Sea of Grey

in canvas and wax-sealed ribbons, his last personal correspondence…

Nope, nothin' new, he thought with a tired sigh. He had tried to call upon Lord Spencer and Mr. Nepean at Admiralty, but had been informed that those worthies had nothing particular to say to him, hence he had not been admitted. A letter had come from them, urging him '… should there be no pressing delay in your affairs, to repair at once to Sheerness to supervise the refit of your ship.'

And once in Sheerness, the dockyard officials had been dilatory in supplying his wants, while other letters came down from London that urged a quick return to sea, and slyly asking 'whyever not, already?'

Oh, it was harsh! Admiralty was miffed, not for his 'affair' or morals; officialdom was miffed because he had had no control over his wife in public! On such things were careers unmade.

If he wished Proteus repainted, it would be at his own expense, though he had written one of those letters asking '… with the supply of paint on hand, Sirs, and the meagre budget allotted for the task, which side of the ship do you prefer that we paint?'

That had not warranted a reply, which was fortunate, for Admiralty was not known for its sense of humour, and any answer would have been a harsh censure, perhaps his relief and replacement as captain!

Finally, orders had come aboard, for the West Indies! Sealed orders, most intriguingly not to be opened 'til he had weathered Cape St. Vincent off Spain 's Sou'west tip, had also accompanied them.

Since the war started in 1793, Prime Minister William Pitt and his coterie had shoved troops and ships into the Caribbean, eager for possession of every 'sugar' island. It had cost the lives of 40,000 soldiers and seamen, so far. Once Fever Season struck, regiments and ships' companies could be reduced to pitiful handfuls in a trice!

No matter Lewrie had prospered there in his midshipman days, he had gone down with Yellow Jack in 1781, and had been damned lucky to survive it, even if every hair on his head had fallen out and he had turned the colour of a ripe quince! He was safe, therefore, unable to catch it again, but his hands…?

Whilst Proteus was being re-rigged and re-armed, he had studied every anecdote, every official report he could lay his hands on anent service in the West Indies, looking for any clue as to why some ships

hadn't suffered catastrophic loss, while others turned to ghost ships. He had spoken to Mr. Shirley the Surgeon and his mates, but even they were pretty much clueless.

It was 'bad air'-Mal-Aria-the miasmas that rose from the soil of tropic lands at night, but they could not seal every port and hatchway, not without smothering or roasting the 'people' in their own sweat and exhalations. They had requested assefoetida herbs to make sachets through which to breathe 'bad air,' but had been told that such would come from their own pockets, like much of a naval surgeon's stock of medicines, no matter the terms of the recent mutinies that required Admiralty to issue them free.

Empirically, fresh-boiled water was sometimes safer than water kept for weeks in-cask, and water taken aboard in the tropics was best if placed in fresh-scoured casks, and taken only from a clear-running stream. Mr. Durant had suggested going a bit more inland for water, to get above the usual wells or streams where cattle or horses drank, to avoid taking on the obvious turds, but even he didn't think that would aid in avoiding malaria or Yellow Jack. Cholera, perhaps, he had concluded, with a mystified Gallic shrug.

Lewrie had even queried his Coxswain, Andrews, once a slave in a rich Jamaican plantation house, about malaria and Yellow Jack as he had seen it when growing up.

'Wuss in mos'keeter time, sah,' Andrews had puzzled, 'when it's so hot an' still, an' th' air's full of 'em. I heered some ships don't get took so bad, do they stand off-and-on, nor anchor on a lee shore, but…' A mystified black man's shrug was nigh to a French one, one could safely deduce. For God's sake, every safe harbour in the Indies was in some island's lee!

Shovin' us off t'sea in February, Lewrie groused to himself, as he pawed through his pile of letters; if that ain't a sign of their displeasure, I don't know what is. Lisbon first, despatches to Old Jarvy and his fleet… mid or late March, maybe early April before we fetch Antigua or Jamaica, hmmm… a safe month or so, fore it gets hot and the mosquitoes begin to swarm?

He pondered Jesuit's Bark, chinchona, what was termed quinine; South American, probably cheaper and more available nearer its source. It was reputed to cure malaria, or ease its symptoms. Could he force the hands to drink chinchona bark tea as a preventative? Or would he have another mutiny on his hands, since it tasted like Satan's Piss?

Fresh fruit would be plenteous everywhere they went, and Mr. Shirley was certain that almost any fruit was anti-scorbutic to some degree, so they could avoid scurvy, if nothing else.

But one had to go ashore to get 'em, he thought; Never anchor in a lee harbour or bay, near marshes and such, stand off-and-on after dark, well out to sea and up to windward of any land…?

' Yer coffee, sir,' Aspinall announced, entering with an iron pot cradled in a dish-clout against its heat, to set on the brazier.

'Oh, good!' Lewrie replied, turning to smile at him, but seeing Caroline's portrait on the forward bulkhead of the dining coach; back when she was young and new-married, fresh and willowy, in a gauzy off-shoulder morning gown with a wide straw hat bound under her chin with a pale blue ribbon, East Bay of Nassau Harbour behind her, her light brown hair still worn long and loose and girlish, teased by the Nor'east Trades, painted smiling instead of the more common stern visage of most portraits, her merry eyes crinkling in delight, with the riant folds below those eyes…!

He averted his gaze.

He had considered taking her picture down, but had feared what gossip that would cause, worse. Busy ashore, and sleeping out of the ship nights, even when she was back in the water… God only knew what the gunroom, the bosun's mess, the midshipmens' cockpit on the orlop, and the forecastle hands had made of that! Already there were the averted eyes, the cautiously framed speech…!

Aspinall brought him a cup of coffee in his silvered tankard, from the HMS Jester days, with shore cream and pared turbinado sugar.

There were letters of a personal nature on his desk; one from his father Sir Hugo, one from Sophie, and a damned thick one from Theoni… already? He quickly shovelled that one into a drawer. Nothing from Caroline or the children, though.

All his official correspondence was up to date; his clerk Mr. Padgett had seen to that the past afternoon, all his bills paid. There was nothing to do but stew and fret and drink his coffee 'til Six Bells and 7 a.m. when it was time to sail, after the mists had burned off.

'Yer dunnage, sir,' Aspinall said as two of his Irish sailors, the dim giant Furfy and his mate Liam Desmond, came traipsing in with his shore bags and the chest of last-minute stores.

'Mornin', men.'

'Mornin', Cap'um, sor… top o' th' mornin', sor. That eager we be, t'see th' Indies… beggin' th' cap'um's pardon, sor.'

'At least it'll be warmer, there's a blessin',' Lewrie replied, smiling in spite of himself. 'Thankee, men. That'll be all.'

Toulon bestirred himself after an impressive stretch or two and a gargantuan yawn, to come sniffing and pawing at the chest that held his 'treats' for the coming months, mewing with expectant delight.

' Toulon… look!' Lewrie enticed, taking a new knit ball from his coat pocket. Theoni had made it, complete with a wee harness bell and some ribbons firmly sewn to it. 'Tinkle, tinkle, see?'

'Murr-errf!' was the cat's glad cry. In a trice, he was hounding it from transom settee to forrud bulkhead, tail up and thundering.

'Up and down, sir!' Midshipman Grace, their youngest and newest, called from the forecastle.

'Heave and haul away!' Lt. Langlie shouted back. 'Bosun…! Pipe topmen aloft! Trice up, lay out, and make sail!'

Lewrie paced his quarterdeck, wondering if he would ever be warm again, gazing upward with his hands in the small of his back, watching as his well-drilled crew scrambled to free gaskets, take hold of clews, and begin to bare canvas.