“My stars, Lewrie, I do believe that you must live inside some faery ring,” Rear-Admiral of the Blue Thomas Charlton exclaimed after they had settled down at a table at a coffee house a short walk from Nerot’s Hotel the next morning. “How many years since our time in the Adriatic, how long since we’ve seen each other, and you don’t look as if you’ve aged a single day!”
“Ehm, clean livin’, early retirin’, and no drink?” Lewrie japed away the compliment. “You look fit and trim, I must say.”
“Oh, tosh,” Charlton replied with a fake scowl.
Did one picture a mental image of a typical English gentleman, Thom Charlton was your man. He had a long, rectangular head and face, a high brow, and a long nose, and features rather un-remarkable, with a head of hair which at one time had been thick and brown, but had gone completely salt-and-pepper, far beyond the faint brushes of grey along his temples that Lewrie recalled from their last meeting. He was still tall, slim, but substantial, a full three inches taller than Lewrie’s five feet nine. This morning, Charlton was dressed in civilian suitings; even when in uniform, unless he wore the medal, no one would have guessed that he was one of the “Trafalgar Captains”.
They ordered coffee and brandy, stipulating that it should be hot, not the usual tepid found in most coffee houses, then caught up on their doings for a genial half-hour, with Charlton enquiring about Lewrie’s youngest son, Hugh, who had been in his first two years of service when Charlton had sailed his ship into the combined Franco-Spanish fleet.
“Ah, the North coast of Spain,” Charlton said, “a grand place for the lad to be, right now. I’ve heard that our ships there are to be strongly re-enforced, and become a proper Admiral’s command.”
“Yours, sir?” Lewrie asked with a sly grin. If it was given to Charlton, he might need an officer already familiar with the coast and its dangers.
“Oh, no, I fear not, Lewrie,” Charlton said with another deprecating shrug and scowl. “In point of fact, the rumour round Admiralty is that it may be given to Rear-Admiral Sir Home Popham.”
“Popham?” Lewrie gawped. “Good God, that idiot? Didn’t his reprimand over Buenos Aires mean anything? I was with him at Cape Town and Buenos Aires, and thank Christ I was able t’sail away before that turned t’shit.”
“Ah, but unlike Lord Cochrane, say, Popham is a very cool and smooth fellow, glib as anything,” Charlton rejoined with a sly laugh, “and he’s made a point during his career to make friends, left, right, and centre. Popham is possessed of powerful patrons, too, all of whom can easily dismiss his … odder moments. He could be barking mad and hot on an expedition to the Moon, but he could convince one to not only sponsor it, but come along with him for the fun of it.
“What’s Cochrane done since Aix Roads, after all?” Charlton went on. “Tossed over his naval career, taken his seat in Lord’s, and become a pest over his slighted honour, so much so that his patrons are embarrassed to speak up for him. No, Popham will succeed, I expect, because he needs to … in his usual ambitious way. He might even envision an invasion or two, to lure French troops away from Wellesley when he goes back into Spain in the Spring.”
“Well, good luck to him, then,” Lewrie decided, “so long as he doesn’t bite off more than he can chew … again.”
“Speaking of invasions…,” Charlton said, idly twiddling with his spoon. “Recall, I wrote of a proposal to discuss with you.”
“Who do ye want crushed, sir?” Lewrie asked with a grin, which much amused the older man for a moment.
“Ah, that’s the Lewrie I remember from the Adriatic,” Charlton mused. “And, the officer who raised so much Hell along the Andalusian coast a few years back.”
“Well, not too much Hell, sir,” Lewrie countered, “with only one troop transport and two companies of soldiers. And, once we barely hit our stride, General Dalrymple at Gibraltar limited our usefulness, fearful that we might convince the Spanish t’stay allied with France, if we nipped ’em too sore. There were secret negotiations goin’ on, behind the scenes, to get ’em to switch sides, and when they did, and we could have done the same against the French, our little enterprise’d been put out of business.”
“But what if such an enterprise could be put back together again, in a much larger way, Lewrie?” Charlton cagily asked. “We’ve already seen something like that in Italy, with at least a brigade of troops. Fought a battle against the French, bloodied their noses, then got off quite handily.”
