The Invasion Year

by Dewey Lambdin

  Charlotte dearly missed her brothers, and did not understand why her father would so cruelly send Sewallis off to sea, when he was the eldest, who should have still been in school, preparing for a civilian career! She missed her old house, though she quite enjoyed to have her “uncle Burgess” and Theadora living there.

  Worst of all, she would still weep when thinking of how much she missed her dear mother, Caroline, though the sunny days now out-numbered the glum ones. Charlotte had adored her Christmas presents from Sir Hugo, when he’d come down briefly from London.

  Of missing her father, there was not one ward, at all. Though Lewrie had written her several times, there was no acknowledgement of her reading them, or receiving them, and … there was no letter from her to him enclosed.

  The handwriting changed on the next page to Millicent’s finer and more graceful hand, giving him a perky recital of all that Burgess and Theadora were doing with his old house, what colours they chose to repaint the rooms, which pieces of furniture they had retained, and an inventory of what they’d been given, or purchased, and how they had re-arranged. His office-cum-library with its many French doors and windows was now such a delightful, such a splendid garden room, awash in potted or hanging ferns, exotic Indian flowers and palmettos from the Carolinas in America, and one magnificent palm tree so reminiscent of Burgess’s service with the East India Company army, and…!

  Lewrie tossed it aside in disgust and sadness. As eager as he had been to flee the place, and escape Caroline’s ghost, to be shot of all the hurtful memories, it still irked that what had been his sheet-anchor was now turned so topsy-turvy. If there had been some way for the children to have stayed on there, when home from school…!

  “First Off’cer, SAH!” his Marine sentry bellowed.

  “Enter,” Lewrie glumly called back.

  “My God, sir!” Lt. Westcott barged in, his hatchet face glowing with delight, and his usual brief flash-grin replaced with one that nigh-reached to his ears. “Captain Sir Alan Lewrie! Good God above, sir! Mister Spendlove and Merriman, both, told me of it, soon as I set foot on the gangway. My heartiest congratulations, sir!”

  “Oh, don’t you start!” Lewrie gravelled back. “Blanding earned his, I didn’t, really, and I’ve no idea why I was included. It’s all so damned silly.”

  “But, will you say the same at the shore supper, tonight, sir?” Westcott teased.

  “What bloody shore supper?”

  “Midshipman Bailey, of Modeste, SAH!” the Marine bellowed.

  “That’ll be the invitation, I’d think,” Westcott said, chuckling. “Care to lay a wager on it, sir?”

  “Enter!” Lewrie barked more forcefully, and a Midshipman from the flagship came in, hat under his arm, and bowing as if to a duke.

  Christ, they are bowin’ an’ scrapin’! Lewrie sulkily thought.

  “Captain Blanding’s respects, sir, and I am to extend to you an invitation … to you and all your officers an invitation, that is, to join Captain Blanding and his officers at a f … fête champêtre, this evening at Two Bells of the Dog Watch,” the lad haltingly said, losing his rehearsed place several times. “It is to be held ashore, sir, at a … restaurante by name of The Rookery, and…”

  “Any ladies allowed, lad?” Lt. Westcott asked, tongue-in-cheek.

  “Ehm … I do not know, sir, no mention was made…” The Midshipman sneaked a peek at the written invitation to see whether ladies were to be included.

  “The Rookery, Mister Bailey?” Lewrie asked. “I’m not familiar with it … why not ‘The Grapes’? They do naval parties just fine.”

  And, The Grapes had been a dockside fixture, handily near the boat landings, since long before Lewrie’s Midshipman days; and, they were used to rowdy behaviour and vomit.

  “I am not familiar with it myself, sir,” Midshipman Bailey confessed, looking as if he’d like to scuff his youthful shoe-toes together in embarrassment. “But the directions to it are here on the invitation, sir. Ehm … harbourside, further east along the High Street, a brick building with a courtyard, and a curtain wall before the entrances…’tis said the rear dining rooms offer a splendid harbour view.”

  “God,” Lewrie breathed, knowing exactly where this Rookery was; he and Christopher Cashman, his friends, and some obliging doxies had celebrated his victory and survival after the Beauman duel, the breakfast turning into a high-spirited, drunken battle of flying food and rolls. And, long, long before, it had had another owner. In 1782, he had gone there, once, a shiny-new Lieutenant.

