The Invasion Year (11 page)

How could one still evince a lusty itch for a young woman who’d hunted him down and tried to kill him for good, and had might as well have fired the shot that had slain his wife, Caroline, during the Peace of Amiens, in France in 1802?

*   *   *

Lewrie returned aboard
Reliant
just as Three Bells of the Forenoon were struck. The side-party was mostly the fully-uniformed Marines, the requisite number of sailors in shore-going finery, and those Midshipmen unfortunate enough to stand Harbour Watch; officers in port did not, and what Lieutenants Spendlove and Merriman were doing below in the gun-room to while away their idle time, Lewrie could have cared less. The crewmen of the Harbour Watch, those on the gangways and the weather decks, doffed their hats and stood facing him for a minute or so, then went back to their few duties, envying their mates below on the gun-deck, where they sported with their women.

“Anything out of the ordinary to report, Mister Grainger?” he asked the senior-most of the pair of Mids who stood the watch, a lad of fifteen.

“Two … two of the, ehm … women, got into an argument, sir,” Grainger reported with a blush. “Bosun’s Mate Mister Wheeler separated them, and ordered them off the ship, at One Bell, sir.”

“Slashing away with belaying pins, they did, sir!” Midshipman Rossyngton, who was only thirteen, piped up. “Stark naked, both, sir!”

“Sorry I missed it,” Lewrie said with a grin.

“Well, ehm … neither of them were what one would call ‘fetching,’ sir,” Mr. Rossyngton ventured to say, with a precocious leer. “Rather old, and … fubsy, they were.”

“Not t’yer
taste,
Mister Rossyngton?” Lewrie teased.

“Well, ehm…,” the lad flummoxed, turning as red as Grainger.

“Beg pardons, young gentlemen … Cap’m … but, there’s a signal hoist aboard
Modeste,
” one of the Master’s Mates, Eldridge, interrupted, reminding them of their proper duties. He, his mate Nightinggale, and the Sailing Master, Mr. Caldwell, were their primary tutors in navigation, and an host of other seamanly work.

“Sorry, sir!” Grainger gawped, turning even redder, if that was possible, hurriedly raising his telescope to read it. “It is … ‘Have Mail,’ sir!” he crowed with an expectant “Christmas Is Coming” glee. “And … our number, and ‘Captain Repair On Board.’ ”

“Buggery,” Lewrie muttered, half to himself. He had hoped for a quiet morning to digest his succulent shore breakfast, sip on some of his cold tea collation, catch up with naval paperwork, play with the cats, perhaps read a chapter or two of a new book, and … take a good long nap, but … “Mister Rossyngton, pass word for my Cox’n and boat crew. Smartly, now!”

Will they be in any
shape
t’row me over to
Modeste
?
he had to wonder as he waited. He had taken his gig ashore at Seven Bells of the Morning Watch, assuring Desmond and the others that he would hire a bum-boatman for his return, so they could join in the sport belowdecks.

Sure enough, here came Liam Desmond, his Cox’n, still donning his short dark blue jacket, his tarred hat askew, and his long-time mate, Patrick Furfy, right behind him, still trying to do up the buttons of his slop-trousers … and reeling a bit.

“Sorry, lads, but I’m called away to the flagship,” Lewrie told them as they hurriedly filed down the man-ropes and battens to the gig. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything
too
much fun.”

That apology raised a stricken smile or two; most of them had been in full-throated song, nipping at smuggled half-pints of rum, and halfway to “connubial” bliss with their “wives” when called to duty.

*   *   *

All three frigates had sent boats to
Modeste
to lay hands upon their precious letters, newspapers, and packages.
Pylades
’s boat was commanded by a Midshipman, but
Cockerel
’s bore Captain Stroud himself.

“Mornin’, Captain Stroud,” Lewrie greeted him, once they had been piped aboard
Modeste,
in order of seniority.

