“Cool tea, sir?” Pettus asked after he’d taken Lewrie’s sword and hat.

“Aye,” Lewrie said, peeling off his best-dress uniform coat so it could be hung up on a peg out of Chalky’s reach. There was indeed a letter on his desk, sealed with blue ribbons and red wax. He sat, broke the seal, and laid it open. “Aha!”

The cat was in his lap at once, rubbing his head against the white waistcoat, upon which he could do little damage. Lewrie stroked him and patted his side into his chest as he read.

“Good Christ … Ralph Knolles!” he exclaimed.

“Who, sir?” Pettus asked as he brought a tall glass of cool tea with lemon juice and sugar.

“My First Officer in the Jester sloop, ages ago, Pettus,” Lewrie happily explained. “He’s made ‘Post’ and commands a twenty-four-gunned Sixth Rate, the Comus. She’s at Great Yarmouth, and will be coming to join us t’help escort the transports to Gibraltar! Just damn my eyes … Knolles, a Post-Captain, hah! A hellish-fine fellow!”

Even if an old twenty-four is a tad weak, Lewrie thought; Nine-pounders, some carronades … no match for a big French frigate … or a pair of ’em.

He had heard the French ventured out in pairs or in threes, these days; only their swift privateers hunted alone, after Trafalgar.

“We’re t’have company, Chalky,” Lewrie muttered to his cat, and jounced him as he rubbed his fur. “He’s a grand fellow, is Knolles, and he was fond o’ your old mate, Toulon.”

At least he pretended t’be, Lewrie thought, grinning.

Chalky thought the jouncing and petting perhaps a tad too vigorous; he mewed and wiggled, then jumped down to dash off a few feet and began to groom himself back to proper order.

“Yeovill says to tell you that he’s a fresh-caught sole for the mid-day meal, sir,” Pettus informed him, “and for your supper tonight, he’s whipping up a cheesy pot pie with lumps of dungeness crab meat. Might there be any need to open a red wine for either, sir?”

“No, Pettus,” Lewrie said with a happy shake of his head. “The whites’ll do hellish-fine.”

“And, the Carpenter, Mister Acfield, hung your screen door so Chalky won’t get out on the stern gallery,” Pettus added, jerking his head aft.

Lewrie rose and went to inspect it. There was now a second door, hinged on the outside, laced with tautly-strung twine in a mesh, stout enough to resist Chalky’s claws and keep him in while allowing fresh air to enter the cabins. Lewrie opened it and stepped out onto his stern gallery, closed it, and latched the metal ring-and-arm hook to secure it. He thought it a quite knacky innovation.

Lewrie looked round the anchorage, so full of ships waiting for a slant of wind, or orders, before sailing. Sapphire had swung at her moorings so that the four dowdy transports which he would escort were all inshore of his ship, trotted out in a ragged line, and all flying the mercantile Red Ensign. He looked up to take note of the Blue Ensign that flew on Sapphire’s aft staff, and an idea came to him, one that made him begin to smile broadly.

It might cost me a few pounds, but … he thought; I’m going t’have t’do some shopping, ashore.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Kent Fusiliers were embarked aboard their transports by Friday evening, allotted their small dog-box cabins which would contain at least eight soldiers (which they would tear down for fresh air and sleep on pallets on the deck or any-old-how before the week was out) and getting used to their scant messes for their meals.

Saturday would have been a suitable day for sailing, for there was a good wind out of the Nor’east, but for the lack of their other escort. Comus came into the Great Nore on Sunday, a bit before Noon, and dropped anchor about one cable off from Sapphire and the transport ships, after sending a cutter under sail to hunt for them. Sapphire made her number, then Comus’s number, then hoisted Captain Repair On Board. Lewrie waited impatiently by the starboard entry-port to greet the frigate’s captain. A gig shot out from Comus, being rowed at some speed. As it neared, Lewrie was almost on his tiptoes ’til at last, there he was!

Captain Ralph Knolles was newly-minted, for he wore a single fringed gilt epaulet on his right shoulder, the sign of a Post-Captain of less than three years’ seniority. Back when he’d first come aboard as HMS Jester’s First Lieutenant, Knolles had been twenty-five, fourteen years before. He was about thirty-nine now, but before he began the long scramble up Sapphire’s boarding battens, Knolles looked up with a grin on his face, spotted Lewrie, and waved broadly.

A minute later and he was on the quarterdeck, doffing his hat with proper gravity, and stifling that grin ’til Lewrie stepped up to offer his hand. “Damn my eyes, but it’s good t’see ye!” Lewrie said. “Captain Knolles, indeed!”

“Damned good to see you, too, sir,” Knolles replied, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. “It’s been far too long.”

Lewrie quickly introduced his own officers, then invited him to go aft to his great-cabins. “I hope you’re hungry, for my cook’s laid on some fine lamb chops and bacon-wrapped quail.”

“Sounds toothsome, sir, lead on,” Knolles gladly agreed.

Knolles’s face was more weathered and lined, but he was still lean and well-built; a captain’s table had not yet thickened him. His blond brows were bushier, and his unruly mane of blond hair was just as dense as it had been … and, after handing over his sword and hat to Pettus, he swiped it back into place with both hands, a gesture that had never changed.

“Aspinall?” Knolles asked about Lewrie’s old cabin-steward.

“He’s written several books, and is a partner in a publishing house in London,” Lewrie told him, also filling him in on Will Cony’s new career as a publican, and of Matthew Andrews’s death long ago.

“Pardons if it pains you, sir, but allow me to express my sympathy anent the loss of your wife,” Knolles hesitantly said. “She was a fine lady, and damn the French for murdering her.”

“Thankee, Knolles,” Lewrie soberly replied. “Damn them, indeed. Now, when did you make ‘Post’?” he added, deflecting the subject.

“Just last June, sir,” Knolles said, turning gladsome, again. “I was First Officer in a Third Rate just before the Peace of Amiens, rose to Commander in 1803 when the war began again, and … poof!”

“Well-earned, too,” Lewrie declared. “Ever marry, yourself … now you can afford to?” he teased as Pettus fetched them wine.

“Two years ago, sir,” Knolles said, brightening. “We came back from Halifax for a hull cleaning, I got home leave, and Dinah was visiting the family of my childhood friends. Again, just poof, quick as a wink, and we wed! May I ask if you re-married, sir?”

“No,” Lewrie said with a sad shake of his head. “With both my sons at sea, and my daughter living with my in-laws, there didn’t seem a need for a wife, or a step-mother to them. And besides, I doubt if I’d ever discover anyone else who’d measure up to Caroline.”

Lydia would have, he bitterly thought; If she’d had the courage.

“And your lovely French ward, sir? Mistress Sophie?” Knolles asked.

“Married to another of my First Officers, living in Kent, and the mother of at least two children, by now,” Lewrie told him. “She’s become thoroughly English. Ehm … I hope you don’t mind turning our dinner into a working meal, and talking ‘shop’, but the Fusiliers are already aboard their transports, and if this morning’s wind holds, we could be out to sea by the end of tomorrow’s Forenoon.”

“But of course, sir,” Knolles seconded. “As I recall, we did some of our best planning over supper!”

“Good man,” Lewrie praised. “My clerk’s done up a copy of my signals, both night and day, and my rough plan of action should some bloody French frigates turn up. I see that you sail under the Red Ensign, independent. Sapphire was under a Rear-Admiral of The Blue when I took her over, but … have you a Blue’un aboard?”