“It’s rather pretty, sir, even so,” Lt. Simcock commented, and pointed with his chin forward and to starboard where the convoy lay.
And so it was; four long strings of sunset-tinted sails, with each sporting a pair of large taffrail lanthorns winking and rocking as the snail-slow hundred-odd ships gently hobby-horsed along, those lights casting shimmery patches of yellow-gold on the wave-tops. And at the change of the watch, when all ships, Navy or merchantman, had struck Eight Bells, the sound had come down to them like a faint and tinkly carillon. Much like their situation anent the bloody-mindedness of civilians, not one-tenth of their hour glasses or chronometers had agreed with each other, of course, so it had gone on for a while.
“We’ll be losing some of our charges on the morrow,” the Sailing Master was telling their Marine Lieutenant.
“Privateers? You’re sure, sir?” Lt. Simcock asked with a gasp.
“The thirty-second latitude, sir,” Mr. Caldwell told him with a chuckle. “Savannah, Georgia, lies almost directly on the thirty-second line of latitude, and Port Royal, Beaufort, and Charleston, South Carolina, lie a bit to the North of it.”
“And thank God for their departure,” Lt. Spendlove, now standing the watch, heartily stated, which made all three gentlemen laugh with delight. “The ‘fewer the merrier,’ to my lights.”
“Ships bound for Savannah may run down the line of latitude, as they who cross the Atlantic for the West Indies do the fifteenth latitude, in search of the peaks of Dominica,” Mr. Caldwell prosed on, glad to puff on his clay pipe and lecture, as he did with the Midshipmen at their lessons. “The lazy man’s way, that. Does one know one’s latitude, and holds the compass bearing, one’s longitude is the only thing to be determined at Noon Sights. And… one can spot the mountains of Dominica from better than sixty miles, given a clear day.”
“And the ones bound for Charleston get in sight of the coast, then turn North ’til they find it?” Lt. Simcock further asked. He was not one of those clever fellows who were quick with figures. That was why his family had purchased him a Marine officer’s commission, and discouraged his wish to attend Woolwich and earn a commission in the Royal Artillery. At least aboard a warship, Lt. Simcock could still indulge in his enthusiasm for cannon and loud bangs.
“Oh, I’d suppose some of the least-skilled may grope their way to port in such fashion, but the experienced mariner would shape his course directly.”
“There’s many a master in the coasting trade back home who find their way from one seamark to the next,” Lt. Spendlove contributed to the conversation. “People in the fisheries? They go out quite a ways to the good grounds, but all they require is a compass and a chip-log for Dead Reckoning.”
“There’s many a merchant captain who navigates that way!” Lewrie spoke up from his collapsible chair, with a snort of displeasure. “We have met a fair parcel of them, the last weeks.”
That raised another round of agreeable laughter.
Lewrie rose from his chair as the last of the sunset guttered out, and only a top sliver of the sun lingered above the clear horizon.
“You have the ship, Mister Spendlove,” he told his Second Lieutenant. “I’m bound below for supper. Send for me, should any more of those Yankee ships turn up to terrify our charges.”
“Aye, sir… though Modeste may alert us, first, should one of them lurch up,” Spendlove said in parting.
“Just in time, sir,” Pettus told him as Lewrie walked over to his dining table to take a seat, pausing to pet Toulon and Chalky, who were already atop it, waiting for their evening meal to arrive from the galley. “A drop of something, sir? A claret? It will be rabbit, tonight, Yeovill tells me.”
“Aye, thankee, Pettus,” Lewrie agreed, noting that a bottle of claret already stood in the tall fiddles of the side-board, breathing.
“Yeovill feels un-appreciated, sir… the nights you don’t invite others in,” Pettus rambled on as he inspected a short-stemmed glass for smuts for the third time before pouring Lewrie a measure. “Likes to show off his culinary skills, he does.”
“Sorry that I disappoint him,” Lewrie said after a first sip of his wine. “I’d best have four or five guests tomorrow night, else he goes pettish. Hungry, are ye, lads? Lookin’ forward to… rabbit?” he teased the cats. That set them off to quivery delight; they knew a few sounds or words like “sausage” or “jerky” and “treats,” that would presage food, as well as they recognised their own names, and would come running (well, some of the time) when called.
Rabbit in particular; when fitting out and victualling in Portsmouth the year before, Captain Blanding had suggested that rabbits and quail, pigeons, and guinea fowl made a tasty alternative to salt-meats. Even before, in Anglesgreen, there were several large rabbit warrens on Lewrie’s rented farm, so many that they’d get into the truck gardens and eat themselves silly in a single night. It was not allowed to hunt or snare them, for the land belonged to Uncle Phineas Chiswick, Lewrie’s late wife’s relative, but Patrick Furfy was a hellish-clever poacher, and somehow the rabbit population was reduced to a manageable level, and grilled rabbit or jugged hare turned up on Lewrie’s table, and in the cats’ bowls, with regularity. Oh, yes! They knew “rabbit” when they heard it.
“Cap’m’s cook, SAH!” the Marine sentry outside the doors to the great-cabins bellowed, stamping his boots and musket butt on the decks.
In breezed Yeovill with the large oval metal barge in his hands. “Good evening, sir,” Yeovill said; perfunctory, that, and equally sketchy was his greeting smile.
No, he ain’t happy, Lewrie thought.
“Good evening, Yeovill!” Lewrie replied with forced enthusiasm. “Something smells delightful, I’m bound.”
“Rabbit, sir,” Yeovill answered, sounding a tad glum as he took the lid off the barge and began setting out smaller pots. “A one big enough for you and the kitties. First off, though, sir… a hearty bean soup.”
Toulon and Chalky were teetering on the edge of the table, whiskers laid far forward, and their tails twitching. As Yeovill got within pawing distance as he served from the side-board, they stretched paws out to remind him that they were famished, too.
“Excellent!” Lewrie exclaimed as he sat down and whipped his napkin over his lap, though thinking the old saw “There’ll be foul winds from astern by morning”!
“A lot of pepper sauce, the way you like it, sir,” Yeovill added as he set a bowl of soup before him.
From Toulon and Chalky came hungry trills and outright wails of demand.
“If you’ll pardon me, sir, I’ll see to the eats whilst you eat your soup?” Yeovill asked, and lifted out a small pot from which he spooned shredded rabbit, rice, and un-seasoned beans into their bowls.
“Aye, go right ahead, Yeovill. They’re starving,” Lewrie said between spoonfuls. “Always glad t’see you, they are.”
“Er, thankee, sir,” Yeovill replied, with a tad more warmth than before, and a slightly broader grin. “The rabbit, sir, I roasted with salt, pepper, and a dash of Jamaican seasonings, then topped off with a large dollop of red plum jam, as you might with venison. There’s sweet potato with butter, boiled peas and… baked cornmeal pones, to boot, sir!” Yeovill boasted. “What Mister Cooke showed me how to make without milk or eggs. One would go handsomely with the soup, this minute.”
“Aye, it would,” Lewrie agreed as Yeovill took the cloth cover off the separate bread barge and placed one on the side of his plate by the soup bowl. “Uhm! Hot and fresh! You’re a wonder, Yeovill.”
Christ, he’s worse than dealin’ with a wife! Lewrie thought as he bit into the pone; what the ship’s freed slave Black cook called a hot-water-drop pone. It was good, though!