“Horse Guards only allows sixty wives of a regiment bound for overseas duty,” Fry explained, “and their children, if any. The rest … after they draw straws tonight, there will be a lot of wailing in the barracks. What makes it worse is that we’re a war-raised single-battalion regiment, with no home barracks in one town, so the others will get scattered over half the county. Oh, well.”
“Horses?” Lewrie asked, gathering his hat from a side-table, worried that he would have to arrange barges for them at the last minute.
“We will all be on ‘Shank’s Ponys’, Captain Lewrie. Officers’ mounts will be left behind,” Fry told him rather gloomily. “There’s no place to stable or exercise them on Gibraltar, or ride much, either.”
Lewrie could recall horses at Gibraltar from his earlier stops there, though not very many; the property of very senior officers and their ladies. Gibraltar was a gigantic fortress with very little flat land, and very steep, wind-swept hills.
“Well, I shall be going,” Lewrie said, rising. “See you at the docks on Friday morning.”
* * *
Lewrie took a hired lugger back to Sapphire, enjoying a lively dash out into the Great Nore on a fine breeze. His boat came alongside, nuzzling behind a large dockyard barge that was loading crates and kegs up the cargo skids ahead of the starboard entry-port. He paid his fare to the boatman, then went up the battens to the upper deck to the usual welcoming side-party and bosuns’ calls.
“Anything new, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked the First Lieutenant. “No disasters?”
“There’s a letter from Admiralty that came aboard in your absence, sir,” Lt. Westcott told him. “It’s in your cabins. And, Mister Harcourt asked me if you would consider putting the ship out of discipline for a day or two before we sail.”
“Wasn’t she out of discipline after she came in from the Baltic just before the duel?” Lewrie asked, pulling a quizzical face.
“She was, sir,” Westcott told him.
“Well, with any luck at all, we’ll be sailing by Saturday or Sunday, so that’s out,” Lewrie decided. “The hands’ll be issued their quarterly pay just before, and I’ll not have ’em robbed by the jobbers, pimps, and whores. The crew will have to wait for shore liberty at Gibraltar, which’ll suit ’em much better than a carouse aboard. Carry on, sir,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat and heading for his cabins.
“Cool tea, sir?” Pettus asked after he’d taken Lewrie’s sword and hat.
“Aye,” Lewrie said, peeling off his best-dress uniform coat so it could be hung up on a peg out of Chalky’s reach. There was indeed a letter on his desk, sealed with blue ribbons and red wax. He sat, broke the seal, and laid it open. “Aha!”
The cat was in his lap at once, rubbing his head against the white waistcoat, upon which he could do little damage. Lewrie stroked him and patted his side into his chest as he read.
“Good Christ … Ralph Knolles!” he exclaimed.
“Who, sir?” Pettus asked as he brought a tall glass of cool tea with lemon juice and sugar.
“My First Officer in the Jester sloop, ages ago, Pettus,” Lewrie happily explained. “He’s made ‘Post’ and commands a twenty-four-gunned Sixth Rate, the Comus. She’s at Great Yarmouth, and will be coming to join us t’help escort the transports to Gibraltar! Just damn my eyes … Knolles, a Post-Captain, hah! A hellish-fine fellow!”
Even if an old twenty-four is a tad weak, Lewrie thought; Nine-pounders, some carronades … no match for a big French frigate … or a pair of ’em.
He had heard the French ventured out in pairs or in threes, these days; only their swift privateers hunted alone, after Trafalgar.
“We’re t’have company, Chalky,” Lewrie muttered to his cat, and jounced him as he rubbed his fur. “He’s a grand fellow, is Knolles, and he was fond o’ your old mate, Toulon.”
At least he pretended t’be, Lewrie thought, grinning.
Chalky thought the jouncing and petting perhaps a tad too vigorous; he mewed and wiggled, then jumped down to dash off a few feet and began to groom himself back to proper order.
“Yeovill says to tell you that he’s a fresh-caught sole for the mid-day meal, sir,” Pettus informed him, “and for your supper tonight, he’s whipping up a cheesy pot pie with lumps of dungeness crab meat. Might there be any need to open a red wine for either, sir?”
“No, Pettus,” Lewrie said with a happy shake of his head. “The whites’ll do hellish-fine.”
“And, the Carpenter, Mister Acfield, hung your screen door so Chalky won’t get out on the stern gallery,” Pettus added, jerking his head aft.
Lewrie rose and went to inspect it. There was now a second door, hinged on the outside, laced with tautly-strung twine in a mesh, stout enough to resist Chalky’s claws and keep him in while allowing fresh air to enter the cabins. Lewrie opened it and stepped out onto his stern gallery, closed it, and latched the metal ring-and-arm hook to secure it. He thought it a quite knacky innovation.
Lewrie looked round the anchorage, so full of ships waiting for a slant of wind, or orders, before sailing. Sapphire had swung at her moorings so that the four dowdy transports which he would escort were all inshore of his ship, trotted out in a ragged line, and all flying the mercantile Red Ensign. He looked up to take note of the Blue Ensign that flew on Sapphire’s aft staff, and an idea came to him, one that made him begin to smile broadly.
It might cost me a few pounds, but … he thought; I’m going t’have t’do some shopping, ashore.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Kent Fusiliers were embarked aboard their transports by Friday evening, allotted their small dog-box cabins which would contain at least eight soldiers (which they would tear down for fresh air and sleep on pallets on the deck or any-old-how before the week was out) and getting used to their scant messes for their meals.
Saturday would have been a suitable day for sailing, for there was a good wind out of the Nor’east, but for the lack of their other escort. Comus came into the Great Nore on Sunday, a bit before Noon, and dropped anchor about one cable off from Sapphire and the transport ships, after sending a cutter under sail to hunt for them. Sapphire made her number, then Comus’s number, then hoisted Captain Repair On Board. Lewrie waited impatiently by the starboard entry-port to greet the frigate’s captain. A gig shot out from Comus, being rowed at some speed. As it neared, Lewrie was almost on his tiptoes ’til at last, there he was!
Captain Ralph Knolles was newly-minted, for he wore a single fringed gilt epaulet on his right shoulder, the sign of a Post-Captain of less than three years’ seniority. Back when he’d first come aboard as HMS Jester’s First Lieutenant, Knolles had been twenty-five, fourteen years before. He was about thirty-nine now, but before he began the long scramble up Sapphire’s boarding battens, Knolles looked up with a grin on his face, spotted Lewrie, and waved broadly.
A minute later and he was on the quarterdeck, doffing his hat with proper gravity, and stifling that grin ’til Lewrie stepped up to offer his hand. “Damn my eyes, but it’s good t’see ye!” Lewrie said. “Captain Knolles, indeed!”
“Damned good to see you, too, sir,” Knolles replied, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. “It’s been far too long.”
Lewrie quickly introduced his own officers, then invited him to go aft to his great-cabins. “I hope you’re hungry, for my cook’s laid on some fine lamb chops and bacon-wrapped quail.”
“Sounds toothsome, sir, lead on,” Knolles gladly agreed.
Knolles’s face was more weathered and lined, but he was still lean and well-built; a captain’s table had not yet thickened him. His blond brows were bushier, and his unruly mane of blond hair was just as dense as it had been … and, after handing over his sword and hat to Pettus, he swiped it back into place with both hands, a gesture that had never changed.