Hostile Shores (14 page)

Now, let’s see if
that
gets me invited up to the Board Room,
Lewrie thought, feeling particularly clever for a rare once;
and urgent orders for a hull cleaning!

*   *   *

Business was suspended for the mid-day meal. Mr. William Marsden trooped down the stairs and breezed out the doors for his dinner with his gaze fixed on the middle distance, acknowledging no one, else some uniformed mendicant on half-pay attempted to catch his eye for a brief word, which would turn into a queue of them. Lewrie followed the herd that left the Waiting Room, to seek his own dinner, but he didn’t go far. Only three blocks away, near Charing Cross, there was a chop-house, a cut above the riskier two-penny ordinarys, where the meat on one’s plate or wood trencher could be cat, dog, rat, or dead horse—and none of them too fresh, either. No one had died of the chop-house.

For six pence he got a pint of ale, a beef pasty which actually tasted like beef even if it was ground, half of a roast potato, and a glob of currant duff. Quite satisfied, and with no immediate sign of food poisoning, he returned to the Waiting Room a bit earlier than the rest, snagged an upholstered chair near the stairs, and scooped up a discarded copy of
The Times
to while away the rest of the afternoon.

Mr. Marsden returned, again acknowledging no one, and stomped up the stairs to his offices. By two in the afternoon, after another trip to the “necessary” and two more cups of courtyard tea …

“Captain Lewrie?” the “happy-making” clerk called out at last. “Captain Alan Lewrie? Is Captain Lewrie present?”

“Here, sir!” Lewrie replied, shooting to his feet.

“If you will follow me, sir?” the clerk bade. Smiling! That Lewrie took for a good sign.

*   *   *

“Ah, good afternoon, Captain Lewrie … Sir Alan, rather, I was not aware of your knighthood,” Mr. William Marsden said quite genially from behind his desk, waving a hand to steer Lewrie to a chair.

“Good afternoon to you, Mister Marsden,” Lewrie replied as he sat down and tugged at the set of his waist-coat. “Thank you very much for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Before having you in, I had my clerks look up your latest reports on your Bahamian doings, and the privateering situation which you were despatched to deal with,” Marsden said, carefully leafing through a file folder to scan the pertinent reports he’d sent in to Admiralty before leaving for home. “Settled most satisfactorily, it would seem … for the short term, at least. One may only hope that Captain Henry Grierson applies himself to the task with a determination equal to yours. It is quite disturbing, however, to read your last despatch in regards to his squadron’s arrival, and the panic that ensued. As for him ordering you to strike your flag and surrender the ships of
your
squadron to his command, I am most perplexed as to why he took that action. Do you have an explanation, Sir Alan?”

“He found me impertinent, Mister Marsden,” Lewrie baldly said, “for pointing out what a lame jape his arrival was, and insisted that his arrival made my squadron moot. Since he thought me so impertinent, he had enough Post-Captains to form a court, so…,” Lewrie said with a weary shrug, then added, “He’s distant kin to Lord Melville.”

“Ah,” Marsden replied with a knowing nod, and a grimace. “At any rate, your initial request for an interview involved a request for dockyard services, I believe?” Marsden went on, referring to a note scribbled on scrap paper by one of his clerks.

“
Reliant
was taken out of Ordinary in April of 1803, sailed in May when the war resumed, and has been in continuous service in West Indies or semi-tropical waters since, sir,” Lewrie explained. “She is badly in need of a hull cleaning. We’ve been able to keep up with the usual wear-and-tear, and rot,
above
the waterline, but she is weeded and slow. By next May, she
should
be due a total docking and re-fit, but … with a careening and cleaning, the replacement of any coppering that might have sloughed off, and some fresh white lead, she can still give good service beyond next May.”

“Extending your command into her, and your active commission,” Marsden sagely nodded, his face stony, giving nothing away.

“I will confess that I do wish to keep her, sir,” Lewrie told the sceptical fellow, “to keep my officers and crew together as long as possible. We’ve done grand things together, discipline is so good that we rarely ever have to resort to the ‘cat’, and have not had any desertions, even anchored in American harbours. We both know that that is damned rare, and did I have my choice, when the time comes for her to enter the dry dock, I would
love
to see us all turned over into a new ship, entire. My people are that good, sir!”