  “Baltasar’s,” Lewrie suddenly recalled. “An emigré Frenchman’s fancy place … Baltasar’s. I know it.”

  “Ehm … the invitation, sir. Sorry,” Midshipman Bailey said as he stepped forward and laid it on Lewrie’s desk, so timorously that he appeared to fear being bitten for being remiss; or, hesitant to approach a man newly exalted.

  “Thankee, Mister Bailey … my deepest respects to good Captain Blanding, and inform him that I and my officers look forward to the … fête champêtre with great delight. Also express my thanks for his kindness,” Lewrie told the lad.

  “Aye aye, sir!” Bailey said, stepping back, all but clicking his heels or stamping shoes like a Marine, before turning to go. Once he was beyond the door, Lewrie turned to Westcott, giving him a wink and a looking-over.

  “I’d think after a whole morning with your young lady, Mister Westcott, ye might wish t’give her a rest … give yourself one, too,” Lewrie teased. “All that, and supper, would be more than plenty.”

  “ ’Twas an entrancing plentitude, sir, and thank you for asking,” Westcott replied, chuckling in reverie. “Mademoiselle du Plessis was her usual delightful self, yet, one always longs for just a bit more.”

  Don’t we just, Lewrie thought, grinning tautly.

  “I’d expect you’d change shirts before the supper, sir,” Lewrie said with mock sternness. “There seems to be some … reddish, coral-coloured powder on your collar. Rouge? Lip paste?”

  “Coloured powder, sir,” Westcott was glad to inform him. “She … Mademoiselle Sylvie, dabs it on to, ah, enhance her breasts, specifically the areoli.”

  That’s a new’un on me! Lewrie thought.

  “Then it is indeed a pity that there’s no mention of invitin’ any ladies t’this celebration of ours, tonight,” Lewrie japed, referring to the paper Midshipman Bailey had left. “Just as well, I s’pose. She’d be bored t’tears with all the salty talk, then scared when the bread rolls and pudding start flyin’.”

  “Well, that is a pity, sir,” Westcott said, looking a tad downcast; or very, very tired after his energetic morning.

  “Besides, sir … why drag your Sylvie to such a tarry gatherin’, where ye’d have t’share her attentions with all the other young, un-married, and deprived Lieutenants?” Lewrie pointed out.

  “To listen to their teeth grind, sir?” Lt. Westcott shot back with glee.

  “Well … even if ladies were invited, the bulk of ’em’d be a pack o’ fubsy chick-a-biddies,” Lewrie said with a sigh. “And, there is the matter of whether Mademoiselle Sylvie would be suitable for our ‘dash it, bedad’ Captain Blanding. Acceptable to Chaplain Brundish, more to the point.”

  “Always tomorrow, then … do you allow me more shore liberty, sir,” Westcott said, shrugging. “Or, perhaps tomorrow evening, after duties are done? Is The Rookery an elegant place, we could dine there.”

  “An ‘all-night in,’ Mister Westcott?” Lewrie leered.

  “Oh God, please, yes, sir!”

  “Go, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered, with a laugh. “Wipe yerself down, and warn the others t’shine. Can’t let the repute of the ship down. Best kit, all that?”

  “Aye aye, sir … going!” Westcott said, snapping to a loose sort of attention, and bowing his head before turning to depart, with a brief pause to ruffle the fur of the cats, who were napping like a pair of plum puddings atop the map board in the chart space; over the months, Toulon and Chalky had tak
en to him like a house afire.

  Once alone, Lewrie had to dig at his crotch. He’d met the stunning Sylvie du Plessis once, and found himself “risible” at the recollection. And envious of Westcott’s hellish-good luck!

  I’ve become a tarry-handed, sea-goin’ monk! he told himself.

  So there he sat, vaguely listening to the sound of copulation and revelry on the gun-deck with the ship “Out of Discipline,” then recalling that Lt. Westcott (the lucky bastard!) had made an off-handed comment that Mademoiselle Sylvie was a “Venus On The Half-Shell” in private … if one changed the hair colour from blonde to brunette of the model for that painting by … some bloody Italian!

  High culture was not Lewrie’s strong suit; he couldn’t recall which Renaissance Dago had done it! But, he’d always panted over it, and would have bought a copy … if his late wife would have allowed.

