An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Arms, buono!” Don Julio enthused as if he’d just been promised a keg of gold guineas. “Multi guns is good!”

  “Before they arrive, though, I’ve a man I wish to land ashore to make contact with them,” Quill told him. “Ah, Signore Silvestri, farsi avanti, per favore.”

  The young man’s arrival from inside Tarrant’s quarters where he had been waiting made everyone take note of his sudden transformation, and Don Julio to sit stiffly erect and squint in suspicion, for he no longer appeared a London dandy. Silvestri now resembled an Italian peasant; hair lank and loose under a shapeless felt hat, in a coarse shirt rolled to the elbows, ragged, dirty trousers, and sandalled feet covered with dust. One day after introductions, Silvestri had grown a suitable stubble on his face, which, like all his bared skin, was a sun-bronzed olive tone.

  “Signore, allow me to name to you Giovanni Silvestri,” Quill said with some smug sense of satisfaction.

  “What is this?” Don Julio demanded, confused.

  “He’s my eyes and ears on the mainland, sir,” Quill told him, “and will speak with my voice. I wish you to smuggle him ashore near the bridge, and set up places and times to deliver my instructions to him, and retrieve his letters to me.”

  All Don Julio could do for a moment was splutter, then break out into nervous laughter. “Oh, Signore Quill,” he managed to say at last, “he will not last a day! Sì, he is … costumed!… to look the part, but as I said before, one must be Italian, a Calabrian, to his fingertips, or the Francesi and their ass-kissers will discover him, and he is dead! Finito!”

  Giovanni Silvestri scoffed with a laugh, and launched into a long palaver in Italian, to which Don Julio rejoined with what sounded like scorn and sarcasm, dismissing the whole idea. Silvestri gave in kind, which was simply Greek to Lewrie, and even Col. Tarrant’s smattering of Italian left him in the dust, smiling tautly and watching the long exchange like a man watching a tennis ball being volleyed.

  “Enough! Abbastanza!” Mr. Quill demanded at last, raising hands and speaking with more authority than Lewrie thought he had. “I wish you to get him ashore over there, Don Julio. It will be worth your time, I assure you, as always. It is vital to the interests of your country, and mine, that he be gotten into service.”

  “Big risk,” Don Julio objected, tossing up his hands as if to absolve himself of responsibility. “If you wish this, then it is on your head, Signore. He might pass, but … only God knows. Sì, we will set him ashore, but the risk will be worth multi guineas. Boats must be off the coast all the time, waiting for letters, making the deliveries of guns and powder. I must obtain more boats, small ones, for that.”

  “And that will cost, yes, I know,” Quill said with a knowing nod of his head, “for which you shall be recompensed, handsomely.”

  “Hmpf! If he is caught, Signore Quill, he may cost you more than you know,” Don Julio ominously said. “The Francesi make him talk, they will know about you, where Colonnello Inglese camps, know about Capitano Inglese and his ships, and know about me! And if I and my men, my boats, are made known to the Francesi, then it will be too dangerous for me to sail over there for any reason. And then I cannot help you at all, and all is ruined.”

  And your lucrative smugglin’ trade goes smash, too, Lewrie told himself, giving Julio Caesare a leery look; That’s what you’re really worried about!

  “Then it’s up to me to not be caught, isn’t it, Signore?” Silvestri said with a confident cock of his head, and a wee, taut grin.

  “It would be much appreciated if you did not,” Mr. Quill said, sounding almost jolly.

  “Sciocco … foolish,” Caesare pronounced the decision. “But … if that is what you want, I will do it for you. How soon?”

  “Within a day or so, Signore,” Quill told him, “pending winds and weather, as Sir Alan is wont to say.”

  “No, no, it will take longer than that,” Don Julio objected as he polished off his cup of coffee and rose to his feet, clapping that fine beaver hat on his head. “Must get more small boats, the older and the poorer looking, the better, so no one will suspect. And, I have the business to see to, first.”

  “Signore Silvestri and I will be at Messina, then,” Quill told him, rising as well to shake hands on their new deal, “waiting for word from you. He’ll be lodging separately, as he has since he came to Sicily.”

