After getting the convoy into a semblance of order, Ariadne took the stem position and let Dauntless lead out past Ireland for New York: in the Americas. The weather was blowing half a gale when they began, and the bottom fell out of the glass within forty-eight hours. Ariadne rode like an overloaded cutter, pitching bow high, then plunging with her stem cocked up in the air, rolling her guts out and shipping cold water over the gangways by the ton. The hatches were battened down and belowdecks became a frowsty, reeking hell where it was impossible to get away from several nauseous stinks, impossible to cook a hot meal, impossible to sit down in safety, impossible to get warm or, once having been soaked right through on deck, to find a speck of dry clothing for days on end. Even in a hammock, one was slung about so roughly it was impossible to relax enough to really sleep. Gunnery exercises were cancelled, and sail drill became sail-saving, as lines parted, sails were tom or simply burst in the middle and flogged themselves to ribbons of flax or heavy cotton. With new rigging, it was a constant war to keep the tension necessary to support the masts as new rope stretched.
A watch could not pass without all hands being summoned to reef in or totally brail up the sails, cut away those that had blown out and manhandle new ones aloft and lash them to the yards and their controlling ropes. ’I want to die," Alan kept repeating to himself as the afternoon wore on on their tenth day of passage. He was soaked to the skin, half-frozen, and his tarred canvas tarpaulin was turning into a stiff suit of waterlogged armor that he swore weighed twenty pounds more than when he had put it on. He had not eaten in three days and had lived on rum heated over a candle. He honestly could not have choked anything down that could possibly scratch on the way back up. ’I hate this ship," he screamed into the wind, sure he could not be heard over the howling roar. "I hate this Navy, I hate the ocean. And I hate you, too. Rolston.. ‘.
Rolston stood nearby at the quarterdeck nettings, looking down at the upper gun deck, a slight smile on his cocky face. "You love this shitten life, don't you, you little bastard?" Only the wind heard him. The ship gave a more pronounced heave as a following wave smashed into the transom, rolled heavily to larboard, and Alan dropped to the deck, his feet ripped from beneath him. He slid like a hog on ice along the deck that ran with water until he fetched up against coiled gun tackle and thumped his shoulder into a gun-truck wheel. ’Goddarnn it," he howled, looking straight at Captain Bales by the wheel binnacle. Bales nodded at him with a vague expression, not knowing what the hell he had said. ’Resting?" Lieutenant Swift boomed near to him.
'''No, sir," he shouted back, hoping Swift hadn't been close enough to hear what he had said, though a full flogging could not hurt much worse than being bounced around like this. "Then get on yer feet," Swift barked in a voice that could have carried forward in a full hurricane. Alan scrambled to obey and clung to the nearest pin rail, trying to rub his shoulder where he had smacked it. ’Go forward and check on the lashings on the boat tier," Swift ordered. "Aye aye, sir," he screamed back, inches from the officer's nose. "Bosun's Mate!" The duty bosun's mate, Ream, could not hear a word he said, so he took advantage of the ship's roll upright to dash over to him and cling to the man as the ship rolled to larboard once more and threatened to take him back where he had started.
''Come with me," he yelled into the man's cupped ear. "Boat tiers!" Alan muttered curses at everything in general all the way along the starboard gangway, clinging to anything that looked substantial. Ream fetched a couple of hands along the way, and Alan took notice that Ream and both hands were also moving their lips in a canticle of woe and anger, probably directed at Alan, but he could have cared less at that point.
They reached the thick timbers that spanned the waist of the upper gun deck between the gangways and stood studying the lashings on the stored boats that were nestled fore-and-aft on the massive beams. ’Chafing," Ream shouted into each ear, pointing at the ropes that were wearing away slowly before their eyes each time the ship did a particularly violent roll and pitch. "Tell the first lieutenant. " Alan made his way back aft, getting freshly drenched in waves of spume and spray until he could stagger to the mizzen weather chains, where Swift stood, one arm hooked through the shrouds. ’Chafing, sir," he shouted. ’Rolston!" Swift bellowed. "All hands' on deck!" Rolston's mouth moved but no sounds were to be heard as he relayed the message, and in moments men began to boil up from below and muster on the upper gun deck below them. "Rolston, take windward with Mister Kenyon," Swift ordered. "And, Mister Lewrie, go to looard with Mister Church. Oakum pads and baggy-wrinkle on old lines, and new lashings doubled up.’
’Aye, sir," Alan replied, knuckling his forehead. Shit, new words again. Baggy-wrinkle? Sounds like my scrotum about now.
He went forward with their little third officer and tried to explain what was desired to each man, but Church simply roared out one command, and everyone fell to with a sense of purpose that left Alan standing about. ’Go keep an eye on 'em," Church barked, shoving Alan toward the boat-tiers. He realized that he would have to scramble out onto the timbers to the upturned boats, and that timber could-not be more than two feet wide and deep, with absolutely no safety line of any kind.
He took a deep breath, waited until the ship rolled about as much upright as she was going to, and ran out onto one of the timbers. The ship slammed her bows into a wave as the stem lifted once more, the beakhead buried in foam, and she lurched as if she had been punched right in the mouth. The beam seemed to dance out from beneath him, but Alan was close enough to fling himself forward and grab onto one of the lashings that stood out from the nearest craft, the jolly-boat. One leg dangled into the waist, but he had made it by the merest whisker.
He scrambled up on top of the jolly-boat with the help of one of the older hands and clung to her keel with a death grip. The man smiled back at him, teeth gleaming white as foam in his face.