  In point of fact, his last, brief intimacy had happened the night before he and Caroline had fled Paris, mid-Summer of 1802. And he had lived an ascetic existence since, afloat or ashore. A grieving widower who shouldn’t at Anglesgreen, then a Sea Officer who couldn’t in this sea-going monastery of a Royal Navy frigate!

  I’m a man … a natural man, he thought; and it ain’t natural t’go without. I never have before, by God!

  Suddenly, he found that he could entertain the idea of female company, again, yet … what sort? Jamaica was nigh-awash in “grass widows” whose husbands neglected them, but that would take entrée to Kingston Society, and take too bloody long, to boot. Courtesans like Mister Westcott’s Sylvie? To take some woman like her “under his protection” would be expensive, and he’d be more-often at sea than in her company … almost as expensive as taking a second wife, with just as little sport resulting. Whores? Sadly, his last episode in London in his “half-pay” months following the trial, with no hope of gaining any new command, ever, had been depressing; poor little Irish Tess, who was so naive and hopeful … most-like his old friend Peter Rushton’s new mistress, if God was just; at least he had money, a title, and a stand-offish wife who had presented him with two sons, and had no desire to risk another pregnancy, so … have at, dear!

  In point of fact, Lewrie was at that stage where he could almost squirt semen from his ears if he sneezed!

  “I could ask Westcott if Sylvie has a friend,” he mused aloud. “Oh, God, no! That’ll never do! But … what will?”

  It was a quandary.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HMS Reliant’s brief idyll ended shortly after that fête champêtre (which indeed did feature flung food!) as the squadron prepared to sail off to prowl round Hispaniola once more. The Easy pendant was lowered, the outright whores and declared “temporary wives” were sent ashore in their jobbers’ bum-boats, and the frigate scoured with vinegar, then smoked with clumps of smouldering tobacco to cleanse her of smuts, odours, and shore bugs. The last fresh water was pumped aboard from the clumsy, ark-like hoys; the last livestock and salt-meat casks stowed away on the orlop, and the officers’ gun-room stores and captains’ personal stores were replenished to the final crock of jam and the last pot of ink.

  As with all the holidays, Reliant and the others would be at sea for Easter, as well, though the Reverend Brundish assured the captains that he’d planned a bang-up series of homilies for the occasion.

  * * *

  Not three weeks later, though, barely at the end of their second circumnavigation of Hispaniola, a group of three warships—one lighter frigate and two brig-sloops—intercepted them off Cape St. Nicholas with fresh orders.

  “Any idea what they’re speaking of, sir?” Lt. Westcott wondered aloud as Lewrie stood by the starboard mizen shrouds, one arm hooked round a stay to steady his day-glass.

  “The frigate made Modeste’s number, after the private signals, then ‘Have Despatches,’ ” Lewrie replied, intent on the mute flag-play between ships. “Modeste then made ‘Captain Repair On Board’ to her, and the frigate’s gig is settin’ out to her. Other than that?” There was a shrug to show his ignorance of matters beyond that. “Oh, here’s a new’un … General to all ships … ‘Course Sou’-Sou’west’ and … ‘Make All Sail Conformable To The Weather.’ No, wait a bit … here comes another!”

  “Captain Blanding runs off at the halliards, again, sir?” Lieutenant Westcott dared to jape, in a low voice meant for the two of them.

  “Afraid so,” Lewrie said with a snicker. “It’s ‘Form Two Columns’ and … I s’pose that’s the frigate’s number … ‘Take Station To Leeward.’ Ready to come about to Sou’-Sou’west, Mister Westcott. I assume we’re t’be the windward column.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Bosun, pipe hands to Stations! Helmsmen, ready to come about to Sou’-Sou’west!” Westcott ordered. “Man the braces and sheets!”

  The frigate and her consorts had already hauled their wind for the meeting, to leeward of Modeste’s column of four warships, so the evolution was easily performed. Reliant, the leading ship, swung her bows no more than three points more Sutherly, braced the yards round, and eased the tautness of jibs, spanker, and stays’ls to take the Trade Winds on her larboard quarters.

  “A reef in the main course, sir?” Westcott asked, looking aft to see Pylades falling astern a bit further than the required cable of separation. “We’re striding away from Pylades.”

  “We’re ‘Conformable’ to the weather, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie laughed, hands on his hips and looking up at the set of Reliant’s sails. “Let Captain Parham clap on more canvas! It’s a nice day t’let her step lively.”

  “Permission to mount the quarterdeck, sir?” Pettus asked Lieutenant Westcott, who had the watch. “Cool tea’s up!”

