An Onshore Storm Read online

  “Well, damme,” he muttered as he actually found one from Rear-Admiral Thomas Charlton. After a longing look at a promising pile of letters from Jessica, he broke the seal, spread it out, and leaned back in his chair to read it.

  Gallant Capt. Lewrie,

  What a Feat we have wrought, sir! Our raids from Cape Spartivento East’rd all in one day was praised to the Skies by the Commanding Gen. on Sicily, as a Deed that utterly Scotched any hopes upon the part of the French to mount a seaborne invasion of the island for a long time into the future, a copy of which he has kindly sent me. Add Brigadier Caruthers’s victory to that, damn fool though it was to delay and engage, and I’m told that Horse Guards, our Army, and the Secy of State for War are mightily Impressed. So much so that St. James’s Palace has seen fit to make me a Knight of The Bath!

  I vow I owe it all to you, you Rascal!

  Lewrie whooped in glee, startling his cat, Dasher’s rabbit, and his cabin retinue. “The Admiral’s to be knighted, lads, and we all have been called heroes. Just damn my eyes!”

  Charlton could not envision a future operation as vast as the last one, but encouraged Lewrie and his wee squadron to strike while the iron was hot (and supplies would be more readily forthcoming) and continue in their endeavours to punish the French with future raids. If he needed additional frigates or sloops to aid in that direction, Charlton would despatch what he could spare from patrolling to aid him.

  He laid that letter aside to file in his desk, and at last shuffled through the many letters from his wife for the earliest. Oddly, he found one addressed to Mr. Thomas Dasher.

  “Dasher, you’ve a letter,” he told him, bringing the lad’s head up from his squat in the corner where he’d been going through a London paper.

  “A letter? Me, sir?” Dasher gawped.

  “It seems Dame Lewrie has written you, lad,” Lewrie said.

  Dasher brushed his hands down his slop-trousers as if to clean them before hesitantly accepting the letter, eyes wide in wonder as Lewrie opened his own.

  Darling Husband,

  What a splendid Spring and Summer you are missing. I must take what Delight I can from the Seasons to stave off my Intense Longing to see you once more. I have never seen London so green, so many vivid floral plantings, as if the city is one vast Botanical Show. Even despite my poor talent at Gardening, our back garden flourishes most Vibrantly. Your father says that it takes more than an hundred years to result in a good English lawn, but he pronounced ours well on its way to a Semblance. He has kindly offered to escort me on rides through Hyde Park at least twice a week, rain permitting, and has proven to be most patient with my poor seat and slow pace.

  That’d be t’get himself away from his house guests, Lewrie wryly thought. Lewrie’s daughter, Charlotte, was husband hunting for a second London Season, and her presence meant that the Chiswicks were underfoot again, not only her Uncle Governour and Aunt Millicent but their oldest daughter, Diana, a girl Lewrie deemed as vapid as a flock of chickens; fetching enough, but silly and dumb. And with that crowd would come dressmakers, shoemakers, all sorts of tradesmen and women to make both girls as presentable as possible.

  Thank the Lord dearest Alan, that I am not called upon to spend my days, and some nights, tending to their needs and wishes, for, at your wise Suggestion, I called upon your friend, Clotworthy Chute, seeking an “Amanuensis” (?) to fulfill the Duty, and he found a Way to approach Governour Chiswick and offer a quite Genteel older lady to be what your Father most amusingly called a “buttock broker.”

  A retired whore, or brothel keeper, most-like, Lewrie thought, chuckling to himself.

  Mrs. Boothby, the widow of an Army Colonel, has enthralled all, with her many Contacts in Polite Society, and the matches she has made in past. Even Governour did not balk at her Fee, which I am given to understand is rather steep.

  Lewrie had to stop reading and allow himself a good laugh; when given free rein, old Clotworthy Chute’s skills as a “Captain Sharp,” and a con man, were as keen as ever!

  “Lookit, George,” Dasher excitedly said to Turnbow, the other cabin servant, “she even drawed me a pitchure o’ Bully, our ratter an’ spit turner terrier!”

  “Right kind of her, aye, Tom,” Turnbow said, leaning over to look at the sketch. “Never met her, but she must be a fine lady to do that for ya. What she say, then?”

