The Invasion Year (14 page)

“Ehm … the invitation, sir. Sorry,” Midshipman Bailey said as he stepped forward and laid it on Lewrie’s desk, so timorously that he appeared to fear being bitten for being remiss; or, hesitant to approach a man newly exalted.

“Thankee, Mister Bailey … my deepest respects to good Captain Blanding, and inform him that I and my officers look forward to the …
fête champêtre
with great delight. Also express my thanks for his kindness,” Lewrie told the lad.

“Aye aye, sir!” Bailey said, stepping back, all but clicking his heels or stamping shoes like a Marine, before turning to go. Once he was beyond the door, Lewrie turned to Westcott, giving him a wink and a looking-over.

“I’d think after a whole morning with your young lady, Mister Westcott, ye might wish t’give her a rest … give yourself one, too,” Lewrie teased. “All that,
and
supper, would be more than plenty.”

“ ’Twas an
entrancing
plentitude, sir, and thank you for asking,” Westcott replied, chuckling in reverie. “
Mademoiselle
du Plessis was her usual delightful self, yet, one always longs for just a
bit
more.”

Don’t we just,
Lewrie thought, grinning tautly.

“I’d expect you’d change shirts before the supper, sir,” Lewrie said with mock sternness. “There seems to be some … reddish, coral-coloured powder on your collar. Rouge? Lip paste?”

“Coloured powder, sir,” Westcott was glad to inform him. “She …
Mademoiselle
Sylvie, dabs it on to, ah, enhance her breasts, specifically the
areoli
.”

That’s a new’un on
me
!
Lewrie thought.

“Then it is indeed a pity that there’s no mention of invitin’ any ladies t’this celebration of ours, tonight,” Lewrie japed, referring to the paper Midshipman Bailey had left. “Just as well, I s’pose. She’d be bored t’tears with all the salty talk, then scared when the bread rolls and pudding start flyin’.”

“Well, that is a pity, sir,” Westcott said, looking a tad downcast; or very, very
tired
after his energetic morning.

“Besides, sir … why drag your Sylvie to such a tarry gatherin’, where ye’d have t’share her attentions with all the
other
young, un-married, and
deprived
Lieutenants?” Lewrie pointed out.

“To listen to their teeth grind, sir?” Lt. Westcott shot back with glee.

“Well … even if ladies
were
invited, the bulk of ’em’d be a pack o’ fubsy chick-a-biddies,” Lewrie said with a sigh. “And, there is the matter of whether
Mademoiselle
Sylvie would be suitable for our ‘dash it, bedad’ Captain Blanding. Acceptable to Chaplain Brundish, more to the point.”

“Always tomorrow, then … do you allow me more shore liberty, sir,” Westcott said, shrugging. “Or, perhaps tomorrow evening, after duties are done? Is The Rookery an elegant place, we could dine there.”

“An ‘all-night in,’ Mister Westcott?” Lewrie leered.

“Oh God, please,
yes,
sir!”

“Go, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered, with a laugh. “Wipe yerself down, and warn the others t’shine. Can’t let the repute of the ship down. Best kit, all that?”

“Aye aye, sir … going!” Westcott said, snapping to a loose sort of attention, and bowing his head before turning to depart, with a brief pause to ruffle the fur of the cats, who were napping like a pair of plum puddings atop the map board in the chart space; over the months, Toulon and Chalky had taken to him like a house afire.

Once alone, Lewrie had to dig at his crotch. He’d met the stunning Sylvie du Plessis once, and found himself “risible” at the recollection. And envious of Westcott’s hellish-good luck!

I’ve become a tarry-handed, sea-goin’
monk
!
he told himself.

So there he sat, vaguely listening to the sound of copulation and revelry on the gun-deck with the ship “Out of Discipline,” then recalling that Lt. Westcott (the lucky bastard!) had made an off-handed comment that
Mademoiselle
Sylvie was a “Venus On The Half-Shell” in private … if one changed the hair colour from blonde to brunette of the model for that painting by …
some
bloody Italian!

