“Anchored firmly, bow and stern, sir,” Lt. Farley reported after some turns had been made round the capstans to equalise the scope of cable paid out. “Back atop our shoal of beef and pork bones,” Farley added with a grin.
“Very well, sir,” Lewrie said, appreciating the wee jest. In a way, it could be a complaint made by the people aboard a ship of the line that spent far too long in port, without sea time or action.
“Just about at the same place,” the Sailing Master commented, after taking compass bearings on prominent features of the harbour at Milazzo, and referring to a handmade chart, marking off where those bearings crossed. “As you can see…”
He was interrupted by several arrivals at the base of one of the ladders to the quarterdeck; people looking for boats; the Bosun, so he could row round the ship and see to the squaring of the yards, and the tautness of both running and standing rigging; the Purser, Mr. Blundell, who wanted to go ashore for fresh provisions, and even had a list in hand; and Lt. Greenleaf.
“And why do you need a boat, sir?” Lewrie asked.
“Why, for the mail, sir!” Greenleaf exclaimed, pointing over the starboard bulwarks towards the Army encampment. “I just happened to notice that, once all ships were anchored, they hoisted the Have Mail signal by the beach.”
“Go along with Mister Blundell and fetch the mail sack back,” Lewrie told him, “He’ll be busy with his shopping, I’m sure, so you can return whilst he’s doing so.”
“Might need more boats, to fetch our purchases aboard, sir,” the Purser said. “Pasta, rice, fresh fruits, baked bread?” he ticked off on his fingers.
“Take a Mid with you, Mister Greenleaf,” Lewrie said, “so the barge can shuttle back and forth as needed. And if you need another, Mister Blundell, have the Army signallers hoist Send Boats.”
“Thank you, sir,” Blundell said, doffing his hat. “Ehm, might there be anything you need that I could fetch off, sir?”
“Nothing ’til tomorrow, no, Mister Blundell,” Lewrie said as he turned to go aft to his cabins.
Why does he always make it sound as if I’m dealin’ with a smuggler? Lewrie asked himself; A request for a barricoe of Chianti turns into a Midnight deal under the table, cheatin’ the Customs!
In his time aboard Vigilance, Lewrie had found that Mr. Blundell was a reasonably honest Purser, but his experiences with that sort in other ships made him think that all of them were “Nip Cheeses,” fly and shifty folk who’d steal the coins from their dead mothers’ eyes.
He took off his hat and hung it on a peg near the door, coming to an amused halt, for Dasher’s doe rabbit, Harriet, was out of her wooden cage, dashing round the cabins in great leaps and hops, being chased by his cat, Chalky, who would leap, pounce, and corner it, eye to eye, nose to twitching nose, before they were off in another tail chase.
It was amusing ’til he crossed the cabin to his desk, finding fresh rabbit pellets on his carpets.
“Let’s clean that up, straightaway,” Lewrie said, sitting down to finish his report of the past days’ actions.
“Aye, sir,” Dasher said, “but they are havin’ fun. Chalky an’ Harriet are more playmates like. He only pats her with his claws in when he catches her.”
“Scarin’ the shit out of her,” Lewrie wryly pointed out. “Pity that rabbits don’t take to litter boxes.”
He read over the parts of the report already written for a minute or so, then announced, “There’ll be fresh vegetables comin’ aboard for her. And mail from home.”
“Newspapers, yea!” Dasher cried, for since his first day in the old HMS Sapphire, he had turned into a voracious reader. He did not read well or fast, and could make an eight-page newspaper last a whole week, but he was getting better at it.
Newspapers, huzzah! Lewrie thought, glancing aft to the larboard quarter gallery, where his supply of papers had dwindled; If we don’t get a fresh lot, I’ll be usin’ clam shells t’clean my bum!
“Did ye hear, Mister Severance?” Dasher enthused. “There’s mail comin’!”
“Glad to hear it, Dasher,” Sub-Lt. Severance, Lewrie’s clerk and aide said with a wee grin, though it would be his job to sort it all out for the wardroom, Midshipmen’s cockpit, petty officers, then the rest of the hands, and see it distributed.
“Something wet, sir?” Deavers enquired.
“Cool tea?” Lewrie asked, hopefully.
“All but a swallow gone, sir,” Deavers had to tell him. “But, we’ve plenty of ale.”
