That one of those Cuffies of yours?" he said, pointing overside at Jones Nelson. "I can see why you, ah… obtained him. Strong as an ox, is he? Decorative addition to your boat crew, as well, I should think. Weren't you to stand trial, or be sued, or something? Last news from the London papers were simply full of it, haw haw!"
'Oh, that Lewrie!' was the expression on many nearby faces.
"King's Bench found the Jamaica trial colourable, milord, and put off the proceedings 'til all evidence is reviewed," Lewrie had to say with a straight face, though fuming at such abrupt treatment from a senior officer. He should have been used to such, after his years serving under an host of insulting fools, and a fair number of people who might have had good cause to abuse him now and again, but by God it still irked!
Eat his shite, an' think it plum duff, aye! he grimly thought.
"The particulars are most-like featured in the latest papers I brought from England, milord," Lewrie said with a seemingly uncaring, and unaffected, shrug and smile. "Perhaps by Hilary, or Easter, Term."
"Walk with me, Captain Lewrie," the Rear-Admiral said, turning more business-like. "A glass of something?"
"Nothing for me, milord."
Lewrie's orders from Admiral Lord Bridport, commander of Channel Fleet, had told him to report himself and his frigate to Rear-Admiral Arthur Iredell, Baron Boxham, so he knew with whom he was strolling; even if that august worthy had yet to name himself, which was insulting enough, but to be walked up and down the quarterdeck instead of being welcomed into the great-cabins under the poop deck was even worse!
"We shall soon be coming about, so I will not keep you long," Lord Boxham explained. "Yonder to our lee lies France, at present not six leagues off, sir. My brief, for this particular squadron, is from fourty-six degrees latitude, or the north tip of the lie d'Oleron, all the way down to the latitude of Arcachon, to blockade a coastline that runs roughly one hundred and twenty sea-miles, and 'tis rare that all the liners of this squadron are together in one place, as you find us today.
"Not quite as bad an area to cover as the squadron buried deep in the sack near Bayonne, where Spain and France meet, should a storm roll in from the West, as they usually do, hereabouts," Lord Boxham said with a visible wince. "Navigation is also tricky, I warn you now. From Rochefort Suth'rd to Biarritz and the Spanish border, this coast is very shoal, the land quite flat, with few notable headlands by which to estimate position. Should fog arise, one may cast ashore before one knows what has happened."
"Aye, sir," Lewrie said as they reached the aft end of the deck by the poop cabins, and turned to pace back towards the hammock netting overlooking Chatham % waist; that reply was usually safest. "Though I have the latest London chartmakers' works, perhaps your Flag-Captain is in possession of more current soundings, and such, which I might obtain or copy, milord?" he went on, trying to sound energetic and thoughtful.
"Your senior in the Inshore Squadron will have better, no doubt, Captain Lewrie," Lord Boxham said, rather dismissively, as if he resented having his lecture interrupted. "Savage, so I note, is of the Fifth Rate, which means that she has a draught of seventeen or eighteen feet, Lewrie? Good. That will serve nicely.
"Now as I was saying," the Rear-Admiral went on, and yes, he had felt interrupted, and was irked by such from a mere frigate captain. "There is another squadron keeping an eye on Rochefort, the small ports of the Vendee region, Saint Nazaire, and the mouth of the Loire up North, whilst my duties principally encompass the river Gironde, and what the French possess in the way of warships built or building, fitting out, or readying for sea from the port of Bordeaux, up-river."
"I see, milord," Lewrie replied with his best stern phyz on.
"Once on-station, a perusal of the charts will shew you, Lewrie, that the Gironde, below the last of the aits, is actually a very wide ria, thirty miles or so long, and over six miles wide as it approaches its mouth. Rather a lot of places for French warships to find a safe mooring."
"And, for French merchantmen as well, I should expect, milord."
"You demm'd frigate captains!" Rear-Admiral Iredell, Lord Boxham, barked in disgust. "All prize-money and loot, with not a thought for anything else!"
"Your pardons, milord," Lewrie countered, "but starvin' our foes o' food and naval stores, both, keeps 'em tied up alongside the piers, and eases our duties, I should think."
" 'Thout the proper battle that stops their demm'd business for good an' all?" Lord Boxham said with an outraged snort. "God forbid! Well, you'll be in good company, Captain Lewrie. All I may spare for the close blockade are light frigates, some over-aged sloops of war, some newer brig-sloops, and eight-gun cutters under mere Lieutenants… all of whom dream of money\" he gravelled, in a huff.
"Very well, sir," Lewrie flatly replied.
"You're to seek out and report to Commodore Ayscough, in HMS Chesterfield…," Lord Boxham said.
"The one with the bagpipers, milord?" Lewrie could not help but blurt out, for then-Captain Ayscough had been his superior in the Far East 'tween the wars, in Telesto.
"Yess, him!" Lord Boxham barked, as if rowed beyond all temperance to be interrupted a third time, or that the sound of bagpipes set him howling mad.
"Delightful, milord!" Lewrie happily said, sure of a better welcome.
"Deserve each other, more-like," the Admiral spat. "Well, off with you, Captain Lewrie. Now your mail and despatches are aboard, I shall not keep you. Ayscough should lie to the Sou'east of the river mouth today."
"Thank you for receiving me, milord. Adieu," Lewrie said with a doff of his hat, and a sketchy bow in conge.
"Try not to drown yourself, sir!"
"Can't afford to, milord," Lewrie rejoined. "I've not yet been to France!"
Rias? Lewrie fumed on his way back down the battens to his boat; rias and aits? A ria 's a narrow estuary, and the Gironde's as broad as the Straits of Dover. And what's wrong with river islands, not aits/ Good old Ayscough a Commodore, though! Even if he still has his damned bagpipers!
Lewrie sat himself down on a thwart near the launch's tiller to contemplate whether Commodore Ayscough would go so far with his fondness for all things Scottish as to dine him aboard on a haggis, cock-a-leekie soup, and turnips! And, on a happier note, Lewrie also considered whether he should send Midshipman Carrington aloft to spend the night perched on the cross-trees, or hang him from the main-mast truck with a line round his balls!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HMS Chesterfield was an older two-decker 64, bluff and beamy, but, with a more pronounced tumblehome from waterline to her gangways and bulwarks, was much easier for Lewrie to board-this time with Midshipman Grace in charge of his launch. Savage had run across her in late afternoon, in company with one of the few large 44-gun Fifth Rate frigates, HMS Lyme. As soon as numbers and private signals had been exchanged, Chesterfield had made two more short hoists; "First Dog," followed by "Captain(s) Repair Onboard," as sure an invitation to supper as a hand-delivered note, or a butler's china bell. Still in full dress, Lewrie gladly paced 'til near Seven Bells of the Day Watch, then called his boat and crew away once more. Just at the last strokes of Chesterfield 's bell chiming Eight Bells, he was at the foot of her boarding battens, and scrambling up. As the dog's vane atop his cocked hat crested the lip of the entry-port, a drum rolled, Bosuns' calls began to shrill; Marine boots on oak decks, Marine palms on polished muskets stamped or slapped, and… God, there was the dreadful preliminary drone of single bagpipe, before the piper launched himself into a lively rendition of "Campbell's Farewell to Red Castle," one of Ayscough's very favourites, as Lewrie could attest after three long years serving under him; hearing it, and being told its title, every bloody day!