Hostile Shores

Lewrie left the quarterdeck and descended to the waist before the ship’s boats reached the entry-ports. Bisquit, the ship’s dog, was already out of his shelter beneath the starboard quarterdeck ladderway, prancing about and through the groups of men, curious to see what this unusual activity was about.

“Lads!” Lewrie called out. “The surf’s subsided considerably, and conditions have improved, but … the Army’s trustin’ to us to see ’em safe ashore. It might be a temptation t’rush things, but this’ll best be like ‘church work’ … slow and steady. You cox’ns…,” he said, looking the chosen men in the face directly, his own boat’s Cox’n, Liam Desmond, too. “Every man’s life’ll be in your skilled hands. That’s why you were picked for it. And you young gentlemen,” he said to the eager-looking Midshipmen, “you trust to your cox’ns’ skill and experience, the closer ye get to shore. It won’t be an occasion for sky-larkin’, and with the late start you’ll probably be at it ’til sundown, and might have t’finish the work tomorrow mornin’, too, so give your hands a rest when ye can, and breaks for water.

“As to the second rum issue, lads,” he added with a grin. “It will be doled out late, once you’re back aboard.”

That raised a cheer.

“Away ye go, then, do your best, and show our redcoats, and the idle lubbers aboard the transports, what the Navy, and Reliants, can do!” Lewrie concluded, doffing his hat to them. “And, as the Spanish say, ‘Go with God’, and I fully expect t’see all your smilin’ faces when you return!”

He returned to the quarterdeck as the boat crews began to go down the battens to the waiting boats, to stand amidships of the cross-deck stanchions and hammock nettings to see them off. Poor Bisquit dashed about, yipping and whining as if all his friends and playmates were abandoning him. As the last hands left the deck, he sat down and looked left and right, ears perked in puzzlement.

“Bisquit,” Lewrie called to him, and the dog bounded up the ladderway to the quarterdeck to press against Lewrie’s leg for reassurance. Lewrie leaned down to pet him and ruffle his fur.

“No need t’fret, ye silly beast,” Lewrie cossetted in a soft voice. “They’ll all be back aboard by supper time. Even if they won’t have time t’hunt ye up a nice, fresh bone or two.”

Well, at least I hope they will, he grimly thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Lewrie hosted a supper for his officers and the four Midshipmen who had led the boats, and his cook, Yeovill, had done his best with what little variety was left in his personal stores after the long passage South from Madeira. There was reconstituted vegetable soup, no chance for a fresh salad, a roast duck from the forecastle manger, and yellowfin tuna steaks from a smallish fish which Yeovill had gotten once they’d come to anchor, eked out with shrivelled baked potato halves smothered in the least-mouldy cheeses and shredded bacon, and a bowl of boiled green snap beans purchased at Funchal. Lashings of wine more than made up for the lack of anything special, or fresh.

“Well, it wasn’t all that bad a day, after all,” Lt. Merriman commented. “We managed to get most of the infantry regiments ashore.”

“And, half the cavalry,” Lt. Arthur Simcock, their Marine officer, crowed.

“And, some of the artillery, too!” Westcott pointed out. “The Army won’t be over-run during the night, God willing, and we’ll have the rest ashore by tomorrow, mid-day.”

“Too bad about the poor Scotties from the Ninety-third, though,” Lewrie said from the head of the table.

Several boats bearing one of the Highlander regiments had been over-set as they had hobby-horsed over the breakers, and thirty-five soldiers, heavily laden with muskets, packs, cartridge boxes, hangers and bayonets and bed-rolls, had been drowned despite efforts to save them.

“I thought it ca

“She drew what … only six or eight feet?” Lt. Merriman said with a sneer. “Who in their right minds would send a ship so small and shoal-draught to sea on such a long voyage, as a transport worthy of carrying soldiers?”

“Our Transport Board, and a venal owner, most-like,” Lewrie carped. “Now, does the sea get up before they work her off that shoal, she’ll be a total loss, and her owner’ll collect her full value in insurance from Lloyd’s. Then, at least, the Transport Board won’t risk any more lives to such a scow.”

“Is there much left to do in the morning, for us I mean, sir?” Lt. Simcock asked, between bites of a ginger snap.

“Mister Warburton?” Lewrie prompted.

“Well, sir,” their senior-most Mid spoke up, “we got the light company, the grenadier company, and five of the eight line companies from the regiment ashore by sundown. That leaves three more to go, and if the weather holds, I expect that, between our boats and the transport’s boats, we could be done by the start of tomorrow’s Forenoon Watch.”

“If we begin just before sunrise,” Midshipman Grainger said in weariness, stifling a yawn. “But, most-like it’ll take ’til Noon, with three round-trips, if today’s confusion is anything to go by.”

“Dis-organised, was it?” Lewrie asked, reaching for the pewter barge which held the sweet bisquits and choosing an oatmeal one.

“Well, sir,” Midshipman Eldridge, who was usually too shy to voice an opinion, hesitantly contributed, “it struck me that the Army types were more concerned with getting here in one piece, and fit to go on shore, but didn’t give the actual landing a single thought, leaving it up to the Navy, or Fate. Look at how they got their cavalry and artillery horses ashore. Goose ’em over the side into the sea, rope them, and lead them behind boats! The Lord only knows how many they lost, poor things.”

“Aye, I expect some sharks fed well today,” Lt. Westcott said.

“I’m not sure that ship’s boats are the best choice for landing troops, or horses,” Lewrie said, mulling things over. “When we were in the Cha

“Hmm … I suppose such a study could be productive,” Westcott said with his head laid to one side in thought. “And, dull as things are so far, sir, it would keep us all from keeling over in boredom!”

That raised a laugh, and a call for the port decanter to make another round.

“Well, speak for yourself, sir,” Lewrie countered, gri

“God, no, sir!” Grainger said with a mock shudder. “It was … not terrifying at times. Let me say … adventurous!”

That opinion was loudly seconded by his fellows.

“There may be a way to relieve your boredom, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie went on once the laughs died down. “The last time I spoke with Commodore Popham, he mentioned his desire to form a Naval Brigade for service ashore, alongside the Army. Hmm?”

“Huzzah!” cried their Marine Lieutenant. “At last!”

“I must lead it, sir!” Lt. Westcott almost begged.

“So you shall,” Lewrie quickly assured him. “If the brigade is formed. Generals Baird and Beresford didn’t sound too keen on the idea. Probably worried how they’d feed ’em from their stores. How would you expect to victual your Marines, were you ordered ashore, Mister Simcock? How would you go about it, and what would you take along?”