King, Ship, and Sword Page 3

  By Four Bells, though . . .

  “Sir? Captain, sir? ’Tis Mister Privette, sir,” Pettus said.

  “Mmph? Bugger ’im.”

  “Mister Fox’s duty, sir,” Privette piped up as Lewrie pried an eye open, blinking away grit. “He wishes to make a tad more sail, sir.”

  “Sail,” Lewrie said with an uncomprehending grunt, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with both hands.

  “Aye, sir,” Privette added. “Mister Fox believes we could bare stays’ls, spanker, and inner jibs, and begin to make a way, full and by.”

  Lewrie was woozy with exhaustion and lack of sleep, despite his brief nap, so it took him a long moment to listen to his senses. The ship was no longer rising and plunging like a manic child on a hobbyhorse, and the sickening roll was less. The hiss and roar of the sea down the hull, and the thunder of her bows meeting hard, steep waves, no longer made it hard to hear, or speak.

  “Aye,” Lewrie allowed at last, staggering to his feet. “Tell Mister Fox I’ll come up. May take a moment, but . . . ,” he added, wincing as muscles and joints too-long tensioned against the motions of the frigate complained loudly, making him wonder if he had caught the long-time sailor’s plaints of arthritis and rheumatism, both.

  “Very well, sir,” Privette replied.

  It was still cold, and icy spray still sheeted cross the deck as Lewrie attained the quarterdeck. The sea and sky were ink-black, and the only lights came from the two taffrail lanthorns, another by the foc’s’le belfry, and the binnacle cabinet to illuminate the compass. Only now and then did the taffrail lanthorns glint off fleeting white-caps and sea-horses, mostly abeam the mizen mast or astern.

  “Eased, has it, Mister Fox?” he asked.

  “Aye, sir, or so I do believe,” the Second Officer told him as he raised a bent finger to the brim of his hat in casual salute. “Her motion has most certainly eased, as has the velocity of the winds. I wish to replace storm trys’ls with stays’ls, hoist the spanker at two reefs, and hoist the inner jib.”

  Lewrie looked into the binnacle to discover their present course: Nor’East. “Wind still out of the Nor’West, Mister Fox?”

  “Aye, sir. Though it does show sign of backing.”

  “Aye, hoist away,” Lewrie decided, rubbing his chin and feeling two days’ worth of stubble rasping. “With any luck, full and by, we’ll be able to steer Nor’east by North. And take in the sea-anchor, too,” he added, turning to look astern for the Dutch coast, as if the drift might have put them close to the shoals already. “Rate of drift?”

  “Nigh a mile each hour, sir,” Lt. Fox told him with a grimace.

  “Then carry on, sir! Carry on, smartly!” Lewrie urged. They had set out the sea-anchor about Three in the previous afternoon, and if they’d drifted sternward a mile per hour since—it took Lewrie another long moment to do the simple math in his woozy head—that meant eleven hours of drifting, and they’d only been fifteen miles off Holland when they’d begun!

  Mercifully for the weary and groggy hands, hoisting jibs and stays’ls, and baring the spanker at two reefs, could be done by the sailors of the current watch, not an “All Hands” manoeuvre requiring men to go aloft at their peril. The off-watch people could sleep in as best they could under the circumstances, and be a tad fresher when the watch changed at 4 A.M. Hoisting was fairly easy; it was sheeting home to cup that still-boisterous wind that would cause the hernias.

  Lewrie stood out of the way by the after-most shrouds of the mainmast, crossing his fingers as the Afterguard hoisted and reefed the spanker. With but a bit more sail exposed, Thermopylae was forced to heel a few more degrees to leeward, but after putting her shoulder to the sea, she felt stiffer and no longer rolled to larboard like a metronome; no, the ship came fully upright with each windward roll, and seemed steadier. He looked overside to the amber-tinted glimmers of lanthorn-light on the heaving wave crests. The wind drove them by as they chopped and broke upon themselves, making it seem as if the frigate was making way, but was she? Lewrie staggered aft towards the cross-deck hammock nettings at the forrud edge of the quarterdeck, peering out-board, hoping . . .

  “Two and a quarter knots, sir!” Midshipman Plumb called out in a thin, piping voice from the taffrails.

  “Bow lookouts!” Lewrie bellowed through a brass speaking-trumpet. “Is the sea-anchor cable taut?”

  “Slack, sir!” one shouted aft. “Runnin’ up on th’ buoy, sir!” cried another.

