King, Ship, and Sword

CHAPTER TWO

HMS Osprey was a saucy-looking little thing, a single-masted cutter that could spread a lone tops'l yard above her gaff mainsail if the wind was right. By the number of her closed gun-ports, she mounted no more than eight 4-pounders and was a Lieutenant's command. She might have been bright-painted, tarred, and oiled at one time, but one year in the sometimes boisterous North Sea had taken the shine off her. Now, shewas a dowdy scow, and even her sails had gone old-parchment brown. She drew alongside of Thermopylae about a cable to windward and sent her jolly-boat over with her despatches, under the command of one of her Midshipmen, and a boat crew of five.

"I will come to your larboard entry-port, sir!" the Midshipman shouted to the quarterdeck, sporting a cheeky, wind-reddened grin on his face. "No need for ceremony for the likes of me!"

Usually, officers-even the lowest sort of petty officers as Midshipmen- were greeted at the starboard entry-port, the port of honour, welcomed with a side-party and bosuns' calls. In this case, though, as soon as the oarsmen in the jolly-boat had hoisted up their dripping oars, and the bow man had hooked onto the main-chains with a gaff pole, the Midshipman was scrambling up the boarding-battens to the temporarily opened port in the larboard bulkwarks, and stayed just long enough to doff his hat to the flag, to the quarterdeck, and to Lewrie, whom he espied waiting impatiently, then handed over a single folded-over letter to Lt. Farley. A second later, and he was clomping down the battens, judging his moment, and dropping back into the row boat to return to Osprey, waving his hat chearly as he put its tiller over and got his oarsmen back to work.

"How odd, sir," Lt. Farley commented as he came to the quarterdeck from the larboard sail-tending gangway, and handing over the lone despatch. "I expected a weighted bag… fresh mail from home… "

What the Devil? Lewrie wondered, for the letter, though sealed with wax where the folds met, was not addressed to him, nor to Thermopylae, but bore a cryptic Number Eleven of Twenty-One. In smaller longhand script was the caution "Captain's Eyes Only."

"Ah, hum," Lewrie said. "I'll be below, Mister Farley. Carry on with cutlass drill."

Once seated at his desk in his day-cabin, Lewrie broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

Sir,

Admiralty has informed us that a Cessation of Hostilities between Great Britain and France, as well as all her allies, has been agreed to by all parties. The preliminary Articles were signed in London on the 1st of October, with Ratifications exchanged on the 10th, and our Sovereign, His Majesty King George III, issuing a Proclamation of peace by sea and land on the 12th of this month.

From the receipt of this Letter, you are Directed and Required to commit no Aggression towards any National ships or merchant Vessels of France, or the Batavian Republic, nor any formerly hostile vessels you may encounter. Do you currently hold any Prize, such vessel or vessels must be despatched to an Admiralty Court for a swift Adjudication; should you hold any Naval or Civilian officers or sailors from said Prize or Prizes, they are to be sent in with said Prize or Prizes on Parole, or, from a vessel not made Prize but burned or sunk, they are to be landed ashore with all due honours and all their properties.

(for) Adm. Viscount Duncan

"Oh, Jesus!" Lewrie dared mutter after reading that for a quick second time. "It can't be… it simply can't! Don't those fools in London know we're winnin'? A year or two more, and… Ch-rist! Ye can't trust the French t'keep it. Not for long!"

"Sir?" Pettus said from the wee pantry built right-aft of the chart-space. "You need something, sir?"

"Guy Fawkes, t'torch Parliament, Pettus," Lewrie growled back. "The hen-heads've gone and signed articles of peace with the Frogs."

"War's over, sir?" Pettus said with a gawp.

"If it ain't a sly trick… aye," Lewrie grumbled. "The war's over. Before Christmas, we all might be paid off and 'beached,' does it hold. Mine arse on a band-box!"

Thermopylae paid off an laid up in-ordinary, Lewrie silently gloomed, still squirming with sullen anger; me, all of us, paid off, too, on half-pay, with nothin' t'do but… go home? Oh, fuck me!

Lewrie had a mental picture of the village of Anglesgreen and North Surrey in mid-winter, at Christmastide; of him sipping ale at the Olde Ploughman (for he still would be as unwelcome at the fashionable Red Swan as a whore in church, just as he would be goggled at did he attend the Divine Services at mossy, nose-high old St. George's parish church).

He fantasised just how long this peace might hold, and if he thought that dull blockade duty was boresome, it didn't have a patch on farming, animal husbandry… or even pretending to know what he was about at civilian pursuits. At home… in Anglesgreen… with his wife, Caroline… forever-bloody-more, by God?

It wasn't just the chill of a mid-October rainy day that made him shiver! He scooped up his boat-cloak and hat, and headed out for the quarterdeck once more.

"Mister Farley,… pipe All Hands,' do ye please," he ordered.

And as he waited for the ship's people off-watch to thunder up to join the on-watch hands, Lewrie gazed off the larboard bows to wee HMS Osprey, already more than a league away and making a pretty way on up the Dutch coast for the next warship in the close blockade, to relay her supposedly glad tidings.

It was cold, it was nippy, the sea was cross-patch, and dollops of cold water showered down to plop on his hat and shoulders with each roll or shudder of tops'ls and t'gallants, but, of a sudden, it was a joy. One he feared he'd lose, and never recover.

"Ship's comp'ny, off hats and face aft to hark to the captain," Lt. Farley directed.

At least they'll be glad enough, Lewrie told himself as he began to speak; they've something t'go home to!