Текст книги "Hostile Shores"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
There were art shows to see at Ranelagh Gardens, subscription balls where anyone could purchase tickets and dance without anyone looking down their noses at Lydia. There were symphonies to attend, and concerts, and music halls where rowdier tunes could be heard.
Eudoxia was down from the country and Lydia’s brother Percy was up from his cavalry regiment stationed to guard the coast in Kent, so they attended most events as a foursome. They were almost cloying in their turtledove and open mutual affection; they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and spent a lot of time gazing into each other’s eyes and laughing over things that passed between them silently and unknown to anyone else. All in all, they were highly amusing, even when Eudoxia took Percy sweetly to task when they entered the Long Rooms at the clubs to do some light gambling; seeing her watch him like a hawk would a field mouse to dissuade him from wagering too deeply.
They dined in at the Stangbournes’ Grosvenor Street house, and entertained themselves at cards or music. From her time as an ingénue actress and singer with Daniel Wigmore’s Peripatetic Extravaganza, a combination circus-theatrical troupe-menagerie touring group, Eudoxia could sing well, though Lewrie discovered that Lydia could not, despite tutoring by the most accomplished musicians throughout her girlhood. She wasn’t all that good at the harpsichord or new-fangled piano forte, either. Percy could fiddle away like mad, effortlessly, and Lewrie had fetched along his penny-whistle and had been pronounced “not all that bad”, but, poor Lydia … she adored music, from simple country airs to Haydn, Handel, and Mozart, but was grieved that she would be forever denied the ability to play.
Well, at least she loves t’dance, and does that well, Lewrie reminisced. Lydia might wear her bored, languid, and imperious face at the slower, more formal dances, but could turn girlish, bouncing, and almost whoop with delight doing the faster country dances.
Being a foursome, all in all, though, hardly ever just the two of them together, had turned the courting into a guardedly celibate affair. They had embraced, kissed, panted, yearned (Oh, how Lewrie had yearned!), but they had not had those promised nights at Willis’s Rooms or any other clandestine lodgings. Riding in the parks, shopping for civilian clothes for him, new books to read on-passage (none of those salacious, for a change, either!), it was all so very public!
“Wooing,” he muttered. “What a horrid-sounding word. Woo. Woo woo. Woo hoo.”
Lewrie hadn’t wooed any girl or woman, or couldn’t recall doing so since he was breeched! Flirting with a single aim was a different kettle of fish, and he’d been good at that since his father, Sir Hugo, had gifted him with his first dozen cundums, and cited the sage advice of Lord Chesterfield that “pleasure is now, and ought to be your business”, a motto that the both of them had followed.
It was not so much the frustration and denial that bothered him, but the sheer novelty of a seeming chastity that had him bemused and all-a’mort. Oh, he liked Lydia Stangbourne, and not merely because she had struck him as un-conventional from the first instance, and an obliging lover in the second; not because she came from a wealthy family, either. As he had told her early on, he was comfortable, and didn’t have any designs upon her share of the Stangbourne fortune, nor in any need of her standing dowry of £2,000. Stung as she’d been by her first, brutal marriage, and the scandal of Divorcement, she had liked him for not trying to win her hand, and Lewrie, in turn, had liked her for how they could play lovers without a hint of commitment.
Now, though … after a week and a bit of just being together at innocent pursuits … he felt … what?
Well, just damn my eyes if I ain’t growin’ fond of her! Lewrie realised with a wrench; Christ, I do b’lieve I even miss her! What has the world come to?
The touch of her hand, the scent of her hair, the merry, adoring glints in her dark emerald-green eyes, the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed at something, or one of his jests. An odd nose, too, a tad too wide front-on, but almost Irish and wee in profile, and the recollection of that made Lewrie smile in pleasant reverie.
My dearest Alan,
I certainly do not wish for you to feel as if our brief Time together in London was to put you on Trial, for that was the farthest thing from my mind.
