The Invasion Year

by Dewey Lambdin

  With Hugh Beauman drowned in a shipwreck in the Tagus river entrances in Portugal, the parents long-before retired to England with all their wealth, the Beaumans’ little empire had collapsed, absorbed by an host of indifferent others, their newspaper defunct, and their shipping business owned by others. Oh, there were still some distant kin on the island, along with forner employees and business partners, but without Hugh Beauman to direct the hatred, Lewrie was almost as safe as houses; the Beauman “syndicate” had evaporated, so Lewrie could dare to depart Reliant for shopping, and a shore breakfast, as he had this morning in a rare, and brief, respite from blockading duties.

  Modeste, Reliant, Cockerel, and Pylades still cruised together as a squadron. There had been a week at anchor following the French surrender at Cap François, then a three-month stint at sea, prowling round the isle of Hispaniola, whilst the ships of the line and frigates of the Jamaica Station stayed busy invading more French island colonies, hoping for an encounter with a relieving French squadron.

  Christmas and Boxing Day had come and gone, then New Year’s Day of 1804, then Epiphany, Plough Monday, Hilary Term days for courts and colleges, and Candlemas, and, after all the excitement of the previous year, it was all rather pacific, and deadly-boresome. The newly independent Haitians did not try to export their slave rebellion to the rest of the West Indies, the weak French lodgements in the Spanish half of Hispaniola seemed to have given up on any attempt to flee to France, and the Spanish, the Dons, were behaving like their usual selves; that is to say, moribund. After getting stung rather badly as French allies they had drawn in their horns, and showed no signs of wanting any more to do with war.

  With hurricane season over, the weather in the West Indies was delightful; with the heat of Summer dissipated, Fever Season was also gone, for a while, and it was all “claret and cruising” through steady Trade Winds, clear, sunny days, and only now and then a half-gale or afternoon squall. It was so very pleasant that Alan Lewrie was of two moods: either bored nigh to tears, or fretful that Dame Fortune would remember that it was her job to kick him in his arse, now and again … every time he felt smug and satisfied. Or had too much idle time.

  During such lulls as this, without the heady spur of adventure and action, Lewrie could become, well … distracted. It was said that “idle hands are the Devil’s workshop,” and well Lewrie knew it! Given a week or so in port for re-victualling, replenishment, and re-arming, with the pleasures of a thriving harbour town a short row off in both ear-shot and eye-shot, and, given how little a frigate captain had to do when said frigate was both at anchor and flying the “Easy” pendant to show that she was Out of Discipline to allow her people to rut with their “temporary wives” or prostitutes … when aboard, able to see it and hear it as sailors and doxies coupled between the guns on the oak deck planks, danced, cavorted, and sang, well!

  It did not help Lewrie’s restless feelings to know that Lieutenant Geoffrey Westcott, his First Officer, had indeed discovered for himself a most lissome jeune fille from among the horde of civilian French refugees. Whether she was truly the penniless daughter of one of the most distinguished and wealthiest families of Saint Domingue, as was alleged, a corporal’s widow, or a whore tainted with the one in 128 parts of Negro blood, a sang mêlé, and still considered Black in the old regime, she was hellish-handsome. Light brown, almost chestnut hair, enormous brown eyes, a fine brow and a swan-like neck, pouty lips, and a face nigh gamin or elfin in its lovelieness … which put Lewrie dangerously in mind of his former mistress in the Mediterranean, Phoebe Aretino, or that murderous pirate-minx Charité de Guilleri. Phoebe had been a teen prostitute in the port city of Toulon during the British invasion of 1794, but was now “Contessa Phoebe” in Paris, the queen of perfumes. Charité de Guilleri had been a French Creole belle who, with her brothers and cousin, and some old privateers, had turned both pirates and revolutionaries with the purpose of freeing New Orleans and Louisiana from the Spanish; she had shot Lewrie in the chest, once, when he’d run them down and ended their game on Grand Terre Isle, at the mouth of Barataria Bay. Before that, they had been lovers … and damned if both of them had not been grand lovers! Which remembrance did Lewrie’s equilibrium no good, at all.

  How could one still evince a lusty itch for a young woman who’d hunted him down and tried to kill him for good, and had might as well have fired the shot that had slain his wife, Caroline, during the Peace of Amiens, in France in 1802?

