“Ehm, how many in all, sir?” Yeovill asked.
“Mister Rutland, Mister Greenleaf, for certain,” Lewrie said, “since they go ashore with the boats, usually, hmm … let’s have the Surgeon, Mister Woodbury, too. He’s full of good tales, and one of the Mids. Langdon’s eldest. He’ll do.”
“Seven for supper, aye, sir,” Yeovill said with a nod, then departed the cabins.
“He said ‘aye, sir,’ not ‘yes,’” Deavers marvelled.
“Took him long enough, didn’t it?” Lewrie said with a wee grin. “Look at how many years it took Pettus t’sound salty.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Supper was convivial, enlivened by the London papers the diners had just read, and Surgeon Woodbury and Lieutenant Greenleaf were as entertaining as usual. Midshipman Langdon, a man in his mid-twenties who had yet to become a Passed Midshipman, knew enough to follow his superior’s leads, stay somewhat sobre, make innocent contributions, and laugh in the right places. Lieutenant Rutland was, of course, his usual taciturn and gloomy self, but then, he was married with two children, and lived on his Navy pay, which was an un-ending trial, and a cause for gloom and worry about his family.
“Now, sirs,” Lewrie announced once the Port bottle, some soft cheese, and a bowl of table grapes had been set out, “Captain Whitehead, you and your officers must tell us of your day ashore, and what you were doing. I must own that, though I did not watch, I was told it looked novel.”
“Oh, sir, we learned a lot from the Ninety-Fourth today, all about skirmishing,” Whitehead said with enthusiasm. “The Captain of their Light Company put us through our paces.”
“Indeed, sir,” Lt. Venables chimed in. “Skirmishing pairs, scouting pairs, chains, firing from cover, re-loading on the move? All of it sound Army doctrine for Light Infantry, these days.”
Neither Marine officer needed much prompting to expound upon what they had practiced. Skirmishing and scouting was done in twos, each man covering the other, ready to fire once the first man had fired and was re-loading. They didn’t have whistles or bugles like the 94th, to signal the presence of the enemy, but a shako or hat raised on a musket’s barrel held aloft signified a small force, and two hats in the air meant a large force was sighted.
Skirmishing was done in two expanded ranks, with the front rank kneeling to fire and re-load, whilst the rear rank advanced several paces forward of the first rank to kneel and fire in turn, and that could be performed in retreat as well.
Several grapes were deployed in enthusiastic demonstration on the table top.
“A Light Infantry company is broken down into sections of twelve men,” Capt. Whitehead explained, laying out more grapes, “and further divided into groups of four. When they call for ‘chain order,’ most of a company will advance about an hundred yards in front, with four men in each ‘link’ of the chain, about ten yards between each link, sirs. The rest remain in close order, ready to advance to re-enforce or cover a withdrawal. The right hand man in each link steps out three paces, fires, then retires to the left end to re-load, whilst the second man steps forward to fire, and et cetera, so that a continuous fire is maintained.”
“We were raw and ragged, at first, sirs,” Lt. Venables admitted, “but our men caught on quickly, and seemed to enjoy it after a bit. It inspires, ehm … dare I say, personal initiative, and a sense of responsibility, to be out in the open instead of shoulder-to-shoulder in ranks. And each link of four men has to have a leader, whether he’s a Sergeant or Corporal, or not, someone level-headed that the others naturally come to follow.”
“Just what the late Lieutenant General Sir John Moore and his contemporaries intended,” Lt. Rutland spoke up, a bit of surprise to all at the table, “He wanted to instill just those qualities in a British Army, and its soldiers. He had no need for mindless cattle.”
“When we landed at Locri and Siderno, that last big raid, we only put out about twenty Marines to skirmish,” Whitehead admitted, “and kept most of our men in tight ranks, ready for massed volleys. Lord, we didn’t even know to kneel before firing.”
“But,” Lt. Venables insisted, “we’ll make a much better show, the next time we set foot ashore.”
“Count on it!” Whitehead boasted. “Though I will insist that you allow us ashore to practice, sir,” he said to Lewrie. “It’s good exercise, more than we get aboard ship. If you listen close, you can hear our Marines groaning over sore muscles tonight, hah hah!”