“The mark of a good captain,” Marsden said with another firm nod, then turned to Lewrie’s request. “You told one of my junior ink-spillers that you were familiar with Cape Town, Sir Alan?”

“I dare say that I am, sir!” Lewrie quickly assured him.

I
do
dare say,
Lewrie told himself;
I’d dare say
anything
to get what I need!

“A brief breaking of your passage at the ‘tavern of the seas’?” Marsden asked with faint good humour.

“I was part of the escort to a ‘John Company’ trade to China, a few years back, when I had the
Proteus
frigate, sir,” Lewrie eagerly laid out in hopes that he could convince Marsden that his experience was vital. “We tangled with a brace of French frigates as we stood off and on Cape Town in the night. We were stern-raked and had our rudder shot away, so we had to put in and try to find a replacement. We were there for more than a month, sir. Landed our badly wounded to a shore sick bay in a rented farmhouse halfway up the Lion’s Head, buried some ashore, and took a train of bullock waggons over to the beached wreck of an East Indiaman that mistook False Cape for the real’un in a gale, and hired local divers and artificers t’salvage
her
rudder before the wreckers at Simon’s Town got away with it.

“During all that, I got a chance to know the lay-out of Cape Town quite well, too,” Lewrie went on, “and hired a local hunter for a guide. We rode up North, into the hills above the lesser bays…”

For the life of him, he could not remember the names of all the places that those clerks had tossed out!

“… got familiar with the land about the town to the East and the South, as well, sir,” Lewrie said with a confident but false grin.

“How many forts protect Cape Town, sir?” Marsden shrewdly asked.

“I recall but two, sir,” Lewrie replied, “when I was last there, at least. And we had possession of the place. Had no dealings with our Army at the time, d’ye see.”

“Which is … Fort Knocke?” Marsden enquired, taking a moment to peer at another note on his desk. “However one says that. ‘Nok-ah’? ‘Ka-nok-ah’? Bloody foreigners!”

“Both are on the seafront, either side of the town, but I do believe that Fort … whatyecallit … is the one on the Eastern side of Cape Town, closest to the land approaches, sir.”

Lewrie tried to make it
sound
as if he knew what he was talking about; he hadn’t a bloody clue if that was right and crossed fingers for luck like the un-prepared student he had been at a succession of schools. The way Mr. Marsden peered at him without comment made him feel as if he’d break out in a funk-sweat.

“I do know that the Dutch had shoved hundreds of guns in both forts, Mister Marsden,” Lewrie went on to fill a sudden uncomfortable silence, “both iron and bronze cannon, of heavy and medium calibre, for defence to seaward, and lighter guns against troops. At least, I do recall that they were still there when I was there, long after Lord Keith, Captain Elphinstone then, first took the place.”

“Uhmhmm,” Mr. Marsden at last said, leaning forward to dip his pen in an ink-well, “where do you lodge when up in London, Sir Alan?”

“The Madeira Club, at the corner of Duke and Wigmore Streets, sir,” Lewrie told him, sensing that the interview was over, whether he’d been successful or not.

“I will send you my decision shortly, Sir Alan,” Marsden promised, still looking glum and dubious. “We cannot keep you hanging on tenter-hooks and idle in town whilst the Fleet is denied the use of your frigate,” Marsden said as he finished scribbling the address on a scrap of paper.

“That would be most welcome, sir,” Lewrie told him, preparing to rise and depart. “Either way, clean bottom or foul, I am sure that Channel Fleet will soon find
Reliant
useful, unless—”

“Captain Home Riggs Popham may find your ship, and your previous experience, useful as well,” Marsden said with a vague-looking smile. “It is he who is to hoist his broad pendant and command the expedition.”

Marsden briefly pursed his lips in a wee
moue,
as if the choice of officer commanding had not been his. “The fellow who devised the signal flag code. A
clever
fellow.”

That didn’t sound like much of a recommendation, either.

“Oh!” Lewrie said, perking up. “I served under him briefly, in the winter of 1804, when we made that attack on the port of Calais with catamaran torpedoes and fireships!”