“Well, d’ye mean an actual, hold-the-ground invasion, sir, or a series of raids?” Lewrie wondered aloud, head cocked to one side with a frown on his face, “It’s one thing t’burn semaphore towers, scandalise gun batteries, or even take and blow up small forts, but it’s quite another thing to seize port towns and hold them long enough for a real army to follow up.”
“Hmm, let’s say raids, in the beginning,” Charlton decided. “I recall the early days of the American Revolution, when I was a lowly Lieutenant round New York, and how cleverly General Howe used large barges to winkle Washington’s rag-tag army about. Howe managed to move from his camps on Staten Island cross the Hudson River to Manhattan, then cross the East River, cavalry, artillery, and all.”
“A bit before my Midshipman days, sir,” Lewrie confessed, “and I only saw New York long afterwards, anchored off Sandy Hook, or sent ashore for supplies after Yorktown, and rejoining my ship. I do remember the busy barge traffic, but, I also recall that the barges that you remember were flat-bottomed, slab-sided scows, totally useless in any offshore landings. Outside the Hudson or the East River, they’d turn turtle in a heartbeat. And, they were built to carry whole goods waggons and horse teams, like ferries, which is why Howe could move his whole army so quickly. I fear that we couldn’t get much more than infantry ashore, not without specially-designed rowing barges with bow ramps of some kind, but whenever I asked about such boats at any dockyard, everyone swore they were impossible.”
“Hmm, how did you do it, then, even with only infantry?” Thom Charlton asked, stirring sugar into a fresh cup, and dribbling a dram of brandy into it from the half-pint flask.
That prompted Lewrie to relate how it had been necessary to use sailors from the vast naval hospital at Gibraltar, separated from their ships by sickness or injuries, to supplement the few merchant sailors who manned the ships hired on by the Transport Board. He’d managed to round up six 29-foot rowing/sailing barges, a common Royal Navy pattern, with eight sailors and a coxswain to man each, and stand guard over their charges at the beach ’til the troops had accomplished their mission and returned to be borne back to the transport. The two companies of soldiers he’d been allotted, about one hundred twenty-five all told, would enter and leave the transport via anti-boarding nets slung over the ship’s side by the chain platforms of the fore, main, and mizen masts.
“Troops from Light Companies are best,” Lewrie told Charlton, “they’re trained t’think on their feet better than soldiers from Line or Battalion Companies, even Grenadier Companies. And of course, I sent my fifty Marines ashore, too, with an equal number of armed sailors, to strengthen the raids. But, as I said, sir, everyone landed with only their muskets, hangers, bayonets, their cartridge boxes and a rucksack with gun tools and spare flints, and canteens. Any sort of artillery, even dis-mounted boat bow guns, were out of the question.”
“Perhaps something bigger?” Charlton posed. “There are thirty-six-foot gunboats with bow platforms to bear twelve-pounder guns. If they could be obtained, and modified with some sort of wood ramp that could be shoved over the bows, perhaps a light six-pounder gun could be wheeled ashore.”
“On Army field carriages with high wheels, though, sir,” Lewrie countered, “and what does one do about the caissons to carry the shot and powder charges? And how many men would be necessary to man-haul the guns? Even six-pounders of the old pattern weigh too much to get over a soft sand beach onto the rough ground behind the shore. And, there’s the problem of hoisting such heavy boats to be stored on the cross-deck beams, then hoisted off and put in the water before the soldiers could embark. We towed ours, at all times, else it took so long to prepare the troops to land that the enemy would be alerted to our presence and march an entire brigade against us, sittin’ on their arses above the beach and cheerin’ on the show.”
“Hmm, there is that,” Charlton rather grumpily realised. “So, infantry only, and limited objectives, with standard barges.”
“Unless some genius naval architect can come up with some sort of really big transport ships that can run up on the beach and open a set of bow doors, that’s the only way I can see it bein’ done, sir,” Lewrie assured him. “Now, how ye get ’em off again’s a puzzler.”
“But, could we land a regiment, a battalion, at once?” Charlton wondered. “How many soldiers per each transport?”
