King, Ship, and Sword

failed imps and demons!' Captain Blanding declared with a roar, which delighted everyone at-table, with Lewrie the only leery exception, though he did throw in a wee 'Huzzah!' just to be sociable.

'You've Chaplains aboard, gentlemen?' Blanding enquired. 'No? Ah well, no matter, for mine shall suffice for all, does wind and sea allow his calling aboard each ship for Divine Services on Sundays. And with God with us, who can be against us, hey?'

My God, I've been got at by a Leapin' Methodist! Lewrie quailed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Crown's issuance of Letters of Marque and Reprisal had been announced on the sixteenth of May. By the nineteenth, their little squadron had briefly set sail and had come to new anchorages in St. Helen's Patch, near the Isle of Wight, to await a suitable slant of wind. Thankfully, the weather had proved perverse for several more days, giving Lewrie and his officers, warrants, and petty officers just a bit more time to train and exercise their raw crew, with sail-hoisting, reefing and handing, and recovering the anchors and stowing the thick cables of the most importance, and only three hours of the working days spent on the artillery or small arms.

At long last, on the morning of the twenty-third of May, 1803, the wind came round to the Nor'east and a flurry of signal flags fluttered up HMS Modestes halliards, so many and so quickly that Lewrie could imagine the boisterous and impatient Captain Blanding standing over his men and patting a foot, drumming his fingers on his substantial midriff, and clucking at the delay, human failure, and Beelzebub's minions.

'All ship's numbers, and 'To Weigh' two-blocked, sir!' Midshipman Entwhistle cried, with a telescope pressed to one eye.

'Hands are at Stations to weigh, sir,' Lt. Westcott reported.

'Very well,' Lewrie replied. 'Up-anchor and make sail when the Preparative is struck, Mister Westcott.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Lt. Westcott said, eyes glued to the wee bit of bunting aboard the flagship.

'I must own it feels rather good t'go to sea again,' Lewrie idly commented, hands in the small of his back, head down, and pacing his quarterdeck. 'For you, Mister Westcott?'

'Well, sir… considering the deprivation and discomfort we're in for, I may be of two minds,' Westcott confessed with a brief grimace. 'And I thank you for a last night ashore, in which I could savour the pleasures we leave behind, t'other day. Wine, women, song… a fine repast or two… women.' He flashed one of those short, teeth- baring grins, which was as quickly gone.

'I trust she was handsome, sir?' Lewrie asked, lifting a brow in surprise to hear his First Officer admit he'd rantipoled. 'One of them special?'

'They were, uhm… both equally fetching and special, sir,' Lt. Westcott said with a sly smile.

Christ, am I in the presence of a master cocksman? Lewrie just had to wonder; two in one night… he's miles ahead o' me, even on my best old days!

'Are either of good family, then our sailing is your salvation, sir!' Lewrie barked in amusement.

'So to speak, indeed, sir,' Westcott replied, chuckling.

'Preparative is down, sir!' Midshipman Entwhistle cried.

'Get us under way, sir,' Lewrie ordered, turning sterner.

HMS Reliant's departure was not exactly 'Man-O'-War Fashion' or even 'Bristol Fashion'; it was sloppy and inelegant, no matter how much time had been spent at Harbour Drill. The lighter kedge anchor had come up easily from the ooze, the slimy thigh-thick cable trotted forward in an undulating snake, but the best bower proved stubborn, and the confusion at the main capstan to wind up the messenger could have been almost laughable if it had not been a serious matter. Yards creaked up from their rests as a'cock-bill as they'd be set for a sea burial, and sail-tending lines-and braces once half the sails were unfurled-were swaying loose and free 'til the Bosun and his Mate, and the petty officer mast-captains, bellowed, roared, and rushed among the raw newlies to urge them to tail on and haul.

It did not help that much larger squadrons of Third Rate line-of-battle ships, First and Second Rate three- decked flagships leading them out, had been waiting for that shift of wind to sail and take up blockading stations off the French coast, too, each of them thinking that their orders took precedence over the others, and especially took precedence over a lowly 64 and her three frigates.

Closest I've seen to Bedlam since the last time I toured the real'un with a water squirt and a pokin' stick! Lewrie told himself as Reliant at last got way enough on to be steered into Modestes wake and take station in a very rough in-line-ahead… with his head swivelled like a crazed compass needle to avoid so many imminent collisions; If this is the best we can do after a year idle, God help us!

Reliant ghosted along, the second in their short column, about a cable and a half astern of Modeste; close enough for everyone on the quarterdeck to witness Captain Blanding as he strode from one side of his poop deck to the other, too enraged to stay on his own quarterdeck, a brass speaking-trumpet in his hand to bellow at the columns of line-of-battle ships sailing along on either beam… some too close for comfort, and others slipping a bit loo'rd or slanted as if to drive right through his own column.

'God rot you, Cummings! I know you can edge up more windward than than that!' Blanding roared to larboard, then dashed to starboard and warned, 'That you, Fairbairn? Haul your hellish wind a point or you'll be aboard me, do you hear, there? Haul off, I say, Andrew! Haul off! Oh, the Devil take it! Gilbraith? Load a gun, and we'll hull anyone who gets within a cable of us!'

Lewrie wrapped his arms across his chest and tried to maintain a stern, determined expression on his phyz, but began to shake with amusement, reduced to making snorting noises. 'And how'd I miss makin' his acquaintance, all my years in the Navy?' he guffawed, turning to look at Westcott, who was also laughing as silently as he could. 'We had best take a first reef in the main course, Mister Westcott. Do we run too close to his stern, he just might fire at us!'

Once clear of the Isle of Wight and into the Chops of the Channel, their little squadron was pressed to maintain course Sou'west as if bound for the Channel Islands. A long line of at least a dozen big two-deckers and their flagship passed down their starboard side about a mile alee, taking their own sweet time to wheel about to West- Sou'west, altering course one at a time when they reached the large, disturbed patch of sea where the lead ship had first turned.

After the last of the 'liners' had made the turn, Modeste put up a signal for them to do the same; 'Alter Course in Succession' and a second hoist indicating 'Course Due West.' A third signal went up another halliard, ordering a three-cable separation. Down came the Preparative, and Modeste came about, already making more sail. As Reliant reached Modeste's disturbed patch, the helm was put over, and she went about, with Lt. Westcott busy instructing the hands to brace about for taking the wind on her starboard quarters. When Lewrie judged that the flagship was almost three cables distant, he called for the reef to be shaken out of the main course, and all plain sail set.

There was still another long column of ten or eleven two-deckers astern of them, looking as if they would either slice between Cockerel and Pylades or run right over Parham's frigate, but… they were on their way.

'Dismiss the hands from Stations, Mister Westcott, and set the larboard watch,' Lewrie ordered. 'If everything is squared away, all 'tiddly,' that is.'

'It is, sir, right down to the hawse bucklers,' Lt. Westcott informed him with a squinty look of amusement still on his face.

'My word, now that was excitin',' Lewrie said, chuckling softly. 'Clumsy… embarrassin'… cunny-thumbed