The Invasion Year (54 page)

Christ, they’ve been together so long, they even think alike!
Lewrie told himself. The parrot had an eerily impressive vocabulary, indeed!

“Forcing me to cancel experiments, and return to Portsmouth,” Captain Speaks said in a huff, “failing in
my
express orders from Admiralty. Experiments which have become even more vital than before, sir. Vital, I tell you! By God, I really
should
lay court-martial charges against you. Turn you over to Admiral Lord Keith, and let him deal with you. So you can explain to
him
why the weapons that he intends to employ might be wanting!”

Lord Keith commanded in The Downs, subordinate to Admiral Lord William Cornwallis of Channel Fleet, making Lewrie wonder why Speaks would prefer charges with him, instead of Cornwallis, or Admiralty directly.
Weapons he intends to employ?
Lewrie wondered.

“These damned French things you brought in, Lewrie,” Captain Speaks said, turning too mellow and “chummy” too quickly for Lewrie’s taste. “We both have access to high secrets. What are they, really?”

“I cannot reveal that, sir. Truly!” Lewrie insisted.

“Bosun, lay on! Two dozen lashes!
Rwark
!” the parrot uttered, prefaced, and concluded, with what sounded like a throaty and rasping gargle, or cat-purr, as it paced along its perch.

“Have the
French
developed a form of torpedo, Lewrie? Perhaps
anchored
torpedoes?” Speaks further asked, almost cajolingly.

“I can assure you that they’re
not
torpedoes, sir, but that’s all I can tell you,” Lewrie cautiously replied. “About Admiral Lord Keith, though … he
intends
to employ catamaran torpedoes, did y’say?
Before
the weather in the Channel turns foul?”

“You will be informed at the proper time, Captain Lewrie,” the choleric older fellow snapped, seeing that the nature of Lewrie’s secret would not be forthcoming, and keeping his own ’til the last minute. He turned snippish once more. “Thanks to
you,
sir, there will not be time for further testing, and the catamaran torpedoes will be employed
before
their ultimate perfection, and…,” Speaks gravelled, levelling a finger at Lewrie like a pistol barrel, “should they fail to achieve the desired results, such failure will not be placed upon
my
head, but upon
yours,
sir, for your lack of support to me!”

“
Despite
our suggested improvements of drogues and rudders that drifted them quicker and straighter, sir?” Lewrie asked, having a hard time stifling his anger at such a threat, and the unfairness of it. “I and my men have been
very
supportive to you, as you told me earlier.”

“Damn my…!” Speaks said, spluttering with fury. “You are to keep your bloody frigate ready to sail at a moment’s notice! You are to restrict access with the shore, and except for victualling, you are to keep your people aboard, where they cannot blab.”

“Well,
Reliant
’s people have earned a brief spell Out of Discipline, after…,” Lewrie countered, instantly regretting how tongue-in-cheek that sounded.

“Absolutely
not,
sir!” Speaks roared. “You will sit and swing at anchor ’til I’ve need of you. Do not be obstreperous or insubordinate with me … I’ll not have it, do you hear?”

“Quite clearly, sir,” Lewrie replied, abashed.

“Dismissed, Captain Lewrie,” Speaks ordered, stone-faced.

“Mutinous dog! Mutinous dog …
rwark
!” from the parrot.

Once out on deck in the fresh air, Lewrie let out a deep pented breath, puffing out his cheeks and sharing a rueful glance with Lieutenant Douglas Clough,
Penarth
’s captain, who had wisely found another place to be while Speaks was tearing a strip off Lewrie’s arse. Clough
looked
sympathetic.

“Might there be something up, Mister Clough?” Lewrie asked him in a close-by mutter as he made ready to board his waiting big.

