One of the most frustrating things about being deployed on a foreign station was the irregular arrival of news from home, which had to be gathered and sorted at one of the naval dockyards before being loaded aboard a Post Packet, an outbound warship or transport going to a general area, or an overseas naval base where letters and newspapers could languish for weeks before being sent on.
If Lewrie’s wee squadron had been at sea in company with a large portion of a fleet, they might have been able to count upon somewhat regular delivery, once a month or every two months.
Sailing and operating independently from Rear-Admiral Thomas Charlton’s squadron, though, with only rare orders coming from that worthy, Vigilance’s mail normally came from Portsmouth to Gibraltar, thence to Malta where the larger squadron called and re-provisioned. It was only after that that someone thought to forward orders, bills, letters, and newspapers to the Army establishment at Messina and Sicily, and what was due the warship and her transports “piggy-backed” as an afterthought with the mail for the 94th Regiment of Foot, and that under-strength orphan unit was, as the General Commanding at Messina had made clear, definitely not on the ration strength of the British Army on Sicily. The 94th’s provisions, replacement ammunition, and necessary supplies had to come from Malta, where they had been borrowed for Lewrie’s “experiment”!
Indeed, whatever HMS Vigilance and her consorts required to keep the sea, feed their people, and continue operations forced them to leave Sicily and sail down to Malta to replenish at Valletta Harbour, leaving the 94th Foot twiddling their thumbs and “square-bashing”’til the ships could return!
“Mail is forthcoming,” Lewrie announced as he sat down behind his desk in the day-cabin, making temporary Sub-Lieutenant Severance, his cabin steward Deavers, and his cabin servants, Tom Dasher and George Turnbow, perk up with interest. Well, nothing would come for Dasher, an orphaned street waif in his mid-teens, but he could read, after a fashion, and could slowly devour the newspapers after everyone else was done with them.
Lewrie looked up from the correspondence that Severance had set into a neat pile for his approval, and fixed his gaze upon the portrait of his wife, Jessica, that hung on a forward bulkhead.
God, how I miss you! Lewrie thought, feeling a real pang of longing; And how much I crave word from you! I’m a hopeless old colt’s tooth, but …
From the brief half-hour of their first meeting, Lewrie had been bemused by her, a young lady twenty years his junior, then, as they had exchanged letters over a year or so, he’d become intrigued, besotted, and hopeful, even though he knew how much a fool he’d look to even consider courting her. He’d been a widower too long, and too much at sea, with only one off-and-on mistress at Gibraltar, then at Lisbon.
Had it not been for his previous ship, HMS Sapphire losing her lower mainmast a second time in an epic fight with a big 40-gunned French frigate, he might still be at sea in her, but HM Dockyards at Portsmouth had stricken her and thrown him ashore on half-pay for what seemed an age, even if it was only a few months. During that time Jessica, a very talented artist (even if her Reverend father did not approve in the slightest!) had done his portrait, as she had offered early on in their letters, throwing them together daily, and he had slowly found the courage to admit to himself that he was, for good and all, in love with her as giddily as a schoolboy, and then the further courage to declare himself, and be both astonished and relieved that she had said yes, enthusiastically.
Seven months we had together, he mused to himself; A joyous but short time, and then … damn yer blood, fool, you just had to bite at the bait of a new commission!
But, it had been his plan, his scheme, to land troops, Marines, and armed sailors in quick in-and-out raids, and when given the chance to put it into operation, Lewrie simply couldn’t refuse Admiralty … even though he’d regretted his decision as soon as Vigilance and her transports had pounded out into the open Atlantic.
Along with his pang of longing to be with her, Lewrie felt an equal twinge of guilt that his letters to her would be just as slow to arrive as hers would be, and that he could not write at least three letters a week to reassure her. The best he could do were very long “sea letters,” page after page done a bit each day in the tiniest penmanship he could manage, the lines as close together as he could scribble, ’til they were not so much letters as hefty bundles, and sure to cost her dear when the Post Office in London sent them to their house in Dover Street, for it was the recipients that paid the post, not the senders.
“Will there be papers, d’ye think, sir?” Dasher asked.
“I hope so, Dasher,” Lewrie told him.
“Good, ’cause I’m cur’yus ’bout wot Wellesley’s doin’ to th’ French in Spain this Summer,” Dasher said with an expectant grin.