“Whoof, sir!” Lewrie exclaimed, sitting back in his chair in surprise. “What’s a battalion? Six, eight hundred men? They might start out nigh a thousand men in ten companies, but, after sickness, desertion, and wounds, a battalion might average six or eight hundred. To send a battalion overseas, the usual is about one hundred fifty troops per each transport ship, but, with room aboard required for the Navy sailors who’ll man the barges, and work the ships, I doubt if we could carry two companies aboard each, with water and rations enough for at least a month at a time. Hmm, an hundred and twenty soldiers, maybe one hundred and sixty? That’d take at least five transports, and…” He paused, drawing numbers with a finger on the table top, and trying to do sums in his head. “Boggles my poor mind, it does, sir. A rather ambitious enterprise, in all, which I doubt the Navy would invest in, or the Army would spare a whole battalion for. Sure to be an expensive thing, too, and a rather iffy … experiment.”
“That is indeed true, Captain Lewrie,” Charlton said, obviously dis-appointed that there was not a quick solution to be had. “I still wish that you could, ah … toy with the idea, and write me up what you imagine would be needed. Dream big, sir, and do not let any worries about money, or the availability of soldiers or sailors, daunt you.”
“Well, I suppose I could, sir,” Lewrie allowed, “after all, it’s not as if the Navy has much need of me any longer,” he added, letting his grievance see the light of day. “Is this proposal for something specific you have in mind, sir?”
“No need for you, after your battle off Galicia? I’d have imagined Admiralty wouldn’t have allowed you a Dog Watch ashore before they gave you a fresh command!”
“It seems I made the mistake of bein’ too successful, too lucky, for some people, sir,” Lewrie almost spat, though trying to make light of his situation. “I’m as in demand as smallpox, or the bloody flux.”
“Well, I never heard the like!” Charlton primly replied, with as much outrage as he would allow himself in public. “That smells very much like the petty jealousy of small-minded men. Your patrons?”
“You just may be the most influential of them, sir, among the few I have,” Lewrie confessed. “That’s why I asked whether this study was leading to something substantial.”
“Well, I must admit that I am between active commissions myself at the moment,” Charlton told him, “but I’ve only been on half-pay for six weeks, and fully expect to be called back. To something substantial, as you put it? Not really, not yet, but…,” he said, lifting both hands as he shrugged. “If it does lead Admiralty, or Horse Guards, to consider the proposal feasible, you may of course rely on me to demand your services, Captain Lewrie. Who would know more about raiding, and landings from the sea, and assembling an … oh, what’s the term for it?”
“Amphibious operations, sir?” Lewrie supplied.
“Hah! Exactly!” Charlton exclaimed, slapping a hand on the top of the table. “‘Amphibious’ is the word … though a damned odd one.”
“And how soon might you need it, sir?” Lewrie asked, feeling as if this might actually lead to something.
“Oh, no real rush,” Charlton pooh-poohed, “take your time, and put a shiny buff on it, listing how many ships, barges, sailors, and soldiers you think best … how many Lieutenants, Mids, and such would be necessary to man the transports with Navy crews, and such.”
“Right down to the extra fourty cartridges per man, and the two canteens needed, sir,” Lewrie promised, brightening. “By the way, sir, will Mistress Charlton be dining with us tonight?”
“No, I fear not,” Charlton said, “she’s at our country place at Little Waltham, near Chelmsford, happily preparing a family Christmas, the likes of which we haven’t been able to celebrate in some time, with children home from their schools, and all. I do, however, look forward to meeting Dame Lewrie this evening. Some sort of artist, is she not?”
“Quite successful at it, too,” Lewrie proudly told him. “If I include some diagrams and drawings of the details, I might prevail upon Jessica to help me in that regard. Shall we say seven this evening?”
“Done, and done!” Admiral Charlton said with another firm slap of the table top.
* * *
Lewrie got home, yet again badly in need of a warm-up, shivering as Deavers took his things in the entry hall. A most unfamiliar sound came from the floor above; tinkling, laughing, a feminine shriek or two.
“What the Devil’s that?” Lewrie asked.
“Oh, that’s your wife and her lady friends, sir,” Deavers told him. “They’re having themselves a ‘cat-lapping’. Tea, scones and such, and some sherry.”
Bisquit came trotting down the hall to greet his master, closely followed by his wife’s cocker spaniel, both prancing about to welcome him home and get some attention, and Lewrie bent down to pet them and tease.
“’Ey sent down fer some o’ yer American whisky, too, sir, then some o’ that ginger beer from Jamaica,” Tom Dasher imparted with a wink.
