What marvellous good fun, ah ha!” Commodore Ayscough chortled as the plates, dishes of removes, and the tablecloth were borne away, and the fruit, nuts, cheeses, and port bottle were placed before them. “Haven’t had such a run ashore in years!”
“Took his pipers with him,” Captain Charlton dryly added. “Made a fear-some racket. Put the French off, I will gladly allow, though. And, the extra colours proved useful.”
“Borrowed a page from young Lewrie, here,” Ayscough said as he used a pen-knife to pare an apple. “His father, Sir Hugo Saint George Willoughby, rather. Clean and un-used mooring jacks to serve as King’s Colours, and a few sheets of our lightest sailcloth painted to represent Regimental Colours, so the French would think we landed three regiments, ‘stead of the equivalent of one. Just as we did at Balabac in the Far East, so long ago.
“This time,” Commodore Ayscough gaily related, “one set daunted a French company, come from Cozes . . . that, and our musketry. Two of them caused the fort to surrender, once we flanked round its open end, and when a French regiment did turn up, as we were re-embarking on the beaches, they sat down on their heels, a bit south of Royan, and never advanced another foot.”
“Well, covering fire from our ships made that stretch of road a charnel house, and they’d not have charged into that!” Capt. Cheatham of HMS Jersey added with a merry chuckle. “They’d been marched pillar-to-post already, and were dragging their feet and their musket-butts by the time they arrived, with their tongues lolling out, haw haw!”
“Colours fooled ‘em, I grant ye, sir,” Ayscough tut-tutted. “I do imagine, though, ‘twas the sight and sound of my pipers in full regalia that put ‘em off. There’s not a Frenchman born who’d tangle with the Highland laddies. Aye, ‘twas a grand day, indeed!”
“Wish I could have gone ashore,” Lewrie faintly complained.
“You could not, laddy,” Ayscough told him, snickering. “There were five other Post-Captains under me, all competent, and chafing at the bitt to take over should I fall, certain they could do it better! Why else do we toast to ‘A Bloody War or a Sickly Season’? Surest way to promotion! You, however, were, under the circumstances, indispensable to your small squadron, Lewrie. Oh, Hogue might ve taken charge, he’s an energetic lad, but he was round the point with his own duties whilst you and Savage were the vital backbone of the entire endeavour, landing the bulk of our forces, the powder . . . it would have taken hours for a small boat to carry word to Hogue, Kenyon, or Bartoe, and hours more to accomplish the task and withdraw in good order.”
“It just feels that command of distant others, not just your own deck, is . . . like laggin’ back, somehow, sirs,” Lewrie told them.
“Comes with seniority,” Captain Charlton imparted, giving Lewrie a sympathetic look. “In the Adriatic in ‘96, I spent most of my time envying you and the others, Lewrie. All I did was despatch you to a chore, then sit back and fret. What senior officers are paid to do. Mind, though, gentlemen . . . then-Commander Lewrie kept me up nights, in frets of what mischief he’d been up to lately!”
“I mentioned Commander Kenyon,” the Commodore said, turning grave. “Do you gentlemen not object to the discussion of a professional matter or two . . . none? Good. Who should replace the late Commander Kenyon? Lewrie, you worked closer with Erato . . . what of her First Officer as a replacement?”
“In an acting command, sir, I s’pose he’d do main-well,” Lewrie replied, “but Lieutenant Cottle is in his first posting, second in command of anything. He’s promising, but young and green.”
Gawd, you call someone else young? Lewrie flinched inside; poor trustin bastards, lookin’ at me like an equal? A senior officer, with wit enough t’judge . . . me?
“Ahem,” both Captain Charlton and Captain Cheatham said at the same time, for both men had First Lieutenants aboard their ships whom they thought more than worthy of promotion onto “their own bottom” and independent command. Most such promotions on foreign stations, even if both Lord Boxham’s and Commodore Ayscough’s ships were officially under the authority of far-off Channel Fleet, were accepted by Admiralty, and were as good as permanent.
Lewrie found the silent interplay amusing, as both turned their eyes to Ayscough, who would have the final say; which of the two prospective Lieutenants had the better record; or, to whom did Ayscough owe more favour, or “interest”? The Royal Navy sailed on a sea of “interest” and patronage. Which candidate might earn him future favours?
