“Too bad about the poor Scotties from the Ninety-third, though,” Lewrie said from the head of the table.
Several boats bearing one of the Highlander regiments had been over-set as they had hobby-horsed over the breakers, and thirty-five soldiers, heavily laden with muskets, packs, cartridge boxes, hangers and bayonets and bed-rolls, had been drowned despite efforts to save them.
“I thought it canny of Diadem’s captain, Captain Downman, to run that wee old transport onto a shoal to make a breakwater, and a lee for the landings after that,” Westcott said as he topped up his glass of port and passed the decanter along, larboardly. “He saved more than a few lives.”
“She drew what … only six or eight feet?” Lt. Merriman said with a sneer. “Who in their right minds would send a ship so small and shoal-draught to sea on such a long voyage, as a transport worthy of carrying soldiers?”
“Our Transport Board, and a venal owner, most-like,” Lewrie carped. “Now, does the sea get up before they work her off that shoal, she’ll be a total loss, and her owner’ll collect her full value in insurance from Lloyd’s. Then, at least, the Transport Board won’t risk any more lives to such a scow.”
“Is there much left to do in the morning, for us I mean, sir?” Lt. Simcock asked, between bites of a ginger snap.
“Mister Warburton?” Lewrie prompted.
“Well, sir,” their senior-most Mid spoke up, “we got the light company, the grenadier company, and five of the eight line companies from the regiment ashore by sundown. That leaves three more to go, and if the weather holds, I expect that, between our boats and the transport’s boats, we could be done by the start of tomorrow’s Forenoon Watch.”
“If we begin just before sunrise,” Midshipman Grainger said in weariness, stifling a yawn. “But, most-like it’ll take ’til Noon, with three round-trips, if today’s confusion is anything to go by.”
“Dis-organised, was it?” Lewrie asked, reaching for the pewter barge which held the sweet bisquits and choosing an oatmeal one.
“Well, sir,” Midshipman Eldridge, who was usually too shy to voice an opinion, hesitantly contributed, “it struck me that the Army types were more concerned with getting here in one piece, and fit to go on shore, but didn’t give the actual landing a single thought, leaving it up to the Navy, or Fate. Look at how they got their cavalry and artillery horses ashore. Goose ’em over the side into the sea, rope them, and lead them behind boats! The Lord only knows how many they lost, poor things.”
“Aye, I expect some sharks fed well today,” Lt. Westcott said.
“I’m not sure that ship’s boats are the best choice for landing troops, or horses,” Lewrie said, mulling things over. “When we were in the Channel, playin’ with those damned torpedoes, you and Merriman had all sorts of ideas for improvin’ ’em, and designing boats that could sail themselves in with fused explosives, ’stead of just driftin’ on the tide, Mister Westcott. Perhaps you and Merriman could put your minds together, again, and draw up something.”
“Hmm … I suppose such a study could be productive,” Westcott said with his head laid to one side in thought. “And, dull as things are so far, sir, it would keep us all from keeling over in boredom!”
That raised a laugh, and a call for the port decanter to make another round.
“Well, speak for yourself, sir,” Lewrie countered, grinning, “for I doubt our Mids thought the day boresome.”
“God, no, sir!” Grainger said with a mock shudder. “It was … not terrifying at times. Let me say … adventurous!”
That opinion was loudly seconded by his fellows.
“There may be a way to relieve your boredom, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie went on once the laughs died down. “The last time I spoke with Commodore Popham, he mentioned his desire to form a Naval Brigade for service ashore, alongside the Army. Hmm?”
“Huzzah!” cried their Marine Lieutenant. “At last!”
“I must lead it, sir!” Lt. Westcott almost begged.
“So you shall,” Lewrie quickly assured him. “If the brigade is formed. Generals Baird and Beresford didn’t sound too keen on the idea. Probably worried how they’d feed ’em from their stores. How would you expect to victual your Marines, were you ordered ashore, Mister Simcock? How would you go about it, and what would you take along?”
“Hmm,” was Lt. Simcock’s answer as he leaned back in his chair, stared at the overhead deck beams, and crossed his arms in thought. “Beyond our weapons, packs, and bedding, spare ammunition and such … well, sir, one would likely assume that the Army would supply us. Barring that, I’m not really sure.”
“Then let us assume that the brigade is assembled, and that we must fend for ourselves,” Lewrie said, hunching forward on the table. “Fourty private Marines, two Corporals, one Sergeant, and you, sir, that’s fourty-four. An equal number of armed sailors, the Bosun’s Mate and a Ship’s Corporal for enforcing discipline, two Mids, and an officer, that’s fourty-five. I think the ship may spare that many and still be able to fight, should the French turn up, hey?”
“Sounds about right, sir,” Westcott quickly agreed, his eyes lit up with pending delight.
“Muskets, bayonets, and cutlasses should it come to close quarters,” Lewrie sketched on, “hammocks for ground cloths and a blanket for each man, cartridge boxes, spare flints, spare cartridges, and if any weapon needs repair, we might be able to prevail upon some regimental armourers. Rations, though?”
“The hands each have their knives, sir, and forks and spoons,” Lt. Merriman offered. “They’ve pewter or china mugs, but … what sort of dishes? As easily broken as they are, our people prefer to eat off china plates; I doubt I’ve seen the old square wood trenchers since I was a Mid. ‘Three square meals a day’, what?” he said with a quick grin. “I suppose that the Purser could provide pewter plates.”
“Ah, but what do we put on those plates, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked them all. “And, who does the cooking if we do have rations? We would have to lug along kegs of salt-meats, full bags of ship’s bisquit, and some vessels to serve as steep-tubs to rinse off the salt from the meat, and others to boil it. Ladles, meat forks, mesh mess bags—”
“Rum, sir,” Midshipman Warburton suggested. “Our hands expect two issues a day. How much would that be for, say, a week away from the ship?”
“Water, sir,” Midshipman Eldridge gloomily contributed.
“Don’t your Marines have water bottles of some kind, Mister Simcock?” Lewrie asked him.
“Somewhere deep in the hold, sir, we’ve two wood crates, with four dozen wooden canteens, of quart volume … or so I may recall from my inventory,” Lt. Simcock told them all, shrugging. “As to what our sailors might use, I haven’t a clue. It will be thirsty work, to march several miles a day, ascend the mountains behind the beach, and fight. Hellish thirsty work! Even do we simply ferry Army supplies ashore and guard them, our people will be parched in the extreme.”
“Our sailors aren’t known for long, hard marching,” Merriman said. “All but the ‘Idlers’ are young, fit, and spry, and used to hard work and ‘pulley-hauley’, but they’ll be gasping after a few hours.”
“We’d best fetch along one of the Surgeon’s Mates and his kit, should we do fight, and suffer casualties,” Lt. Westcott suggested.
“Beginnin’ t’sound daft, don’t it,” Lewrie summed up, grumpy with disappointment over the mounting impossibility of the Commodore’s airy plan. “To carry all we need ashore with us, we’d need carts of some kind, and there’s no way t’make ’em, no harness, no draught animals, and no bloody wheels! The Army does, but none t’spare for us.”
He looked to the sideboard, hoping that Yeovill or Pettus had set out a bottle of brandy, or American whisky, for he felt a strong desire for something to lift his spirits. There were empty bottles of wine, and a full bottle of port, just in case the decanter ran dry.