A King's Trade (18 page)

“Unless they haven't sailed at all, Captain,” Mr. Winwood said with a heavy frown. “Did the East India Company wish to add one more ship or two to the trade, still lading in London, and now unable to get under way ‘gainst a ‘dead muzzler' up the Thames or Medway, sir?”

“The only joy we can take o' that, Mister Winwood, is in knowing there'll be fewer damn-fool merchant captains out t'ram us amidships,” Lewrie scoffed with a dry chuckle. “That, and the chance to flesh out our cabin stores from the bumboats in The Downs. Even if those buggers would steal the coins from their dead mothers' eyes.”

“There is that, sir,” Winwood agreed with a faint simper that, on him, was a sign of high amusement.

“Two hours more on larboard tack, I should think,” Lewrie opined. “Tide's with us, the sea's flatter. We should fly over the ground like a Cambridge coach, thirty miles or more. Next tack…the middle of the First Dog, most-likely, then a short board at…Due North. With any luck at all, we'll fetch some coastal mark
other
than Selsey-bloody-Bill! Bognor Regis, perhaps? I'll be below ‘til then, sir.”

“Very good, Captain, sir.”

Once in his quarters, Lewrie paused to warm his hands over the single coal stove he trusted to be lit, under way, and that one lashed down tautly, and secured in a deep “fiddle-box” filled with damp sand. Even with the sky-lights in the coach-top overhead closed, all the gun-ports lashed shut, and the sash-windows above the transom settee right aft closed, it was still grindingly, damply cool in his great-cabins.

Toulon and Chalky were curled up together in a snoring bundle on the starboard-side collapsible settee in the day-cabin, faces buried in each other's fur, and had even managed to burrow a bit under the light quilt that Aspinall usually spread over the settee's removable pad, to save the upholstery from a quarter-pound of hair…left daily.

After two and a half years and a bit in commission, HMS
Proteus
was getting a little “ripe,” despite the continual efforts expended to dispel the odours of a working vessel; they smoked her with smouldering bunches of tobacco, scoured
with vinegar monthly, swept down the lower decks daily, and both swabbed and holystoned weekly, but… one could not put upwards of 150 men and boys aboard in such a confined space as the gun-deck and officers' quarters, keep six months of perishables on the orlop and in the holds, without the reek of overripe cheeses, the faint carrion-in-brine smell of salt-beef and salt-pork kegs, the salt-fish right aft on the orlop, or the stinks of the livestock up forward in the manger below the forecastle from filtering into every nook and cranny, from seeming to soak into the very fibre of the ship, and her bulwarks, beams, and frame. Add to that her “ship's people,” who went without bathing for a week at a time, unless caught in a heavy rain on deck, who must fart, and belch, and sneak a pee in the holds or cable tiers when caught short when the beakheads were too far to walk. Not to mention the muddy fish-reek of the cables themselves.

At sea, Lewrie got to the point where he hardly noticed it, but a few days ashore, even in such a rancid place as London with all her garbage middens and hordes of people, and the change was noticeable in the extreme. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

There was no steaming pot of coffee or tea, so Lewrie remained wrapped snug in his boat cloak and sat down at his desk, under a swaying coin-silver oil lamp that was putting out its own contribution to the ambient effluvia, and looked over the last bits of mail that had come aboard just before they departed from St. Helen's Patch.

His ward, Sophie de Maubeuge, once French royalty but now penniless and orphaned, had written him a chatty letter, describing how his father Sir Hugo had furthered her introductions in London Society, with the promise of sending him a new oval pocket portrait that “Granpère” had commissioned. Once she had moved away from Anglesgreen—she and his wife Caroline had had a major falling-out, with Caroline even suspecting Sophie and her “faithless, adulterous pig of a husband” with being lovers, if not fellow conspirators to conceal his overseas amours, for a time—Sir Hugo had taken her in, and, to everyone's surprise, had developed quite an avuncular affection for Sophie and her welfare, and her future as an
emigré.
Now, he positively doted on the girl as she blossomed into a ravishingly-attractive young lady, expressing that he felt beyond “grandfatherly,” perhaps had even attained “paternal” sentiments! Lewrie
still
suspected the old rantipoler's intentions.

