“Aye, sor. Ship oars, starb’d… shove off, forrud. Make way, starboard. Ship oars, larboard… and, stroke t’gither!”
“Natty-lookin’ t’day, sor,” Furfy dared comment. For this occasion, Lewrie had donned his best-dress uniform, and had included the sash and star of the Order of the Bath, as well as his medals for the battles of Cape St. Vincent and Camperdown, for a rare once. He had yet to accept the fact that he had been knighted by the King the past year. Lewrie knew he’d earned the medals, but still suspected that he had been knighted and made Baronet in sympathy for his wife’s murder by the French in 1802, and the outrage and increased patriotism which her death had engendered, and not for his part in the brief but conclusive squadron-to-squadron action off the Chandeleur Islands of Louisiana in late 1803. To be called “Sir Alan” or “My Lord” made him squirm in embarassment!
“Stuff and nonsense, Furfy,” Lewrie told the fellow, bestowing a brief grin and shrug.
Damme, that diplomatic shit in my orders. Lewrie thought; All up and down the American coast, I’ll have t’wear all this flummery! Show the flag… show me ! Gawd!
He turned to look aft over Desmond’s shoulder to see if Reliant was safely anchored, and if her sails were finally brailed up and put in harbour gaskets, that the yards were tidily level and not “a ’cock-bill” and dis-orderly. When he turned back to look forward, his gig was passing under the high jib-boom and bow-sprit of the two-decker, bound for her starboard entry-port, and almost close enough to touch. The 64-gunner’s figurehead was a ubiquitous crowned lion, giving not a clue to her name; at least it was brightly gilded, revealing a bit about her captain’s attention to detail, and his relative wealth. Gilt work came from a captain’s pocket; the Admiralty wouldn’t pay for such!
“Stroke, larboard… backwater, starboard,” Desmond snapped as he put the tiller hard over to swing the gig about almost in her own length before calling for a few strokes of both banks together, just enough to glide her to the main channel and battens. “Toss yer oars! Hook on, forrud!” and the rowers hoisted their oars from the tholes.
Using mens’ shoulders for bracing, Lewrie went to amidships of the gig, stood teetering on the gunn’l for a second, then stepped onto the chain platform to swing to the battens and man-ropes. He tucked his hundred-guinea presentation sword behind his left leg and climbed up quickly. As the dog’s vane of his cocked hat peeked over the lip of the entry-port, the Bosuns’ silver calls began to fweep a salute. And, once in-board on the starboard sail-tending gangway, there were Marines in full kit and sailors in shoregoing rig presenting arms.
“Welcome aboard Mersey, sir,” a Lieutenant with a plummy and top-lofty Oxonian drawl said in welcome, his bicorne fore-and-aft hat doffed.
“Captain Alan Lewrie, of the Reliant frigate, sir,” he replied, introducing himself even as he doffed his own hat.
“Sir Alan, sir. Lieutenant Hubbard, your servant, sir,” the fellow said. “Second officer into Mersey. Captain Forrester is aft in his cabins. If you will come this way, sir?”
“Francis Forrester?” Lewrie gawped. “‘The Honourable’ Francis Forrester, is he?”
“He is indeed, Sir Alan,” Lt. Hubbard told him. “Do you already have the honour of his acquaintance, sir?”
Christ, that pig-faced bastard! Lewrie thought.
“Served together, long ago,” Lewrie said, leaving it at that.
He’d come down with the Yellow Jack and had been put ashore, to most-like die, from the Parrot schooner, had spent some time on staff to Rear-Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews at Antigua, then had finally won a sea-going berth aboard the HMS Desperate under that daft lunatick, Commander Tobias Treghues. Francis Forrester had been cater-cousin and “pet” to Treghues, and had made life for the rest of Desperate ’s Mids a pluperfect Hell. Forrester back during the American Revolution had been a fubsy, crusty, round young fellow, and an arrogant, sneering pig to boot. Lewrie and the other Mids had once gotten some of their own back by obtaining some royal blue lead paint and had given Forrester a goatee, a fat and curling mustachio, and blue cheekbones as he slept, snoring like a stoat. Treghues had been outraged, and, being good paint, after drying in the overnight hours, it had not come off for weeks, no matter what Forrester used to scrub at it!
I read in Steeles that he’d been made Post, Lewrie told himself as they went aft; but I never expected t’see him in the flesh… of which he had very much… the rest o’ this life!
Lt. Hubbard spoke in the Marine sentry’s ear. The Marine private jerked his head in a short nod, then stamped boots, slammed the butt of his musket on the deck and bawled “Cap’m Sir Alan Lewrie, SAH!”
Music to Lewrie’s ears, it was, for instead of the usual calm return cry of “Come!” or “Enter!” from within the great-cabins, there could be heard a startled “Wha’?”, a long pause, then an “Enter!”
Lt. Hubbard slightly raised one brow in surpise, then opened the door for Lewrie to step through. He ducked his head to avoid the overhead deck beams, then made his way aft past the dining coach, the chart space, into the spacious day-cabin.
Lives well, Francis does, Lewrie thought as he took in all the finery. Captain Forrester’s furniture was exquisitely made and shining with beeswax polish, and there was a faint tinge of lemon oil as if freshly buffed that morning. The black-and-white painted canvas deck chequer looked spanking new, where one could see it past the edges of several colourful, and expensive, Turkey or Axminster carpets. All the settee area furniture was of gleaming cherry wood, upholstered in dark brown leather; collapsible and stowable at short notice, certainly, but looked more substantial than most sea-going pieces. All the interior bulkheads above the wainscotting were painted in a soothing mint green, with mouldings added in cream and gilt. There were satiny drapes for the windows in the transom in a cream colour, pale green cushions and contrasting throw pillows for the transom settee, and a satiny coverlet for Forrester’s hanging bed-cot, and the flimsy deal and canvas collapsible partitions were done in that mint green, with white louvred shutters in the upper halves.
Forrester himself sat behind a long and wide day-cabin desk of cherry, one that rested on X-shaped folding frames, with lots of well-polished brass accents. Forrester, well…
By God, we once said he was battenin’ like a hog ready for the fall slaughter, Lewrie gleefully thought; and damned if he ain’t gone fubsier since!
Captain Francis Forrester’s uniform was elegantly tailored, of the finest broadcloth wool for the coat and waist-coat, of the finest and softest cotton denim sailcloth for the breeches, and the whitest cotton or linen for his shirt, but… he did put a strain on it!
Lewrie walked up to the desk, hat under his left arm, and gave Forrester a nod. “Francis. It’s been a long time. How d’ye keep?” Captain Forrester did not at once reply; he seemed dumbstruck, as if pole-axed like a beef cow. His face looked flush, and his cheekbones were even redder… putting Lewrie into a fond, blue-tinged, memory. Forrester’s eyes were glued to the medals, the bright blue silk sash, and the gleaming star on Lewrie’s chest. At last he looked up, with a faint scowl blossoming.
“Captain Lewrie,” he gravelled. “You are come as re-enforcement to my squadron?” Forrester asked.
“Sorry, no,” Lewrie replied with a grin. “In point of fact, I am come to borrow a few small sloops from you, so I may break out my own broad pendant.”