“Enjoys the scandals, too, sir,” Turnbow, an older lad, said with a wink in Dasher’s direction. “You should subscribe to The Tatler, Tom.”
“Likes t’read anything, now that I knows how better,” Dasher said, ducking his head, and busying himself with tending to his pet doe rabbit, Harriet, that Lewrie allowed him to keep in the great-cabins alongside his cat, Chalky.
The mail sack was fetched aboard to cheers that Lewrie could hear in his great-cabins, cheers as enthusiastic as the appearance of the red and gilt rum keg when Clear Decks And Up Spirits was piped. It was carried aft to the quarterdeck with solemnity before the Marine sentry without the cabin door stamped boots and musket butt and cried its presence, to which Lewrie shouted “Enter!” most eagerly.
“Our mail, sir,” Midshipman Fairfoot announced, hefting the sack with some difficulty with one hand, whilst doffing his hat with the other. “And I am directed to convey word from the Third Officer that boats are coming alongside from the transports for their share of it, sir.”
“Very good, Mister Fairfoot, plop it atop my desk, then carry on,” Lewrie ordered.
God, it would be so tempting to undo the rope ties and delve into the contents that instant, strewing anything that was not his to the far corners of his cabins, but Lewrie nodded to his aide and clerk, Severance, to get on with it whilst he clasped greedy, eager hands in the small of his back and paced away aft to the transom and his stern gallery where he pretended to gaze shoreward.
Slowly, the mail was sorted out into piles for each ship, then Vigilance’s mail was divided into smaller heaps for the wardroom, the petty officers, the Midshipmen’s cockpit, and the crew. Lewrie could not help peeking now and then to see if his stack was growing.
“All sorted, sir,” Sub-Lieutenant Severance reported at last. “Should I summon the Mids in from the transports?”
“Aye, and let’s hope they brought their own sacks,” Lewrie said.
They did bring their own, and the Mids from Bristol Lass, the Lady Merton, and Spaniel quickly gathered their mail, doffed their hats, and departed for their boats quicker than one could say “Knife!” Severance stuck his head out the doors to summon Vigilance’s Mids standing Harbour Watch to carry the mail to be distributed, and only then could Lewrie pace back to his desk, sit down, and quickly sort through his own letters, looking for the official first.
“Well, damme,” he muttered as he actually found one from Rear-Admiral Thomas Charlton. After a longing look at a promising pile of letters from Jessica, he broke the seal, spread it out, and leaned back in his chair to read it.
Gallant Capt. Lewrie,
What a Feat we have wrought, sir! Our raids from Cape Spartivento East’rd all in one day was praised to the Skies by the Commanding Gen. on Sicily, as a Deed that utterly Scotched any hopes upon the part of the French to mount a seaborne invasion of the island for a long time into the future, a copy of which he has kindly sent me. Add Brigadier Caruthers’s victory to that, damn fool though it was to delay and engage, and I’m told that Horse Guards, our Army, and the Secy of State for War are mightily Impressed. So much so that St. James’s Palace has seen fit to make me a Knight of The Bath!
I vow I owe it all to you, you Rascal!
Lewrie whooped in glee, startling his cat, Dasher’s rabbit, and his cabin retinue. “The Admiral’s to be knighted, lads, and we all have been called heroes. Just damn my eyes!”
Charlton could not envision a future operation as vast as the last one, but encouraged Lewrie and his wee squadron to strike while the iron was hot (and supplies would be more readily forthcoming) and continue in their endeavours to punish the French with future raids. If he needed additional frigates or sloops to aid in that direction, Charlton would despatch what he could spare from patrolling to aid him.
He laid that letter aside to file in his desk, and at last shuffled through the many letters from his wife for the earliest. Oddly, he found one addressed to Mr. Thomas Dasher.
“Dasher, you’ve a letter,” he told him, bringing the lad’s head up from his squat in the corner where he’d been going through a London paper.
“A letter? Me, sir?” Dasher gawped.
“It seems Dame Lewrie has written you, lad,” Lewrie said.
Dasher brushed his hands down his slop-trousers as if to clean them before hesitantly accepting the letter, eyes wide in wonder as Lewrie opened his own.