Words cannot express, however, the utmost Joy your Patience gave me. Your Jests, your Gallantries, your Good Humour in tolerating my Reticence has endeared you to me beyond all Measure, beyond any Fears which I previously held. I have been shamefully out of Temperance over our star-crossed attempts to see each other, and did not intend to behave so stand-offishly, but, with Percy and Eudoxia in Town, I could discover not the slightest Opportunity to show you how warm is my Heart towards you, or how ardent is my Passion, and I beg you to forgive my Foolishness.
How cruel it is, now, that you are bound away on the King’s Business with no Promise of a quick Return, or indeed, a Return at all! As I write this, my very Soul cries out to be with you, and my Eyes are so aswim with Tears that I can barely see to …
“Well, I’m damned!” Lewrie whispered in considerable awe. She had lost her dread of trusting her heart to yet another man who would break it? What was he to make of that? Lydia was a clever and wary grown woman—did she not see that he was a dissembling rake-hell, sure to disappoint her in future? How to respond?
He opened a drawer in his desk and got out his pen, inkwell, and a fresh sheet of bond. Such activity bestirred Toulon to pad over to the desk and meow to announce his presence, and desire. With one leap, Toulon got into his lap, peered over the top of the desk to see what his master was doing, then settled down in the shape of a hairy pot roast, the tip of his tail slowly metronoming, and purring.
“Good old lad,” Lewrie praised him, ruffling his fur and stroking his head and cheeks for a while, then began to write.
October 18th, 1805
Reliant, at Portsmouth
My dearest Lydia,
How gratifying it is to receive your latest Letter. Gratifying and Elating beyond all Bounds, however, are the Sentiments, the Warmth, and Ardour in which you say you hold me! Be strongly Assured that my own Heart swells in wrenching Longing to see your sweet self for just one minute more, even do we share a parting Kiss, a touch of hands, and nothing more. Your sudden Openness to Risk quite astounds my soul, and places me in Dread that I would ever cause you to regret …
“Hang it,” Lewrie whispered to the cat, who looked up at him. “I think she’s come t’love me, Toulon. And, I think I feel the same!”
BOOK TWO
KING:
On, on, you noble English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof,
Fathers that like so many Alexanders
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.
–WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
T HE L IFE OF K ING
HENRYTHEFIFTH,
ACT III, SCENE I, 17–21
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The passage to Madeira was an odd one, quite unlike the last that had taken Reliant to Bermuda and the Bahamas in January of 1805. While the prevailing Westerlies in the Bay of Biscay were gusty, they did not vary more than 20 degrees either side of Due West, quite unlike the howling storms and mountainous seas that had raged against their frigate before. The wind direction did not swing capriciously to smack them on the bows and force them to make long boards just to avoid being driven into the rocky angle of the French and Spanish coasts, or force them onto Portuguese shoals. Once out at sea, beyond the Scilly Isles and Cape Ushant, a few days of close-reaching gained them bags of sea-room and hundreds of miles of safety margin from the risk of lee shores. Striding along Sou’-Sou’west or South by West upon a roughly beam wind and a beam sea, even the three clumsy transports could keep up with their escorting frigate, and reel off a satisfactory eight or nine knots from one Noon Sight to the next, making a goodly way.
Those beam seas and winds were rough on the troopers of the 34th aboard Ascot, for she would wallow and reel, heeling over to larboard before coming back upright to do it over and over again, as steadily as a clock, sending those lubbers to the lee rails to “cast their accounts to Neptune” on deck, or into buckets below if they could reach one in time. That gave Reliant’s seasoned and strong-stomached tars perverse pleasure, and a cause for jeering following each meal served aboard the Ascot.
The horses were another matter.
No matter how narrow the stalls were arranged aboard the horse transports to cut down on room to stagger, the continual rolling and wallowing, and the groaning of the hulls as they worked over the sea, quite un-settled the poor beasts. Some would panic and rear, frightened by the noise and motion, would break their forelegs and have to be put down. As strong and swift as they were, able to live twenty or more years, horses’ digestive systems were incredibly touchy, subject to twisted bowels, the strangle, or colic. At least once every two or three days, a horse would die, and be hoisted out of the holds, swayed out overside, and disposed of.
