“If only,” Lt. Simcock wished aloud, with a dramatic sigh.
“You wish such, Mister Simcock?” Lewrie asked.
“Convoying is not as exciting as our previous duties, sir,” Lt. Simcock said with a shrug. “But, do we discharge the duty well, there is a chance that Admiralty will find us so useful at it that we’ll be doing it forever.”
“Oh, God!” Westcott said, cringing. “Heaven forbid!”
“We could lose a few merchantmen, perhaps, and…?” Midshipman Warburton cheekily posed, half to his messmate Grainger and half to the table. Grainger looked ready to choke on his titters.
“Though it does seem to have its… amusing moments,” Westcott said with a snicker. “The last two days, at least.”
“With enough forethought, though, that chaos could have been avoided,” Mr. Caldwell supposed with a frumpy, dis-approving air.
“I didn’t think of it,” Lewrie told them. “My one experience at convoying was with a ‘John Company’ trade to Cape Town, and they were all going to Calcutta, then Canton, together, so it never entered my mind that departing ships had t’be placed to leeward.”
“We’ll know better next time… if there is a next time,” Lt. Westcott said with another mock-shiver and gag-grimace, which expression set Midshipman Grainger off again.
“Or formed in more than four columns, sir?” Mr. Caldwell asked with a derisive tone to his voice, ever-ready to lecture. “They were simply too hard to guard in such a formation, and we were very fortunate that no privateers popped up… so far.”
“Well, I’d imagine that Captain Blanding thought that only four columns’d make our convoy more manageable in the straits we’ve passed through,” Lewrie countered, finding himself defending Blanding, though he secretly agreed with Caldwell. “Especially on those legs of our passage requiring an hundred or more ships to beat to weather. As bad as they had to tack so often, think how much more catastrophic things could have been, with eight or ten columns bearing down on each other!”
“Now that would have been a picture!” Lt. Westcott laughed out loud. “We’d surely have lost a few, as Mister Warburton wishes, and then we’d never be saddled with convoy duty again, ha ha!”
My thoughts exactly! Lewrie thought with a taut little smile.
Pettus topped up their glasses, whilst Jessop and Yeovill fetched out the next courses. There was a sliced ham, smoked in the rural American fashion and purchased ashore in Kingston from a Yankee trader. Each guest got a fairly fresh baked potato and green beans, the beans dried for long-term storage on long strands that the ship’s cook had laced from the overhead beams in the galley, what Americans from South Carolina that Lewrie had met in ’98 had called “leather britches.” A good soak and boiling with a ham hock or square of bacon fat brought them back to life, and served with shreds of scalded onion, well!
To liven up the meal, there was mustard, worcestershire sauce, the usual salt and pepper, and a liquid pepper sauce that Yeovill had discovered on Jamaica, as well as a creamy gravy, and some relatively fresh globs of butter for the potatoes. All the seasonings were more than welcome; after a few weeks at sea, on a diet consisting mainly of salt-meats, beans, peas, and dry ship’s bisquit, anything that could add zest and tang to rations temporarily relieved the boredom, lingering on the tongue long after the meal was done.
Lastly came a rice custard, sweetened with honey, and sugar, and with some lemon juice, so sweet and tangy that the Midshipmen lapped theirs up in an eyeblink and looked longingly for seconds, Midshipman Grainger swearing that it was as good as his mother’s lemonade!
“Now, had I more time this afternoon, sirs,” Yeovill bragged as he spooned out more for the youngsters, “I would have done you all an omelet apiece for a second course, with bacon, cheese, and a Spanish salsa… all peppers, tomatoes, and such they put up in stone crocks with vinegar. There was some in the soup, sirs, and I hope you found it savoury.”
“Indeed I did, Yeovill!” Lt. Simcock assured him.
“The gun-room’s chickens, or mine, Yeovill?” Lewrie asked with one brow up in jest.
“Eggs is eggs, sir… what bankers on the ’Change in London call fungible, once laid… and moved from nest to nest,” Yeovill replied with an inscrutable expression.
“Three cheers for Mister Yeovill, a most excellent chef!” Lt. Westcott urged, lifting his glass on high.
“Hear hear!” the Sailing Master seconded.
“A glass with him!” Lt. Simcock proposed.
“Well, sirs…,” Yeovill demurred with false modesty.
“Aye, a glass with Mister Yeovill,” Lewrie agreed, nodding to Pettus to pour the fellow a glass of something. Yeovill chose brandy, and knocked it back quickly, smiling fit to bust, as if he’d just had congratulations for the meal from the King himself as they all joined him in a celebration drink.
Yeovill’s job was done for the night; it was Pettus and Jessop who cleared the table of plates, glasses, and utensils, snatched away the dampened tablecloth, and set out the port bottle, fresh glasses, and smaller barges containing sweet bisquit, nuts, and cheeses.
Once all their glasses had been charged with port, Lewrie looked down the table to Midshipman Grainger, the youngest that evening, who was seated at the foot of the table. He raised his glass of port and intoned, “Gentlemen… the King.”
Grainger paid no notice, busy stuffing sweet bisquit into his mouth, in a squirrel-cheek contest with Warburton.
“Ahem?”
Warburton elbowed Grainger. “What?” Grainger objected.
“Gentlemen, the King,” Lewrie repeated more sternly.
“Oh Lord!” Grainger said with a gulp, realising his error and quickly grabbing his glass to raise on high. “Gentlemen, I give you… the King!”
“Sooner or later,” Lt. Westcott japed, once the toast had been drunk to “heel-taps.”
“Dined ashore with some Army officers once,” the Sailing Master recalled. “They stood for the King’s Toast, of course, but… when a senior officer proposed it, their Vice was too ‘foxed’ and distracted, and when the President of the mess repeated it, louder, the poor chap looked round and said, ‘The King? Here? Well, show him in,’ haw haw!”
“I give you Thursday’s toast, sirs,” Lewrie went on. “ ‘Here’s to a bloody war, or a sickly season’!”
The best and quickest way to promotion and advancement, that, and a sentiment shared by all, the Mids most especially.
“Thank you for the invitation to supper, sir,” Warburton said as the port bottle made its larboardly way to him again. “The memory of it may carry me through tomorrow’s Banyan Day.”
On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, cheese, pease, bisquit, and oatmeal were the main victuals, and hellish-disappointing, no matter how liberal were the portions. There was no mustard, no other sauce, that could make a Banyan Day tangy.
“For which we have Queen Elisabeth to thank,” Mr. Caldwell said. “God bless her miserly nature.”
“Kept the fleet aboard after beating the Spanish Armada, too,” Lt. Westcott added. “Scurvy and fevers made a hellish reaping before they were released… and paid, d’ye see.”
“The fewer heroes, the greater the glory,” Lewrie japed with a cynical leer. “Don’t believe there were any Spanish prizes taken, so there wasn’t a larger share awarded to the survivors, either, so-”
Bang! of a musket stock; Slam-slam of the Marine sentry’s boots, and a louder-than-normal shout of, “Midshipman Houghton, SAH!”
“Enter?” Lewrie bade, cocking an ear to the sounds of the ship and not liking what he heard. Bosun’s calls were already shrilling.
“Mister Spendlove’s duty, sir, and there’s a strange ship attacking the lee columns! Cockerel’s fired off signal rockets!”
“Here’s your excitement, Mister Simcock!” Lewrie said, rising quickly and dashing his napkin to the deck. “All hands, and beat to Quarters!”