“Ye dinna hear it from me, sir, but … we’ve been ordered to take a fresh load of torpedoes aboard, in a tearing hurry, mind, and once done, I’m to take her down to Saint Helen’s Patch and wait for a favourable wind … for The Downs, sir, to join Admiral Lord Keith! Captain Speaks gave me a hint … it’s to be Boulogne, sir!” the rough-featured Scot muttered back, though with an eager grin. “Explosive boats, fireships, our torpedoes, and even some rocket-firing vessels … Mister William Congreve’s explosive rockets!”

“What’s a Congreve rocket?” Lewrie wondered aloud, in a soft, conspiratorial tone. “I know
signal
rockets, but…”

“Don’t rightly know, sir, for no one ever tells me things, if they don’t pertain to our torpedo trials,” Lt. Clough said with a wee and wry laugh. “Mark my words, Captain Lewrie … we’ll be a part of a grand attack on Boulogne, sure as Fate, and that soon!”

“Thankee, Mister Clough,” Lewrie said, grinning back, “for the news. Now, I’ll have t’play dumb ’til our superiors decide t’tell us for certain.”

“With no shore liberty for anyone … even officers,” Clough mournfully agreed.

“Boulogne, though … well, well!” Lewrie whispered, imagining what that would be like, on the day ordained.

Play dumb ’til I’m told the details?
Lewrie thought as he went through the ritual of departing honours,
I was
born
t’play dumb! It’s what people
expect
o’ me!

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

At least it’s a pretty day for it,
Alan Lewrie thought as the coast of France loomed up from the southern horizon, as a squadron, of which HMS
Reliant
was a part, sailed for Boulogne. Lewrie did wonder, though, why the expedition was so small, if the undertaking was of such vital importance to England’s survival.

The squadron was led by Admiral of the Blue Lord Keith in HMS
Monarch,
a two-decker 74-gunned Third Rate, not the lofty First or Second Rate more suitable to his seniority. With
Monarch
were two 64-gun two-deckers and two much older Fourth Rate two-decker 50s, a type of warship more commonly seen on convoy duty or troop carrying these days, not in the line of battle. It was smaller ships that made up the bulk of the squadron’s numbers; there were bomb vessels with their big sea-mortars, some older warships converted to fire William Congreve’s infernal rockets, brig-sloops and frigates, and a host of cutters and armed launches … along with at least four fireships and the collier
Penarth
bearing their catamaran torpedoes.

Lewrie savoured the last few sips of tepid coffee in his pewter mug as he stood by the windward bulwarks of the quarterdeck, slouched a tad, it must be admitted, as he surveyed the lines of warships, the sea and sky. Did the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte wish for fine weather in which to launch his titanic invasion force, he could not ask for a milder day, for the conditions were rarely seen in the Channel in late Autumn, this first day of October of 1804.

The sky above was a soft and milky pale blue, almost completely blanketed by vast swathes of thin cirrus clouds, the sunlight softened and almost shadowless. Further up the Channel nearer to the Straits of Dover, and further down-Channel on the West horizon, there were thicker, taller, and more substantial clouds through which the sun speared down in bright shafts. There were sootier, darker shafts, too, as if there might be rain there, or, as superstitious old salts maintained, the sun was drawing up columns of water for a later deluge.

The waters of the Channel, usually boisterous, cross-chopped and sparkling with white-horses and white-caps, were calmer, too, the waves longer and shallower for once, and the muted sunlight turned the sea’s colour to steely grey-blue close aboard, and a paler blue that mirrored the sky further away. France, off the bows, was a thin smear of dull green and sand, a single coloured pencil-stroke, so far.

The only stark colours were the solidities of the warships, and their hulls and sails; dark brown weathered oak, the shiny black of the painted upperworks or the matte black of tarred wales, and the yellows, reds, ochres, or buffs of their hull stripes, with here and there glints of giltwork on transoms, entry-ports, or carved figureheads. Pale, new white canvas, or aged and weathered buff or parchment tan sails, made a ragged scudding cloudbank above those hulls. Above them all, and aft on wooden staffs, all ships sported Blue Ensigns with vivid red-white-blue Union flags in their cantons … and all flew yards-long commissioning pendants from their main-mast tops, streaming and flickering like snakes’ tongues licking the wind for the taste of prey.

