Hostile Shores (10 page)

“What about the continuing problem with French and Spanish privateers, though, sir? My independent orders from Admir—”

“As Senior Officer on-station,
and
senior to
you,
sir, by nineteen months on the Post-Captains’ List, I deem such enemy activities temporarily ‘Scotched’, and feel that, with my re-enforcements in frigates and brig-sloops, will be more than capable of dealing with any new outbreaks,” Grierson cut him off, and simpered at Lewrie.

That
won’t last ye six months,
Lewrie sourly thought;
not when the trade route’s so busy, and privateerin’s so profitable!

“If you say so, sir,” Lewrie said, instead.

“And I do,” Grierson gaily rejoined, quite perkily. “As for you and your frigate, Captain Lewrie … I will allow you to detach yourself from my command and … and sail for England for a proper time in dry dock. Does that prospect not
please
you, sir?”

“Well, aye, it does, sir, but…,” Lewrie flummoxed. The prospect
was
pleasing, and he had to admit that
Reliant
was in serious need of a hull cleaning, The loss of his temporary status as a Commodore even of such a small squadron really meant little, either. It was the
way
he was being shooed off that rankled!

“Good, then,” Grierson said, smiling at last, though not with the sort of smile one could trust. “That’s settled. I will have your orders aboard by the start of the First Dog Watch this very day … before I despatch the wee vessels of your former squadron to other duties down-islands. I expect you and their commanding officers will wish a last shore supper together, before you all depart.”

Vindictive bastard!
Lewrie fumed inside.

“I expect that we shall, sir,” Lewrie said, keeping his disgust well-hidden, and thinking that their last shore supper would be a bitch session which Grierson should studiously avoid.

Damn
him for takin’ it out on
them
!
he thought.

“Will that be all, sir?” Lewrie asked.

“Uhmm, yes,” Grierson said, all a’twinkle by then, rising from his chair to see Lewrie to the doors. “You may return to your ship.” Grierson leaned a bit close then away. “Where you may sponge the lady’s scent from your clothing.”

I
wondered
why his cabins smelled like rose water!
Lewrie realised;
Well, they
say
ye can never smell yourself! Priscilla
did
dab it on a
tad
thick.

“Beg pardon, sir?” Lewrie countered, stiffening his back. Would the fellow prove himself that crude?

“A good ride, was she? Mistress Frost?” Grierson leered.

“I deem it most un-gentlemanly of you to
ask
that question, sir,” Lewrie stiffly intoned, glowering at the Commodore. “As for the lady’s qualities … that’s something I very much doubt
you’ll
ever know.”

Grierson’s reaction was a hearty laugh, and another easy and arrogant “we’ll see about that” cock-sure leer. “Goodbye, Captain Lewrie.
Bon voyage,
and
bonne chance!
”

Grierson did not go so far as to see him to the deck, so Lewrie had to make his way alone, his ears and the nape of his neck burning, determined to call upon the bouncy Priscilla one more time, if only to tell her what Grierson had in mind, and how low a mind he possessed!

CHAPTER NINE

A day or two later, and HMS
Reliant
was ready to up-anchor and depart. Last-minute rations had been fetched aboard, along with some sheep, pigs, and a bullock for supper on the eve of sailing, and for fresh meat for the first few days on-passage. The officers’ wardroom and Lewrie’s cabins had been re-stocked with the many needful things that would be unavailable or in short supply on their long voyage to England. For Lewrie, Mister Cadbury the Purser had purchased several one-gallon stone crocks of aged American corn whisky, and an hundred-weight weight of jerked, smoked, or cured meats and hard sausages for his cats and, begrudgingly, for Bisquit, the ship’s dog. He might be a playful pest, might still foul the decks, and took to howling whenever Lewrie tried to practice on his penny-whistle, but Lewrie had grown
somewhat
fond of the beast.

“Pettus, wos ’em things in th’ quarter-gallery?” young Jessop, the cabin servant, asked the cabin steward as Captain Lewrie finished his pre-sailing breakfast in the forward dining coach, dressed in casual and comfortable old sea clothes, with the finery packed away.

“What things in the quarter-gallery?” Pettus patiently asked as he stowed away spare shirts and trousers, just come back from the shore laundry where they had been washed and rinsed in fresh water, not salt. “You have to be specific.”

“’Em stockin’-lookin’ things in ’eir, them wif th’ ribbons on ’em,” Jessop pressed.