“Damme, and I have a fellow of mine own in mind,” Ayscough craftily told them, opening the silent bidding, and teasing them something horrid. “Or, Rear-Admiral Iredell, Lord Boxham, commanding over us all, might wish to put a name forward.
“In point of fact, sirs,” Commodore Ayscough went on, carefully cutting a long spiral of apple skin, which was beginning to resemble a very loose red spring, “Lord Boxham is quite taken by Commander Kenyon and his brave, but tragic, end . . . and the capture of the artillery intended for the Pointe de Grave battery. He intends, I believe, for them to go to London for display. Hyde Park or Saint James’s was cited, as well as the Strand embankments. In tribute, he said.”
“In tribute to whom, sir?” Lewrie slyly japed.
“Why, to Kenyon, and Erato, Lewrie, of course,” Ayscough replied, allowing sarcasm free, but subtle, rein. “The ‘Kenyon Guns,’ the ‘Erato Guns,’ something along those lines. Our war with France drags on with so few victories since the Battle of the Nile, and the last time that our Army took a hand, it was a disaster. We shove mountains of money at weak and disappointing allies, and are at present without any. The people at home need something to make the struggle feel worth it.
“Though,” Ayscough sourly mused, dancing the coils of his apple peel like a spring atop the table, “given the late Commander Kenyon’s, ah . . . peculiarities, ‘Erato’s Guns’ might be best.”
“Peculiarties, sir?” Capt. Cheatham enquired with a sharp look.
“Health was failing fast,” Ayscough almost grunted, “and he was a horrid drunkard, and . . . as Lewrie here gathered from Erato’s surviving officers, Kenyon favoured . . . ‘the windward passage,’ “he concluded in a conspiratorial whisper. “Preyed on his most fetching seamen.”
“A ‘Molly,’ by God?” Capt. Cheatham erupted, looking at Lewrie.
“And poxed to the eyebrows, sir,” Lewrie related in a soft voice. “Dyin’ of it, most-like, in the final stages of the Pox, when it erodes one’s brain matter. That’s the only explanation for how he rambled so badly, and the way he was so grudgeful and nigh-insubordinate towards me. I did put it down to how much he drank at first, aye, or his spite to find one of his former Mids promoted beyond him, but . . . my Surgeon tells me the disease robbed him of self-control. Think a thing, speak a thing, sir. Put him in his place a time or two, and I thought he’d learned his lesson, but . . .”
“Bloody Hell!” Capt. Cheatham spat, writhing in utter disgust; for the topic, for the mortal, bestial sin, for having to hear a word of it, most-like. He waved urgently for the port decanter. “How does a ‘back-gammoner’ become a Commission Sea Officer, much less gain the command of a King’s ship? Should’ve been found out years ago!”
“He was very careful to play ‘Jack, Me Hearty,’ sir,” Lewrie explained. “When I served under him in the West Indies, one would never have guessed . . . when he had all his wits intact, and could be thoughtful of his Publick Face. The one glimpse I got that roused my suspicions could have been explained away, and I was just a Middy, so what did / know of things? No in flagrante delicto, just . . .”
Capt. Cheatham raised a stiff hand to ward off the rest, and to shush any graphic description; he found restoration in the port.
“Was he extremely discreet, and kept up a stout facade, well . . .,” Ayscough stuck in gloomily. “And, remember, the Navy was very short of competent officers in ‘94 and ‘95 as the Fleet expanded. Kenyon was most-like nigh-anonymous, with a mediocre repute round the middle of the Lieutenants’ List, just senior enough for promotion.”
“The stress of living a life like that, sirs,” Lewrie sketched out, impatient for the decanter to pass his way, too. “Then, comes a ship of his own at last, and the strain and loneliness of command atop it? A sense of bein’ second but to God at sea, and with his wits goin’ fast? and losin’ command of himself, to boot? We all have known captains who turned . . . eccentric.”
“Damme, Lewrie, you would bring up my trained circus of bread-room rats!” Capt. Charlton stuck in, tongue in cheek, to slice through their gloom. It worked; such an outre statement stopped them in their tracks and made them howl with relieving laughter, declaring Charlton a rare rogue, and starting a period of shared reveries of just how eccentric some of their old captains had seemed to them when they were Midshipmen or junior Lieutenants.
“Thank God the poor man’s gone, then,” Cheatham said with a sad moue on his face, pouring himself another topping glass when the port got round to him again. “And, for the good of his family, the Navy, and his repute . . . false though it may have been . . . he fell with his sword in hand, his face to the foe, and his wounds in his front.”
