“Pity the poor fellow who has charge of her!” Lt. Merriman said with a snicker of derision.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lewrie, laughed. “One could be worse off. One could be appointed an Agent Afloat with the Transport Board!” After the others had had a slight laugh, Lewrie ordered, “Carry on, Mister Spendlove. I will be below, finishing my shave.”
“A close, Sunday Divisions shave, sir,” Westcott teased. “You will be reporting aboard Commodore Popham’s flagship by supper time.”
“And, after this long on-passage, sir,” Lt. Merriman, their wag, posed, “you might have to fetch them rabbits and quail for the entrée, else the Commodore serves you salt-meat junk!”
“Like a housewarming supper?” Lewrie laughed. “Signal my host t’see if I can bring anything before I boat over? Hah! Carry on, gentlemen.”
* * *
By five of the afternoon, in the middle of the First Dog Watch, Reliant gladly shedded her three charges, and Ascot, Marigold, and the Sweet Susan swanned off into the larger convoy’s gaggle in search of the ships bearing the rest of the 34th Light Dragoons. Lewrie had the frigate steered over to join the rest of the escorting warships, and hoisted the very welcome signal “Have Mail”, which elicited an invitation from HMS Diadem to send a boat at once, followed shortly after by a second invitation for Reliant’s captain to dine aboard Commodore Popham’s flagship at half-past 6 P.M.
Lewrie found that almost bearable. For many long weeks, he had dressed any-old-how in his oldest, plainest coat, loosely tied neck-stock, and roomy slop trousers. Now, he would have to dress in snug breeches, silk shirt and ironed stock, snow-white waist-coat, and his finest uniform coat with the sash and star of the Order of The Bath. At least the supper would be held after sundown, so the present latitude’s oppressive heat would not be as bad as a mid-day dinner, and on the long board on larboard tack which the fleet held, the humidity of the African coast was far away, and there was a fresh-enough breeze off the sea.
Once the salutations had been rendered, one of Diadem’s officers showed Lewrie aft to the Commodore’s great-cabins, where he was announced.
“Lewrie! My Lord, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” Commodore Sir Home Riggs Popham happily exclaimed as a cabin servant took his hat and sword. “You didn’t bring along any of those damned torpedoes, did you? Good riddance to bad rubbish, hah hah! Those infernal engines, I mean, not Lewrie! Come, sir! Have a glass of Rhenish, and allow me to name to you the others.”
Sir Home Riggs Popham was ebullience itself, but of course, in Lewrie’s brief experience with him, he always was the epitome of good cheer even in adversity. Popham was considered dashingly handsome by many, with a high, intelligent brow, pleasant eyes, good cheekbones, and a firm, clefted chin, and was possessed of a slim but solid build. In the latest mode, Popham wore his thick blond hair without even a sprig of an old-time sailors’ queue, and long sideburns below the lobes of his ears. Perhaps his only mar was a long and pointed nose with an up-tilt. Popham was garbed in his best, and costly, uniform coat which also bore the star of the Order of The Bath.
The others of whom Popham spoke were senior Army officers in command of the five thousand or so soldiers sent to take the Cape of Good Hope, a General Sir David Baird, and his second-in-command, Brigadier-General Sir William Beresford. Baird seemed a gruff and capable sort to Lewrie, though Beresford struck him as overly mild. Beresford had thick hair brushed back over his ears on the sides of his head, but was as bald as an egg above, and the fellow almost had pop-eyes.
There were some aides-de-camp with them, to whom Lewrie was named but they made little impression; he was sure that he would not have much to do with them once the army was set ashore.
“Besides the most welcome mail from home, what else did you bring us, Lewrie?” Commodore Popham asked.
“Two troops of the Thirty-fourth Light Dragoons, sir,” Lewrie told him, dreading the coming announcement. He brought the newspaper he had gotten at Madeira from a side pocket of his coat.
“Oh Lord, Colonel Laird!” General Baird said with a sniff. “One does hope he’s pleased, at long last.”
“I obtained these papers at Funchal, sir,” Lewrie said, holding them out for Popham to take. “I don’t know if you’ve had word of the battle off Cádiz, and Cape Trafalgar, yet. Nelson—”
“Caught up with Villeneuve at last, did he?” Popham exclaimed, beaming with pleasure and anticipation.
“He did, sir, the combined French and Spanish fleets,” Lewrie went on. “The foe were utterly defeated, and upwards of twenty ships were taken as prize, but … Admiral Lord Nelson was slain, sir. So soon after, and by word of mouth to Lisbon and Oporto, I expect the details are half rumour, half wild speculation, but—”
“Good God! Nelson, dead?” Popham yelped, taken all aback and suddenly “in-irons” at the news. “That is simply impossible to imagine! Why, even credible London papers had Nelson meeting Villeneuve half a dozen times, and all of the accounts pure fantasy. How much faith may be put in Portuguese scribblers?” he scoffed.
“The English language paper from Oporto tells the same story, sir,” Lewrie pointed out, “as did our Consul at Funchal, Gilbao? At any rate, it appears there was a battle, and a victory.”
“If true, such a victory would be England’s salvation from the fear of French invasion, at last,” General Beresford hesitantly said, “though at much too high a cost. What joyous celebrations our nation will hold would be tempered by the sense of loss, and grief.”
“Doubt there will ever be another quite like him,” General Baird gruffly said.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Sir David,” Popham said with a brief smile, almost a sly look. “Nelson was a product of our Navy, and our Fleet will produce a worthy replacement, eventually. The nation may grieve for a time, but … when they hear of our success at Cape Town? And a success it will be, hey? New heroes will arise.”
“I thought it best to inform you at once, sir,” Lewrie said, “and allow you to decide whether the news should be passed on to our sailors right off, or you wish to wait ’til there is solid confirmation.”
“Quite right, Lewrie, aye,” Popham said, nodding. “It might be best to pass the word that Nelson smashed the Frogs and Dons, but hold off on the details ’til we truly do have confirmation. That’ll put a fire in their bellies, and make them eager to succeed. Well, sirs, shall we dine?”
At least I didn’t have t’fetch him a chicken, Lewrie wryly told himself; I don’t think admirals live this well at sea!
Sir Home Riggs Popham’s great-cabins fair-screamed money, and extreme good taste, worlds beyond the bare-bones spartan quarters the Navy approved of from its officers, no matter how senior, or wealthy. Lewrie’s own tastes, and comforts, had been sniffed at by dis-approving seniors in the past, deemed almost sybaritic, but his could not hold a candle to Popham’s. Atop the usual black-and-white chequered canvas deck cloth which emulated tilework, the figured carpets were thick enough to trip over, or sink into at each step. Polished brass or coin-silver lanthorns hung from the painted or polished overhead deck beams in profusion, the chairs, settees, wine-cabinets, the wash-hand stand, and Popham’s desk gleamed, and the aroma of bees’ wax polish was everywhere. Popham’s sleeping space, chart cubby, and the dining coach were partitioned off with half-louvred panels made from polished oak, not the usual deal-and-canvas temporary walls. In the dining coach there was a table which could seat twelve, covered with a glaringly clean and white tablecloth, with pitchers, bowls and candelabras down the centre all in shining coin-silver, with even more pieces resting atop the magnificent sideboard. Once inside and seated, the partitions were chair-railed and wainscotted below, the upper parts painted light canary yellow, picked out with white trim.