Текст книги "Kings and Emperors"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
BOOK THREE
“Let there be light!” said God, and there was light!
“Let there be blood!” says man, and there’s a sea!
–LORD BYRON (1788–1824), DON JUAN
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple was in a very good humour when Lewrie entered his offices in the Convent. He was standing at his large map of Iberia, hands in the small of his back, rocking on the balls of his booted feet, with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Aha, Sir Alan! Relished your report!” Sir Hew declared. “Positively relished it! A half-brigade slaughtered, what?”
“Well, I can’t claim an outright slaughter, Sir Hew,” Lewrie countered. “It was closer to a decimation, with only ten percent or so killed or wounded. Losing their artillery and baggage train was the worst blow.”
“And their pride and confidence,” Dalrymple added. “The esprit de corps of a unit matters as much as weaponry. A very good show, all in all, along with the delivery of arms to the junta in Granada. Do sit, sir. Wine, or tea?”
“Tea, sir,” Lewrie replied, easing into a comfortable leather chair in front of Dalrymple’s desk as Dalrymple rang a china bell to summon an aide.
“Lord, the Spanish,” Dalrymple said, shaking his head as he sat behind his desk. “Rival juntas are springing up all across Spain, which is welcome. But, just because Seville was the first does not mean they will all look to Seville as the sole authority. Each one swears they will raise their own army, but co-operation among them, well … that will take some doing, I’m afraid. Without a king, and a united court, and a definite chain of command over all the armies, the Spanish stand little chance against the French in the field. It will still take a British army to lead the way, and coax our allies into working together. A senior British general with the nicest of diplomatic skills.”
You, for one, Lewrie cynically thought; what the man’s always wanted.
“At least our Andalusians can work together,” Dalrymple went on, rubbing his hands and smiling again. “We’ve just heard that the forces of General Castaños, and the forces assembled round Granada, have met and defeated a French army under a General Dupont near a town called Bailén. It took them six days of fighting, but, Castaños took the surrender of over seventeen thousand French. Bonaparte has not lost that many prisoners at one go since the army he abandoned in Egypt surrendered to us in 1801! Isn’t that grand, sir?”
“This is confirmed, sir, not a wild rumour?” Lewrie charily asked. “You know foreigners exagger—”
“Confirmed,” Dalrymple insisted, still beaming. “The arms you delivered played a part in it, and smashing that French column most-like freed up Spanish re-enforcements who would have been pinned down guarding against a thrust from Málaga, so you may take great satisfaction in your recent sally, Sir Alan.”
“Oh, I see, sir,” Lewrie replied, wondering if Dalrymple made note of his contribution in his report to London; he could use some good credit with Admiralty.
A smartly-uniformed Private, most-likely Dalrymple’s personal batman, entered with a tray and tea set, pouring for both and offering sugar, lemon, or cream as stiffly as a Grenadier Guard on “sentry-go” at St. James’s Palace. Once done, he jerked to Attention, stamped boots, saluted, turned about, and marched out, closing the double doors softly.
“Sir Brent Spencer’s force moved inland to support Castaños,” Dalrymple casually related, legs crossed and stirring his tea, “not actually with the Spanish, setting up a depot at Xeres.”
Lewrie looked at the large map but could not find it.
“Now that Dupont has been defeated, and Seville, Cádiz, Granada, and Córdoba are free of French occupation, I have ordered him to get back to the coast at Puerto de Santa María, and sail North to unite with Sir Arthur Wellesley’s army. I wish you to go to Cádiz Bay and provide escort for his transports ’til Admiral Cotton’s squadron can take over the duty.”
“Of course, Sir Hew,” Lewrie dutifully answered, even though the idea of more convoy-work almost made him gag. “Where will they be going?”
“Wellesley intended to land at Corunna in Northwest Spain, but he learned that the French had just defeated a Spanish army in the near vicinity, and the Galician junta was fearful of drawing too much attention to themselves,” Dalrymple told him. He took a sip of his tea, nodded with pleasure at its taste, but set cup and saucer aside to go to his map. “Vigo is also out, but Admiral Cotton chose Mondego Bay, right here,” he said, tapping the map, “just by Figueira da Foz. There is a French garrison in the fortress at Coimbra within an easy march to Mondego Bay, but it is thought to be too weak to hold the fort and intervene with the landings, Spencer has nigh five thousand men, Wellesley has nine thousand five hundred, and there are units of the Portuguese army still free and available. That should make a decent force to take on Marshal Junot’s army.”