“Ale will do,” Lewrie said, returning to his reading. Pulling a fresh sheet of paper from his desk, and dipping his steel-nib pen in the inkwell, he began scribbling details of the last of their excursions, their appearance off Eufemia Lamezia.
* * *
After the sorting, Lewrie could almost rub his hands in glee and anticipation as he beheld a goodly pile of letters on his desk top. First off there was a thick letter, more like a packet, from Admiral Charlton. He broke the seal and spread it out, finding a hand-drawn chart of the port of Monasterace, with some depths jotted along the shore, idle guesses at the terrain behind the beaches, and not much else. Charlton congratulated him on his latest landings, and the damage done to the French convoy network and that bridge.
As you may see, though, since no Landings were envisioned at Monasterace, when the entire coast was attacked in the Spring, and its lack of Importance at that time, there is little that I, or the ships of my Squadron, can offer you, now that the place has become of more Import, to the Disturbance of French supply routes.
Lewrie shrugged and heaved a small sigh of dis-appointment that there would be little aid from that quarter; he would have to hope for fresher intelligence from Mr. Quill and his minions.
Anent your Relieving Lt. John Dickson of his ship, I Concur. You stand in Lieu of the Authority that you would possess had Admiralty found it meet to appoint you a Commodore of your Squadron, and had the perfect Right to do so to improve the Effiency, and Morale, of all ships under you.
From your description of this young man’s abysmal Attitude towards those under him, Officers, Petty and Etc., and his high-handed Treatment and Dislike of his Common Seamen, had he been aboard a Ship in my Command, I would have broken him for much the same Reasons that forced you to act!
Lewrie vowed that he would file this letter away for safekeeping; he had a feeling that Lt. Dickson was the sort who had “interest” and patronage from powerful people, and he’d need proof that he had not relieved him for personal reasons!
Do please keep me Apprised of your Intentions regarding Monasterace, for it seems a grand place to strike and, as always, feel free to request any additional Forces you might need from me to further your Success.
Upon that head, I have had a continual Correspondence with Brig. Gen. Caruthers, which has become Pestiferous, really, wondering how at least one of his Regiments could sail with you sometime in the near Future, the obtaining of suitable Transports, boarding nets, barges, and Etc., and some means by which he could land some of his Artillery.
“Schemin’ bastard,” Lewrie growled under his breath. “He just won’t quit ’til he’s got Tarrant and the Ninety-Fourth, and takes over the whole enterprise!”
He put Charlton’s packet into a desk drawer and turned to more of his mail. There was a letter from Capt. Middleton back in London, despairing of supplying him any more transports, barges, or enough Navy crews and junior officers to man them. Indeed, he warned, whilst Lewrie’s accounts of successful landings or bombardments went down well with Admiralty, there was a growing chorus of naysayers who decried the cost in matériel, in men, and the continued funding. Mentions had been made in the House of Commons as to whether Navy money could not be better spent, or whether the “experiment,” as Middleton bracketed the word, was worth the candle! Middleton also wrote that a Brigadier of the Sicily garrison … un-named … had written his Member, who had read the letter in the Commons, suggesting that the enterprise should be expanded, with more transports, more troops, and a means of landing artillery to over-power any French force they met!
“Not just a schemin’ bastard, but a back-stabbin’ shit, too!” Lewrie fumed. “What do they want back home? More of it, or nothing? Mine arse on a band-box!”
There were some official letters from Admiralty, all of little importance, and then he could at last open his personal mail!
“Oh, my sweet, darling girl,” Lewrie cooed as he opened one of Jessica’s letters. She was having a splendid Season, a grand Summer! The weather had never been better, though in late season the Thames was beginning to smell a bit rank, but round Mayfair and the parks, it was barely noticeable, and the acres of flower gardens went a long way towards creating a delightful myriad of pleasant scents. She and his father, Sir Hugo, went riding in Hyde Park quite often, even if she had to use a proper lady’s saddle, but they had also coached to his country estate at Anglesgreen several times where she could don breeches under her gowns and ride more confidently astride where no one could complain.
Alan dearest, when you return from the sea you will not recognise our back garden, which now has an octagonal gazebo set upon a raised wooden platform in the middle, with pea gravel pathways leading to it, round it, and to the stables & back gate. Half of the lawn I have turned to flower beds down each side and along the back, and so far (please God!) everything that we have planted has blossomed out most wondrously, especially the lavender!