There were, perhaps, no other people on earth more fond of the horse than the English. From the meanest, poorest ship’s boy to the officers aft, horses were a part of their lives, for pleasure riding and hunting among the better-off, essential to the livelihood of the cottager farmer, the coachman, the street vendor or waggoner, or the punter at the races. Every loss of a horse turned Reliant’s sailors glum and quietly sad. Below over their meals, almost every Man Jack had an idea of how those poor beasts should have been handled, or treated; if he’d been over there, they’d not have died, by God!
The other oddity of the voyage to the Azores was the rare empty-ness of the ocean. The Bay of Biscay should have teemed with merchant traffic, with British ships outward bound, neutral American ships headed to Europe, and French and Spanish merchantmen hoping to sneak their way past the Royal Navy’s blockade, rare they were, though.
But, except for one trade of two-dozen East Indiamen bound North for English ports under a strong escort, one fast Liverpool slaver that flew past them on the first leg of the infamous Triangle Trade to pick up a cargo of “Black Ivory”, and one slow Portuguese ship headed to the Azores which they briefly spoke then left wallowing and plodding far astern, they had the sea to themselves.
Lewrie and his officers were relieved by that lack, though yet a touch uneasy. The Bay of Biscay ports were home to many French privateers which sallied from Brest, Quimper, Quiberon, L’Orient, St. Nazaire, La Rochelle, and the mouth of the Gironde river. And, there was still that large French fleet under Admiral Villeneuve to worry about. Villeneuve had been the bug-a-bear when Reliant was in the Bahamas in the Spring and Summer, when it had been rumoured to be down South in the Windward or Leeward Islands. That fleet’s sailing surely had drawn off the British blockading squadrons in the Bay of Biscay, as it had Nelson’s fleet, allowing French National Ships, their frigates and corvettes, a chance to put out and prey upon British commerce, too. Yet, there had been no sign of that threat, either.
So, it was with a great sense of relief when the cloud-shrouded peaks of the Azores loomed up on the Sou’west horizon, and those peaks became solid as they drew nearer to the island of Madeira. There was even joy as they rounded the Sou’east cape and could espy the port of Funchal and its wide, open roadstead, where they could meet up with the rest of the expedition, and turn their charges over to Commodore Popham, then come to anchor, and a quiet and peaceful, motionless rest.
* * *
“Well, where the Devil are they, then?” Lt. Westcott asked no one in particular as they beheld the roadstead … a very empty roadstead.
“Senhor?” the local pilot said, turning his attention from the approaches to the bay to Westcott. “The English expedition fleet? It has sailed, perhaps a week ago. They did not stay long.”
“For where?” Lewrie asked the pilot.
“South, Senhor Capitáo, is all I know of them,” the pilot said with a shrug.
“Perhaps we should continue on right away, sir,” Westcott suggested to Lewrie. “If we’re a week behind, and they’ll be needing our cavalry. To come all this way, yet miss out!”
“Miss out on the action, and the excitement, ye mean,” Lewrie replied with a smile. After three years or so, he knew Westcott’s need for any relief of boredom; combat, or women. “No, the beasts aboard the transports are runnin’ short on water, oats, hay, and straw, and a good place t’dump the stable sweepin’s. Our compatriots in the Army had planned to replenish here, counted on it, really. I fear we have no choice. We’ll stand in and anchor, and see t’their needs.”
“The stable sweepings, sir?” Westcott posed with a brow up.
“The Azores are rocky. They need all the manure they can get,” Lewrie told him, chuckling. “They might consider our arrival a gift from Heaven.”
“Rocky, and dry, Senhor Teniente,” the pilot chirped up, beaming wide. “Has been a drought for many years, and we do not have the pastures for enough animals. My mother’s gardens need more water and fertiliser. One point to starboard, Senhor Quartermaster,” he added, to the senior rating on the helm.
“Do you happen to know if there is a British Consul in town?” Lewrie asked their pilot.
“Oh, sí, Senhor Capitáo,” the perky fellow quickly supplied. “He is Senhor Gilberto Gilbao, a big merchant in Funchal.”
“Once we’re anchored, I’ll go ashore to call upon him, then,” Lewrie decided aloud. “Perhaps he knows where Popham has got to.”
“Full fig, sir?” Westcott teased, noting Lewrie’s everyday uniform, minus his marks of honour.
