Hostile Shores (41 page)

“How much longer, Mister Caldwell?” Lewrie asked the Sailing Master, who had been scribbling on a chalk slate and humming happily to himself, with a now-and-again reference to one of his charts pinned to the traverse board by the compass binnacle cabinet.

“Hey, sir?” Caldwell responded, as if roused from a nap. “Oh, well I dare say that, should this wind continue in its present slant, and at its current strength, we should be entering the Río de la Plata Estuary around tomorrow’s dawn … with the sun astern of us once we alter course Westward, which will make any reefs or shoals easier to espy ahead of us, sir. Of which the Plate Estuary has an ominous plenty, that is.”

“You would feel much better did we reduce sail and post leadsmen in the fore chains, and lookouts at the fore top, sir?” Lewrie asked.

“Oh, very much better, sir!” Mr. Caldwell agreed quickly, with a broad, relieved smile plastered on his phyz.

“Well, so would I, frankly,” Lewrie told him, grinning. “I’ve not run aground in ages, and may be more than due. Though from what I gather from my charts, the Plate’s shoals are more sand and silt than rocks?” He knocked wood for luck on the starboard bulwark’s cap-rails.

“That is true, sir … in the main,” Caldwell replied, doing the same on the top of the binnacle cabinet.

Lewrie turned away and rocked on the balls of his feet, hands clasped in the small of his back and his head tilted up to savour the morning. It was a beautiful day, bright, glittering, and fresh-washed by light rain the evening before. They had left the oppressive heat of the Equator behind after falling South of Recife in Brazil, and the days had cooled to the low eighties since. In promise of their landfall, sea birds and shore birds seen close to shore swirled overhead in small flocks, some flitting or gliding between the masts and sails to delight the ship’s dog, Bisquit, and make Chalky, who was perched atop the cross-deck hammock racks, sit up and swivel his head skywards, with his whiskers standing out and his mouth making eager chitterings and longing trills.

Lewrie petted his cat, then paced forward up the starboard sail-tending gangway to the forecastle, idly thumping and tugging at the stays to determine their tautness. He made several circuits of the gangways, stepping up his pace on the later laps. Once back aboard from their African adventure, he made it a point to exercise as much as shipboard life allowed, cramped and constrained as that was. None of them had really been fit for long marches, or all the trotting and running that fighting alongside the Army had demanded. Sometime during the hands’ spell of cutlass drill, he would pair off against one or more of his officers on the quarterdeck with his hanger and practice swordplay ’til his tongue lolled out and his shirt turned damp. That was the most demanding exercise he could think of, and a fine precaution against getting too rusty to defend himself should they board an enemy and have to fight for their lives.

Bisquit came trotting up with his tail wagging as Lewrie made a last circuit, hopping and whining playfully. Lewrie allowed the dog to rise and place his paws on his chest to give him a good rubbing, before reaching into his coat pocket for what Lewrie suspected was Bisquit’s real purpose … he gave the dog a strip of
biltong,
a good, long, and thick-ish piece of salted, spiced eland.

“Permission to come to the quarterdeck, sir?” the Purser, Mr. Cadbury, requested at the foot of the larboard ladderway as Bisquit went off to chew his way to bliss.

“Aye, come up, sir,” Lewrie agreed as he went back to his proper post at the windward bulwarks.

“I was wondering what to do with these, sir?” Cadbury began as he drew an ornate rolled-up document from his coat.

“I thought we’d share ’em ’twixt my cabins and the officers’ quarter-galleries, Mister Cadbury,” Lewrie said. “That’s what we decided.”

“Aye, sir, but they’re not exactly suitable for such uses, are they, sir?” Cadbury told him, rolling the document out to its full length. “Too stiff a paper stock, and one would have to peel all the seals off, first. Even quartered, they are too stiff.”

“Aye, nothing like a good, used newspaper for wipin’ one’s bum,” Lewrie said with a laugh. “They might even scratch one’s arse.”

