Scabrous, too, that half dozen afloat, as if ships' timbers were prone to leprosy; and like the xebecs, they were armed only at the bows with what he took for heavy artillery, and only empty swivel-gun brackets lining their sides. Except for small harbour-watch or anchor-watch parties, they were as abandoned as ships laid up in-ordinary, though their guns hadn't been landed.
To top it off, completing Lewrie's disappointment with his first sight of fabled Trieste, it was a grey and gloomy day, with low clouds clinging to the grim-looking surrounding hills, and barely a breath of wind once inside the breakwaters and moles.
Lionheart was last to come to anchor, to make-up to a red nun-buoy. She was doing it handsomely, reducing sail, brailing up, turning up, with "buoy-jumpers" under her figurehead as she ghosted to a stop within feet of the buoy-and firing a Royal, 21-gun salute to Austria and her Emperor, Franz II, as she did it! Even as a boat was got down off the falls and rowed her kedge anchor-out astern.
Then they waited for a reply. Then waited some more. Every sailor in the squadron began to titter, speculate aloud and roll his eyes as they waited a long piece more.
Finally, some activity could be espied along the ramparts of a harbour fort. Half-dressed soldiers shrugging into coats and clayed belting, tossing shakoes to each other as if they'd picked up someone else's in their rush, or simply forgotten them. Muzzles emerged from a row of embrasures, and the first shot in reply bellowed out.
"An' here I always thought 'twas th' Spanish who were slipshod," Mr. Buchanon snickered. " 'Ese fellers put siesta t' shame, sir!"
"Delivered twenty-one… was received of…" Knolles chuckled, rocking on the balls of his feet as they counted them. "Was that five and six, together? My wordl There's seven… well, come on, eight…"
"Of eleven," Lewrie said after it appeared that the last shot had been fired. Or the gunners had fallen asleep from sheer boredom, he thought sarcastically. Since Captain Charlton did not fly a broad pendant of the blue from his masthead as even a Commodore of the Second Class, the fort had saluted with the number due a mere Captain… though a captain with four warships should have gotten thirteen, with or without broad pendant. That was simple logic. And good manners!
A rather ornate oared barge, fit for a full admiral, or Lord Commissioner of the Admiralty back home, at last appeared, stroking a leisurely way out from a stone quay to Lionheart. There was an officer in the stern-sheets, almost awash in gold-lace fripperies, wearing a dark blue coat, with pale blue cuffs and turn-backs, pale blue waist coat and breeches. Lewrie snorted with derision at the bouquet-sized egret plume arrangement on his cocked hat. 'Bout fifty birds perished for that, he thought with a dismissive shrug.
"Right, then, gentlemen," Lewrie snapped. "Bosun over-side to. square the yards, break out the brooms and give 'er a last sweep-down should anyone come callin'. Mr. Knolles, I'll have the quarterdeck awnings rigged. It looks very much like rain 'fore sunset. Mr. Cony, do you get all the boats down. The Austrians will be taking charge of our prizes, and I want our prize-crews back aboard as soon as they do. Pipe a late rum issue, then hands to dinner, Mr. Knolles."
"Excuse me, sir?" Mr. Giles, the Purser, harrumphed to gain his attention. Their rather "fly" bespectacled young "Pusser," along with his newest "Jack-in-the-Breadroom," Lawless, were almost wringing their hands in anticipation of a run ashore in search of fresh victuals and such. "Could we have a boat, sir? Once the Bosun s done?"
"Of course, Mister Giles," Lewrie agreed. "Boat crew will not await you ashore, though. Remember last time, hmm?"
Giles wasn't a naval officer, exactly; not in the chain of command. He was a civilian hireling, bonded and warranted. The last time, at Leghorn, he'd taken most of a boat's crew inland to help fetch and tote. Half had snuck off from him and had gotten stupendously drunk in a raucous quarter hour before the cox'n could collar them!
"No grappa in Trieste, sir." Giles winced into his coat collar. "Nor rum, neither, pray Jesus."
"Indeed, sir," Lewrie intoned. "By the way, I've a taste for turkey. Should you run afoul of one…"
" Turkey, sir, aye," Giles replied, making a note on a shopping list. "So close to the Turkish Empire, one'd think, hah? Thankee, sir. Come on, Lawless. Perhaps Mister Cony may row us ashore, once he's done squaring the yards and all."
"Aye aye, sir," his lack-witted new clerk mumbled.
"Shoulda flown th' French flag, all o' us, Cap'um," Buchanon said with a sigh, looking at the fort, which had gone back to its well-deserved rest and now looked as forlorn as a fallen church. " 'At'd lit a fire under 'em. Or fetched in 'at frigate."
"Well, we didn't, so there it is, Mister Buchanon," Alan spat.
Bad luck, all-round; inexplicably, instead of a last broadside fired for the honour of the flag and a quick surrender, the French hadn't struck, as they seemed most wont to do these days in the face of superior force. They'd gone game to the last, losing more masts and spars, shot through and riddled, but still firing back, until a lazy-fuming spiral of whitish smoke had risen from her amidships. A fire had broken out belowdecks, and then it was sauve qui pent, as the Frogs said-"save what you can." They left her like rats diving off a sinking grain-coaster. Far astern, round sunset, Lewrie could see a tiny, kindling-like spark of flames, then a sullen bloom of red and amber as the fire, accidentally or intentionally set, reached her magazines and blew her to atoms.
"Signal from the flag, sir," Spendlove called, intruding upon his broodings over all that lost prize-money. " 'Send Boats,' sir. For the French prisoners, I'd expect." Lionheart had taken aboard most of the frigate's survivors, after plucking them from the sea, and a gaol ashore in a port now at war with France was the best place for them…
"Very well, Mister Spendlove. Mister Cony? Belay your squaring the yards. Or Mr. Giles's trip ashore. Lower every boat and row to Lion-heart to transport prisoners ashore. Sergeant Bootheby, your Marines to form an escort-party… pistols and hangers'd be better in the boats, I'd presume."
"Aye aye, sir… pistols and hangers," that stalwart baulk of ramrod-stiff oak replied crisply; though Lewrie was sure by the glum expression on his face that Bootheby would much prefer muskets tipped with gleaming spike-bayonets, to show the sluggard Austrian garrison what real soldiers were supposed to look like… all "pipe-clay, piss an'
gaiters."
"You'll see to the rum issue, once the boat crews have returned aboard, Mister Knolles, then their dinner," Lewrie prompted.
"Aye, sir. And the awnings are ready for rigging."
"Very well, I'll be below, sir. Out of the way."
Which was where he stomped for, irked that a sensible routine of a single ship would forever be altered and amended by the presence of a squadron commander, and a day-long flurry of signal flags. And feeling just glum enough to resent the constant intrusions a bit!
There'd been no turkeys available, no decent geese, either. Mr. Giles had returned with some fresh-slaughtered and skinned rabbits, and Aspinall had jugged them in ship's-issue red wine. It may have been a Tuscan or Corsican, but it was commonly reviled as the Pusser's Bane- "Blackstrap"-thinned with vinegar, and about as tasty as paint.
Fortunately, a boat had come from Lionheart about four bells of the Day Watch, bearing an invitation-more like an order, since it was from Captain Charlton-to dine ashore that evening, as guests of the Austri-ans. Number One full-dress uniform, clean breeches, waistcoat and linen, well-blacked shoes with silver buckles (gilt if they owned a pair), presentation swords (were they so fortunate, etc.). Hair to be powdered and dressed, and blah-blah-blah… Captain Charlton was determined to impress their allies if it killed him.