Half of one page of her long letter held a coloured pencil sketch of it, and it did look showy and pleasant.
Jessica assured him that everything, and everyone, under their roof was going well, and seemed pleased to be employed there, with no petty spats, though she did miss Yeovill’s cooking. Oh, the cook she had hired when Alan had taken Yeovill back to sea was perfectly competent, especially at pastries and such, and when she had people over to dine, the fellow could produce a very acceptable repast.
Household expenses were well under control, and the “pin money” he’d set aside for her was more than adequate, with a decent sum left over at the end of each month. She’d had the swifts in to clean all the chimneys in preparation for Autumn, and had had a plasterer in to add some scrollwork in the front parlour high up near the crown mouldings, but he was not to fret over the cost, for she had done well with her painting, so far. She had done a portrait for £25, and had sold some more of her fanciful children’s art through Ackermann’s Repository in the Strand, and a new gallery in Old Bond Street; young farm animals she’d first sketched at Anglesgreen, frisky horses, children playing on the green commons in the village, along with the usual kittens and puppies, rabbits, and the rare wild deer that grazed in the woods up on the slopes above Sir Hugo’s country house.
Alan, I must now make a Confession to you. The Harpsichord I purchased from Clotworthy Chute’s emporium was not a reasonable £60, but an Hundred and Ten, and that was at a reduced Rate from what it really should have cost. I and Mr. Chute worked out a Payment Plan for so much for so many months, as a great Favour to his Friendship with you. At last, is is completely paid for, and when you see it and hear it, you will, I trust, understand why I simply had to have it. Its tones are most Melodic and Pleasing, and its Appearance, with such a Plethora of intricately inlaid filigrees is a Wonder to behold! When you return from the sea, I assure you that the Music to be made upon it will soothe your very Soul!
He wasn’t sure whether to write and complain about her profligacy, kick Clotworthy’s arse for bilking her, or praise her thrift and cleverness! At that steep price, he’d expect the damned thing to play itself!
Her father was doing well, though still in fret about the expedition that he couldn’t afford to take part in. Obviously, finding evidence of Phoenicians, Romans, or the Knights Templars in America before Columbus would have to be done without him!
Her family, brothers and sisters and their offspring were all in health, as were the host of childhood friends and their husbands. The fellow in Law had made King’s Bench; the man in Steam had gotten a contract for a cotton spinning mill; Heiliger the beer man was now shipping small beer to Deptford, Chatham, and Sheerness. Hard as he tried, Lewrie could not recall much of these gentlemen, for they’d been so many civilians with whom he had little in common to talk about.
Ah! Lewrie’s dog, Bisquit, a former ship’s mascot, was loving his back garden romps with Jessica’s spaniel, Rembrandt, their walks in Hyde or Green Park, Jessica assured him, and Bully, the kitchen terrier, had turned out to be a superb ratter below stairs.
There were more letters from her to savour, and a pile from old naval friends, his father, and his former in-laws, the Chiswick brothers, Governour and Burgess, and Lewrie moved to the settee to sprawl for a long afternoon’s perusal.
The Marine sentry outside the cabin door slammed his musket butt and boots on the deck, to announce a Midshipman Randolph, who entered with a folded over note.
“From Leftenant-Colonel Tarrant ashore, sir,” he crisply said.
Lewrie took it and read it; an invitation to supper ashore at Tarrant’s headquarters that evening. Mr. Quill had come from Messina, and would also dine with them. With fresh news about Monasterace!
“Aha!” Lewrie said, springing to his feet and going to his desk. “Do carry my reply to the Colonel, Mister Randolph,” he said as he penned a quick response saying that he would indeed dine with him.
Tempting as the rest of his mail was, Lewrie opened the drawer that held Adm. Charlton’s packet and pulled out the rough drawing to pore over once more. There was nothing for it; he would have to go to the chart space and compare the sketch to the printed charts. With any luck, Quill would have more to tell them, but in the meantime … he heaved a sigh, rolled up the sketch, fetched his mug of ale, and went out to the quarterdeck, calling for a lit candle to be fetched. The chart space would be dim and airless, and most likely much warmer than his cabins. He might even require a refill of ale.