H.M.S. COCKEREL

Chapter 2

The Admiralty's letter had been penned on the 20th, and Lewrie had received it on the 22nd, arriving in person on the morning of the 23rd. Yet, by the morning of February 1, his "tomorrow" had yet to come. To save money, they had removed to Willis' Rooms, in New Bond Street, down at the fashionable end, closest to his old haunts around St. James'. Closer by road to Whitehall, too, so Alan could hire a one-horse hack to and from, for less than his ferryman cost daily.

He was completely fagged out, again, of course. Caroline had delighted him with yet another night of honeymoon passion, and that after a public-subscription ball at Ranelagh Gardens; a night of fine food, music alternating between patriotic and lushly romantic, and an almost palpable aura of frenetic enthusiasm. Young men in uniforms had suddenly sprang from everywhere, and young ladies to match, torn between tears of separation and last-opportunity wantonness. Caroline had come down to their common parlour in a new ball gown, a caprice of the times, like some Grecian goddess sprung from the frieze of a precious, ancient urn. Her gown was closer fitting, almost a sheath, with fewer petticoats, and scandalously hemmed above the toes, almost to her ankles, with an artfully ragged turn-back to reveal the lace of one petticoat. Her waistline was very high, her bodice low-scooped to reveal decolletage, sleeves short and gauzy, all but baring arms and shoulders. And about her neck she wore a red-velvet riband choker. What fixed his intense, open-mouthed stare was her hair-it had turned into a tangled nest of Medusas, tousled, ratted, snarled and dangled in crimped ringlets.

"What the blazesT he'd gawped. Caroline had turned herself into a cross between a Dago peasant and a Covent Garden whore who'd had a rather hard night of it!

"All the rage," Caroline had chuckled, pirouetting for him. "It is 'a la victime,' dearest. Like the French aristocrats in the tumbrils going to the guillotine? The riband… for poor, beheaded King Louis and Marie Antoinette. You… you do not care for it?" she asked hesitantly, losing her gay demeanour and her confidence.

"My word!" he gasped. "It's so…" He had been about to say that he did not, in the least, care for his wife to go out so scandalously attired, sure she would be hooted, and dunged, by the Mob. Yet seven years "Active Service" with her, standing "Watch-And-Watch" on their quarterdeck, warned him he'd crush her if he told her what he really thought. Hoping such clothes were indeed "all the rage," he decided to brazen it out and agree to deem it Fashion.

And…

Damme if she don't look fetchin', like a whole new woman, Alan had thought; fetchin' enough to eat… on the spotl Wanton, bold and brazen. Always been favourites o' mine, God help me. No sober-sided matron tonight! Aye, I think I do like it, after all. Brand new, as smart as paint… an' triced up like a present, to be unwrapped.

"Caroline!" he'd said at last, beaming forced, but total, approval. "It's so different, you look so…! So deuced handsome. Lovely! Surely, I'm the luckiest man in England tonight.

Gawd, come 'ere, you. Let me shew you how much I adore it. So artfully… uhm, artless!"

And to the titters and blushes of the house staff at Willis', her maid's and Cony's smiles, he had taken her in his arms and given her a long, rewarding kiss, right there in the public rooms.

And his fears had been groundless. At the ball, there had been ladies, some with barely a jot of Caroline's sublime face and form, in a la victime mode, some carrying it so far as to look as bedraggled as Irish peasants. And flesh; more flesh bared that night by younger ladies (and high-priced courtesans) than a man might see had he owned a "knocking-shop," all of which inflamed Lewrie's lustful humours.

They'd drunk Frog champagne as if it were a patriotic duty to expunge the last trace from the British Isles, danced together round after round, had circulated 'round the rotunda, talking too loudly, laughing too gaily, greeting old acquaintances. And had gone home, after a midnight collation, for that longed-for "unwrapping."

"It's war!" The rumour began, just about eleven in the morning. The traffic in messengers through the lobby and foyer, up the stairs to the Board Room and offices, increased; and those couriers sent out with despatch cases and bundles of papers were in more haste than was their usual wont. Elderly Admiral Howe made an appearance, almost arm in arm with Lord Chatham, the First Lord, on the way upstairs, whispering and frowning grave, dyspeptic stoicism.

"It's war with the Frogs!" Hopefuls began to gossip, breathless with barely subdued excitement, their eyes bright as famished hounds at the prospect of scraps.

"Heard the latest?" one boasted, as if he had. " France marched into Holland yesterday. Their ambassador's packing his traps. We'll declare by midafternoon. War at last! Employment at last!"

"No, no… 'twas Austria," decried a second officer, refuting that round of news when it got to him. "Prussia, Naples… that last decree from Paris, 'bout supporting republican insurrections anywhere in Europe… they're all coming in as a coalition, 'cause of that."

"Did they march into the Austrian Netherlands yet?"

"It'd be about time, should you ask me. There's their General Coburg, with a real army…"

"Finest in Europe," opined several together.