“Hear, hear,” Ayscough and Charlton chorused.
Do I tell ‘em? Lewrie asked himself, unable, to keep a wince off his phyz, for he had conducted the sea-burials for Kenyon and his men, and had seen on which side of his body Kenyon had been pierced, before they had been sewn up in canvas and tipped over the side under a flag.
“How did he fall, Captain Lewrie?” Commodore Ayscough enquired, after seeing his pained expression.
Oh, Gawd! Lewrie cringed; tell the truth, and every Man-Jack in Erato is bound for the noose. Lie, and face a court-martial myself!
“Commander Kenyon, along with a Midshipman and five of his boat crew . . .,” Lewrie began, hesitantly. “They stepped ashore onto the town piers, right after Erato came alongside them, facing the town’s shops and houses on the waterfront. There was a company of French infantry, sheltered in them, and . . .”
“Lovely young fellows, were they?” Capt. Cheatham sneered.
“Ah, in point of fact, I’d s’pose so, sir,” Lewrie stumbled at the interruption. “Weapons in hand, all that. Preceding the Marines, who should’ve been first ashore. There were French musket volleys, and return fire . . . swivel guns were fired at the windows and doorways, to drive the Frogs to cover, so the landing-party could join them. There is a slight possibility that their deaths were the result of a combination of fire, sirs . . . hostile and friendly. Might’ve charged cross the muzzle of a swivel, just as it lit off, accidentally-like, ‘bout the same time as some Frenchmen got a few shots off, too.”
There, that’ll explain it, Lewrie told himself, trying to think of what Clotworthy Chute had told him of how to spot a liar, or how to read a card player; what cutty-eyed expressions liars and the confident wore, and tried to plaster the exact opposite on his face. Blink too much, or was it no blinking at all; shrug too deep, eschew a sheepish smile, make firm eye contact, what was it?
Truth to tell, someone aboard Erato, maybe two or three someones, had fired their swivels about the same time, in the general direction of the village’s buildings, but had “sorta—kind of” missed, and had blown the entire party off their feet, all the wounds from behind, and no one had cared much at all. Even Lt. Cottle could not say who had done it, and, from the cutty-eyed way he ‘d looked when Lewrie had put it to him, Cottle most-like hadn’t made all that much of an effort to find out who did it, and probably would not, in future, either!
Now, the Eratos would shut their mouths as tight as oysters, and shrug their collective innocence. Oh, it was murder most foul, mutiny and a death-sentence for everyone involved, whether by omission or commission; the ones who did it, and the ones who didn’t, but kept mum, and abetted the perpetrators; for those who refused, for whatever reason, to investigate, or those who did but wrote a lying report!
“Indeed,” Commodore Ayscough sternly commented, looking leery of such an explanation, making Lewrie feel as if his eyes would begin to water, if he kept eye contact with him very much longer. “You find it a tad suspicious, do you, Lewrie?”
“Yes, and no, sir,” Lewrie tried to weasel out, wondering where inspiration was when you really needed it. Oh, yes! “One may think that Erato’s crew, the bulk of ‘em, might have felt shamed by Kenyon’s doings, and his blatant favouritism, and . . . personal tastes. Yet, on the other hand, it could have been accidental. Or . . . premeditated.”
Here we go, premeditated, aye! Lewrie felt like chortling right out loud as a thought came to him, as if whispered into his ear by some perverse wee, winged muse.
“By Kenyon himself, sir,” Lewrie stated.
“What? Kenyon!”
“Oh, rot!”
“Murder, and dumb mutiny!”
“Feature this, sirs,” Lewrie went on, both hands on the table, and slowly rolling his port glass between them. “Commander Kenyon was sick enough to know he was failing fast, that the Pox was eating him alive. Despite his best intentions he knew he had little command of his lusts, and just enough wit left to see the reactions of his crew.
“He was aging badly, his hair and formerly handsome features going, too, sirs,” Lewrie improvised, “wasting away to a scare-crow, and . . . I had put him on warning that if he sauced me one more time, he’d be charged for it, and brought before a Court for insubordination, and there went his naval career, drab as it was. He wasn t fetching anymore, d’ye see, sirs?