“High and merry times,” Lewrie commented, feeling a bit irked. He had been looking forward to some warming and affectionate hugs in private, but the company in the drawing room precluded those; he felt proprietary about his limited stash of Kentucky whisky, which Jessica had sampled, once, and thought too powerful; and, lastly, once he had gotten the aforementioned hugs, he was aflame to snatch up paper, pen, and ink, to begin sketching out the proposal that Thomas Charlton had requested, but with company in the house, that was right out, too, and he would have to go abovestairs to make a brief appearance and partake in their silly civilian prattle. He heaved a put-upon sigh and began to trot upstairs, with the dogs at his heels.
“Ah, you’re back, my dear!” Jessica gladly exclaimed, extending an arm to draw him to her as he entered the drawing room. “And how was your meeting with your Admiral Charlton?”
“It was wonderful to see him, again, after all these years,” he replied, taking her hand and bending down to bestow a cheek kiss. “I told him to come by at seven for supper with us.”
“Oh, good,” Jessica agreed, “not too late in the evening. And, does his wife come, too?”
“In the country, preparing for Christmas, and a family reunion,” Lewrie told her. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said to Jessica’s guests, “having a good visit, are you?”
“We are, Sir Alan,” one Mrs. Stansfield, and next to Jessica the prettiest of the lot, said. “Join us, do!”
Lewrie was getting used to civilian company, and a distinguished lot they were, Jessica’s girlhood friends from St. Anselm’s and a private grammar school that the parish ran. Mrs. Stansfield was the wife of a young physician in practice with his father; Mrs. Merton was wed to a mid-level clerk at a private bank; Mrs. Pryor’s husband was into steam engines, and perky Mrs. Eaton’s husband was a barrister and son of a silk-robed King’s Bench practitioner. Lewrie was surprised that he liked them all, though the physician and the barrister could be a tad full of themselves. The fellow he liked the best was Mr. Heiliger, and his round, blonde wife, for the Heiliger family had emigrated from Hamburg ages before and was in the brewery business, with their manufactury up the Thames past Windsor; their German-style pilseners and pale ales were spritely and delightful, and a nice change from stouts, porters, and dark ales. The Heiligers also had a small contract with the Navy Victualling Board to supply Deptford Dockyards with small beer.
“I fear we have been making free with some of your exotic American corn whisky, Sir Alan,” Mrs. Merton giggled. “So fearsome!”
“A dollop of it in your tea, dearest?” Jessica asked as she poured him a fragile Meissen china cup. “You must be freezing.”
“Please do, thankee, love,” Lewrie replied, adding sugar and cream to his cup, stirring it up, then finding a seat on one of their delicate side-chairs.
“It is so much more palatable when mixed with ginger beer,” Mrs. Pryor commented.
“I’d imagine that almost anything would be improved,” Lewrie japed, which raised a polite laugh. “Rooski vodka, raw gin … paint thinner?”
“My husband and his father are partial to Scottish whisky now and then,” Mrs. Eaton told them all, with her glass held close to her cheek, “which I do not find agreeable at all. But, did I dare lace it with ginger beer, or even water, I think they would throw me out of the house, ha ha!”
“A good brandy is heady enough for me, thank you!” Mrs. Merton asserted.
“Ah, but you’ve never had a Chinese mao tai brandy, which makes even fine Franch brandies taste like soapy water,” Lewrie imparted, happy to prattle along with them. “It is so alcoholic that one can see the fumes condense inside a snifter, and run back down to the bottom. It has what they call ‘legs’. Very tasty, though, for all that.”
“Alan was in Calcutta, and Canton, ’tween the wars,” Jessica proudly related with a fond smile in his direction, which drew some impressed and curious breaths. “Though I believe you have nothing good to say of Hindoo spirits, do you, dear?”
“They do have something akin to rum,” Lewrie said with a grin, “with an admixture of cholera. India has sugar cane, and lots of fermented fruit drinks, but the water there makes most of ’em deadly.”
“Cholera!” Mrs. Stansfield tittered. “Jessica has told us of your rather wicked sense of humour, Sir Alan, which, along with your other sterling qualities, makes you the most agreeable of men to whom she could be wed.”
Lewrie nodded his thanks for the compliment, casting a beamish look at his wife in silent thanks, but thinking, The mort hasn’t had enough t’drink yet … she can still form compound phrases and not tangle her prepositions! Either that, or she’s a practiced toper!