“That’s about an hundred miles North of Lisbon, is it, sir?” Lewrie asked, abandoning his own tea to go to the map.
“Yes, thereabouts,” Dalrymple agreed, all his attention on the map, his head turning back and forth as if following the marches of large armies on a long campaign.
Winnin’ a war in his head, Lewrie sourly thought.
“Junot has fifty thousand, though,” Lewrie commented.
“Yes, but he can’t hold the entire country,” Dalrymple objected. “It’s been determined that he’s concentrated at the frontier fortresses of Almeida and Elvas, that small garrison at Coimbra, and the bulk of his force is at Lisbon, below a line ’twixt Abrantes and Peniche. A Portuguese junta is centered at Oporto, and their partisan irregulars and their regular army have been savaging a force under a General Loison sent into the interior, who has pulled back closer to the main French army round Lisbon to lick his wounds. It’s good odds that Wellesley will prevail, though he may find that the French are more dangerous than hordes of Hindoos.”
“How soon must I sail, sir?” Lewrie asked.
“As soon as possible, Sir Alan,” Dalrymple told him.
“Very well, sir,” Lewrie replied with a nod, “but, I would like t’finish my tea,” he japed.
“What?” Dalrymple gawped, scowling at him for a second before catching on. “Aha, I forget that you are possessed of a merry wit, sir!”
“I get it from my Midshipmen, sir,” Lewrie explained tongue-in-cheek. “They’re always an impish lot.”
* * *
“Pass word for the First Officer,” Lewrie told a Midshipman of the Harbour Watch as soon as he’d taken the salute to welcome him back aboard HMS Sapphire. “I’ll be aft. Best summon Mister Yelland, too.”
Men on deck perked their ears up and began to speculate, for a summons like that always meant a quick return to sea. Sapphire’s crew had been looking forward to a run ashore by watches, which would mean at least two days in port, with firewood, water, shot, and powder, and fresh provisions taken aboard which might mean a third day of rest and even a Make and Mend half-day of idleness to nap, repair their clothing, read, or write letters home.
No helpin’ it, Lewrie thought as he hung his hat on a peg on an overhead deck beam; I’m bein’ deprived the same as them. One supper with Maddalena tonight, and we’re off, dammit to Hell.
“First Orf’cer t’see th’ Cap’m, SAH!” his Marine sentry loudly announced.
“Enter!”
“Bad news, I take it, sir?” Lt. Geoffrey Westcott said with a gloomy expression as soon as he entered the great-cabins.
“Aye, Geoffrey. Take a pew,” Lewrie told him.
A moment later, and Mr. Yelland was announced and given leave to come in.
“Sailing, are we, sir?” Yelland asked, looking as glum as a hanged spaniel. Whatever that worthy had lined up ashore did not bear imagining, but what pleasure he was now denied hurt him sore.
“Wellesley is to land at Mondego Bay, in Portugal, and we’re to see Spencer’s little army there t’join him, Mister Yelland. Have you charts of the place?” Lewrie asked.
“Aye, sir, though I’ll have to dig them out,” Yelland replied. “If you will excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie said. Once the Sailing Master had departed, Lewrie pulled an apologetic face for Westcott. “Sorry about this rush, but there’s no helping it. How ready is the ship for sea?”
“We’ve the firewood and water, we’ve replaced what little we consumed by way of victuals,” Westcott told him, “but replacement shot and cartridge bags are wanting, and the Purser has yet to lay hands on livestock, or fruit. The wardroom’s short of wine and brandy, and all my small-clothes need washing, and my under-drawers itch me, sir. Other than that, we could get under way by dawn tomorrow.”
“Is she that fetching?” Lewrie teased, sure that Westcott’s grumbling was over his girl ashore; no matter where they went, one could count on Westcott finding himself some female comfort.
“Aye, she is,” Westcott said with a chuckle and one of his brief, harsh grins. “A fair-haired girl from Genoa. Can’t make out damn-all what she’s saying half the time, but what does that matter? Italian’s not my strong suit.”