“Good morning to you, Captain Lewrie,” Stroud replied, looking excited, for a rare once, at the prospect of news from home. Most of the time, he was stiff-necked and taciturn, taking himself and his very first captaincy most seriously. “Mail, at last, hah!” he added. That was, perhaps, too
much
joy to show the world, so he quickly sobered his face and tone. “Would’ve sent a Middy or First Officer, but…”

“But, news from England is just too temptin’, aye,” Lewrie finished for him, secretly brimming with excitement and curiosity. “But, where is Captain Parham, young sir? And you are…?”

“Allow me to name myself to you, sir. I’m Poole, sir,” the Mid from
Pylades
said with a doff of his hat and a short bow. “Our Captain is ashore, sir … at a tailor’s, and the chandleries.”

“Captain Lewrie!” Lt. Gilbraith,
Modeste
’s First Lieutenant, said as he came forward to join them, doffing his cocked hat and making a “leg” to them all; business-like to Stroud and the Midshipman as he addressed them by name, but, oddly, more deeply to Lewrie. “We have begun to separate each ship’s mail into bags, sirs … if you will attend me aft, in Captain Blanding’s cabins?”

The Marine sentry announced their presence, and Blanding shouted a merry, and loud, “Enter!” to them. They filed into the cabins, hats under their arms, and bowed greetings to the squadron commander. Lt. Gilbraith went over to stand with Blanding, Chaplain Brundish, and Blanding’s clerk and cabin servants, all of whom stood peering at the new arrivals with what looked like “cat that ate the canary” expressions, and a stiffness normally reserved for greeting an Admiral.

“ ’Tis a bit early in the day, gentlemen, but, given the celebratory nature of the occasion, allow me to offer you all a cool glass of Rhenish,” Captain Blanding said, beaming like a cherub, rocking or nigh-hopping on his toes over
something
. Lewrie knew him, by then, as a boisterous, mercurial fellow, but this was quite uncanny.

He’s a handkerchief … has he been
cryin’? Lewrie asked himself;
By the look of his red eyes, damme if he hasn’t! What…?

“At a moment like this, I’d have wished that Captain Parham would have been able to join us,” Captain Blanding went on as cabin servants scurried round with glasses and a bottle of wine. Damned if he
didn’t
dab at his eyes, and blow his nose, rather loudly, to boot!

“He will be at the supper, surely, sir,” Chaplain Brundish was quick to assure him. And damned if Brundish, scholarly, erudite and languidly calm in all weathers, didn’t peer at Lewrie with a mixture of what seemed like awe and sly, secret amusement!

I’ve come into a fortune, and he wants t’touch me up for a loan?
Lewrie was forced to think, wishing he could touch himself all over to make sure his breeches’ buttons were done up, his shoes were on, or his neck-stock still in place.

Captain Blanding crossed to his desk and returned with a large parchment document, which he held out for them to see. There was a gilt seal, rather large, with a large blob of red wax, a seal pressed into it, and a red ribbon beneath the wax.

“This came to me by post … from London,” Captain Blanding said with a tremble to his voice. “From Saint James’s Palace. From our Sovereign, His Majesty King George.” Blanding sounded as if he was about to croak like a frog in awe. “The King has seen fit to reward me for our victory over the French at the Chandeleur Islands by making me a Knight of the Bath,
and
a Baronet!”

“My word, sir!” Captain Stroud exclaimed.

“Huzzah!” Lt. Gilbraith, who was already in on the secret, said loudly. “An honour long overdue!”

“
Congratulations,
sir!” Lewrie cried, stunned.

“You … we … fought and won the only significant action with the French, last year, after all, sir,” Chaplain Brundish pointed out with a laugh, though he’d known all about the announcement for several minutes already. “Of
course
the Crown would reward the victor!”

