HMS Proteus lay peacefully at anchor in the sheltered waters of Spithead, north of the Isle of Wight, just a bit Sou'east of Gilkicker Point, taking her bearings from the Monkton Fort on the point, the buoy marking the No Man's Land Shoals, and a windmill on Portdown Hill, It meant a swim of over two miles to the point, and just over a mile swim to reach the Isle of Wight, and a hard slog 'cross the Ride Sands, when the tide was low, to deter desertion. Desperate as Proteus's crew was for diversion, and the pleasures of the shore, hungry as they were for solid land, reunion with wives, sweethearts, children, and their parents-for free-flowing kegs of beer, tall tankards of grog or un-watered, neat rum, for 'ladies of the town,' alley prostitutes ready to dole out 'knee-tremblers,' for sheep or goats, if they were too eager!-it was not to be. Lt. Langlie had already posted fully-uniformed and fully-armed Marines along the bulwarks, the beakheads, and taffrails to keep any 'inspired' seamen from slipping over the side in the wee hours when no one was looking.
Proteus had come in 'all-standing,' her best and second bower, and a kedge anchor, ready to loose if a permanent mooring buoy was not available. With a flashy show of seamanship, the well-trained sailors had rounded her up into the wind as soon as the bearings to shore were satisfactory, had swarmed the masts, yards, and running rigging to take in all sails at once, and one side-battery of her guns ready-loaded and thinly manned to fire a slow, metronomic ritual salute to the Port Admiral, the last discharge timed to be fired at the same moment that not a scrap of canvas remained un-fisted, un-furled, or not harbour-gasketed.
Whether such a 'scaly-fish' display actually impressed anyone or not, well… under the circumstances which might obtain ashore, Lewrie hoped with crossed fingers that coming to anchor 'man o' war' fashion might mitigate his later reception from his seniors; crossed fingers, as well, that they could actually pull off the stunt!
It helped, of course, that in the sheltered lee of the Isle of Wight, the wind's force had been blunted, and the harbour waters were much calmer. Had the sea and wind been up, he wouldn't have attempted it, no matter how badly he needed to make a good impression!
He stood about midway aft 'twixt the helm and the taffrail, in his very best shoregoing uniform, with all his 'brightwork' polished as glossy as his boots, and the gilt lace of his coat and hat fit to blind the unwary. He glanced aft to watch one of Proteus' cutters as it was rowed out astern, with the kedge anchor aboard, and a messenger line bound to the stern cable, which was laid out on the quarterdeck ready for feeding. The cutter made slow but steady progress over the harbour chop, which today was heaving barely two feet.
'Beg pardon, sir,' Lt. Langlie reported, casually touching the front of his cocked hat, 'but the best bower's down firm in nine fathom, same for the second bower, and we've veered off near ninety degrees between 'em. Fourty-five fathom of chain and cable to each, sir.'
'You might dis-mount both nine-pounder bow chasers, for later, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie decided. 'Lash 'em ready to be bound to the cables, should the weather make up. 'Tis winter, after all.'
'I shall see to it directly the kedge is bound and set, sir,' his First Officer crisply replied. 'Your gig is alongside the entry-port, too, sir, and Cox'n Andrews has your boat crew standing by,' he informed Lewrie, with a glance down to the large-ish canvas bag sitting on the deck near Lewrie's feet that held the mail and despatches from Halifax. Slung off Lewrie's shoulder was a second, smaller bag; that one held Lewrie's orders, journals, and reports.
'Thankee, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie replied with a satisfied nod, though he secretly felt extremely loath to quit the relative safety of his frigate's decks. They can't take me up, 'long as I have artillery! he told himself. 'And a 'foin marnin' fer it,' as our Irish sailors'd say, hmm?' Lewrie posed with a faint, sarcastic grin.
It was England they smelled over yonder; it was England on which they hungrily gazed. It was grey, gloomy, and raining, of course; the sullen sort of fickle showers that could come and go, come and go, for weeks on end, seemingly timed to concur with every second chime of the ship's bell, (which was to say at every hour) and perversely coinciding with any human need or urge to go outside!
