“Good God, who do I have to murder t’get out o’ this?” Lewrie gravelled once he’d opened the be-ribboned and wax-sealed packet. He was “required and directed to make the best of his way” to Portsmouth Dockyard for further… “trials.” This set of orders was even shorter and more enigmatic than those that had preceded the trials with the cask torpedoes. Evidently, people at Admiralty worried that letters of too verbose or revealing nature could be intercepted by French agents in England, or treasonous Britons in their employ.
There was a second one-sheet letter from the Honourable Henry Legge, a fellow billed as Commissioner Without Special Functions, a title new to Lewrie; that’un was just bloody galling!
“ ‘… choice of Mersea Island and the Blackwater River estuary an imbecilic choice, resulting in wide-spread panic among His Majesty’s subjects’… ye didn’t tell us where t’try ’em out in the first place, ye nit-pickin’…!” Lewrie fumed under his breath. “ ‘… had the cask torpedoes functioned as designed in your rash and precipitate attack upon the French invasion fleet then gathered at the mouth of the Somme the nature of future attacks en masse would have been revealed to the foe prematurely, as would the existence of said torpedoes, which the Lords Commissioners for executing the High Office of Admiralty severely and strictly charged you to protect at all hazards!’ ”
“Ye said t’try ’em out on the Frogs, damn yer blood!” Lewrie spat. “Somebody’s tryin’ t’cover his arse!”
He opened his desk to fetch out the original set; there it was in black-and-white, as plain as the canvas deck chequer. He was to conduct trial implementation of the damned things against French harbours and gatherings of invasion craft!
“ ‘Due to the extremely secret nature of the devices, it is not feasible at this time to warrant formal charges laid against you,’ at this time?” Lewrie gawped. They’d considered hauling him before a court-martial board for doing what he’d been ordered to do in the first place?
“ ‘Upon reading, you will destroy this letter and your previous orders to prevent any knowledge of the devices’ existence, and upon arrival at Portsmouth you will turn over your latest set of orders directing you there to continue trials to the Port Admiral for his safekeeping’? The bloody Hell I will,” Lewrie agrily whispered, rolling them all up into a tight cylinder and re-wrapping them with the ribbons attached. He shoved them to the back of the lowest locking drawer in his desk, sure that he might need to present them if a time came when the torpedoes were perfected and used in mass attacks, the secret would be out, and they could put him to court-martial!
“Damn ’em all,” Lewrie grumbled, then took a deep breath before donning his coat and hat and going on deck. The First Officer, Mister Westcott, was by the first larboard 9-pounder on the quarterdeck in his shirt sleeves, a sketch pad and a charcoal stick in his hands, chatting with the Purser, Mr. Cadbury, who was seated upon a second 9-pounder’s breech-end, mumbling to himself as he balanced his books in the fresh air and mild mid-morning sunshine. “Good morning, Mister Westcott.”
“Good morning, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied, abandoning his artwork.
“May I see? Damme, but for the lack of colour, that’s Reliant to the life,” Lewrie commented. “Is the ship ready for sea in every respect, Mister Westcott?”
“Well, aye, sir,” Westcott replied, looking puzzled.
“There are a few items to come aboard from the dockyard and the chandlers, sir,” the Purser stuck in with a worried look on his face.
“Paid for, or promised, Mister Cadbury?” Lewrie asked.
“On order, sir, but not yet paid for,” the Purser replied.
“You can make up the lacks from Portsmouth sources,” Lewrie said. “We’re ordered there, instanter. I see the winds are from the West.”
“Roughly, sir, aye,” Westcott said, looking up at the commissioning pendant atop the main-mast, then taking a quick squint about the harbour. “We do have a working-party ashore, though, Captain.”
“Recall them at once, stow away whatever it is they’re there for, then get the ship under way by Noon,” Lewrie ordered.
Paying off from the winds once the anchors were up would be an easy chore, as would the long starboard-quarter slant out to sea. To turn roughly West-Sou’west to make passage to Portsmouth, though… that would be a long, hard slog almost into the teeth of the winds and take at least a day more, with a night spent standing “off and on” the coast ’til it was light enough to attempt an approach into port.
“I’ll see to it directly, sir!” Westcott vowed.
In his best uniform, with sash and star of his knighthood, and the Cape St. Vincent and Camperdown medals round his neck, Lewrie reported to Admiral Lord Gardner ashore… with some trepidation, it must be admitted, since Lord Gardner was reputed to be a dyspeptic and irascible officer of some age, a tetchy man who did not suffer fools at all gladly, and, Lewrie had heard, some described him as “composed of paper and packthread, stay tape and buckram,” for his over-attention to every little detail, no matter how niggling. Lewrie was forced to sit and wait in the great man’s anteroom for an hour before being allowed an audience.
“And you are who, sir?” Admiral Lord Gardner testily enquired as he gave Lewrie an up-and-down inspection.
“Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, my lord, the Reliant frigate. I was ordered to Portsmouth and told to deliver my orders for transfer from Sheerness to you for safekeeping,” Lewrie replied.
“You waste my time with this, sir?” Lord Gardner snapped. “Most pop-in-jay captains announce their arrival to me by letter!”
“Uhm, it’s a matter of secrecy, my lord… concerning trials of certain, ah… devices?” Lewrie tried to hint.
“What sort of devices?” Gardner sourly demanded. “Secret, you say?”
“Well, my lord… if you have not been told of them, I cannot dsecribe them to you,” Lewrie answered. “No one not engaged with them is to be allowed to-”
“Bedamned if you cannot, sir! What sort of foolishness is this tripe? Niles?… Niles! Come here at once, I say! There’s a lunatick in my office ravin’ about secret devices!” Gardner erupted, then hailed for an aide. At the top of his lungs, too,
Might as well give it to the town criers, too! Lewrie thought with a wince; Yoo-hoo! Frog spies! Harkee t’this!
A door to a side office adjoining opened and a genial-looking Post-Captain who looked to be in his early fifties entered, his brows up in query. “You called, my lord?”
“This imbecile… what the Devil’s your name again? This officer claims he’s ordered to give me his transfer order to keep it secret, and goes on about devices!” Lord Gardner ranted.
“Alan Lewrie, sir,” Lewrie offered, hoping that this new fellow knew more than his superior. “The Reliant frigate?”
“Guessin’ the name of your own ship, sir?” Lord Gardner sneered.
“Lewrie, Lewrie, Lewrie,” the Post-Captain muttered, “Reliant, aha!” he concluded with a snap of his fingers. “May I see them, sir?”
Lewrie handed his orders over whilst the newcomer hummed a gay tune under his breath as he read them.
“Sir Alan, sir,” the Post-Captain said at last, stepping up to offer his hand. “George Niles, Flag-Captain, and your servant, sir.”
“And I am yours, Captain Niles,” Lewrie responded in kind.
“ ’Fraid he’s the right of it, my lord,” Captain Niles told his superior. “Those infernal things built at Gosport? Captain Lewrie’s the goat charged with their testing, and Admiralty does wish us to see that his orders are kept safe, lest Bonaparte get the slightest inkling of their existence. All very ‘mum’s the word.’ ”