Darling Husband,
What a splendid Spring and Summer you are missing. I must take what Delight I can from the Seasons to stave off my Intense Longing to see you once more. I have never seen London so green, so many vivid floral plantings, as if the city is one vast Botanical Show. Even despite my poor talent at Gardening, our back garden flourishes most Vibrantly. Your father says that it takes more than an hundred years to result in a good English lawn, but he pronounced ours well on its way to a Semblance. He has kindly offered to escort me on rides through Hyde Park at least twice a week, rain permitting, and has proven to be most patient with my poor seat and slow pace.
That’d be t’get himself away from his house guests, Lewrie wryly thought. Lewrie’s daughter, Charlotte, was husband hunting for a second London Season, and her presence meant that the Chiswicks were underfoot again, not only her Uncle Governour and Aunt Millicent but their oldest daughter, Diana, a girl Lewrie deemed as vapid as a flock of chickens; fetching enough, but silly and dumb. And with that crowd would come dressmakers, shoemakers, all sorts of tradesmen and women to make both girls as presentable as possible.
Thank the Lord dearest Alan, that I am not called upon to spend my days, and some nights, tending to their needs and wishes, for, at your wise Suggestion, I called upon your friend, Clotworthy Chute, seeking an “Amanuensis” (?) to fulfill the Duty, and he found a Way to approach Governour Chiswick and offer a quite Genteel older lady to be what your Father most amusingly called a “buttock broker.”
A retired whore, or brothel keeper, most-like, Lewrie thought, chuckling to himself.
Mrs. Boothby, the widow of an Army Colonel, has enthralled all, with her many Contacts in Polite Society, and the matches she has made in past. Even Governour did not balk at her Fee, which I am given to understand is rather steep.
Lewrie had to stop reading and allow himself a good laugh; when given free rein, old Clotworthy Chute’s skills as a “Captain Sharp,” and a con man, were as keen as ever!
“Lookit, George,” Dasher excitedly said to Turnbow, the other cabin servant, “she even drawed me a pitchure o’ Bully, our ratter an’ spit turner terrier!”
“Right kind of her, aye, Tom,” Turnbow said, leaning over to look at the sketch. “Never met her, but she must be a fine lady to do that for ya. What she say, then?”
“Ehm, she ah … ‘holds me in her mem-mem-or-y as a ch … cheer … cheerful lad, and in … includes me in her p … prayers t’be safe, an’ serve th’ Captain fai … faith-fully.’ Imagine!”
Dasher turned his head to stare at Jessica’s portrait on the forward bulkhead with adoration, flicking a tear from his eyes.
Returning to his own reading, Lewrie learned that Jessica had only done one portrait so far, but had earned £25 for it, and, with the proceeds from the ghastly book she’d illustrated, was doing quite nicely towards supporting herself and their household without the “pin money” set aside for her expenses.
In later letters, Jessica expressed some worry about her father, the Reverend Chenery. His brother at Oxford had been talking up an expedition to New England in America, and the Maritime Provinces in British Canada to search for proof that either the Romans, the Carthaginians, or the Phoenicians had reached the New World long before its official discovery, and that if he wanted to be a part of it, he would have to make a substantial contribution, which Jessica feared would be far beyond his means.
Father, poor Dear, sounds quite Beguiled by the Rumours, especially one in which a fleet of Templars left England for the New World, in emulation of Accounts of Viking voyages, and I dread his Restlessness to partake in the Adventure in Person, throw up his Position at Saint Anselm’s and abandon his Flock.
He has even hinted round importuning me for the Sum required, Alan! Does he write you asking for Money, pray Refuse him as firmly, but as gently, as possible!
Damned right I will! Lewrie thought; What utter rot! Pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow nonsense. They’ll go grubbin’ for the Holy Grail and the Ark of The Covenant, next! Relatives, and in-laws, my God! They’ll be the death, or ruin, o’ me.
Jessica’s latest letters were much more cheerful. She, the Chiswicks, Sir Hugo, and the two husband hunting girls, had coached down to Chatham to see the launch of the Daedelus frigate, in which his elder son, Sewallis, would be Third Officer, and in his first active commission as a Lieutenant, and Oh, it had been a grand outing, though Jessica found their accommodations lacking!
The weather had been perfect, with a good breeze to stir all the many bright flags and banners. Sir Hugo had worn his uniform of an Army Lieutenant-General, and Sewallis had looked spruce in a new uniform, too, proud but solemn as was his wont. The Chatham yards had been thronged with spectators of all classes, all of them neat and clean, even the workers who had built her. There had been bands and martial music, bold patriotic speeches, and a moving prayer from a bishop of the church just before the toasting.
