A Fine Retribution

by Dewey Lambdin

  What could Lewrie say, but “yes”, wish him and Lucy the best, promise a wedding gift, and swear that his house, his household, and his wife’s safety would be in the very best of hands, and leave it to Jessica’s good sense, and a helping hand from his father, Sir Hugo, and his butler, Harwell, to choose a new cook and a footman, and drop in to make sure that Jessica’s way was well-paved as she made the adjustment to living without him.

  Jessica … well, she put as good a face on it as she could, helping him pack, making sure that he had both sets of keys to all of his sea-chests, that he had enough shirts and underdrawers, both wool, cotton, and silk stockings, saw to his glassware, dinner ware, serving bowls, mugs, cups, tea or coffee service, and shiny pewter articles for his side-board and desk, the candle holders and lanthorns to be hung from the overhead beams were all in good order. During the day, at least.

  At night, though, with the servants gone to bed and she and Alan alone, Jessica would allow herself to weep into the pillows, or on his shoulder, tearfully confessing her fears for his safety, the wracking loneliness she’d feel after he was gone, and worrying whether she could cope, after all. Those nights ended in frantic, hotly passionate lovemaking which left them both too spent to fret, or cry.

  Lastly, Lewrie suffered yet another defection from his retinue.

  “Bisquit is getting rather old, Alan,” Jessica said one morning after breakfast, as they took a stroll through the back garden, and gave the dogs their morning romp. Bisquit, Rembrandt, and the wee kitchen ratter/spit turner yelped, postured, dashed, and tousled from one end of the garden to the other, with the terrier, Bully, leaping over both.

  “Aye, I suppose he is,” Lewrie idly agreed, tossing a stick to see which would grab it first. “I’ve no idea how old he was when the Mids snuck him aboard.”

  “He gets along so well with Rembrandt, and Bully,” Jessica said, “and you said that he always had to hide below when you held gun drill, or went into action, poor thing. Trembling in fear for hours after?”

  “Well, he always seemed to get over it,” Lewrie said. “When I got Sapphire, he was eager enough t’go back t’sea with us. Couldn’t keep him from jumpin’ up on the dray waggon, or runnin’ along beside the coach. We gave him a chance t’be a farm dog, but…”

  “I’d think it cruel to take him to sea with you this time, love,” Jessica told him. “You may not have noticed, but Bisquit spends more of his time with Bully and Rembrandt than he does us. Yeovill and Dasher tell me that the three of them sleep close together in the kitchens at night, as snug as a litter of puppies. I’d lay you a wager that did he have a voice, he’d ask you to let him stay with his friends.”

  “Hoy, Bisquit!” Lewrie shouted, and the dog paused in his play for a moment, looked at him, then returned to tail-chasing. “Hmmm … you may be right, darling. A new ship, a sixty-four with over five hundred strangers in her crew, and only a few long-time mates, all of them aft … I couldn’t declare him the ship’s mascot. Vigilance might be teemin’ with mascots already, and might not be ready to accept a Johnny Newcome. It may be kinder, though I’ll miss him dearly.”

  “And you are a kind man, dear Alan,” Jessica praised, hugging him in thanks, and rewarding him with a peck of a kiss from winter-cold lips.

  There was a send-off supper at the Madeira Club which his father attended, along with Sir Malcolm Shockley, the other club founder, then a last night of carousing with Clotworthy Chute and Viscount Draywick, Peter Rushton, during which Lewrie expressed how loath he was to part from his wife after such a short time together.

  “Alan, old fellow,” Clotworthy had drawled, well into his cups, “I fear you’re taking this married thing entirely too seriously!”

  “Egads, man!” Peter Rushton had exclaimed, “It may be for the best. Does a fellow stay yoked to his wife too long, the shine wears off, and one becomes a plodding dray horse. A year or two apart, and when you come back, it’s honeymoon all over again! The Navy just may be saving your marriage! Then, after that, when she does turn lumpish and dull, there’s always time for a fresh, young mistress!”

  “Mistresses, yes!” Clotworthy had roared. “God bless ’em, they’re worth every guinea they screw from us!”

