An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  Coromandel ghosted past HMS Vigilance, bound inshore to join the other troop transports anchored nearer the beach, and Dickson stared straight ahead, not daring to even glance over at the 64-gunner, for fear of seeing Captain Lewrie. But he had a tingling at the back of his neck that told him he was being watched most closely, much like the old adage of feeling a rabbit running over his grave!

  “’Bout here, sir,” the Acting Sailing Master opined as to the proper place to round up and let go the bower.

  “Very well,” Dickson replied with a harumph. “Helm hard down, Quartermasters! Fetch her right up to the wind. Kinsey, let go the kedge and let the hawser run free! Ready, bow party!”

  No one will fault me on seamanship! he assured himself; And if these dolts try to make me look bad…!

  No one did, and Coromandel slowly swung up into the eyes of the wind, brought to a crawl by the drag of the kedge hawser rumbling out the aft hawse hole, and the reefed tops’ls, now pressed flat aback to the masts. The jibs still standing began to flutter as their angle to the wind became too acute, streaming down the centerline of the ship.

  “No bite t’th’ helm, sir,” a Quartermaster announced, whirling the wheel back and forth with ease to show the lack of pressure.

  “Let go the bower!” Dickson shouted forward, and there came a great splash as the anchor went overside, dropped from the larboard cathead beam, and another hawser cable rumbled, as the ship came to a full stop and began to make an infinitesimal leeway.

  “Come on, bite, damn ye,” the Acting Sailing Master hissed as Coromandel’s sternway made chuckling sounds round the impotent rudder.

  At last, there was a jerk and a snub as the bower dug into the harbour bed, and the run of the anchor cable was controlled to allow at least a four-to-one scope. Dickson turned about and glared at Midshipman Kinsey to signal him to take up the long slack of the kedge cable. Round and round the aft capstan sailors tramped, shortening the scope ’til Coromandel lay near abeam the wind, almost parallel to the shoreline, and was at last at a secure rest, with all her sails brailed up in harbour gaskets, and her jibs handed and stowed.

  “Ehm … Vigilance is showing a signal, sir,” Clough announced. “Our number and … Captain Repair On Board.”

  “Very well, I shall, dress,” Dickson said, as if it was of no matter. “Haul a boat up ’neath the starboard main chains for me.”

  Before going aft to his cabins, he had to cough to clear his throat, for it suddenly felt very dry.

  * * *

  It did not help Dickson’s fretful mood to know that he was being stared at by his crew as he went down into his boat to be rowed over to Vigilance. Straight, dumb-show faces would, he was mortal-certain, break out into gleeful smiles as soon as he quit the deck. Worse for his nerves was the silent attention paid to his arrival by the crew of the flagship as his boat came alongside, dozens and dozens of sailors and Marines peering down from the sail-tending gangways as sobre and stiff as men would be when summoned to witness punishment. It was as if everyone aboard Vigilance already knew his fate. So, it was not the exertion of scaling the ship’s side that brought him to the deck and entry-port red-faced and sweaty.

  “Lieutenant Dickson of Coromandel, come aboard as ordered,” he said to the officer on deck who gravely doffed his hat to him with all the cheer of a mourner at a funeral to a widower. “Farley, First Officer. The Captain is aft in his cabins, Mister Dickson. If you will follow me?”

  All Dickson could do was swallow and nod.

  The Marine sentry stamped his boots and musket butt to announce their arrival, the door was opened, and Dickson tucked his elegant custom-made bicorne under one arm and entered.

  Dickson got a brief impression of wealth and style to the cabin furnishings; linseeded overhead deck beams, polished brass or pewter lanthorns and candle stands, fine Axminster or Turkey carpets atop the black and white deck chequered canvas, rich red cushions on the lazarette storage cabinets beneath the transom sash windows and on the settee and chair grouping to starboard set round a low brass tray-table.

  In the centre of the tableau stood a highly polished oak desk with a single chair before it. Atop it sat a white cat mottled with grey splotches, which stared at him unblinking, and behind the desk stood Captain Lewrie, hands in the small of his back … waiting. It put Dickson in mind of a court-martial, with only his own sword on the desk top lacking, point towards him in condemnation.

  “Reporting aboard as ordered, sir,” Dickson said, wishing for something with which to wet his mouth and throat.