“Ye mentioned his family, Captain Cheatham,” Lewrie continued. “Far as I know, he had none. Or, if he had, they’d slung him into the Navy as a lad, soon as he began t’act on his sinful predilictions, most-like, and wrote him off, so . . . the Navy, the officers of his past and present rank, were his family, and, could he no longer command himself, his buried secret would come out, and that’d be lost to him. Revealed as a sodomist, quietly cashiered without half-pay if not brought before a court-martial, either way, he’d end up ‘beached’ without ten pounds to his name, and he’d die a miserable, ravin’ death in Bedlam, or some, place worse, ‘thout a shred of dignity, or honour.”
“Mean t’say, he deliberately was the first ashore, willing to be killed at the head of his men, ‘stead of . . . ?” Capt. Charlton said, his head cocked over to one side as if he found it hard to swallow, . . . yet with a knowing glint to his eyes.
“Boresome as our blockade work had been ‘til now, sirs,” Lewrie said with a hapless shrug, “it might have been his last chance to fall a hero . . . to go out brave and glorious. While he still possessed a last few shreds of rationality. For his good name, sirs! Perhaps . . . perhaps for the good of the Service, as well,” Lewrie suggested. “In the old days, were one not aware of his perversion, one’d think Kenyon a hellish-good seaman, a very competent officer, and a fellow dedicated to the Navy. I learned a lot from him, in truth.”
“Good of the Service,” Capt. Charlton said in the long silence as they mulled all that over.
“Ahem,” Commodore Ayscough grumpily said over the creaking and groaning of Chesterfield’s working hull. “Yayss . . . I see. We will never know what was in his mind at the time, if indeed it was Kenyon’s intention to end his life, or, whether it was an unfortunate mistake.”
“Or, whether he and his ‘pretty lads’ were intentionally slaughtered,” Capt. Cheatham growled, “and the guilty aboard Erato have got ‘way with it . . . so far, sirs. As our Commodore related to me, our casualties were extremely light, given the audacity of our landings. Some few wounded aboard the cutters in taking the galley, hardly any aboard Savage or Mischief, and very few wounded aboard my ship, Chesterfield, Lyme, or the seventy-fours. Most of the ‘Discharged, Dead’ came among the landing-parties, ashore. Yet Erato lost eight killed, including a cabin steward, despite never taking any serious fire from the French.”
“Indeed, sir, most casualties occurred among the landing-parties,” Capt. Charlton countered quickly. “And, Erato’s losses were a part of the shore parties, . . . bravely standing into the harbour of Le Verdon and right alongside the piers against an entrenched company of French soldiers, who had to be rooted out with the bayonet and cannon fire.”
“That is very true, Captain Charlton, aye,” Ayscough mused with a spritely grin. “ ‘Twould be a damned shame, was our victory marred by such a scurrilous suspicion. As well planned as our adventure was, all thanks to Captain Lewrie, no one could possibly expect to succeed with none of our own blood shed. Do you agree, Captain Cheatham?”
“Well, now sir . . .” Cheatham huffed up, taut fingers curling on the stem of his glass. “Mean t’say . . . ! Should we not delve into the matter deeper, put the question to the Erato’s people . . . ?”
“Rear-Admiral Lord Boxham must be informed,” Ayscough went on. “He may wish court-martials held, which would result in Erato’s crew being broken up among the rest of the ships of our squadron, once the guilty are sifted out, and a new crew and slate of officers appointed into her.”
“I’ll not have any of them!” Cheatham hotly exclaimed. “There’s no telling what they might imagine they could get away with, next time! Nor would I wish my worst watch officer to go into her.”
“Rear-Admiral Iredell indeed must be informed of the possibility that Kenyon and his . . . favourites fell accidentally, intentionally, or by a mutinous deed of the moment,” Capt. Charlton suggested. “But, it is his decision as to what to do . . . or, whether it is his appreciation of the matter that a rough form of Justice was done, either way, and the rot aboard her had been . . . excised. You make a good point, Commodore,” he said. “Why mar a rare, if minor, victory? For the good of the Service, it might be best did Lord Boxham put an officer of his choosing in command of Erato, put the crew on notice that they’d best be True Blue Hearts of Oak from now on, and, with the chiefest cause of their grievance gone, well . . .”
I can’t believe this! Lewrie gawped to himself; Ayscough, and Charlton, turnin’ a blind eye t ‘what amounts t ‘murder an’ mutiny? For that spretty much what it was, wasn’t it. Never thought I’d see either of ‘em bend the rules that far!
