“When you and the First Officer deem ’em ready, bring ’em aft to the great-cabins, Mister Merriman,” Lewrie told him. “And mum’s the word ’til then. Carry on.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Merriman said, doffing his hat in salute.
Gawd, another daft idea! Lewrie thought once Merriman had gone; Even more gunpowder… a ton or so? Brr! Still… an explosive boat doesn’t depend on the tide alone. Lash the tiller and it’ll steer itself. I wonder…
He heaved a sigh, realising that if Admiralty found Westcott’s and Merriman’s concept practical, both officers might be sent off to develop the boats, costing him two damned competent men. If he wrote too enthusiastically, Admiralty might even think him clever enough to oversee the project and take Reliant away from him and give him a shore post at some dockyard!
Admiralty thinkin’ me clever? Lewrie scoffed, though; That’ll be a cold day in Hell! I’d fight that, even did “all night in” with Lydia come attached!
It was mid-afternoon before Lewrie heard back from Lieutenants Westcott and Merriman, and he was, in point of fact, writing a letter to Lydia Stangbourne and looking forward to a good nap once that was done and sent ashore to be posted-in emulation of his cats-when his Marine sentry loudly announced their arrival. “Come!” he bade, and Westcott and Merriman trooped in, cocked hats under their arms and a packet of drawings in their hands, carefully rolled up and bound with twine to guard against their contents being revealed prematurely.
“Tea for all, Pettus, and then take yourself a long idle hour or so on deck,” Lewrie called out. Pettus poured them all tumblers of Lewrie’s patented cool tea from a pitcher, set out lemon slices and a sugar bowl, then departed, taking wee Jessop with him.
“Quite refreshing, sir, thank you,” Westcott said after a sip.
“What have you come up with, then?” Lewrie pressed, shifting with some eagerness in his chair as they sat round his dining table. “If it ain’t torpedoes, it’s welcome.”
“Oh, aye, sir!” Lt. Westcott laughed, baring, his teeth in a wide grin. He un-did the knots in the twine and un-rolled a short stack of folio-sized sheets. “The first, sir, is the overall outer design with ends, overhead, and beam views. Mister Merriman and I reckon that we’d need at least a twenty-five-foot cutter to get the job done, though a thirty-two-foot barge could carry more sail on its two masts, and more gunpowder, depending…”
“On how big a bang you wish, sir!” Merriman finished for his companion, with a laugh. “You’ll note, sir, that the decking-over to keep the powder charge safe from spray and slop is slightly arched. To channel a heavy sea off like water off a duck’s back.”
“How’d the sailors hoist sail, then, if it’s arched?” Lewrie puzzled, frowning over the drawing, which was as fine and detailed as any he’d seen in a dockyard office. “Wouldn’t they slide over the side, with the water?”
“Ah, you’ll note that the decking ends just inside the gunn’ls, and two inches below them, sir,” Lt. Westcott explained with another grin. “So the cap-rail of the gunn’l forms a low rail to brace their feet as they tend the sheets and halliards.”
“Uh-hum!” was Lewrie’s comment to that thoughtful provision. It appeared that his two Lieutenants had given the matter more thought than the recently departed and un-lamented Mr. MacTavish had his casks.
“The decking-over extends right aft, almost to the stern-sheets, sir,” Merriman said, taking up the explanation of the plans. “There’s the cuddy-like hatch to allow access to the box cabin, through which the powder kegs will be loaded, and the clockworks and pistol can be set.” He used a pencil to tap the pertinent parts.
“That way, sir, the kegs could be kept dry and safe from accidental discharge in the tender’s magazines ’til needed,” Lt. Westcott added. “Now, the next sheet, sir, depicts the interior appointments, and the lining and beam partitions to hold the dessicant.”
“Dessicant?” Lewrie puzzled.
“That’s Mister Mainwaring’s ‘break-teeth’ word for blocks, bags, of sodium chloride… salt, sir!” Merriman said, chuckling. “Very scientific, that, for stuff that’ll soak up humidity and any leaks.”
“There’s another… humidity,” Westcott stuck in, winking.
“See how much we’re learnin’?” Lewrie japed right back.
Damned if the interior sketches were not merely fine builders’ plans, but they had done three-quarter-view drawings, too, shaded in varying tones of light and dark, as meticulous as a wood-cut illustration printed in a reference book, or a serious newspaper article!
“I did not know that you two were such talented artists,” Lewrie praised them, leaning far over the table to admire their work.
“Well, sir, the rough preliminary sketches were my work, but Mister Westcott is the real draughtsman,” Merriman confessed.
“Indeed he is!” Lewrie exclaimed, leaning back. “I once asked if he was musical, and when he said ‘no’ I assumed his true talent lay in seafaring.”
And women, Lewrie reminded himself; most definitely women!
“But, I s’pose we all have our side-lines t’keep us occupied in our off-watch hours,” Lewrie went on.
“Thank you, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, grinning and bowing at the waist whilst seated. “George here, though, wrote the proposal, and I dare say that you will find it equally meritorious, Captain. Merriman has a way with words.”
“It’s included, sir,” Merriman said, almost shyly.
“I look forward t’readin’ it,” Lewrie said. “But, once cocked and all, what happens to the boat’s crew… and how many men?”
“As to the second sir, if I may, we estimate that only one Midshipman would be required to command and steer the boat in, sir,” Lt. Merriman replied, shifting in his chair to scoot closer. “Each of the boats would need two hands to tend the sails, then spell the Mid for as long as it would take for him to start the timer and cock the pistol, then… as to the first matter, sir, we envision that each explosive boat would need a gig or jolly-boat to trail it in, then take off the crew… once the tiller is lashed and the sails trimmed for the last time,” Lt. Merriman explained. “Though it is possible that if a flotilla of boats are launched, only three or four oared and masted barges could recover all the hands from a round dozen.”
“A Lieutenant or two to command overall, sir, and take charge of the recovery boats,” Lt. Westcott added with a shrug.
“Um-hmm!” Lewrie said in appreciation, looking up at the overhead and deck beams for a moment. “Given the risk of losing the both of you to this proposal, should Admiralty approve it, it must be sent on to them at once. Secretly, but speedily. I’ll read the proposal this evening, then call upon the dockyard Commissioner, first thing in the morning, to have the drawings and all forwarded to London by the fastest, most secure courier… along with my own strong recommendation for the plan’s urgent consideration.
“What bloody good my backin’d do, well…,” Lewrie scoffed as he patted his hair and tossed his shoulders and hands up in a shrug of his own. “At least we’ll get it put forward and see what they’ll make of it, one way or the other.”
“All we ask, sir!” Merriman enthused.
“Thank you for approving, sir,” Lt. Westcott seconded. “We’re sure that this is a much more useful idea than what we’ve seen so far.”
“Good God, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie barked in amusement. “What ain’t? And, congratulate Mister Mainwaring on his jape about… salt!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Reliant spent another two idle days anchored in the Great Nore with no orders, and Lewrie was just about to let the ship be put “Out of Discipline” for forty-eight hours when another grim-faced Admiralty courier turned up with a fresh set of sealed orders, marked “Captain’s Eyes Only.” He signed for them, bade the courier a good journey back to London, then went aft and below to read them.