  “Sit down, Mister Dickson,” Lewrie began, indicating the chair before the desk. “A glass of something?”

  “That would be welcome, aye, Sir Alan,” Dickson said.

  “An ale for each of us, Deavers,” Lewrie ordered, and two tall mugs of beer were fetched from a keg somewhere in the dining coach, and Dickson could not help turning round in his chair to see, noting a woman’s portrait on the forward bulkhead, an incredibly fetching young woman, and it was all he could do to tear his eyes away from the portrait.

  The mug was placed on the desk in front of him and Dickson took a deep, refreshing draught, grateful for the wetness.

  Quite the dandy prat, ain’t ye, Lewrie thought as he beheld Lt. Dickson, for the fellow had taken time to don his best-dress uniform, with a silk shirt on under a snow-white waist-coat, with a pressed neck-stock round his throat, un-stained breeches, and well-blacked Hessian boots with gilt lace trim and tassels. And on his hip, Dickson sported an ornately gilt smallsword worth at least £50, at a rough guess.

  “You lads can go skylark on deck for a while,” Lewrie idly said to his cabin servants, and they trooped out to the quarterdeck, which almost made Dickson choke on his swallow of beer. He set the mug on the desk and moved his hands to his lap.

  “Now, sir,” Lewrie said, setting aside his own mug, and giving the cat a stroking. “You really made a muck of things, sir. Losing a boat? Some fishermen from Milazzo brought her in, else you would be out a pretty penny for her loss.”

  “Sir, I…” Dickson began. “Sir Alan, rather…”

  “I don’t quite know how your crew did it, Dickson, but they got the missing oars in the barge before they let it slip free, so you’ve all ten back, to boot.”

  “Sir, I am saddled with the absolute dregs of the receiving ships at Portsmouth,” Dickson replied with some heat. “Drunks, idlers, whiners, and scapegraces … gaol sweepings, petty criminals, sneaks, and…”

  “I told you once, it’s a poor workman blames his tools, sir,” Lewrie cut him off sternly. “But, it’s an arrogant, disdainful fool who’ll bully, browbeat, and lash his crew to competence, if only for abject fear of punishment. Recall Pigot and the Hermione frigate?”

  “Sir, I…” Dickson tried to say.

  “I expect if I looked through your punishment book I’d find a litany of defaulters lashed,” Lewrie went on. “I’ve served under many Captains, some good, some bad, and one or two bloody awful, but in all that time, I’ve never met one who went out of his way to turn his crew into resentful skulkers. I don’t know who you had as examples who taught you to despise your junior officers, and every man and boy aboard, or whether you came into the Navy with that top-lofty attitude, but the only thing that I can see that you’ve accomplished so far is to lose every shred of respect from your men by your harshness, and your dismissive sneers.”

  “Sir, I must protest…!”

  “Protest all you like, Mister Dickson,” Lewrie coldly shot back. “A fine way to fuck up your first shot at command, I must say! There was an Italian writer—how apt for us—who wrote advice for budding rulers that it’s better to be feared than loved, but you’ve taken that to a sublimely ridiculous extreme. I’ve found that respect from sailors must be earned, not demanded, and to gain that, one must show respect for one’s men, for what they know, and instruct them if they don’t yet know … without scaring them silly.

  “Firm but fair,” Lewrie continued,
“Recall that ’un? Punish if necessary, but only for true faults. Reward for good behaviour, or their successes. Give them a reason to be proud of themselves, and of their ship, no matter how humble her role will be.”

  Lt. Dickson had gone even redder in the face, looking as if his neck-stock was strangling him, with his head cocked back to look down his nose, nostrils flaring in controlled rage to be berated so.

  No, he ain’t gettin’ it, but he will, Lewrie assured himself.

  “You brought me an imperfect instrument, Mister Dickson,” Lewrie told him. “I badly need well-organised transport ships with which to stage raids over on the mainland, but Coromandel isn’t up to my standards yet, and I have serious doubts that you’re the man to improve her.”

  “You … you would take away my command, sir?” Dickson gasped, letting some of his rage come to light. “You can’t! It simply…!”

  “I can, and I shall, Mister Dickson,” Lewrie harshly told him. “I must, for I have no belief that you would be able to turn things round. You’ve poisoned the well. My Second Officer, Mister Rutland, will replace you aboard Coromandel, and you will exchange with him and come aboard Vigilance. What is the date of your commission?”