“But young women are,” Lewrie said, grinning as well.
“Well, one has to be good at something!” Westcott laughed.
“Sailin’ Master t’see th’ Cap’m—,” the Marine bellowed.
“Aye, enter!” Lewrie said with impatience, and Yelland bustled in with several rolled-up charts in his hands, and they all gathered round as Yelland spread them out on the dining table.
“Figueira da Foz, here, sir,” Yelland said, “and Mondego Bay here. It looks to be a good, long beach, running from the city to the Nor’west to Cape Mondego. Better there than a bit North, sir, along the, ah … Dunas de … Qui-ai-os, however the Hell you say it. God, foreign tongues! No roads shown there, sir. If the army artillery and waggons land there, they’d bog down.”
“And once there, they’re to march all this way to Lisbon?” Lt. Westcott posed. “Best of luck to them.”
“That’s the intention,” Lewrie said, summarising the locations of French forces in Portugal, and remembering that Dalrymple had put a pin in his grand map at Setúbal, on the other side of the peninsula below Lisbon and the Tagus River, where French Marshal Junot had placed more of his invasion force. “I’m also told that there’s some French warships at Lisbon, and there’s speculation that eight or so Russian ships are there, and have been taken over, or are now allied with the French.”
“Damme, didn’t Russia issue some sort of declaration of war against us, already?” Mr. Yelland asked, sounding exasperated.
“If they did, they’ve not taken any hostile action against us, yet,” Lewrie told him. “Just closed their ports to our merchantmen as part of Napoleon’s Berlin Decree. If those ships do hear about Wellesley’s coming, or Spencer moving t’join him, they might sortie, so we’d best keep a keen lookout.”
“How many other ships are available for the escort, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked.
“Dalrymple’s writing to the Captains of the ships in harbour to assemble an escort,” Lewrie said. “There’s Newcastle seventy-four, and a brace of frigates. Newcastle’s Captain’s most-like senior to me, so we’re just along for the voyage … and I won’t have t’think a lot. ‘Yes, sir, no, sir, two bags full.’”
“The coast of Portugal offers quite a few places where the soldiers can be extracted, should the French force them to,” Yelland speculated, leaning closer over his chart.
“Once at Mondego Bay, we’ll meet up with Admiral Sir Charles Cotton’s squadron,” Lewrie informed them, “and we’ll be as safe as houses. Puerto de Santa María to Mondego Bay? Five-hundred-odd sea miles?”
“About that, sir, about that,” Yelland agreed, though pulling a face, “as the crow flies. Might take a week, depending on the direction of the wind, and all. Fifty miles right up to windward can turn out to be two hundred in tacking. Hmm, I believe I must go ashore for a bit, sir. It might be a good idea to look for a map of Portugal, not just a sea chart. It might be good to know what’s beyond the first line of hills and mountains that a chart shows us.”
“Good idea,” Lewrie agreed. “Know where the army’s going.”
“You just want ashore,” Westcott teased.
“Christ, who doesn’t, Mister Westcott?” Yelland exclaimed. “I have your permission, sir?”
“Aye, go and fetch us some maps,” Lewrie allowed, “something t’fill in the white voids two miles inland.”
Yelland rolled up his charts and departed, looking too cheerful for words, while Westcott scowled at his back.
“Thank God,” Westcott said, waving a hand under his nose. “He is riper than usual. Does he ever bathe or change clothes?”
“A good navigator, though,” Lewrie said. “He must be borne.”
They heard a Midshipman hailing an approaching boat.
“Lord, what now?” Lewrie asked, fetching his hat off the peg, preparing to go back on deck to see what it was about.
“Orders for your Captain!” a voice shrilled from the boat.
Lewrie heaved a sigh and went out to the quarterdeck, whiling the wait away by petting the ship’s dog, Bisquit, who was always up for attention and affection. A Midshipman came to the deck from the boat and handed a sealed letter over to Midshipman Harvey, with an exchange of stiff, doffed-hat salutes, and the stranger was back over the side. Harvey brought the letter to Lewrie, bowing as he uselessly announced, “Letter for you, sir.”