“Did you see them when they came back aboard, sirs?” Venables chortled. “Foot-dragging, and their faces as black as so many Sambos, from firing so many rounds, much more than we fire at towed kegs and such. We went through sixty rounds each today.”
“Aimed fire, sirs!” Whitehead added, with a thump of his fist on the table top. “They discovered that our Short India Pattern Tower muskets can actually be pointed, not just levelled in the general direction. If only we had something like the Baker rifles that the ‘Green Jacket’ regiments are issued, with real sights.”
“In any case, a great many melons were shattered on the range, today!” Venables said with a bright laugh. “Bang! Headshots!”
“The Baker’s too slow to load, though,” Whitehead said with a sigh. “Leather patches, hammers to start the balls down the bore?”
“Too bad the Army did not adopt the Ferguson,” Lewrie stuck in. “Breech loading, rifled. But, Major Patrick Ferguson only had about one thousand made, and he had only his when he was killed at King’s Mountain. His troops were equipped with old Brown Bess. Had he and his men all had them, it might have been a different outcome.”
“Do you have a Ferguson, sir?” Venables asked. “I’m told that you do.”
“I do, aye,” Lewrie said. “Care to see it?” he offered, and of course they all did. He could not remember if he had un-loaded it after going ashore at Siderno, so he gingerly screwed open the breech with the brass lever which formed the trigger guard, and, sure enough, there was a paper cartridge rammed into the breech, which he carefully extracted, gave it a shake to loosen the lead ball, then handed the rifled musket around.
“My Lord, sir!” Whitehead exclaimed after working the lever a couple of times. “Why, one could get off five or six shots a minute with this! A pity, indeed, that his weapon died with him.”
“I was told that at some battle during the American Revolution, I forget which,” Midshipman Langdon spoke up, “that Major Ferguson took aim at a mounted American officer out in front of his lines, and almost fired at him, but didn’t. He later said that he did not have the heart to shoot a man, an officer especially, so intently involved with what he was doing … and that officer was George Washington. If he had, we might have defeated the rebels.”
“Do you ever have the time to come ashore to witness our practice, sir,” Whitehead said, “you must bring this weapon along, for I dearly wish to fire it a few times. I hear it is accurate.”
“I once potted a bastard of a Frenchman at over one hundred fifty yards,” Lewrie told them, “back when the French routed the Austrians outside Genoa and ran ’em twenty miles in total panic.”
Oh, that was sweet! Lewrie gladly recalled that moment; Shot Guillaume Choundas off his horse, and they took off his damned arm! And good riddance t’bad rubbish!
“But, it’s been an age since I fired it,” Lewrie amended, to avoid sounding boastful. “I may need time on the firing range.”
“Then you must come ashore with us, the next time we’re allowed, sir,” Captain Whitehead insisted. “Try your eye, what?”
Two Bells of the Evening Watch chimed from the belfry far up forward, marking 9 P.M. and the time when the Master at Arms, Mr. Stabler, and his Ship’s Corporals, Geary, Kirby, and Tunstall, made the rounds of all decks to see that all below-deck lanthorns and glim candles were doused for the night.
“Well, before the Master at Arms comes pounding on my door, let us charge glasses and take a final drink to close the evening, gentlemen,” Lewrie instructed. The Port b
ottle made a quick larboard passage as they stood round the table. “I give you, sirs, our gallant Marines, and a good night’s rest for the weary.”
“The Marines! The weary!” they chorused before draining their glasses to the last drop. All said their adieus and departed, leaving Lewrie alone.
“Brandy or whisky before you retire, sir?” Deavers asked.
“Whisky, my good man, a full bumper!” Lewrie demanded.
CHAPTER SIX
Lewrie was writing, again, beginning a new letter to Jessica, when the Marine sentry announced the Third Officer, Mr. Greenleaf at his door seeking an audience.
“Come,” Lewrie said with his head down, concentrating on his penmanship, which he still thought to be perfectly legible, damned what Severance said.
“Good morning, Captain sir,” Greenleaf said as he bounced in with élan. “There’s something you might like to see on deck, sir.”
“Hmm? There is?” Lewrie said, at last looking up.
“We believe we’ve found a solution to our problem with the nets, sir,” Greenleaf told him, all but bouncing on his toes in secret glee.
“Oh, very well,” Lewrie replied, setting aside his pen and rising. “Show me, then.” He left off his everyday uniform coat and his cocked hat to go out on the quarterdeck.