  Dickson had gone slack-jawed, utterly stupefied, and stumbled out the date, wondering why he had first thought that Lewrie’s eyes were merry blue, for they had gone frosty, Arctic grey, and flinty.

  “That will make you Fourth Lieutenant here, sir,” Lewrie told him. “My current Fourth Officer, Mister Grace, predates you by some five months.”

  “It simply isn’t done, sir, I protest!” Dickson yelped. “I will write Admiralty…!”

  “You’re free to do so, sir,” Lewrie went on. “I strongly urge you, sir, to watch and learn how my officers and Midshipmen deal with our people. Use of the ‘cat’ is rare aboard Vigilance, and everyone, Commission Officer to ship’s boys, have come to rub together as well as anyone can expect, by now. I’d even go so far as to say that she is a happy ship, but that’s taken diligence, hard work, and ‘firm but fair’ discipline, leavened with respect. There are lessons that you should take to heart, Mister Dickson, and I conjure you to do so.”

  “Sir, I…” Dickson said, gulping, gone cold inside.

  “Make the most of this, sir, see it as an opportunity,” Lewrie said. “But I must warn you, sir, that I will not have Coromandel’s ways brought aboard Vigilance. Understand me?”

  “Aye, sir,” Dickson managed to croak.

  “Good,” Lewrie said with a nod of his head. “Now. You may return to Coromandel and pack your dunnage. Mister Rutland will be boarding in an hour or so. He will not read himself in formally, but the both of you will, with all good grace, summon your crew and announce that you are exchanging. That will be all, Mister Dickson. You may go.”

  Dickson sat for a moment more, too numbed to stand, or speak in his defence, just nod his head, eyes un-focussed, before he drew in a deep breath, placed his hands on his knees, and levered himself to his feet. He remembered his high-born manners and bowed from the waist, then turned to clump to the great-cabin door, not daring to look back, and lost in what felt like a fever dream.

  Lewrie picked up his mug and took a deep draught of beer, for his own throat was as dry as a desert. “You’ve the one chance to improve yourself, Dickson,” he muttered to the far cabin entrance, now shut, “and if you fuck up this one, then God help you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “I think we should go to sea,” Lewrie told his assembled officers over a rare breakfast in his cabins, which raised some hearty cheers in agreement.

  “We’ve a new place to raid, sir?” Lt. Grace asked.

  “No, but Mister Quill is gathering intelligence for us on two promising places,” Lewrie told him. “Monasterace, where all of the convoys converge after crossing the mountains, and Eufemia Lamezia, up above our bridge, where the road convoys diverge from the main coast road, and there’s a jam-up. Commander Gamble in Coquette brought news about how far along the French repairs on our bridge are going, and I wish to go get some much-needed live gunnery practice. There will be opposition, this time,” Lewrie promised.

  “Enemy ships, sir?” Lt. Greenleaf hopefully brayed. “Huzzah!”

  “Enemy artillery, actually, Mister Greenleaf,” Lewrie said with a shrug. “A mixed battery of field pieces and howitzers firing explosive shells. Those guns, the French engineers, and their latest efforts should be swatted away t’keep the bastards honest.”

  “Except for three or four water kegs that need re-filling, the ship is ready in all respects, sir,” Lt. Farley announced. “If we can forgo dry-fire drill on the guns this morning, I can have us bung full before Noon, sir.”

  “Fruit, sir,” Grace was quick to suggest. “If we’re out several days, or a fortnight, oranges and grapes would be welcome with our people.”

  “Then speak with the Purser as soon as you can today, sir, and let’s think about enough fresh loaf bread for at least two days. That ciabatta doesn’t spoil as quickly as most,” Lewrie added to the list. “Aye, weather and wind permittin’, let’s stand ready to make sail by Noon tomorrow.”

  “I will volunteer to sail to Milazzo, sir,” Lt. Grace quickly offered. “Take the Purser along to the town market, and the bakers? The sutlers round the Army camp won’t have enough ready made.”

  “And might that involve seeing the baker’s fetching young daughter, Grace?” Lt. Greenleaf teased. “She is a rare beauty.”

  “Well,” was all that Grace could say, blushing and ducking.

  “Dickson, I’ll thank you to see to the watering party,” Farley said, looking down the table at their newest.