"… sitting on their hands nigh on a whole year," continued the speaker, "feared of a tagrag-and-bobtail horde o' Frog peasants-led by former corporals, so pray you-'stead o' kickin' their arses out o' their territories a week after the invasion."

"We should have declared when France took Antwerp," another anonymous strategist declared strongly. "Why, we might as well give up the Continental, and the Baltic trade, else. What's next on the Frogs' menu? Amsterdam… Copen-haven… Hamburg?"

Finally a commodore, fresh from the seat of power in the Board Room, came down the stairs, and was almost mobbed for information. He held up a hand to silence their fervent queries.

"The true facts which obtain, sirs…" he announced solemnly. "Very early this morning, His Majesty's Brig o' War Childers, standing off-and-on without the harbour of Brest, was fired upon by French batteries. Word has reached us by the semaphore towers that she was struck several times by heavy round-shot. Childers will come in, to display her damage, and the French round-shot… in her timbers, and upon her decks."

"But, are we at war, sir?" several officers demanded.

"Better you should ask of Lord Dundas, or Lord Grenville, for that, sirs," the commodore rejoined, snippish at their lack of deference to a senior officer, and their lack of decorum. "The Secretaries of State, and the Foreign Office… our Sovereign and Parliament, will best answer." The commodore glared them to silence, harumphed a last broadside of displeasure, settled his waistcoat, and stalked away to gather his things.

"It's come!" Alan Lewrie muttered to himself, feeling a thrill run up his spine to be there, on such a momentous occasion. Secretly pleased, though, to know there would be no more indecision, no more delays. Soon he would be aboard a ship again. The time for half-measures and tentative mobilisation was ended. "By God, it's come!"

"It's war!" a lieutenant nearby cried exultantly, lifting his arms in glee. "Glorious war, at last!"

Lewrie cocked his head to peer at him searchingly, as he and his compatriots pummeled each other on the back and chortled happily. Of course, he was very young, the lieutenant, he and all his fellows in badly tailored, ill-fitting "pinchbeck" uniforms. His sword was a cheap Hamburg, not even ivoried or gilded, with a brass grip sure to betray him and turn in his grasp were his palms ever damp.

Second or third sons, the honourably penniless, with no means of livelihood but the sea, and warfare. For these desperately eager young men, peace had been a death sentence, stranding them miserly and sour on half-pay and annual remittance, perhaps, of less than fifty pounds altogether. But war, now…!

Prize-money, full pay, loot from captured ships, and a chance to practice their sea-craft, to gain advancement… to be noticed at last. Weaned as they were, as Lewrie had been, on personal honour, on "bottom" so bold they'd dare Death itself to display gay courage, risk life and limb for undying fame and glory… ox fall gloriously at the very moment of a famous victory… well, now!

Surely, Lewrie thought; the fools must recall the dangers, the fevers… the rancid food, foul living conditions… storms and peril! They weren't ignorant midshipmen, starry-eyed and joining their first ship! They'd gone months without a letter, years of separation, seen shipmates slaughtered, scattered in pieces like an anatomy lesson at a teaching hospital, hopelessly wounded men passed out the gunports alive to clear the fighting decks, dead sewn up in shrouds… or the permanently crippled amputees, the blind, the…!

'Course, there's more'n a few thought me perverse, for sneerin' at death-or-glory. No one, in his right mind, goes out of his way to die a hero, does he? 'Leastways, I didn't. Not to say that Fortune didn't have her way with me, whether I wished or no. I mean, dead is dead, for God's sake, and what's the bloody point of…

"Lewrie?" A voice interrupted his fell musings. "Would Lieutenant Lewrie be present? Alan Lewrie, Anglesgreen, Surrey…?"

"Here!" Lewrie shouted in a loud quarter-deck voice, putting aside all his foul, ungentlemanly, un-English sarcasms and forebodings at once. "Tomorrow" was here!

"The Deputy Secretary, Mister Jackson, will see you upstairs, Lieutenant Lewrie," an old and ink-stained senior writer informed him. "Would you kindly step this way, sir?"

George Jackson, Esquire's offices were a smaller adjunct to the First Secretary's, on the same floor as the Board Room. Lewrie presented himself, fingers twitching to seize the packet of orders which would be his passport. His Fortune.

"Your servant, sir," Lewrie coaxed, to gain the man's notice.

"Ah? Lewrie, well," Jackson said, barely looking up from the burgeoning mounds of documents on either side of his tall clerking-desk, behind which he slaved standing up. He looked down immediately, though, to cluck his lips over an ineptly turned phrase, perhaps some ink smudge, or a clumsy or illegible example of penmanship. "I have your orders, sir. Hmm… these, aye."

"Thank you, sir." Lewrie beamed, accepting the folded sheaf of vellum which one busy hand extended to him. He opened them eagerly, to see to which ship, what sort of ship, he would be assigned.

"Bloody hell?" escaped his lips as he beheld the concise words. "Excuse me, Mister Jackson, sir. There must be some mistake. I'm for the Impress Service? Me, sir? 'Mean t'say-!"