  “Aye, Pettus … come,” Westcott agreed.

  “Oh, good!” Sailing Master Caldwell chimed in, rubbing his paws together in expectation that he’d get a glass, too, as was the custom that had developed aboard, as Spring, and its heat, advanced.

  In this manner, nearly fourty-five minutes elapsed. The ship’s bell struck Seven Bells of the Forenoon, and Marine Lt. Simcock’s favourite tune, “The Bowld Soldier Boy,” was heard as the rum keg came from below. The Master’s Mates, and the Midshipmen, came up with their sextants and slates to prepare for Noon Sights, to be taken when the bell struck Eight Bells to end the Forenoon and begin the official Noon-to-Noon ship’s day.

  “One hopes you’ll place us in the West Indies, today, Mister Munsell,” Lewrie teased the thirteen-year-old Middy. “Should be very easy … what with Cape Saint Nicholas still in plain sight. And not in the middle of the Caicos Bank, hey?”

  “Closer than usual, sir … he’s improving,” Mr. Caldwell said with a wink. Mr. Munsell was an eager, and tarry, lad, but still iffy when it came to the mysteries of celestial navigation and sun sights.

  “Signal from Modeste, sir!” Midshipman Warburton piped up. “It is General…” Sure enough, two guns were fired aboard Modeste, to all to gather their attention, and precede a new signal to all seven ships. “Ehm … the frigate captain’s gig is rowing back to her, sir,” Warburton added, swinging his telescope down from the peak of the signal halliards to Modeste’s side.

  “Oh, here it is, sir … ‘Windward Column … To Alter Course to … West-Sou’west, Half West … Leeward Column…’ ”

  “That’s wordy, even for Captain Blanding,” Lewrie commented.

  “ ‘… the Leeward Column Will … Wear About to Due South,’ sir,” Warburton read out slowly.

  “Confusing, too, sir,” Westcott pointed out. “Do both columns alter course together, when the hoist is hauled down, the lee column yonder had better be quick about it, or it will be us who tangle our bow-sprit with yon lead sloop!”

  “Hoist the ‘Query,’ Mister Warburton, not ‘Acknowledged,’ and be quick,” Lewrie snapped.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Lord, sir … he can’t explain with a fresh hoist, without he lowers the one now flying, and that’d be sign for ‘Execute’!” Lieutenant Westcott further worried aloud
.

  It appeared that Captain Blanding realised his unclear error, for yet another series of flags went up probably the last spare halliard aboard the flagship; it was “Leeward Column First.”

  “Now you may reply with ‘Acknowledged,’ Mister Warburton,” Lewrie directed, letting out a whoosh of relieved wind. “And, thank God he had enough spares in his taffrail lockers t’say ‘Leeward Column’ twice!”

  “The frigate captain’s back alongside his ship, sir,” Warburton reported. A minute later, and he could inform them that that worthy, whoever he was, was back on his quarterdeck, and his gig led round to be towed astern.

  “Mister Westcott … just t’be on the safe side, we’ll continue on this course perhaps a whole minute after the ‘Execute,’ ” Lewrie said to his First Officer in a close mutter. “Get a bit more separation to the South as they wear about. The rest of our ships should stand on in line-ahead astern of us. Mister Warburton, send to Modeste … ‘Submit,’ then ‘Alter Course In Succession, Lead Ship First’ and ‘Query.’ ”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  He won’t like me for that, Lewrie told himself, peering aft to see what the flagship would reply … if she could at that moment; I’d not care t’be second-guessed, publicly, either, but …

  “Signal’s struck, sir!” Warburton cried, even before he could sort out the proper flags and bend them onto the halliards. He and his signalmen jumped to hasten it along.

  “The lead sloop is wheeling to leeward, sir,” Wescott said.

  Sure enough, the brig-sloop was swinging to take the Nor’east Trades right up her stern, then swinging even wider to the West, with the winds on her starboard quarters, whilst the frigate and the trailing sloop stood on. The leading sloop could not complete a full turn over her own wake, but would harden up on almost Due North for a bit so the others could wear in succession, putting their helms over as they reached her disturbed patch of water where she’d begun her turn. All would stand on for a spell, then tack, in succession again, to end up with their bows pointed Sutherly for Jérémie and Cape Dame Marie, and passing well astern of Modeste’s column of ships.