Hostile Shores (31 page)

“I will give you the keys once we’re done here,” Lewrie promised. “Rations, Mister Cadbury?”

“Four kegs of salt-meat, sir, two each of beef, two of pork, and a whole box of portable soup portions,” Cadbury piped up. “Three bags of bisquit, and two five-gallon barricoes of rum. I may spare you my assistant to keep track of issuing victuals. The Ship’s Cook has set aside spare utensils and pots, but, he and his helpers must stay with the ship to do for the rest of the crew, so I don’t know—”

“I’ve spoken to my cook, Yeovill, and he thinks he can cook for us whilst we’re away,” Lewrie said, “though he’s none too keen on the task. Nothing t’do but
boil
stuff, he said, with no real call for his culinary skills!”

“Unless we shoot some game meat, sir,” Westcott said in hope.

“Let’s hope that our army, or the Dutch army, haven’t driven all the tasty beasts away,” Lewrie said. “The overall command of the brigade is given to Captain Byng of the
Belliqueux,
assisted by Captain Hardinge and his officers. He was sent out with us to take command of a ship in India, and is available.

“
They,
I am informed, will be busy with landing the
heavy
artillery, the presence of which I just learned. And here I thought we were done with ferryin’.”

“Our transports must be like the Horn of Capricorn, sir,” Lt. Merriman said with a snicker, “filled with infinite plenty! What’ll they trot out next? Hindoo war elephants?”

“You will be taking your Ferguson along, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked, after he’d gotten a re-fill of his wine glass from Pettus.

“And my Girandoni air-rifle, should there be any game,” Lewrie said with an agreeing nod. “Assumin’ the bloody thing still holds a charge of air. Damn all leather washers and seals in this weather.”

“Then I wonder if I might borrow your fusil musket, sir,” Lt. Westcott requested. “A fusil’s longer barrel makes it more accurate than a Brown Bess musket, even if it is a smooth-bore.”

“Of course ye can, sir!” Lewrie gladly told him. “And, does it come to a fight, I pray you make good practice with it!”

“Mister Spendlove, sir,” Lt. Simcock spoke up. “I’ve a man, Private Radley, who is a keen shot. I wonder if I might borrow your splendid Pennsylvania rifle for him to use. I promise to bring it back in good condition, and he’s the very man I’d trust for any long-range shooting … a sight better than me, in truth.”

“I would be more than happy to oblige you, sir,” Lt. Spendlove replied. He sounded gracious, but a tad glum that his rifle would go and he would not.

“Mister Westcott and I have come up with a list of our sailors we deem suitable for the duty ashore,” Lewrie told the gathering. “If there are any objections or substitutions you gentlemen wish to make, look it over.”

Lewrie got the list from his desk, and handed it to the First Officer, who gathered the rest round the dining table to put their heads together. A few names were substituted, but in all, the list was found acceptable.

“Most of these lads gained experience ashore last year in Spanish Florida,” Lt. Merriman took note. “They’ll do handsomely.”

“Though they never had to march far inland under a soldier’s heavy kit, or did much skirmishing with the Dons or the Indians,” Lt. Spendlove said with a hopeful shrug.

“And that encounter with the Seminoli up near Amelia Island put the wind up ’em,” Lewrie said with a laugh.

“Or with the rattlesnakes, coral snakes, and alligator,” Lt. Simcock hooted. “That was a draw, at best!”

“I thought the alligator won,” Lewrie added. “Good trainin’, that was, for all the beasties that Africa has t’offer. Can anyone think of anything else we haven’t considered? Medical care? Clean spare stockings? Very well, then. Inform the Mids and hands chosen for the expedition, Mister Westcott, and allow them to make their preparations.” He went to his desk and fetched out the precious, closely guarded keys to the locks on the arms chests. “Take these, Mister Simcock, and see to the sharpening, then lock everything back up ’til we issue weapons at dawn. It will take at least three round-trips to land all our men and supplies, so let’s be sure that all’s in hand to start before dawn, at Two Bells of the Middle Watch. Re-fills, please, Pettus,” he ordered. “And, allow me to propose a toast.”

Denied the choice opportunity of serving ashore or not, with a precious shot at making their names known and “gazetted” or not, all expectantly stood with their full glasses ready.