“Thankee,” Lewrie replied as he tore it open to read it. “Mine arse on a band-box!” he exclaimed a moment later. “Jemmy Shirke?”
He hadn’t seen or heard a thing about his former mess-mate in ages, and perhaps that was a good thing, for when they’d been Midshipmen together in the old HMS Ariadne in 1780, Jemmy Shirke had been a pain, a surly, teasing, and practical-joking lout who’d tormented Lewrie with one prank after another, playing “scaly-fish” to “the newly.” Shirke had been a guest when Lewrie was thrown a “wetting down” party to celebrate his Lieutenancy on Antigua, which Keith Ashburn had turned into an noisy orgy worthy of the old Hell-Fire Club, which had been raided by the other patrons of the Old Lamb in Falmouth Harbour, and broken up early.
Last I saw o’ Jemmy, he had his head ’tween some whore’s teats, and goin’ “brr,” Lewrie thought, with only a modicum of fondness; How the Devil did he ever make “Post”?
However it had happened, Jemmy Shirke advanced through the Lists, and was now senior to Lewrie, and as Senior Officer Present, he would command the escort to the convoy bearing General Spencer and his troops to Mondego Bay. The letter was addressed to the Captain of the Sapphire, not by name, inviting him to dine aboard with the captains of the two frigates; it was not a peremptory Captain Repair On Board.
Hmm, wonder which of us’ll be the more surprised, Lewrie wondered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Lewrie?” Captain James Shirke exclaimed as he greeted him by the entry-port of HMS Newcastle, his Third Rate 74. A second’s astonishment was followed by a crafty look. “Come up in the world, ain’t you. My Steel’s is out-of-date, else I’d’ve known who it is I’m feeding. My Lord, a knighthood? When did that happen?”
Just to make sure that Shirke didn’t pick up where he’d left off in the early days, Lewrie had tricked himself out in full regalia.
“About four years ago,” Lewrie told him. “The King threw in a Baronetcy, to boot. Must’ve been he was havin’ a bad day. I’ll tell ye about it over supper. Good t’see ye again, Jemmy, and congratulations to yourself. When did ye make ‘Post’?”
“Late Ninety-Six,” Shirke said, turning wary. “You?”
“Spring of Ninety-Seven,” Lewrie said, and Shirke looked relieved. “How did that party end, by the way? I slipped out with my wench, through a side door.”
“Hah!” Shirke let out a bark of humour. “They turfed us all out in our small-clothes, the girls half-nude, and it was the Hue and Cry all the way back to the piers!”
Jemmy Shirke had put on a stone or two, and his smug face had thickened a bit, yet, for age, he appeared about the same as he had in the old days; a prominent forehead, a slightly pouted mouth, and a pair of clever brown eyes.
“Boat ahoy!” one of Newcastle’s Mids called to another approaching gig.
“Aye aye!” came the shout, signifying the arrival of another Post-Captain.
“That’ll be the Captains of Tiger and Assurance,” Shirke said. “Our frigates. Hayman, and Fillebrowne.”
“William Fillebrowne?” Lewrie asked, startled.
“I think he is, aye,” Shirke told him. “Know him?”
“We’ve … met,” Lewrie said through gritted teeth.
That arrogant bastard! Lewrie thought.
A moment later and there he was at the lip of the entry-port, taking the welcoming honours and doffing his fore-and-aft bicorne to the flag and officers. Fillebrowne came from great wealth, and was always elegantly tailored and expensively uniformed, the second or third son of immensely rich people. When Lewrie had met him at Elba in the ’90s, he almost took a liking to him in the first minutes, but Fillebrowne had revealed himself a tad too much, and Lewrie happily loathed him a minute after.
He’d had HMS Jester, Fillebrowne had had HMS Myrmidon, in Thom Charlton’s small squadron sent to the Adriatic to counter the French and disrupt their trade in oak for ship-building. Fillebrowne was more interested in using naval service as a chance to amass treasures, artworks, jewelry, and priceless relics from the impoverished French Royalist exiles than in seamanship. His elders had done their Grand Tours of the Continent and come home with Greco-Roman riches and grand art, so why could he not, as well?