  * * *

  Lewrie returned aboard Reliant just as Three Bells of the Forenoon were struck. The side-party was mostly the fully-uniformed Marines, the requisite number of sailors in shore-going finery, and those Midshipmen unfortunate enough to stand Harbour Watch; officers in port did not, and what Lieutenants Spendlove and Merriman were doing below in the gun-room to while away their idle time, Lewrie could have cared less. The crewmen of the Harbour Watch, those on the gangways and the weather decks, doffed their hats and stood facing him for a minute or so, then went back to their few duties, envying their mates below on the gun-deck, where they sported with their women.

  “Anything out of the ordinary to report, Mister Grainger?” he asked the senior-most of the pair of Mids who stood the watch, a lad of fifteen.

  “Two … two of the, ehm … women, got into an argument, sir,” Grainger reported with a blush. “Bosun’s Mate Mister Wheeler separated them, and ordered them off the ship, at One Bell, sir.”

  “Slashing away with belaying pins, they did, sir!” Midshipman Rossyngton, who was only thirteen, piped up. “Stark naked, both, sir!”

  “Sorry I missed it,” Lewrie said with a grin.

  “Well, ehm … neither of them were what one would call ‘fetching,’ sir,” Mr. Rossyngton ventured to say, with a precocious leer. “Rather old, and … fubsy, they were.”

  “Not t’yer taste, Mister Rossyngton?” Lewrie teased.

  “Well, ehm…,” the lad flummoxed, turning as red as Grainger.

  “Beg pardons, young gentlemen … Cap’m … but, there’s a signal hoist aboard Modeste,” one of the Master’s Mates, Eldridge, interrupted, reminding them of their proper duties. He, his mate Nightinggale, and the Sailing Master, Mr. Caldwell, were their primary tutors in navigation, and an host of other seamanly work.

  “Sorry, sir!” Grainger gawped, turning even redder, if that was possible, hurriedly raising his telescope to read it. “It is … ‘Have Mail,’ sir!” he crowed with an expectant “Christmas Is Coming” glee. “And … our number, and ‘Captain Repair On Board.’ ”

  “Buggery,” Lewrie muttered, half to himself. He had hoped for a quiet morning to digest his succulent shore breakfast, sip on some of his cold tea collation, catch up with naval paperwork, play with the cats, perhaps read a chapter or two of a new book, and … take a good long nap, but … “Mister Rossyngton, pass word for my Cox’n and boat crew. Smartly, now!”

  Will they be in any shape t’row me over to Modeste? he had to wonder as he waited. He had taken his gig ashore at Seven Bells of the Morning Watch, assuring Desmond and the others that he would hire a bum-boatman for his return, so they could join in the sport belowdecks.

  Sure enough, here came Liam Desmond, his Cox’n, still donning his short dark blue jacket, his tarred hat askew, and his long-time mate, Patrick Furfy, right behind him, still trying to do up the buttons of his slop-trousers … and reeling a bit.

  “Sorry, lads, but I’m called away to the flagship,” Lewrie told them as they hurriedly filed down the man-ropes and battens to the gig. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything too much fun.”

  That apology raised a stricken smile or two; most of them had been in full-throated song, nipping at smuggled half-pints of rum, and halfway to “connubial” bliss with their “wives” when called to duty.

  * * *

  All three frigates had sent boats to Modeste to lay hands upon their precious letters, newspapers, and packages. Pylades’s boat was commanded by a Midshipman, but Cockerel’s bore Captain Str
oud himself.

  “Mornin’, Captain Stroud,” Lewrie greeted him, once they had been piped aboard Modeste, in order of seniority.

  “Good morning to you, Captain Lewrie,” Stroud replied, looking excited, for a rare once, at the prospect of news from home. Most of the time, he was stiff-necked and taciturn, taking himself and his very first captaincy most seriously. “Mail, at last, hah!” he added. That was, perhaps, too much joy to show the world, so he quickly sobered his face and tone. “Would’ve sent a Middy or First Officer, but…”

  “But, news from England is just too temptin’, aye,” Lewrie finished for him, secretly brimming with excitement and curiosity. “But, where is Captain Parham, young sir? And you are…?”

