Though he was irked at Lord Gardner’s meddling, and the necessity of rowing over in the rain to meet with the masters of the vessels he was to escort, Lewrie was a tad curious. He had dealt with civilian convoys in the past, but had never seen troop ships or the specialised “cavalry” ships.
Before 1794, the Navy Board had done the hiring of ships to bear soldiers, artillery, ammunition, and supplies overseas. In 1794, a six-man Transport Board had been established to handle the task. The Navy Board had been, and most-likely still was, rife with corruption, so it was good odds that the new Transport Board would be no more honest, but somehow the job had to be done on those so-far rare occasions when the small British Army went overseas, mostly to the East or West Indies, or to garrisons in Canada, Gibraltar, and the Mediterranean.
“Arrah, now there’s a homey smell,” Cox’n Liam Desmond said in appreciation after a deep sniff of the wind. “Horses, barns filled with hay an’ straw … all that’s needin’ is a warm peat fire on such a day as this. Ahh!”
“That, an’ a pint of stout right under yer nose whilst yer warmin’ at that fire, Liam,” Patrick Furfy, the stroke-oar, said with a wistful sigh of missed pleasures.
“Make for the one flying the blue pendant,” Lewrie bade them.
There were three ships in all, according to Lord Gardner’s set of orders: the Ascot, the Marigold, and the Sweet Susan. The one with the blue pendant turned out to be the Ascot, the only one named in any connexion with horses or horse races, and she was the troop transport.
Lewrie was welcomed aboard her, not piped, by an Navy officer, a much older Lieutenant with a slight limp who named himself as Thatcher.
“You are the Agent Afloat?” Lewrie asked.
“I am, sir,” Thatcher glumly told him, “and the only naval officer aboard any of the ships. You are to be our escort, the one named in Lord Gardner’s orders? Happy to meet, you, Captain Lewrie. This may take a while, so why don’t you call your boat crew up so they can take shelter from the rain, and we can go aft. Look out!”
“What?” Lewrie gawped, just before Thatcher snatched him by the arm, clear of a charge by an angry ram.
“What the bloody Hell’s that?” Lewrie snapped.
“The mascot of the Thirty-fourth Light Dragoons, sir,” Thatcher spat in a weary tone. “Cornet Allison? Come fetch your bloody … beast!”
A lad of sixteen or so, resplendent in the silver-trimmed, blue-cuffed short red coat, dark blue breeches, and high, knee-flapped boots of a cavalry regiment, and with a leather-visored helmet bristling fore and aft with black fur plumes, came to stumble after the ram, take him by the collar and one large curved horn, to lead him away.
“Sorry, Leftenant Thatcher, sir,” Cornet Allison added and shifted his grip on the ram so he could raise his right hand and press it palm outward to the visor of his helmet in salute to Lewrie. “I was sure he was tethered, but—”
“Make sure he’s tethered,” Lt. Thatcher insisted. “Else, we’ll find what fresh mutton tastes like.”
“Yes, sir,” Cornet Allison assured him, then pulled a face. “I so wish that we’d voted for a mastiff, or a greyhound, but the Colonel insisted, and so … Come on, you,” he said to the ram, trotting it to the far side of the deck.
“It has no name, d’ye see, Captain Lewrie,” Lt. Thatcher said. “The Colonel of the Thirty-fourth, Colonel Laird, also insists that it is always referred to as the Regimental Ram. Though most of the troopers call it ‘that vicious bastard’. ‘Cantankerous’ is a mild word to describe its temperament, and there’s not a soldier aboard that hasn’t been rammed when he wasn’t expecting it. Will you join me for a coffee, sir?”
“Gladly,” Lewrie heartily agreed.
Aft and in the shelter of the ship’s master’s great-cabins, now divvied up into small cabins with deal-and-canvas partitions, there was a long mess table down the middle. Ascot’s master, a gruff older man by name of Settles, stuck his head out of what was left of his formerly spacious quarters just long enough to grunt a gloomy greeting to Lewrie, then shut his door on the lot of them.