Idle, flip, sure of his superiority, was Fillebrowne, a top-lofty sneerer, with a mumbling Oxonian accent; a lecher, too, almost as mad for quim as Westcott, but so arrogantly boastful about it.
The worst was Fillebrowne throwing his “acquisition” of Lewrie’s former Corsican mistress, Phoebe Aretino, in his face with a leer, and almost daring him to do something about it! In Venice, when the man had found that Sir Malcolm Shockley’s younger wife was known to Lewrie, Fillebrowne had gone out of his way to cuckold Sir Malcolm with Lucy, née Beauman, a love of his from long ago on Jamaica, to boot!
After taking the salute from the side-party, Fillebrowne took a glance aft, spotted Lewrie, and spread a slow, superior smile upon his phyz.
“Welcome aboard, Captain Fillebrowne,” Shirke said. “Allow me to name to you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, an old shipmate of mine. Captain Lewrie, I name to you Captain William Fillebrowne.”
“Lewrie,” Fillebrowne replied, un-graciously. “Been a while, has it not?”
“Willy,” Lewrie purred back. “Aye, it has.”
Fillebrowne was not used to people addressing him with the diminuitive of his Christian name, and that threw him off stride, making him clear his throat in sudden pique, and go red in the face.
Another officer came aboard to join them, a Post-Captain of less than three years’ seniority, with only the one epaulet on his right shoulder. John Hayman replied properly to the introductions, addressing Lewrie as “Sir Alan.” He looked to be a serious young man, but one with an unfortunately smallpox-scarred face.
“Well, sir, shall we go aft?” Shirke said, waving towards his great-cabins. As expected of a larger Third Rate 74, Shirke’s cabins were bigger than Lewrie’s, and leaned toward the Spartan plain-ness that the Navy approved, though the paint colour, the choice of furnishings, the style of carpetting over the painted black-and-white deck chequer, and the abundance of shiny pewter, polished brass, and fine crystal was quite tasteful, overall. Shirke had not mentioned if he was married, but Lewrie suspected a woman’s touch in the choices, right down to the upholstery, and the bed coverlet.
They were offered seats, and glasses of wine were produced at once.
“Seen Phoebe lately, have you?” Fillebrowne idly enquired with a taunting brow raised.
“‘La Contessa Phoebe Aretino was at a levee I attended at the Tuileries Palace in Paris during the Peace of Amiens,” Lewrie was glad to inform him, refusing to take the bait; that amour was long gone and done with. “She’s become the queen of the city’s parfumiers, and to the Empress Josephine. Still quite a delectable dish.”
“What, Paris?” Shirke exclaimed. “What the Devil were you doin’ there?”
“Tryin’ to swap dead Frog Captains’ swords for a hanger that I lost to Napoleon at Toulon,” Lewrie told him, leaning back in his chair, quite at ease, and paying Fillebrowne no further mind. He explained how his commandeered French razée, converted to a mortar vessel, had been sunk right out from under him by Napoleon’s guns, and a lucky hit in the forward mortar well, how he’d made his way ashore with the survivors, and been confronted by Bonaparte himself. “With so many Royalist French in my crew as volunteers, I couldn’t just abandon ’em, so I refused t’give my parole, and he rode off with it, just before some Spanish cavalry rescued us. The one Lieutenant Kenyon gave me, remember, Jemmy?”
“Vaguely,” Shirke replied. “I think you wore it at your shore party to celebrate your Lieutenancy, but that was ages ago. What did happen to Kenyon? I recall him from Ariadne. An odd sort, he was.”
“He perished in a raid on a coastal town in the Gironde, when we took on two forts,” Lewrie said, “and aye, he was an odd sort.”
A secret “Molly,” murdered by his own crew, and the least said of that, the better, Lewrie grimly thought. Kenyon’s brig-o’-war had been paid off, the crew scattered throughout the Fleet, and the whole unsavoury matter had been hushed up, for “the good of the Service,” and Kenyon’s cohorts of his same stripe never employed again.
“So, you have actually met Bonaparte twice, Sir Alan?” Captain Hayman tentatively asked, with a tinge of awe in his voice.
“Aye, Captain Hayman,” Lewrie told him. “The second time, in Paris, I must’ve rowed him beyond all temperance, for the next thing my wife and I know, we’re bein’ chased all the way to Calais by his police agents, lookin’ t’murder us.”