That was not much of a recommendation on Lewrie’s part, either, for the experimental expedition had been a shambles. The few catamaran torpedoes loosed on wind and tide had failed utterly, with only one of them actually exploding, and that nigh
miles
away from anything that could have charitably been called a real target, and the one fireship had swanned about like a hound on a dozen scents at once before blowing up harmlessly. Perhaps the French had enjoyed the show, and their brief respite from utter boredom.

“Yayss, I do now recall that you were seconded to experimental trials with torpedoes,” Marsden drawled in sour amusement. “A damned foolish idea, those. And, did you
enjoy
working with Popham?”

“A most inspiriting man, sir,” Lewrie replied, “just bung-full of ideas, and energy.”

“Oh, yes!” Marsden archly agreed, with a grimace. “Energetic, enterprising, and a most
mercurial
fellow, is Captain Popham. As industrious as an ant hill, just brimming with new ideas. He makes one wonder how he keeps all his balls in the air at the same time, like a juggler at a street fair. A rather un-orthodox man. Who knows
what
he’ll pull out of his hat next.”

What the Hell have I talked myself into?
Lewrie wondered.

“Well, sir,” Lewrie said, getting to his feet, “thank you again for seein’ me, and I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”

“Good day to you, Captain Lewrie,” Marsden said with a parting smile, if only to be gracious, “and look for my decision by letter at your lodgings.”

Whether he knew that
Reliant
would be seen to or not, whether he would get orders for Cape Town or the utter dullity of the blockade with a foul bottom, Lewrie put a confident grin on his face for the benefit of those still idling in the Waiting Room. He trotted down the stairs to reclaim his hat and cloak with a spry and cocky show of glee and energy. He doubted that Marsden would have a decision to send him by the end of the day, so he might have time to do some brief shopping to supplement his kit and his personal stores.

There was another letter that he was even more eager to recieve. Now, if only Lydia Stangbourne had not yet left for Portsmouth, there was a chance that he might have a supper companion tonight, and perhaps much, much more!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

That lascivious hope lasted just long enough for Lewrie to pop into the Madeira Club and ask the desk clerk if there had been a reply to his morning note to Lydia’s London residence. There was, indeed, but it was merely a folded-over piece of scrap paper, written in an awkward scrawl in pencil, which stated that Miss Lydia had departed for Portsmouth the previous morning and did not say when she would be returning, signed by someone who claimed to be the family butler, and if it
was
written in English, his name
looked
to be Gullyfart or Cully’s Tart. The desk clerk, when consulted, could not make heads or tails of it, either; his best guess was Cuffysdart.

“Is there anything else for me?” Lewrie asked, deflating.

“Just the one, sir,” the clerk told him.

That’un was properly wax-sealed and written in an elegant hand, on good bond paper, to boot. Lewrie had sent a note round to his father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, to inform him that he was in town. Not that Lewrie really cared a fig to
see
the old fart, but it was what one did to be sociable, and remain in the will … assuming that the old lecher didn’t turn dotty in his head and squander all he had on whores and courtesans and race horses.

He was almost (but not quite) disappointed to discover that his father had other plans for the evening with an intriguing lady just new-come to London. Sir Hugo did not propose an alternate time for him to call, unless he was
long
in London, and didn’t have to rush back to his ship right away. Sir Hugo was sure he would understand.

I surely do,
Lewrie thought in a foul humor;
I can always count on my father … he’ll let me down every time!

He slouched into the Common Room and flung himself down into one of the leather wing chairs near the fireplace, wondering what he could do. He ordered American whisky from the steward who came to his side, but there was none available; would Spanish brandy suit, or might he settle for a Scottish whisky? Lewrie stuck with the brandy.

As intently as he’d peered at every passing coach-and-four that had been bound to Portsmouth on the road the day before, he had missed sight of Lydia’s equipage. How irked might she be to arrive, after dark and in a nippy drizzle, most-like, to find that no set of rooms had been booked for her at The George Inn, their usual trysting place, for the very good reason that he hadn’t gotten confirmation that she would be coming down? How even further irked might Lydia be to send word to
Reliant
and learn that he’d dashed off to London, leaving her to her own devices—without even leaving an explanatory note to mollify her!