A Hard, Cruel Shore Page 16

  Lewrie quickly drained his glass, tilted it upside down with an appreciative sound over the wine’s fresh taste, and shot to his feet, ready to go. Even if his feet in his best Hessian boots still complained after his hour or so of thankless prowling the streets of Lisbon.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The visit to the Post Office took very little time, but going to the Prize-Court was a bother. Those beady-eyed officials were all but drooling to have such a large bit of business drop in their laps, but of course they pretended that it was rather a bother to adjudge, assess, and certify so many prizes at once. And, it was a given that Admiralty Prize-Courts proceedings moved forward much like “church work”, or cold molasses; it was damned slow! Even with the best of efforts, the squadron might not see a penny of profit two years hence!

  “It may be necessary, you see, Sir Alan,” one of the senior Proctors told him, all but rubbing his grubby hands together, or fingering his coin purse in expectations of how much might stick to those hands, “for all the Captains of your squadron to call upon the Court before we may even begin to assess the matter at hand. All together, or separately, hmm? Perhaps some time in the next week, hmm?”

  Lewrie finally escaped their clutches round sundown, feeling badly in need of a sponging down to remove the oiliness that he imagined clung to his skin.

  Mountjoy had scarpered back to his own offices and lodgings hours before, after directing him to the right place, intent upon his own business, so Lewrie found himself a streetside coffee house, and lingered in the rare luxury of solitude away from the demands of his ship and squadron, enjoying cups of fine Brazilian coffee just arrived by ship from the Vice-Royalty of Brazil, and some sweet and tasty cinnamon-dusted pastéis de nata before going to the quays to search out a boatman to ferry him back to Sapphire.

  * * *

  “Anything go smash in my absence?” Lewrie asked Lt. Westcott after the welcome-aboard ritual had been performed.

  “All quiet, sir,” Westcott reported. “The hands are at their supper, a welcome one if you cock an ear.”

  The sounds rising up from the gun decks certainly resembled the good cheer usually associated with holiday messes.

  “Fresh porco preto, what the Portuguese call ‘black pork’,” Lt. Westcott informed him, “roughly an eight-pound shoulder for each mess, already smoked and ready for slicing, boiled winter potatos, fresh-baked shore bread, and the usual pease porridge. The Purser, Mister Cadrick, says that beef on the hoof is rather thin on the ground, but pork’s plentiful. Winter vegetables, well. The next time we enter harbour here, I expect that will change for the better. How was the Prize-Court?”

  “Unctuous, greedy, liars,” Lewrie gravelled. “No better than one can expect. They wish all Captains to attend them. Probably to dis-abuse us of any hopes for penny on the pound, as usual. What of the store ship?”

  “Mister Harcourt reports that they have all we require, and all we must do is submit a list, sir,” Westcott said, leaning over the compass binnacle lanthorn to ignite one of his cigarros. “Mmm, now the New World trade is back up and running, I expect I can get some fresh cigarros, too. I’m running short of my Spanish lot. Oh! Mister Harcourt also fetched off the mail bag the store ship had held for us! Your clerk, Faulkes, has yours, sir, all sorted out.”

  “Sorted ’til Chalky gets his wee paws on it,” Lewrie scoffed. “Fresh pork roast, is it? I’ll be aft, then, smackin’ my lips ’til Yeovill has my supper ready. Carry on idle, Mister Westcott.”

  “Idle I’ll be, sir,” Westcott replied, blowing a smoke ring.

  * * *

  “Welcome back, sir,” Pettus said as Lewrie hung up his sword, hat, and dress coat. “A glass of something?”

  “Some of that Spanish white,” Lewrie told him as he seated himself at his desk, with Chalky leaping from the deck to the desk to his lap. “Hallo, ye old rascal. Haven’t eat my mail yet, have you?”

  It took a few minutes of stroking, scratching, and rubbing to settle the cat down, stretched out cross his lap; then Lewrie could address his mail. Faulkes knew the drill; official Admiralty letters first, bills from purveyors second, then personal mail, last. That was a lesson that Lewrie had painfully learned as a Midshipman, bent over a gun to “kiss the gunner’s daughter” for not obeying that stricture.

