An Onshore Storm Read online

  But, Don Julio, it turned out, was the chief of a vast criminal enterprise with its fingers in everything in Eastern Sicily, with its henchmen and petty thieves two-a-penny in every corner of the land, and Lewrie gathered that there were hundreds of them, which forced him to peer into the gathering darkness, and wonder if Don Julio had his own people here in the camp that very instant, posing as vendors, and cooks, itinerant musicians, pimps flogging whores to the soldiers who could afford a girl, even the whores themselves, all to keep an eye on his temporary allies, the Inglese soldiers and sailors.

  With Julio Caesare, everything was possible and obtainable; lumber, firewood, nails, workers, food, wine, extra canvas, furniture, cook pots, and old women to do the cooking and washing. And the costs were lower than one might expect, he’d assured them. No one had tried to overcharge them, not more than once. Even the petty pilferers and sneak thieves that had plagued the 94th’s camp in its original location had, at the snap of Don Julio’s fingers, vanished from the Earth.

  I wonder whose land he stole to let us set up here, Lewrie had to wonder; so conveniently close to Milazzo and the other villages, which are most-like his home turf!

  Don Julio Caesare was a Devil’s Bargain, but he did gather information well, for a price. In preparation for the raids that the battalion and Lewrie’s ships had staged so far, Don Julio and his minions had scouted the targets most thoroughly, even reporting on the depths of water close inshore, even the condition of the sands on the beaches where the boats would land the troops, the layout of the towns, the size of the local French garrisons, and how far off re-enforcements might be.

  It was only later, Lewrie learned to his chagrin, that their first raid on the coastal town of Tropea had been the seat of his rival smugglers and criminals, using the British to eliminate his closest competition! No wonder the seaside warehouses had been so full of luxury goods!

  Well, I’ve co-operated with Serbian pirates in my time, and I’m still alive, Lewrie thought; so perhaps this’ll still work out.

  A group of battalion officers emerged from the dark, six of them, and Tarrant, Gittings, and Lewrie rose to greet them, with Colonel Tarrant doing the introductions to his company commanders, and them to Lewrie.

  “We’re letting the subalterns have the mess to themselves, tonight,” Tarrant explained, with a hint of glee, “and I’m sure that it will be a night of high cockalorum.” Tarrant’s orderly came out to the sitting area and announced that supper was ready, and Tarrant bade them all enter and take their seats.

  Captains Wiley, Sydenham, Meacham, Fewkes, Bromhead, and Redgrave had only been strange faces, shakoes, and rank marks on their shoulders to Lewrie before, but was delighted to find that the bulk of them were genial and merry company as he strove to remember names and nuances. They even had good, sparkling, and well-informed conversation, stoked by the arrival of many used London papers.

  And Tarrant set a fine table, with a chicken and pasta soup for the first course, followed by a roast goose, and lamb chops in lieu of roast beef, accompanied by various fresh vegetables, and an assortment of wines which complemented each course.

  Finally, over Port, fruit, and a peach pie, Colonel Tarrant tapped his wine glass with his spoon to gather their attention.

  “Gentlemen, I have a happy announcement to share with you all,” he began, “Before I reveal it to you, I wish to propose a toast to our guest tonight, Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, whose scheme for raiding and harassing our enemies brought us out of drudgery, sentry-go, and square-bashing, and fetched us to this Garden of Eden. Gentlemen, I give you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie! Even if he did not rise for the King’s Toast, hah hah.”

  Glasses were charged, the toast repeated in a friendly roar, and the wine drunk down to “heel taps.”

  “Does one stand to toast the King, gentlemen,” Lewrie explained with a laugh, “One bashes his brains out on the overhead decks and beams!”

  “Now … for the news,” Tarrant went on after the polite laugh had settled. “In the mail which came today, I heard from our patrons in Peterborough. They have seen fit to agree to raise funds to offer the yeomanry militia a bonus if they volunteer for the 94th, and the Army will pay for their weapons, uniforms, kits, and see to their training. Furthermore…”

  He could not go further for some moments ’til the officers’ cheers and fists hammering the table top died down.

