Troubled Waters

HMS Savage bowled along Sutherly with the prevailing winds from the West on her starboard beam, slightly hobby-horsing over long swells in the Bay of Biscay. It was now nigh High Summer, so the fierce gales that could drive ships ashore to their ruin on the rocky, and hostile, western coast of France lay in the future- God willing-when the seasons turned to a brisk Autumn, then to a bitter and boisterous Winter, and one storm following the last for months on end… all determined to batter and dis-mast and wreck the weary ships of the British blockading squadrons, which kept remorseless watch over enemy seaports for a sally by their foe, or to interdict all trade that might comfort, arm, or feed the French.

For now, though, it was paint-brushed, high wisps of clouds upon beautiful cerulean skies, the sort one might wish for when 'summering' in some exotic locale, and the seas tossed less than three to four feet, in long, marching wave-sets flicked with only the faintest foamy surges at their crests, and the colour of the Bay of Biscay ranging from steel blue to blue-silver.

'Deck, there!' the main-mast lookout cried from high above in the top-mast cross-trees. 'Sails, ho! Ten… twelve sail! Three points off th' larboard bows! T'gallants an' tops'ls, in line-ahead!'

'Our line-of-battle ships, one'd think, sir?' Lt. Urquhart said as he turned to face his captain on the quarterdeck.

'Either that, or the French are out, and better managed than we expect, sir,' Lewrie replied with a snicker. Picking up a brass speaking trumpet, he called aloft, 'What course do they steer?'

139

After a moment, the lookout howled back down, 'In line-ahead, due North!'

'Thankee!' Lewrie bellowed back, then returned the trumpet to a slot in the compass binnacle cabinet. 'Ours, most-like. Were they the French, they'd be scuttlin' seaward, as far from our liners as ever they could, Mister Urquhart That, or bound Sou'west t' clear Cape Ferrol to join the Dons again, or pick up the Nor'east Trades off Portugal, and stir up some mischief in the West Indies.'

'Are they really capable of that, sir?' Lt. Urquhart said with a derisive sneer. 'So far this war, they've not shown that much skill at sea. Comes from sitting idle in the ports we blockade, with very little time on the open seas.'

'True, there's only so much trainin' conscript sailors may do in port, sir, but someday some Frog Admiral will get lucky, and put to sea in halfway decent shape. Slip by us, get a fortnight, a month or more, of real working-up, and they just might give us a bloody nose,' Lewrie mused aloud. To Lt. Urquhart's cocked eyebrow and dubious expression, he added, 'Not that much a bloody nose, but… more a nasty surprise. I've met some Frogs who knew how to put up a good fight, and they made my bung 'sport claret' a time or two, before we settled 'em.'

'Never under-estimate, you're saying, sir?' Urquhart asked.

'Exactly so, Mister Urquhart,' Lewrie agreed. 'Now we're nigh t'comin' up on our squadron, sir. Have a turn about the ship to search out anything that'd make Savage look like a dowdy, unkempt whore under the flag's eyes, and put it right before we come up alongside.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Urquhart responded, tapping the brim of his hat with two extended fingers, a salute more casual than doffing it.

'And I'll go change,' Lewrie said on, which made Lt. Urquhart fight a small grin, for Capt. Lewrie, RN, had come up from below in his dowdy and faded old coat, no neck-stock or waist-coat or sword belt. And that coat! Three years before, when first returned to the West Indies, Lewrie had had the bright idea to have a tailor run up some coats in cotton, not wool, so to better survive the heat… never expecting that dark blue-dyed cotton would not hold its colour. A sweaty supper aboard another officer's ship, and he'd come back aboard his own with Royal Navy blue sweat rings and giant stains upon his shirt, waist-coat, and snowy breeches. A few wearings more, a day-long shower or two, and those two coats had ended up the same pale blue as this day's sky, with the gilt-lace trim of buttonholes, pocket seams, and collars turned the oddest, sick-making, gangrenous green shade; the colour of deathly pus (fortified by the verdigris green that all gilt lace turned after long exposure

to salt water and sea airs) and so repulsive that one expected them to reek like a corpse's armpit.

