“Here, lad,” Lewrie said, handing his sword to Dasher for him to stow away. “What d’ye think, Dasher? You’re fond of lemonade as I recall.”
“Oh, lemonade, aye sir!” Dasher all but squealed.
“Lemonade it is, then, Deavers,” Lewrie decided, going to his settee to fling himself onto it. There was a months-old copy of The Tatler that his father had sent him on the low, brass Hindoo tray table, and he snatched it up, hoping for some amusement, or a tale of some new scandal; “Prinny,” the Prince of Wales, and his doings, were always good for a laugh, and a scandal all to himself.
“Sail ho!” a muted voice wailed down from aloft. “Brig-sloop, hull down, fine on th’ bows!”
Lewrie tossed The Tatler aside and made a rapid way out to the quarterdeck to snatch up a telescope, then mounted to the poop deck for a view. Yes! He could make out two sets of royals and tops’ls, a hint of the strange ship’s courses.
“And why wasn’t she hailed when her royals were above the horizon?” Lewrie snarled.
“The drills, sir,” Lt. Grace, the Fourth Officer, called back from below him on the quarterdeck, “no one was really looking…”
“And the French could’ve sailed a squadron into the anchorage and no one would’ve noticed ’til they were alongside, sir?” Lewrie snapped, furious and eager to vent on someone.
“I’ll speak to the lookouts, sir,” Grace replied, humbled.
“Deck, there!” one of the lookouts bawled out. “She’s alterin’ course, comin’ about bows-on, an’ making for the anchorage!”
She can’t be French, Lewrie told himself, his telescope glued to one eye; A lone brig-sloop, darin’ fire from a sixty-four? Tosh! If they’ve discovered our anchorage, they’d send a squadron to deal with us … and they’d be comin’ from the Nor’east, from Naples.
“Beat to Quarters, sir?” Lt. Grace asked as sailors gathered on the rails and shrouds for a better look.
“No, not yet, Mister Grace,” Lewrie told him in a softer voice. “The hands are due their rum, and their dinner, first. It’ll be hours before she’s anywhere near us. But do keep a closer watch on her, hey?”
“Aye aye, sir!” Grace replied with a firm nod of his head.
And now I’ll have t’sham calm and confidence! Damn! Lewrie thought, snapping the tubes of his telescope shut, and sauntering down to the quarterdeck once more to place the telescope in a rack by the compass binnacle cabinet, knowing that Vigilance’s people were closely watching him.
“If some damned Frenchman is daft enough t’cross hawses with us, Mister Grace, there’s plenty of time for us to oblige the fool,” Lewrie said with a confident grin plastered on his phyz. “I’ll be aft. Carry on, and keep me apprised.”
“Aye, sir.”
A tall glass of lemonade sounds good, Lewrie thought as he re-entered his cabins.
* * *
“What’s this?” Lewrie asked, peering closely at what sat upon his fork that accompanied his roast quail and broad beans.
“The Italians call it polenta, sir,” his cook, Yeovill told him as he set out the last items from the brass food barge. “It’s much like that couscous we found at Gibraltar, years ago. It is filling, though a trifle bland without salt, butter, or herbs and olive oil.”
Lewrie took a tentative bite, chewed, and set down his fork.
“Puts me in mind of something I got served during the American Revolution,” Lewrie decided, “ground corn kernels, blanched in ashes and hot water. Grits, I think they called it, and bland, aye, but … whatever you’ve done with it, it’s right tasty.”
“Thank you, sir,” Yeovill said with a pleased grin, “I’m glad you like it. I’m told it’s even better with melted cheese drizzled over it. As to how it’s made, well sir … I didn’t ask, but, if you do like it, it’s even cheaper than rice on the local markets, and nigh as plentiful as pasta.”
“That means I’ll be seeing a lot more of it, Yeovill?” Lewrie asked with a mock frown.
“Only every now and then, sir,” Yeovill swore, hand to his heart.
“Midshipman Jenner t’see th’ Captain, SAH!” the Marine sentry bawled, stamping boots and musket butt on the deck outside.
“Enter!” Lewrie called back.
“Sir, Mister Grace’s duty, sir,” young Jenner announced, “and I am to inform you that the strange sail shows the Private Signal. She is the Coquette brig, and shows Have Despatches.”