  “Furthermore,” Tarrant tried again, “the town fathers have seen fit to re-construct the old brickworks east of town and turn it into a proper barracks, so we will have a proper establishment when we go home. Now, I cannot promise that we will grow to a full ten companies, but we will be able to flesh out the Grenadier Company, fill the ranks of the existing Line Companies, and add a second Light Company, as well as an additional Line Company. And, I am so informed…” Tarrant said with a sly grin, “that company Captaincies will now go for an additional five hundred pounds.”

  “They don’t expect us to pay five hundred more…” Captain Redgrave spluttered.

  “No, your commissions are now worth three thousand pounds!” Tarrant hooted, “Our Leftenants are now worth two thousand, and our Ensigns are worth fifteen hundred. We ain’t up there with the Coldstream Guards yet, but we’re getting there, and our recent success, and fame, will attract enough new officers at the higher price.”

  His father, Leftenant-General Sir Hugo, had written Lewrie of the recent explosion of barracks cross Great Britain, hundreds of them, to house, train, and support the militias. It had started in the first invasion scare of 1798, re-occurred during the massing of huge French armies and invasion fleets in 1804–1805, and had blossomed yet again as more militias were incorporated into the Army as regulars; some even agreed to be deployed overseas.

  “Now, our re-enforcements will not be forthcoming for several months,” Colonel Tarrant informed them, “so for now, we will have to soldier on as we are, with what we have. But, I am certain that the Navy, and Captain Lewrie, will see to our getting the additional transports and what-all that will allow us to go from one success to the next, what?”

  Oh, shit! Lewrie thought, cringing though he smiled back at the news; Navy-manned transports, landing boats, boarding nets … where in Hell am I goin’ t’get those?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Damme, I am not a Horn of Plenty! Lewrie moodily thought as he finished his breakfast the next morning; I can’t work miracles for ’em at the snap o’ my fingers!

  Two more transport ships of at least 350 tons burthen, with six more 29-foot Admiralty pattern barges each; boarding nets, and most especially, about ninety more sailors for each transport to man the boats to get the promised soldiers ashore and back, and guard the landing beaches whilst the 94th made their assaults; King’s Ships, rated as armed transports, though the three troop ships he already had didn’t mount any guns. Where could he get all that, and what would Admiralty pay to obtain them for him? The last dealings Lewrie had had in England, such ships were leased for 30 shillings per ton per month—almost as costly as buying them into the Fleet outright!

  When leasing and outfitting round Portsmouth for the few ships he had, with the able help of Captain Middleton, a Commissioner of Admiralty Without Special Functions, there had been so many impediments that Lewrie had almost despaired, and without Middleton and his magic writs from Admiralty, and a seemingly endless source of funds, the squadron might still be languishing, short of everything needful!

  Towards the end of that struggle, even Commissioner Captain Middleton had begun to suspect that there had been some nefarious influences afoot that had tried to scotch, or at least, delay the squadron’s departure. It was a given that the naval dockyards were rife with corruption and graft, and contractors and jobbers from which the Navy got its rope, sails, salt-meats, bisquit, rum, and small beer were just as “shifty.” Lord St. Vincent, Admiral Sir John Jervis, had tried to root much of that out when he was named First Lord of The Admiralty, but “Old Jarvey’s” term of office
had been cut short by people in government who profited on the side from all that graft and corruption.

  And the hoops through which Lewrie and Middleton had to jump could not be blamed entirely on the sloth-like workings of bureaucracy, either. Lewrie had told him that there were people in the Navy who despised him for being too lucky, too successful; officers he had riled professionally or personally, even one Lewrie had thought of as a dear friend who’d found him too idle, cocky, and carelessly rash. They all had powerful patrons in Parliament, in government, and in the Navy, far senior to the few patrons Lewrie might claim. Had some of the foot-dragging been a result of their spiteful machinations? Neither Lewrie nor Middleton could dismiss that idea completely.

  Lewrie poured himself another cup of freshly-brewed coffee, sweetened and creamed it, then rose from his dining table and went to his desk in the day-cabin to get out pen, paper, and uncap the inkwell. He still had several un-opened letters from home to be read, and he dearly wished to re-read Jessica’s latest, but he had to write the First Secretary, Mr. Croker, his local patron, Rear-Admiral Charlton, and Commissioner Captain Middleton about the need for two more transports, first.

  At least I have two months or more before they’re needed, he thought as he began the first letter.