One of the boarding nets was slung over the larboard bulwarks, and half the Midshipmen stood by the bulwarks, notably the youngest and spryest.
“We’re going to sacrifice the younkers, are we, Greenleaf?” Lewrie quipped.
“Look over the side, sir,” Greenleaf cajoled, “we’ve drawn one of the barges alongside the main chains, and the boat crew has hold on the bottom of the net. But, sir! Do note the four-by-four laths worked into the net on the inner side. Small ringbolts with washers secure the wooden slats, with stout rope spliced and whipped round the undersides of the knotted squares of the net. It now stands out at least four inches from the hull, so there’s no more tumblehome to deal with, right down to the lower gunwale. Lads! Over you go … smartly, now!”
They must have practiced first, for Midshipmen Page, Randolph, Malin, Fairfoot, Dunn, Acford, Darnell, and Lewrie’s brother-in-law, Charles Chenery, hopped atop the bulwarks, swung legs over, and disappeared in a twinkling, scrambling down the boarding nets with as much alacrity as so many apes, down to the gunn’l of the barge, and into the boat. They stayed but a moment, then climbed back up just as easily, clambering up and over the bulwarks to land on the sail-tending gangway with triumphant whoops.
“A jacob’s ladder, after a fashion, sir,” Lt. Greenleaf boasted, “writ large, and wide! The slats are made of local fir, and easily replaceable when they wear out. The Bosun lacquered them to prevent rot, too.”
“Let’s go forrud,” Lewrie insisted, intrigued, and led out to the sail-tending gangway by the mainmast shrouds among the Mids.
“Care to try it, sir?” Midshipman Chenery asked with an impish grin.
Christ, I’ll have to! Lewrie quailed to himself; They’ll think me an old poltroon if I do not.
“Good thing I left my hat aft,” Lewrie said, trying to sound game. He seized a tarred stay, hauled himself atop the bulwark, and swung a leg out and over, bellied against the hull. A look down to find a first foothold, the boat and the ocean so very far below that it made his “nutmegs” shrink up, and he was lowering himself down, hand over hand, foothold by foothold, trying to count planks in the hull scantlings; upper gun-deck ports, then lower gun-deck ports, then the dark black, tarry lower wale, and there were no more slats, but the net hung vertical, held off a bit by the crew in the barge, and he was atop the white-painted gunn’l, then into the boat on a midship thwart, resting a hand on a sailor’s shoulder to prevent teetering as the slight scend of the waters made the barge bob and roll a bit.
“Right, then!” Lewrie said loudly, as if he’d enjoyed it, “Do steady the net, lads. I’m off!”
Back up the nets he went, gaze fixed on the mainmast shrouds and the top of the bulwark, where many amused faces peered down at him, which was much easier than looking down at the sea and the hard wood of the barge should he slip and fall. The last few feet, with plenty of depth off the hull for hand grips and room for his boot tips, and he reached the top of the net. There was a tense second or two before he found something substantial to grasp before he could heave himself over the bulwark and swing a leg inboard, but he made it.
“Whew!” Lewrie exclaimed. “That was good exercise I must say, and much easier than the last time I tried the bloody things. Very good work, Mister Greenleaf. My compliments, and my thanks, to all involved in the making, and make sure that they get full measures of their rum issues, this morning, and in the Dog Watch.”
“That I will, sir, and thank you!” Lt. Greenleaf replied, just about ready to try and pat himself on his own back.
“Much more elegantly done than last, sir,” Midshipman Chenery commented tongue-in-cheek.
“You haven’t been ‘mast-headed’ lately, have you, young sir!” Lewrie gravelled in mock threat, “Bloody fine work. Now, I go aft. Writing your sister and telling her what a scamp you are.”
But, barely had Lewrie sat down at his desk, drawing deep breaths at last, the need for which he’d disguised from the crew, and called for a glass of cool tea laced with ginger beer, then he heard a shout. “Deck, there! Large fishin’ boat enterin’ harbour, bound for us!” which prompted Lewrie to snatch up his telescope and dash back to the quarterdeck, then up to the poop deck, to see what the commotion was about. With the tubes of his glass extended, he discovered that the approaching fishing boat was one of three that his landing parties had snatched out of the harbour during their first raid on the coastal town of Tropea, and then turned over to Don Julio and the needy town of Milazzo.