“Indeed,” Fillebrowne said with a lazy, half-believing drawl.
“It was in all the papers, just before the war began again,” Hayman said. “My condolences, sir, late as they may be.”
“Thankee, Captain Hayman,” Lewrie said with a grave nod.
Hayman noted his medals, and Lewrie explained his presence at the Battle of Cape Saint Vincent, and how Nelson’s ship had wheeled out of line and practically forced Lewrie’s Jester to go about, or be rammed, else, and join him in countering the Spanish fleet, just two ships in the beginning. Yes, he’d been at Camperdown, too, just after escaping the Nore Mutiny, right after making “Post.” He had been at Copenhagen, too, but there was no commendation for that.
“I was at the Glorious First of June, too, sir,” Lewrie said, “but that was accidental. I was bein’ chased by two French frigates, and stumbled into it.”
“I was at the Nile,” Shirke announced, “still a Lieutenant in a frigate, and we couldn’t see much of it, really. Except for when Ocean exploded. Cannon fire so loud, you couldn’t hear a thing, then boom!, and it went so quiet, you could’ve heard a cricket chirp for nigh-on a quarter hour.”
“My son, Hugh, was at Trafalgar,” Lewrie reminisced. “With Thomas Charlton. Just a Mid, then. And my other son, Sewallis, was under Benjamin Rodgers for a time. Remember Rodgers, from our time in Charlton’s squadron, do ye, sir?” he asked, addressing Fillebrowne.
“A … capable fellow,” Fillebrowne idly allowed with scant praise. “Rather fond of champagne, as I recall.”
“Aye, wouldn’t put a toe out t’sea without several dozen-dozen in his lazarette,” Lewrie replied. “A grand fellow, is Rodgers. I’ve known him since the Bahamas in Eighty-Six.”
Shirke’s steward announced that their supper was laid, and they all repaired to the dining-coach to take seats.
“Worked with your old First Officer, Stroud, in Eighteen-Oh-Three,” Lewrie commented. “He had the Cockerel frigate, when we were sent t’hunt down a French squadron all the way to Spanish Louisiana, just before the Frogs sold it to the Americans.”
“Indeed?” Fillebrowne replied between spoonfuls of ox-tail soup, as if it was no matter to him.
“I was First Lieutenant into her round the time of Toulon,” Lewrie went on, “’til they needed sailors t’man some captured French warships.”
“Stroud, well,” Fillebrowne said, dabbing his lips with his napkin. “I am surprised he was made ‘Post.’ A good-enough organiser and ‘tarpaulin’ sailor, but he always struck me as a dullard, a most un-imaginitive man. Takes all kinds, I would suppose. He stayed aboard when we were anchored at Venice. Had no curiosity, nor any urges to savour the city’s pleasures, either.”
“That’s the First Lieutenant’s job, is it not, sir?” Hayman joshed. “To present his Captain a going concern, no matter what his own preferences might be?”
“And allow his Captain his runs ashore among the pleasures, hmm?” Lewrie posed, with a glance at Fillebrowne.
“’Til he’s made ‘Post’ and has his turn, hah!” Shirke laughed.
“What a city is Venice,” Lewrie slyly prompted, “and so full of valuable things goin’ for a song at the time, with everyone fearful of the French marchin’ in and pillagin’ the place. I recall you did well there, Captain Fillebrowne.”
“Oh, well, I suppose I did,” Fillebrowne agreed, perking up. “I obtained some paintings, furniture, and a marvellous pair of Greco-Roman bronzes that had just turned up on the antiquities market, found in shoal water off the Balkan coast.”
“Captain Fillebrowne is a collector, with an eye for values,” Lewrie told the others. “Runs in the family, don’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” Fillebrowne said, breaking a smile, at last. “Father, uncles, aunts, and my elder brothers all did their Grand Tours, and I was exposed to such things early-on. Could not help developing a discerning eye, what?”
“I thought t’give it a flutter,” Lewrie went on in a casual way, “but an old school friend of mine, Clotworthy Chute, warned me off. He and Peter Rushton were in Venice, lookin’ for a way out when we were there, and he told me that the bulk o’ such were shams, moulded over forms, then put in salt water for a month or two, so even he couldn’t tell whether the things were made in Julius Caesar’s time, or last week. He’s an eye, too, and runs a reputable antiquities shop in London, now.”
