“Mister Gore?” Lewrie shouted, cupping hands round his mouth. “I wish to borrow your boat once you’re done!”
“Aye, Cap’um sir! Won’t be a minute!” Gore shouted back.
“No rush, Mister Gore! Square her away pretty!” Lewrie called back. And a few minutes later, the barge was alongside the larboard entry-port, the Bosun puffing his way to the decks, and a side-party hastily assembled to see the Captain off.
“Steer for Coromandel, the big new’un, Mister Page,” he told the Mid aft by the tiller as he settled himself beside him.
* * *
“So that’s what the boarding nets are for?” Sub-Lt. Clough said after watching the hundreds of soldiers scramble down into the barges alongside, and then be rowed ashore to a rickety-looking wooden pier on the wide beach. “They look … skilled at it.”
Clough could hear them singing, too, whooping and laughing to be returning to their huts. He recognised the song as “Nottingham Ale.”
Lt. John Dickson cleared his throat, rather loudly, in comment. Once all ships were anchored, the flagship had fired off two swivel guns to announce a General Signal, then had hoisted Make And Mend, but, after that, had paid Coromandel no notice, and he found himself standing idle in his best-dress uniform, slowly sweating it up … and it had cost his parents a pretty penny, too … in the rising heat of a late Summer morning.
“Ehm, is that boat making for us?” Midshipman Kinsey wondered aloud. “That’un there. Bless me, I think I see a Post-Captain aft in her sternsheets!”
“Oh, Christ,” Lt. Dickson spat. He had expected a summons to go aboard for a first meeting with this Lewrie character, but this was novel. “Mister Clough, organise a side-party. Ryder!” he shouted over his shoulder to the great-cabins. “Open a bottle of white wine, and get out two glasses. Clean ones, mind!”
Aft in the great-cabins, Ryder rummaged through the inlaid wine-cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Rhenish, and pulled the cork with some difficulty; his usual way of opening a bottle was to smash the neck on something, then pour it into a mug. Curious, and for a vengeful lark, he put the bottle to his mouth and drank off a glug or two, sniggering.
“At least it ain’t ‘Miss Taylor,’” he muttered over the taste, compared to the cheap, raw Navy issue white wine.
On deck, Dickson waited and waited as the boat, a 29-foot barge, came alongside. There was something to be done, but Kinsey was not doing it. “Kinsey! Challenge?” he prompted through gritted teeth.
“Oh!” Midshipman Kinsey gasped. “Boat ahoy!” he roared over the side, in a passably good quarterdeck voice that could reach from aft to the forecastle.
“Aye aye!” the barge’s bow man shouted back, holding up a hand showing four fingers, though the barge was close enough for anyone to see that a Post-Captain of more than three years’ seniority, wearing two gilt epaulets, was aboard.
The boat thudded against the hull by the mainmast chains, and a quick glance overside showed an officer in an old-style cocked hat reaching for the chain platform and shrouds, then stepping onto the boarding battens, hands seizing the man-ropes. Dickson thanked God that the battens were freshly sanded, and the man-ropes were white and new, with neat Turk’s Head knots at the ends. He had to peer overside again, realising that Coromandel, built for the East India trade, had straight sides for greater cargo volume, and no tumblehome to ease an ascent. He winced and leaned back inboard, praying that this Captain Lewrie didn’t slip, fall, and crack his head open on his barge!
There! The dog’s vane emblem of the arriving officer’s hat was above the lip of the entry-port, and Coromandel’s Bosun began a long, complicated call on his silver pipe, and the side-party was called to attention, doffing their tarred straw hats.
Dickson took a deep breath, let it out, then stepped forward to greet Captain Lewrie, his bicorne hat raised in salute. “Welcome to Coromandel, sir,” he began as the arrival took hold of the bulwarks either side of the entry-port, gave a stamp and jerk, and landed two feet inboard before removing his own hat to salute the flag aft, and answer Dickson’s salute. “Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, I suppose?”
“Last time I looked, aye, sir,” Lewrie responded with a grin on his face. “And you are?”
“Lieutenant John Dickson, Sir Alan. Might I offer you a glass of something? The great-cabins are this way,” Dickson said, trying to appear pleasant.