“He’ll have t’take me as I am,” Lewrie scoffed.
“The place I have for you, Senhor Capitáo, is close to town and the shore … deep water, five fathom, no worries,” their hospitable local pilot was quick to assure Lewrie. “You could come ashore with me in my boat, and signal for your own when you have done with Senhor Gilbao. I can even show you to his house.”
“For that office, senhor,” Lewrie responded, striving for the proper difference between the Portuguese and the Spanish for señor, “I give you my heartiest thanks. Uhm … good dining in Funchal, is there?”
“The finest, Senhor Capitáo!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Once ashore, the pilot gave him a quick tour of Funchal’s small downtown features, pointed out a couple of restaurants, an upper-class tavern where music was played nightly for the entertainment of patrons, a laundress’s house, a vintner and a ship chandler, and a discreet brothel which he swore had the greatest selection of pretty doxies in all Christendom! Lastly, he saw him to a mansion one street up above the town’s docks and quays, facing a spacious and shady plaza, where the Gilbao family resided, and did their business.
Lewrie plied the large and ornate door knocker, and the door was opened by a woman in maid’s togs, a quite attractive young woman with sloe eyes which belied her prim demeanour, costume, and black hair that was severely pulled back and rolled into a bun at the nape of her neck.
Lewrie almost felt the need to take a second peek at the entry-way, and the plaque which announced the offices of the British Consul in both English and Portuguese; the maid’s attractiveness made him wonder if he’d found that forementioned discreet brothel!
He announced himself; she cocked her head over in puzzlement. When he managed to pronounce Senhor Gilberto Gilbao, she brightened and summoned him in, steering him to a large parlour, then padded off to seek her master.
It was a huge house, perhaps a century or more old, but well maintained, and full of costly furnishings, musical instruments left on display as if their users were merely taking a break, and artwork hung in profusion on every wall of the grand parlour, or stood upon plinths in the corners. There was a cool and shady atrium beyond a row of pillars and fine sets of glass-paned French doors, with a cool fountain plashing in its centre, surrounded with planted or potted greenery and flowers. Servants crossed the atrium now and then, on cat feet, without a sound. Above, the upper storeys were railed with intricate ironwork, the uppermost shaded with white and yellow canvas awnings. The only sound he could hear was the tinkle of water in the fountain. It was almost uncanny. Costly as all Hell, but uncanny.
“Senhor Capitáo?” a well-dressed youngish fellow enquired, appearing from the opposite side of the wide entry foyer. “My pardons, but Concepcion has no English, and could not manage your name. I am Gilberto Gilbao, senhor. I serve as the British Consul for the Azores.”
“Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, of the Reliant frigate, Senhor Gilbao,” Lewrie told him with a smile, and a formal bow. “I was expecting to see Commodore Popham and his squadron in port, but missed him. I was told that Madeira was to be the assembly point.”
“Ah!” Gilbao said with an open-mouthed and cheerful grin. “Come this way, senhor, to my offices. Allow me to offer you refreshments, and I hope that I may fully inform you as to the whereabouts of your … incredibly energetic Commodore Popham.”
Gilbao’s offices were nigh as spacious as the grand parlour on the other side of the foyer, and just as expensively decorated. They took two upholstered chairs to either side of a low tea table, quite informally, rather than Gilbao behind his desk, and Lewrie plunked in front like a supplicant.
“Naturally, Capitáo Lewrie, all of Funchal took notice of your arrival in port,” Gilbao began as he tinkled a china bell for service. “As for Madeira being the assembly point for Commodore Popham, it was determined that the actual presence of his squadron, and his transport convoy, in harbour could be taken as a violation of Portuguese neutrality … a violation on our part of our own neutrality to the French. For that reason … reasons, rather … Commodore Popham only cruised close offshore as his transports arrived in dribs and drabs.”
“Oh Lord,” Lewrie groaned, sitting up straighter. “My bringin’ my ships into port could be deemed a violation, too? No one at Admiralty said a single word about that!”
To Lewrie’s relief, Gilbao threw back his head and laughed out loud, then looked at him with a merry grin.