  “Ehm, she ah … ‘holds me in her mem-mem-or-y as a ch … cheer … cheerful lad, and in … includes me in her p … prayers t’be safe, an’ serve th’ Captain fai … faith-fully.’ Imagine!”

  Dasher turned his head to stare at Jessica’s portrait on the forward bulkhead with adoration, flicking a tear from his eyes.

  Returning to his own reading, Lewrie learned that Jessica had only done one portrait so far, but had earned £25 for it, and, with the proceeds from the ghastly book she’d illustrated, was doing quite nicely towards supporting herself and their household without the “pin money” set aside for her expenses.

  In later letters, Jessica expressed some worry about her father, the Reverend Chenery. His brother at Oxford had been talking up an expedition to New England in America, and the Maritime Provinces in British Canada to search for proof that either the Romans, the Carthaginians, or the Phoenicians had reached the New World long before its official discovery, and that if he wanted to be a part of it, he would have to make a substantial contribution, which Jessica feared would be far beyond his means.

  Father, poor Dear, sounds quite Beguiled by the Rumours, especially one in which a fleet of Templars left England for the New World, in emulation of Accounts of Viking voyages, and I dread his Restlessness to partake in the Adventure in Person, throw up his Position at Saint Anselm’s and abandon his Flock.

  He has even hinted round importuning me for the Sum required, Alan! Does he write you asking for Money, pray Refuse him as firmly, but as gently, as possible!

  Damned right I will! Lewrie thought; What utter rot! Pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow nonsense. They’ll go grubbin’ for the Holy Grail and the Ark of The Covenant, next! Relatives, and in-laws, my God! They’ll be the death, or ruin, o’ me.

  Jessica’s latest letters were much more cheerful. She, the Chiswicks, Sir Hugo, and the two husband hunting girls, had coached down to Chatham to see the launch of the Daedelus frigate, in which his elder son, Sewallis, would be Third Officer, and in his first active commission as a Lieutenant, and Oh, it had been a grand outing, though Jessica found their accommodations lacking!

  The weather had been perfect, with a good breeze to stir all the many bright flags and banners. Sir Hugo had worn his uniform of an Army Lieutenant-General, and Sewallis had looked spruce in a new uniform, too, proud but solemn as was his wont. The Chatham yards had been thronged with spectators of all classes, all of them neat and clean, even the workers who had built her. There had been bands and martial music, bold patriotic speeches, and a moving prayer from a bishop of the church just before the toasting.

  Alan, it was so exciting to witness! An Admiral lifted a glass of brandy on high, and with a very loud voice intoned “Success to HMS Daedelus! Long may she swim.” There arose such a great, sustained cheer that almost covered the sounds of the saws as the last impediments to the Launch were removed, and away the Ship went, sliding down the ways and into the river as gracefully as a swan! I found myself hopping on my tiptoes, huzzahing as loud as anyone present. Sewallis said that she must now sail down to the Nore to be fitted with her guns, upper masts and I don’t know quite all, to recruit. So huge, so solid is Daedelus that it amazes me that she could be a Product of Man’s Ingenuity. Sewallis insists I call her “she”!

  Jessica had been even more impressed by the sight of an older Third Rate 64 that had been towed up the Medway to serve as a receiving ship for the Chatham Dockyards. She had not yet had her forecastle and poop deck roofed over and turned into sheds, and shorn of her upper masts … “to a gantline” Sewallis had called it … but the size and bulk of her ha
d been even greater than the just-launched frigate. And her husband commands a ship like that? Impressive!

  She, Sir Hugo, the Chiswicks, and Charlotte and Diana had met Daedelus’s Captain, First and Second Officers, and the few Midshipmen her Captain had gathered, so far, and she had found them to be a fine set of serious-minded men.

  Imagine my Pride, Alan, when your son informed them that I was the wife of Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Bt., which prompted most complimentary expressions anent your courage, daring, and well-earned fame! They referred to you as the “Ram-Cat.” Is that for your choice of pet?

  Oh, please, please, never learn what it means! Lewrie thought with a cringe.