  Thankfully, there was nothing urgent from Admiralty, just the usual “to all ships” notices of new-found hazards to be marked upon what charts the ships carried, promotion lists, and such, quickly and easily breezed through. He had cleared all his debts in London and Portsmouth before he sailed, so there were no bills to be paid, either.

  He flipped through the much smaller pile of personal letters, setting aside one from Governour Chiswick, sure that it was a report on his daughter’s, Charlotte’s, deportment, and yet another hint that she should have a London Season where she might catch herself a suitable husband. There was one from his father, also to be read dead last. Aha! There was a letter from Maddalena Covilhā, and he broke the seal in a rush.

  Great relief that he was healthy and safe, delight that her fervent prayers had been answered, expressions of how much she had missed him, then a rather amusing description of all that had transpired at Gibraltar since he had sailed away, what she had done during the Christmas holiday, New Year’s celebrations, Three King’s Day, and Epiphany, and how difficult the populace had dealt with the dreadful news of General Sir John Moore’s death, and the cruel conditions that his army had suffered on their long retreat to Corunna. She had been extremely relieved to get his first letter from Portsmouth about the evacuation, then his second letter telling her that he would be coming back to Lisbon.

  Meu amor, does this mean that you will never be returning to Gibraltar? If that is so, I am heartbroken, for you have been such a kind, endearing protector to me that I had, in my imagination, hoped that our mutually pleasing arrangement might continue for as long as possible. Ah, silly, hopeless me, clinging to dreams that might come to nothing! Even if you are in Lisbon for only a few days in a whole six months, I yearn to be re-united with you, and be there for you when you are free!

  “Well, it don’t sound like she’s found herself another keeper,” Lewrie muttered half to himself, immensely pleased that she still had a yen for him. He found himself missing her, too, of a sudden, eager to take Mountjoy up on his offer to smooth her way to Lisbon, even if the man really didn’t employ her in his shady line of work. He felt her absence so strongly that he felt a tightness in his groin, gladly summoning up memories of their lovemaking. Hell yes, he’d send for her, that instant! Leaving the rest of his mail un-read, he opened his desk for pen and paper, dipped into the ink-well, and wrote her an invitation to take ship and join him, assuring her that Mountjoy could help her find lodgings if he was at sea when she arrived, with a hint that Mountjoy might even offer her gainful employment!

  Barely had he signed his name—“eagerly awaiting your expeditious arrival, I am your most humble servant and fondest admirer, Alan”—then folded it over and sealed it when Yeovill came breezing in with the brass barge.

  “Your supper, sir!” Yeovill cheerfully called out as he swung the barge atop the sideboard in the dining coach. “And Bisquit, as usual,” he added as the ship’s dog pranced in at his heels, whining and licking his chops.

  “Well, serve it up, my good man!” Lewrie roared in eagerness as he rose and went to his dining table. “Is it that Portuguese porco preto? Grand! I haven’t had that yet, and the First Officer said it was toothsome. I think a red wine’d go well with it, hey, Pettus?”

  “There’s a nice Spanish rioja already decanted, sir,” Pettus assured him.

  There was Bisquit to calm down and coddle, a re-awakened cat to stroke, before Lewrie could seat himself, tuck a napkin under his chin, and take a first bite of anything, but the pork was heavenly, as were the boiled potatoes, the medley of pickled carrots and peas, the fresh butter and shore bread, right on to the sweet orange tarts bought off a Lisbon bum-boat
.

  It was only after a post-prandial glass of Lewrie’s rapidly diminishing cache of American corn whisky that he scooped up the last of his personal mail off the desk and stretched out on the settee to read the rest. Lewrie felt a vague disappointment that his eldest son, Sewallis, had not written; he hadn’t for some time, which was worrying.

  “Father, solicitor, Lock’s … better be an advertisement, I paid for that new hat … who?” he muttered to himself, then sat up with a start. He had a letter from Mistress Jessica Chenery. “Hope she don’t think her brother’ll get preferential treatment,” he said further as he tore open the plain green wax seal and unfolded it. He would be immune to “petti-coat influence” or personal pleas.

  My youngest brother, now your newest Midshipman, sent us a final letter just before your ship set sail, Sir, reassuring us all that he would be in the best of hands to begin his naval Career, and that, from what little he had gleaned from his conversations with his Fellows, and divers members of the Crew, Charlie stated that he was Delighted to discover the Fame and Successful Repute of his new Captain.