“Very well, Mister Jenner,” Lewrie said, “how far off is she?”
“Ehm, about two miles, sir,” Jenner guessed.
“Show her Captain Repair On Board, and I’ll speak with her commanding officer myself,” Lewrie told him, returning to his dinner.
“Aye, sir,” Jenner said, showing himself out.
Good odds she’s from Admiral Charlton’s squadron, he surmised as he took a sip of white wine to clear his palate; Fresh news, or fresh orders? Some place Thom Charlton wishes us to attack? Where did I put my Navy List?
Good as his dinner was, he pulled off his napkin, rose from his chair, and went to his desk to look up the Coquette brig and find out who commanded her.
“Good God!” Lewrie exclaimed. “D’arcy Gamble!”
“Sir?” Deavers asked.
“A Mid from my first ‘post-ship,’ the Proteus frigate,” Lewrie explained. “He’s a Commander, now, of the brig coming to join us.”
“Ehm, will you dine him in, sir?” Deavers asked further, fearful of dishing out a second dinner at short notice.
“No, it’ll take him an hour or so t’come to anchor, get down a boat, and be rowed over,” Lewrie speculated, “but you might set by a serving of dessert for him, if he’s peckish.”
That drew a faint, audible groan from Dasher, who had hoped for a taste of the berry pie that Yeovill had baked, on the sly once Lewrie was done.
* * *
HMS Coquette came into the anchorage all standing, rounded up into the wind “man o’ war fashion” and let go her best bower anchor even as the last of her canvas was lowered or hauled up and gasketed, a very showy and tarry evolution, and the sign of an exceedingly well-drilled crew. Barely had the anchor bitten into the harbour bottom when Coquette’s gig was led round from towing astern to the entry-port for the captain to enter it, and begin stroking for Vigilance’s side.
Gamble has “nutmegs” the size o’ roundshot, Lewrie thought as he admired the alacrity of the manoeuvre; I’ve never had the nerve to try that on. I’d come a cropper, sure! He always was cocky.
Minutes later, the gig was alongside, the dog’s vane of Commander Gamble’s hat was peeking above the lip of the entry-port, and the Bosun’s calls were trilling as the side-party welcomed him aboard.
“Commander Gamble!” Lewrie cried with a broad grin and a glad hand as Gamble gained the deck and saluted.
“Captain Lewrie!” Gamble replied, clapping his fore-and-aft bicorne hat back on his head and coming to shake hands, beaming fit to bust. “We haven’t crossed hawses in a dog’s age, sir, and it has been too long! Sir Alan, I must say, rather.”
“Oh, tosh,” Lewrie dismissed. “You’re lookin’ fit and healthy.”
“As are you, sir,” Gamble replied.
“Come to join our endeavour, have you?” Lewrie asked, hoping.
“No, sir, sorry, though it would be a delight to serve with you, again,” Commander Gamble said with a brief moue of dis-appointment, “Sir Thomas has sent me to follow up on your most recent doings, and … bring despatches,” he added, indicating the canvas bag slung over one shoulder.
“Let’s go aft and catch up whilst we may,” Lewrie offered.
“Of course, sir,” Gamble agreed.
“Something to drink?” Lewrie enquired once they were seated on the chairs near the starboard side settee. “Wine, cool tea, or lemonade?”
“Your cool tea I always found refreshing, sir, if you please,” Gamble requested, “though I was not a regular guest in your cabins in the old Proteus, it was a rare
treat. One of your officers … do I imagine that one of them is Grace?”
“He is, indeed,” Lewrie told him as Deavers and Dasher arrived with the requested tea. “You’re following up on something we’ve done?”
“Aye, sir,” Gamble said with the sly grin he’d shown of old, “I am to pay a call at that bridge you blew up and take it under fire if the French have made any progress at re-building it. That, and make a perfect pest of myself as far north as the Gulf of Policastro. Shoot up what I can along the coast road, and see if there are any bridges that might need destroying to further harass French supply lines.”
“That’s a little outside my bailiwick,” Lewrie said, “for my intelligence sources don’t reach that far. You find any, though, be sure to let me know if there are any promising targets up there, and I and the Ninety-Fourth might have a go at them.”