“That’d be welcome, aye, Mister Dickson. Lead on!” Lewrie said with enthusiasm.
What had he expected to see, after the disparaging remarks he’d heard from his patrons? This Lewrie was … odd.
Dickson thought that Lewrie was about three inches shy of six feet tall, and might have weighed twelve stone, with good shoulders and a trim waist for a Post-Captain of obvious means who could set a good table and over-indulge, as many did.
He’d been told by his patrons that Lewrie had been in the Navy since 1780, and was surely in his late fourties, but he appeared to be younger than that, spryer, and with a jauntier step than men who had been in the Navy nearly thirty years. He was said to have been uncommonly lucky at prize-money, but didn’t appear wealthy; his coat was a plain undress coat, the gilt lace upon it gone verdigris green with exposure to sea air, as was the lace on his cocked hat. Upon his hip he wore a slightly curved hanger sword, its dark blue leather scabbard worn and nicked, and seashell handguard and lion’s head pommel bright, polished silver, but also marred by hard use, or desperate combat. And Lewrie wore tailored white slop trousers, stained from tar and galley slush used to soften running rigging, stuffed into a good pair of Hessian boots, minus the usual decorative gilt tassels.
“My apologies for the meanness of my quarters, Sir Alan,” Lt. Dickson said as they entered the great-cabins, “but I am forced to share them with the Army, and my juniors. It’s like being in a wardroom, only messier and more crowded. I fear there’s little in the way of furniture, so we must sit at the dining table.”
“No matter,” Lewrie said, taking off his hat and pulling out a chair, and Dickson noticed that there was a faint scar on one side of Lewrie’s cheek, and a slight blemish on his forehead. He also took note that the man’s eyes were a merry greyish-blue, and that Lewrie’s hair was still thick, of a mid-brown, almost chestnut colour, and wavy over his ears.
Ryder arrived with the bottle of Rhenish and two glasses, and Lewrie took time to thank him as he reached for one. Dickson saw a gold band on Lewrie’s left hand, wondering what sort of a termagant wife he had who’d insist that a husband wear a wedding ring; it was almost unheard of!
“Ehm, you came in flying brooms, Sir Alan?” Dickson asked, by way of beginning.
“We made a night landing over on the toe of the Italian ‘boot’ and burned two road supply convoys,” Lewrie told him with some glee. “A few weeks back, we blew up a bridge on the only coast road from Naples to Reggio di Calabria, and the French have been forced to go the long way round. That’s what you’ll be doing, Mister Dickson, along with the rest of us … harassing the French, burning up goods warehouses, putting troops ashore for quick, in-and-out raids. Now, today’s a Make and Mend for the squadron as their reward for a job well done … as will be the signal to splice the mainbrace that’ll be coming at Seven Bells, but tomorrow … we’ll set you and your hands to work at learning our trade. I note you’ve stored all six barges on your boat-tier beams?”
“Aye, sir,” Dickson replied, after a sip of wine.
“Best get ’em in the water, let ’em soak and seal the seams,” Lewrie instructed. “We usually tow them astern, and draw ’em up to the chain platforms, either side, so the boat crews, then the soldiers, can scramble down the nets and get aboard as quick as they can. We’d spend half the day gettin’ the troops ashore, else. There’s a Brigadier Caruthers over in Messina who raked up a gaggle o’ transports for a landing months ago, put his three regiments ashore … tried to, anyway, but with too few boats, and only civilian sailors to man them, so he had to fight his battle with only two regimen
ts, no artillery, and then blow up two big supply depots for an invasion of Sicily. Grand muck-up that was, but it came off right in the end, and our Admiral, Sir Thomas Charlton, won his knighthood for it, and some of his warships made some money off the many prizes they towed out.”
“Has there been any naval opposition to your raids, Sir Alan?” Dickson asked, hoping for a shot at some sort of combat.
“None that we’ve seen, no,” Lewrie told him, “but, do we goad ’em hard enough, there’s sure to be some French ships, or leftovers from the Neapolitan Navy, still fit for sea at Naples, Taranto, or Brindisi over on the Adriatic coast.… Hell, maybe they’d move some down from Venice, sooner or later, though Admiral Charlton’s ships keep a close guard all up and down the coasts.