  “Just thankee Jesus!” Lewrie said under his breath, then turned to Lt. Fox. “Take in the sea-anchor, sir, ’fore we run her under the forefoot.”

  He uncrossed his fingers with a whoosh of pented breath, grinning for the first time since mid-day. Even at a bare two knots’ good to windward, they could be eight miles clear of the Dutch shoals by the change of watch!

  “Watch your luff, Mister Hook, Mister Slater!” Lt. Fox warned.

  “Can’t hold her head Nor’east, sir!” the Quartermaster shouted. “Wind’s veerin’ on us.” He and his Mate, Slater, heaved on the spokes of the wheel, easing a full quarter turn of helm leeward. “Steady on Nor’east by East, sir . . . best she’ll manage.”

  Sailin’ parallel t’Holland, not makin’ sea-room, then, Lewrie thought with a groan; we’ll have t’tack, stiff as the winds are, and hope for the best! The winds were too stiff, and the spray too thick, to spread a chart on the traverse board in the dark. The best Lewrie could do was picture the chart in his mind, and groan again as he realised that, should they continue on this course, they’d encounter those islands East of the Texel, Vlieland and Terschelling, Nor’east of Den Helder and Harlingen, that jutted Northwards, smack on their bows!

  “We’ll have to tack, Mister Fox,” Lewrie said, about the same time that Lt. Fox opened his mouth to suggest the same thing, grimacing again. “Loose another reef in the spanker, pipe ‘All Hands,’ and shake a reef from the main tops’l, as well, so we can build up enough speed t’get her round without gettin’ caught ‘in irons.’ ”

  “Aye aye, sir! Bosun! Pipe ‘All Hands’!” Fox yelled.

  Five Bells chimed before all was ready, before Thermopylae had accelerated to five knots, and “Stations for Stays” had been piped. Despite the heavy weather, and the continual shipping of seas over the bow, the larboard hawse buckler for the best bower had been removed, and the heavy-weather lashings on that anchor freed, with a cable of thigh-thick rope affixed to the anchor stock, and bound about the capstan. Men in hawse breeches swung lead lines from either channel of the foremast, just in case the Thermopylae could not cross the eye of the wind, and the sea-bottom might be close enough for them to anchor—to save the ship from drifting helplessly shoreward if unable to tack, or to try to box-haul her over to starboard tack so they could sail away, even if it meant cutting the bower cable and losing it altogether.

  “Ready, sir,” Lt. Fox reported. It was still his watch, though all watch-standing officers and Midshipmen were on deck, along with the Sailing Master, Mr. Robert Lyle, and his Mates.

  “Pick your moment, Mister Fox,” Lewrie allowed. “I have every confidence in you.”

  “Thankee, sir.”

  And I don’t trust myself t’choose it, Lewrie wryly told himself.

  “Pay her off half a point loo’rd, Mister Hook,” Lt. Fox said.

  “Half a point loo’rd, aye, sir!”

  “Chip-log, Mister Plumb!” Fox shouted aft. “Smartly, now!”

  “Five and uh . . . five and a half knots, sir!” the young Midshipman shouted back after a long minute or two to toss out the log, turn the sandglass, check the line, measure the knot-marks, and report.

  “Good as it’ll get, right, Mister Fox?” Lewrie asked.

  “Aye, sir! Ready a-bout!” Lt. Fox bellowed through a speaking-trumpet. “Ready, ready! Ease down the helm!”

  God only knows her trim, Lewrie queasily thought, watching the helm spin round, noting the faint trembling of the spokes, as regular as the works of a good pocket-watch, that
bespoke a decent balance to the ship, despite the shifting and consumption of stores, and all the water she’d shipped aboard over the long day and night.

  “Helm’s alee!” Lt. Fox shouted forward.

  “Over, in the name of the Lord,” the Sailing Master said in the old usage of the fisheries.

  “Rise, tacks and sheets!” Lt. Fox yelled. The Afterguard hauled taut the lee spanker topping lift, the main tops’l’s clew garnets were hauled up, and the jibs and stays’ls windward sheets were hauled taut, the lee sheets’ binds round the belays undone yet held firmly, waiting for the proper moment when the bows were right up to the eyes of the wind, and they luffed and shivered.

  “Come up, ye darlin’ lass, come up, I say!” Quartermaster Hook crooned, as he and Slater let go the spokes and watched them almost blur as the wheel spun, even with relieving tackles rigged belowdecks, a sure sign that Thermopylae would go up to the wind ardently.