The “lot” who shared the approximation of a wardroom aboard a proper warship were the Ascot’s First and Second Mates, and officers of the 34th. Lt. Thatcher did the introductions. A Captain Veasey was the senior officer of the regiment, and another Army officer, Captain Chadfield.
“Rarin’ t’go and have at the Dutchies, I say!” Captain Veasey hoorawed as Lewrie shed his hat and cloak and took a seat at the table. “All this idlin’ in the holds are bad for our mounts, and rough on our troopers, too, d’ye see. It’s taken two years t’make proper mounts and it’d be a cryin’ shame do we lose some on the voyage. Your trained cavalry horse is worth half a dozen regular prads, even blooded hunters. Horridly dear investment.”
Captain Veasey was more than happy to prose on, relating that there were two troops of cavalry aboard Ascot, one of the four squadrons that made up the regiment, with eighty troopers and horses for each troop, plus Lieutenants, Cornets, non-commissioned Sergeants and Corporals, farriers, blacksmiths, and trumpeters. Naturally, there were more horses aboard Marigold and Sweet Susan, for no officer of the British Army could go to war without his string of extra mounts; even the junior-most Cornets’ parents had bought them at least three. Each transport carried around ninety horses, altogether.
Belowdecks on Ascot, Lt. Thatcher stuck in when Veasey ran out of air, there were fewer than 160 troopers, for someone had to feed and tend to the horses and muck out the narrow stalls daily. Detachments of ten troopers under Lieutenants and a Sergeant had been sent to the other ships … damned if the merchant sailors would do it!
“A large risk of fire, though, sir,” Thatcher cautioned. “The horses are grain-fed, but the bales of hay, and the straw put down in the stalls … brr!”
Lewrie got a brief tour of the troopers’ quarters belowdecks, a series of cabins where bored and irritable soldiers tried to find ways to amuse themselves. They were issued hammocks to sleep sailor-style, but had to store them in the stanchions and nettings during the day, leaving them little comfort before dark. Many napped under and atop the rough wood mess tables, or on the hard decks.
“They’ll tear the partitions down for more room, you wait and see, Captain Lewrie,” Lt. Thatcher gloomed once they were back on deck and in much fresher air; un-washed bodies, wet wool, farts, and other un-identifiable reeks had almost made Lewrie gag. Without access to their horses, the troopers would face weeks at sea with nothing to do except dis-mounted weapons drill and “square-bashing” foot drill, and perhaps some five firing at floating targets with their short Paget carbines. Rather neat weapons, Lewrie thought, with their ramrods permanently attached on a chain and swivel so they could not be lost when one tried to re-load on horseback … if such was even possible.
Ascot was about 250 tons’ burthen, the other two about 200 tons, all of them coppered below the waterline, so all were hired on for nineteen shillings per ton; un-coppered ships were paid from fifteen to seventeen shillings per ton, and contracted for six months’ service, though that could be extended. If that became necessary, Lt. Thatcher could issue Transport Board chits to extend the contracts, on his own authority, and risk.
“A rum business, this, Captain Lewrie,” Lt. Thatcher sourly said as he pointed up at his blue pendant. “The Board names me Agent Afloat, and gives me the semblance of a Commodore, but I’m little more than a baulk of ‘live lumber’, a mere passenger! I can gather them in, order them when to sail, and to where, but beyond that, I have no say in how any of the ships are run, or handled, and civilian merchant masters are a tetchy lot, and damn the Navy, they’ll do things their way and ignore any suggestions from me! God forbid I try to give them orders!
“You’d not have a sickly officer, would you, Captain Lewrie?” Lt. Thatcher asked, only partly in jest. “But for this bad leg of mine I’d still be aboard a warship. I was Third Officer into a frigate when a gun burst and put a hunk of iron into me. Three months in Haslar Hospital, then a year on half-pay, well … wasn’t even in action, but at drill!”