"Internment, by God!" Lt. Gilbraith, Blanding's First Officer, perked up and spoke for the first time since "might you pass me that strawberry jam-pot, sir?" over an hour before. "Do we bottle them up and send that note, the French could not remain forever at anchor in the city or at this bloody fort where the river forks! The Americans could be convinced to enforce the three-day rule and tell the French squadron to sail or surrender their ships on parole 'til the end of the current hostilities. They come out to give us honourable battle or they strike their colours and hang out in New Orleans taverns 'til the Last Trump, and either way, we've eliminated them as a threat. Ha?"
"Germane and canny as usual, Jemmy," Captain Blanding told him, "but dash my eyes! We've orders to go looking for a fight, and I'll be very disappointed should it end that way. I want powder smoke and close broadsides… struck colours, prizes, and a slew of dead Frogs!"
To which fierce sentiment they all gave loud, hearty huzzahs.
"Pray God, then, gentlemen," Lewrie seconded. "We catch them up at sea, before they can take shelter in any French possession or get to the mouth of the Mississippi. I wager we all wish an ocean of Frog blood!"
And huzzahs for that, too!
"How soon might your ships be ready to sail?" Captain Blanding demanded, posing the question to each Captain and First Officer; two days more for Pylades, only one for Cockerel, this very afternoon for Modeste, Gilbraith was quick to announce, and a one-day delay from Lt. Westcott.
"We lack the last of wardroom provisions and live-stock, sir," Westcott said. "We could fall down to Saint Helen's Patch whilst we see to all that, if I may suggest, sir?" he said, turning to Lewrie for permission. "A long sail or row for the victuallers, Captain Blanding, but…," he concluded with a shrug and one of his brief tooth-baring grins. Lewrie took note, for the first time, that Westcott had a pug nose, almost Irish in its short sweep.
"Chicks!" Blanding boomed aloud. "Chicks and rabbits and game hens. They take much less room in the manger, and much less feed and water than pigs, turkeys, or beef on the hoof. Mature rapidly and are prolific at reproduction."
"A sack of fat rats t'be let loose in the flour, sirs?" Lewrie suggested, tongue-in-cheek. "Can't forget t'feed our Midshipmen!"
"I'd imagine we've rats enough for a dozen ships by now, sir!" Captain Blanding roared with laughter, slamming a meaty palm on the table top in appreciative mirth. "Saint Helen's Patch it will be, as quick as dammit, soon as you're all back aboard your ships. I trust your frigates will prove fast enough to keep up with me, sirs! She is French, Modeste, and very quick for a sixty-four, or so her former captain's records tell me. She's six more feet of waterline than the usual sixty-four from our yards. Second one of the same name we've taken off the Frogs," Blanding happily imparted with a wink. "Built at Toulon in Ninety-Seven and lost in the Med a year later. One'd think the French would see her name's bad luck-for them, at any rate-and drop it for good."
"Uhm… Harbour Drill, sir," Lewrie had to point out. "We've barely had a fortnight to train the landsmen and new-comes. I'd like at least another ten days of it before considerin' my lads ready for sea, and battle. To get the best speed from Reliant, from all of our ships, and safe and efficient handlin', well… " He trailed off as he took note of the disappointed looks round the table.
"'Growl we may, but go we must,' Lewrie," Captain Blanding said with a scowl. "Aye, we're all short of complete training, but… take a page from the French and deem our crews ready enough to get to sea, then work them to perfection on the voyage, what?
"To war, gentlemen!" Blanding bellowed in a throaty growl, with another slam of his palm on the table top for emphasis. "We will shift our anchorages down to Saint Helen's Patch, and pray for a fair wind, just as soon as you complete your lading. From there, we will prowl 'twixt Ushant and Scilly 'til the French come down to us, or… should we miss them there, we'll hare cross the Atlantic in pursuit, into the West Indies and Gulf of Mexico. Either way, I am bound to see all of them in Hell before we're done.
"Admiralty's chosen us, given us specific orders," Blanding said in a calmer tone, fussing a bit with his coat lapels. "Given us a grand opportunity, and a demanding task, to smite the Devil on his snout, right from the outset. And he is… Napoleon Bonaparte. If not Satan come to the world, then his dread minion, the Anti-Christ, as many people of my circle have come to suspect of late… "
We on a personal Crusade o' his? Lewrie asked himself, suddenly wary of such an apocalyptic outlook,… and the messianic zeal for such a quest Blanding might display, to their overall detriment, when they did cross hawses with the French squadron; How 'bout we fetch back the Holy Grail, too? Or the Golden Fleece!
"… his captains and sailors are the Devil's disciples, and I mean to see them returned below, as failed imps and demons!" Captain Blanding declared with a roar, which delighted everyone at-table, with Lewrie the only leery exception, though he did throw in a wee "Huzzah!" just to be sociable.
"You've Chaplains aboard, gentlemen?" Blanding enquired. "No? Ah well, no matter, for mine shall suffice for all, does wind and sea allow his calling aboard each ship for Divine Services on Sundays. And with God with us, who can be against us, hey?"
My God, I've been got at by a Leapin' Methodist! Lewrie quailed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Crown's issuance of Letters of Marque and Reprisal had been announced on the sixteenth of May. By the nineteenth, their little squadron had briefly set sail and had come to new anchorages in St. Helen's Patch, near the Isle of Wight, to await a suitable slant of wind. Thankfully, the weather had proved perverse for several more days, giving Lewrie and his officers, warrants, and petty officers just a bit more time to train and exercise their raw crew, with sail-hoisting, reefing and handing, and recovering the anchors and stowing the thick cables of the most importance, and only three hours of the working days spent on the artillery or small arms.
At long last, on the morning of the twenty-third of May, 1803, the wind came round to the Nor'east and a flurry of signal flags fluttered up HMS Modestes halliards, so many and so quickly that Lewrie could imagine the boisterous and impatient Captain Blanding standing over his men and patting a foot, drumming his fingers on his substantial midriff, and clucking at the delay, human failure, and Beelzebub's minions.