  She’s goin’ t’make it! Lewrie exulted.

  “Haul taut! Mains’l haul!” Fox all but screeched. “Haul of all!”

  It was so dark, it was impossible to see the bows sweep round, see the proper trim of the sails, or the yard-cloths to mark the angle of the yards, but . . . one could feel her lift on the fierce-scending sea, stark upright for a long moment, then begin to heel to larboard; feel the wind as it shifted from right-ahead to one’s right cheek; hear the rustling crackle of icy-stiff canvas as it whooshed over the deck, the groan of starboard sheets as they took the new strain, then a second whump and whoosh as they and the reefed main tops’l filled with wind and bellied out as stiff as sheet metal!

  “Ease her, ease her, there! Helm down half a point loo’rd!”

  Thermopylae shook herself like a wet dog, heeled hard onto her larboard side for a moment, then came back more upright, steadying with the deck canted about twenty degrees from plumb according to the inclinometer on the binnacle cabinet—on starboard tack!

  “Steerin’ West by North, half North, sir!” Quartermaster Hook cried with relief as he and Slater steadied her up.

  “Another cast of the log, Mister Plumb!” Lewrie ordered.

  About two minutes later, Midshipman Plumb could report the good news that Thermopylae was now making three knots!

  “I think she’ll bear the main topmast stays’l and the middle stays’l, Mister Fox,” Lewrie opined aloud. “And I’d admire did ye add the fore tops’l and mizen tops’l at three reefs.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “A perfect tack, Mister Fox,” Lewrie congratulated him. “Timed to a tee.”

  “Uhm, thankee for saying so, sir,” Lt. Fox said, tucking in his chin and ducking his head in modesty . . . false or otherwise.

  “Permission to mount the quarterdeck, sirs?” Lt. Eades, their Marine officer, enquired. “Now all the excitement’s done?”

  “You did not wish to get in the way during the manoeuvre, sir?” Lewrie asked him, now in much better, relieved takings.

  “I leave all that to proper seamen, Captain sir,” Lt. Eades said with a grin as he came to amidships forward of the helm. “Besides, we had some scraps of yesterday’s breaded and toasted cheese, and I admit all the tossing about made me feel peckish.”

  “Hungry? In this weather, sir?” Lewrie said with a gawp.

  “Well . . . aye, sir,” Eades admitted. “With the galley shut down . . . didn’t everyone?”

  “The ship’s rats and Mister Eades own constitutions are of much the same nature, sir,” Lt. Farley japed. “They can eat anything, at any time, with no ill effects.”

  “No sense in drowning hungry,” Lt. Eades said with a shrug. “I do, though, gather that drowning is no longer an immediate threat?”

  “Aye, and if the weather continues to moderate, we’ll all have hot breakfasts by mid-morning,” Lt. Farley told him.

  “Good, ho!” was Eades’s joy at that news.

  Nigh as dense as a mile-post, Lewrie thought, shaking his head in wonder; but he’ll do.

  HMS Thermopylae continued on her course of West by North, half North ’til dawn and beyond as the winds eased and the seas moderated, slowly adding sail ’til she was making a good six knots. By Two Bells of the Forenoon Watch (9 A.M.) it was judged safe to light the galley fires and serve up a late breakfast for one and all. The low clouds lifted a bit and lightened in colour, and the rain ceased; not that it made much difference belowdecks, for the seams still dribbled water here and there, after all the flexing and strain put on the hull and the planking by the storm. And if Lewrie sat halfway down his dining table, he could find a dry spot to drink several very welcome cups of hot coffee and spoon up hot porridge.

  The ship’s motion was even steady enough to allow him a shave!

  Then, back on deck in clean, dry linen, slop-trousers, and uniform, and feeling human for the first time in days, he could dispense with both furs and tarpaulins, for the temperature was just about warm enough to be stood with his coat doubled over and buttoned.

  “Sail ho!” a lookout shouted down to the deck. “Two points off th’ larboard bows!” Midshipman Furlow was sent aloft with a glass to report, and moments later he shouted down that she was a cutter, one of theirs to boot, the much-belaboured Osprey.

  “She signals ‘Have Despatches,’ sir!” Furlow cried.

  “Very well, Mister Furlow!” Lewrie shouted back, then turned to the taffrails. “Mister Pannabaker, send her ‘Come Under My Lee.’ I’d imagine she’d welcome our shelter if she’s been through the same weather we’ve suffered.”