  “Marine Captain Whitehead, SAH!” his Marine sentry bellowed.

  “Dammit,” Lewrie muttered, then shouted “Enter!”

  “Ah, good morning, Captain sir,” Whitehead began as he came into the cabins, turned out in proper dress uniform. “I wonder if I could have your permission to man the barges, sir? I wish to take the Marine complement ashore this morning, as we discussed, to borrow the Army’s firing range, and do some light infantry exercises alongside one of their companies.”

  “This morning?” Lewrie said, frowning for a moment. “Oh, right. We did discuss that. I’ll come on deck to see you off, shortly. Do convey my compliments to the officer of the watch, and say that he’s to have the Bosun pipe Man Boats.”

  “Very good, sir, and thank you,” Capt. Whitehead said, bowing himself out.

  Damn, damn, damn! Lewrie fumed in silence, looking at the few lines he had scribbled, little beyond the addressee. He tossed his steel-nib pen atop the desk and rose, cast a glance at his old cat, Chalky, then stowed the pen and the sheet of paper in a drawer of his desk before going to don his coat and hat.

  Lewrie stepped out onto the quarterdeck, watching a stir of activity as Whitehead spoke to an older Midshipman standing Harbour Watch, who sent a junior Mid to the officers’ wardroom to rouse one of the Lieutenants, since officers did not stand watch in port, and wait for Lt. Grace, the Fourth Officer, to emerge, yawning and shrugging into his coat with his hat awry. Only then was word passed for the Bosun, Mr. Gore, who had to come up from idling below to raise his silver call to his lips and pipe the required signal.

  “Ah, Captain Whitehead,” Lewrie said, looking down into the waist where the Marines were gathering, “do you use the entry-ports and the boarding battens, larboard and starboard. We’ll not use the nets ’til we figure out how to avoid killing anyone, what?”

  “What, indeed, sir!” Whitehead replied with a stern face. “Queue up by the entry-ports for debarking!” he yelled to his men.

  “Boat crews, man your boats!” the Bosun was yelling.

  At last, the occupants of the wardroom emerged from below drawn by the un-expected shouts; First Officer, Mr. Farley, the Second Officer, the laconic Mr. Rutland, and the irrepressible Mr. Greenleaf, the Third Officer. Behind them came the Sailing Master, Mr. Wickersham, with a hand of cards clutched in one hand, and the Ship’s Surgeon, Mr. Woodbury, with shaving soap still on one half of his face.

  “Ehm, shall the boats stay ashore ’til the Marines’ return to the ship, sir?” Lt. Grace asked, and the gathering seamen and Mids who would man the boats perked up with interest.

  “No need, Mister Grace,” Lewrie told him, “we’ve drills to do of our own, and the hands’d miss their rum issue. When the Marines are done with target practice, they’ll signal.”

  “Very well, sir,” Grace said, as crestfallen as the sailors. Evidently the doings in the 94th Foot’s camp were fine distractions. Lewrie could see some scowls and hear subdued groans. Lewrie’s own long-time Cox’n, Liam Desmond, and his stroke-oar, Kitch, shared a shrug and a frown.

  The boats were drawn up alongside the entry-ports from being tethered in a loose clutch astern, and the boat crews scrambled down the boarding battens and man-ropes, loosing their oars from bundles bound together, hoisted them erect, and readied to shove off. Then the Marines slowly went down into the first two boats with their muskets, canteens, cartridge pouches, and spare eighty rounds in their rucksacks. Once filled, the first two barges rowed free, and the two other boats filled. Finally, all four barges stroked for that dock alongside the beach, and Lewrie could go aft once more, and get a fresh start on his letters.

  * * *

  Lewrie scribbled for several hours, time punctuated by the twig-like crackle of musketry from shore, and the clash of steel on steel as the ship’s crew practiced with cutlasses. As each letter was done, he passed it to Sub-Lieutenant Severance to copy.

  “Ehm, sir?” Severance said as Lewrie hunched over a new sheet of paper.

  “Aye?” Lewrie grunted.

  “Might you send the copies, and retain your first drafts, sir?” Severance suggested.

  “And what’s wrong with my handwriting?” Lewrie snapped.

  “Well, sir … in places, yours are hard to make out,” his aide and clerk dared say. “Like here, sir … and here?”