  *   *   *

  His goods waggon was loaded with all his things, and the chests for Yeovill, Deavers, Liam Desmond, and Tom Dasher, and those worthies would coach down to Portsmouth on their own, but for Deavers who would coach with Lewrie, Captain Middleton, and his manservant. A new cook prepared Lewrie’s last breakfast, and a strange new footman served it, very early before dawn, if Lewrie hoped to reach Portsmouth before the dockyard gates were shut at midnight. It was a glumly quiet and cool affair, a frightened silence broken only by the scrape and tinkle of knives and forks on china, of spoons in cups, as if neither Jessica nor Lewrie dared speak, lest the dam on their emotions give way. They sat close together, close enough to touch hands and twine fingers after the plates had been removed, and a last cup of coffee was poured.

  “I would suppose…,” Lewrie began to say.

  “Captain Middleton’s coach is not here, yet, my dear love,” his wife said, squeezing his free hand tighter for a moment, then gave out a startled, stricken gasp as someone rapped on the front door.

  “Speak of the Devil?” Lewrie tried to jape, but it was only her brother, Charles Chenery, who came clumping into the dining room in his best, new Midshipman’s uniform with a rather cheerful “Good morrow, all. Is there time for a cup of coffee? It’s rather cold and foggy this morning.”

  “Ready to go to sea, Mister Chenery?” Lewrie asked, as affably as he could, trying to avoid seeing Jessica’s shivery frowns.

  “Like a race horse, sir, waiting for the starter’s gun,” Chenery replied, heading for the side-board to serve himself, and snatch up a slice of toast from the bread barge. “Before I forget, sir, I fetched along Jessica’s portrait. Madame Pellatan had it crated up for you.”

  “Oh, that’s grand!” Lewrie exclaimed.

  “It’s too misty, too romantic to…,” Jessica said before raising her napkin to her face.

  “Now, Jess, don’t take on so,” her brother tried to cosset her. “As the old saying goes, ‘growl we may, but go we must’, and it’s our duty.”

  “Oh, just…!” Jessica almost spat.

  “Your sea-chest is here, Mister Chenery?” Lewrie asked, giving his wife’s hand another, reassuring squeeze.

  “Aye, sir, in the entry hall,” Chenery said, round bites of his toast and sips of coffee. “I brought away a light sea bag with all my essentials ’til we get aboard ship.”

  “You may just have time to go see Desmond and the lads so they can stow it on the goods waggon, then,” Lewrie directed in the formal way of an order. “If you’d be so good.”

  God, for a loving brother, he’s a clueless arse! Lewrie thought.

  “Ehm, aye aye, sir,” Charley said, catching the hint, and went out to the hallway, still chewing and slurping.

  Lewrie tossed his napkin aside and slid his chair back, preparing to rise. “I would suppose it is time, darling. Sorry, but there it is. Half past Five, when Middleton promised to arrive, so…”

  “Oh, God, Alan, this is hellish!” Jessica declared, her voice breaking, as she sprang to her feet, almost knocking over her chair, and threw herself on him. “Damn the war, damn Napoleon, damn the Navy and … I will miss you so horribly, dearest love. Oh, Alan!”

  He held her close as if to press his entire length against her, lifting her an inch off her toes, and whispered endearments into her hair, between kisses. “I will miss you painfully, longingly … achingly. The last few months of being your husband has been the most wondrous … oh, don’t weep, darling. Sshh, now. I will be back, I swear it. And while I’m gone, I will cherish your memory every moment, the feel of you, your perfume, your laugh, your smile, your teasing.”

  Damned if I don’t mean every word of it, too! he thought.

  “Stiff upper li
p, now, Jessica,” he coaxed. “Let my last image of you be as cheerful as you can manage.”

  “That’d be asking a lot,” she said with a wry note to her voice, a brief bark of dry laughter, “but, I’ll try.” She picked up her discarded napkin to wipe her eyes. “There, better?” she asked, smiling, or trying to.

  “Much better,” Lewrie whispered. “Did you weep, it’d break my heart. Well,” he said, holding her in a looser embrace, “I suppose I should dress, and be ready to greet Captain Middleton.”

  A last, long and lingering passionate kiss, and they went out arm-in-arm to the entry hall so he could belt on his hanger, swaddle himself in his boat-cloak, clap on his bicorne, and don his gloves. Almost immediately, a coach could be heard rattling to a stop before the stoop, followed a moment later by the rap of the heavy brass door knocker. Jessica took a deep breath and smoothed her fingers over her cheeks, then plastered a smile on her face as Pettus, in his new civilian suitings, opened the door to admit Captain Middleton.