“Those are ‘protections’, Jessop,” Pettus coolly informed him.

“P’rtections f’um wot?” Jessop further asked, puzzled.

“They are cundums,” Pettus told the lad in a mutter, not wishing to disturb their captain, who was in a sour-enough mood already. “Things gentlemen wear when they, ah … take pleasure with ladies so they don’t get them pregnant, or catch the Pox. They are made from sheep gut.”

“Wos th’ ribbons for, ’en?”

“To tie them on round one’s … ‘nut-megs’ … so they won’t slip off in the middle of things,” Pettus said, whispering by then.

“’At’s a lotta work f’r a fook!” Jessop exclaimed, wide-eyed. “Ye kin see right through ’em, anyways. Izzat why the Cap’um needs s’many of ’em?” Jessop scoffed.

“One for each … bout,” Pettus explained, cryptically grinning.

“Mean t’say ’e topped a mort half a dozen
times
last night?” Jessop gawped aloud. “Or, six
diff’r’nt
doxies?”

“Hush, now!” Pettus cautioned.

Jessop looked forward to watch Lewrie butter a last slab of toast, smother it with sweet local key-lime marmalade, and take a bite. He goggled in outright awe!

Lewrie heard Jessop’s later utterances, and looked aft at the lad, smiling and tipping him a cheerful wink.

Not all that bad for a man o’ fourty-two,
Lewrie congratulated himself quite smugly;
and that don’t count the
fellatio,
which I doubt Priscilla’s “lawful blanket” is too prudish, or ignorant, t’know about.

She, like all ladies of worth, kept her fingernails short, but his back felt as if Toulon and Chalky had galloped over him with their claws out.

Poor Mister Frost!
Lewrie thought;
He’ll never know what he’s missin’!

Priscilla might not have strictly been a proper and virginal bride when she’d wed the old “colt’s tooth”, but might have been able to play-act a satisfactory sham of inexperience on the wedding night.

Not that her husband knew all that much about pleasuring her, or any woman. Priscilla had told him with sad amusement their first night that the old fellow came to bed in an ankle-length flannel gown, and had hiked it up only far enough to climb atop her, a business as quickly, roughly done to
his
release, before he would roll off and go to the wash-hand stand to sponge off, then fall deeply asleep. He did not find it seemly for her to remove her night gown, so it was possible he had never seen her bounty, which could have given him so much more delight, had he the
slightest
clue! But, Priscilla was his third wife, the first two dying of Child-bed Fever after producing enough males to assure that one would inherit, all now grown with families of their own. Priscilla was less a help-meet, more a house keeper, a hostess at his supper parties, the handy vessel for his rare needs, and a bit of adornment on his arm when invited out, but little else.

Hmm, sounds like
most
marriages!
Lewrie had cynically thought.

Priscilla adored baring her body, being outlandishly nude and posing most fetchingly a’sprawl and inciting. Her “lawful blanket” might never worship at her firm and perky breasts, the insides of her thighs, or at “the wee man in the boat”, but by God Lewrie had been more than glad to attend “services” there! And the rewards of such ardent adoration had been nigh to Paradise itself!

What a waste of a good woman,
Lewrie told himself as he mused over his last cup of coffee;
Wouldn’t trust her outta sight, but—

The Marine sentry at his door stamped boots, banged his musket on the deck, and cried, “First Officer, SAH!”

“Enter,” Lewrie replied, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

Lt. Westcott entered, his hat under his arm. “The ship is in all respects ready for sea, sir. We stand ready to pipe ‘Stations To Weigh’, whenever you wish.”

“Very well, Mister Westcott, I will come to the quarterdeck,” Lewrie said, rising and snagging his hat off the sideboard, where it was temporarily safe from his cats, who were still busy at their bowls at the other end of the table. “I am sorry I had to call you back to the ship by midnight.”

“Well, sir,” Westcott confided with a faint grin, “all that was needed to be said had been said.
Some
tears and lamentations, but I doubt such sentiment will last all that long once we’re gone. Dare I enquire of your last night ashore, sir?”

“We’re much in the same boat, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said. “I
would
say that I regret parting from the lady’s company, but, sooner or later, there’d be her husband t’deal with. At least you have the good sense to get involved with a free lass. Can’t imagine
where
my mind went!”

