“It might look better in the dark, sir,” Lt. Westcott quipped.
“If we ever get that far, we’ll drown the whole crippled lot, and start fresh!” Lewrie roared. “These people couldn’t climb down off a bloody foot-stool!”
It ain’t even that rough a morning, Lewrie bemoaned, watching the Redcoats swaying and clinging for dear life to the scrambling nets, and the easy pitch of the waiting boats alongside the transport. The sea was mild-enough, though there was moderate, foaming surf at the foot of the Rock, sweeping in to wet every inch of the narrow beach, and spew round the rocks. What he had estimated to only take ten to fifteen minutes had turned out to be closer to half an hour just to get them all aboard and settled, much yet to get the boats ashore.
Off Sapphire’s bows, his own four boats were already filled with his Marines, loafing in a rough line-abreast about a cable off, waiting for the Army to sort themselves out.
“My thanks, again, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said to his First Officer in a brief, calm moment. “The boat, ye know. How and where ye got it…”
“Best not enquire, sir,” Westcott said, with a taut grin. “The less you know, the better.”
The smallest of their boats, the 18-footer jolly boat, had disappeared, miraculously replaced one dark night by a spanking-new 25-foot cutter to match the one they had, and when the sun rose, there it was, painted white with sapphire-blue gunn’ls just like their others. Admittedly, the paint had still been wet, but…! The jolly boat had been too small to be useful except for carrying a very few passengers ashore and back, or rowing the Bosun round right after anchoring to see that the yards were level and squared with each other. He was the only one who missed it.
“Harmony’s starboard-side boats are shoving off, sir,” Lieutenant Harcourt pointed out. “They’re clearing the ship, just afore her bows.”
“Twenty-five bloody minutes, Christ!” Lewrie spat.
“Faster than before, sir,” Westcott said. “That’d be Captain Kimbrough’s, I believe.”
Young Captain Bowden’s company was only halfway loaded into the boats on the transport’s larboard side. Lewrie put his telescope to one eye and could make out Bowden by Harmony’s mainmast stays, mouth open in rage, disgust, or impatience; at that distance it was hard to tell. Major Hughes was aft by the mizen stays, arms wind-milling in the air to urge the last few soldiers to go down the nets. He looked red in the face as the last man went over the bulwarks at last, then wind-milled his way forward to bellow at Captain Bowden.
“One boat’s coming off, sir,” Harcourt reported.
“Coming?” Lewrie yelped. “So is bloody Christmas!”
At very long last, all the boats were full and stroking shoreward in line-abreast. At least Sapphire’s sailors were professionals at rowing and conning the boats. They all grounded on what passed for a beach roughly about the same time, and their passengers scrambled out over the bows much more quickly, as if glad to find even a patch of solid ground on which to stand, relieved and delighted to escape boats and ships for even a few minutes.
They looked comical, even to Lewrie’s frustrated eyes, huddled almost shoulder-to-shoulder at the foot of the nigh-vertical, barren cliffs, wetted to their shins as the surf rolled in, with some soldiers balancing themselves on the boulders and scree rocks that had accumulated at the cliff’s base over the centuries.
“Mister Harcourt, the six-pounder, if you please,” Lewrie said. “Signal the return. Then pray … earnestly.”
After the crack of the gun, and the sight of the small cloud of sour smoke from its discharge, the soldiers filed up to claw their way back aboard the boats and take their seats on the inner parts of the thwarts, muskets jutting upwards and held between their knees. One by one, the boats were shoved off the beach, the oarsmen stroking to back-water out far enough for one bank of oars to back-water, the other to stroke forward and turn them round bows-out toward the waiting ships, right in the middle of the surf. All the boats pitched and rolled, cocking their bows or sterns high as incoming waves set them to hobby-horsing, but, after a few minutes, all were clear and on their way out, with the unbroken rollers lifting them a few feet, then dropping them between sets.
“Is the weather getting up?” Lt. Westcott speculated aloud, looking up to the commissioning pendant, the clouds, and the steepness of the wave sets.
“The surf is breaking a tad more boisterous, sir,” Lt. Harcourt agreed.
“You can feel it,” Lewrie said, leaning over the bulwarks for a look at the sea ruffling round the hull. “If we get those clumsy bastards back aboard, we’ll call it a day, then stand out to sea.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott replied.
Lewrie paced the quarterdeck, now and then ascending to the poop deck for a better view with his telescope, willing himself to be calm, stoic, and un-moved, but that was a hard task. The boats came alongside Harmony in their proper places, bowmen hooked the channels with their gaffs, one bank of oarsmen took hold of the scrambling nets to keep the boats close alongside and keep the nets somewhat taut as soldiers tentatively made their way up the transport’s side to heave a leg over the bulwarks and partly roll back aboard.
“Time, Mister Elmes?” Lewrie asked from the poop deck.
“Twenty-one and one half minutes for the soldiers to get back aboard, sir,” the Third Officer told him. “A bit quicker.”
“That’s ’cause they know the rum issue’s coming as soon as they do,” Lewrie scoffed.
“Perhaps we should set a rum keg on the beach next time, then, sir,” Elmes joshed. “And the first boat ashore gets full measures.”
“Then they’d get so drunk we’d never get them back!” Lewrie said, relieved enough to banter once again.
His own Marines had come back aboard Sapphire much more quickly, the boats had been tented with taut tarpaulin covers to keep out rain and sloshed-aboard seawater in rough weather, and were already being led aft for towing astern once the ship got back under way. Muskets and accoutrements were stowed away, and the Marines had removed their red coats, neck-stocks and waist-coats, only worn when standing sentry or when called to Quarters for battle.
The Sailing Master and the Midshipmen under his instruction had gathered to take Noon Sights with their sextants and slates, though it was a pointless endeavour for Sapphire’s officers, for once, since the ship was still fetched-to about a thousand yards offshore. Lewrie had been so intent upon watching the soldiers’ return that he had missed Eight Bells ringing the change of watch.
“All hands back aboard, sir, arms and boats secured, and ready to get under way,” Westcott, who was now the officer of the watch, reported. “Rum first, sir?”
“No, I want sea-room first,” Lewrie decided as he slowly came back down to the quarterdeck. “Just in case.”
Hundreds of sailors and Marines stood about the deck in the waist, along the gangways, joshing each other, pleased with their own exertions, and jeering at the poor showing of the men of the 77th, looking aft for word of their own rum issue.
“Bosun!” Westcott shouted, “hands to the foresheets and braces! Stations for getting under way!”
There was a collective groan at the delay, but on-watch hands sprang to their duties, and within minutes, Sapphire had come about, and under reduced sail, slowly clawed her way a mile or better out to sea, with Harmony trailing her.
“I’ll be aft, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie finally announced. “I think a good, long sulk is in order. I may even curse the cat!”
Once in his cabins, Lewrie shucked his coat and undid his neck-stock for comfort, pummelled his battered hat into a semblance of its former shape, and flung himself onto his settee. Chalky came dashing with his tail erect and mewing as he leapt into Lewrie’s lap for some long-delayed pets, butting and stroking his cheeks on him.
“Tea, sir?” Pettus asked.