  “Ah, that is best, buono,” Don Julio said with a nod, “else any enemy spies see him with you, and end this before it begins. For now, arrivederci, Signores.” He performed a sketchy bow to all present, then turned to shout at one of his henchmen who had been holding the reins of a pair of horses cropping grass beneath the shade of a tree nearby.

  Don Julio swung up into the fine, gleaming saddle of his horse, a tall, sleek hunter of at least fourteen hands, which all of the Englishmen present envied at once, clucked, thumped with his heels, and cantered away towards Milazzo.

  “A damned impressive beast he has,” Col. Tarrant commented. “I’d imagine it’d be worth over an hundred guineas back home.”

  “Stole it, most-like,” Lewrie sourly commented, “or he’s makin’ such a pile o’ ‘tin’ from his other pursuits that he can afford it.”

  “Very possibly, sir,” Col. Tarrant said with a wee laugh. “What Don Julio said, though, Mister Quill … you and your man travelled here together? Might there be people in French pay who…?”

  “Not to worry, Colonel,” Quill dismissively said, “John lodged at a good hotel in the upper town when he first landed, and he and I came separately.”

  “And that fellow, and his assumed identity, disappeared once I checked out of my lodgings,” Silvestri assured Tarrant. “I return to Messina as a poor paisano, in the back of a loaded farm cart, whilst Mister Quill makes his own way. ’Til Don Julio’s boats are ready, we will play strangers to each other, and Mister Quill sends his little lad, Fiorello, to set the plan in motion.”

  “Which we should be doing now,” Quill said, pulling out his pocket watch and looking aloft to reckon the position of the morning sun. “I do not know which will prove more uncomfortable, the back of a farm cart, or the poor prad I hired to ride out here. The beast simply has no recognisable gait, just shamble, trot, then plod, as it wills!”

  They said their goodbyes, then Quill went to his own horse, and Silvestri set off on foot in a shambling, lazy stride down the road to Messina, leaving Lewrie and Tarrant alone at last.

  “One must suppose that Caesare will provide us the information on his proposed target, ehm … what did he call it?” Tarrant asked.

  “Melito di Porto Salvo,” Lewrie prompted. “Quite a mouthful, hey? Some of Admiral Charlton’s squadron bombarded it from the sea in that big raid a few months ago, but we didn’t land and raze it. Hmm, not so far from Reggio di Calabria. We’d have to transit the Strait of Messina at night, with no lights showing, or the French’d be alerted, else. Sail from here just before dusk? But, we’d have to stand off-and-on ’til just before dawn to attack the place.”

  “Whatever all that nautical talk means,” Col. Tarrant dismissed with raised hands, as if perplexed, even after months of dealing with ships and boats. “One would suppose sailing all the way round Sicily would be a deal worse, what? Stage down to Catania or Syracuse, out of sight of the French watchers, and strike from there?”

  “We’ve hit them three times, now, though, sir,” Lewrie pointed out, “and they’re aware of our presence, and what we can do. Did we sail beyond sight, we’d have to go down the Strait, and surely they’d be watching for us. Next thing you know, they’re on the alert, from Naples to Taranto. It’s not going to get any easier. Which is why we really need your re-enforcements, and I need more transports.”

  “Or, we need Brigadier Caruthers to fulfill his ambitions, and turn one of his regiments into ‘sea-soldiers,’ hah hah!” Tarrant rejoined. “Did we have two regiments to work with, the French would pull their hair out, trying to determine when and where we strike, at two places at the
same time!”

  “But, at our cost, sir,” Lewrie gloomed, “what he manages to get deprives us. I know he wishes to. We’re active, he’s idle, we’ve won some fame, and he’s only his one battle to boast of since. Probably couldn’t do it without findin’ a way t’get a horse ashore with him. Caruthers looks good on a horse, and he knows it.”

  “Perhaps Don Julio can steal one and sell it to him,” Tarrant suggested, “and a special boat to carry it ashore, as well.”

  “Hope Caruthers has a deep purse, then,” Lewrie sniggered, “for I’m sure Caesare will soak him for it.”

  “Ah well, Colonels walk or wade, whilst Brigadier-Generals get to gallop, wave a sword, and look gallant. Now, what would be a suitable mount for me, Sir Alan?”

  “Oh…” Lewrie mused, then grinned. “I could get you a crocodile, so you could slither ashore.”

