Empirically, fresh-boiled water was sometimes safer than water kept for weeks in-cask, and water taken aboard in the tropics was best if placed in fresh-scoured casks, and taken only from a clear-running stream. Mr. Durant had suggested going a bit more inland for water, to get above the usual wells or streams where cattle or horses drank, to avoid taking on the obvious turds, but even he didn't think that would aid in avoiding malaria or Yellow Jack. Cholera, perhaps, he had concluded, with a mystified Gallic shrug.
Lewrie had even queried his Coxswain, Andrews, once a slave in a rich Jamaican plantation house, about malaria and Yellow Jack as he had seen it when growing up.
"Wuss in mos'keeter time, sah," Andrews had puzzled, "when it's so hot an' still, an' th' air's full of 'em. I heered some ships don't get took so bad, do they stand off-and-on, nor anchor on a lee shore, but…" A mystified black man's shrug was nigh to a French one, one could safely deduce. For God's sake, every safe harbour in the Indies was in some island's lee!
Shovin' us off t'sea in February, Lewrie groused to himself, as he pawed through his pile of letters; if that ain't a sign of their displeasure, I don't know what is. Lisbon first, despatches to Old Jarvy and his fleet… mid or late March, maybe early April before we fetch Antigua or Jamaica, hmmm… a safe month or so, fore it gets hot and the mosquitoes begin to swarm?
He pondered Jesuit's Bark, chinchona, what was termed quinine; South American, probably cheaper and more available nearer its source. It was reputed to cure malaria, or ease its symptoms. Could he force the hands to drink chinchona bark tea as a preventative? Or would he have another mutiny on his hands, since it tasted like Satan's Piss?
Fresh fruit would be plenteous everywhere they went, and Mr. Shirley was certain that almost any fruit was anti-scorbutic to some degree, so they could avoid scurvy, if nothing else.
But one had to go ashore to get 'em, he thought; Never anchor in a lee harbour or bay, near marshes and such, stand off-and-on after dark, well out to sea and up to windward of any land…?
" Yer coffee, sir," Aspinall announced, entering with an iron pot cradled in a dish-clout against its heat, to set on the brazier.
"Oh, good!" Lewrie replied, turning to smile at him, but seeing Caroline's portrait on the forward bulkhead of the dining coach; back when she was young and new-married, fresh and willowy, in a gauzy off-shoulder morning gown with a wide straw hat bound under her chin with a pale blue ribbon, East Bay of Nassau Harbour behind her, her light brown hair still worn long and loose and girlish, teased by the Nor'east Trades, painted smiling instead of the more common stern visage of most portraits, her merry eyes crinkling in delight, with the riant folds below those eyes…!
He averted his gaze.
He had considered taking her picture down, but had feared what gossip that would cause, worse. Busy ashore, and sleeping out of the ship nights, even when she was back in the water… God only knew what the gunroom, the bosun's mess, the midshipmens' cockpit on the orlop, and the forecastle hands had made of that! Already there were the averted eyes, the cautiously framed speech…!
Aspinall brought him a cup of coffee in his silvered tankard, from the HMS Jester days, with shore cream and pared turbinado sugar.
There were letters of a personal nature on his desk; one from his father Sir Hugo, one from Sophie, and a damned thick one from Theoni… already? He quickly shovelled that one into a drawer. Nothing from Caroline or the children, though.
All his official correspondence was up to date; his clerk Mr. Padgett had seen to that the past afternoon, all his bills paid. There was nothing to do but stew and fret and drink his coffee 'til Six Bells and 7 a.m. when it was time to sail, after the mists had burned off.
"Yer dunnage, sir," Aspinall said as two of his Irish sailors, the dim giant Furfy and his mate Liam Desmond, came traipsing in with his shore bags and the chest of last-minute stores.
"Mornin', men."
"Mornin', Cap'um, sor… top o' th' mornin', sor. That eager we be, t'see th' Indies… beggin' th' cap'um's pardon, sor."
"At least it'll be warmer, there's a blessin'," Lewrie replied, smiling in spite of himself. "Thankee, men. That'll be all."
Toulon bestirred himself after an impressive stretch or two and a gargantuan yawn, to come sniffing and pawing at the chest that held his "treats" for the coming months, mewing with expectant delight.
" Toulon… look!" Lewrie enticed, taking a new knit ball from his coat pocket. Theoni had made it, complete with a wee harness bell and some ribbons firmly sewn to it. "Tinkle, tinkle, see?"
"Murr-errf!" was the cat's glad cry. In a trice, he was hounding it from transom settee to forrud bulkhead, tail up and thundering.
"Up and down, sir!" Midshipman Grace, their youngest and newest, called from the forecastle.
"Heave and haul away!" Lt. Langlie shouted back. "Bosun…! Pipe topmen aloft! Trice up, lay out, and make sail!"
Lewrie paced his quarterdeck, wondering if he would ever be warm again, gazing upward with his hands in the small of his back, watching as his well-drilled crew scrambled to free gaskets, take hold of clews, and begin to bare canvas.
"Atrip… heave and awash!" The best bower anchor broke free of the sandy bottom and swayed above the surface.
HMS Proteus sidled a bit, swinging free of the ground, taken by the Nor'Nor'east winds, a quickly hoisted outer flying jib backed cross-deck up forrud to force her to fall off to larboard tack, taking the wind on the left-hand side of her bows, her square sails on her yards swinging about and luffing end-on, blocks clattering, canvas snapping and rustling.
Free!
Langlie was an able deck officer; Lewrie left it to him and his juniors to get way on her, as Proteus's bows swung more Easterly, still not under control. He stepped over to the double-wheel and the compass binnacle, to stand by the quartermasters on the helm.
"Full and by on larboard tack, Mister Motte," Lewrie ordered as he looked out to weather. "Nothing to loo'rd. Make her head Due East… or as close as you may manage."
"Aye, sir… Due East, an' nothin' t'loo'rd," Motte echoed as he tentatively spun the wheel to find a "bite" to the rudder.
The forecourse and main course were now drawing, being braced in to cup the wind. Inner, outer, and flying jib were bellied alee, as were the middle stays'l and main topmast stays'l; the mizen tops'l and the main and fore tops'ls were stiffening with the wind's press, and their frigate began to heel a bit, beginning to make her sweet way, churning salt water to a slight froth close-aboard, chuckling and muttering back to the sea as she got a way on, and hardening up on the wind's eye, on larboard tack.
There! A first lift of the bows as the scend off the North Sea found her as she gained the Queen's Channel, the first burst of spray under her jib-boom!
Free! Lewrie exulted, taking a deep, cleansing breath of iodine tang; Caroline, Theoni, rage, bills… shore-shite!
He paced over to the windward railing, up the deck which was now slightly canted as more sail sprouted to gather free, willful winds. A faint chorus sang in the rigging, a faint applause rose from her wake as she laid the start of a wide bridal train astern, fought to make the "mustachio" of foam before her bows.
He felt like singing, at that moment!
"Do you wish more sail at the moment, sir?" Lt. Langlie asked, once the t'gallants were set and drawing.
"No, Mister Langlie, that'll do quite nicely," Lewrie said as he turned to face him, smiling, at ease at last. "Stand on as we are, 'til we make a long offing."