  “Damme, sir, I’ve a perfectly legible copperplate hand,” Lewrie grumphed. “I’ve still sore knuckles from my tutors learning it!”

  “If you’d compare my fair copy with yours, sir,” Severance said, presenting the two side-by-side on the desktop.

  “Oh,” was Lewrie’s comment after a moment of perusal. “Damme, am I going rheumatical, at last? I see what you mean. Very well, we shall send your copies, instead. Assuming you can make heads or tails of this’un,” he said, tapping the letter he was working on. “Chicken scratches, illegible argey-bargey and all.”

  “Very good, sir,” Severance said with a tight smile that Lewrie was not supposed to see.

  “But I’ll write my own personal letters myself!” Lewrie growled.

  “Aye aye, sir,” Severance said, returning to his desk area.

  Lewrie flexed his fingers and watched them move, wondering if almost thirty years at sea had caught up with him. His hands didn’t feel any different; his fingers wriggled quite well.

  Meowr!

  Chalky saw the wriggling and took that as an invitation to come get petted. He was not as keen on his toys as he had been when he was a young cat, but he did admire his “wubbies”—just as long as fingers did not turn into prey, and then he’d nip and grasp with his claws out, and attempting to touch his belly was a challenge to a fight to the death.

  “Oh, alright,” Lewrie relented, giving Chalky a stroking from nose to tail tip, a kneading along the top of his head and the nape of his neck, and some strokes along his jowls. “You’ve earned it, and I can use the break. Sweetness,” he cooed.

  Mrff was Chalky’s response to such baby prattle.

  At last, Chalky stepped down into Lewrie’s lap, yawned, made some paddlings with his paws, and stretched out for a nap, purring to beat the band.

  Seven Bells of the Forenoon was struck to mark the end of the morning’s drills, and the arrival of the rum keg for the first issue of the day. Lewrie could close the inkwell and wipe his pen clean; the letters were finished, and copied. The wind brought the smoke from the galley funnel up forward, and the smell of boiled pork. Lewrie yawned and stretched himself, without waking his cat, though eager to stand and pace about before his mid-day dinner arrived, wondering what his cook, Yeovill, might come up with.

  “Cap’um’s cook, SAH!” the Marine sentry bawled at last, stamping boots and slamming hi
s musket butt on the deck, and in came Yeovill with a large brass food barge. Chalky raised his head, looked about, sniffed the air, and stood in Lewrie’s lap to arch his back, yawn, and then leap down to make a dash for the dining coach with eager meows of demand for food, instanter, if humans knew what was good for them.

  “A good white will go down well with dinner, sir,” Yeovill suggested as he opened the barge lid and laid out plates, and Deavers, the cabin steward, went to the wine-cabinet. “Yes, something toothsome for you, too, Chalky. Get down, now! Wait for it!”

  Eight Bells chimed to announce the end of the Forenoon Watch, the beginning of the Day Watch, followed by Bosun’s calls piping the hands to their dinner.

  “What am I eating, Yeovill?” Lewrie asked, peering at his plate as it was filled.

  “All fresh from shore, sir,” Yeovill cheerfully told him. “A fat fillet of grilled and breaded perch, salad with onion, cucumbers, and lettuce, and a mix of pasta and rice in a nice tomato sauce.”

  “Sounds grand,” Lewrie said, tucking his napkin under his chin.

  “I had a chance to watch the Marines ashore, sir, with a glass I borrowed from Midshipman Langdon,” Yeovill commented as he sliced a crusty loaf of shore bread. “Never seen the like, marching out in pairs, in fours, scouting and loading and firing as they advanced. They’ll be late to their dinners, and their rum, but I’d wager it’ll be more than welcome when they do come back aboard. Here you go, Chalky … grilled fish and rice for you!”

  “Sorry I missed the show,” Lewrie said after a forkful of his fresh salad. “Marines aren’t called on to fight ashore all that often. I’m sure it’s new to them, a challenge.”

  After a bite of fish, and fresh buttered bread, Lewrie took a sip of his wine, and had a thought, just as Yeovill was heading for the door. “I say, Yeovill, I’m curious enough to have Captain Whitehead and Leftenant Venables to supper tonight, so I can ask them all about it.”