I could’ve stayed in port and helped, Lewrie thought; But, the ship would’ve gone t’rot. Better him than me!

“Now the transport’s about ready, you should get some sleep,” Lewrie offered to atone for his absence.

“Still too much to do,” Mountjoy countered. “I’ll only sleep deep when all the ingredients are in the pot, and you’re off for the first raid. Oh God … Hedgepeth.”

Harmony’s Master had come up on deck to take the air. He was, as Mountjoy had described him, a dour twist. He was long and lean, squinty-eyed, eagle-beaked, and only put in his dentures for dining, which turned his sour mouth inwards. He wore his hair, what was left of it, grey, long, and thin, and seemed to shave only once a fortnight. Hedgepeth was a proper “scaly fish”, a real “tarpaulin” man, seared the texture and colour of old deer hide gloves by decades at sea. He was the best that could be hired, in truth, but by God, he was a trial!

“Cap’m Lewrie … Mister Mountjoy,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice, turning the “Mister” into a speculation as to whether Mountjoy truly deserved it, touching the brim of a civilian hat.

“Captain Hedgepeth,” Lewrie greeted him with a doff of his hat. “The yard’s done a fine job of her, d’ye not think?”

“Only if yer damned Navy puts her back t’rights when yer done with her, Cap’m Lewrie,” Hedgepeth groused, “or she’ll never carry a decent cargo again. Might’s well turn her into an overnight packet on the Thames, with all them bloody cabins. Ship horses, maybe, for the stalls’re ready and waitin’, ain’t they.”

“I see the scrambling nets are aboard, sir,” Lewrie went on.

“For all they’re worth, aye,” Hedgepeth said, scratching at his whiskers. “Here now, ye puttin’ an Agent from the Transport Board aboard, who’ll tell me how t’scratch my own balls?”

“There will be Army officers aboard, of course, Captain, but their brief starts when they wade ashore in the surf,” Lewrie tried to explain. “I’m placing fifty of my hands aboard t’man the boats and steer ’em, and two of my senior Midshipmen. Normally, it’s one Mid per fifty men, but on-passage they’re to take orders from you. There will be an extra cook, which I’ll have to scrounge from the naval hospital, to assist yours, and my Jack In The Breadroom to stand in as a Purser. All will answer to you, sir.”

“All o’ that makes for one helluva crowd,” Hedgepeth said, taking a moment to spit over the quarterdeck bulwarks, “lubberly Redcoats heavin’ over the side, wanderin’ about in everyone’s way like so many stray hogs, and yer fifty sailors layin’ about idle. Shit!”

“Use ’em, watch and watch, Captain Hedgepeth,” Lewrie offered. “Cut your men’s workload ’til they have to man the boats. Sapphire’s your main defence should we run into trouble at sea, but you’d have armed soldiers, well-trained sailors t’fend off boarders, and a way to use your swivel guns to best effect.”

“We get into that much trouble, a Spaniard or Frog’d lay off and shoot us t’pieces ’fore they’d try t’board us,” Hedgepeth sourly pointed out. “Aye, we’ll play yer games, Cap’m Lewrie, though I don’t think much’ll come of it. Mister Mountjoy here’s payin’ the reckonin’. Ye know yer bloody boats’re too heavy t’hoist aboard, even with all yer Redcoats and tars heavin’. I tow all six like a string o’ ducklin’s, I doubt I’d make four or five knots.”

“Then I’ll just have to reduce sail and keep close to you,” Lewrie promised, trying hard not to sound impatient, but Lord, the man was surly!

“Fun t’watch, heh heh,” Hedgepeth said, with an open-mouthed laugh, which was not all that pretty. “Jolly!” he suddenly bellowed in a quarterdeck voice louder than Lewrie had ever heard. “Boil me up a pot o’ black coffee, Jolly, ye idle duck-fucker!”

