Lewrie had to give Captain Saxton his due, though; the naval dockyard had stored all his goods without pilferage, and it all had been returned in fine shape, and no condemned casks of salt-meats had been substituted for their own. Reliant had gotten all the items that Lewrie had requested, even a more than ample supply of paint for sprucing up the ship! And that in a time when captains would be treated so parsimoniously that more than one had written Admiralty to ask which side of his ship he should re-paint!
Midshipman Richard Saxby Shannon, though all puppy-dog earnest and eager, was also all cunny-thumbs, so far, and was as gullible as the day was long, wide open to all of the traditional jokes that Mids played on each other, and even a new one that Lewrie had not heard of before—they had told him that after six months at sea, even had he yet to experience a girl, he would find himself in desperate need for release, in the form of manual stimulation, or “Boxing the Jesuit” in the dark. They had sent him to the Captain to be issued his Masturbation Papers so he would have official permission!
When Shannon had made his request in Lewrie’s day-cabin, with his hat under his arm and his “serious” face on, Lewrie had laughed himself sick, unable to reply, and, wheezing, had just shooed the lad out, and he could not stop laughing for another ten minutes!
“He’ll probably not even touch his crotch to change his under-drawers,” Lt. Westcott sniggered, smiling wickedly.
“Yes, well,” Lewrie said, after another brief laugh, “I think we’re ready for sea, as soon as the wind shifts favourably. I will be below. Carry on, Mister Westcott … Mister Sprague.”
* * *
“A cup of good, hot coffee, sir?” Pettus offered after he had hung Lewrie’s hat and undress coat up on pegs to dry, out of reach of the cats.
“Most welcome, thankee, Pettus,” Lewrie responded as he plucked an older, third-best uniform coat from the back of his desk chair and donned it. He sat down at his desk and went over the muster book once more to see if he fully agreed with the changes made in the assignments of hands to their various stations during the ship’s working. Men in each larboard and starboard watch had specific duties to perform when on passage, when hoisting the anchors or coming to anchor, when making sail or reducing them, when top-masts must be struck or hoisted up into place, when boats must be hoisted up and lowered overside or recovered, by day or night. Equally, each man was assigned specific stations and duties when the ship went to Quarters and it was all written down in a series of lists so that every niggling chore was covered and every slot filled by a warm body.
“Turning a bit nippy, this time of year, sir,” Pettus commented as he brought the coffee, “and a chilly damp. It will be good we are bound South.”
“Aye, with winter comin’ on, I’d expect even the heat near the Equator’d be welcome,” Lewrie agreed, stirring his mug after adding a large dollop of goat’s milk and two spoonfuls of fine white sugar.
“Midshipman Shannon, SAH!” the Marine sentry at the door bawled.
Lewrie looked up over the rim of his mug to see Jessop making a tube of his right hand and pantomiming a jerk-off to Pettus.
“We’ll have no dis-respect for any Mid, Jessop,” Lewrie said, striving for sternness. “Stop that. Enter!”
“Aye, sir,” Jessop answered, still looking a bit too gleeful for Lewrie’s liking.
Midshipman Shannon entered and marched to the front of Lewrie’s desk at what the lad obviously thought was a properly rapid military pace. “Mister Eldridge’s duty, sir, and I am to tell you that there is a boat approaching,” he rattled off, chin up, stiff as a soldier at “Guards Mount,” and staring over Lewrie’s shoulder at the middle distance.
“Very well, Mister Shannon, and thankee,” Lewrie replied. “Any idea of its passenger, or passengers?”
“Ehm … Mister Eldridge did speculate that it might bear an Admiralty messenger, sir,” Shannon answered, looking as if a question had thrown him off-script and nigh clueless in how to respond.
“Fine, we’ll soon see. You may go, Mister Shannon,” Lewrie bade.
“Aye aye, sir!” Shannon barked, just as loud as the sentry, and all but stamping his boots.
“Just a thought, Mister Shannon,” Lewrie said before the lad could stumble through an attempt at an about-face. “In the Navy, there is no need to emulate the Household Foot Guards, or our own Marines, for that matter. All that shouting and stamping about just frightens my cats.”
“Ehm … I was told…,” Shannon gulped, turning red.
“I would not believe all that I was told by your fellow Mids,” Lewrie cautioned, “recent pranks included, hmm?”
“Very good, sir,” Shannon replied, taking on normal posture. With a brief, shy, and much-relieved smile, he saw himself out.
“Lord, what a younker, sir,” Pettus said once he was gone.
“Believe it or not, Pettus, I’ve seen worse,” Lewrie laughed.
A few minutes later, after Lewrie had placed cheque marks beside the names of some hands whom he thought too weak, or too dense, to do the tasks assigned them, he could hear the calls of the “Spithead Nightingales” as someone was piped aboard the ship. In expectation of a visitor, he set aside the lists and waited for his Marine sentry to do his duty, which came a moment later. “Messenger t’see th’ Cap’um, SAH!”
“Enter,” Lewrie bade.
An older Midshipman from the Port Admiral’s office entered, with a canvas despatch bag hung over one shoulder. “Orders from the Port Admiral, Captain Lewrie, sir. And, Captain Niles also thought that your latest mail should be delivered aboard, as well,” the Mid said.
“Most welcome, and thank you,” Lewrie said with a happy smile as he accepted the packet of letters, and his orders. “Do I need to sign for them?” he asked, waving the slim envelope.
“No, sir,” the Midshipman said with a grin, and bowed himself out. As soon as he was gone, Lewrie broke the wax seal and opened the brief order. He already had orders from Admiralty to sail as part of Commodore Popham’s expedition, “with all despatch” and “making the best of his way”, and was just waiting for a favourable slant of wind for departure so he could fulfil Admiralty’s parlance for cracking on all sail to the royals and blowing out half his heavy-weather canvas for maximum speed. What could Lord Gardner have to say about it?
“Oh Christ,” Lewrie groaned. “Play escort?”
There were, several hired-in merchant vessels also waiting for a change in wind direction which carried a part of Popham’s expeditionary force, a troop transport, and a pair of horse transports bound for Madeira, the assembly point in the neutral Portuguese Azores Islands, and carrying two troops of the 34th Light Dragoons.
So much for “with all despatch”, Lewrie desponded; If they can make eight knots in a ragin’ gale, I’m a Turk in a turban!
He cast a longing look at the thick packet of personal mail, but got to his feet and went aft to the windows in the transom. As Lord Gardner had written, those transports were anchored near Southsea Castle … but then, so were many other vessels. Through the misty haze and sullen rain he could make out one ship which flew a large, plain blue broad pendant, the sign of the naval officer appointed by the Transport Board to be the Agent Afloat.
Bugger it, Lewrie thought; I’m goin’ t’get wet … wetter.
He asked Pettus for his grogram cloak and worst hat, turned the personal mail over to his clerk, Faulkes, for distribution, and sent Jessop out on deck to pass word for his boat crew to assemble.
“I’ll be back later, before Seven Bells, I hope,” Lewrie said to Pettus. “Have Yeovill keep my dinner warm. I have to see a man about a horse.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN