"Oh," Lewrie said with gawp of surprise. "I'd thought things were already afoot, all but ready to sail, sir. Time of the essence… all that? Ice melting?"
"One would think," Riou agreed, his frown a touch deeper than before, and rolling his delicate cup 'tween both hands for warmth. "It is a quickly gathered expedition, though… robbing Peter to pay Paul, as it were, taking vessels from Channel Fleet, recalling others from the French blockade, and juggling ships and officers like a circus act. Such things take time," he said, sounding as if he was putting the best face he could on what seemed a serious lack of urgency.
"Pray God, sir, not too much time," Lewrie said. "We should be at 'em. But then… people have accused me before of bein' too rash a frigate captain, who can't see the larger intent."
"Then you are a man after mine own heart, Captain Lewrie, and I do believe a 'drap' of rum in your coffee would not go amiss?" Riou offered with a conspiratorial, sly grin.
Lewrie had only stayed aboard Amazon for a bit less than an hour, being treated to a quick tour by a proud Capt. Riou to show off how fine was his frigate. Amazon was indeed "ship-shape and Bristol Fashion" in every respect.
"Damme, but I like that fellow!" Lewrie exclaimed once he'd sat down in the stern-sheets of his boat, and his Cox'n, Desmond, had gotten it underway for the town piers. "Captain Riou is one Hell of a fellow."
Now, if only Parker turns out t'be half the man Riou is, Lewrie thought; Come t'think on't, I can't recall ever really meeting' him.
He'd been under Admiral Parker's command in the West Indies for almost three years, and had exchanged reports and orders, but the closest he'd ever gotten to the man was to call upon his shore headquarters out on the point of Kingston Harbour… dealing with that drink-addled Staff Captain known as "the Wine Keg," later with Capt. Nicely, who had taken his place once the former had died "in the barrel," and… he'd heard Sir Hyde Parker snoring in his chambers just above the entrance hall. Lewrie had made the man a pile of "tin" with his capture of that new-minted Spanish silver at Barataria Bay, but then Parker's favourites, like Otway and others, who had been allowed to cruise independently and reap prizes like a dealer raked in cards from the baize of a gaming table had made him umpteen thousands more. He wondered if the man would even recall his name!
"More ships comin' in yonder, sir," Desmond pointed out towards the Sou'east, to the treacherous entrance through the series of shoal-banks offshore that guarded Great Yarmouth from the full onslaught of the North Sea. A brace of ships of the line, Third Rate 74s, led the procession, followed by a small frigate or sloop of war, and a brace of bomb vessels or gunboats; at that distance it was hard to tell how their masts were spaced.
"They keep a'comin' in like that, sor, 'twill be that soon th' whole shebang gits underway, aye, Liam?" Patrick Furfy, the starboard stroke oar, muttered to his mate.
"Eyes in th' boat, Pat," Desmond whispered back, "an' mind yer Ps an' Qs." As Cox'n, he was supposed to keep good order, though stern discipline, and a "hard face," came un-naturally to the fellow.
"Shebang?" Lewrie asked. "What sorta word is that? I've heard of Irish shebeens… all fleas and whisky… but what's a shebang, Furfy?"
"Lock, stock, an' barrel, like, sor," Furfy replied with a grunt of effort, paying more mind to the pace of the stroke. "Th' whole thing."
"You listen to Furfy long enough, you lads'll learn a thing or two," Lewrie told his boat crew, all of whom but for Desmond and Furfy were strangers to him, so far.
"Ye listen t'Pat Furfy, ye'll learn all th' wrong things!" Liam Desmond countered, which raised a small laugh from them all. "Easy all, now… bow man, ready with yer gaff an' painter," Desmond ordered as the boat ghosted towards the foot of the slimy stone stairs at a quay. "Toss yer oars, larboard," he added, putting his tiller over.
A moment later, and Lewrie was able to step over the gunwale to the wet steps, and trot up to the top of the quay. "Won't be but half an hour with Sir Hyde, Desmond. Hot cider on me if a vendor comes by, but keep 'em close," he ordered.
"Aye-aye, sor," his Cox'n replied, knuckling his forehead in salute.
A foul wind was whipping over the harbour, out of the East-Nor'east, not quite a "dead muzzler" yet, to pen the gathered warships in port. It was a cold Scandinavian wind, though, that whipped his cloak and plastered it to his back, threatening to snatch away his best hat as he set a brisk pace towards the Wrestler's Arms hotel. Head down, and a hand on his hat, he almost rammed a pair of gentlemen who trudged against the wind in the opposite direction, giving ground and swivelling his shoulder clear without half looking at them.
"Captain Lewrie, sir? My stars, it is you!"
"Huh?" was Lewrie's witty rejoinder as he turned about. "Damn my eyes… Mister Mountjoy?"
"To the life, sir!" his former clerk in HMS Jester cried, looking both relieved and pleased. "Speak of coincidence, sir, but I was just in search of a boat to come out to you."
"Whyever, Mister Mountjoy?" Lewrie asked with a frown, recalling that Thomas Mountjoy, the younger brother of his London solicitor, was now employed by the Foreign Office-not by the silk-drawers, laced handkerchiefs, Oxonian drawlers who implemented and delivered British diplomacy, but by the other "department"; the one that employed Zachariah Twigg and James Peel. Spies, lurkers, and cut-throats, did the need arise, and dealing with their sort was never a very healthy thing to do.
"Well, first off, sir, Mister Keane, here, who coached down from London with me, is an Admiralty messenger," Mountjoy said, turning to indicate the young fellow with him. Lewrie cocked a brow in wonder.
"Admiralty Orders, Captain Lewrie," Keane said, tapping a thick canvas despatch bag slung over his shoulder, "just confirmed with Vice-Admiral Sir Hyde Parker, sir."
"Well, let me see 'em, then," Lewrie requested, holding out a hand.
"Well, erm… they might best be opened and read aboard ship, sir," Keane said, coughing into his fist, not from caution; it sounded wet, phlegmy, and ominous. "Sealed orders, sir, well… one set sealed, t'other, uhm… private." Keane might have said more, but for a fresh bout of hacking, which bent him half over.
"I suppose you've saved me a call upon our Admiral Parker, Mister Mountjoy?" Lewrie asked, beginning to get one of those fey feelings that association with Twigg usually engendered. "Customary, after all."
"Sir Hyde, sir, is, ah… quite busy, and barely had the time to see us, do you see," Mountjoy explained with a twist of his mouth. With a confidence that Lewrie had not seen in him when he'd served as his clerk, Mountjoy actually winked, and further said, "I do believe Sir Hyde and his bride are… otherwise engaged, Captain Lewrie."
"Draggin' his 'sheet-anchor,' like the papers said?" Lewrie surmised.
"Lady Frances is become known as his 'little batter pudding,' I do believe, sir," Mountjoy replied with a salacious grin.
"Well, I can see why Mister Keane came down from London, Mister Mountjoy, but… why is your presence required, as well?" Lewrie just had to ask, though dreading the answer.
"Well, there is another niggling little matter, sir," Mountjoy confessed, looking more like his old, hesitant self for a moment. "If I may accompany you aboard your ship, I can enlighten you further," he said, tapping his lips with a mittened finger, which request for privacy-for secrecy!-almost set Lewrie's innards squirming into a Gordian knot.
"Mine arse on a…," Lewrie grumbled, knowing that he'd been had-again!-and carping would not even make him feel better about it, much less get him out of whatever deviltry the new government had come up with. "Anything more for me from Admiralty, Mister Keane?" he asked instead, turning to that wheezing worthy.