'Any signals from shore, Mister Gamble?' Lewrie asked, turning to face their oldest and most-senior Midshipman, who was getting upwards of twenty, compared to their other 'tween-year 'snotties.'
'They acknowledged our signal when we made our number to them, sir,' Mr. Gamble replied, brisk and efficient as usual, as he'd proved to be since joining months before. ' 'Have Despatches' was also acknowledged, but nothing since.'
Ooh… canny! Lewrie sourly thought, ready to suspect a hearty 'good morning' as a veiled threat by then; Lure mine arse ashore, all unsuspectin', then 'slap '! Into irons, and under the gaol!
'Business as usual,' Lt. Langlie surmised with a yawn. 'And too busy to fret over a single frigate's appearance.'
'Well, then…' Lewrie announced, heaving a heavy sigh of resignation, seeing as how there was nothing to keep him aboard. 'I should be on my way. Expect t'be back aboard a few hours hence, but… keep the bumboats and doxies away 'til I return, or send you word, Mister Langlie. And when we do hoist 'Out of Discipline,' make sure no more rum or spirits get smuggled aboard than we may help, hmm?'
Lewrie glanced forward towards the larboard gangway, where the Bosun and his Mate, Mr. Pendarves and Mr. Towpenny, and the Master At Arms, Mr. Neale, and his Ship's Corporals, Burton and Ragster, already had their heads together. Neale had been born burly and gloomy, but a shipboard 'liberty' in a British port most-like had his guts in knots, in dread of what riotous excesses that could mean belowdecks!
'Side-party, then, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie bade, forcing himself to take the first step forrud towards the starboard gangway, the entry-port, the man-ropes and battens alongside the main-chains… towards his gig, a dock ashore, then… ignominy and court-martial? His feet felt suddenly leaden, as did his innards.
A court-martial, and a quick dismissal from the Navy could turn out to be the least he could expect! Lifelong shame, and the life of a haplessly ignorant tenant farmer; a veritable exotic stew of the village drunk, wastrel idler, and a black-sheep shame, all in one!
Boot-heels drummed on snowy-scrubbed oak deck planks with an ominous thudding sounding very much like Doom-Doom-Doom!
Caroline'll file a Bill of Divorcement, o' course, Lewrie sadly thought as he passed 'twixt the twin rows of the side-party, doffing his hat to all assembled; she and her brother, Governour, came from old slave-holdin 'folk in North Carolina! Why, they'll curse me as a traitor to the nat'ral state o' humankind!
Of late (with not an inkling of his crime yet revealed to her of course) his wife had actually begun to respond to his letters, again; a chary sort of reply, to be sure, after that still-unknown scribbler who had filled her head with tales of his overseas 'doings' with a mistress in the Mediterranean, Phoebe Aretino; a tussle or two with the bustily alluring Claudia Mastandrea in Genoa and Leghorn (even if she had been a French spy he'd been ordered to bed and blab lies to!); about Theoni Kavares Connor, the Ionian Greek widow with the currant-trade fortune who'd removed to London… with his bastard son 'Alan' in tow! Since he and Proteus had departed for the Caribbean back in '97, that vengeful gossip's 'dirt' had dried up, but… there'd already been enough for Caroline to stew over, and she'd made it quite clear that she was of a mind to shoot him, despised him worse than cold, boiled mutton, and et cetera and et cetera, so there, you faithless bastard!
Caroline's aging mother, Charlotte Chiswick, would most-like go into the wailing vapours, brother-in-law Governour would recall all of his panther-lean and panther-quick reflexes of old, lever his substantial arse from one of his over-strong fireplace chairs, and toddle to a gun cabinet, and her miserly, spiteful uncle Phineas Chiswick… his rasping cackles already rang in Lewrie's fervid imaginings!
In point of fact, being slung out of the Navy into dreary, civilian misery, with all those vultures flapping round