  “Aye, piss down my back, buss my blind cheeks, before ya plead for little Charlie’s petting,” Lewrie grumbled, sure that he was being cozened.

  Indeed, Sir, Charlie related that you and your Ship had been attached to our Army in Portugal and Spain, that you had aided the evacuation from Corunna, and that you had been ashore to witness Gen. Wellesley’s Victories at Roliça and Vimeiro.

  I trust that you will not find my Plea for information Importunate, or too silly or trivial a Waste of your Time, but—there was a young man of our Parish, Lt. John Briscoe Beauchamp, of the 9th Regt. of Foot, with Genl. Wellesley’s Army, then with Genl. Sir John Moore’s in Spain, a promising fellow much beloved of his Parents, our Parish, my Family, and Myself. Though no promises were made, he and I hoped that, upon his Victorious Return, John and I might have become Affianced.

  Sadly, John is listed among the Fallen, though his Regt. cannot, or will not, say under what circumstances that he Perished, and his family has not received any of his Possessions, or even one last Letter, and, needless to say, we are all most distraught at his Loss. Though you are not in the same Service, do you, or could you, write me and advise us how we may learn the details of John’s demise?

  “Beauchamp, Beauchamp,” Lewrie whispered, seeking a face to go with that name, one out of thousands lost from an entire army. “Oh, God! Yes!” he blurted as it came to him. “What a damned small world. Poor chit.”

  He rose from the settee, crossed to his desk and lit the candle in an overhead lanthorn, then sat down, re-read her letter, and took out pen, ink, and paper to pen her a reply, taking a moment to admire her neat and economically small penmanship.

  My Dear Miss Chenery,

  Allow me to express to you my Sympathy for the Loss of One Dear to you, your family, and your Parish. As unimaginably implausible as you find this to be, it was my Pleasure to have met Lt. Beauchamp twice; firstly at Maceira Bay when my First Officer and I went ashore after the Battle of Roliça. We were in search of horses; sailors are infamously Lame ashore, and were confronted by a young Lt. who accused us, all in jest, of being French spies due to our blue uniforms, then guided us to the Remount station, further giving us a tour of the encampment, and a lively description of the fight the day before, none other than your Lt. John Beauchamp of the 9th!

  Lewrie went on the describe how jolly yet knowledgable that young man had been, how striking his person was, and how pleased that he and Lt. Westcott had been with their tour.

  The morning of the Battle of Vimeiro, I went ashore once more, before dawn, upon Sureties from your young man that there would be a Battle, which I wished to witness, and went well Armed just in case. After a ride to the village of Vimeiro with an Irish carter, I obtained a mount and travelled along the long Nor’east ridge which did prove to be the site of the French attacks, against which I took more than a few shots. It was about eleven in the morning, two hours after the first French assaults, that I met Lt. Beauchamp again, this time in the role of galloper, seconded to General Sir Arthur Wellesley’s staff. This was quite a vote of confidence upon him from his regimental commander, and a signal honour to be singled out for such a duty, a sure sign that Lt. Beauchamp was a young fellow with a lot of promise. Not everyone can be trusted to bear the general’s orders or wishes reliably, quickly, and accurately.

  We joshed with each other, he in the gayest and most confident airs, ’til Sir Arthur spotted me and said, and I quote, “Leftenant Beauchamp, stop that prittle-prattle with that naval person, I have need of you!” Lt. Beauchamp was handed a message to the regiments at the furthest Nor’east end of the ridge, and the last I saw of him, Beauchamp tipped me a wink, then galloped off. All in all, I found him to be a fine young fellow, personable, charming, yet efficient and dedicated to his Career, the very sort that I would wish aboard one of my ships.

  Lewrie paused, wondering if he should relate what he’d heard of the awful conditions of the retreat to Corunna in the blizzards, on the ice-slick roads and arched bridges, the drunken indiscipline, the looting, hunger, utter exhaustion that had forced many brave men to just lay down beside the road and freeze to death. No, that’d be too gruesome and horrifying to express to a young lady of a proper up-bringing. Lewrie made a brief reference to the accounts in the newspapers, which Jessica Chenery had surely read.

