with a meager smile. “Believe I read something about Ariadne. Knew Bales long ago, you know. And it was Parrot, I believe, before Desperate?”
“Aye, sir,” Lewrie said, almost quivering with excitement. The admiral had indeed actually heard something of him.
“Damn glad to meet you, Mister Lewrie. You keep up that sort of work,” Hood told him, before shifting his eyes away.
“I shall, sir,” Lewrie promised, allowing himself to be led off by Sir Onsley.
“Put in a word for you. Never hurts for him to remember what you look like,” Sir Onsley said, now firmly playing naval politics. “He must have a thousand midshipmen, but he’ll know you.”
And you’ll be on the Board at the Admiralty, giving advice and support to Hood, so he’s amenable to a good relationship with you, but at what price? Lewrie speculated, sipping his wine, noticing for the first time that it was champagne and as cold as mortal sin.
“Ah, I see Treghues has already found our new commodore,” Sir Onsley noted, jutting his chin across the room to point at Alan’s captain and a thin, reedy stick of a man in a coat a bit too faded to be fashionable at a ball. Still, it was laced as a captain’s coat, but for the buttons set in threes. Sir George Sinclair wore a tight periwig with close side curls, emphasizing the skin as dark as any foredeck hand, making those sharp eyes and down-turned hook of a nose appear even more daunting.
“A real taut hand, is Sinclair,” Sir Onsley continued. “Put up his first broad pendant when the French came in in ’78, and was a real terror off Bordeaux, I’m told. Got knighted at Quiberon Bay in the last war and earned it three times over. We are not close, but I did have a chance to mention a few people by way of recommendation. I do not think you would mind if Sir George knew of my regard for you.”
“Not at all, sir. Your thoughtfulness at a time like this is … I cannot find the words, Sir Onsley.”
It was heady stuff to be endorsed as able by a man who now had distant control over the officers he would be answering to in future. Lewrie had not thought to wonder how well regarded Sir Onsley was when it came to choosing followers. But he had yet to hear that he was as inept as Admiral Rodney, so it might be alright for his career.
He felt success falling like a laurel wreath in some fever dream, slow and catchable, right into his outstretched hands. He had won over Captain Bales, had convinced Kenyon of his ability—even if Kenyon was a Molly, Alan still respected his skills. He had caught Sir Onsley’s eye as a comer, was well recommended to Admiral Hood (another comer), and now was most likely going to cap the evening by winning the same notice from his new admiral of the squadron!
Why had he not joined the Navy years ago, so that he then could have been entered on ships’ books for six years? There was a commission in the offing, and he knew, from asking questions of other midshipmen passed for lieutenant, that he could make a fair showing at the exam.
Sir Hugo may have done me the greatest favor of my life by making me go to sea, he realized.
But standing slightly behind and to one side of Sir George Sinclair was his flag captain, someone Lewrie had known under less auspicious circumstances, and the laurel wreath of success was snatch
ed out of his fingers.
He almost snapped the stem of his wineglass. Not now, not him! Lewrie shivered. Good Christ!
It was Captain Bevan, the very officer who had dragged him from his father’s house. Captain Bevan, who knew enough of his background and the alleged reason for his banishment to ruin him forever. Captain Bevan, the man who had been his jailer in that damned post-chaise to Portsmouth and had shoved him into Ariadne!
“That would not be Captain Bevan with him, Sir Onsley?” Alan said, ready to run or throw up or both.
“Aye, his flag captain. Know him?” Sir Onsley asked.
“We’ve met,” Lewrie mumbled, sinking in a bleak despair.
Lewrie could not escape being led across the salon to Commodore Sinclair’s circle. Up close, the man had that predatory look that Mrs. Hillwood possessed, but Lewrie felt he was not going to get the same sort of gentle treatment.
“Sir George.”
“Sir Onsley.” It was the sound of talons rustling.
“Here’s another of your band, off Desperate. Midshipman Alan Lewrie,” Sir Onsley said proudly. “Commodore Sir George Sinclair, Mr. Lewrie.”
“Your servant, Sir George,” Alan said, summoning up what was left of his nerves, and trying to look plucky and direct.
“Ah yes, Lewrie.” Sir George smiled thinly, which smile was as quickly gone. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Another one of my promising lads, Sir George, like your nephew,” Treghues said. “When he puts his mind to it, of course, ha ha.”
“January of last year, was it not, Mister Lewrie?” Sir George asked with a sniff.
The Navy, the rape, the Gordon Riots, what? Lewrie fumbled at such a surprising question. “Aye, sir. January of ’80.”
“Is that your recollection, Bevan?” Sir George asked his aide.
“I remember it most distinctly, Sir George,” Captain Bevan said, bestowing upon his chief a benign look, then turning to face Lewrie.
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