  “Do you think the French would be impressed?” Tarrant laughed.

  “Awed and terrified, sir,” Lewrie agreed, laughing, too.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We’re not goin’ anywhere ’til Don Julio tells us, Lewrie slowly came to realise as several days passed with no news forthcoming about the harbour town of Melito di Porto Salvo; We’re bein’ led round by our noses.

  He kept his ship’s people occupied with cutlass drills, musket practice both ashore and afloat, with yet more exercises at launching boats and landing his Marines and armed parties on the beach, then recovering them aboard. Topmasts and yards were struck, then raised back in place and the standing rigging and running rigging tensioned or re-roved through the blocks, not only aboard Vigilance, but on all three of his transports, which amused idle soldiers ashore who’d sit, watch, and jeer from the beach.

  When those tarry activities palled, Lewrie made arrangements with Col. Tarrant for contests and sports ashore on the broad drill ground. Football, criquet, or rounders, sailors against soldiers, Marines against both, and ship against ship, played out, with each company of the 94th competing against each other to determine which would go for a championship match at each sport against the Navy or Marines. Colonel Tarrant and Major Gittings, just as eager to keep their troops engaged as Lewrie, got into the spirit, even suggesting contests for choirs and soloists, target shooting matches, or dance contests, with tots of grog or twists of tobacco awarded to winners.

  The Army drew the line at boat races under oars or sail, though. The Navy was too experienced at those skills.

  Naturally, such jocular and amusing diversions drew the local villagers within walking distance of the encampment, and people from Milazzo on the weekends who would sail their fishing boats down for a day, or cram farm carts and waggons with spectators.

  That was a risk, Lewrie and Col. Tarrant agreed, but with adequate policing of an underground trade in wine and spirits, they both thought it was worth it. There was already an host of pedlars, dram shop sellers, old women in their all-black clothing to cook and sell their dainties, and washerwomen ready to scrub and rinse uniforms and underclothes in freshwater, even setting up bathhouses behind quilts and blankets hung on the lower branches in the olive groves.

  There were prostitutes, of course, among the crowds, as there always would be round soldiers and sailors, and Tarrant and Gittings had fretted the un-looked-for arrival of back pay from Malta, which would be splurged on drink, whores, and food tastier than the Army rations.

  There were also pretty young Sicilian girls about, swishing their colourful gowns, sashaying their hips, and flirting with soldiers and sailors, in their off-duty hours. In point of fact, more than a few amours had arisen, and Col. Tarrant had had to recognise several marriages, adding to the number of regimental dependents. It did not endear the regiment, or Lewrie’s sailors and Marines, to the jealous young Sicilian men who came to watch the contests, though, but what could they do? Young, healthy, and fit young Englishmen with their shirts open and arms bared dashing round at their sports and showing off to the local girls were just too exciting to watch.

  Despite his irritation at the long wait for news from Quill’s new agent or Don Julio’s men, Lewrie came to enjoy idle time ashore to watch his men compete. A freshwater bath in a wine vat was more than welcome, as were clean, salt-crystal-free bedding, shirts, and undergarments, and a silver six-pence coin got him sweet pastries and fruity drinks, and a chance to flirt with the young female vendors.

  Harmless flirting, of course.

  There was his young wife, Jessica, his vows, and that sprig of rosemary in his desk drawer, and …

  Damn, I’m randy! he thought, stopping in mid-stride round the verge of the drill ground, where sailors off Vigilance played football against the 94th’s Grenadier Company; Haven’t had a woman in months, since I left my house!

  It did not help that a lissome young woman also slowly strolling round the verge ahead of him was glancing back now and then and making sloe-eyed smiles at him! Her long, dark hair bound back loose at the nape of her neck—a graceful neck!—swayed so tantalisingly upon her shoulders bared by a pleasant blouse, upon bare flesh that seemed to glow warm and temptingly soft to the touch should be…!

  Almond eyes, dark and mysterious, full lips pursed in coyness, only a hint of a Roman nose, long lashes batting … Christ!

  As she turned a bit to look back again, firm little breasts were hinted at beneath her thin linen blouse, and aroused wee nipples…!

  Oh, God! Lewrie thought; I’ve got a cock-stand!