"You wish to question the wisdom of our Lords Commissioners, do you, Lewrie?" Jackson countered quickly, rewarding him with a tiny moue of disgust.

"Sir, I'm not so old I dodderl" Lewrie rejoined with some heat. "My sight is excellent, I've all my limbs… I'm sound, in wind and limb! Hale as a dray horse, sir. With all my teeth, which is more'n some may boast! Sir, the Impress Service is for those who-"

"If we're not at war with France this very instant, young sir, we shall be by nightfall," Jackson fussed, giving Lewrie only half of his distracted attention. "No, no. Redo this section before… this whole page, in point of fact, before it goes to Mister Stephens. Now, Lewrie… should there have been an error, which I most surely doubt, you may correspond with us from your new posting to amend it. Prevail 'pon your patrons to write us… but at this instant, we need to man the Fleet. The bulk still lies in-ordinary, and must be got to sea! Orders have come down for a "hot 'press," Admiralty Protections to be waived, and that requires the most immediate reinforcement for the Impress Service. Else merchant seamen will escape our grasp, and England 's 'Wooden Walls' will continue to languish for want of hands! I do not originate orders, Lewrie, I only inscribe them and pass them on. Bloom where you're planted, for the nonce, hey?"

"Sir… Mister Jackson, I implore you," Lewrie continued, in a softer, more wheedling tone of voice, striving to sound reasonable… though what he wanted most at that moment was to leap across the desk and strangle the frazzled old fart. "There was a term of service, in the Far East, a covert expedition… '84 through '86. Notice was put in my packet to the effect that I was unemployable. To disguise my absence, so I could pose as a half-pay officer with no prospects who took merchant service. Were you to but look, sir… perhaps that is still in there, and influenced my assignment…"

"I am aware of that service, sir, and I was most scrupulous, at the First Secretary's behest, to expunge your file of any false information, and to include a true accounting of your deeds, as soon as you paid off. Telesto, 3rd Rate eighty-gunner… Captain Ayscough. And, I also vividly recall your most gracious reception in the Board Room by Admirals Lord Hood and Howe, and Sir Philip Sydney. February of '86, was it not, sir?" The Deputy Secretary fussed, proud of a memory as finely honed as his master, Philip Stephens. "I recall, too, that you received an immediate further active commission to the Bahamas, your first true command, did you not, sir? Hardly a sign of official disapproval, surely. There, d'ye see?"

"Good God, though, sir…" Lewrie shivered.

"Do you object strenuously enough to refuse an active commission, Lewrie," Jackson cautioned with a grim, reassessing stare, "we shall needs select another officer. I might imagine an hundred men would leap at the chance. And you may continue to wait belowstairs. You are not so senior, or renowned, I must advise you, that a refusal now might ever lead to an active commission dearer to your heart. It is customary to demote truculent officers to the bottom of the List. Or strike them off altogether. It is your decision. Well, sir?"

"No, sir," Lewrie all but yelped quickly. "I shall not refuse] It's just… it's just…"

"Needs of the Sea Service, sir," Jackson concluded with a prim smugness. "Which do not, of necessity, happen to coincide with yours. And, we note that you are a married officer, sir. Surely your wife… and children, I note as well…"

"That's not a handicap like being lamed, or… surely!"

"More like an excess of limbs than the lack, Mister Lewrie." Jackson took time to form a laborious jape. "You know the Navy has a chary opinion of the zeal of a married officer. Now, we are quite busy, and you have taken more valuable time than I should have given you. Will there be anything more you wish of me, sir?"

"Uh, no, sir. I suppose not." Lewrie sagged, completely defeated. And burning at the unfairness of it, the peremptory treatment… and the utter shame of it! "Good day to you, sir."

He bowed himself out, staggered down the hall, down the stairs, to the Waiting Room to gather his boat cloak. And reread what seemed a cynical boot up the arse.

"Mine arse on a bandbox!" he muttered bitterly. He wasn't even to go near a real naval port. He'd expected the Nore, down-river near the mouth of the Thames and the Medway; to Chatham, perhaps. Or south to Portsmouth and Spithead. Instead, he was to report to the Regulating Captain of the Dept-ford district, just below London Bridge and the Pool of London. Deptford, hard by Cheapside, Greenwich Hospital and infamous Wapping. He seriously doubted if a single whole seaman, with any wits about him, would be found there after the morrow. Not after word of a "hot 'press" made the rounds!

"I mean, if one's going to pressgang, at least one could have a post worth the trouble!" he sighed. From what he knew of the nefarious ways of Deptford dockyard officials, there'd be five thousand men with Protections by sundown (with a pretty sum in those officials' pockets, too) and the "Wapping landlords," the crimps, would sell a corpse to a merchant master before they'd ever aid an Impress officer. Navy bribes could never rival civilian.

"Dear Lord… is it too late to catch up with Sir George and 'Porker' Forrester?" he wondered as he pocketed his hateful orders and went out into the inner courtyard. "They mightn't be too bad."