Dewey Lambdin - The Invasion Year

“Uhm,” Lt. Willoughby replied, looking as if he fought a grimace, or a beetle had just pinched his testicles. “Sir Hugo, you say? And… might his father have been one Stanhope Willoughby, who once resided near Linton?”

Heard of us! Lewrie sadly realised.

“I believe he is, though he didn’t talk of him, much,” Lewrie told him. And, with damned good reason, he told himself; Father can’t hold a candle t’that old scoundrel’s sins! The both of us are pikers, in comparison… eligible t’take Holy Orders!

“Oh, that would be the, ehm… that would make us kin, sir. Of a sort, though…,” Lt. Willoughby hemmed and hawed, nigh to blushing.

“Well, I won’t mention the connexion, if you won’t. No sense lettin’ on you’re related t’that old rogue… or us. Bein’ the son and grand-son to ’em is bad enough.”

“Quite understood, sir, thank you,” Willoughby said with a very relieved smile. “The French wish to give you departing honours, sir. After the assistance you rendered them, and me, they appear grateful… for Frenchmen. An admiral’s side-party… minus the muskets.”

“And I’ll accept, gladly,” Lewrie said, grinning.

Commodore Loring took his prizes, his prisoners, and his waif-like refugees back to Kingston, Jamaica, as quick as he could quit the coast, escorting, or guarding, the French and their vessels with his entire squadron. Well, almost all of his squadron.

The much smaller four-ship squadron, of which HMS Reliant was a part, which had been despatched under “Independent Orders” to pursue the French ships that had sailed from Holland back in May, had never been Loring’s favourites, from the time they had entered the Gulf of Mexico and Loring’s bailiwick, his “patch,” without the usual courtesy call at Kingston to announce their presence. It hadn’t helped to form good relations with the senior officer on the Jamaica Station that they had hunted down their quarry off the Chandeleur Islands of Louisiana and had brought them to action and beaten them, taking four prizes in honourable battle, either; the Royal Navy in the West Indies had been successful at taking islands, but that sort of knock-down-drag-out sea fight had so far eluded them… most pointedly, Commodore Loring.

Their assigned duty done, Captain Stephen Blanding’s four ships-the 64-gun Modeste, Reliant, and a brace of older 32-gun frigates, Cockerel and Pylades -had been sent to loiter off the other harbours of Hispaniola, both the bloody Saint Domingue and the Spanish Santo Domingo (even though the Spanish showed no signs of becoming belligerents and French allies, again); the almost total elimination of their over-seas trade and hundreds of merchant ships, the drubbing they had gotten at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent in 1797, and the general ineffectiveness of their Navy in European waters might have made the Dons leery of taking another shot at war.

And so it was, again. Commodore Loring’s last orders, before he danced over the horizon with a fine following wind, was for Blanding’s little clutch of ships to make a final reconnoiter of Saint Domingue’s, or Hayti’s, lesser seaports, and report back to Kingston… after the welcomes and celebration balls!

“Ah well, such is Navy politics,” Captain Blanding told them all with a dramatic heave of his broad shoulders, punctuating those words with so loud and trailing a sigh that he sounded much like a “Montague” skewered by a “Capulet” sword in Romeo and Juliet, and “eating all the scenery” as he over-dramatically “expired.”

Lewrie hid his smirk at Captain Blanding’s antics; the man was one of the most eccentric officers ever he’d met in his whole naval career. It was uncanny how boisterous, loud, and excitable Blanding could be.

“A glass with you all, gentlemen,” Blanding proposed, as both of his cabin stewards bustled about to top up their wine. There were only six of them dining this evening as the squadron stood “off and on” the coast, out into deeper, open water, then back. Captain Blanding liked to dine his captains in, quite often, and, over the months since they’d first gotten orders to serve together, had, for the most part, formed a “chummy” association.

In addition to Lewrie there was Captain Parham, a younger fellow with a single gilt epaulet on his right shoulder, denoting that he was a Post-Captain of less than three years’ seniority. Parham had served in HMS Jester, Lewrie’s first major command, as a Midshipman, and now had HMS Pylades . Parham was a very likable and pleasant fellow. HMS Cockerel ’s captain, Stroud, was also new to his “Post” rank, once the First Officer of Myrmidon , a Sloop of War that Lewrie’s Jester had been teamed with in the Mediterranean and Adriatic in 1796. Stroud was the odd-man-out; he was workman-like, immensely competent, but immensely dull in social situations. Yet, at the same time, if he wasn’t included in off-duty things, he took it as a slight, and was ever pressing for his Cockerel to be given the lead, to prove what he, and she, could accomplish. They all walked small, round Stroud!

And, with their host came Captain Blanding’s First Lieutenant, James Gilbraith, “Jemmy the One,” as Blanding sometimes teasingly called him. In point of fact, he and Blanding were both much alike: big, bluff, hearty, and stout, extremely fond of their “tucker,” and it did not do to get between them and the sideboard or dining table. Jemmy Gilbraith was also one of those poor fellows whose hide did not agree with harsh tropic sunlight; he was forever red and peeling.

Lastly, there was Blanding’s Chaplain, and a rarity aboard most Royal Navy ships, the Reverend Stanley Brundish, for the very good reason that most “padres” willing to ship aboard were the equivalent of the Church of England’s ne’er-do-wells, its drunks and failures with so few of the vitally necessary connexions and “interest” that could not land a rectory or curacy even in the poorest London “stew.”

Brundish, however, was from Captain Blanding’s own parish, and was a distant “cater-cousin,” an erudite and well-read fellow in his mid-thirties who could actually put together a sensible, logical homily, instead of droning through bought sheafs of sermons written by others, and could cite correct chapter and verse off the top of his head, quite unlike the “Mar-Text” reverends Lewrie had come across. Brundish also had a voice like a Bosun’s that could reach the beak-heads from the quarterdeck nettings, could stir up a crew with the enthusiasm of leaping Methodists, tailored his homilies with nautical references, and encouraged all with loud, lustily-sung hymns of the muscular sort. Chaplain Brundish was a constant presence by Captain Blanding’s side… if only to keep him from cursing and blaspheming.

“I give you a duty most honourably done, at long last!” their senior officer intoned, seconded by a hearty, “Hear him!” from Lieutenant Gilbraith, and they all emulated Captain Blanding by tossing back goodly gulps; though they skipped licking their lips and smacking, as he did.

“Well, sirs… supper is laid, and a toothsome repast I assure you it will be,” Blanding promised. “Let us take seats, what?”

A fine meal it was, too, and a most jovial one. When close on the Haitian shore the day before, one of Modeste ’s Midshipmen had come across a sea turtle, and it made for a thick and meaty soup. “I saved some turtle meat for your blasted cats, Captain Lewrie, haw haw!” the squadron commander joshed.