There was a letter from his wife, too, in answer to his brief note hastily scribbled at the Guildford posting-house. Caroline was appreciative of what the so-far small share of his Caribbean silver paid out to him had bought to improve their house and middling tenant farm. Lord, it was dry and stand-offish,
though, all sums of profits from the farm, and lists of outlays made, with a pointed direction for him to write his children at their new public school, at the least, if such a chore wasn't beyond his ability, before he sailed. And, what was this, she had asked, about rumours of some criminal deed he'd done on Jamaica? What
new
shame had he brought on his family name; not that it was all that good to begin with…damn him. Had he
no
consideration for his children's futures, for his long-suffering wife's repute?

There was an encouraging letter from the Trencher family, wife, father, and daughter, which expressed their wishes for his safety and continued success. They didn't have that much new to say about
defending
his “good name,” but assured him that their continual prayers were with him. Their daughter Theodora had offered to send him a package of goods for the betterment of his crew: pocket-bibles, New Testaments, and chapbooks of the newest, most inspiring hymns… along with reams of tracts fresh from the printers, of course.

Lewrie looked up from re-reading that letter, speculating most idly (of course) on what sort of figure Theodora Trencher might boast, feeling even a tad risable at the fantasy …'til he saw the framed portrait of his wife Caroline that hung on the bulkhead facing him in the dining-coach. Odd…he'd never noticed the leeriness the artist had captured in her expression, before!

Coughing into his fist, he lowered his gaze to the desk, again, lifting the letter that the Rev. Wilberforce had sent him, wherein he offered much the same sort of spiritual comfort for HMS
Proteus
's tars, both Black and White. Wilber-force had even proposed placing an eager young chaplain aboard her, his pay and his keep to be supplied by the Evangelical Society! Could the young man he had in mind be able to go aboard before
Proteus
sailed…could Lewrie “vet” him once he arrived at Portsmouth…and, was
he
not suitable to Captain Lewrie's complete satisfaction, perhaps there might be time enough for Wilber-force and his associates to select another?

Well, he'd done as Caroline had bid him; he'd written to both of his sons, Hugh and Sewallis, had even penned a loving letter to his little daughter Charlotte… all done into the wee hours of the final night in the inner harbour at Portsmouth, long past the Master At Arms' official “Lights Out” at nine of the evening. Though, what good
that
letter would do Lewrie rather doubted, since Charlotte was still with her mother, home-tutored, not schooled, and exposed to all the grumbles of his wife and in-laws, who'd never thought him quite “up to chalk.”

There'd been that letter from his father, who had mentioned one Sunday after Services, in the churchyard, when the vicar of ivied old St. George's had preached a homily on Sinners, and little Charlotte had so taken it (and other
things she'd heard) to heart that she had
loudly
told one and all present in the churchyard that “my father is a Sinner…
and
a filthy beast!” His father'd found it delightfully droll at the time, even if Lewrie hadn't, and God knows what poisons had been poured into her ears, since!

Children, well…there had only been a few years on half-pay ashore to get to
know
them, then the war with France had erupted back in ‘93, and he was back in Navy harness, and there hadn't been a whole month with them since then. Sewallis, Hugh, and Charlotte had become more the
concept
of children, just as he had felt himself merely the
shadow
of a father, and every reunion had presented him with sprouted
strangers,
and little Charlotte the most unknowable of all. To whom he wrote platitudes…
well-meaning
platitudes, but no matter how he reminded himself that he, indeed,
loved
them, he still felt so oddly disassociated.

There came the heavy thud of the Marine sentry's musket on the deck outside, and the cry of “Mister Midshipman Grace, SAH!”

“Enter!” Lewrie called out, sitting up straighter, and shoving his letters into the desk drawer.

“Captain, sir…Mister Langlie's duty, and he wishes to shake out to second reefs in courses and tops'ls. He said to tell you that the winds are moderating, sir,” the lad said. Grace, the son of Nore fishermen, who had come aboard a ship's boy in company with his father and grandfather, who had risen to “Gentleman Volunteer” Midshipman once
Proteus
had been won back from the mutineers. He was upwards of sixteen, now, and shaping well to become an extremely reliable and tarry lad. His grandfather, whom they'd dubbed Elder Grace, was gone, lost to the Yellow Jack, and his father, Middle Grace, was now rated an Able Seaman, and bore the shipboard rate of Captain of the Afterguard, the petty officer in charge of the mizen-mast.

