The Invasion Year

needed,” Lt. Westcott added. “Now, the next sheet, sir, depicts the interior appointments, and the lining and beam partitions to hold the dessicant.”

“Dessicant?” Lewrie puzzled.

“That’s Mister Mainwaring’s ‘break-teeth’ word for blocks, bags, of sodium chloride… salt, sir!” Merriman said, chuckling. “Very scientific, that, for stuff that’ll soak up humidity and any leaks.”

“There’s another… humidity,” Westcott stuck in, winking.

“See how much we’re learnin’?” Lewrie japed right back.

Damned if the interior sketches were not merely fine builders’ plans, but they had done three-quarter-view drawings, too, shaded in varying tones of light and dark, as meticulous as a wood-cut illustration printed in a reference book, or a serious newspaper article!

“I did not know that you two were such talented artists,” Lewrie praised them, leaning far over the table to admire their work.

“Well, sir, the rough preliminary sketches were my work, but Mister Westcott is the real draughtsman,” Merriman confessed.

“Indeed he is!” Lewrie exclaimed, leaning back. “I once asked if he was musical, and when he said ‘no’ I assumed his true talent lay in seafaring.”

And women, Lewrie reminded himself; most definitely women!

“But, I s’pose we all have our side-lines t’keep us occupied in our off-watch hours,” Lewrie went on.

“Thank you, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, grinning and bowing at the waist whilst seated. “George here, though, wrote the proposal, and I dare say that you will find it equally meritorious, Captain. Merriman has a way with words.”

“It’s included, sir,” Merriman said, almost shyly.

“I look forward t’readin’ it,” Lewrie said. “But, once cocked and all, what happens to the boat’s crew… and how many men?”

“As to the second sir, if I may, we estimate that only one Midshipman would be required to command and steer the boat in, sir,” Lt. Merriman replied, shifting in his chair to scoot closer. “Each of the boats would need two hands to tend the sails, then spell the Mid for as long as it would take for him to start the timer and cock the pistol, then… as to the first matter, sir, we envision that each explosive boat would need a gig or jolly-boat to trail it in, then take off the crew… once the tiller is lashed and the sails trimmed for the last time,” Lt. Merriman explained. “Though it is possible that if a flotilla of boats are launched, only three or four oared and masted barges could recover all the hands from a round dozen.”

“A Lieutenant or two to command overall, sir, and take charge of the recovery boats,” Lt. Westcott added with a shrug.

“Um-hmm!” Lewrie said in appreciation, looking up at the overhead and deck beams for a moment. “Given the risk of losing the both of you to this proposal, should Admiralty approve it, it must be sent on to them at once. Secretly, but speedily. I’ll read the proposal this evening, then call upon the dockyard Commissioner, first thing in the morning, to have the drawings and all forwarded to London by the fastest, most secure courier… along with my own strong recommendation for the plan’s urgent consideration.

“What bloody good my backin’d do, well…,” Lewrie scoffed as he patted his hair and tossed his shoulders and hands up in a shrug of his own. “At least we’ll get it put forward and see what they’ll make of it, one way or the other.”

“All we ask, sir!” Merriman enthused.

“Thank you for approving, sir,” Lt. Westcott seconded. “We’re sure that this is a much more useful idea than what we’ve seen so far.”

“Good God, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie barked in amusement. “What ain’t? And, congratulate Mister Mainwaring on his jape about… salt!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Reliant spent another two idle days anchored in the Great Nore with no orders, and Lewrie was just about to let the ship be put “Out of Discipline” for forty-eight hours when another grim-faced Admiralty courier turned up with a fresh set of sealed orders, marked “Captain’s Eyes Only.” He signed for them, bade the courier a good journey back to London, then went aft and below to read them.

“Good God, who do I have to murder t’get out o’ this?” Lewrie gravelled once he’d opened the be-ribboned and wax-sealed packet. He was “required and directed to make the best of his way” to Portsmouth Dockyard for further… “trials.” This set of orders was even shorter and more enigmatic than those that had preceded the trials with the cask torpedoes. Evidently, people at Admiralty worried that letters of too verbose or revealing nature could be intercepted by French agents in England, or treasonous Britons in their employ.

There was a second one-sheet letter from the Honourable Henry Legge, a fellow billed as Commissioner Without Special Functions, a title new to Lewrie; that’un was just bloody galling!

“ ‘… choice of Mersea Island and the Blackwater River estuary an imbecilic choice, resulting in wide-spread panic among His Majesty’s subjects’… ye didn’t tell us where t’try ’em out in the first place, ye nit-pickin’…!” Lewrie fumed under his breath. “ ‘… had the cask torpedoes functioned as designed in your rash and precipitate attack upon the French invasion fleet then gathered at the mouth of the Somme the nature of future attacks en masse would have been revealed to the foe prematurely, as would the existence of said torpedoes, which the Lords Commissioners for executing the High Office of Admiralty severely and strictly charged you to protect at all hazards!’ ”

“Ye said t’try ’em out on the Frogs, damn yer blood!” Lewrie spat. “Somebody’s tryin’ t’cover his arse!”

He opened his desk to fetch out the original set; there it was in black-and-white, as plain as the canvas deck chequer. He was to conduct trial implementation of the damned things against French harbours and gatherings of invasion craft!

“ ‘Due to the extremely secret nature of the devices, it is not feasible at this time to warrant formal charges laid against you,’ at this time?” Lewrie gawped. They’d considered hauling him before a court-martial board for doing what he’d been ordered to do in the first place?

“ ‘Upon reading, you will destroy this letter and your previous orders to prevent any knowledge of the devices’ existence, and upon arrival at Portsmouth you will turn over your latest set of orders directing you there to continue trials to the Port Admiral for his safekeeping’? The bloody Hell I will,” Lewrie agrily whispered, rolling them all up into a tight cylinder and re-wrapping them with the ribbons attached. He shoved them to the back of the lowest locking drawer in his desk, sure that he might need to present them if a time came when the torpedoes were perfected and used in mass attacks, the secret would be out, and they could put him to court-martial!

“Damn ’em all,” Lewrie grumbled, then took a deep breath before donning his coat and hat and going on deck. The First Officer, Mister Westcott, was by the first larboard 9-pounder on the quarterdeck in his shirt sleeves, a sketch pad and a charcoal stick in his hands, chatting with the Purser, Mr. Cadbury, who was seated upon a second 9-pounder’s breech-end, mumbling to himself as he balanced his books in the fresh air and mild mid-morning sunshine. “Good morning, Mister Westcott.”

“Good morning, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied, abandoning his artwork.

“May I see? Damme, but for the lack of colour, that’s Reliant to the life,” Lewrie commented. “Is the ship ready for sea in every respect, Mister Westcott?”

“Well, aye, sir,” Westcott replied, looking puzzled.

“There are a few items to come aboard from the dockyard and the chandlers, sir,” the Purser stuck in with a worried look on his face.

“Paid for, or promised, Mister Cadbury?” Lewrie asked.