Lewrie snagged two more champagnes, then sidled his way through the throng of guests entering the tent, against the current, 'til he stood outside, beyond the rope-line, waiting for Christopher Cashman as he rode up on a fine chestnut gelding, trailed by his two mounted majors and the pack of company captains, lieutenants, and ensigns who were on foot, but eager for the party to begin.
He walked out to meet Cashman, offering up the freshest glass, sure that Kit was going to need it.
"Well, how'd you enjoy the parade?" Cashman beamed down at him as he drew rein and accepted his reward.
"Capital. On your part, at least. They look splendid," Lewrie truthfully told him,
"Aye, they're a grand bunch," Cashman gruffly agreed, showing pleasure over his "good show," and with a hint of "rough love" for his troops. "Though they're the usual scum who'd go for a soldier. Gutter sweepin's and harbour trash, e'en poorer a lot than you'd find in England, mind. Hard men, though. Tough enough to stick it, no matter what comes."
"Met Ledyard," Lewrie casually told him. "Had a word or two."
"Aye, and?" Cashman asked, one brow up.
"Kit, old son… I do b'lieve you're fucked."
Quod genus hoc hominum? Quaeve hunc tarm barbara
morem permittit patria? Hospitio prohibemur
harenae; bella cient primaque vetant consistere
terra.
What race of men is this? What land is so
barbarous as to allow this custom? We are debarred
the welcome of the beach; they stir up war and forbid
us to set foot on the border of their land.
Aeneid, Book I 536-541
Publius Vergilius Maro "Virgil"
Oh, for God's sake, quiet! Still!" the luckless Lieutenant Wyman shouted to the arriving boats, bare minutes before Eight Bells.
"Nottingham Ale, boys, Nottingham Ale,
no liquor on earth is like Nottingham Ale.
Nottingham Ale, boys, Nottingham Ale,
no liquor on earth is like Nottingham Ale!"
That was the starboard watch's answer to his demands. They had commandeered the poor bum-boatmen who had rowed them offshore from town, had made the oars beat like birds' wings, raising bow waves and leaving creamy wakes. But once close-aboard Proteus, they had commenced rowing round her, bound and determined to savour their last bottles of wine or beer, and not end their precious shore liberty 'til the last watch bell had struck Midnight!
"You lovers who talk of your flames, darts and daggers,
with Nottingham Ale ply your woman but hard,
for the girl that once tasted will hopelessly stagger,
and all your past sufferings and hardships reward!
You may bend her and twist her, and do what you list her.
You've found the right way o'er her heart to prevail …"
"Sounds very much like that bastard Irishman, Desmond," Midshipman Adair commented.
"Aye, he's a fine voice, that 'fly' lad," Lieutenant Catterall said.
"Let her take a glass often, there's nothing will soften
the heart of a woman like Nottingham Ale! Ohhhh…
Nottingham Ale, boys, Nottingham Ale…!"
"Desmond!" Lewrie barked, leaning over the quarterdeck bulwarks in nothing more than breeches and a shirt, hastily pulled over but not stuffed in. "You sing the last bloody verse, and you'll be late reportin' back aboard, me lad! The lot of you! Now pipe down and fetch-to alongside the larboard entry-port! You've five minutes, by my watch!"
"Muster the Marines, sir?" Lt. Catterall asked.
"Lord, no, Mister Catterall," Lewrie demurred, looking up from his pocket watch. "Though from the look of 'em, a cargo sling'd suit. I doubt there's a full dozen who can still keep their feet."
"Can you not keep order with your crew, sir?" an aggrieved post-captain aboard a two-decker moored nearby bellowed through a speaking-trumpet. "Can you not, I will! You'll stop all that cater-wauling,, or I'll send over my Marines and deem it a mutiny t'be suppressed!"
The larboard watch, wakened from their innocent slumbers below, had come up on deck to jeer and hoot from the gangways, some with glee, and some sounder sleepers with anger and threats.
Lewrie could make out a spectral figure on the stern gallery of the 74-gun Third Rate, someone in a white nightshirt bearing a shiny brass speaking-trumpet that also caught the glinting moonlight.
"Damme, the man's even wearin' a tasselled nightcap," Lewrie muttered with a groan, turning for his own speaking-trumpet. "No need, sir! They'll be aboard, and quiet, shortly!" he shouted across.