“If it comes down to it, sir,” Lewrie went on with an assured grin, “old Vigilance can deal with ’em. I’ve trained my gunners well, well enough to fire accurate, aimed broadsides to support the troops ashore. They can hit an open gun-port at one hundred yards.”
Dickson thought that a vaunting boast, for he’d never heard the like of aimed naval gunfire, but he let it pass. “And when we do land troops, sir, can I expect to see some action ashore?”
“Fire-eater are you, Dickson?” Lewrie hooted. “Good for you! Your boat crews will be armed so they can stand guard over the beaches and the boats ’til the Army is done with their work and comes back to re-board. If you wish to command that party whilst your juniors stand in your stead aboard Coromandel, you’re more than welcome, though in most instances so far, the armed parties have had little to do.”
“I just may, sir,” Dickson declared. “Once my juniors, and my crew, thoroughly understand their duties, that is,” he added hastily.
“’Nother glass, sir?” Ryder asked, noting that both officers’ wine glasses were empty.
“Aye, I’d…” Dickson began to say.
“I’d much rather get a tour of your ship, sir,” Lewrie intruded. “We’ve begged and pleaded so long and hard for her that it’ll be like a Christmas treat, as proof we really have her, ready to go!”
“Well, of course, Sir Alan,” Dickson replied, pushing back his chair, though he really would have relished another cool drink on such a warm day. “Happy to show you round her,” he feigned equal eagerness, thinking that his new commanding officer was an energetic sod.
After they left the great-cabins, Ryder had himself another nip of wine, re-corked the bottle, and sprawled in a chair at the table.
Up and down the weather decks and gangways, from taffrail to the knightsheads and forecastle, it was Lewrie who led the inspection, intent on seeing everything, poking and prowling through the below-decks troop quarters, the state of the capstans and pumps, then down to the orlop to squeeze through the stored victuals and water butts.
As he did so, he and Lt. Dickson met many of Coromandel’s hands and was briefly introduced in passing. Both men discovered something about the other, from the way the sailors responded. Dickson was made aware that this Lewrie character was a lot better known in the Fleet than he’d been led to believe, that his presence seemed to impress his sailors, and that one or two, here and there, had served aboard a ship under Lewrie before, and were glad to see him, expressing delight that if they were under his command, they’d surely see some action.
Well, of course Captain Lewrie had been knighted for doing something brave and daring, but Dickson didn’t know the particulars, but he vowed to ask others about it—other officers of the squadron or aboard Vigilance, certainly not his own sailors!
Upon Lewrie’s part, what little he could glean of Lt. Dickson’s character was dis-appointing. The man behaved curtly, brusquely, and dismissively when dealing with his sailors, or when introducing Lewrie to Sub-Lt. Clough or Midshipman Kinsey.
Oddest pairing ever I did see, Lewrie thought by the time they were back on the weather decks; One’s a high-flown sneerer, t’other’s a chatterbox, and their Mid’s a cod’s-head.
That made him wonder if Coromandel was a welcome gift from Heaven, or a burden to be borne. He suspected that Dickson would be a hard man, a Tartar, to his men, for whom he evinced little respect or regard, and wished that he could take a peek at the transport’s punishment book to see if Dickson kept his crew in line with the frequent use of the lash and other punishments. Sub-Lt. Clough might be too new to his temporary rank and duties as Dickson’s First Officer to step in and speak for the men. As far as Lewrie was concerned, Clough seemed too silly and too much a “Popularity Dick” to be respected and obeyed by the crew. As for Kinsey, well … he might be a typical “tarpaulin man” masquerading as a dolt; Lewrie hoped that was so. He’d seen the sort ever since his first ship, especially in men risen from the lower deck who were inarticulate, poorly schooled, and with crude “country” manners, but consummate seamen. Coromandel certainly needed one!
Lewrie had also met Dickson’s sort, too, especially among the younger officers coming up through the ranks too quickly through patronage and “interest,” and there seemed to be more of them than there were when he was a Lieutenant. To their sort, even Able Seamen with years of experience were little more than thoughtless, biddable scum from the lowest, meanest class, who must be driven, or frightened, to do their duty, things to be tolerated, like livestock, and each man as replaceable and un-interesting as a single sheep in a flock.
“Might I interest you in another glass of wine, Sir Alan?” Lt. Dickson smoothly offered as they stood near the entry-port.