  After a most pleasing hour of reading, Lewrie came to her last and latest, which almost made him blush, for she’d penned it a day or two after the mass raid was reported in the papers; Charlton’s after-action report to Admiralty, Lewrie’s, Brigadier Caruthers’s, and Colonel Tarrant’s of the 94th had all been re-printed together, which Jessica swore had all but made her head reel in wonder at his success.

  Though, do promise me, dearest Husband, do not take such risks with your precious Life in future, for it is my fervent Wish that you return to me, Alive, and complete in Body. Recall, you allowed me, at last, to view the scars of wounds honourably received in your past Career, and I could not bear the sight of more! I pray nightly for your Safety as earnestly as I pray for a sweet Re-Union.

  Hmpf, Lewrie thought with a satisfied snort; I guess I’m a hero all over again. That’ll put my detractors’ noses outta joint for a bit. And, Jessica’s proud o’ me. That’s the important thing.

  There were letters from his father, Clotworthy Chute and Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick, a congratulatory note from Peter’s brother Harold at the War Office, and a rare teasing letter from Benjamin Rodgers, an old Navy friend of long standing. He left those aside to read later, for the most part, leaned back in his chair and gave out a yawn. Even being praised to the skies palled after a while.

  Oh, stop! Lewrie thought, chiding himself; You’ll make me turn red!

  “Would you care for some cool tea with ginger beer in it, sir?” Deavers tempted.

  “Aye, I would at that,” Lewrie agreed, rising to cross over to the settee to have himself a lazy sprawl.

  “Midshipman of the Watch, SAH!” the Marine sentry bawled.

  Midshipman Page entered the cabins, hat under his arm and a letter in his hand. “A boat is come alongside, sir, from the Army camp ashore.”

  “Thankee, Mister Page,” Lewrie said, accepting the folded-over note with a sketchy blob of sealing wax to hold its contents just a bit private. “Aha. The boat still alongside, is it?”

  “Aye, sir,” Page replied.

  “Let me scribble a short reply, for you to deliver ashore,” Lewrie told him, going back to his desk for paper, steel-nibbed pen, and a dip in the inkwell. “No need to seal it,” he told Page as he blew the ink dry before folding it in half. “My best respects to Colonel Tarrant, and I shall be delighted to dine with him at seven this evening. Off you go, Mister Page.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” the lad piped, eager for a little boat work and a brief spell away from the ship. Besides, there were young and fetching Sicilian girls strolling the Army camp, and good things to snack on that could be had two-a-penny.

  “Dasher, go forrud and hunt up Yeovill,” Lewrie bade, “do you inform him that I’m dining ashore this evening.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  We’ll most-like end up congratulating ourselves, Lewrie told himself; Hell, I’ll probably have to shave!

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lewrie went ashore half an hour before the appointed time of supper with the 94th’s officers, savouring the delights of a warm Sicilian evening. The anchorage was almost mill-pond calm, reflecting the riding lights and taffrail lanthorns of the ships. Looking aft from his seat in the stern of his boat, he could see that all of the lower deck gun-ports were open for a breeze, already aglow with overhead lanthorns and hundreds of wee candle glims as the light of the day faded, and the crew partook of their suppers.

  Off to the west of the bay and the narrow peninsula that led to the village of Milazzo, the coast was lit with an impressive gold and red sunset, and the mountainous hinterland had gone a smoky grey and dull blue to frame that sunset.

  Lewrie’s boat landed near the signals post above the beach, but he did not have to stumble forward to the bows to jump over into wet sand. The 94th, with help from the Navy, had erected a proper sort of wooden dock perpendicular to the shore and connected to the land with a long pier; Lt. Col. Tarrant did not care to get his polished boots wet. He did not care much for boats, either, and when forced to get in or out of one—as rarely as possible, that—he would do so in safety, which was an odd attitude for an “amphibious” soldier.

  “Thankee, lads,” Lewrie said to his boat crew once on the dock, “Enjoy your suppers, and we’ll show a lanthorn when I need you to come fetch me.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the Cox’n of the boat replied, knuckling his forehead in a rough salute.

  Aha, Lewrie thought as he walked to the end of the pier, gazing at the Army camp; It’s lookin’ a lot like Vauxhall Gardens!