"You doctors, who more executions have done,
with powder and potion, with bolus and pill,
than hangman with noose, or soldier with gun …"
Desmond was rushing the last verse, but the first bum-boat was alongside the entry-port, and those who could among them were scrambling up the man-ropes and battens, calling for rope slings or bosun's chairs to be rigged for the rest. The second and third boats stroked in close, in a shower of flung "dead soldiers" that peppered the harbour waters like a "short" broadside of roundshot; to bump into the first, the safety of the hired oars between bedamned, to use it as a landing stage over which they crawled or staggered, dragging the less sober from boat to boat.
"… than miser with famine, or lawyer with quill,
to despatch us the quicker, more beerless malt liquor,
our bodies consume, and our faces grow pale.
But, mind you, it pleases, it cures all diseases,
a comforting bottle of Nottingham Ale! Ohhhh …"
Now the idle larboard watch had taken up the chorus! Bosuns' calls across the water were shrieking urgently, and the two-decker's timbers drummed with bare feet as her crew was called out.
Proteus's people were gathered in, some sprawled insensible on the deck, once they were hauled up and in by the larboard watch. Men reeled, staggered, and went to their knees, still babbling song.
"Cast your accounts to Father Neptune overside, not on the deck, you drunken louts! Gawd, Halfacre, you'll clean that up this minute if you have to use your tongue!" Bosun Pendarves roared.
Lewrie looked at his watch once more, sharing a glance with Midshipman Grace at the timing glasses. The sands in the half-hour and five-minute glasses were almost run out.
"One minute, you noisy bastards!" Lewrie shouted. "Up you get, smartly now! A 'mast' and rum stoppage for the last man in-board!"
Even the paralytic were spurred by that threat; larboard hands were over the side in a twinkling to grab hold of the final "corpses" and fling them upward from hand-to-hand, not waiting for the slings. A moment later and not one Proteus was left in the bum-boats; nothing remained but vomit, broken bottles, snapped oars, and the glowers from the Free Black boatmen.
"Officers, muster your divisions. Take the roll to see if any have run," Lewrie told his lieutenants. "Aspinall, are you here?"
"Aye, sir," his manservant piped up, still wrapped in a blanket.
"Go fetch three shillings for each of the bum-boats from my desk, Aspinall," Lewrie softly bade him. "To pay for any damage or loss."
"Aye aye, sir."
Lewrie snapped his watch shut and pocketed it as the first bells ending the Evening Watch pealed. He paced the quarterdeck as the roll was called, silently fretting. Many a dead-drunk's face was raised by a slightly soberer messmate to be recognised in the lanthorn's light; many a name was answered with "Here, sort of, sir" by another's voice.
"Bless me, sir," Lieutenant Langlie reported several minutes "they've all returned. All accounted for, and not a man has run."
There was a rather loud thud on the larboard gangway as Lewrie uncrossed his fingers in relief. Furfy, manfully striving to stand, had finally succumbed to rum and gravity, going face-first to the deck.
"Well, in their condition, Mister Langlie, I doubt they could!" Lewrie japed. "We'll rig an extra canvas hose in the mornin'. Use it on their thick heads. Hose 'em out of their hammocks, if needed."
"Ah, aye sir," Langlie rejoined, stifling a jaded snicker.
"Right then, you lot!" Lewrie called from the hammock nettings overlooking his swaying crew. "Everyone had a good run ashore? Fine. But ' tomorrow's another day. We're sailing… just in time to outrun the bailiffs and the damage bills, you lucky dogs. We'll also rise and scrub all decks, as per usual, so I trust you'll use your whole four hours of peace and quiet for 'caulking,' not yarning. Or more of your off-key singing! Now, lay below… quietly. Remember to puke in the buckets," he concluded, "not in yer hammocks."
Those who could began to shamble to the companionway ladders, snickering and snorting now and again as they whispered and chortled over their shore doings, despite others shushing them, or the gripes from the M aster-At-Arms and Ship's Corporals, from Bosun Pendarves and his mates. Bodies were sluiced with water from the fire buckets, or the slow-match tubs between the guns. Those who woke were helped to their feet and half-dragged below; those who didn't were attended by the Surgeon Mr. Shirley and his mates, Hodson and Durant, with "volunteers" grudgingly 'pressed into loblolly duty with carrying boards.
"Just leave 'em on the deck, don't even try to sling 'em in a hammock," Mr. Shirley could be heard saying. "Near a bucket, mind."
Five minutes later, nary a man from either watch other than the men in the skeletal Harbour and Anchor Watch were on deck. Lewrie got his shillings and paid off the disgruntled bum-boatmen, just as other boats neared the entry-port.