High culture was not Lewrie’s strong suit; he couldn’t recall which Renaissance Dago had done it! But, he’d always panted over it, and would have bought a copy … if his late wife would have allowed.

In point of fact, his last, brief intimacy had happened the night before he and Caroline had fled Paris, mid-Summer of 1802. And he had lived an ascetic existence since, afloat or ashore. A grieving widower who
shouldn’t
at Anglesgreen, then a Sea Officer who
couldn’t
in this sea-going monastery of a Royal Navy frigate!

I’m a man … a natural man,
he thought;
and it ain’t natural t’go without. I never have
before,
by God!

Suddenly, he found that he
could
entertain the idea of female company, again, yet … what
sort
? Jamaica was nigh-awash in “grass widows” whose husbands neglected them, but that would take
entrée
to Kingston Society, and take too bloody long, to boot.
Courtesans
like Mister Westcott’s Sylvie? To take some woman like her “under his protection” would be expensive, and he’d be more-often at sea than in her company … almost as expensive as taking a second wife, with just as little sport resulting. Whores? Sadly, his last episode in London in his “half-pay” months following the trial, with no hope of gaining any new command,
ever
, had been depressing; poor little Irish Tess, who was so naive and hopeful … most-like his old friend Peter Rushton’s new mistress, if God was just; at least he had money, a title, and a stand-offish wife who had presented him with two sons, and had no desire to risk another pregnancy, so … have at, dear!

In point of fact, Lewrie was at that stage where he could almost squirt semen from his ears if he sneezed!

“I could ask Westcott if Sylvie has a friend,” he mused aloud. “Oh,
God,
no!
That’ll
never do! But … what will?”

It was a quandary.

CHAPTER TEN

HMS
Reliant
’s brief idyll ended shortly after that
fête champêtre
(which indeed did feature flung food!) as the squadron prepared to sail off to prowl round Hispaniola once more. The Easy pendant was lowered, the outright whores and declared “temporary wives” were sent ashore in their jobbers’ bum-boats, and the frigate scoured with vinegar, then smoked with clumps of smouldering tobacco to cleanse her of smuts, odours, and shore bugs. The last fresh water was pumped aboard from the clumsy, ark-like hoys; the last livestock and salt-meat casks stowed away on the orlop, and the officers’ gun-room stores and captains’ personal stores were replenished to the final crock of jam and the last pot of ink.

As with all the holidays,
Reliant
and the others would be at sea for Easter, as well, though the Reverend Brundish assured the captains that he’d planned a bang-up series of homilies for the occasion.

*   *   *

Not three weeks later, though, barely at the end of their second circumnavigation of Hispaniola, a group of three warships—one lighter frigate and two brig-sloops—intercepted them off Cape St. Nicholas with fresh orders.

“Any idea what they’re speaking of, sir?” Lt. Westcott wondered aloud as Lewrie stood by the starboard mizen shrouds, one arm hooked round a stay to steady his day-glass.

“The frigate made
Modeste
’s number, after the private signals, then ‘Have Despatches,’ ” Lewrie replied, intent on the mute flag-play between ships. “
Modeste
then made ‘Captain Repair On Board’ to her, and the frigate’s gig is settin’ out to her. Other than that?” There was a shrug to show his ignorance of matters beyond that. “Oh, here’s a new’un … General to all ships … ‘Course Sou’-Sou’west’ and … ‘Make All Sail Conformable To The Weather.’ No, wait a bit … here comes another!”

“Captain Blanding runs off at the halliards, again, sir?” Lieutenant Westcott dared to jape, in a low voice meant for the two of them.

“Afraid so,” Lewrie said with a snicker. “It’s ‘Form Two Columns’ and … I s’pose that’s the frigate’s number … ‘Take Station To Leeward.’ Ready to come about to Sou’-Sou’west, Mister Westcott. I assume
we’re
t’be the windward column.”