Lewrie finished his cold coffee, set the mug down on the deck, and strolled to the break of the quarterdeck to peer over the hammock stanchions, now full of tightly rolled bedding, down into the waist.

Admiral Lord Keith had not yet ordered the squadron to Quarters, and Lewrie felt it odd to be sailing into action with his crew acting as if it was just another day far out at sea, with their frigate alone and without a threat on the horizons. The ports were still shut, and the great-guns were still snugly bowsed to the gun-port sills, each of them still plugged with red-painted wood tompions in their muzzles. A few men idled round the companionways, but only half the crew, of the starboard watch, stood the watch. Well, there were the Marines … if action was expected in an hour or so, Lt. Simcock was going to be ready for it, and properly dressed, too; his men had doffed their everyday slops and had changed into cockaded hats, red coats, white waist-coats and trousers, and black canvas “half-spatterdash” leggings, with all of their martial accoutrements hung about them.

“France … dammit,” Lewrie muttered, as the squadron closed to within six or seven miles of the shore. “Bloody, bloody, France!”

“Well, some of their young ladies are fetching, sir,” Lieutenant Westcott breezily commented near Lewrie’s side. “Recall the fair
Madamoiselle
Sylvie at Kingston?”

“Oh, is
that
why you insisted you lead the boats?” Lewrie said with a laugh. “You’ve a taste for French mutton, have you?”

“I rather doubt there’d be any aboard the invasion boats, sir,” Westcott replied, all whimsy. “Though one might hope?”

Lewrie wished to keep Lt. Westcott aboard
Reliant
should they run into opposition from French gunboats, but Westcott had asked for a private word and had claimed the honour of leading the boats that would tow the torpedoes in; it was the senior lieutenant’s role by right and tradition, and, “How else may I make a name for myself and gain notice for advancement, sir, if I’m held back?” he’d posed with a wry laugh, and Lewrie had acceded to his desire, charging him to look after his Cox’n, Liam Desmond, and Desmond’s long-time mate, Patrick Furfy.

He would send his oldest Midshipmen; he could spare them, and were men to be lost, it was better to lose Mids than officers. That was traditional, too, and after all, Houghton, Entwhistle, and Mister Warburton had as much need of a bit of fame and notice at Admiralty, and in the papers, as any other man; how else might
they
advance? And, Lewrie grimly considered, even the most seasoned Midshipmen were as hungry for honour and glory as lion cubs!

“It’s taking long enough,” Captain Speaks impatiently snapped as he strolled up to join them.

Such a pretty day, ’til he ruined it!
Lewrie thought, stifling a groan, keeping his gaze fixed on the bow-sprit, and pretending that he had not heard the man.

Just before they had sailed from Portsmouth to join Lord Keith off The Downs, Speaks had come aboard
Reliant,
without specific orders—and thankfully without his damned parrot!—claiming that making passage in
Penarth
would interfere too much with Lt. Clough and his preparations, though he also
alluded
to un-seen orders to see the job right through to the finish, and a “duty” to see “his torpedoes” successful. Lewrie’s orders were to accompany
Penarth
and use his men and boats to launch the devices, and they made no mention of Speaks, but … Speaks
was
senior to him, and Lewrie couldn’t drive Speaks back into his hired boat at sword-point, or even demand to see those hinted-at orders, so … he was stuck with the pest! And a garrulous, peevish, and annoying pest he’d turned out to be, practically presiding and
ruling
meals with Lewrie and his officers, and constantly on the quarterdeck when Lewrie was, never
interfering,
exactly, with
Reliant
’s captain and officers of the watch, but hovering, with many a dis-approving scowl, sniff, grunt, questioning cocked brow, or muttered comment!