“Your Admiral … Charlton, is it?” Mrs, Heiliger asked. “Is he a naval hero like yourself, Sir Alan?”
“He was my son Hugh’s Captain at Trafalgar, ma’am,” Lewrie told her. “That makes him one of the ‘Immortals’ as far as I’m concerned. A hero, aye!”
“And were you there, too, Sir Alan?” Mistress Kensington, the lone un-wed spinster of their set, asked. She was a rather mousy and drab young woman whose parents ran the grammar school where she also now taught.
“Ah no, Miss Kensington,” Lewrie replied. “I was escorting a pair of horse transports to Cape Town, and only heard about it when we put into Funchal on Madeira for water.”
“Is Admiral Charlton in London to accept a new commission?” Jessica asked with the slightest of frown lines in her forehead. “Should we serve champagne tonight?”
“On half-pay like me, darling,” Lewrie was quick to assure her, “and looking forward to some time with his wife and children.”
“Yet, Jessica told us that the man said something to you about some sort of proposal, Sir Alan,” Mrs. Merton enquired, making all of them look at their girlhood friend almost in sympathy. “Dare we ask if it is some plan which might discomfit the French, sir?”
Lewrie put on a deep frown and hunched forward in his chair, then looked right and left as if searching for enemy spies. “I conjure you all, ladies, that what I say will not leave this room.”
That caused a rustle of dress material, and some deep breaths.
“His proposal is…” Lewrie said in a conspiratorial whisper, “that we lift a frigate with hot-air balloons, sail it to Paris, and crash it on Napoleon’s head.”
God, they took me seriously! he thought, taking in their looks. He popped his mouth open and struck a clown’s pose to assure them that it was a jape, and they broke out in most un-ladylike laughter.
“Oh, Sir Alan,” Mrs. Stansfield giggled, “you are such a wag!”
* * *
“So, what was Admiral Charlton’s proposal, love?” Jessica asked after the tea party guests had departed, and they were alone in the drawing room.
“He wanted t’pick my brains about how I managed raids and troop landings in Southern Spain a few years back,” Lewrie said, drawing her closer so she could lean her head on his shoulder. “How it might be done with a whole regiment, what it’d take, how many transports, and such. Don’t worry, darling, it’s all a flummery, all stuff and nonsense. The Navy’d never spare the ships, the Army’d never give up a good regiment, and it’d cost far too much money wasted on an experiment. And believe me, dear, ‘experiment’ is a nasty, scary word to the people who run the Admiralty.”
“But, if it isn’t in the cards, then why would he ask you to draw it up for him?” Jessica pressed, fretting and burrowing closer to him. “Does he contemplate gaining a command where he would try it … and, would he ask for you to help him with it?”
“Far as I know, Charlton’s on the beach, the same as me,” he explained, his mouth against her fragrant hair. “He’s no idea where he’s goin’ next, and his next commission might take him somewhere he has no chance, or need, for such an expedition. It’s all moonshine, but … writin’ it, and cajolin’ you to do some illustrations for me to include,” he said with a squeeze round her shoulders, “even if I have t’ask pretty please, with sugar on it, hey? Well, it’ll keep me occupied through the winter, I expect.”
“You are sure, Alan,” she muttered into his coat.
“As sure as I am of anything, dearest,” he told her. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. My foes and their patrons’ll see to that. The only thing I’m sure of is that I should run downstairs and see Yeovill and ask what we’re servin’ for supper.”
“But, I’ve already spoken to him, and made all the arrangements, Alan,” Jessica objected, wriggling a little in his embrace. “Supper is already planned. Unless you think I can’t manage our household,” she said with a bit of heat.
“Oh, God, no!” Lewrie hooted. “I’d never say that!”
Not if I know what’s good for me, I wouldn’t! he thought.
He was rewarded with a poke in the ribs.
“Think I’ll go down, anyway,” Lewrie said, giving her one last kiss on her forehead before getting to his feet. “The kitchens are the warmest place in the house, and I could still use a thawing out.”
“You just want to yarn with your sailors,” Jessica accused, but in a playful way as she rose with him.
“Well, there is that,” Lewrie cheerfully admitted. “Come on, dogs … kitchen treats!”