  “Allow me to name myself to you, sir. I’m Poole, sir,” the Mid from Pylades said with a doff of his hat and a short bow. “Our Captain is ashore, sir … at a tailor’s, and the chandleries.”

  “Captain Lewrie!” Lt. Gilbraith, Modeste’s First Lieutenant, said as he came forward to join them, doffing his cocked hat and making a “leg” to them all; business-like to Stroud and the Midshipman as he addressed them by name, but, oddly, more deeply to Lewrie. “We have begun to separate each ship’s mail into bags, sirs … if you will attend me aft, in Captain Blanding’s cabins?”

  The Marine sentry announced their presence, and Blanding shouted a merry, and loud, “Enter!” to them. They filed into the cabins, hats under their arms, and bowed greetings to the squadron commander. Lt. Gilbraith went over to stand with Blanding, Chaplain Brundish, and Blanding’s clerk and cabin servants, all of whom stood peering at the new arrivals with what looked like “cat that ate the canary” expressions, and a stiffness normally reserved for greeting an Admiral.

  “ ’Tis a bit early in the day, gentlemen, but, given the celebratory nature of the occasion, allow me to offer you all a cool glass of Rhenish,” Captain Blanding said, beaming like a cherub, rocking or nigh-hopping on his toes over something. Lewrie knew him, by then, as a boisterous, mercurial fellow, but this was quite uncanny.

  He’s a handkerchief … has he been cryin’? Lewrie asked himself; By the look of his red eyes, damme if he hasn’t! What…?

  “At a moment like this, I’d have wished that Captain Parham would have been able to join us,” Captain Blanding went on as cabin servants scurried round with glasses and a bottle of wine. Damned if he didn’t dab at his eyes, and blow his nose, rather loudly, to boot!

  “He will be at the supper, surely, sir,” Chaplain Brundish was quick to assure him. And damned if Brundish, scholarly, erudite and languidly calm in all weathers, didn’t peer at Lewrie with a mixture of what seemed like awe and sly, secret amusement!

  I’ve come into a fortune, and he wants t’touch me up for a loan? Lewrie was forced to think, wishing he could touch himself all over to make sure his breeches’ buttons were done up, his shoes were on, or his neck-stock still in place.

  Captain Blanding crossed to his desk and returned with a large parchment document, which he held out for them to see. There was a gilt seal, rather large, with a large blob of red wax, a seal pressed into it, and a red ribbon beneath the wax.

  “This came to me by post … from London,” Captain Blanding said with a tremble to his voice. “From Saint James’s Palace. From our Sovereign, His Majesty King George.” Blanding sounded as if he was about to croak like a frog in awe. “The King has seen fit to reward me for our victory over the French at the Chandeleur Islands by making me a Knight of the Bath, and a Baronet!”

  “My word, sir!” Captain Stroud exclaimed.

  “Huzzah!” Lt. Gilbraith, who was already in on the secret, said loudly. “An honour long overdue!”

  “Congratulations, sir!” Lewrie cried, stunned.

  “You … we … fought and won the only significant action with the French, last year, after all, sir,” Chaplain Brundish pointed out with a laugh, though he’d known all about the announcement for several minutes already. “Of course the Crown would reward the victor!”

  And by God if it wasn’t, Lewrie thought. The Naval Chronicle, London papers which reached them such as the Times or the Gazette, had not featured anything approaching a fleet action since the war began again in May of last year. There were many reports of single actions against French National ships, some small-squadron encounters that had not resulted in any significant losses to either side, or many prizes taken; it was French merchantmen that had suffered the most, but they were profitable, and lacking in glory and honour. Their squadron and their fight at the Chandeleurs, which had resulted in all four French ships defeated and taken as prizes, had been the highpoint of 1803!

  “To Captain Sir Stephen Blanding, Baronet!” Lt. Gilbraith proposed, now their glasses were full, and they seconded him with, “To Sir Stephen!” gave out loud growls of approval, and knocked their glasses back to drain them.

  “Congratulations, sir!” Captain Stroud told him, going to shake hands.

  “Hear, hear!” Lewrie added, happy to see the cabin servants go round to refill their glasses for a second toast. “Well earned, hey?”