In answer, Lewrie pulled out his pocket watch, then stuck it back in a waist-coat pocket. “No, Mister Dickson, it’s nigh eleven of the morning, and I’d not wish to deprive my boat crew their issue of rum by staying aboard longer.”
Get the point o’ that, you coxcomb? he thought.
“Well, I trust you found my ship in proper fig, Sir Alan,” the man replied, almost smarmily.
“She’ll do,” Lewrie gruffly answered, “but the proof of the pudding’ll be how well, and how quickly, you can bring her up to snuff.”
“We shall endeavour to do our best, Sir Alan,” Dickson promised.
“Startin’ tomorrow, once Colonel Tarrant’s sorted his new men out into equal-sized companies, they’ll be coming aboard, by the nets. So, don’t let too many of ’em drown, right?”
“Er, right, sir,” Dickson said, taken aback.
“Well, I’m off,” Lewrie told them, noting that Sub-Lt. Clough had to prompt Midshipman Kinsey to call for the side-party to muster with a poke in the ribs.
Don’t let them be as hopeless as they look, please Jesus! Lewrie thought as he descended the man-ropes and boarding battens to his waiting boat.
“Back to the ship, Desmond,” Lewrie ordered. “The grog’s bein’ mixed, and time’s a’wasting.”
“Shove off, Hicks!” Cox’n Desmond shouted. “Out oars, starb’d, now out oars, larb’d, and row ye bastards! My full issue o’ rum is dependin’ on it!”
“We’ll be first in line,” Stroke-oar Kitch warned them, “or I’ll have yer slackin’ nutmegs off!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was really two days later when the first embarkation drills were held, for Colonel Tarrant and Major Gittings had to sort out their troops into eight companies of about seventy men each, adding newly-arrived soldiers to flesh out their now-experienced veterans, and arranging accommodations in tents fresh from England ’til they could be turned into semi-permanent wood huts rooved with canvas.
More dependent women and children had come, too, with the lucky men whose mates had drawn the long straws, and accommodations had to be made for them, too. The encampment bustled with energy as labourers arrived from Milazzo with nails and lumber and saws built; as new-come women argued with women from the original complement over trivial matters; and boys haggled, bullied, and teased each other, to the point of fist fights. And of course, the local Sicilian vendors showed up in droves, drawn by the promise of newcomers with coin in their pockets, who were enticed by the aroma
s of strange new cuisine, more fresh fruit than most of them had ever seen, and the lure of wine, or the infamous grappa. Among the new bachelor soldiers with coin, the local whores had a field day.
When the embarkation drill actually commenced, the beach and the pier teemed with boats from Coromandel, and one from Vigilance to take Col. Tarrant out to watch and oversee. Lewrie took another barge close to the new transport to watch, and his boat and Tarrant’s ended up side-by-side.
“Everything sorted out to your satisfaction, Colonel?” Lewrie cheerfully asked, amused by a large parasol that Tarrant had wedged in place to keep the sun off. “And how’s Dante?”
“Oh God,” Tarrant said with mock gloom. “The damned hound. He’s no better sailor than I am. He hated his time aboard ship. Dante’s a fond dog, mind, but he can be a trial.”
They could hear the dog, who paced the shore frantically, howling fit to bust, looking as if he’d leap in and paddle out to be with his master.
“I’ve sent Lieutenant Fletcher aboard Coromandel to explain it all to her people,” Lewrie told him.
“And I’ve put some experienced officers, sergeants, and corporals among my newlies, as well,” Col. Tarrant told him. “Lord, I do hope they show better than we did at Malta, the first few practice landings. For a while there, I wasn’t sure that my lads would ever catch on, or if the whole idea was worth it.”
“Just so long as you don’t stop to brew tea, sir,” Lewrie japed, “or poach the local goats and chickens,” reminding him of the initial landing from the sea in Mellieha Bay on the nor’west coast of Malta.
“Correct me if I dis-remember, sir,” Col. Tarrant said back with false archness, and a grin on his face, “but I do recall that one of our ‘bag,’ a tender kid goat, graced your table that evening?”
“Touché,” Lewrie replied. “Damned tasty he was, too.”
An Onshore Storm Page 19