In point of fact, Lewrie knew that Fillebrowne’s treasured old bronzes were shams, ’cause Clotworthy Chute had had them made, then sold them to Fillebrowne for hundreds of pounds, laughing all the way to help Lewrie get his own back!
“Indeed,” Fillebrowne archly replied, looking worried. “As I recall, this Chute fellow was the one who authenticated them for me, and brokered their sale.”
“Well, there you are, then!” Lewrie jovially said. “Nothing t’worry about. As for me, Chute found me some dress-makin’ fabrics and some drapery material, toys, and a brass lion-head doorknocker.”
Fillebrowne peered closely at Lewrie as if wondering if he was being twitted, but the cabin servants cleared the soup course and set out the grilled fish, and the bustle of activity seized Fillebrowne’s attention.
Over port, cheese, and sweet bisquits, Shirke briefly outlined his plans for convoying, assigning Lewrie and Sapphire to a flanking position, with Captain Hayman’s Tiger to be the “bulldog” or the whipper-in at the rear of the convoy to chivvy slow sailing transports to speed up and keep proper order. Lewrie made it plain that his ship was not fast enough for that role, and that Hayman might have to give Sapphire a reminder to keep up. “I plod, sirs, even on the best days!” he said with a deprecating laugh.
* * *
“If you will not stand on the order of your going, sir, I wish a word,” Shirke said as they went out to the quarterdeck once supper was done.
“Well, of course,” Lewrie agreed, wondering what Shirke had in mind. Tradition demanded that Lewrie debark first, but …
He and Shirke doffed their hats to salute Fillebrowne’s departure, then Hayman’s. Shirke pulled a slim cigarro from a pocket and leaned over the compass binnacle’s lit lamp, opened it, and got his cigarro afire, and took a few puffs.
“May I offer you one, sir?” Shirke asked.
“Never developed the habit,” Lewrie told him. “Thankee, no.”
“Hayman seems a nice-enough young fellow, don’t you agree?”
“Nice? Aye, I s’pose so,” Lewrie said, canting his head over to one side. “Eager t’win his spurs, with his first frigate, and his promotion. He didn’t even look disappointed t’be the ‘bulldog.’”
“Were I in his shoes, I would have pouted,” Shirke confessed with a chuckle. “Ad hoc squadrons, thrown together at the last minute … perhaps we’ll learn to rub together on passage to Cádiz, before we pick up the troop convoy. Fillebrowne, though. You worked with him before. What the Devil is he, a naval officer, or an art collector?”
“A bit of both, really,” Lewrie said with a shrug. “He did as good as one could expect in the Adriatic, but with little to write home about. His storerooms and part of the orlop stowage were full of valuable acquisitions, so he may have been touchy about taking too much damage. I can’t recall him being engaged on his own, and when we were sailing as a four-ship squadron, we took prizes without more than challenge shots bein’ fired.”
“Is there bad blood between you two?” Shirke asked.
“The arrogant prick took up with two women close to me, and boasted of it, slyly,” Lewrie admitted. “One a former mistress, the other the wife of a patron, a ‘cream-pot’ love of mine during the American Revolution, and neither such a loss, or a wrench, to make me kick furniture. I don’t know what his problem is, but for my part, I just don’t like him for bein’ an idle grasper. That’s not t’say that I can’t work with him. I’m senior to him on the Captain’s List by at least a year, and seniority’s a wondrous thing if one’s feelin’ spiteful,” he concluded with a wry laugh.
“Yes, and I’m senior to you,” Shirke pointed out with a sly twinkle.
“Feelin’ spiteful?” Lewrie teased.
“Not a bit of it,” Shirke told him. “What passed between us in the old days was youthful skylarking, and nothing personal.”
“The molasses in my hammock?” Lewrie asked. “Sendin’ me aloft t’pick dilberries? The paintbrush full o’ shit when I was the figurehead when we played ‘buildin’ ’a galley? Good God, but I was so naive! ‘Gild the figurehead’s face!’.”