“My dear Capitáo, could such a generous and hospitable people as we Portuguese deny mariners in need of succour entrée to our ports for firewood and water?” Gilbao amusedly posed. “As far as I can see, you have no hostile designs upon Funchal, or the Azores, you do not seem to be acting in any threatening manner to anyone as you convoy ships to somewhere else, which is of no consequence to Portugal, so, just what might the French or her allies have to complain about, or lodge a protest? Funchal is a neutral port, open to all.”
“When I called at Charleston, South Carolina, in the Spring, I got chapter and verse in high dudgeon from the French Consul there,” Lewrie told him. “Sail out within three days, or else … wait weeks before entering another American port … can’t lurk offshore beyond the Three Mile Limit?”
“The French once had a Consular representative here, but when the war began again in 1803, they ceased to pay him, so he resigned the office,” Gilbao said. “Ah! Concepcion! Will you have tea, or wine, senhor? From Lisbon, I recently received a cask of a splendid wine, very light, a touch sweet, and of a remarkable pale yellow tint. Most refreshing!”
“I will try the wine, upon your recommendation,” Lewrie said, secretly ogling the maid, who was casting shy eyes at him as Gilbao ordered wine for both.
“In point of fact, Capitáo Lewrie,” Gilbao went on as the maid departed to fetch the wine, “the English and the Portuguese people have always enjoyed the most amicable and mutually agreeable relations, in diplomacy, and in trade. We are a small nation, smaller than the British Isles, but have never possessed the large armies such as these of the French, or the Spanish in the old days. Neither did we ever have large fleets, not even approaching those of the Dutch, the Swedes, or the Danes. There is a general assumption that should any other power attempt to seize our colonies, even Brazil, or invade Portugal itself, our good friends the English would side with us, and come to our aid.”
“If only to have another good bash at the Frogs and the Dons,” Lewrie agreed with a laugh. “I am mortal-certain that did the French try to conquer Portugal, we’d be in it in an instant.”
Lewrie had never actually been to Portugal, but his father, Sir Hugo, had. Portugal was the only place that British debtors could run before their creditors could nab them and throw them into prison! Lewrie suspected that that was why the wine, port, and spirits trade had arisen in the long-agos; all those bankrupt British scoff-laws on their “skint bottoms” in need of a job, and quick profits! Why, most of the port in the world bore English brand names!
“You enquire about the whereabouts of Commodore Popham and his expedition, senhor?” Gilbao said. “He is bound for another Portuguese port on the coast of Africa, San Salvador.”
Lewrie had to shrug in ignorance; he’d never heard of it.
“It also is Portuguese,” Gilbao said with an airy wave of his hand, as if that was of no matter. “Any chandler in Funchal may sell you charts, including approaches and safe anchorages. It is a minor, out of the way place, you see? Of no interest to anyone.”
Meanin’, no enemy consuls t’spy Popham’s presence out, Lewrie told himself; Out of sight, and out of mind. Put in, load firewood and water, then out again before anyone notices. That’s real hospitable of the Portuguese!
While waiting for the promised wine, Gilbao told Lewrie of how his family had settled in the Azores in the 1600s, and of how charming and delightful the climate was. Yes, the house was old, but they had the wealth to keep it up. Several generations lived in it, along with his own wife and growing family, and Lewrie had to compliment him on its grandeur, noting how Greco-Roman or Mediterranean it was.
Concepcion entered the offices, at last, with a silver tray and icing bucket, in which stood the bottle, and two crystal glasses. She set it down between them on the low table and poured.
“Iced!” Lewrie exclaimed in pleasure.
“Sweden is good for something, Senhor Lewrie,” Gilbao laughed, “though I cannot imagine living in such Arctic dullity. Allow me to propose a toast, senhor. To the recent epic victory your Navy won off the coast of Spain!”
“Ehm … what victory?” Lewrie had to ask, his glass held a few inches below his mouth.
“Why, Admiral Nelson’s victory over the combined French and Spanish fleets, senhor! You do not know of it?” Gilbao exclaimed. He all but slapped his forehead. “But of course, you must have left England before the news could arrive, and have been at sea, out of touch with anyone. My pardons for presuming.”
“Tell me of it … once we sample this wine,” Lewrie urged.
