“Then you must come back to retrieve my wash tomorrow,” Lewrie told him with a smirk.

“Why, I suppose I must, sir!” Pettus happily agreed.

*   *   *

Once back aboard, Lewrie found that both the off-watch sailors, and those still with duties to perform, were spending half their time gazing ashore and joshing most expectantly. He had promised them that they would get shore liberty for a change, and not put the ship Out of Discipline to allow recreation, and rutting, still imprisoned within their “wooden walls”.

“They seem in fine fettle, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie took note, after the welcome-aboard ritual had been performed.

“Recall that they were paid just before we sailed from the Nore, sir,” Lt. Westcott casually replied, “and just itching to get a shot at spending their pay on shore pleasures. Once your boat crew returned, and boasted of what they’d been offered at the quays, and so cheaply, I expect they’d dive overboard and thrash ashore, this instant.”

“Whether most of ’em can’t swim or not?” Lewrie posed. “What is our state, sir?”

“Securely anchored, sir, with Marine sentries posted to prevent desertion,” Westcott ticked off, “firewood and water to come aboard by the start of tomorrow’s Forenoon, and the needs of the Purser, Master Gunner, and Bosun in hand and relayed to the yard. Our prize, Le Cerf, has been officially received by the Prize-Court, and all our prisoners transferred from her to the Guerriere hulk. Their badly wounded have been moved to a prison ward at the naval hospital.”

“Our prize crew?” Lewrie asked.

“Returned to us, sir,” Westcott said, with a wee sneer. “The Prize-Court sent people aboard for a harbour watch.”

Le Cerf, Lewrie thought; The Stag.

Long ago, during the final days of the Siege of Toulon, then at shore lodgings here at Gibraltar, his wee French mistress, Phoebe Aretino, had called him that … her powerful galloping stag! And oh, how they had galloped! He got tight in the crutch, remembering.

“Very well, Mister Westcott. Carry on,” Lewrie said.

“Oh, there was an invitation sent aboard, sir, from Captain Knolles,” Westcott added, reaching into a side pocket of his coat. “He wishes to dine with you ashore, at his expense, this evening.”

“Did he name a time?” Lewrie asked, taking the note. “Ah! Six in the evening. Aye, I’ll be going back ashore for that, Geoffrey. If he’s off for the Mediterranean Fleet, this’d be our last reunion, for some time. Ready the wee cutter and a Mid t’carry my answer over to Comus, soon as I’ve penned it.”

“Aye, sir.”

Lewrie made to enter his cabins, but spotted Lt. Harcourt atop the poop deck, and looking even glummer than usual, so he called him down.

“Welcome back aboard, Mister Harcourt,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat. “I am sorry that I got your hopes up for nothing. What did the officials of the Prize-Court say to you? Any chance that they’ll buy her in?”

“They seemed most gleeful to take possession of her, sir,” Lt. Harcourt replied, “rubbing their hands like money-jobbers, and giving me all assurances that she would be purchased into the Navy, but … not ’til next Saint Geoffrey’s Day.”

“That’d be the fifteenth of Never?” Lewrie japed. There was no St. Geoffrey’s Day in the Church of England’s ordo.

“They’ll send what they think she’s worth to Admiralty, and it will take months for that to get there and for Admiralty to decide if they can afford her,” Lt. Harcourt bemoaned, “then more months to get a favourable reply, and the funds, then…”

“Then either the commander of the Mediterranean Fleet or the commander of the Cádiz blockade chooses a favourite officer from his own flagship to have her, and scrounges up a crew to come man her,” Lewrie said, half-commiserating, and half-scoffing at the Navy’s ways of rewarding people. “Damn ’em. That may turn out to be a blessing for you, Mister Harcourt.”

“At this moment, I can’t imagine how, sir,” Harcourt bleakly spat.

“That corvette, sound as she is this moment, will spend months slowly deteriorating at anchor, with not tuppence allowed for her upkeep by a skeleton crew, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Think what a nightmare you could be saddled with. Don’t be too envious of the fool who finally gets command of her.”

“Well, there is that, sir,” Harcourt replied after a moment to think that over. “Bird in the hand, and all that?”

“And shore liberty for you, so you can drown your sorrows,” Lewrie reminded him. “After that, Sapphire is charged to remain here at Gibraltar, now and again, but we will not spend much time in port. We’ve all Hell t’raise along the Spanish coasts. Can’t tell ye much beyond that, but…” Lewrie said with a cryptic smile. “Once again, my apologies that you didn’t get t’keep her. And for getting your hopes up. I truly am.”

“Ehm … thank you, sir,” Harcourt said, doffing his hat in salute.

Lewrie turned away and entered his great-cabins to mull over his predicament for an hour or so before it would be time to change into his best-dress shoregoing uniform, replete with that damned sash and star. His knighthood and his baronetcy, he strongly and cynically suspected, had not come for his part in the minor action off the Chandeleur Islands and the coast of what was then Spanish Louisiana, nor had he been honoured for accumulated victories; for whatever reason the French had tried to murder him, and had slain his wife. He’d been in the papers, HM Government had determined to go back to war against France, and had needed to rouse the public’s angry support for it.

Even so, Captain Ralph Knolles was not to know that, and he was in all respects a decent fellow, a patriot, and the sort who would expect Lewrie to wear those things proudly.

“Cool tea, if ye would, Pettus,” Lewrie bade as he stripped off his coat and hung it on the back of his desk chair in the day-cabin.

“Coming right up, sir,” Pettus vowed. “Ehm … when I go back ashore to collect your laundry tomorrow, sir … might I take Jessop along with me?”

The young cabin-servant froze, pretending to continue blacking and buffing Lewrie’s best pair of boots, as if shore liberty would be no concern of his, but his ears were perked, no error.

“Hmm … better with you t’shepherd him than tailing along with a pack o’ swaggerin’ sailors,” Lewrie decided. “Aye, Pettus. Take him along, so you can keep him out of trouble.”

“I don’t never get into trouble, sir,” Jessop protested, going for “meek and angelic”.

“And Pettus’ll make sure ye don’t,” Lewrie told him.

“Aye, sir,” Jessop responded, sounding a bit glum to be in need of a chaperone.

Good God, has he grown old enough t’want t’caterwaul and play a buck-of-the-first-head? Lewrie wondered; By God, I think he has! It’ll be drink, whores, and a tattoo, next!

CHAPTER TWENTY

Once atop the quays, Lewrie took a long moment to look back at his ship, and felt satisfaction. Dockyard barges and hoys swarmed her sides, delivering firewood for the galley and fresh water to top off her tanks. Powder, roundshot, and cartridge bag cloth was going aboard to replace all that Sapphire had shot off in live gunnery practice and their brief action with the French corvettes. Kegs of salt-meats and other foodstuffs were being hauled up the loading skids, or hoisted up with the use of the main course yard.

HMS Sapphire’s own boats were busy, too, ferrying supplies for the officers’ wardroom, and goods for the Purser’s needs, and items ordered, or hoped for, by the Bosun, the Ship’s Carpenter, the Surgeon, the Cooper, Mr. Scaife, and the Armourer, Mr. Turley.

A full day spent on lading and replenishing, and on the morning of the next day, the Larboard Watch, half the ship’s crew, would be allowed ashore from the start of the Forenoon at 8 A.M. ’til the end of the Second Dog at 8 P.M.; the day after, the Starboard Watch would go ashore to drink and rut, dance, holler, stagger and sing, even pick fights with hands off other ships in harbour.