  Indeed, in the short time since the 94th had shifted closer to the foot of the peninsula, gaining nearer access to wood, nails, and labour from Milazzo and the other villages, the camp had become more substantial, almost permanent-looking. In the company lines, tents had been replaced with waist-high framed timber walls over which the tents were now used as rooves, with the sides rolled up during the day and partially lowered at night. And those huts were floored with planks several inches above the dirt, and rough-framed bed-cots sat a foot or so above the floors, so even a flood would not soak their bedding.

  There was a much larger pavillion where the battalion’s officers dined, with the same sort of huts spaced round it, two men in each, except for Major Gittings, who had the luxury of sleeping alone.

  Then there was Colonel Tarrant’s quarters, a proper wood house with an office, a bed chamber, and a spacious dining room which could seat at least ten, and a “jakes” erected a little off to one side, of the building like a proper outhouse with waste bucket, not a cesspit.

  There were lanthorns glowing in each of those huts, and cooking fires burned in front of them as soldiers cooked their own rations for supper, or had the battalion’s women do it for them. There were only fourty or so of the sixty originals who had sailed away from England with their men for the disastrous Walcheren Expedition in 1809, then to Malta the year before. Some of the women had brought their children along, or had given birth since. As Lewrie got closer, he could hear that half the female voices spoke in Italian or broken English.

  All in all, as the dusk gathered, the many fires, lanthorns, and candles of the camp could resemble the well-lit faery garden impression of Vauxhall, with children scampering in late play, and an host of local Sicilians still hawking their wares before being shooed off for the night. And young local girls flirted and strolled with British soldiers, as lovers would in the pleasure gardens of London.

  At the entrance to Colonel Tarrant’s quarters, a long canvas fly had been stretched out for daytime shade. A low wooden platform sat beneath it, with an assortment of folding camp chairs and tables. Colonel Tarrant and Major Gittings were already there, sipping wine and enjoying the sunset. Both rose as Lewrie came forth into the lanthorn light.

  “Ah, you’ve come early, sir,” Tarrant said with a wide smile on his face. “Come, have a seat and try this white wine. It’s local, but it puts me in mind of a Pinot Grigio, unavailable unless one is far north on the Italian mainland.”

  “Perhaps Don Julio smuggled it in, sir,” Lewrie japed, “and offered it at a scandalous profit.”

  “Heard from our ‘prince of thieves’ yet, Sir Alan?” Tarrant asked, tipping Lewrie a genial wink.

  “No, not yet, though I hope to shortly,” Lewrie said, shedding his cocked hat and sword belt for
Tarrant’s orderly to see to, then carefully took a seat on one of the rickety campaign chairs. “He’s off to the mainland, looking for a likely target. Ah, thankee,” he added as he accepted a glass of wine, took a sip, and let out a long “Aah” of appreciation.

  “Any place likely?” Major Gittings asked.

  “Mister Quill sent me a note saying that something along the Gulf of Saint Eufemia, could be promising, Major,” Lewrie told him.

  “What an odd way to make war,” Tarrant commented with a wry shake of his head, “and not just the boats and the ships, hah hah. Government spies and hired-on skulkers, good Lord.”

  “Worked well enough so far, sir,” Lewrie replied, even if he found their situation perhaps a bit too novel.

  It was not as if Lewrie had never worked with agents from the Foreign Office’s Secret Branch; he’d been their gun-dog, off and on, since 1784 in the Far East, but never in anything that struck him as so ramshackle.

  First off, Secret Branch’s man on Sicily—the only one that Lewrie could discover so far—was a Mr. Quill, a tall, skeletal fellow given to black clothing and the night and shadows, a youngish man more suited to be a librarian at some college at Cambridge, who didn’t seem to have a budget to further his work. The Army did not speak to Quill, co-operate with him, give him lodging at the Castello headquarters, or put a pinch of faith in anything he might say, since spies, no matter their place in society, were not proper gentlemen. Instead, Quill lodged in the meanest set of rooms in the waterfront slums of Messina; perhaps to be closer to his set of informers, and lived the life of a shy, impoverished mendicant.

  Quill’s prime source of information was Don Julio, Don Julio Caesare to be precise, though that could not possibly be his given name. He was a charming brute, perhaps a heartless cut-throat when necessary; a smuggler, a thief, a pirate if needs must, and a man whom even Quill had cautioned was “the greatest rogue.”