“Ah, your old cat,” Gamble said as Chalky showed up, stretching and yawning. “Which one is this’un, sir? I forget.”
“That’s Chalky,” Lewrie said. “The other, Toulon, passed over in 1805. And, the rabbit … that’s my servant, Dasher’s pet.”
“Grand times we had in Proteus, sir,” Gamble reminisced.
“Aye, they were,” Lewrie heartily agreed.
“Oh, the despatches, sir,” Gamble said, setting down his tea to swing the canvas bag off his shoulder and open it. “There’s one from Sir Thomas … yes, his knighthood’s now official … there is one from Admiralty, of which Sir Thomas has a copy, and some personal letters for one and all. Just a few, really,” he said with a shrug.
Lewrie accepted them and turned them round to read the senders’ addresses; yes, there were two letters from Jessica, which he stuck in an inside coat pocket for later.
“Sir Thomas will be patrolling the west coast of Italy, in addition to the Gulfs of Squillace and Taranto?” Lewrie asked.
“When he can spare the ships, sir,” Gamble assured him. “One or two brig-sloops together, sometimes a frigate if he can spare one. The squadron has been re-enforced of late, but there are never enough ships to go round, and the Admiral in command of the Mediterranean Fleet has first call upon any new arrivals for doings elsewhere.”
“Well, it’s not as if the French, or their so-called allies, the Neapolitans, have any naval presence worth speaking of,” Lewrie dismissed, “or any plans to confront us if they did. One wishes for another Trafalgar, but…” he said with another grimace and shrug.
Now that the official business was done, it was time to catch up on old shipmates, and where they were now; Liam Desmond was still Lewrie’s Cox’n, but Patrick Furfy had perished; Proteus’s old First Officer, Anthony Langlie had just paid off his brig-sloop and was to be made “Post” in a spanking new frigate, which was news to Lewrie. What of Lewrie’s sons, and he had re-married? Gamble had to inspect and admire Jessica’s portrait, of course.
“Care to go ashore and meet the troops that I was given, sir?” Lewrie asked him. “See how they work?”
“Wish that I could, sir,” Gamble demurred, “but I hope to be off your old bridge by dawn, sir, wind allowing. Anything planned, dare I ask?”
“Melito di Porto Salvo,” Lewrie told him, “west of Cape Spartivento. All that’s wanting is the lay of the land, how many soldiers are garrisoned there, all that.”
“I say, I’ve cruised off that port often, sir,” Gamble supplied, “and I do know that the French have a six-gun battery of field guns to protect the harbour. Twelve-pounders, most-like, set out into three-gun redans, either side of the entrance. There are beaches you could land upon, but they’re right under the guns, and the land rises rather steeply. Every time we’ve taken a peek at the place, there’s been rather heavy surf on the west side. The town itself straggles uphill beyond the piers.”
“Hmm, that doesn’t sound too promising,” Lewrie commented, rubbing his chin in thought. “Perhaps my local spies will have better news. A damned colourful lot they are, believe you me. Smugglers and thieves, even part-time pirates if the prize is tempting enough. How close ashore did you go?”
“I’ve stood off at least two miles, sir,” Gamble told him. “My nine-pounders aren’t a match to their artillery, and their gunners are more than eager to engage any ship that gets too close. After our big sortie all along the coast, and your exploits, it’s more than understandable, really, that our presence makes them skittish.”
“Hmm,” Lewrie said, again, “it sounds as if it’ll be the hardest nut we’ve tried to crack, so far. Perhaps too hard.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way, sir,” Gamble said, breezily. “You always seem to do so. Well, with your permission, sir, I’ll be off. Time and tide, all that?”
“I’ll see you on deck,” Lewrie offered, “and send for Mister Grace so you can at least shake hands with him.”
“That would be fine, sir,” Gamble agreed.
* * *
After Commander Gamble had been seen over the side, and his boat was bound back to his own ship, Lewrie left the deck and stuck his head into the chart space off the starboard side of the quarterdeck, unscrolling the pertinent chart of the Italian coast to mull over.
Guns in stone redans? he thought, troubled; Right above the beaches? Heavy surf prevailin’ … grapeshot and canister, firin’ into the boats before they get ashore, into the troops as they wade ashore? Christ, do I want this? There has to be an easier place.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The letters from Admiralty, and from Adm. Charlton, were much more pleasing, though not the sort of news to turn St. Catherine’s Wheels over.