Well, gulled out of, not given, exactly, Lewrie thought with a grimace of disgust. Even if they’d be worth less than nothing at a Prize-Court, it still galled him.
The fishing boat was still too far off to determine which one it was, or to make out anyone he recognised aboard her, though there was someone aft near the helm in a white shirt with a red sash round his waist that he supposed could be their arch criminal spy. And, by the single mast there was a stick figure all in black, clinging like a fearful landlubber.
Mr. Quill? Lewrie asked himself; Quill and Caesare together? Damme, we just may be back in business!
* * *
“Ciao, Signore Inglese!” Don Julio cheerfully roared cross the water after his fishing boat came to anchor, and he and Quill, for it was indeed he, clambered down into a scrofulous rowing boat and rowed for the jury-rigged dock ashore. Mr. Quill appeared to be as leery of ships and boats as Col. Tarrant, sitting stiffly upright in the middle of a thwart, hands in a death grip. Watching him totter from his hold on the fishing boat’s mast to the rails, once she’d anchored and lay still, then over the rails and groping to a single rope line to get down into the rowing boat had been almost too cruelly amusing to watch.
“We go see Colonnello Inglese and Maggiore Inglese, Capitano!” Don Julio added as the rowboat passed close by Vigilance’s starboard side. “You come join us! Having importanti informazioni to share!” To prove it, Don Julio swivelled his head to peer all about, then put a shushing finger to his lips, then laughed out loud. Quill just sat, staring straight ahead at the rowboat’s stem post and the shore.
“Bosun Gore,” Lewrie shouted, “summon my boat crew, and ready a side-party!” He paused, then added, “At the starboard entry-port, not that bloody net!” which drew some grins from the sailors and Marines on deck.
Minutes later, dressed in coat and cocked hat, with his everyday hanger at his hip, Lewrie stepped onto the low wooden pier along the beach, telling his Cox’n, Liam Desmond to row back to the ship and await a signal to come fetch him, though he did not know how long that would be. Then, tugging his coat cuffs and the bottom of his waist-coat into better order, he made his way to Col. Tarrant’s quarters, amid the bustle of soldiers d
oing close-order drill on the large quadrangle, and some companies practicing some sort of manoeuvres back in the woods and groves.
Tarrant and Gittings were under the shady tent fly, with Quill now looking much more relaxed and at ease with a glass of white wine in his hand, though still prim, proper, and upright on the edge of the campaign chair. Don Julio Caesare, in contrast, sat slouched in his seat, booted feet and his striped “ticken” trouser legs sprawled out before him, hands in constant motion, even the one that held his wine, and doing all the talking.
“Ah, Capitano Inglese!” Don Julio rumbled in a loud basso, “It is good to see you, again.” Don Julio had never bothered to try to remember their names; only Signore Quill got differentiated, because he was the one who held the Secret Branch’s purse-strings, Lewrie imagined.
“Signore Caesare,” Lewrie said, to be polite, as Tarrant’s orderly fetched him a glass of wine, “buongiorno. Prosperin’, I see?”
“Prosper…? Ah, you mean make the denaro? Hah hah, sì, molto denaro! The business, she is good!”
Indeed, Caesare had left off his version of canvas slop-trousers and sandals for clean trousers stuffed into new-looking ox-blood brown boots, and his shirt was now a snow-white linen with lace. In that red waist sash, though, he still showed an ivory-handled dagger, and a brace of silver-chased pistols.
“I take it you and Mister Quill have brought some business to us, Signore Caesare?” Colonel Tarrant mildly asked. He and the Don had had little interaction, so far, and it seemed a little of the man went a long way.
“Ah, sì, a new place to fight and kill the Francesi,” Don Julio hooted. “Signore Quill, he has the maps.”
“I requested Don Julio to scout about the Gulf of Saint Eufemia, gentlemen,” Quill began in his reedy voice, reaching inside his dark coat for a thin sheaf of papers, and a portion of a map, which he laid on the small campaign table between them. “Some place that we could raid that would do great harm to the French forces occupying Italy, and more to the point, hurting their armies massed round Reggio di Calabria in hopes of invading Sicily.”
An Onshore Storm Page 4