  “Ah, ready to go are we, Sir Alan?” Middleton said, right brightly at that ungodly hour. “And Dame Lewrie, my pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am, given the unfortunate circumstances, and may I say that Sir Alan is a most fortunate man, to marry such an attractive lady.”

  “Why, thank you for the compliment, Captain Middleton, even at such an hour,” Jessica replied, dipping him a curtsy and smiling back as fetchingly as she could. “Though, I reckon myself the fortunate one.”

  “And this is my wife’s brother, Midshipman Charles Chenery, sir,” Lewrie added. “My aide, and temporarily our clerk.”

  After the introductions were done, Middleton groped under his boat-cloak and coat to draw out his pocket watch.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Lewrie said. “Time to depart, my love.”

  “Give us a hug, Charley,” Jessica said. “Be a good lad, follow your Captain’s orders, and stay out of trouble. And write, often as you can, to me and Father.”

  “I will, I promise, Jess,” her brother said, sounding as if he was embarrassed by the attention.

  “And, farewell, darling,” Jessica said, giving Lewrie a last, long embrace, and a more formal kiss, now they were in company.

  “Farewell, and adieu, love,” Lewrie replied. “Take care of the beasts.”

  All three dogs were there, drawn by the novelty of guests at such an early hour. Bisquit got up on his hind legs to put his paws on Lewrie’s chest for some last “wubbies”, but he got back down just as quickly, as if he knew that he would be staying.

  Out the door and into the coach the men went, waving at the door and at Jessica, who stood in the rectangle of warm light, before the coachman whipped up and rattled them away.

  Lewrie shut his eyes and took several sorrowful breaths.

  “A hard thing, parting from the wives,” Middleton said.

  “Damned hard,” Lewrie fiercely agreed.

  “I was fortunate enough that my dear wife could sail overseas with me when I had the yards at Gibraltar,” Middlton went on, “and my new posting is here in London. Well, only a month’s separation, before I’m back. Just in time for warmer weather, hah!”

  Oh, do stop yer gob! Lewrie thought; For ha’pence I’d leap from this coach and tell the Navy t’kiss mine arse! This is the hardest parting ever I can remember. Even leavin’ Caroline and the children never hurt this bad.

  “Your good lady had a nice basket packed for the trip, sir,” Deavers spoke up, opening the straw basket and poking round. “Cold ham, slices of last night’s roast, bread, mustard, pickles, berry tarts, and … hmph. What’s this in there for?” he asked himself as he drew forth a long-dried sprig of rosemary. He held it up in the faint glow of a single candle lanthorn.

  “That’d be for me,” Lewrie said with a fond smile. “I wore it on my lapel at our wedding.”

  Damme, does she suspect I’d stray overseas? Lewrie asked himself; She insists on fidelity, then I’ll do my best.

  “Some wee sausages and dry meat strips, too, sirs,” Deavers said. And Chalky, in his wicker cage, let out a loud meow to claim those.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Boat, ahoy!” came a shout from HMS Boston as Lewrie’s hired boat neared its starboard side, steering for the main channels under her entry-port.

  “Aye aye!” a boatman shouted back, showing four fingers aloft to warn Boston that a Post-Captain was arriving, and creating a dash to form a side-party, and hunt up the Bosun and Bosun’s Mate to pipe him aboard.

  The newcomer went up the battens and man-ropes, gaining the deck inboard of the entry-port with a last tug on the cap-rails, and a skip-step as the silver calls tweeted the greeting.

  “Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet,” the newcomer announced himself, doffing his new-styled bicorne hat to the flag and the waiting officers.

  “Ehm, Lieutenant Fletcher, sir, First Officer,” the senior-most officer replied, doffing his own. “I say … we’ve met before, sir … I was Agent Afloat for the cavalry transports you escorted to Cape Town five years ago.”

  “Ah, Mister Fletcher, aye,” Lewrie said, smiling and offering his hand. “You were partially lamed, then, as I recall. It is good to see that you’ve recovered, and gained a proper sea berth.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Fletcher said, grateful to be remembered. “I must ask, sir … you are come aboard to command? We all thought the ship is to be stricken.” His junior officers looked anxious that the frigate would get a last-second reprieve, too.

