"Because there's little value in blockading the Genoese Riviera any longer, sir. We've lost it," Lewrie replied straightaway. "The French now have the good coastal roads-Marseilles to Genoa -open year-round. Less coastal shipping to intercept, d'ye see, sir."
There, that sounds sensible, Alan thought; so he won't think he's dealing with a hen-head, after all. He wouldn't have to be the one to admit that to Captain Horatio Nelson, his present squadron commander, or to his favourite, that toplofty earnest prig Captain Cockburn, he and Jester's presence were about as welcome as wasps at an outdoor wedding.
"With the Austrians and Piedmontese cut off from us inland, we serve no useful purpose on the Ligurian coast," Lewrie went on, since Charlton made no move to cut him off. "Had we sent the entire fleet against Toulon west of Cape Antibes to draw them out to battle last year, it might have been a different story, but-"
"So you think Admiral Hotham was in error, sir?"
Uh-oh. Alan all but cringed; a tiny voice told him to get off that subject quickly, since he didn't know Charlton's patrons.
"Outnumbered, hence cautious, sir," was all he'd say, so he wouldn't have to rise to the bait.
"I see," Charlton replied, noncommittal.
"This summer, sir," Lewrie dared opine, "the French will most-like force the matter. Try and retake Corsica. That'll take transports. Spread the war farther east, perhaps. Deprive our Navy of Porto Especia and Leghorn, too. Outflank us on land and force the issue with the Austrians. And I'd imagine that your squadron will be in the thick of it. That's why I said 'good.' "
He squirmed a bit in his chair, though Toulon wasn't moving.
"First impressions aside, Captain Charlton, Jester is more than ready, at an hour's notice. We're nearly two years in commission, with pretty much the same crew, sir. Shaken down and sorted out main-well. Experienced, battle-proven and ready."
Charlton lifted an eyebrow at that, took a temporising sip of his drink and used the time to think-and to look about the cabins. What he'd seen on deck, beneath the temporary mess, had not been unpleasing; Jester was set up as Bristol-Fashion as anyone could ask, and her people had appeared clean and fairly sober, a fit and healthy lot. And, with that chin-high open curiosity and ineffable sense of "how dare he come aboard to judge us"-that inner pride of men who'd been tested and proven their mettle. Much like, he wished to believe, the spirit of his own ship's company.
It struck Charlton that Lewrie's great-cabins were not quite the sybaritic sort he'd expect of someone so casually unconventional. The colours were muted. A proper deep red Navy paint upon the bulwarks and the gun-carriages. A glossy-varnished oak wainscoting above the gun-ports, as were the overhead deck beams. Vertical hull timbers were the same dark forest-green of the ship's gunwales, whilst the rest of the planked interior wood was, well, half painted, at present, a deep, mellow, beach-sand tan, picked out here and there round the transom sash-windows with gilt; the overhead 'tween the glossy deck beams was a light, neutral grey.
Half painted, and only half cleaned. There were still stains and smudges of gunpowder visible. The black-and-white chequer of the painted canvas deck covering was worn through round the cannon, though, where the carriages had recoiled in battle or been run in and out in countless drills.
And those great-guns, those long-barreled 9-pounders he saw; barrels not only free of rust, but gleaming under glossy black paint. Gun-tools immaculate, though worn. Carriage trucks as scuffed as an old pair of shoes-a sign they'd never sat idle for long.
"You're quite right, Commander Lewrie," Charlton said, after a long, disarming moment of silence and adjudication. "This summer will see a lot of action, more than like. God willing, it will see French anarchy and revolution conquered. And our cause, and right, upheld. Formal orders from the flag will, no doubt, come aboard to you shortly. I will send a draught of my initial strictures aboard, as well. Or better yet"-Charlton smiled for the first time in what seemed to Lewrie an aeon of frowning-"do you dine with me, at seven bells of the Second Dog, this evening, aboard my ship. There I will explain our mission more fully. To you and to my own officers. And to Captain Rodgers, of Pylades. For the nonce, I will call 'pon him after I leave you and make the same invitation. So we may get to know each other the better-our strengths- and our weaknesses."
"Captain Rodgers, sir?" Lewrie brightened with hope anew. "That wouldn't be a Benjamin Rodgers, would it?"
"In point of fact, it is, sir," Charlton told him. "Do you know of him, Commander Lewrie?"
'Deed I do, sir!" Alan said with a pleased-as-punch laugh. "We served in the Bahamas, 'tween the wars. And a merry… and busy old time of it did we have, sir. It'd be a pure delight to serve with him again. Much less renew our acquaintance."
"Good friends, were you?" Charlton enquired calmly, feeling helpless at the thought that he was saddled with two subordinates cast from the same slapdash mould!
"Aye, sir," Lewrie admitted. "He even stood godfather to my eldest son in '87. Though we haven't been in touch lately."
Charlton took another fortifying sip, whilst he pondered that latest revelation. Lewrie had an eldest son, born in '87. Born in the Bahamas, hey? Pray God, to a white, English lady? Logic dictated that there was at least one more male offspring in the woodpile.
He studied Lewrie once more, trying to balance what little he knew of his reputation, what he'd seen as a first impression in these last few minutes, with what was slowly being revealed. Paradox, he shrugged to himself.
Lewrie was about three inches shy of his own six-foot height; almost courtier-slim, about eleven or twelve stone. Perhaps early thirties, he guessed. That meant he'd married damn young, when still a lieutenant. Quite unlike himself, who had waited until his captaincy to wed. Good cabin furnishings, from what little he could see peeking from beneath the painters' tarpaulins. Coin-silver Ian thorns stacked atop the sideboard; rather exquisite Turkey or Chinee carpets, now rolled up, but their tag-end coloured patterns showing. Married for love, most like, in infantile "cream-pot" love; and perhaps not well at all-yet, with all signs of moderate wealth. Her money? Captain Charlton speculated. Is he that sort? Or is this recent, a result of Jesters many prizes? Dash it all, but this Lewrie was turning out to be a most perplexing devil! Captain Charlton rather preferred his conundrums a bit more… solvable.
"Well, I shall leave you to the rest of your refit, Lewrie," Charlton announced, finishing his glass.
"Will we be sailing soon, sir?" Lewrie asked as they rose.
"Soon as the wind obliges, sir." Charlton smiled at the man's eagerness to be off, to be up and doing. "Perhaps in the morning, after a good meal and a good night's rest."
"I can have this finished and under way then, sir." Alan chuckled.
"When you come aboard this evening, sir…?" Charlton posed in midstride for the forrud doors.
"Aye, sir?" Scrub the filth off-put on real clothing, he mused.
"Bring a copy of the receipt for this marvelous cold punch, sir. I must admit, it's quite zestful."
"But of course, sir!" Lewrie said, breathing a sigh of relief. "You have Tuscan asti spumante in your lazarette, sir? Or should you allow me to bring that as well? Or… 'tis really so much better if one uses a proper champagne, sir."
"I possess neither, at present. Send to shore for spumante, I s'pose?" Charlton shrugged, almost in a good mood by then. "As for a Frog wine, no harm in drinking it, d'ye think?"