"Hoy, the boats!" Mister Adair called into the night. "First officer of HMS Halifax^" came the reply from a cutter filled with armed Marines, hurriedly dressed, catch-as-catch-can. "Side-party, sir?" Mister Adair asked, looking for aid. "There's not enough sober hands t'make a proper showing, no," Lewrie told him, striding to the entry-port. "Help you, sir?"
"My captain has sent me to put down your disturbance, sir. Are you the officer of the watch?" the officer said, all top-lofty.
"I'm the bloody captain, and I'll thank you to remember that!" Lewrie shouted back. "D'ye hear a disturbance, sir? Hark ye to the quiet, why don't you?"
"Well… your pardons, Captain, uhm…?" the lieutenant stammered, after a short span of silence to listen. "Lewrie… Alan Lewrie."
"Uhm, ah," the lieutenant from Halifax said, disconcerted to be in the unfortunate position between two Post-Captains. "You would be the one some call the 'Ram-Cat', sir? A pleasure to meet you, sir, I am sure. Permission to come aboard, and ascertain for myself-"
"Permission denied, sir," Lewrie uncharitably growled. "We do not allow visiting 'tween ships after the First Dog. Hell's Bells, we are sleeping here, sir! There was no mutiny, there was no riot, there was no disturbance. Just high feelings and good cheer, but it's over, and everyone's below."
"But… but what am I to tell my captain, sir?" "My sincerest respects to your captain, and tell him to get some sleep, sir. There'll be a busy day tomorrow," Lewrie concluded, and turned away to go aft to his own bed-cot, leaving the poor lieutenant stewing in his own juices.
Poor shit, his captain'll have a strip off his hide, hut that's his own lookout, Lewrie smugly thought as he kicked off his shoes and breeches, then rolled back into his bedding. Aspinall snuffed a lone candle, and the great-cabins were plunged into darkness once more.
Toulon leaped onto the bed, padded about, and grunted for attention, as Lewrie cocked an ear for the night. All he could hear were the creakings and squeaks of oars in thole-pins as the Halifax's boats were rowed away; the usual slow groans of timbers, the faint flutters as the night winds jangled the running rigging and a myriad of blocks.
If anyone aboard was making noise, it was the officers in the gunroom one deck below as they settled back in, japing and sniggering among themselves after the return of the liberty parties. From forrud, there wasn't a peep out of the normal; just the discordant, chorusing snores, whines, and grunts from a now-sleeping crew.
The staff-captain had quite forgotten his interview with Lewrie; those threatened orders had not arrived 'til days later, and then they dealt with Proteus preparing to escort a small convoy of hired or converted troop ships over to Saint Domingue, to carry Cashman's regiment and Other re-enforcements for General Maitland's command.
That delay had allowed Lewrie to award both watches with spells of shore liberty, twice for each, which had gone a long way to create good. cheer; time enough in port, too, for the ship's people's letters to be put aboard a mail-packet bound for home.
And time enough in port for another packet brig to come in and land mail for distribution throughout the fleet.
But nothing from Caroline-nothing for Lewrie, this time.
"At least they had some good drunks, hey?" Lewrie whispered to his ram-cat, as he ruffled his fur and stroked him to a purring sack of limp contentment. " 'Fore we go over to that pest-hole. Bound to be more'n a few of 'em never survive the fevers that are comin', hey sweetlin'? Their last joy."
Maybe mine, too, Lewrie grimly thought.
Officers and gentlemen were not immune. Even so, he had comported himself rather primly, he thought; some grand suppers, more than one overfill of good wines, a rather good session with a surprisingly tasty island-brewed ale, a ball for the 15th West Indies regiment one night, a jaunt out toward Portland Bight to a country house, where he had mounted up and ridden himself half-exhausted-sight-seeing, of all things! And a fine, head-splitting drunk with Cashman one night, just the two of them, reminiscing over a stone crock of American corn whiskey that Cashman liked so much, and of which the staff-captain so strongly disapproved.
Oh, there had been some mild flirtations, here and there, but nothing had come of them. He knew that he still cut a slim and elegant figure, and could shine on a dance floor, as old Marine Captain Osmonde had advised so long ago. He'd seen the fans and lashes in full flutters of admiration, and that had cheered him immensely, to be welcome should he dare make the offer, but…
One-and-a-half stone of ram-cat slung against his stomach as he shifted to his left side, with one arm under his head and the scrunched pillows, as Toulon settled in for the night. Lewrie gave him one last, long stroking that set him purring again. Toulon raised his head and let out a long, stretching yawn. In the faint moonlight coming through the stern windows, the cat's eyes glowed as brightly light green as a lensed fire on the Eddystone Lighthouse, in startling chatoyance, before they slitted in slumber.