Alan, it was so exciting to witness! An Admiral lifted a glass of brandy on high, and with a very loud voice intoned “Success to HMS Daedelus! Long may she swim.” There arose such a great, sustained cheer that almost covered the sounds of the saws as the last impediments to the Launch were removed, and away the Ship went, sliding down the ways and into the river as gracefully as a swan! I found myself hopping on my tiptoes, huzzahing as loud as anyone present. Sewallis said that she must now sail down to the Nore to be fitted with her guns, upper masts and I don’t know quite all, to recruit. So huge, so solid is Daedelus that it amazes me that she could be a Product of Man’s Ingenuity. Sewallis insists I call her “she”!
Jessica had been even more impressed by the sight of an older Third Rate 64 that had been towed up the Medway to serve as a receiving ship for the Chatham Dockyards. She had not yet had her forecastle and poop deck roofed over and turned into sheds, and shorn of her upper masts … “to a gantline” Sewallis had called it … but the size and bulk of her had been even greater than the just-launched frigate. And her husband commands a ship like that? Impressive!
She, Sir Hugo, the Chiswicks, and Charlotte and Diana had met Daedelus’s Captain, First and Second Officers, and the few Midshipmen her Captain had gathered, so far, and she had found them to be a fine set of serious-minded men.
Imagine my Pride, Alan, when your son informed them that I was the wife of Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Bt., which prompted most complimentary expressions anent your courage, daring, and well-earned fame! They referred to you as the “Ram-Cat.” Is that for your choice of pet?
Oh, please, please, never learn what it means! Lewrie thought with a cringe.
After a most pleasing hour of reading, Lewrie came to her last and latest, which almost made him blush, for she’d penned it a day or two after the mass raid was reported in the papers; Charlton’s after-action report to Admiralty, Lewrie’s, Brigadier Caruthers’s, and Colonel Tarrant’s of the 94th had all been re-printed together, which Jessica swore had all but made her head reel in wonder at his success.
Though, do promise me, dearest Husband, do not take such risks with your precious Life in future, for it is my fervent Wish that you return to me, Alive, and complete in Body. Recall, you allowed me, at last, to view the scars of wounds honourably received in your past Career, and I could not bear the sight of more! I pray nightly for your Safety as earnestly as I pray for a sweet Re-Union.
Hmpf, Lewrie thought with a satisfied snort; I guess I’m a hero all over again. That’ll put my detractors’ noses outta joint for a bit. And, Jessica’s proud o’ me. That’s the important thing.
There were letters from his father, Clotworthy Chute and Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick, a congratulatory note from Peter’s brother Harold at the War Office, and a rare teasing letter from Benjamin Rodgers, an old Navy friend of long standing. He left those aside to read later, for the most part, leaned back in his chair and gave out a yawn. Even being praised to the skies palled after a while.
Oh, stop! Lewrie thought, chiding himself; You’ll make me turn red!
“Would you care for some cool tea with ginger beer in it, sir?” Deavers tempted.
“Aye, I would at that,” Lewrie agreed, rising to cross over to the settee to have himself a lazy sprawl.
“Midshipman of the Watch, SAH!” the Marine sentry bawled.
Midshipman Page entered the cabins, hat under his arm and a letter in his hand. “A boat is come alongside, sir, from the Army camp ashore.”
“Thankee, Mister Page,” Lewrie said, accepting the folded-over note with a sketchy blob of sealing wax to hold its contents just a bit private. “Aha. The boat still alongside, is it?”
“Aye, sir,” Page replied.
“Let me scribble a short reply, for you to deliver ashore,” Lewrie told him, going back to his desk for paper, steel-nibbed pen, and a dip in the inkwell. “No need to seal it,” he told Page as he blew the ink dry before folding it in half. “My best respects to Colonel Tarrant, and I shall be delighted to dine with him at seven this evening. Off you go, Mister Page.”
“Aye aye, sir!” the lad piped, eager for a little boat work and a brief spell away from the ship. Besides, there were young and fetching Sicilian girls strolling the Army camp, and good things to snack on that could be had two-a-penny.
“Dasher, go forrud and hunt up Yeovill,” Lewrie bade, “do you inform him that I’m dining ashore this evening.”
“Aye, sir!”
We’ll most-like end up congratulating ourselves, Lewrie told himself; Hell, I’ll probably have to shave!