What he beheld were groupings of soldiery by regiment and by squadron or battery. Tents were pitched in seemingly well-ordered lines, horses were tethered in groups of teams or cavalry troops, and field guns were parked wheel-to-wheel. Soldiers, though, milled about in their shirtsleeves, sat under canvas and smoked or chewed out of the heat of the sun, or snored in their tents. Only a few were posted as pickets under arms and in full kit. Officers and messengers were the only ones mounted and riding about, and none with any sense of urgency.
“It appears the landing was so strenuous that our soldiers are in need of a ‘Make And Mend’ day, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said with a sneer. “I swear, I doubt there’s an ounce o’ ‘quick’ in the whole lot. Napoleon, now … he may be a whole clan o’ bastards, but when he puts an army in the field, they tramp along at the ‘double-quick’!”
“Our army is better going backward, sir,” Westcott said with a sour laugh. “Like they did in the Dutch expedition in ’98?”
Before Napoleon Bonaparte had wooed, or bewitched, the insane Tsar Paul of Russia in 1801, Russia and Great Britain had briefly been allies, and had launched an invasion of the Lowlands, which had turned into a shameful embarrassment. The first time that the British Army had met the terrifying and seemingly invincible French Army in battle, it had been British redcoats that had been routed.
“Mister Munsell? Is the chore done at last?” Lewrie called down to the ship’s waist.
“It is, sir!” Munsell replied, doffing his hat. “The army now has the last of their stores ashore.”
“Went well, did it?” Lewrie asked.
“Very well, sir, The wind and surf are very calm today,” the Midshipman reported. “It is too bad that we did not begin the landings today, instead of yesterday.”
“Very well. Carry on, Mister Munsell, and well done,” Lewrie said in dismissal. “There’s a fresh-water butt on deck. Drink your fill, you and your men.”
“Aye, sir.”
Two muffled gunshots broke the day.
“Diadem, sir,” Midshipman Rossyngton announced. “The signal is … ‘Send Boats’, and … ‘Have Mail’!”
“Pick a fresh boat crew, Mister Westcott, and you might as well let Rossyngton command it … he’s fresh,” Lewrie directed, beaming in expectant pleasure that he would soon have letters from home and his sons, and Lydia, after months without. And, was he allowed to share copies of the London papers, he could find out what the rest of the world had been up to, to boot!
I could pace and fret ’til it arrives, or…, Lewrie thought.
“I will be below, Mister Westcott,” he decided, instead. “Do inform me when the mail arrives.”
* * *
Half an hour later, and he had a tidy stack of correspondence on his desk in the day-cabin. He quickly sorted out the lot, fresh newspapers on the bottom, personal letters atop them, and the official bumf the first to be opened. Long before, he had been bent over a gun and caned, “kissing the gunner’s daughter”, for ignoring that rule.
Paramount to all the letters from Admiralty was a folded note from Commodore Popham. With a tall glass of his trademark cool tea near to hand—though it was January, it was summer in the Southern Hemisphere—he broke the wax seal and spread it out. It could be an invitation to supper aboard the flagship, congratulations for the efficient landing of the army, or an order sending Reliant far away on a new duty, but—
“Aha!” he read with satisfaction. “Pettus, open two bottles of Rhenish, set out glasses for five, then pass word for the officers to attend me.”
“Yes, sir,” Pettus said, headed for the wine cabinet.
“The Commodore will be forming the Naval Brigade,” Lewrie told Pettus and Jessop with some glee. “All those preparations we talked about … see that all’s ready t’go by dawn.”
“Very good, sir,” Pettus replied, pausing before pulling the first cork. “And … might you need my services ashore, sir?”
“Hmm … I thought I’d take my boat crew, Furfy, and my Cox’n as part of the naval party, so they could do for me … unless you’re volunteering?” Lewrie replied.
“Be nice to go ashore and see Africa, sir,” Pettus told him. with a wistful grin. “Do something … active, for a change?”
“Well … see you have a stout pair o’ shoes, then,” Lewrie said. “Draw a musket, cutlass, and a pistol when we unlock the arms chests in the morning.”
“Careful ye don’t stab yerself, Mister Pettus,” Jessop teased.
“Fetch out the glasses, you, and make sure they’re clean!” the cabin steward snapped, pulling a cork with a loud thock!
Lewrie had time to go through the rest of his correspondence from Admiralty, most of it of little import. There were changes to be made to charts, where one of His Majesty’s vessels had discovered an unknown rock or shoal, or fresh soundings; quarterly promotions lists; directives Fleetwide about excessive purchases and the need to conserve, etc. That left the personal letters, and the very first one atop the pile was from Lydia Stangbourne. The next one beside it was from Hugh, who had surely been at the battle of Trafalgar, as part of Nelson’s fleet, and sure sign that he was still alive, but—
The Marine sentry was pounding, his musket butt on the deck and bawling the arrival of his officers.
“Enter!” Lewrie bade them, getting to his feet to stand before the desk.
“Reporting as ordered, sir,” Lt. Westcott said for all.
There was one extra; the Purser, Mr. Cadbury, had come along. Pettus took quick note, and slunk over to the sideboard to put out an extra glass.
“It’s on, gentlemen!” Lewrie crowed. “First light, tomorrow, and we’ll be off!”
“Huzzah, sir! Huzzah, I say!” Marine Lieutenant Simcock cried.
“You’ve your lists of all the items our people will need ashore, I take it?” Lewrie asked. “Good! Commodore Popham assures me that the army will provide us with at least one four-wheeled waggon, and two horses, and one waggoner from the Quartermaster’s. He cautions that the waggon will have only limited space, since the horse team’s needs for water and feed will be aboard, in addition to all of our gear, so we will have to carry as much as our men can on their backs, and all hands will be on ‘shank’s ponies’. There will be no mounts or saddlery to spare for officers or Mids. As I told Pettus, be sure ye have your best shoes or boots on.”
“Who will go, sir?” Lt. Merriman eagerly enquired as the wine was poured for them.
“I promised Mister Westcott that he would go,” Lewrie said with a grin. “Does he not, there’d be a one-man mutiny! Since I’ve been at the Cape before, I will go ashore, myself. Sorry, sirs. But, someone more than capable must remain aboard to command the ship in my absence, and you and Mister Spendlove are more than able to fight the ship, do the French, or a Dutch squadron, turn up. The Bosun’s Mate, Mister Wheeler, and two Mids … I’m thinking Mister Warburton, and Mister Rossyngton, to keep the men in the naval half in good discipline.
“Now, how are we doing with the water bottles, their slings, and the canvas haversacks?” he asked, taking a sip of wine.
“The Sailmaker, Master Gunner, and their mates have all but a few to finish, sir, and every man will be equipped with them by the end of the First Dog, tonight,” Lt. Westcott reported.
“Good! Ammunition, Mister Simcock?” Lewrie continued.
“Thirty paper cartridges per man and musket, initially, sir,” Simcock happily informed him, “and sixty more rounds on hand, to be carted in the waggon for each man after. Do we begin now, sir, the Armourer can put fresh edges on cutlasses, hangers, and bayonets, if you will open the arms chests.”
“I will give you the keys once we’re done here,” Lewrie promised. “Rations, Mister Cadbury?”
“Four kegs of salt-meat, sir, two each of beef, two of pork, and a whole box of portable soup portions,” Cadbury piped up. “Three bags of bisquit, and two five-gallon barricoes of rum. I may spare you my assistant to keep track of issuing victuals. The Ship’s Cook has set aside spare utensils and pots, but, he and his helpers must stay with the ship to do for the rest of the crew, so I don’t know—”