“Oh no, no, me lad!” Lewrie chid him. “That’ll never do. Get off me.” He struggled to rise, to shove the dog off, but Bisquit was having none of it, whining to stay.
“Here, Bisquit, here, boy!” Midshipman Fywell coaxed, snapping his fingers and whistling. “Want a bite of bisquit?” he asked, producing a corner of a half-consumed ship’s bread from a pocket. That freed Lewrie, though the dog’s quick leap and shove with his rear legs made Lewrie let out an “Oomph!”
“Thankee, Mister Fywell,” Lewrie said, getting to his feet, at last. Bisquit flopped down by the forward railings and crunched away.
“Mister Midshipman Hillhouse’s respects, sir, and he sent me to report that our boats are returning.”
“What, the landings are done?” Lewrie asked, scrubbing sleep from his face with both hands.
“Aye, sir, it appears so,” Fywell went on. “The last boat-loads of soldiers and their supplies went in an hour ago, and the General’s transport … the Agent Afloat aboard her, that is … hoisted a Discontinue about a quarter-hour ago.”
“My respects to Mister Hillhouse, and he’s to make sure that all the scuttlebutts are topped off, Mister Fywell,” Lewrie ordered. “The hands’ll be hellish-thirsty when they return. I’ll be in my cabins. Carry on.”
“Aye, sir,” Fywell replied.
Once in the relative coolness of the great-cabins, Lewrie called for a glass of cool tea, and a pint of wash water. He stripped off to the skin, soaked his washcloth, and swiped his body down from head to his toes to freshen and cool himself. He thought of dressing, but the idea of clothing, especially a wool broadcloth uniform coat, just palled. He padded into his bed-space and donned a light linen dressing robe, then went to fling himself onto the settee with his bare feet up on the brass Hindoo tray table to savour his sweetened and lemoned cool tea, gulping it down and calling for a re-fill.
Chalky joined him for some “wubbies” and head butts, and he felt comfortable, at last. All the sash windows in the stern transom were opened at the top halves, and the jury-rigged screen door to the stern gallery let in a halfway decent breeze, though some of the thin twine looked in need of re-roving over the nails; Chalky was relentless in his urge to get out onto the stern gallery and its railings to hunt sea birds.
“Midshipman o’ th’ Watch, Mister Hillhouse, SAH!” the Marine announced with a stamp of boots and his musket butt.
Lewrie opened his mouth to shout back “Oh, just bugger off!”, but thought better of it, and called back “Enter!” instead.
My officer’s dignity be-damned, he thought.
“Ehm … uh, sir,” Midshipman Hillhouse stammered to find his Captain a’sprawl in a robe. “There has come a signal from Newcastle, sir, an invitation to dine aboard her, at seven of the evening, sir.”
“And I won’t have t’request he send a boat?” Lewrie asked, giving Hillhouse an owlish look.
“Uhm, no, sir,” Hillhouse replied with a smile; though he had not been on deck at the time, he’d been told the tale of Captain Shirke’s embarrassment.
“Very well, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie said, “make the reply expressing my thanks and pleasure to attend.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Hillhouse answered, backing out of the cabins and ducking his head, sure to spread his tale of how he’d found the Captain.
“Damn!” Lewrie spat once Hillhouse was gone. “Just when I get cool, Pettus, and now I’ll have t’dress, again!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was marginally cooler that evening when Lewrie scaled the side of HMS Newcastle and doffed his hat in reply to the salute from the side-party. The boats from Assurance and Tiger were alongside with his, and he steeled himself for a few more unpleasant hours with Fillebrowne.
“Welcome aboard, again, Alan,” Captain James Shirke said in greeting, and offering his hand. “Well, it’s done. The army is now ashore, and our boring duty’s done, so I thought we’d celebrate.”
“Pleased to accept your kind invitation, Jemmy,” Lewrie told him. “Ehm, just how big a celebration did ye have in mind?” he japed.
“Well, we’ve no musicians, and no half-clothed dancing girls, but we’ll cope,” Shirke promised. “Let’s go aft and join the others.”
Captains Hayman and Fillebrowne were already there, seated, and they rose when Lewrie and Shirke entered. A cabin servant offered glasses of champagne. “Aah!” Shirke said with pleasure as he drank deep of his, smacking his thick lips in delight. “A hot damned day, was it not? Sit you down, gentlemen, sit you down.”
He plunked into a chair himself, took another sip, and called for a re-fill. “I wish I could find a way to rig one of those Hindoo fans in here. Even with the sash windows open, it’s close and warm.”
“A pankah fan, d’ye mean?” Lewrie asked after a sip or two of his own champagne. “You’ve served in the Far East?”
“No, but I met a fellow who had, and he told me of them. A tax collector with ‘John Company,’” Shirke replied. “Came home a ‘chicken nabob’ after ten years in someplace called Swettypore.”
“That was his joke, I expect,” Lewrie said with a laugh. “Every town, fort, and cantonment in India’s just perishin’-hot, and ye sweat like blazes, even after dark. Sweaty-pore.”
“You served in the Far East, sir?” Captain Hayman asked.
“Not officially,” Lewrie told him with a chuckle. “It was ’tween the American Revolution and the start of the war with France, Eighty-Four to Eighty-Six. The French were urgin’ the local native pirates to raid the shipping routes to China, and I was aboard Telesto, disguised as a merchantman t’keep an eye on ’em, and smack the pirates when we could, under direction from some secretive Foreign Office types. Calcutta to Canton and back, round the Spratly Islands and into the Phillipines. Ye don’t need a pankah boy in turban and his breechclout, Shirke. The Chinese and the pirate kings had these big feather fans and servants standin’ behind ’em, thrashin’ away. There’s no need to rig up the ropes and pulleys … though I’m certain the Navy’d have a ‘down’ on you carryin’ a Turk on ship’s books.”
“I would love to hear about that, sir,” Hayman urged. “It all sounds quite intriguing.”
“Old sailors’ tales?” Lewrie scoffed. “We’re here to celebrate, so I’m told, not hear me spin old yarns.”
“Indeed,” Fillebrowne pointedly said, with a throat-clearing sound, then turned to Shirke. “Just what is it we are celebrating, sir? The end of our convoy duties?”
“That, and our release back to our regular posts in the Med,” Shirke announced. “Ah, me. No chance to hoist even the inferior broad pendant!” he added, rubbing his short-haired pate.
“We’ll not remain with Admiral Cotton’s squadron?” Captain Hayman exclaimed in surprise, sounding disappointed.
“Once I managed to get aboard the flagship, mind you,” Shirke said, laughing off the embarrassment and causing the rest to laugh with him, “the Admiral told me he’s more than enough ships available to guard the coast, and extract the army should they run into trouble with the French. He’s none too keen on this new ‘Sepoy’ General that London sent down. He gives him good marks for efficiency and organisation in getting his troops ashore, but I gather that he finds General Wellesley to be a very cold and haughty fish, a most rigid and aloof man.”
“Other than Sir John Moore, he’s said to be the best we have, though,” Hayman offered. “I just wish we could have stayed, in case the French came out from Lisbon or Rochefort, and we’d have had a hot action.”
“After Trafalgar, I doubt the French have any stomach for ventures at sea,” Shirke said with a shake of his head. “Thank your lucky stars, sir, that you’re not called to idle all the way down to Lisbon under reduced sail, and barely under steerage way, playing the army’s right flank. It’s a nasty lee shore, and if foul weather blows in on the Westerlies, you could be hard aground and pounded to pieces.”