  “Ehm … we’re not quite done, sirs,” Captain Blanding tried to shush them. “There’s something else to celebrate. Stanley?” he prompted Reverend Brundish, with a significant nod and wink.

  “Ehm … Captain Lewrie,” Brundish said, fetching forth a very large letter from Reliant’s heap of mail. “This has come for you.” Brundish held it by pressing the tips of his fingers to two of its corners, waving it teasingly, and grinning widely.

  It was a heavy creme-coloured bond, the calligraphy for sender and addressee large and “copper-plate” elegant. There was a red wax seal the size of a Spanish “piece of eight” coin to join the corners of the folded-over letter together.

  “Uh … for me?” Lewrie gawped.

  “No!” Captain Stroud cried. “Really?” Lewrie couldn’t tell if he was astonished at what the letter might hold, or objecting.

  “For you, sir,” Brundish assured him, stepping forward to place it in Lewrie’s hands, taking his wine glass to free both. It was from the Crown! Lewrie started to snag a fingernail under the wax seal to rip it free, then looked up, appalled, in need of help.

  “Allow me to apply my pen-knife,” Captain Blanding offered with a snort of delight. “A thing like that, you only receive once, and it would be a shame to ruin the seal by tearing it free.”

  “Insult to the Crown, what?” Brundish said, snickering.

  “It’s really a…?” Lewrie could only gawp, going to the desk in the day-cabin, to watch Captain Blanding carefully lift the seal from three of the four corners. Once folded open, the creme-coloured paper proved to be but a protective sheath for the parchment inside, which Blanding let Lewrie open and read. Once, twice, then an even more dis-believing third time.

  “Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie exclaimed at last. “They’ve made me a Knight of the Bath?”

  “Oh, huzzah, sir! Huzzah!” young Poole cried. “Can’t wait to tell Captain Parham!”

  “Congratulations, sir!” Captain Blanding said, taking his hand and giving it a vigourous shake, whilst the rest of them cheered and hooted as if urging their choice of race horse in the last furlong of the Ascot or the Derby.

  Why, though? Lewrie asked himself, though shuddering with glee and sheer stupefying surprise.

  After a successful victory such as theirs, it was customary for one officer, the senior-most, to be honoured. At Cape St. Vincent it had been Vice-Admiral Sir John Jervis, “Old Jarvy,” rewarded with the title of Earl St. Vincent. After Camperdown, it was only Admiral Duncan who’d been made a peer, and at the Nile, it was Nelson who had been rewarded.

  The rewards for captains of the participating warships and the junior officers usually was promotion, or command of one of the prize ships taken. The fellow who’d carried word of the Glorious First of June battle in 1794, the frigate captain who’d carried word of Cape St. Vincent, had been knighted, but … why him, and Blanding, fo
r the same battle?

  ’Cause I’m “Saint Alan the Liberator,” “Black Alan” Lewrie, he sourly thought; Hero of the Abolitionists like Wilberforce, or … I got knighted ’cause somebody in government’s feelin’ sorry for me for Caroline’s murder by the French!

  It was hard not to grimace in anger and pain, and keep a sheepish grin of proper modesty on his face, after that realisation, even as he shook hands with the others and got pounded on the back; while the honour turned to ashes in his mouth!

  Was it because he was … “well-known”? For a time, the Abolitionists had showered, papered, London and the nation with praiseful tracts of his theft of a dozen Black slaves from the Beaumans, long before the trial in King’s Bench which had acquitted him. His black-and-white portrait had been on sale, selling almost as briskly as Horatio Nelson’s for a month or two after, and God only knew how many of those, how many of the cartoons, how many illustrated tracts, he’d had to autograph for the adoring and supportive.

  He had been turned into a commodity by the Abolitionist Society to further enthusiasm for the end of Negro slavery throughout the Empire, a larger-than-life symbol. And, in the Autumn of 1802, then in the Spring of 1803, in the run-up to the renewal of war with France (though he knew little of it on his tenant farm in Anglesgreen), there had been fresh tracts and portraits, sketches meant to horrify common people that the Corsican Ogre, Napoleon Bonaparte, would order the murder of a British naval hero and his wife over a trivial insult, or mis-understanding taken as an insult by the First Consul for Life of France. Someone in His Majesty’s Government had cynically found him useful … again!