Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey

"But of course I do, Mistress Beauman," Lewrie answered, having a "gush" of his own of false pleasure. "Ledyard, so good to see you! My congratulations on your regiment, and its performance. Good as the Guards Brigade in London." He extended his hand, forcing Ledyard to take it, though with an involuntary wince. "I'm certain that General Maitland will be pleased to be re-enforced by such a unit… and that jumped-up poseur, General L'Ouverture, will have cause to run away and hide!"

"Well! Yes, haw haw!" Ledyard brayed, after giving it a rather longish think, blinking in un-looked-for delight. "Damn' white o' ye I must say, Lewrie, damn' white. Maul those murd'rin' scum! Go right through 'em like a dose o' salts. Lose their cocky airs, up against British infantry, wot? "

"And pray God soon, sir," Lewrie replied, giving Ledyard his due as his putative senior officer.

"Well, then! Hum… uhm," Ledyard hemmed, having run out of polite conversation, and with his eyes cutting towards the food and drinks. Anne Beauman tossed Lewrie her sympathy, with a weary arching of her brows, and Lewrie responded in like sympathy for her having to tolerate such a boorish clan for so many years.

"The best of fortune attend you and your troops, then, sir," Lewrie said, preparing to free himself. "I'll just look up old Cashman, then."

"Know him, do ye?" Ledyard asked, engaged by Lewrie's presence again, and looking a touch more leery than pleased by that news.

"Oh, for years, sir. Here at his invitation, in fact."

"Talented feller… organised, uhm…" Ledyard Beauman said, musing aloud as if pacing behind an office desk, weighing the benefits and disadvantages of a pending deal. "Unorthodox, o' course, but just what we need, hey? Aggressive, uhm… a fighter, wot?"

He squinted at Lewrie, as if trying to convince himself of Cashman's suitability to lead his regiment anew; or re-convincing himself in the face of disquieting new evidence to the contrary.

"The very best, sir," Lewrie assured him.

"Mmm-hmm!" Ledyard answered, as if tasting a tangy dessert.

"Take my leave, then. Colonel Beauman… Mistress Anne," he said, bowing his way off, and wondering why it was that every encounter with Beaumans made him begin to chop his sentences to the bare bones in the same pidgin that they used.

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"

O h, 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.