“To us, sirs,” Lewrie intoned with due solemnity, “and to our success, and victory!”

“Us, success, and
victory
!” they roared, tossing their wine back to “heel-taps”.

*   *   *

Once the last of his supper guests had bowed their way out, Lewrie wheeled about and almost dashed to his day-cabin desk, fetching along a short candelabra from the sideboard for more light, so he might read his personal letters, at last. Lydia’s, or Hugh’s? That decision took but an instant, and he broke the wax seal of the one from his younger son.

It is Victory, complete and Glorious, and our good ship
Pegasus,
your old friend Capt. Charlton, and, dare I say my own humble Efforts in our perilous Endeavour, contributed to the Triumph of Arms!

Hugh had been posted on the upper gun-deck, he wrote, and had a better view than some of his fellow Midshipmen below on the lower gun-deck. He described how grey, gloomy, and overcast was the day, and how scant the wind, and how slowly the action had been joined, with some ships in the two long columns of warships, sailing bows-on at right angles to the horizon-spread combined French and Spanish fleet, struggling to maintain steerage way.

HMS
Pegasus
had been near the rear of the right-hand column led by the massive
Royal Sovereign,
close to
Swiftsure, Dreadnought,
and
Defiance,
spared the drubbing that the lead vessels suffered as the miles-long French and Spanish line had opened fire, unable to reply for what seemed hours of punishment, sure to be shot to pieces long before the British Navy could come to grips, but…!

Hugh described his awe and joy as the two columns speared through the enemy line and let loose with both batteries, sailing into that massive, impenetrable fogbank of powder smoke! The enemy’s ships had been isolated, lost in their own fogs, in singletons, pairs, and trios upon which Nelson’s fleet had fallen, “doubling” two-on-one to either beam to pound them and shatter them at “close pistol shot,” and it had been the Frogs and Dons who had been shot to pieces!

We came upon a lone French 74, crossed her stern to deliver a devastating Rake which brought down her mizen, came along her stabd. side at close range, & traded shot for nigh an hour before lashing to her & boarding. We’d never seen our gallant Capt. Charlton, usually the most phlegmatic of men, get so lively & excited! Despite the volume of musketry, which took my hat, and the Capt.’s hat and one of his epaulets, we boarded her, my brave gunners among the first to gain her gangway, cheering & shouting like Billy-Oh, which spurred my courage to be ever in front. Thank you and Grandfather for the pair of Pistols you gave me, which, along with a cutlass and my dirk, I put to good Practice. The carnage aboard was unbelievable. We cut our way to the quarterdeck before her Capt. called for Quarter, lowered her Colours, and she was ours!

“Good God, I’ve raised a real scraper!” Lewrie whooped with delight.

Hugh had gotten a scratch or two, though his ship had paid a steep price in killed and wounded. And, by dark that evening, the weather had gotten up, so fiercely that they had had to cut the tow, and had lost their prize. Theirs, and many of the already-damaged prizes, had been cast ashore on the Spanish rocks, reefs, and shoals.

And, there was the death of Admiral Lord Nelson, which Hugh had learned of hours later. The rumour was that the Nelson had been dressed in his finest, with all his foreign decorations, and some French Marines in one of the fighting tops had shot him down.

Hugh closed by reckoning that he had acquitted himself main-well in his first true action, if he did say so himself, and that
Pegasus
was off to Gibraltar to make repairs and re-victual, and that he would write more, later.

“Thank God,” Lewrie whispered, faintly smiling as he laid the letter aside. “He’s safe, he’s blooded, and he
did
do damned well … but Lord, what a way t’learn t’fight!”

Lewrie wondered if he’d even recognise Hugh the next time they met, whenever that might be. He’d seen him off by the King’s Stairs in Portsmouth as an active, lark-happy thirteen year old in 1803. Though only sixteen now, he sounded as adult as any “scaly fish” in his twenties! He’d crossed swords with men out to kill him, fired his pistols, stabbed with his dirk, and had slain men in furious, face-to-face battle! Sixteen or not, he was a man, now.

Lewrie turned to Lydia’s letter, and it was certainly not the plaintive expressions of longing that he had expected! It had been written and sent before news of Trafalgar had reached England, for she made no mention of it. No,
her
news was of her brother Percy’s wedding to Eudoxia Durschenko, at long last!