“Very well, Mister Grace,” Lewrie said in agreement. “Give to Mister Langlie my respects, and permission. I'll come up, directly.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Lewrie had himself a paternal sigh, then got to his feet, gathered up his hat and mittens, and went on deck, pausing to give Toulon and Chalky a chin and ear rub or two.

At least on deck, the nippy wind was much fresher than what he breathed in his great-cabins, and the Channel was calming, too. Where agitated green rollers and white-spumed crests had been, there were now darker green or steel-grey waves, though the “chops” still made
Proteus
ride like a brick mason's dray on a cobbled street. Her heel had altered to a mere fifteen degrees from vertical, according to the clinometer by the compass binnacle and chart cabinet, as well.

“We're making a better way, sir,” Lt. Langlie reported, with a sketchy salute tossed up to the brim of his cocked hat. “The coast is completely under the horizon, and Mister Winwood thinks we are nearly twenty miles to the good, East'rd, and about the same to seaward.”

“Came up early, did you?” Lewrie asked.

“A bit fuggy, below, sir,” Langlie allowed with a wry grin. “I was in need of fresh air, and…”

Eight bells chimed slowly, in pairs, from the foc'sle belfry as a ship's boy turned the watch glass: four in the afternoon, and an end to the Day Watch, and the beginning of the First Dog.

“Carry on, Mister Langlie,” Lewrie bade, and his First Officer went through the ritual of relieving Lt. Adair and his watchstanders. The men of the larboard division shuffled up to take the place of the hands in the starboard division, the men going off watch lingering to savour fresh air, themselves.

“Very well, sir, I have the watch,” Langlie intoned, saluting Adair with a doff of his hat. “All hands!” he bellowed not a moment later. “Mister Pendarves, Mister Towpenny, mast captains! Trice up and lay aloft to make sail to the second reefs!”

Lewrie paced up to the larboard, windward, quarterdeck bulwarks to watch things done, as spry topmen and older yard captains climbed the ratlines in the weather shrouds; out to the mast-tops' edges and for a time upside down on the futtock shrouds before some scampered up higher to the tops'l yards, whilst others scooted out the course yards, carefully balanced on the foot-ropes with their chests pressed to the canvas-bound main and foremast course yards.

Lewrie thought to remind Langlie to overhaul the spiral set of the yards once more sail had been made, but forebore; that would just be “gilding the lily,” an unwanted intrusion on a competent officer's performance. Good and trustworthy lieutenants could almost make his job irrelevant, at times, which suited Lewrie's well-hidden lazy nature right down to his toes.

“Sails, ho!” the mainmast lookout cried, pointing up to larboard. “Deck, there! Ships in comp'ny…nine, ten, or more! Three points off th' larboard bows, an' hull-up!” he sang out as the clutch of ships appeared from the misty rains.

“Glass, please,” Lewrie called over his shoulder, and thought of going aloft as high as the futtock shrouds, but decided not to; it was already too crowded aloft, and he'd just be in the topmen's way. Midshipman Larkin fetched him a day-glass, and he had himself a good and long look at them.

“Deck, there!” the lookout far aloft wailed. “Eight Indiamen, a frigate, two sloops o' war, and a Third Rate in the van!”

“Our ‘John Company' trade, sir?” Lt. Langlie took time from his duties to enquire, with excitement in his voice.

“Unless they're running more than one a month, aye, sir,” Lewrie told him. “And, on the leading seventy-four, I do b'lieve I can make out a flag with yellow-red-yellow stripes…East India convoy in the code book they gaveus. Mister Larkin! ‘East India' flag to the foremast, the Union flag to the mainmast halliards, where they can see it, and know we're not a Frenchman. And hoist our number to the peak of the mizen signal halliards.”

He counted off the massive East Indiamen, admiring their glossy and rich hulls and fresh canvas, so big and impressive that they could be mistaken for 74-gunned ships of the Third Rate, though the 74-gunner leading that “elephants' parade” was the genuine article, and could be discerned as such after close inspection, for her own sails were worn, mildewed, and parchment tan by comparison, and her hull did not glisten as the others did; too much wear, salt water, and not enough linseed oil or tar and paint, and that not refurbished lately. By comparison, his frigate, relatively fresh from the Halifax yard, gleamed like a bright, new-minted penny.