  A friend of mine, Colonel of a Light Dragoon Regt., lost a third of his troopers and most of his horses on the retreat to Corunna. We spoke briefly on the quays as boats from my ship bore his wounded and sick out to the transports, then he had to turn what little he had left to the defence of the roads into Corunna during the last French assaults, and I have no idea if he survived to be evacuated, either.

  “This’ll be an expensive letter,” Lewrie muttered as he began a second sheet of paper, having done both sides of the first in the tiniest script he could manage, and thank God for steel-nib pens. “I hope she thinks payin’ the postage is worth it.”

  He had to write that it was possible that, in all the confusion of the long and hasty retreat, Lt. Beauchamp’s camp gear, possessions, and such had been abandoned, or just lost, perhaps even left to the French at Corunna to make more room aboard the transports for those who had managed to get aboard, one way or the other; wounded, sick, or whole. Perhaps her borough’s Member of Parliament could put pressure upon Horse Guards, or Beauchamp’s regiment, now that they were back in England in their home barracks, he suggested; surely, his fellow subalterns in the 9th would know how, and in what circumstances, Beauchamp had perished.

  “Maybe she don’t want t’know,” Lewrie muttered, well aware of just how many ways even strong and healthy young men could die, most of them having nothing to do with honour or martial glory, and mostly messily prosaic. “A mystery might be better.”

  Frozen to death, starved, puking, fouling one’s breeches in a raging fever, even murdered by rebellious, drunken soldiers denied the looted stores of village wine or brandy? Such happened.

  Let me once again express to you, Miss Chenery, my sad Regrets for the loss of such a decent young man, one whom I would have wished to have known better.

  On a happier note, I trust, allow me to relate to you that your brother, Midshipman Charles Chenery, is well and progressing nicely in his learning of nautical and “tarry” skills. We have just returned from a raiding cruise along the North coast of Spain which resulted in the Capture or Destruction of over two score French supply ships, Eighteen of which lay at Lisbon as Prizes. Should the recently established Prize Court here ever get round to Certifying them, a lengthy process, believe me! your brother may be in the way of a tidy Sum, as all the ships of my Squadron will. They’ve made me Commodore, of all things! Should you be able to determine the ultimate Fate of Lt. Beauchamp, feel free to write me.

  A little braggin’ on myself never hurts, Lewrie thought with a grin on his face as he finished the letter, folded it, and go
t out his wax and seal … the one with his crest of knighthood, this time. As the stick of wax heated over a candle’s flame, he looked over the girl’s letter one more time, admiring once more the neatness of her copper-plate hand, and the direct nature of her writing, the intelligence behind her words. No shrinking violet was she, but a very sensible young lady with a mind of her own. Lewrie wanted to impress her, he suddenly realised, and half-way hoped that she would write him back. For whatever reason!

  “Oops, oh damn!” he exclaimed as he dribbled a line of wax cross his desk-top and the cover sheet of the letter. He managed to make a large blob where it was needed, pressed his seal into it, then used a pen-knife to scrape off the drops of excess, chidding his instant of stupidity and in-attention.

  “A glass of something before bed, sir?” Pettus asked with a barely stifled yawn.

  “Hmm, a dram or two of whisky, thankee, Pettus,” Lewrie said as he rose to go to the wash-hand stand to brush his teeth, first.

  Damme, but Midshipman Chenery has an incredibly handsome and fetchin’ sister! he thought; A smart’un, too, and talented t’boot.

  As he scrubbed his teeth with flavoured pumice powder, he found that he could recall quite distinctly how she’d looked when he’d met her at her father’s parish manse, the tone of her voice, and how she had gestured as they had talked.

  After rinsing, he looked at himself in the small mirror, turning his head from side to side to see if he looked his true age, or still appeared younger than his fourty-six years, wondering if an unmarried lady in her late twenties might find him interesting.

  Oh, you sorry bastard, he chid himself; You’re like a hound that chases carts. What’d I do with her if I did catch her fancy? Utterly ruin her good name, most-like. Jessica Chenery ain’t for the likes o’ me!

  He got his glass of whisky, a lit candle, and entered his bed-space, ready to retire, wishing Pettus and Jessop a goodnight.