“Extending your command into her, and your active commission,” Marsden sagely nodded, his face stony, giving nothing away.
“I will confess that I do wish to keep her, sir,” Lewrie told the sceptical fellow, “to keep my officers and crew together as long as possible. We’ve done grand things together, discipline is so good that we rarely ever have to resort to the ‘cat’, and have not had any desertions, even anchored in American harbours. We both know that that is damned rare, and did I have my choice, when the time comes for her to enter the dry dock, I would love to see us all turned over into a new ship, entire. My people are that good, sir!”
“The mark of a good captain,” Marsden said with another firm nod, then turned to Lewrie’s request. “You told one of my junior ink-spillers that you were familiar with Cape Town, Sir Alan?”
“I dare say that I am, sir!” Lewrie quickly assured him.
I do dare say, Lewrie told himself; I’d dare say anything to get what I need!
“A brief breaking of your passage at the ‘tavern of the seas’?” Marsden asked with faint good humour.
“I was part of the escort to a ‘John Company’ trade to China, a few years back, when I had the Proteus frigate, sir,” Lewrie eagerly laid out in hopes that he could convince Marsden that his experience was vital. “We tangled with a brace of French frigates as we stood off and on Cape Town in the night. We were stern-raked and had our rudder shot away, so we had to put in and try to find a replacement. We were there for more than a month, sir. Landed our badly wounded to a shore sick bay in a rented farmhouse halfway up the Lion’s Head, buried some ashore, and took a train of bullock waggons over to the beached wreck of an East Indiaman that mistook False Cape for the real’un in a gale, and hired local divers and artificers t’salvage her rudder before the wreckers at Simon’s Town got away with it.
“During all that, I got a chance to know the lay-out of Cape Town quite well, too,” Lewrie went on, “and hired a local hunter for a guide. We rode up North, into the hills above the lesser bays…”
For the life of him, he could not remember the names of all the places that those clerks had tossed out!
“… got familiar with the land about the town to the East and the South, as well, sir,” Lewrie said with a confident but false grin.
“How many forts protect Cape Town, sir?” Marsden shrewdly asked.
“I recall but two, sir,” Lewrie replied, “when I was last there, at least. And we had possession of the place. Had no dealings with our Army at the time, d’ye see.”
“Which is … Fort Knocke?” Marsden enquired, taking a moment to peer at another note on his desk. “However one says that. ‘Nok-ah’? ‘Ka-nok-ah’? Bloody foreigners!”
“Both are on the seafront, either side of the town, but I do believe that Fort … whatyecallit … is the one on the Eastern side of Cape Town, closest to the land approaches, sir.”
Lewrie tried to make it sound as if he knew what he was talking about; he hadn’t a bloody clue if that was right and crossed fingers for luck like the un-prepared student he had been at a succession of schools. The way Mr. Marsden peered at him without comment made him feel as if he’d break out in a funk-sweat.
“I do know that the Dutch had shoved hundreds of guns in both forts, Mister Marsden,” Lewrie went on to fill a sudden uncomfortable silence, “both iron and bronze cannon, of heavy and medium calibre, for defence to seaward, and lighter guns against troops. At least, I do recall that they were still there when I was there, long after Lord Keith, Captain Elphinstone then, first took the place.”
“Uhmhmm,” Mr. Marsden at last said, leaning forward to dip his pen in an ink-well, “where do you lodge when up in London, Sir Alan?”
“The Madeira Club, at the corner of Duke and Wigmore Streets, sir,” Lewrie told him, sensing that the interview was over, whether he’d been successful or not.
“I will send you my decision shortly, Sir Alan,” Marsden promised, still looking glum and dubious. “We cannot keep you hanging on tenter-hooks and idle in town whilst the Fleet is denied the use of your frigate,” Marsden said as he finished scribbling the address on a scrap of paper.
“That would be most welcome, sir,” Lewrie told him, preparing to rise and depart. “Either way, clean bottom or foul, I am sure that Channel Fleet will soon find Reliant useful, unless—”
“Captain Home Riggs Popham may find your ship, and your previous experience, useful as well,” Marsden said with a vague-looking smile. “It is he who is to hoist his broad pendant and command the expedition.”
Marsden briefly pursed his lips in a wee moue, as if the choice of officer commanding had not been his. “The fellow who devised the signal flag code. A clever fellow.”
That didn’t sound like much of a recommendation, either.
“Oh!” Lewrie said, perking up. “I served under him briefly, in the winter of 1804, when we made that attack on the port of Calais with catamaran torpedoes and fireships!”
That was not much of a recommendation on Lewrie’s part, either, for the experimental expedition had been a shambles. The few catamaran torpedoes loosed on wind and tide had failed utterly, with only one of them actually exploding, and that nigh miles away from anything that could have charitably been called a real target, and the one fireship had swanned about like a hound on a dozen scents at once before blowing up harmlessly. Perhaps the French had enjoyed the show, and their brief respite from utter boredom.
“Yayss, I do now recall that you were seconded to experimental trials with torpedoes,” Marsden drawled in sour amusement. “A damned foolish idea, those. And, did you enjoy working with Popham?”
“A most inspiriting man, sir,” Lewrie replied, “just bung-full of ideas, and energy.”
“Oh, yes!” Marsden archly agreed, with a grimace. “Energetic, enterprising, and a most mercurial fellow, is Captain Popham. As industrious as an ant hill, just brimming with new ideas. He makes one wonder how he keeps all his balls in the air at the same time, like a juggler at a street fair. A rather un-orthodox man. Who knows what he’ll pull out of his hat next.”
What the Hell have I talked myself into? Lewrie wondered.
“Well, sir,” Lewrie said, getting to his feet, “thank you again for seein’ me, and I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”
“Good day to you, Captain Lewrie,” Marsden said with a parting smile, if only to be gracious, “and look for my decision by letter at your lodgings.”
Whether he knew that Reliant would be seen to or not, whether he would get orders for Cape Town or the utter dullity of the blockade with a foul bottom, Lewrie put a confident grin on his face for the benefit of those still idling in the Waiting Room. He trotted down the stairs to reclaim his hat and cloak with a spry and cocky show of glee and energy. He doubted that Marsden would have a decision to send him by the end of the day, so he might have time to do some brief shopping to supplement his kit and his personal stores.
There was another letter that he was even more eager to recieve. Now, if only Lydia Stangbourne had not yet left for Portsmouth, there was a chance that he might have a supper companion tonight, and perhaps much, much more!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
That lascivious hope lasted just long enough for Lewrie to pop into the Madeira Club and ask the desk clerk if there had been a reply to his morning note to Lydia’s London residence. There was, indeed, but it was merely a folded-over piece of scrap paper, written in an awkward scrawl in pencil, which stated that Miss Lydia had departed for Portsmouth the previous morning and did not say when she would be returning, signed by someone who claimed to be the family butler, and if it was written in English, his name looked to be Gullyfart or Cully’s Tart. The desk clerk, when consulted, could not make heads or tails of it, either; his best guess was Cuffysdart.