"No kin to former admirals, nossir," Lewrie had had to say with a straight and mournful face, suddenly amused nigh to titters with the astonishment everyone would evince were the shrouds opened, or letters sent to the Anson and Hawke families back in England. "In fact, they were but common sailors, good men, but without any ties to gentlemanly families, I fear. Men volunteer, or declare themselves when 'pressed,' under false names. Take false names to avoid being taken up by civil authorities, were they wrongdoers before, d'ye see.
"Ah, I understand, Captain Lewrie," the rector had said, "and I feel certain that, no matter their sins were scarlet, dying in service to King and Country, they were washed as white as snow by their dedication to Duty, and by the true Valour they evinced in their last instants. Heaven will be their reward, no matter how humbly born."
"Truly said, sir," Lewrie had replied. "As for notifying their kin, I have already composed letters. 'Tis my sad duty."
Half the morning gone, kicking his cooling heels waiting to be seen by that Flag-Captain, whilst Mr. Pendarves, Mr. Towpenny, and Mr. Garroway had been over the side on a catamaran, a floating work stage, surveying what they could above the waterline, the damaged gun-trucks being repaired with what stocks of seasoned timber they had in stores aboard Proteus, and the "divotted" artillery pieces dis-mounted, ready to be slung into the cutter and rowed ashore for exchange, should there actually be Dutch 12-pounders to exchange them for. Lewrie would not be picky; they could be tiger-mouthed Hindoo or Chinese guns, for all it would signify to him at that point!
So much to do to put Proteus to rights, to care for his maimed sailors, one of whom, "Sam Whitbread," was also Black, and what Dutch renters thought of that when he sought shore lodgings for them, well!
Six, eight weeks, he said? Lewrie thought with a dismayed moan; Longer? Land of The Lotus Eaters, bedamned! And, the French. Could they have gotten strong, or bold, enough, to haunt Table Bay, despite what the local Navy officers think? I can't sit idle, swingin round the anchors, if the Frogs think they can raid this close to home. For a bleak moment, he pictured that French squadron sailing right into the bay for a night raid on shipping, and with Proteus so lamed…!
He thrust himself erect, determined to get a way on, to achieve something productive before sundown; though, what that was, he hadn't a clue, at present. He paced back forward, but caught sight of Festival, anchored about a mile off, and now swarmed with barges and boats to unload her menagerie, scenery, and such for a long "run" of performances. Her main yardarm was dipping to sway out a sling which held a horse, a white horse, Eudoxia's well-trained gelding.
Hmm, he speculated; eight weeks or more, in a Paradise, even if it's a deadly sort. With her ashore? Lord, give me strength!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Two days later, and the prospects for his frigate didn't look so bleak. Requests for material assistance from the Indiamen that they'd convoyed this far had resulted in enough oak from their own, civilian, bosuns' stores for new truck-carriages to replace the ones too smashed up to be repaired, and for repairs on those that could be salvaged.
Out of gratitude that one, or all, of them hadn't been taken by the French, perhaps, there had also come enough dried and seasoned fir or pine with which to fay the face of the sternpost and the lead edge of the rudder, enough elm for faying and soling, as well. With timber had come a few iron pigs that could become reinforcing strapping bands, enough bronze in-pig for a shoreside blacksmith to forge new gudgeons or pintles, and bolts. A personal meeting with salty old Capt. Cowles, the convoy commodore, and he'd sponsored a whip-round from the other Indiamen that had resulted in a flood of offerings worthy of a Cornucopia, a veritable Horn of Plenty.
Had seven of his brave sailors now passed over? Were ten still lying wounded? For each man, mates and passengers had made up a small purse to cover their sick-berth fees, which Ships' Surgeons and Mates would deduct from their pay, even if the Spithead Mutiny had ended the practice of wounded men's pay being stopped 'til they were healed, so they would not suffer financially. Dead men's grave fees were paid to the parish, and a tolerable amount had been contributed to send on to their families, to augment the miserly pensions Admiralty granted. More was to go to providing fresh victuals for those
who lingered in the rented cottage high up on the windy bluffs of the Lion's Rump!
Artillery, well… neither the stores ship nor the Prize Court storehouses had 12-pounders for exchange. They had some few 6-pounders and a pair of 9-pounders taken off Dutch merchantmen captured in port when Elphinstone had landed, and a pair of Dutch 18-pounders that had never been installed in the sea forts built to protect Cape Town; but, Lewrie was slavering, but wary, of how much recoil and weight that his decks, his bulwarks and his breeching cables could withstand, should he dare install those monsters and touch them off, fully charged!
In the face of such freely-offered bounty, Lewrie had no choice but to reciprocate by dining-in Capt. Cowles, the masters and mates off the other India-men, and those passengers who had contributed. He had dreaded the expense, but, a local inn had done him proud off the local viands, and at a fairly decent price, too.
It had turned out to be a "game supper." The soup had been egg and guinea fowl, mainly, with some rice and fresh peas. Crisply fresh salad greens came next, then the vast assortment of meats brought in as removes, more guinea fowl or pheasant, even ostrich}.; for venison there had been springbok or gemsbok, antelope and impala, even giraffe, for God's sake! Then had come wild boar with mushrooms, followed by fish courses such as Cape salmon, thumb-thick shrimp as long as one's whole hand done in olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, chilies, bay leaves, and cloves! There had even been a kick-shaw made of crocodile!
Local made-dishes such as bredies and boboties had made their appearance, the bredie a mutton stew stiff with pot vegetables, and the bobotie nearly the best mild curry of shredded lamb, fruit, and rice Lewrie had eaten in his life. Fresh breads, local wines, mounded rice pilafs or satays showing Javanese influences, and, to top all of that off (should anyone have had a cubic inch of stomach left for them), the desserts (besides fresh, whole fruits) had consisted of rich, cinnamon-laced milk tarts, a steamed brandy pudding as good as any to be found in England, or koeksisters, which were wee braided, doughy confections sopping with honey, spices, and heavy fruit syrups.
Port, sweet biscuit, and nuts had seemed superfluous, and Lewrie was still belching, two days later.
Now, though, Lewrie paused midships of the larboard gangway as the sound of cannon fire caught his attention. The convoy of Indiamen was setting sail to complete their long journeys to India or China, and HMS Grafton, Horatius, and the unfortunate HMS Stag, with the equally disappointed Capt. Philpott were getting under way with them, the flagship firing a proper salute to Vice-Adm. Curtis's flag as it went.
I made the effort, Lewrie told himself, for he had sent an invitation to his shore supper to his fellow captains, and Treghues, too, but only Philpott and Graves had attended, Treghues had sent a stiff note of regret that Stern Duty would not allow for such idle socialising at such a moment. Poor, stiff-necked bastard, Lewrie bemoaned.