  “And when you do go ashore, Mister Dickson, I’d thank you to go see Colonel Tarrant,” Lewrie added to Dickson’s duties. “We’ll be having a look into Eufemia Lamezia as a possible place to raid, and I’d think that an officer from the Ninety-Fourth should come along. You’ll extend the invitation, and inform the Colonel that we will be putting to sea by Noon tomorrow.

  “And, before you do that,” Lewrie went on, “I must get a letter off to Mister Quill in Messina, telling him that we’ll be away for a time, so he doesn’t waste a ride out here expecting a conference to relate anything he’s learned so far. You can hand Colonel Tarrant my note, and he’ll see it gets off.”

  “Aye, sir,” Dickson replied, practically the first thing that he had said since sitting down to his pork chop and eggs.

  Seven Bells chimed far up forward at the forecastle belfry to mark half past seven of the morning, presaging the start of the Forenoon Watch, and its chores.

  “If anyone’s still hungry, too damned bad,” Lewrie jested as he pulled off his napkin and tossed it aside, “there’s some toast left in the bread barge, but let’s be about the day’s duties, what, sirs?”

  With a scraping of chair legs, they rose from the table as Lewrie rose, gathered their hats from the sideboard, and made their way to the cabin doors.

  “Ah, Mister Farley, bide a moment,” Lewrie said.

  “Aye, sir?” the First Officer said, a brow up in fret that some detail had been missed.

  “How’s our newest fitting in?” Lewrie asked once the others had left.

  “Hmm, that’s rather hard to say, sir,” Farley answered, after a long moment. “Half the time, one hardly knows he’s here. He keeps to himself, doesn’t say much, and with no watches to stand whilst we’re in harbour, there’s no way for me to assess his seamanship. He plays a recorder, sir, a rather nice one. Quite talented at it, if I am any judge. Our sing-alongs in our mess already had Greenleaf’s violin, and my poor strummings on my mandolin, so Dickson’s a welcome addition, in that regard.”

  “What of his interactions with our people?” Lewrie asked, more to the meat of it.

  “Hmm, subdued, I’d say, sir,” Lt. Farley told him. “He doesn’t waste time with useless orders and such, but he doesn’t slouch about or neglect anything, either. Puts me more in mind of Mister Rutland a
nd all his eternal gloom, sir!” Farley added with a laugh.

  “Well, I s’pose that’s the best we can expect straightaway,” Lewrie said with a shrug. “He’ll either fit in or he won’t. Once we get to sea, we’ll learn more about him. Thank you, Mister Farley, you may go about your duties.”

  “Aye, sir, and thank you for a tasty breakfast,” Farley said, bowing his way out.

  “Chalky, get off the table,” Lewrie snapped, clapping his hands to deter the cat from licking every plate for meat scraps, egg, and hashed potato bits. “You’ve had your share and more!”

  And when Dasher and Turnbow tried to gather up the plates, the cat stood in the middle of one plate, licking like mad to get all that he could before being picked up and set aside, or shooed off.

  “You’re such a glutton,” Lewrie sighed, exasperated, as Chalky made off with a pork chop bone and dashed beneath the starboard side settee with it.

  * * *

  When Lt. Dickson brought the last full water butt alongside to be hoisted aboard in slings, he also fetched Captain Bromhead of the 94th, one of the Line Company officers who had been with the regiment the longest, and had taken part in all their landings. Space was made for him in the officers’ wardroom, in the slightly larger dog-box cabin right aft on the starboard side, which would be a Captain’s when Vigilance carried a First Rate Commodore or Rear-Admiral. He would dine with Lewrie, though, for suppers, but would take the bulk of his meals with the ship’s officers.

  Late in the afternoon, round the start of the First Dog Watch, Lt. Grace returned from Milazzo with a heaping boatload of bread and fat sacks of fruit, including lemons that some of the ship’s sailors used to liven their grog. The Purser, Mr. Blundell, was aggrieved by the extra expense for everything, especially so since he could not resell the bread to the hands, but had to issue it in lieu of dry, hard ship’s bisquit. At least he could sell the oranges and lemons for tuppence apiece, but he’d barely break even. Ever since the Army had built their encampment, and the squadron had made the bay their anchorage, their joint demands upon local produce and livestock had driven prices higher, despite what warnings Don Julio Caesare had given them about price-gouging.