“Send her home,” Lewrie said into the tenseness, the heat coming off Cheatham’s glowers.
“What?” they all pretty much barked at the same time.
“Erato can’t keep the sea more than four months without replenishment of stores, sirs,” Lewrie said with a shrug. “She needs to be victualled. Let Lord Boxham place officers into her, men of his own selection. Whoever is her acting captain will surely be confirmed by Admiralty as a Commander, so long as the war continues. Pluck Cottle, her First Officer, out, and place him aboard one of the seventy-fours, as replacement for the Lieutenant whom Lord Boxham names as the second-in-command. Thurston, too, in charge of her Marines, for there’s no guilt attached to him, either . . . yet, and there’s no reason he should suffer. Then, once in a home port, Erato can be given a refit, whether she’s due or not, and, in the interim, the crew . . . guilty or innocent, or merely suspect . . . can be re-assigned to other ships in the Channel Fleet.
“Even if it was Kenyon’s intention to die by the enemy’s hands,” he quickly added, “and no one s guilty, the scattering of her people’d draw no unwanted notice, sirs. Happens all the time.”
Captain Cheatham of Jersey still looked sour, but he did nod his head in sullen agreement, while Ayscough and Charlton immediately looked relieved, taking Lewrie’s scheme as a sensible suggestion.
“Well, we must leave the details of it to Lord Boxham . . . agreed, gentlemen?” Ayscough asked. “A toast, then. Fill your glasses. Damme, the port’s almost gone, and we’ll need another bottle soon. Here’s to the memory of Commander James Kenyon . . . a fallen . . . hero.”
“Rather sir, if I may?” Lewrie stuck in. “Perhaps the memory of Commander Kenyon might be, uhm . . . best soon forgotten.”
“Oh, quite! Lord, yes,” Commodore Ayscough said with a cynical laugh. “All topped up, gentlemen? Then here’s to the late Commander Kenyon . . . and the ‘Erato Guns.’ ”
They all drank their glasses dry, reflective of a ritual empty of real sentiment, and an uneasy silence fell over the great-cabins.
“D’y e think Hogue will keep his prize, sir?” Lewrie dared ask. “Or, is she not ‘Good Prize’?”
“Marvellous prize!” Ayscough bellowed gleefully. “By the time Mischief ‘was alongside her, not a shot fired, mind . . . her master and crew had gone over the side and rowed for Talmont like the very Devil was at their heels. Only people left aboard were a half-drunk ship’s boy and a one-legged cook, and both of ‘em swearing they were Danish, but all they could speak was Dutch, ha ha! Her master left so quickly, he abandoned her three sets of papers, so he was surely up to something beyond smuggling wine and brandy to Rotterdam.”
“Bung-full of Bordeaux, Lewrie,” Capt. Charlton confided with joy. “Casks and kegs and crated bottles of it. She’s bound for England, not Lisbon. Wine to Portgual? Like carrying coal to Newcastle!”
“Wouldn’t fetch a shilling to the pound in Lisbon, but, landed in England, she’s worth thousands!” Ayscough heartily agreed. “Lucky dog, Hogue, his fortune’s made, and no master or ship owner to sue for her return. Abandoned . . . salvaged, must he claim so, ha ha, and, in the merchant service of the Batavian Republic, a French ally.”
“Something to cheer, sir,” Lewrie posed with a smile. “Punch, sir? For you make a fine’un.”
Even if we’ll all feel like the Wrath o’ God in the mornin’, he told himself, but . . . they needed some good cheer. They had a victory to celebrate!
“A punch, by God, yes!”
“ ‘Give me the punch-ladle, I’ll fath-om the bowl!’ ” Lewrie sang right out, pounding his fists and swaying from side to side.
“Now from France, we get brandy, from Jamaica good rum!
Sweet oranges and ap-ples, from Portugal come!
Add the good old hard cider that England con-trols . . .
Give me the punch-ladle, I’ll fath-om the bowl!”
Even Capt. Cheatham joined in the chorus, getting into the spirit of things, as their spirits and flavourings were being mixed and the hot water was fetched, and they all swayed as they loudly sang along.
“I’ll fathom the bowl, I’ll fathom the bowl. . .
Give me the punch-ladle, I’ll fath-om the bowl!”