HMS
Narcissus
had spotted a strange sail and had dashed off in pursuit several days before, returning with a small Spanish merchant brig as prize, and the envy of every bored officer and sailor in the expedition. She had been bound from Cartagena to Buenos Aires with a cargo of general goods from the Vice-Royalty of New Granada, in defiance of Spanish absolutism which forbade inter-colonial trade. Among her cargo were several dozen large chests sent out from Spain containing Papal Dispensations, hundreds upon hundreds of them, bearing the seals and signatures of various Romish cardinals and the Pope himself in far-off Rome. Captain Donnelly had sent several chests aboard each ship in the expedition, as a jape, with notes explaining that the florid documents were “Get Out of Hell Passes for The South American Sin Trade”, which local archbishops and bishops would sell, and parcel out to the many rural churches, were there any left, to forgive the mortal sins of wealthy country people. What sins they committed later would be their own lookout.

“It’s not just their stiffness, sir,” Mr. Cadbury suggested in a softer voice. “It’s our Irish lads, and our Catholic hands. Some of them came to me … your Cox’n Desmond among them … on the sly like, to wonder if they would be … put to a use that was dis-respectful. Mean to say, sir, with their Pope’s seal and signature upon them?”

“They ain’t Hindoos forced t’eat pork, Mister Cadbury, or one o’ their sacred cows,” Lewrie said, scowling.

So much for decent bum-fodder,
he thought;
And the Mids are runnin’ out o’ foolscap for their paperwork, too.

“Might any use upset them, though, sir,” Cadbury muttered on. “We can’t use them to light the galley fires, make up fresh cartridge for muskets and pistols … even tossing them overside might be deemed insulting.”

“Mean t’say we’re stuck with ’em?” Lewrie frowned.

“Very possibly, sir,” the Purser said with a grimace. “Though … some of the hands did express the desire to be
issued
one.”

“And very well they might,” Lewrie replied, chuckling. Tars of any religion, or no religion, were always in need of forgiveness for something. “Think we could sell ’em off? No, most of our lads don’t have two pence t’rub together. And we don’t have a chaplain aboard with the authority to sign ’em.”

“Well, perhaps a Protestant Church of England official doing the signing might not go down all that well, either, sir,” Cadbury said with a snicker of his own. “But, a Post-Captain could.”

“One
without
sin, sir?” Lewrie scoffed. “That’s a rare commodity hereabouts. Like the Devil baptisin’ new-borns!”

“I gather they would appreciate it, sir,” Cadbury prompted.

“Oh, very well,” Lewrie relented. “They’re useless to our purposes, and not worth a groat in prize-money, so I suppose no one’d miss a few. Get me a list of those desirin’ one and I’ll write down his name on ’em, no more. No sense in temptin’ Fate, tryin’ to act like a prelate.”

“Aye, sir,” Cadbury said, smiling to have the matter settled. “Though, once ashore in Buenos Aires, they
might
prove valuable. The local bishop would be glad to obtain them and sell to support him and his church. We might gain six pence to a shilling each, and God only knows how much they go for when
he
sells them.”

“Really? Hmm,” Lewrie exclaimed in surprise, beginning to scheme. “They’d go dear in the local market, hey? Hmm,” he pondered.

Admiralty’d have my hide,
he thought;
Breakin’ bulk, stealin’ from a prize’s value for private gain ’fore submission to the Prize Court? How many of the Articles of War does
that
violate?

So far, this year of 1806,
Reliant
had had no opportunity to earn a single penny in prize-money, and what captures they had made in the Bahamas and off the coast of Spanish Florida in the previous year were still in the hands of the Admiralty Court in Nassau. When their judgements would be announced, and in what amounts, might not come ’til 1810! And, as was the case with the takings of enemy privateers, the net sums after all those deliberations might not cover the Proctor’s fees, once all was said and done.

I s’pose I’ll just have t’hope that the Argentine produces a few decent wines,
Lewrie consoled himself;
A ten-gallon anker for instant salvation for the vintner and his family, perhaps? Maybe the dispensations’d serve for
paper
money!

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

They entered the outer-most reaches of the Plate Estuary on the 27th of May, arriving in a thick and dense fog that took half the day to burn off, groping their way slowly West under greatly reduced sail and sounding with the short leads, already in shoal water. It was, to Lewrie’s lights, an ignominious beginning to the invasion of an enemy country. If the lookouts aboard Commodore Popham’s flagship,
Diadem,
had been able to
see
a signal, Lewrie would have hoisted the suggestion that they come to anchor for a time before they all took the ground far short of the actual mouth of the Plate. They sailed on nothing but Dead Reckoning, already encountering shoal waters, with the leadsmen in the fore chains calling out soundings that ranged from ten fathoms to a mere six, at times. The deck lookouts in the eyes of the bow could barely see their hands in front of their faces, much less a disturbance in the waters ahead, or a change of colour that might indicate peril. The lookouts high aloft at the cross-trees could only now and then make out the top-most trucks and commissioning pendants of the other ships, either.

