"You're to have a squadron, Captain Charlton," Sir John said, as if in answer to his every dream, that instant! "A thin 'un, given the paucity of bottoms we have at present, but a squadron nonetheless. It cannot come with a proper broad-pendant, I fear. That's the leap in rank reserved for Our Lords Commissioners to decide."
Of course, Charlton realised, deflating a little, though hiding his disappointment as well as he'd concealed his enthusiasm. An English gentleman was raised to be serene and stoic, no matter what! Admirals on foreign stations couldn't promote at will. But a good performance during a brief spell of detached duty could incline the Admiralty to reward him. If he made good, if he could safely steer a wary course 'tween diplomatic niceties, neutrals' rights and the zealous performance…
"There's your Lionheart," Admiral Jervis was saying. "Then I may spare Pylades. She's new-come from Chatham, a 5th Rate, thirty-two guns. A 'twelve-pounder,' being a tad older, of course. Benjamin Rodgers is her captain. A bit 'fly,' but a fighter. About as active as a hungry terrier in the rat-pit, I'm told. Only two others, d'ye see, ship-sloops, I'm sorry to say. But their shallower draught is certain to prove handy in the Adriatic 'midst all those islands. I may spare Myrmidon. An eighteen-gun, below the Rates. Six-pounders."
"A most felicitous choice, Sir John; thankee," Charlton said with a broad grin.
"Aye, her captain s known to you," Jervis stated, very flatly.
An admiral departing a foreign station was allowed several few promotions without Admiralty approval; one Midshipman to Lieutenant, without having to face an Examining Board of post-captains; one Lieutenant to Commander, and one Commander to Post-Captain. When Hotham left, he'd anointed Lt. William Fillebrowne from his own flag-ship's wardroom (the surest route to quick advancement, that) to Commander, and put him into Myrmidon, to replace another favourite who'd gotten the Departure Blessing to Post-Captain into a 6th Rate Frigate whose own captain had gone sick.
Charlton and Fillebrowne, both proteges of the same patron, were surely known to each other already, Jervis thought. Perhaps were from that same mould that Hotham thought most valuable to the Fleet. He had no wish to curry favour with Hotham in this regard-damn his blood!-but they might work together the better for being "dipped" in the same ha'porth of tar. Charlton he thought he might be able to trust. Fillebrowne, well…
Come to think on't, he mused as his cabin-steward poured them a top-up of claret, the one time he'd met Fillebrowne, he'd struck Jervis as a bit too suave, too cultured-too quick to smarm and try to "piss down his back." With the same Oxonian mumble as Hotham or Charlton. A very smooth customer, entirely. Tarry-handed, Jervis grudgingly allowed, but with cat-quick wits, and the amusedly observant air of the practiced rakehell, who went about with his tongue forever stuck in his cheek.
Jervis thought he could trust Charlton to handle this mission-and keep a wary weather eye on Fillebrowne, for Fillebrowne wasn't the sort Sir John wished to have round him.
"The last vessel I may spare is a tad more potent, sir," Sir John said with a smack of his lips after a sip of wine. "HMS Jester. Another ship-sloop of eighteen guns. But French eight-pounders, which is to say, English nines, in our measurement. Just came in to water from the Genoa blockade. Hate to deprive Captain Nelson, but, needs must. Commander Alan Lewrie."
"Ah," Charlton commented, frowning a bit. "Took her late in '93, didn't he, sir? Quite a feat, I heard tell. Being chased by a frigate and a brace of corvettes after Toulon? Took one for his own, dismasted the other and the rescue force took the frigate?"
"That he did, sir," Sir John agreed, with a matching frown.
"Spot of bother, though, something 'bout cannonading civilians in a Genoese port he raided?" Charlton squirmed diplomatically.
"Completely disproved, sir," Admiral Jervis countered, though he continued to frown. "A gasconading lie put out by French spies and agents provocateurs. The matter was looked into and he was found entirely blameless."
"Didn't he, uhmm… oh, some months ago, sir." Charlton dared to quibble further. "Took a prize near Vado, then sailed her straight onto the beach and wrecked her, just so he could chase some Frenchman? Mean t say, Sir John… a perfectly good prize?"
"Rode inland and shot the fellow," Jervis related, nodding slowly in agreement. "Two-hundred-yard shot, with a Ferguson rifle. And spared us no end of bother from this Frog Navy captain. Chief of all their coastal convoys, raiders and escorts, so I've been informed. A rather nasty customer. But he stopped his business most perfectly."
"A bit unconventional, though. Don't ye think, sir?" Charlton essayed. He was not yet a Commodore, not yet one of the anointed, so well regarded by his commanding Admiral or London that he could veto a ship or captain. To be allowed to pick and choose, that was a favour granted only a remarkable few. And this was about as far as he could go, or ought to go, to suggest to Admiral Jervis that he would much prefer someone else; some other small ship. Taking a Frog corvette, being all dashing and brave-well, anyone could be brave, even the daft and foolhardy. Wrecking a valuable prize, going ashore and leaving one's command, just to pot a Frog, well, that made this Lewrie sound as mad as a March hare!
"Unconventional, hmm." Sir John pondered over his claret. He rubbed his chin once more and then broke into an icy grin. "To say the least, sir! And, it doesn't signify. After all, beggars can't be choosers, hmm? But he's all I have to spare. It may occur, sir, that Lewrie and Jester will prove useful to you. Above all, he knows how to fight! And he's experienced in blockading with Captain Nelsons squadron. And you'll be hip-deep in supposedly 'neutral' merchantmen where you're going."
"Of course, sir," Charlton replied, aware that he'd just been taken down a peg by the Admiral's "beggars can't be choosers" remark.
"You must first of all sweep that sea clean of French traders, warships and such, should they be there in force," Jervis directed, back to business. "You are to completely estop the traffic in naval stores-Adriatic oak and Balkan pine-which supports the French fleet in the Mediterranean. You will stop and inspect every ship you meet, determining their bonafides, and whether they are laden with a contraband cargo or sailing to a French-held port."
"Aye aye, sir," Charlton replied firmly.
"Further, you will liaise with our allies the Austrians and perform for them any task which a Royal Navy squadron may do to keep their friendship," Jervis hammered out, though not without a slight sneer about Austrian "Friendship." "Have an eye toward strengthening or expanding what poor excuse they deem their Adriatic Squadron. As for Venice, well, make a port-call or two. Put a flea in her ear 'bout throwing in with us. Venice may be on her last legs, but she still is possessed of a substantial fleet of ships and useful bases in the Ionian Islands. The Foreign Office is working on that aspect now, and the presence of your squadron might just tip the scales in our favour, d'ye see. Escort and protect any and all British trade, as well. Goes without sayin', hmm? And the merchant vessels of the Neapolitans, Papal States, Venice… and other… how do they put it? 'Ships of those nations in amity with His Majesty's Government'?"
"I see, sir." Charlton nodded soberly.
"B'lieve 'twas Pitt the Elder," Sir John mused, "but you must not quote me, sir, said that 'trade follows the flag'? Well, this time round, perhaps the flag must follow trade, hmm?"