… be pleased to know that an additional troop transport, rated as a hired-in Armed Transport for hostilities only has been obtained for the use of your forces. She is the Coromandel, of 500 tons Burthen, fully Coppered, built on speculation as an East Indiaman, and barely one year old. By the time you receive this missive, she should be fully manned and ready to sail, subject only to the arrival of the re-enforcement troops of the 94th Regt. of Foot from Peterborough. We are given to understand that the Army complement consists of 200 officers and men.
“Only one,” Lewrie muttered under his breath. “One deep-draught barge that can’t get any closer ashore than Vigilance can? My God, they know what we need, they’ve known it for months!”
Reading further, Lewrie discovered that Coromandel would carry six 29-foot barges, be equipped with boarding nets, outfitted with sufficient dog-box cabins for those 200 soldiers, and her crew would consist of 120 officers and sailors.
There was a letter included from Captain Middleton, who had obtained the first three transports and all their needs, apologising that the price of hiring or purchasing ships had gone so high, that so many more were needed to supply General Wellesley’s army in Spain and Portugal, and succour various other British expeditions round the world, and, though he had tried his mightiest, he simply could not find suitable vessels, or spare Navy crewmen, and that he hoped that one much larger and capacious ship might suit.
Admiral Charlton’s letter expressed much the same regret; no matter how hard he had pressed the matter with London, he could not move mountains, and that even a small addition to Lewrie’s command would allow him to stage larger, more daring raids.
Rest assured, old friend, that I have striven to my Utmost to gain you what you Need, not merely what you Wish. After all, your Accomplishments add Lustre to my command, as well. Now, did you and Col. Tarrant achieve some new, noteworthy Successes, worthy of your past Feats, I am certain that Our Lords Commissioners would see their way to Rewarding Victory.
Indeed, what you, and Adm. Sir Home Popham off the North coast of Spain are accomplishing by way of Seaborne Raids just may result in a wholesale adoption of such Raids by both Army and Navy, and you could find yourself swamped with sudden Largesse.
Charlton mentioned his new patrolling cruisers along the Italian coast, and promised some of those ships might be tasked to assist any of his future endeavours, should he find need of them. He
had only to request.
Well, that’s something, anyway, Lewrie thought, tossing that letter atop his desk and leaning back in his chair. For one wistful moment, he wished that he was in D’arcy Gamble’s shoes, cruising along the enemy coast and blissfully shooting to flinders anything that took his fancy, with no greater care in the world than what he could make go smash.
He recalled that there had been two letters from Jessica included in that sparse despatch bag, and reached out to open one.
Dearest Husband,
I trust my latest Epistles find you well and up to Mischief against our Foes, the dastardly French!
Oh, how so sorely I long to receive a letter from you. I know I cannot dare pray for one daily, yet, the Vagaries of our Postal System drives me to Distraction, as I am certain you feel as well.
Suddenly recalling our Supper with Admiral Charlton, and the Advice he gave to me, I took it upon myself to Circumvent the Civil Post and took a hackney to Admiralty itself with these latest, imagining that your Navy might deliver with more Alacrity. Imagine my surprise to meet with one Captain Robt. Middleton, a Commissioner of Admiralty, who, upon Introductions, told me that he knows you well, and, after but a brief Plea for Assistance, most kindly promised that my letters would be included in his latest posts to you!
Imagine!
“Oh, you clever little minx!” Lewrie exclaimed in wonder of her daring, raising his eyes from page to portrait, upon which he gazed longingly and adoringly. Whether he was thought an “old colt’s tooth” for marrying a much younger woman or not, at that instant Lewrie was proud to publicly confess to being an “old colt’s tooth”!
“Midshipman Ingham t’see th’ Cap’um, SAH!” the Marine sentry intruded upon his delight.
“Oh, balls!” Lewrie shouted, irked. “Enter!”
Lewrie could hear the Marine’s titters, and an audible Erp! from Midshipman Ingham before the door opened, and that worthy stepped inside the great-cabins.
“Apologies, sir,” Ingham began, “but the signal tower ashore has hoisted a request for you to come ashore.”
An Onshore Storm Page 13