The ship’s cook, a fellow nigh as old and ugly as Hedgepeth, popped his head out of the forecastle galley, shouting, “Beans grindin’ an’ th’ warter a’roilin’, sir!” Lewrie was amazed to see that Jolly had all his arms and legs. Most Navy cooks were Greenwich Pensioners and amputees, given an easy job instead of being discharged.

“We’ll take our leave, Captain,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat.

“Cap’m Lewrie … Mister Mountjoy,” Hedgepeth said, nodding and turning away with a twinkle in his eyes. “Heh heh heh.”

Once seated aft in his 25-foot cutter, and the oarsmen making way to the quayside to drop Mountjoy off, Lewrie turned back to look at Harmony, and the six large boats nuzzling her hull. “She’ll do, Mountjoy, she’ll do main-well,” Lewrie told him.

“What’s next?” Mountjoy wondered.

“See the hospital, get a cook,” Lewrie japed. “I’ll send my man, Yeovill, t’see if there’s anyone who can do a bit more than boil water.”

“Troops,” Mountjoy countered. “We’ve all the pieces in place, but for them, and without a committment from Sir Hew Dalrymple, we’re in a cleft stick. Two companies, right?”

“Aye,” Lewrie said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but hasn’t Peel or somebody written him to make the request already?”

“Well, he’s had our written proposal for months, and our oral presentation,” Mountjoy said, “and I’ve written him several times to keep him abreast of our progress, so the project can’t slip his mind. And yes, Mister Peel wrote me to say that he had written Sir Hew requesting co-operation, but…” Mountjoy lifted his hands in seeming frustration. “Dalrymple will pay attention should he hear it from Admiralty, or Horse Guards, but a request from the Foreign Office’s Secret Branch? I don’t know.”

“Aye, he’s a real ‘down’ on cloak and dagger doin’s,” Lewrie agreed. “It’s low and sneaking to real gentlemen, totally without honour. Fortunate for us that we’ve learned how t’be low and sneaking.”

“Well, I haven’t had to cut any throats, yet,” Mountjoy mildly objected. “Don’t believe we teach that class. There is no real training, don’t ye know. We just get pitched in under a senior, and do the best we can with what we’ve got.”

“Low cunning, and crass slyness,” Lewrie said, with a laugh. “I think we qualify. We should put our heads together and plan what to say that will convince Dalrymple t’give us what we want. Cover all the items, and have answers ready for anything we imagine he might ask, or differ with. Christ, write it out so even I can recite by rote. Use simple words when ye do. Just a thick-headed sailor, me.”

“Lewrie, you do yourself an injustice,” Mountjoy disagreed.

“Let’s be as clever as Zachariah Twigg,” Lewrie pressed. “If that doesn’t work, we can always threaten Dalrymple’s family!”

Mountjoy gawped at the absurd suggestion for a second, wondering if Lewrie was serious, then burst out in a peal of laughter that nigh doubled him over, and it took him a long minute to recover and speak again. “Right then, a planning session, all day tomorrow, at my lodgings, and we’ll run it all by Deacon, he’s a good head on his shoulders.”

“Bring all your latest agents’ and informants’ reports, with their maps of possible targets, too,” Lewrie suggested. “And, what about what Cummings sent you, about the insurgents who’ve requested arms and ammunition? That’ll make his nose hairs quiver, I expect.”

“Yes, it might, wouldn’t it?” Mountjoy brightened. “Tomorrow, all day.”

“Should I bring the wine?” Lewrie teased.

*   *   *

“I don’t know,” Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple very slowly said as he tugged at an earlobe, sounding weary and dubious, once Lewrie and Mountjoy had finished their carefully prepared presentation a few days later.

Christ, he ain’t ‘the Dowager’, Lewrie thought in well-hidden exasperation; He’s more like the old maiden aunt ye only have over at Christmas!

“I must admit that you have achieved quite a lot since first presenting your plans to me,” Sir Hew went on, rewarding them with a quick, fond smile, and just as quickly gone. “And it would be a shame did your scheme not come to fruition. Yet…”