Hostile Shores

“Hmm,” was Lt. Simcock’s answer as he leaned back in his chair, stared at the overhead deck beams, and crossed his arms in thought. “Beyond our weapons, packs, and bedding, spare ammunition and such … well, sir, one would likely assume that the Army would supply us. Barring that, I’m not really sure.”

“Then let us assume that the brigade is assembled, and that we must fend for ourselves,” Lewrie said, hunching forward on the table. “Fourty private Marines, two Corporals, one Sergeant, and you, sir, that’s fourty-four. An equal number of armed sailors, the Bosun’s Mate and a Ship’s Corporal for enforcing discipline, two Mids, and an officer, that’s fourty-five. I think the ship may spare that many and still be able to fight, should the French turn up, hey?”

“Sounds about right, sir,” Westcott quickly agreed, his eyes lit up with pending delight.

“Muskets, bayonets, and cutlasses should it come to close quarters,” Lewrie sketched on, “hammocks for ground cloths and a blanket for each man, cartridge boxes, spare flints, spare cartridges, and if any weapon needs repair, we might be able to prevail upon some regimental armourers. Rations, though?”

“The hands each have their knives, sir, and forks and spoons,” Lt. Merriman offered. “They’ve pewter or china mugs, but … what sort of dishes? As easily broken as they are, our people prefer to eat off china plates; I doubt I’ve seen the old square wood trenchers since I was a Mid. ‘Three square meals a day’, what?” he said with a quick grin. “I suppose that the Purser could provide pewter plates.”

“Ah, but what do we put on those plates, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked them all. “And, who does the cooking if we do have rations? We would have to lug along kegs of salt-meats, full bags of ship’s bisquit, and some vessels to serve as steep-tubs to rinse off the salt from the meat, and others to boil it. Ladles, meat forks, mesh mess bags—”

“Rum, sir,” Midshipman Warburton suggested. “Our hands expect two issues a day. How much would that be for, say, a week away from the ship?”

“Water, sir,” Midshipman Eldridge gloomily contributed.

“Don’t your Marines have water bottles of some kind, Mister Simcock?” Lewrie asked him.

“Somewhere deep in the hold, sir, we’ve two wood crates, with four dozen wooden canteens, of quart volume … or so I may recall from my inventory,” Lt. Simcock told them all, shrugging. “As to what our sailors might use, I haven’t a clue. It will be thirsty work, to march several miles a day, ascend the mountains behind the beach, and fight. Hellish thirsty work! Even do we simply ferry Army supplies ashore and guard them, our people will be parched in the extreme.”

“Our sailors aren’t known for long, hard marching,” Merriman said. “All but the ‘Idlers’ are young, fit, and spry, and used to hard work and ‘pulley-hauley’, but they’ll be gasping after a few hours.”

“We’d best fetch along one of the Surgeon’s Mates and his kit, should we do fight, and suffer casualties,” Lt. Westcott suggested.

“Begi

He looked to the sideboard, hoping that Yeovill or Pettus had set out a bottle of brandy, or American whisky, for he felt a strong desire for something to lift his spirits. There were empty bottles of wine, and a full bottle of port, just in case the decanter ran dry.

“Hmm,” Lewrie said, rising just enough to reach over to the sideboard and fetch an empty bottle that had contained the Rhenish that had accompanied the fish course. “As for water, we could issue wine bottles. Most of ’em are near a quart in volume, or thereabout. Rinse ’em out, fill ’em just before we leave the ship, and slap the corks back in, and there you are.”

“But, how would the men carry them, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked. “Army canteens have slings for wearing over one shoulder down to the opposite hip. They’d drop or break them in the first two hours!”

“Cartridge bags?” Midshipman Grainger piped up in the deep, pondering silence.

“What?” Lewrie asked.

“Well, sir, a serge cartridge bag for the quarterdeck nine-pounders is about the same diameter of your average wine bottle,” Grainger slowly explained. “Using that as a pattern, the Sailmaker and his Mate, and the Master Gu

“That might be one problem solved, sir!” Lt. Westcott was quick to agree, eager to forward the plan, and get his idle arse ashore and in some sort of action.

“Where would we get nigh fifty empty bottles, though?” Merriman said with a sigh.

“That might depend on how many you can drink ’twixt now and then, Mister Merriman,” Lewrie said, laughing.

“Lord, sir!” Merriman gawped. “We consume nothing near a civilian gentleman’s usual half-dozen. Why, the wardroom’s practically abstemious! I doubt we down a half-dozen a day between all of us!”

“Drink up, then, sailors,” Lewrie merrily urged.

“Ehm … it’s the better wines that come in bottles, sir,” Lt. Simcock objected. “The poorer ones come in stone crocks, barricoes, and pipes. Our entire mess stores would have to be—”

“We need four-dozen,” Lewrie said. “Two cases from the officers’ wardroom, and two cases from my personal stock.”

Merriman and Simcock looked as if they might whimper or moan.

“Aye, Mister Westcott, that is one problem solved. Though one of many,” Lewrie declared. “Hopefully, Commodore Popham will be able to prevail upon our redcoat compatriots for at least one cart for all we’ll need to take ashore. He’s a way of getting what he wants, and getting his way, no matter.”

One bell was struck at the forecastle belfry; the first after the change of watch at 8 P.M.; it was half-past, and almost time for all glims and lights to be doused at 9 P.M.

“Heel-taps, gentlemen,” Lewrie a

“Success and confusion!” they all shouted once the glasses had been poured full, then tossed their ports back to the last drop.

*   *   *

Once his di

Jessop helped Pettus clear the sideboard and the last plates; Pettus had paid attention during their after-supper discussions, and put the corks back into the empties, setting them aside for rinsing out later.

“Anything else, sir?” Yeovill asked, ready to depart.

“Don’t think so, Yeovill,” Lewrie told him. “You can turn in, and thank you for a toothsome meal on such short notice.”

“Evening, sir,” Yeovill replied, always happy to prepare a big spread for guests, and pleased with his handiwork.

Lewrie went to sprawl on the starboard-side settee, feet up on the low brass Hindoo tray table, and sipped on his whisky. With no more treats in the offing, Chalky jumped down from the table and ambled over to hop onto the settee, pad onto Lewrie’s lap, and nuzzle him, nose-to-nose for strokes and pets. After a few minutes of that, Chalky turned about, made a circle, and slung himself against Lewrie’s hip, making faint purring rumbles.