Hostile Shores

“Gladly,” Lewrie heartily agreed.

Aft and in the shelter of the ship’s master’s great-cabins, now divvied up into small cabins with deal-and-canvas partitions, there was a long mess table down the middle. Ascot’s master, a gruff older man by name of Settles, stuck his head out of what was left of his formerly spacious quarters just long enough to grunt a gloomy greeting to Lewrie, then shut his door on the lot of them.

The “lot” who shared the approximation of a wardroom aboard a proper warship were the Ascot’s First and Second Mates, and officers of the 34th. Lt. Thatcher did the introductions. A Captain Veasey was the senior officer of the regiment, and another Army officer, Captain Chadfield.

“Rarin’ t’go and have at the Dutchies, I say!” Captain Veasey hoorawed as Lewrie shed his hat and cloak and took a seat at the table. “All this idlin’ in the holds are bad for our mounts, and rough on our troopers, too, d’ye see. It’s taken two years t’make proper mounts and it’d be a cryin’ shame do we lose some on the voyage. Your trained cavalry horse is worth half a dozen regular prads, even blooded hunters. Horridly dear investment.”

Captain Veasey was more than happy to prose on, relating that there were two troops of cavalry aboard Ascot, one of the four squadrons that made up the regiment, with eighty troopers and horses for each troop, plus Lieutenants, Cornets, non-commissioned Sergeants and Corporals, farriers, blacksmiths, and trumpeters. Naturally, there were more horses aboard Marigold and Sweet Susan, for no officer of the British Army could go to war without his string of extra mounts; even the junior-most Cornets’ parents had bought them at least three. Each transport carried around ninety horses, altogether.

Belowdecks on Ascot, Lt. Thatcher stuck in when Veasey ran out of air, there were fewer than 160 troopers, for someone had to feed and tend to the horses and muck out the narrow stalls daily. Detachments of ten troopers under Lieutenants and a Sergeant had been sent to the other ships … damned if the merchant sailors would do it!

“A large risk of fire, though, sir,” Thatcher cautioned. “The horses are grain-fed, but the bales of hay, and the straw put down in the stalls … brr!”

Lewrie got a brief tour of the troopers’ quarters belowdecks, a series of cabins where bored and irritable soldiers tried to find ways to amuse themselves. They were issued hammocks to sleep sailor-style, but had to store them in the stanchions and nettings during the day, leaving them little comfort before dark. Many napped under and atop the rough wood mess tables, or on the hard decks.

“They’ll tear the partitions down for more room, you wait and see, Captain Lewrie,” Lt. Thatcher gloomed once they were back on deck and in much fresher air; un-washed bodies, wet wool, farts, and other un-identifiable reeks had almost made Lewrie gag. Without access to their horses, the troopers would face weeks at sea with nothing to do except dis-mounted weapons drill and “square-bashing” foot drill, and perhaps some five firing at floating targets with their short Paget carbines. Rather neat weapons, Lewrie thought, with their ramrods permanently attached on a chain and swivel so they could not be lost when one tried to re-load on horseback … if such was even possible.

Ascot was about 250 tons’ burthen, the other two about 200 tons, all of them coppered below the waterline, so all were hired on for nineteen shillings per ton; un-coppered ships were paid from fifteen to seventeen shillings per ton, and contracted for six months’ service, though that could be extended. If that became necessary, Lt. Thatcher could issue Transport Board chits to extend the contracts, on his own authority, and risk.

“A rum business, this, Captain Lewrie,” Lt. Thatcher sourly said as he pointed up at his blue pendant. “The Board names me Agent Afloat, and gives me the semblance of a Commodore, but I’m little more than a baulk of ‘live lumber’, a mere passenger! I can gather them in, order them when to sail, and to where, but beyond that, I have no say in how any of the ships are run, or handled, and civilian merchant masters are a tetchy lot, and damn the Navy, they’ll do things their way and ignore any suggestions from me! God forbid I try to give them orders!

“You’d not have a sickly officer, would you, Captain Lewrie?” Lt. Thatcher asked, only partly in jest. “But for this bad leg of mine I’d still be aboard a warship. I was Third Officer into a frigate when a gun burst and put a hunk of iron into me. Three months in Haslar Hospital, then a year on half-pay, well … wasn’t even in action, but at drill!”

“All my Lieutenants are very healthy, sorry, Mister Thatcher,” Lewrie had to tell him, with genuine sympathy.

“Ah, well then,” Thatcher said with a sigh. “Do you still wish to see one of the horse transports?”

“Aye, I do, if it’s no imposition,” Lewrie said.

*   *   *

True to his promise, Lewrie was back aboard Reliant before Noon, just as “Clear Decks And Up Spirits” was being piped and the rum keg was being carried to the forecastle. The welcome ritual was halted for a moment to salute Lewrie back aboard. He lifted his sodden hat from his streaming-wet hair, and made a quick way down the ladderway to the waist, and the door to his great-cabins, shooing off the ship’s dog, Bisquit, whose fur was just as wet, and shaking showers of rain from his hair every now and then.

“Good luck with those,” Lewrie told Pettus as his cabin-steward took his hat and cloak. “You could get a bowl o’ wash water from ’em, do ye let ’em drip long enough. So long as ye don’t mind blue water.”

“I expect they have bled as much dye as they ever will, sir,” Pettus speculated as he hung them up on pegs. “Might you relish a cup of hot tea, sir? I’ve some on the warming stand.”

“Aye, with milk, sugar, and a dollop o’ rum,” Lewrie decided. “A large dollop.”

“Coming right up, sir,” Pettus said, pausing to fetch Lewrie a dry towel for his hair and face.

His cats, Toulon and Chalky, had been napping at either end of the starboard-side settee, but came dashing with their tails vertical to greet him. They found his boots intriguing, and sniffed about them, posing their mouths open to savour the aromas like little lions.

“I hate t’ask it of ye, Pettus, but I seem t’ve trod in horse droppings. Got the most of it off, but…,” Lewrie said with a hapless shrug.

“I’ll see to them, sir. Jessop? The Captain’s boots need a cleaning,” Pettus promised, then shared a secret smile with Lewrie as he passed that onus to the cabin boy.

After changing to an older pair of buckled shoes, Lewrie sat at his desk and scribbled out a set of orders for Lt. Thatcher and the masters of the transports, outlining the signal flags he would be hoisting during the day, and the blue-fire rockets he would launch at night when it was necessary to alert them, or keep them in close order. He tried to keep it simple, given his last chaotic experience of escorting a huge “sugar trade” convoy from the West Indies in 1804. Even if Admiralty was paying them to sail together and trust their escort, merchant masters were indeed an un-cooperative and tetchy lot.

It was hard going, for Toulon and Chalky always found delight in interfering with people that ignored them when at a chore. First it was his oldest cat, Toulon, who would hop into his lap then atop the desk, there to sniff, swat at the steel-nib pen, and squat on the paper. Just after he was shooed off, it was Chalky’s turn to leap up and flop onto one side, then wriggle with his paws in the air for his belly to be tickled.

“Oh, for God’s sake, why’d I ever think that cats make good companions,” Lewrie growled. “There. Satisfied?” he asked as he rubbed Chalky’s belly for a second or two. No, he was not, for he flipped on his side once more and began to snatch at the pen with both paws. Then it was time for Toulon to return and flop and wave for “wubbies”. The requested tea showed up, and that required inspection and more sniffs.