The Invasion Year

“Bosun… Mister Sprague? All ship’s boats in the water, and manned!” Lewrie called down to the frigate’s waist. “I’ll send you in one, Mister Houghton, Mister Entwhistle, and Mister Warburton. Pass the word for them, pray, and I’ll explain their duties once here.”

“Ehm… Captain Blanding also wishes that the trade be ordered into eight columns, sir,” Mr. Houghton went on, shambling his feet at being remiss in mentioning it.

Lewrie just goggled at him for a bit.

“Well, that’ll keep ye busy ’til sundown, Mister Houghton. Oh, take joy of it, do, young sir!” Lewrie could not help from saying, and laughing right out loud, after a long moment.

Christ, what a shitten pot-mess! he thought.

They’d been given a list of names of the remaining ships, and the names of their masters, and would have to go aboard each one that was within sight in the rear of the convoy, assign them their proper new numbers, then tell them to assemble to leeward, if they were down for Wilmington, North Carolina, the James river, or the Chesapeake, or ports further North. Lewrie was mortal-certain that his Mids would be greeted with goggle-eyed, astonished stares, and splutters asking how they were to work their way leeward through the others.

Then, they would have to shepherd them to their new placings, then report to Captain Blanding in Modeste the names and numbers of the ships sent to the leeward columns so some clerkish-soul, likely Chaplain Brundish, could write it all down, with little ovals representing each ship, with ship names, numbers, and destinations jotted in tiny script beside each, to be checked off like landed crates from a cargo manifest as each departed them.

Hell, it might be dawn tomorrow ’fore we’re back under way and in proper order! Lewrie groaned to himself. It would be yet another very long night, and the chance of an enemy privateer showing up-Lewrie had let that threat escape his mind for some time-did not even bear imagining!

And what some curious and bemused American merchant ship that stumbled onto them during all that sorting out thought of the efficiency of the Royal Navy didn’t bear thinking about, either!

Reliant was fetched-to, along with their convoy, rolling and wallowing most sickly. Lewrie’s cook, Yeovill, came onto the larboard gangway from the galley up forward. He was not a good sailor with a cast-iron constitution if the ship was not under way. He “cast his accounts to Neptune” overside.

Damme, that says it all, don’t it? Lewrie cynically thought.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lewrie had over-estimated the time it would take to shake their convoy into its new sailing order; eight columns of ten merchantmen-with the last odd four tacked onto the tail-end-got formed by sunset, at the end of the Second Dog. The efforts of the escort ships had been aided by the boats from Lady of Swansea, the civilian “commodore” of the trade’s ship, and several of that worthy’s old friends who captained some of the bigger three-masters that regularly voyaged from the West Indies and back.

Lewrie suspected that what those experienced masters said among themselves, and passed along to every other vessel they could reach, went something very much like, “Listen, mates. This gilt-laced Navy pop-in-jay has less of a clue than a fart in a trance, so here’s what we’ll do… and bugger him!”

But then, Captain Alan Lewrie had been a cynical and sarcastic sort for years on end.

This sunset was not as spectacular as the one he had enjoyed the evening before. The wind was gathering strength from the Sou’east and the seas were a tad more boisterous. Though the skies were piled with white cloud during the afternoon, and the sunset was still pacific-looking despite the building thickness to the West, to leeward, there was a suspicious odour of fresh damp to the air, presaging rain, somewhere around them, sooner or later.

HMS Reliant still prowled the rear of the convoy, swanning from its larboard quarter to its starboard corner, continually making, shortening sail as it ran up close to the laggards, dashing off to investigate why a trailing ship did not press on, then quartering back to spur another to keep up-for the third or fourth time.

The ship’s boats were still in the water, being towed astern by long painters, with tarpaulin covers to keep out the rain and splashed waves sure to come from swamping them, Lewrie took note as he made one last stroll round the quarterdeck before going below for his supper.

He looked forward once he fetched up at the cross-deck hammock nettings, studying their convoy, and shaking his head. It was now more manageable to escort. With two cables between each of the eight long columns, it now spanned almost a full two miles in width, and with ten ships in each column-less the four odd’uns-with two cables’ separation between those, it was about two and a half miles long. Each of its flanks could be watched more closely by Captain Stroud’s Cockerel to leeward, or Captain Blanding in Modeste to windward, and Pylades at the head of the box, and Reliant at its rear, had much shorter distances to go to confront any threat that loomed up in the night.

As slow as the convoy sailed, Mr. Caldwell, the Sailing Master, estimated that they were now close to the 34th degree of North latitude, and about 120 miles East of the Cape Fear in North Carolina. The winds had backed sufficiently and now came from the Sou’east, allowing all of the ships to reach across them on a Nor’easterly heading, assuring them good clearance of Cape Hatteras and the dangerous Outer Banks; and pray God the winds stayed out of the Sou’east, so that the bulk of the trade could reach the 40th latitude- where the New England-bound vessels would leave them-and steer Easterly across the North Atlantic.

“It’ll be dark as a boot, tonight,” Lewrie said to Lt. Spendlove, who had the watch.

“Aye, sir. And smells very much like rain,” Spendlove agreed, “Though there was no sign of it to windward before sunset. The clouds were darkest to leeward of us.”

“Keep a sharp lookout,” Lewrie cautioned as he went below.

“Aye, sir. ’Tis a perfect night for raiders.”

* * *

His supper guests were already in his cabins, and his steward, Pettus, had opened the wine cabinet for them. Lt. Westcott was sipping Rhenish, as was the Sailing Master, Mr. Caldwell. Marine Lt. Simcock had a brandy, and the Mids, Warburton and Grainger, were smacking their lips over sweeter sherries when Lewrie greeted them.

“We’d best not irk the Master At Arms, so, let’s take our seats and dine,” Lewrie suggested. “With luck, we may be done by the time he orders all lights extinguished, hey? You may serve, Yeovill.”

“Aye, sir!” his cook perkily replied, eager to show off what he had cobbled together.

“Good ho!” Lt. Simcock enthused at the soup, a hearty beef and shredded bacon broth. “Quite zesty!”

“Indeed,” Lewrie agreed after a first spoonful.

“I wonder if Captain Blanding sups this well, tonight, sir,” Mr. Caldwell slyly said with a broad grin above his napkin, which was tucked into his shirt collar.

“Captain Blanding always dines well,” Lt. Westcott added. “If he has the appetite this evening, though…?”

“I doubt we’ll discover whether he does or not,” Lewrie told them, grinning himself. “You’ll note that invitations to dine aboard the flagship’ve dropped off next to nothing, of late.”

“Perhaps when we’re in an English port, sir?” Westcott hinted with a wink. “One last get-together before the squadron’s broken up?”

“If only,” Lt. Simcock wished aloud, with a dramatic sigh.

“You wish such, Mister Simcock?” Lewrie asked.

“Convoying is not as exciting as our previous duties, sir,” Lt. Simcock said with a shrug. “But, do we discharge the duty well, there is a chance that Admiralty will find us so useful at it that we’ll be doing it forever.”