  Osprey quickly replied “Acknowledged” by flag hoist, and steered for Thermopylae. One hour later, she had come almost abeam to larboard, came about to starboard tack, and eased into Thermopylae’s lee off her larboard quarter, to lower a boat and send her across.

  It was sick-making to watch poor HMS Osprey pitch and toss even so, or to watch her rowing boat rise, swoop, and fall amid showers of spray from wave crests and white-caps, ’til the boat was close-aboard, and the very same Midshipman from mid-October came scrambling up the battens and man-ropes to the larboard entry-port, and handed over his canvas bag of mail and orders. With a brief doff of his hat, he was back in his boat in a twinkling, making way back to his wee cutter.

  “Mister Furlow, pass word for my clerk, Mister Georges,” Lewrie instructed as he took the bag. “We’ll sort everything out, then pipe the crew to receive theirs.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He didn’t feel all that hopeful, though. The canvas bag was not weighted, first of all, as it would be to prevent secret instructions or orders for future operations from being taken by an enemy. Second, there wasn’t much mail to sort out. Lewrie and his clerk piled what contents there were into three quick heaps: officers and warrants in one pile; seamen in the second; and his own in the third, with the official letters the first to be opened and read before anyone else got a peek at theirs.

  The one that took Lewrie’s attention first off was from Admiralty, this time properly addressed to him and HMS Thermopylae. With a pen-knife, he sliced off the wax wafer seal and unfolded it.

  “Hallelujah, at last!” he muttered, a broad smile breaking out on his phyz. “See to the rest, Georges. I’ll go on deck.”

  Once there, he ordered Acting-Lieutenant Sealey to have ‘All Hands’ piped, then paced along the forrud edge of the quarterdeck by the iron stanchions of the hammock nettings, which were now filled, ’til everyone, both on-and off-watch, was gathered in the waist, on the sail-tending gangways, and the forecastle.

  “I trust you lads’ve dried out, thawed out, and eat a fillin’ breakfast, at last, hey?” he began in a loud, quarterdeck voice. “We have orders from Admiralty, lads! We are ‘required and directed to make the best of our way’ . . . we all know that means—pull yer bloody finger out and get a move on . . . ,” he japed, which raised a laugh, “to Sheerness and the Nore . . . a few days West of here . . . there to lay His Majesty’s Ship Thermopylae in-ordinary! To land ashore all of her artillery and small arm
s, to consign to His Majesty’s Dockyards all stores not yet consumed, with a strict accounting to be—”

  He was drowned out by the tremendous cheer that erupted, but he didn’t have to say more or cite more from the officialese of those orders; it was not like he was “reading himself in” as Post-Captain or standing beside another who would relieve him.

  “Mister Sealey, . . . Mister Lyle, sirs,” Lewrie bellowed at last as the din died down a bit. “Shape the most direct course for the Nore, sirs, and lay us upon it. We are going home, lads! We’re going home!”

  BOOK I

  O quid solutis est beatius curis,

  cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino

  labore fessi, venimus larem ad nostrum

  desideratque acquiescimus lecto?

  O what is more blessed than to put cares away when the mind lays by its burden, and tired with labour of far travel we come to our own homes and rest on the couch we longed for?

  GAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS,

  POEM XXXI, 7–10

  Or,

  Whatever your gall, you’re cock-of-the-walk

  only on your own dung-heap.

  LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA,

  THE APOCOLOCYNTOSIS OF THE DIVINE CLAUDIUS

  CHAPTER FIVE

  De-commissioning a warship demanded stacks of paperwork worthy of the weight of an 18-pounder gun; reams of it from the Victualling Board as they took possession of all consumable stores, butts, kegs, and tuns of salt-beef or salt-pork, of hard ship’s biscuit, weevilly or otherwise, spoiled or fresh. Salt-meat marked “Condemned” as too rancid to be eaten would, Lewrie was mortal-certain, be dumped into new kegs, to be foisted on some unwitting captain in the future. Their motto at the Victualling Board was “Waste not, want not.”

  Spare upper masts and yards were sent ashore to the warehouses first, then sails and cordage, and all bosuns’ stores and lumber. The frigate was stripped down to her fighting tops and main, lower trunks of her masts, “to a gant-line.” The magazine was carefully emptied of kegs of gunpowder, pre-made flannel cartridge bags already filled, and bales of empty bags, all meticulously indented for and counted.