It ain’t as if the Spanish know we’re comin’, or can even
see
us if they
knew
t’look out for us,
Lewrie groused to himself, pacing the deck and wincing at each leadsman’s call;
so what’s his bloody urgency? It’s like Popham’s runnin’ from his creditors!

Poor Mr. Caldwell, the Sailing Master, looked as if he would fret himself to an early grave, breaking out in a fine sweat despite the coolness of early morning as he was reduced to tracing his index finger round his much-pawed charts each time a new sounding was called out, as if to divine their exact position by the procession of indicated fathom markers. Lewrie noted that that index finger shook at times, and that Caldwell was actually mouthing silent words; curses or prayers, no one could say.

*   *   *

The fogs did burn off by mid-morning, relieving one and all. As soon as it did, though, the flagship was hoisting a flurry of signals. The first was a “General” to all ships, announcing that the Commodore would shift his flag to the
Narcissus
frigate and proceed up the Plate Estuary to gather the latest local information. In his absence, his Flag-Captain, Downman, would command the squadron and the troop transports. They should look for him off Flores Island on the North shore of the estuary, near Montevideo. The second hoist summoned
Narcissus
alongside
Diadem,
so the Commodore and his entourage could be barged over to her to arrive in state, break out his broad pendant, and scamper away at a rate of knots, leaving the rest of the ships to wallow along as best they could.

“Wants t’beat us to the loot, does he?” Lewrie speculated to Lt. Westcott in a low voice. “Ah, Mister Caldwell! My congratulations on seein’ us through. I am sending down for a pot of cold tea. Might I offer you a glass?”

“Thankee, but no, sir,” Caldwell said, mopping his face with a red calico handkerchief after he had gathered up his personal navigation aids and rolled up the large scale chart. “If I may have your leave to go below for a bit, I had something stronger in mind. This morning has taken its toll upon me, I do confess.”

“Nice enough, now, though,” Lewrie made note, pausing for a moment to hear one of the leadsmen call out, “Eighteen fathom! Eighteen fathom t’this line!”

“A pretty morning, aye, sir,” Caldwell agreed, looking out and up at the skies and clouds and the state of the glittering seas as if seeing them for the first time in his life, blinking in amazement.

“Do you reckon that the ship is in no danger for the moment, sir, you have leave to go below,” Lewrie allowed.

“Thank you, sir, and I shall return shortly,” Caldwell vowed.

“After all this fog and uncertainty, I feel in need of a stiff ‘Nor’wester’ myself, sir,” Lt. Westcott stated.

“Should I send down for rum, instead?” Lewrie teased.

“Cold tea’s fine, sir,” Westcott said with a twinkle.

Lewrie left the windward bulwarks and went to the binnacle cabinet to look over the other chart that Caldwell had left behind for their use, the one which showed the Plate Estuary all the way beyond Buenos Aires to the mangrove swamps and jungles on the North bank of the estuary, where the great river spilled out from the interior. He found Flores Island, still hundreds of miles away, and heaved a sigh.

“Pass word for the Purser if you will, Mister Westcott,” he reluctantly said. “It’ll be days ’til we come to anchor off Flores, and we’ll have to wait for the Commodore’s return. In the meantime, it will be necessary to reduce the bread and water rations to three in four, unless God grants us a deluge. Perhaps we can make up the lack with small beer, or try to bake fresh bread, if the wind and sea state allows.”

“Just slipped his mind, did it, sir?” Westcott whispered with a savage, knowing look on his face.

“Perhaps he’ll find a fresh-water stream far out of the way of any watchers,” Lewrie sneered. “Or, meet up with some Spanish bum-boat traders.”

“Lashings of water, wine, and charming
señoritas,
” Westcott wistfully said. “Ah, the possibilities!”

“You quite forgot the chance they’d have fresh fruit,” Lewrie reminded him.

“Hmm … mangoes … coconuts … or even …
melons
!” Westcott japed, raising cupped hands to his chest as if weighing the mentioned delights, widening his palms at each in lustful anticipation for the young women of the Argentine.