  “Buongiorno, Signore,” she cooed, as if she knew what effect she was having on him as he tried to brush his uniform coat to cover his obvious lust. “Una partita eccitante, sì?”

  “Uh … ehm,” Lewrie gawped, flummoxed, heard a loud cheer, and turned to shout “Well played, lads!” towards the match. “Well played!” “Ehm, scusa, bella signorina…” he said to her, trying to dredge up enough Italian to make his excuses. To his further chagrin, she took a step or two to stand beside him, looking up in admiration, or something, and cooed something along the lines of “You think me bella?”

  “Puttana,” an old, white-haired fruit vendor spat at the girl, which raised a slanging match ’twixt the pair, and Lewrie slunk away as fast as he could whilst she was diverted.

  God, be my witness, I’m tryin’ t’be faithful, but … my Lord! he thought; If she was a whore, three shillings or less and I’d be up her skirts against a tree, and … no! Sprawled on deep grass out in the woods, naked as Adam and Eve! My cundums are aboard ship, though, so … oh, just damn this to bloody Hell!

  Ferociously maddening images of that girl’s face, her bare body spread wide to receive him, the sounds she would make in the throes of passion; her on top, rocking to bliss and oblivion, her long hair swaying and thrashing, would not leave his mind. Oh God, her kneeling before him and those luscious lips enfolding his member!

  I need a drink, Lewrie determined; A damned stiff one! Oh, don’t even think “stiff”!

  Pacing about, though, was difficult since the crutch of his uniform breeches, engorged by a raging erection the like of which he had not experienced in months, pinched something awful, yet he could not pull and tug for roomy relief without revealing his condition to one and all.

  I pretend t’pee in the “sinks” and I may not be able to button up my breeches flap, again! Lewrie thought in dread. He fell back on a recitation of The Articles of War in his head, which he’d always used to delay his orgasms when too excited.

  And for the regulating and better government of his Majesty’s Navies, Ships of War, and Forces by Sea, whereon, under the good Providence of God, the Wealth, Safety, and Strength of the Kingdom chiefly depend; Be it enacted by the King’s Most Excellent Majesty, by and with the Advice and Consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament assembled …

  By the time he got beyond the musketry range, and almost into the fruit groves at the back of the encampment, he let out a sigh of relief that the recitation seemed to be working. Unfortunately, that grove was th
e site chosen by several soldiers and their doxies to “get the leg over,” and their quilts and blankets were used as pallets on the thick grass, not hung for privacy from the boughs. He let out a helpless Eep! and whirled round to retrace his steps, with the sight of ordinary coupling by one pair, a stand-up “knee trembler” by another against a peach tree, and the third couple on their knees, and the bare-naked soldier humping away at her bottom like a hound!

  This time, Lewrie muttered the Articles in a rushed mutter, and got all the way to Article the Ninth!

  If any Ship or Vessel shall be taken as Prize, none of the officers, Mariners, or other persons on board her, shall be stripped of their Cloaths …

  He feared that, though it had been a long time since he had had to revert to manual stimulation in the dark, there was a good chance he would either begin to squirt semen from his nostrils, or “box the Jesuit and get cock-roaches” that night.

  Oh, Christ on a crutch! he quailed as he got back to the drill field and the little booths set up by vendors. Everywhere he looked, he found an enticing young woman to take his fancy, those surely of the “commercial persuasion” and the closely-guarded innocent virgins all but hemmed in by their parents, fathers, and brothers!

  He could not stumble about with his eyes shut to temptations, so he pushed through the throng alongside the drill ground to stand before the onlookers of a criquet match between the 94th’s Light Company and a party of sailors off Bristol Lass, fixing his attention solely upon the bowler, and slowly, finally, returned to a normal flaccidity.

  Whew! That was damned close, he told himself, wondering where he might find a glass of the local white wine. And also wondering if going to look for one might put him right back into the midst of the doxies.

  “Oh, hello, sir,” someone said to his right and Lewrie turned to see his Third Officer, Lt. Greenleaf. “A rather dull match, so far, that,” he commented, pointing at the pitch with a leather wine flask in his hand. “The Army’s bowlers are all over the place, and when the lads off Bristol Lass manage to connect their bats, they dribble off too close for a run. All that Light Infantry scampering makes the Army fielders quick as lightning. The football’s better.”