Lewrie stubbornly kept them, for they were cooler than the usual wool uniform coats, and at this stage could look no worse when washed, which one could not do with wool. They could be stuffed into a mesh bag and drug astern, with the bed linens, and by then, had bled all the dye they were ever going to, hence no threat to his other apparel.

Oh yes! Lt. Edward Urquhart was finding his new captain to be a most unusual bird!

'Deck, there!' the lookout called again. ' Courses now in sight! Private signal from a three-deckerl'

'Mister… Grisdale,' Lewrie said to one of the Midshipmen on the quarterdeck, 'hoist the flag, and send up our number, quickly now.' ¹ Get his damned name right? Lewrie wondered: Too bloody many new-comes aboard.

He had already had a fair bit of fame (or notoriety) before the last battle against the French L'Uranie frigate, and after the papers got through with it, one might have thought he'd become Admiral Nelson… or his new replacement arm. Letters had come aboard Savage as she was just being manned from hopeful Midshipmen without a post at present, or from hopeful parents looking for advancement, or a first place, for their second or third sons. Not knowing any of them from Adam, though, and with very little aid from other captains in Portsmouth, Lewrie had pretty much been reduced to writing their names on stiff card stock and tossing them, blindfolded, into his upturned hat, for all the chance to pick through the aspirants he'd had.

Savage, a 36-gunned frigate of the Fifth Rate, of nearly 950 tons burthen, and with a larger crew of 240 men, required one Midshipman for each fifty hands; or so Admiralty said. That had meant five new-comes, with the well-seasoned Mr. Grace to make up the necessary six. Three, including Grace, might… might, mind!… have the wits and abilities that God had merely promised geese!

There was this Grisdale… if that, indeed, was his name, for Lewrie was still sorting them out… who'd come passably recommended, whose father was a Rear-Admiral of the Blue. When watched closely, he could keep his mind to his duties… so far, it seemed. But if not, Mr. Grisdale could be a lazy sprog. So much akin to Lewrie at that age that one could almost take a liking to him!

There was a Midshipman Locke, whose father was in the Commons, and one of those 'steam engine' men who'd made a fortune off the war. He, at least, was sixteen, and had had some experience at sea. Stern, and a bit of a martinet with the ship's people, but not a complete tyrant, and Lewrie and Lt. Urquhart could chide that flaw from him.

There was a Mr. Mayhall, son of another rich and influential man, landed in the huge way, and aristocratic in both speech and airs. Oddly, the crew seemed to take to him, for though he was only fifteen, he 'knew the ropes' already, and projected the aura of a lad who would be a proper Sea Officer someday, should he survive the process.

Then there was Midshipman, the Honourable, Carrington, and so far he was proving the truth of the old naval adage that titled families sent the family fool to sea. He was sixteen, and supposedly 'salted' by a three-year stint aboard a two-decker-but Good Lord!-was as dense as round-shot, and nearly as inert! And, when prodded into motion, was as dangerous as an 18-pounder ball rolling cross the deck. Daddy was in Lords, though, one of Wilberforce's fondest followers, detested the slave trade, and was very influential.

And, lastly, there was Midshipman Dry, a King's Letter Boy from that miserable excuse for a naval academy at Dartmouth; he had entered at twelve, son of a widower second mate off a merchant vessel who needed a berth for the lad. Dry had grown up aboard merchant ships and boats, so he'd been utterly bored to tears by more than a year of 'training' at the academy, knots, ropes, rigging, and such, with only the reading, French, and navigation interesting. A year more of harbour scut-work for a port admiral (another admirer of Lewrie's, thank God!) who also sat in Commons, and here he was at fourteen, so much like poor little Midshipman Larkin, HMS