And by God if it wasn’t,
Lewrie thought.
The Naval Chronicle,
London papers which reached them such as the
Times
or the
Gazette,
had not featured anything approaching a fleet action since the war began again in May of last year. There were many reports of single actions against French National ships, some small-squadron encounters that had not resulted in any significant losses to either side, or many prizes taken; it was French merchantmen that had suffered the most, but they were profitable, and lacking in glory and honour. Their squadron and their fight at the Chandeleurs, which had resulted in all four French ships defeated and taken as prizes,
had
been the highpoint of 1803!

“To Captain
Sir
Stephen Blanding, Baronet!” Lt. Gilbraith proposed, now their glasses were full, and they seconded him with, “To Sir Stephen!” gave out loud growls of approval, and knocked their glasses back to drain them.

“Congratulations, sir!” Captain Stroud told him, going to shake hands.

“Hear, hear!” Lewrie added, happy to see the cabin servants go round to refill their glasses for a second toast. “Well earned, hey?”

“Ehm … we’re not quite done, sirs,” Captain Blanding tried to shush them. “There’s something else to celebrate. Stanley?” he prompted Reverend Brundish, with a significant nod and wink.

“Ehm … Captain Lewrie,” Brundish said, fetching forth a very large letter from
Reliant
’s heap of mail. “This has come for
you
.” Brundish held it by pressing the tips of his fingers to two of its corners, waving it teasingly, and grinning widely.

It was a heavy creme-coloured bond, the calligraphy for sender and addressee large and “copper-plate” elegant. There was a red wax seal the size of a Spanish “piece of eight” coin to join the corners of the folded-over letter together.

“Uh … for me?” Lewrie gawped.

“No!” Captain Stroud cried. “Really?” Lewrie couldn’t tell if he was astonished at what the letter might hold, or objecting.

“For you, sir,” Brundish assured him, stepping forward to place it in Lewrie’s hands, taking his wine glass to free both. It
was
from the Crown! Lewrie started to snag a fingernail under the wax seal to rip it free, then looked up, appalled, in need of help.

“Allow me to apply my pen-knife,” Captain Blanding offered with a snort of delight. “A thing like that, you only receive once, and it would be a shame to ruin the seal by tearing it free.”

“Insult to the Crown, what?” Brundish said, snickering.

“It’s really a…?” Lewrie could only gawp, going to the desk in the day-cabin, to watch Captain Blanding carefully lift the seal from three of the four corners. Once folded open, the creme-coloured paper proved to be but a protective sheath for the parchment inside, which Blanding let Lewrie open and read. Once, twice, then an even more dis-believing third time.

“Mine arse on a
band-box
!” Lewrie exclaimed at last. “They’ve made
me
a Knight of the Bath?”

“Oh, huzzah, sir! Huzzah!” young Poole cried. “Can’t wait to tell Captain Parham!”

“Congratulations, sir!” Captain Blanding said, taking his hand and giving it a vigourous shake, whilst the rest of them cheered and hooted as if urging their choice of race horse in the last furlong of the Ascot or the Derby.

Why, though?
Lewrie asked himself, though shuddering with glee and sheer stupefying surprise.

After a successful victory such as theirs, it was customary for
one
officer, the senior-most, to be honoured. At Cape St. Vincent it had been Vice-Admiral Sir John Jervis, “Old Jarvy,” rewarded with the title of Earl St. Vincent. After Camperdown, it was only Admiral Duncan who’d been made a peer, and at the Nile, it was Nelson who had been rewarded.

The rewards for captains of the participating warships and the junior officers usually was promotion, or command of one of the prize ships taken. The fellow who’d carried word of the Glorious First of June battle in 1794, the frigate captain who’d carried word of Cape St. Vincent,
had
been knighted, but … why him,
and
Blanding, for the same battle?

’Cause I’m “Saint Alan the Liberator,” “Black Alan” Lewrie,
he sourly thought;
Hero of the Abolitionists like Wilberforce, or … I got knighted ’cause somebody in government’s feelin’
sorry
for me for Caroline’s murder by the French!