The Invasion Year

“Ehm… the invitation, sir. Sorry,” Midshipman Bailey said as he stepped forward and laid it on Lewrie’s desk, so timorously that he appeared to fear being bitten for being remiss; or, hesitant to approach a man newly exalted.

“Thankee, Mister Bailey… my deepest respects to good Captain Blanding, and inform him that I and my officers look forward to the… fete champetre with great delight. Also express my thanks for his kindness,” Lewrie told the lad.

“Aye aye, sir!” Bailey said, stepping back, all but clicking his heels or stamping shoes like a Marine, before turning to go. Once he was beyond the door, Lewrie turned to Westcott, giving him a wink and a looking-over.

“I’d think after a whole morning with your young lady, Mister Westcott, ye might wish t’give her a rest… give yourself one, too,” Lewrie teased. “All that, and supper, would be more than plenty.”

“ ’Twas an entrancing plentitude, sir, and thank you for asking,” Westcott replied, chuckling in reverie. “Mademoiselle du Plessis was her usual delightful self, yet, one always longs for just a bit more.”

Don’t we just, Lewrie thought, grinning tautly.

“I’d expect you’d change shirts before the supper, sir,” Lewrie said with mock sternness. “There seems to be some… reddish, coral-coloured powder on your collar. Rouge? Lip paste?”

“Coloured powder, sir,” Westcott was glad to inform him. “She… Mademoiselle Sylvie, dabs it on to, ah, enhance her breasts, specifically the areoli.”

That’s a new’un on me! Lewrie thought.

“Then it is indeed a pity that there’s no mention of invitin’ any ladies t’this celebration of ours, tonight,” Lewrie japed, referring to the paper Midshipman Bailey had left. “Just as well, I s’pose. She’d be bored t’tears with all the salty talk, then scared when the bread rolls and pudding start flyin’.”

“Well, that is a pity, sir,” Westcott said, looking a tad downcast; or very, very tired after his energetic morning.

“Besides, sir… why drag your Sylvie to such a tarry gatherin’, where ye’d have t’share her attentions with all the other young, un-married, and deprived Lieutenants?” Lewrie pointed out.

“To listen to their teeth grind, sir?” Lt. Westcott shot back with glee.

“Well… even if ladies were invited, the bulk of ’em’d be a pack o’ fubsy chick-a- biddies,” Lewrie said with a sigh. “And, there is the matter of whether Mademoiselle Sylvie would be suitable for our ‘dash it, bedad’ Captain Blanding. Acceptable to Chaplain Brundish, more to the point.”

“Always tomorrow, then… do you allow me more shore liberty, sir,” Westcott said, shrugging. “Or, perhaps tomorrow evening, after duties are done? Is The Rookery an elegant place, we could dine there.”

“An ‘all-night in,’ Mister Westcott?” Lewrie leered.

“Oh God, please, yes, sir!”

“Go, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered, with a laugh. “Wipe yerself down, and warn the others t’shine. Can’t let the repute of the ship down. Best kit, all that?”

“Aye aye, sir… going!” Westcott said, snapping to a loose sort of attention, and bowing his head before turning to depart, with a brief pause to ruffle the fur of the cats, who were napping like a pair of plum puddings atop the map board in the chart space; over the months, Toulon and Chalky had taken to him like a house afire.

Once alone, Lewrie had to dig at his crotch. He’d met the stunning Sylvie du Plessis once, and found himself “risible” at the recollection. And envious of Westcott’s hellish-good luck!

I’ve become a tarry-handed, sea-goin’ monk! he told himself.

So there he sat, vaguely listening to the sound of copulation and revelry on the gun-deck with the ship “Out of Discipline,” then recalling that Lt. Westcott (the lucky bastard!) had made an off-handed comment that Mademoiselle Sylvie was a “Venus On The Half-Shell” in private… if one changed the hair colour from blonde to brunette of the model for that painting by… some bloody Italian!

High culture was not Lewrie’s strong suit; he couldn’t recall which Renaissance Dago had done it! But, he’d always panted over it, and would have bought a copy… if his late wife would have allowed.

In point of fact, his last, brief intimacy had happened the night before he and Caroline had fled Paris, mid- Summer of 1802. And he had lived an ascetic existence since, afloat or ashore. A grieving widower who shouldn’t at Anglesgreen, then a Sea Officer who couldn’t in this sea-going monastery of a Royal Navy frigate!

I’m a man… a natural man, he thought; and it ain’t natural t’go without. I never have before, by God!

Suddenly, he found that he could entertain the idea of female company, again, yet… what sort? Jamaica was nigh-awash in “grass widows” whose husbands neglected them, but that would take entree to Kingston Society, and take too bloody long, to boot. Courtesans like Mister Westcott’s Sylvie? To take some woman like her “under his protection” would be expensive, and he’d be more-often at sea than in her company… almost as expensive as taking a second wife, with just as little sport resulting. Whores? Sadly, his last episode in London in his “half-pay” months following the trial, with no hope of gaining any new command, ever, had been depressing; poor little Irish Tess, who was so naive and hopeful… most-like his old friend Peter Rushton’s new mistress, if God was just; at least he had money, a title, and a stand-offish wife who had presented him with two sons, and had no desire to risk another pregnancy, so… have at, dear!

In point of fact, Lewrie was at that stage where he could almost squirt semen from his ears if he sneezed!

“I could ask Westcott if Sylvie has a friend,” he mused aloud. “Oh, God, no! That’ll never do! But… what will?”

It was a quandary.

CHAPTER TEN

HMS Reliant’s brief idyll ended shortly after that fete champetre (which indeed did feature flung food!) as the squadron prepared to sail off to prowl round Hispaniola once more. The Easy pendant was lowered, the outright whores and declared “temporary wives” were sent ashore in their jobbers’ bum-boats, and the frigate scoured with vinegar, then smoked with clumps of smouldering tobacco to cleanse her of smuts, odours, and shore bugs. The last fresh water was pumped aboard from the clumsy, ark-like hoys; the last livestock and salt-meat casks stowed away on the orlop, and the officers’ gun-room stores and captains’ personal stores were replenished to the final crock of jam and the last pot of ink.

As with all the holidays, Reliant and the others would be at sea for Easter, as well, though the Reverend Brundish assured the captains that he’d planned a bang-up series of homilies for the occasion.

* * *

Not three weeks later, though, barely at the end of their second circumnavigation of Hispaniola, a group of three warships-one lighter frigate and two brig-sloops-intercepted them off Cape St. Nicholas with fresh orders.

“Any idea what they’re speaking of, sir?” Lt. Westcott wondered aloud as Lewrie stood by the starboard mizen shrouds, one arm hooked round a stay to steady his day-glass.

“The frigate made Modeste’s number, after the private signals, then ‘Have Despatches,’ ” Lewrie replied, intent on the mute flag-play between ships. “Modeste then