They’d
planned
to marry last summer, when Lewrie was still in the Bahamas, and he’d doubted they’d ever go through with it, but here it was, daft as it sounded.

Lydia had been enjoying late summer in the country at their estates near Reading and Henley-On-Thames, riding daily over their acreage (which consisted of miles and bloody miles of land), dining
al fresco
with childhood friends, relatives, and neighbours, when she’d gotten an invitation from Hawkinge in Kent, where Percy’s self-raised cavalry regiment was posted to guard against the threat of invasion by the French. Just before the annual London Season, when Parliament re-convened, she and several others had coached down in a gay train of equipages, lodging together each night at the same posting houses, and having a quick round of shopping in London to look their best, when the time came, and the trips each way had been the jolliest.

The church at Hawkinge, near Folkstone, had not been all that grand, but the officers of the regimental mess had decorated it and turned the “happy occasion” into a grand military affair. A troop of horse had escorted Eudoxia’s carriage to the churchyard, another troop had brought the groom. Trumpets had blown fanfares, the band had been boisterous, accompanied by some new-fangled tinkly bell-draped thing called a “Jingling Johnny”, and they had made an arch of swords as the newlyweds left the church, and the wedding breakfast had been held close by under canvas pavilions, all to the delight of the locals.

Eudoxia’s father, Arslan Artimovich, that vicious, sneering, eye-patched old bird, had turned out in new suitings, rather grandly, Lydia wrote, with no muttered curses in Russian, and no sign of his wicked daggers.

The old fart saved his curses for
me,
whenever he saw me and Eudoxia together,
Lewrie told himself;
He likes Percy’s horses too much t’curse
him
!
Arslan Artimovich might still despise aristocracy, but Percy comes with too much “tin” attached.

Lydia wrote that the affair had become “soggier” and more exuberant than most weddings, and that Arslan Artimovich had gotten as drunk as only a Russian can, and had tried to teach the subalterns how to do a wild dance, which involved whirling about, turning Saint Catherine’s Wheels, and squatting with arms crossed and kicking legs straight out in turn, to the further delight of local witnesses, before the “happy couple” had coached off.

Despite her initial reservations, Lydia expressed that she had come to like Eudoxia, her
outré
past aside. Eudoxia had become a good influence on Percy and his penchant for gambling deep, finding her a level-headed, sensible, and clever young woman, and, with her sunny and amiably amusing disposition, she kept Percy distracted enough to submit to her wishes.

After that, Lydia had returned to London to stay at their house in Grosvenor Street for a few days, eschewing most of the public events where she would feel uncomfortable, but had attended some symphonies and new plays, done some shopping to see the new fashions, but expressed how relieved she would be to return to the country and take joy in the Autumn and the holidays to come. Percy, Eudoxia, and the regiment would march back to Reading and their permanent station once the winter weather precluded any attempt by Napoleon to cross the Channel, and be home for the harvest festivals and Christmas.

The rest of her letter expressed fondness, longing for his return, and concern for his safety so far away, at whatever it was that required him to be months away and thousands of miles off. Perhaps it might transpire, she wrote, that they could pick up where they had left off, and see what their relationship could be, in future?

“What a scandalous set
we’d
be!” Lewrie muttered to himself in wry humour. “Lydia and her un-warranted bad repute as a divorcé … Percy and his mad-cap ways, married to a foreigner who’d been a trick shooter, bareback rider, and actress with Dan Wigmore’s Peripatetic Extravaganza, her lion-tamer papa t’boot! Christ, scandalous little me would fit right in!”

There was a discreet rapping on the great-cabin door. Pettus went to see to it. “Master-At-Arms, sir,” he announced.

“Right, then,” Lewrie said with a groan. “Tell Mister Appleby I’m just retiring, and all the lights will be extinguished in five minutes … if he’ll give me that long, that is.”

“Aye, sir,” Pettus replied with a grin.

Lewrie put the letters away in his desk drawer, and rose to begin undressing, reminding himself to write replies, soonest, and one to Thom Charlton to congratulate him, too, once he was back aboard.

Once in his hanging bed-cot and under the covers, in the dark, Lewrie did feel a faint prickle of worry. As grand and adventurous as he and his officers anticipated their jaunt ashore would be, there was always the risk that he’d never get to
write
those letters.