“To victory!” Gilbao responded, allowing them to drink deeply. It was a heavenly white wine, light, flower-scented, and with hints of the slightest sweetness, much like a German Riesling.
“That is good,” Lewrie agreed, almost smacking his lips.
“The newspapers from Lisbon and Oporto arrived only three days ago,” Gilbao informed him, “both in Portuguese, and the mercantile papers printed in English for the many expatriates. I have a copy of the mercantile paper, if you would like to read it. Or, take it with you to your ship.”
“You are most gracious, Senhor Gilbao, thank you,” Lewrie told him with a smile and a seated bow as Gilbao finished his wine, then rose to cross to his desk to shuffle through a neat pile of correspondence to fetch the newspaper.
“I must warn you that not all the news is good, senhor,” Gilbao said as he returned and handed the paper to Lewrie. “The French and Spanish lost at least twenty ships, but … the gallant Admiral Nelson sadly perished.”
“Nelson? Dead?” Lewrie exclaimed, dropping his hand and the newspaper to his lap in shock.
“Shot down by a French Marine in the fighting tops and taken below to the surgeons, who could do nothing for him,” Gilbao said with a sombre tone, shaking his head in sorrow as he sat back down to pour them top-ups.
“The little minikin,” Lewrie muttered, shaking his own head. “He always did say, ‘Death or Glory’ … ‘Victory or Westminster Abbey’. At Cape Saint Vincent, he ordered me to join him in facing the entire Spanish van, just his sixty-four and my sloop of war. ‘Follow me, Lewrie,’ he yelled. ‘We’re bound for glory!’ I suppose he’s got his spot in Westminster Abbey, at last.”
“You knew him, senhor?” Gilbao marvelled. “You must tell me all of what you know of such a hero.”
“I did not know him well, sir,” Lewrie said in preface, cautioning Gilbao that he could not relate all that much—quite unlike the supper ball at Nassau—and heaving a small shrug. “We ran across each other several times, but he was always senior to me, and I doubt if I mattered to him. I was not in his intimate circle.”
And, I’ll not mention Emma Hamilton unless he asks, I won’t say a word about how vainglorious he was, or how pettish he could be, either, Lewrie chid himself.
* * *
Later that morning, wandering the small town’s streets to shop for his personal needs, and have a look-see, Lewrie felt a rare and odd out-of-sorts malaise take him, almost a light-headed separate-ness he could not blame on three glasses of Gilbao’s excellent light wine. He stopped in the shade of a row of trees, facing the waterfront to watch bum-boats and barges plying between the shore and the transports with loads of bagged grain and bales of hay, kegs of water, and beer.
There was an iron bench with wooden slats, and he sat himself down. The English-language Portuguese newspaper crinkled as he did so, and he pulled it from his coat side-pocket to re-read the account of the battle. It was a sketchy article, since no news writer had been on the scene, and was likely based on third– or fourth-party word of mouth. If a Royal Navy ship had put into Lisbon or Oporto, one which had participated in the battle and was in need of firewood and water, or light repairs, that might explain how twenty enemy ships had been reportedly taken, not some vague number like “dozens” or “many”. Not all had been kept, for the winds and seas had gotten up after the hard fight was over, and several prizes had been wrecked on the shore about Cádiz, and some re-taken by their own crews.
Even so, Nelson’s victory was a death-blow to French hopes for their long-expected invasion of the British Isles. Without their fleet to cover the crossing of the Channel by their thousands of small craft, or a fleet-in-being and at sea to draw off warships from Channel Fleet, to reduce English resistance, there was no way for Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte to risk the loss of his massive army which he had planned to cram into those small boats. People in England could draw deep breaths and sleep soundly in their beds, after years of dread.
Bonaparte had sent Missiessy and Villeneuve to the West Indies and back to lure the Royal Navy away from the defence of the Channel, and the ruse had failed, thank God. Bonaparte had been too clever for his own good, and he had thrown a significant part of his navy away for nothing.
Thank God Boney’s a soldier, Lewrie thought with a snort of derision; They’re not the sharpest wits, and know nothing of the sea.
Nelson, though … dead and gone.
Nelson’s gone.