Most of a night on the side portico of her house, in the dark, rowin’ just the two of us over t’Hog Island with a basket and a blanket … thumpin’ about in a closed coach out to East End Point,
Lewrie reminisced as they strolled out onto the weather deck and up the starboard ladderway to the quarterdeck;
and last night, for hours and hours?
That’s
where my mind, and good sense, went! It’s just as well we’re sailin’
far
away, ’fore her husband gets an inklin’ and calls me out. Killin’ him in a duel—for
her
honour, hah!—would be just too much.

“Good morning, Mister Caldwell,” Lewrie said to the Sailing Master, who was already on deck by the compass binnacle cabinet with all his navigational tools laid out. “Where away the wind?”

“Fresh out of the East-Nor’east, sir, and fair for a beam reach out the channel,” Caldwell told him with a satisfied grin. “You will wish to depart up the Nor’west Providence Channel, once we’ve made our offing, sir?”

“Aye,” Lewrie replied, looking up at the commissioning pendant to judge the direction of the wind for himself. “Out into the Florida Straits, reach the Gulf Stream, and shave close enough to the Grand Bahama Bank to keep well off the American coast. With any luck, we’ll pick up an East-Sou’easterly breeze that will allow us to avoid the Hatteras Banks, and get well out into the Atlantic.” He knocked wood on the binnacle cabinet. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Lieutenants Spendlove and Merriman greeted him with cheery good mornings in return, and a doff of their hats.

“Just as we break the anchor free, I’ll have the spanker, the tops’ls, and inner, outer, and flying jibs hoisted,” Lewrie decided. “Once we’ve made our offing into deep water, and hauled off Nor’west, we’ll see to the courses and t’gallants.”

“Aye, sir,”

“And … when the anchor’s free, we’ll strike the harbour jack
and
my broad pendant,” Lewrie further instructed. “I’m sure that that will please our Commodore to no end, hey?”

Sour smiles were shared by all.

“Hands to the capstan, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie bade. “Let’s have a tune t’spur ’em on.”

“Bosun!” Westcott cried to the waist. “Hands to the capstan! Strike up ‘Portsmouth Lass’!”

Bisquit the dog dashed round the waist ’til he discovered that he was both ignored and underfoot, and slunk his way up to the quarterdeck to squat behind the cross-deck hammock nettings, looking about for a friendly face and a reassuring pat. He came to sit by Lewrie after a minute or two.

“Short stays!” Midshipman Munsell shouted from the bows.

“Stamp and go for the heavy haul!” Lt. Westcott bellowed.

“Up and down!”

“Bosun Sprague! Pipe the topmen aloft!” Westcott ordered. “Lay aloft, trice out, and man the tops’ls!”

Blocks squealed as the lift lines dragged the tops’l yards up from their rests. Lighter blocks joined the chorus after the harbour gaskets were freed and hands on deck drew down the canvas to the wind.

“Anchor’s free!” Munsell cried.

“Hoist away all jibs! Hoist away the spanker!”

HMS
Reliant
began to shuffle uncertainly, heeling a tiny bit to leeward as the canvas aloft began to catch wind, paying off free ’til the fore-and-aft sails were sheeted home. She then started to inch forward, stirring her great weight.

“Steerage way?” Lewrie asked the helmsmen.

“A
bit,
sir!” Quartermaster Baldock tentatively replied as he shifted the spokes of the forward-most of the twin wheels.

“A point up to windward, to get some drive from the jibs,” Lewrie ordered, pacing over to peer into the compass bowl, then look aloft at the commissioning pendant and how it was streaming.

Damme, that’s the end o’ that!
he sadly thought as he watched his broad pendant come fluttering down the slackened halliard, that red bit of bunting with the white ball in the centre.

“Way, sir,” Baldock reported. “The rudder’s got a bite, now.”

“Steer for mid-channel, then, with nothing t’leeward,” Lewrie told him.

“Mid-channel aye, sir, an’ nothing t’leeward!” Baldock echoed.

“Hands to the braces!” Westcott was ordering, now that the topsails were fully spread, half-cupping the breeze. “Haul in the lee braces!”

Reliant
was under way, free of the ground, with just enough of a drive to create the faintest bow wave under her forefoot and her cutwater, and Lewrie let out a sigh of relief. Before he would go to the windward rail, where a ship’s captain ought to be, he remained in the centre of the quarterdeck, looking shoreward. There were people there, on the piers and along Bay Street, waving goodbye. Some of them were women who waved handkerchiefs. Did some pipe their eyes in sadness?