“Aye aye, sir. Bosun, pipe hands to Stations! Helmsmen, ready to come about to Sou’-Sou’west!” Westcott ordered. “Man the braces and sheets!”

The frigate and her consorts had already hauled their wind for the meeting, to leeward of
Modeste
’s column of four warships, so the evolution was easily performed.
Reliant,
the leading ship, swung her bows no more than three points more Sutherly, braced the yards round, and eased the tautness of jibs, spanker, and stays’ls to take the Trade Winds on her larboard quarters.

“A reef in the main course, sir?” Westcott asked, looking aft to see
Pylades
falling astern a bit further than the required cable of separation. “We’re striding away from
Pylades
.”

“
We’re
‘Conformable’ to the weather, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie laughed, hands on his hips and looking up at the set of
Reliant
’s sails. “Let Captain Parham clap on more canvas! It’s a nice day t’let her step lively.”

“Permission to mount the quarterdeck, sir?” Pettus asked Lieutenant Westcott, who had the watch. “Cool tea’s up!”

“Aye, Pettus … come,” Westcott agreed.

“Oh, good!” Sailing Master Caldwell chimed in, rubbing his paws together in expectation that he’d get a glass, too, as was the custom that had developed aboard, as Spring, and its heat, advanced.

In this manner, nearly fourty-five minutes elapsed. The ship’s bell struck Seven Bells of the Forenoon, and Marine Lt. Simcock’s favourite tune, “The Bowld Soldier Boy,” was heard as the rum keg came from below. The Master’s Mates, and the Midshipmen, came up with their sextants and slates to prepare for Noon Sights, to be taken when the bell struck Eight Bells to end the Forenoon and begin the official Noon-to-Noon ship’s day.

“One hopes you’ll place us in the West Indies, today, Mister Munsell,” Lewrie teased the thirteen-year-old Middy. “Should be very easy … what with Cape Saint Nicholas still in plain sight. And
not
in the middle of the Caicos Bank, hey?”

“Closer than usual, sir … he’s improving,” Mr. Caldwell said with a wink. Mr. Munsell was an eager, and tarry, lad, but still iffy when it came to the mysteries of celestial navigation and sun sights.

“Signal from
Modeste,
sir!” Midshipman Warburton piped up. “It is General…” Sure enough, two guns were fired aboard
Modeste,
to all to gather their attention, and precede a new signal to all seven ships. “Ehm … the frigate captain’s gig is rowing back to her, sir,” Warburton added, swinging his telescope down from the peak of the signal halliards to
Modeste
’s side.

“Oh, here it is, sir … ‘Windward Column … To Alter Course to … West-Sou’west, Half West … Leeward Column…’ ”

“That’s wordy, even for Captain Blanding,” Lewrie commented.

“ ‘… the Leeward Column Will … Wear About to Due South,’ sir,” Warburton read out slowly.

“Confusing, too, sir,” Westcott pointed out. “Do both columns alter course together, when the hoist is hauled down, the lee column yonder had better be quick about it, or it will be
us
who tangle our bow-sprit with yon lead sloop!”

“Hoist the ‘Query,’ Mister Warburton, not ‘Acknowledged,’ and be quick,” Lewrie snapped.

“Aye, sir.”

“Lord, sir … he can’t explain with a fresh hoist, without he lowers the one now flying, and that’d be sign for ‘Execute’!” Lieutenant Westcott further worried aloud.

It appeared that Captain Blanding realised his unclear error, for yet another series of flags went up probably the last spare halliard aboard the flagship; it was “Leeward Column First.”

“
Now
you may reply with ‘Acknowledged,’ Mister Warburton,” Lewrie directed, letting out a whoosh of relieved wind. “And, thank God he had enough spares in his taffrail lockers t’say ‘Leeward Column’ twice!”