  “I fear she will be, Mister Fletcher,” Lewrie told him, “But I am come to ah, commandeer, as it were. I have need of your services, and those of your officers and Mids, as well as Boston’s people. Has your Captain departed yet?”

  “He has, sir,” Fletcher said, “and left the duty of dis-arming her and landing all stores ashore to me. Us, rather.”

  “So, his great-cabins are vacant? Good,” Lewrie said. “Please summon your officers, Mids, Sailing Master, and Mates there and join me, so I can explain things to them.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Fletcher said, utterly mystified.

  Boston’s age was not noticeable on deck, but once aft in the empty great-cabins, the years of hand usage were evident from the wear of the painted canvas deck chequer, and dents in the hull timbers where the guns had been served. It was chilly, too, and depressing.

  Fletcher did the introductions to Lieutenants Hoar and Creswell, and Midshipmen Kirby, Thornton, Peagram, Jolliffe, Cotter, and Mabry, Sailing Master Trotter, and his Master’s Mates.

  “Gentlemen, you have a chance to keep your crew somewhat together, continue in active commission, and take part in an experiment that, if successful, will make you pioneers,” Lewrie began, “and if successful, will prove to be a grand adventure.”

  He explained that three troop transports of the proper size were to be bought in and manned by Royal Navy crews, not merchant seamen, each rated as His Majesty’s Ship, equipped with six eight-oared twenty-nine-foot barges to carry soldiers ashore, altogether at the same time, then retrieve them when their shore raids were done, and gave them a thumb-nail sketch of how that would be accomplished.

  “Each of you gentlemen will command a King’s Ship, no matter how humble,” Lewrie said to the Lieutenants, “and you older Midshipmen are to be re-rated as Sub-Lieutenants. Mister Trotter, you will be the Sailing Master of one transport, and your Mates will be elevated to Sailing Masters of the other two. Bosun’s Mates will be promoted, and new men chosen to be their Mates.”

  That pleased most of them right down to their toes, and Lewrie could discern which Mids would be promoted; there were at least three fellows in their mid to late twenties who had not yet passed the exams before a Post-Captain’s Board, and this un-looked-for stroke of luck might give them a leg up to their Lieutenancies.

  Rough details were laid out; continue dis-arming Boston and sending her shot and powder ashore, but retain enough small arms, cutlasses, and swivel-guns to give the future landing-boat crews the means
to defend the beaches; keep at least a month’s rations aboard ’til they could go aboard their new ships; choose or find men who could cook rations for the crews and from one hundred to one hundred and fifty soldiers, and Boston’s Purser to appoint his Jack-in-the Breadroom, and another man, to serve in that office.

  “Your Marine complement has already departed?” Lewrie asked.

  “Went ashore yesterday, sir,” Lieutenant Fletcher replied.

  “Pity,” Lewrie said with a scowl. “We could have used them to keep order, and re-enforce the landings. As to who among your present crew would best serve each ship, I leave that decision to you, Mister Fletcher, you and your officers. Just so long as you present me with a going concern aboard each transport, and equal in skills and experince. Anybody from the dockyards gives you any guff, tell them to see me, and I’ll wave my orders under their nose, right?”

  “Right, sir!” Fletcher said enthusiastically.

  “I’m to take command of a sixty-four, the Vigilance, as soon as she comes in from the blockade,” Lewrie said, “and we can hold the change-in-command ceremony. ’Til then, I’m lodging at the George Inn, so if something comes up, send for me. You will, from time to time, be dealing with a Captain Robert Middleton, who is an Admiralty Commissioner, and I may send my aide, Midshipman Chenery, to you. He speaks with my voice, young’un though he is, so … tolerate him, if ye will, hey?” Lewrie cajoled. “Lastly, there are a lot of nay-sayers who don’t think this experiment will work, but if you throw yourselves fully into the plan, you can prove a lot of them wrong. If we can pull it off, we could end up with five transports in the squadron, with an entire army battalion to work with, and staging even bigger raids against the French, hurting them where they don’t expect. In, rampage, then out and away before they can react, what? In the future I am counting on you all to get us ready to sail, and once at Malta and Sicily, and we get our troops aboard and trained, I trust that we will work ourselves to perfection … and have a lot of wicked fun in the doing.”