Well, I grudge you not-rather I marvel;
such unrest is there on all sides in the land.
– The Eclogues, I, 11-12
Virgil
CHAPTER ONE
It should have been a glad day. Yet to Lewrie it seemed to be one of infinite sadness. Though the harbour waters were sparkling and glittering, the skies were fresh-washed blue, stippled with benign and pristine brush-stroked clouds; the sun was bright; and the day was just warm enough to be mild, yet not hot enough to be oppressive; and gulls and other seabirds swooped and dove and hovered with springtime delight… it was his last day. The morning he surrendered command of HMS Jester.
Admiral Sir John Jervis's Valentine's Day "present," following the Battle of Cape Saint Vincent, was a quick dash into Lisbon for two days Out-of-Discipline, an aboard-ship revel with the Portugee whores and something approaching a monumental drunk for all hands. And once the last doxy had been chivvied ashore, the last smuggled wine bottle tipped overside, and the last thick head had returned to normal use, they had stripped Jester of top-masts, stores, and artillery for her first careenage since Leghorn, the middle of '95. Tons of weed, slime, and barnacles had been sluiced, swabbed, chipped, or fired off her hull; and what little they could do to replace missing copper sheets, or tar over and paint over, had been performed before re-floating her, giving her that long-delayed "lick and a promise" above the waterline, before re-stocking her, re-arming her, and setting her masts up anew.
It was only then that Lewrie could announce to his men that they were off for Portsmouth to de-commission; off for Home and England! And Jester's decks had rung with whooping cheers and tears of joy!
He'd wished he'd known sooner; four hands had trickled off from the working parties, entered on ship's books as "Run." Had they known earlier that Jester was bound for England, they might have stayed on to see their families again and collect the pay owed them, which was nearly eighteen months overdue, which, given the times and the Navy's slack accounting system, was actually a little better-than-normal delay.
Then again, two of them had been Italian volunteers, or some of those Maltese seamen who'd been hired-out by the Grand Masters of Malta in '93, after Hood had taken, then lost, the French naval base at Toulon.
Lewrie was certain that their "fly" Purser-the young, bespectacled Mr. Giles-was cackling in glee somewhere aft in a stores room over their departure. Not only had they decamped without their meagre pay, but their shares in the prize-money which Jester had accumulated since '94. Finding a way to make absent men "chew tobacco"-purchase slop-clothing, hats, tinware, and such on a two-year spending spree as profligate as… as drunken sailors-to help make his books balance, Lewrie was mortal-certain! Or sign their pay over to him in total? Forge documents that he was their executor selected to hold any share of prize-money for them? Their only bloody heir? Lewrie had scoffed.
There was little he could do to their benefit. And, after all, they'd "Run"; taken "leg-bail" from the Fleet, from shipmates, and from his command. Now they were most-likely dead-broke and desperate for a berth in any merchant ship that'd have them, throwing away sums that for a poor sailorman were damn'-near princely! The Devil with 'em… damn' fools!
So he'd demurred and hadn't cocked a wary brow at Giles, letting him have his unofficial "due." He needed him too badly to anger the smug little "Captain Sharp," not at the last moments of a commission when his own accountings and financial records were to be scrutinised by a platoon of petti-fogging Admiralty clerks! Not if he didn't want to have some bear-trap snap shut on his arse, all unsuspecting, years later!
His cabins were stripped bare, but for guns, carriages, and the black-and-white chequer painted on the sailcloth deck covering. Ragged and scuffed, the paint scrubbed half off beneath the gun-trucks. The many light canvas and deal partitions were stacked to one corner like a set of abandoned doors or used-up stage-sets. His chests were now in a hired boat alongside. Toulon, strenuously objecting to it, was caged in a wicker basket which Aspinall held-rather carefully, he noted, for Toulon was hissing, spitting, hunkering, and licking chops like he wished to nip the fool who'd ordered him in there. Or whichever fleshy idiot got within slashing distance.
Lewrie huffed a huge sigh of finality. Even after they'd come in, there'd been nigh on ten days' worth of nattering with Vice-Admiral Sir Peter Parker's staff, in charge at Portsmouth, with the criminals at HM Dockyards, with the bewildered twits at Gun Wharf, who'd given him permission to keep his French 8-pounders (which equalled British Long-Nines) instead of waiting to exchange for the proper 6-pounders his vessel rated… and now vowed they had never known a thing about it, and who the deuce did he think he was playing fast and loose with their records? Didn't he know there was a war on?
There'd been a blizzard of paperwork; all the forms, ledgers, and logs, the fill-in-the-blanks documents for Sick Hurt Board, Victualling Board, Ordnance Board, powder and shot expended, in action or for gun-drill, with many "tsk-tsks" and mournful shakings of heads over wasting precious munitions without good reason. Back-stays shifted; spars lost or cracked; lumber, nails, and screws used for repairs-how necessary were the repairs to ship's boats or bulwarks, and had the Carpenter or Bosun allotted too many board feet, too many bloody screws! to restore a shot-through cutter. Marines, accused of using too little boot-black or pipe clay, whilst using too many flints, expending too much powder and ball, and losing one whole musket and two bayonets! Having to explain, in triplicate, every lack or loss, with the replacement cost held over each unfortunate respondent's head until a plausible compromise could be reached!
Every lack was Lewrie's final responsibility as captain after all, every loss or condemnation of rotten stores. Department heads were liable for lack of accountability, certainly, but in the end there were some things he could be dunned for. After a final, prissy, and un-satisfied harumph! that no outright fraud had occurred, no sin of omission or commission which might lead to pay stoppage or court-martial, the senior clerk had written Lewrie a form which deducted from the pay due him, a copy of said form to be forwarded to Admiralty for the clerks there, who could tally up his pay for three years' service, another to go into his personnel file, one for the Portsmouth records, and one to be handed over to Lewrie for his own keeping.
With another huge sigh, Lewrie turned his back on those great-cabins and went out the forrud passageway 'twixt the sadly empty dining coach and the still-usable chart space, to the gun-deck to face his crew.
He had never de-commissioned a ship in wartime. Shrike, back in '83, after the American Revolution was over; as a junior officer into Telesto in '86; or sweet little Alacrity, a converted bomb-ketch he'd had, his first official lieutenant's command, when she'd come home from the Bahamas in '89. Those were all done in time of peace and were relatively joyous occasions, for the hands had mostly been freed from the Navy, going off to civilian pursuits and the pleasures of their homes, their families, with the Fleet much reduced. Now, though…
The Royal Navy was gigantic, with nearly one hundred line-of-battle ships and another hundred frigates, even more lesser ships in commission out fighting their foes, worldwide. Nearly half the hands were impressed or culled from debtors' prisons to man those fleets, and there would be no freedom, even a brief tantalising spree, for most of his Jesters. At that moment she lay far offshore to prevent desertions, daunted by the many guard-boats which rowed Portsmouth's inner harbour with armed Marines aboard with orders to shoot or apprehend; with truncheon-bearing Press Gangs patrolling the docks to deter anyone who'd swum ashore in spite of the guard-boats; or the vigilance of a ship's own Marines, who stood harbour-watch with loaded muskets.