Then came practice on the great-guns, the quarterdeck 9-pounders and carronades, the 12-pounder chase guns, and the heavy main artillery pieces down each beam, with half the hands hauling quickly on the run-in tackles to simulate recoil, to teach the "newlies" how quickly and brutally arms and legs could be broken, feet torn off or crushed, did they not look lively and keep clear of the truck-carriages and their tackles, blocks, and ring bolts. Lewrie could not risk actually loading and firing round-shot in crowded Portsmouth Harbour, but he could spend powder in full-measure charges to get his people used to the noise and the heart-fluttering, lung-flattening power of their discharge, along with the drill that would, hopefully, result in three broadsides every two minutes.
Then, when orders came, they came in a rush. Barely after his morning shave and sponge-off, Lewrie was summoned to the deck, noting the arms of the semaphore towers in town working like demented Dervishes.
"Hardinge, sir," a Midshipman said, doffing his hat to present himself. "From the Modeste, sixty-four? Captain Stephen Blanding? He wishes S you, and your First Officer, to attend him on board as soon as possible, sir."
"Indeed, Mister Hardinge?" Lewrie replied, deciding to put on a scowl of displeasure, hands in the small of his back. "Why the haste… and not a written request?" he pretended to grump.
"Haste, indeed, Captain Lewrie, sir," the young fellow assured him, chin up and proud to be his captain's emissary on a vital mission. "I am given to believe a squadron will be formed for a specific duty. And Captain Blanding wishes me to inform you that this morning, word came from Admiralty that the King has given orders to begin issuing Letters of Marque and Reprisal. If that satisfies you as to the urgency of the matter, sir."
"That does, Mister Hardinge," Lewrie answered, feeling a thrill of satisfaction that what all had expected had come to pass. "Mister Warburton, pass the word for Mister Westcott at once. My compliments to him, and that he is to attend me in proper order."
"Aye aye, sir!" his own Midshipman, Warburton, shot back, beaming with joy that it would be war.
"Where away, Mister Hardinge?" Lewrie asked of Modeste's anchorage, after turning aside to summon his Cox'n and boat crew.
"Off the Monkton Fort, sir… yonder," Hardinge supplied. "She will be the two-decker flying a broad pendant with white ball, and has dark red hull stripes, sir. Can't miss her."
"Speak for yourself, young sir," Lewrie japed. "It's a bit too early for my Cox'n's eyes. Captain Blanding plannin' to breakfast us?"
"I am certain he will, sir," Midshipman Hardinge further assured him, smiling for the first time and relaxing his tense pose; he'd not had his head bitten off after all!
A red broad pendant with a white ball upon it denoted a senior officer who would command a small squadron, a Post-Captain who for all appearances might as well be a Commodore but lacked that rank and had to captain his own ship, without another of Post-rank to take that burden. And Modeste, his putative flagship, was a sixty-four gunned two-decker of the Third Rate, with a French name and of obvious French construction-a previous capture for certain. Sixty-fours were a bit too light to stand in the line-of-battle anymore, but were still useful outside European waters. Her lines, the fineness of her entry and bow, and her aft taper made her look fast for a two-decker.
I live long enough, I could do worse, when my frigate days're done, Lewrie told himself as he took the salute from Modeste's Marines and side-party, then was escorted aft to Capt. Blanding's great-cabins under the poop.
"Captain Lewrie, and Lieutenant Westcott, of the Reliant, sir," his escorting Midshipman announced.
"Aha! Lewrie!" Captain Stephen Blanding said with a glad bark of pleasure and welcome as he came from his sideboard in the dining-coach, cup and sauncer in one hand, and the other out for a cheerful shake. "Heard of you, sir. Good things, all! Welcome aboard my wee barge. Mister Westcott, is it? Welcome aboard to you, as well!"
Blanding was a stocky fellow, no doubt strong as an ox, but giving a roly-poly, aged cherub impression, with his belly girth and his very curly long blond hair, which he still wore clubbed back into a long sailor's queue, bound with black riband. "The others say they know you well, Captain Lewrie," Blanding said, waving his tea cup and saucer hand at the other officers seated in the day-cabin. "Captain Stroud of the Cockerel frigate, and Captain Parham of Pylades?"
"Good God above, it is a family reunion!" Lewrie blurted out at the sight of them. William Parham had long ago been one of his Mids aboard the Alacrity gun ketch, a converted bomb, 'tween the wars in the Bahamas. Stroud…?
"We were together in the Adriatic in Ninety-Six, sir," Captain Stroud more sobrely told him. "I was First Officer in Myrmidon, a-"
"Commander Fillebrowne's Sloop of War, aye!" Lewrie said, going to shake hands with him warmly, even though he barely recalled him. "I do recall," he lied. "Congratulations on your command, Captain Stroud. And Cockerel! My first ship in Ninety-Three, as her First Officer. A fine vessel."
Even if her old captain and all his kin aboard drove us nigh to mutiny and madness! Lewrie recalled to himself.
"And Parham! Look at how you've risen since!" Lewrie went on, greeting yet another old shipmate. "And Pylades… I'm sure you know that she was with us in the Adriatic, too, with Captain Stroud. Captain Benjamin Rodgers's old ship, and you surely recall him from the Bahamas, ha ha!"
"Indeed I do, sir!" Parham enthusiastically replied. "Happy to serve with you again, happy indeed. And pray do express my greetings to your good lady when next you write her, and say that I recall her kindnesses to callow young Mids in those days quite fondly."
"Ah," Lewrie said, "I… " He stumbled as a chill came over the cabins, with Blanding coughing into his fist and "ahemming."
"Mistress Lewrie was most foully murdered by the French last year, sir," Blanding told Parham. "By that tyrannical despot Napoleon Bonaparte's orders to murder Captain Lewrie, here, as well."
"God, I am so sorry, sir, I didn't… The news of it did not reach me 'til this very instant!" Parham stammered, blushing deeply.
"The bastard," Parham's First Officer spoke up.
"Condolences, sir," Stroud's First Lieutenant said, and Lewrie gawped to see that that worthy was Martin Hyde, yet another of his Midshipmen from HMS Jester.
"Hyde, by God! I've an old friend of yours as my Second Lieutenant… Clarence Spendlove," Lewrie informed him as they greeted each other.
"Spendlove, sir? Aye, I'd admire a chance to come aboard and renew his acquaintance before we sail," Lt. Hyde said, glowing with delight.
"Well, now I've drug you all from your breakfasts, pray allow me to provide one whilst we get further acquainted and I discover to you what this is all about," Capt. Blanding chearly offered. He introduced Parham's First Lieutenant, Bilbrey, and his own, Lt. Gilbraith, all round as they took their seats.
There were hot slices of ham-slabs, rather!-there were crisp rashers of bacon, sizzling spiced sausages, even smoked kippers. With all that came fresh eggs, scrambled or fried to individual order, shredded potato hash, and fresh loaves of bread from a shore bakery, cut two fingers thick, offered with a hunk of butter as big as a man's fist, and four different pots of jam! All sluiced down with coffee or tea, to each officer's preference!