Don't tell me this cretin enjoys this, Alan thought… "New lashin's first, er baggy-wrinkle; sir?" The man asked, coming close enough to carry the smell of his body.
Alan clung tight as Ariadne rolled once more to larboard. He felt more than heard the grating as more than two tons of wooden boat shifted against the tiers to the leeward side-the boat he was sitting on. ’New lashings!" he decided quickly, bobbing his head nervously. "Aye aye," the man yelled, then scrambled over to the next boat, with a grace that Alan could only envy, and shout something to the rest of his party, then hopped back over to Alan. "How do we do it?" Alan asked when the wind gusted a little softer than normal. "I'm not too proud to ask.’
’Stap me if I know, sir, thought you did.’
And that's the last time I am not too proud to ask, Alan promised himself as the man beamed his stupidity at him. Alan bent over as far as he dared and studied the existing lashings, the way they threaded under the beams, crossed under like a laced-up corset and crossed over the boats. "Give me a… bight on the forward timber," Alan shouted. "Then make sure it's wrapped snug in oakum or old canvas. Take it up and over the boat, under this beam we're on, and on aft… then back forward, like… well, like a woman's bodice is tied up, see? Double lashings this time.’
’Aye aye, sir.’
Ship work on a heaving deck or shaky spar was, as Ashburn had prophesied, much like church work; it went damned slow. Alan inspected each point where the new ropes could rub on wood and had them padded and wrapped. He thumped on each bight until satisfied that they were as taut as belaying pins so there would be no play after they were finished. Lieutenant Church made his way out to him and gave him an encouraging grin, squatting on one of the boat-tiers.
Once his men had gotten the idea, Alan swung his way over to thecentermost boats, the massive cutter and barge, to watch from another vantage point. He was feeling very pleased with himself, in spite of being wet as a drowned rat and aching in places where he hadn't thought one could ache. ’Being useful?" Rolston shouted into his face, taunting him. "Yes, damn yer eyes," Alan shot back, and was disappointed that he had to rep
eat himself to be understood. His throat was almost raw with the effort of making himself heard. ’Church tell you to do that?" Rolston shouted back. ’Do what?’
‘Rig new lashings before padding the old… that's wrong. ’
‘What if the old ones part before you have new ones on?’
‘They won't part," Rolston shrieked into his nose. But he didn't look as confident as he had earlier, which prompted Alan to look at what his hands were doing. Rolston's team was applying a single lashing without any padding or baggywrinkling, and were loosening the frayed lashings to pad them. "Then what the hell are we doing out here?" Alan demanded. "Did Kenyon tell you to do it that way?" Rolston looked away.
Alan made his way farther to starboard over the barge to the captain's brightly painted and gilt-trimmed gig, which was being lashed down in much the fashion that Alan had thought correct, providing him with a tingle of satisfaction. He waved to Lieutenant Kenyon, who clambered out to join him. But once out there Kenyon took one look at the way the two heaviest boats were being treated and frowned. ’Rolston, you young fool," he shouted. "Leave those lashings be!’
‘Sir?" Rolston cringed, not able to believe he had done wrong. At that moment Shirke came from aft to request some topmen to go aloft and secure a comer of the mizzen tops'l that had blown out her leeward leach line. Alan looked at Rolston, gave him a large smile, then went back to his own hands, who were busily doing things all seamanlike. He climbed over the keel of the biggest and heaviest boat, the barge, and was about to traverse the short distance to the jolly boat when he felt the barge shift underneath him. A frayed lashing gave way and came snaking over past his head with the force of a coach whip. It struck the jolly-boat and cracked like a gunshot, leaving a mark in the paint. ’Jump for it," he yelled, wondering if he could do the same. There followed a series of groans and gunshots as other lashings parted under the tremendous weight they had restrained, and he was on a slide along the timbers toward the jolly-boat as the barge came free.
One of his men had been sitting on the boat -tier between the two boats. He turned to look at the weight that was about to smear him like a cockroach between a boot and a floor, and screamed wordlessly. Alan leaped over him, one foot touching the man's posterior, and flung himself across the keel of the jolly-boat. The man grabbed at him and hauled away, which pulled Alan down off the keel and down the rain-slick bottom of the upturned boat. Using Alan as a ladder, he got out of the way and disappeared over the far side.
The ship now rolled back upright for a moment, snubbed as her bow dug deep into a wave, and came up like a seal blowing foam. The barge shifted back to the starboard side, making a funereal drumming boom against the cutter.
Rolston came over the top of the barge to check for damage as Alan hoisted himself out of harm's way, just in time to meet Lieutenant Church and the panicked working party. The ship tucked her stem into the air once more, rolled to larboard, and Rolston fell between the barge and the jolly-boat. He was face-down on the boat-tier as"the barge began to slide down on him, a leg dangling on either side of the thick beam. Wonderful, Alan thought inanely; I'm about to see a human meat patty and it couldn't happen to a nicer person… Then, without really thinking or calculating the risk, he planted his feet on the boat-tier, leaped forward and grabbed Rolston as he flung himself off the tier to drop to the upper gun deck, which was about eight feet below them. He had the satisfaction of landing on Rolston, who landed on a thick coil of cordage at the foot of the mainmast. Overhead, the barge slammed into the jolly-boat to the sound of splintering timber. Now why in hell did I do that? he wondered, trying to get his lungs to work again after taking an elbow in the pit of his stomach. For a moment he thought he was dying, until with a spasm his lungs began to function again and he could suck in fresh air. As for Rolston, he was stretched out like a dead man, but Alan could see his chest heaving. ’Merciful God, are you alright, young sir?" Lieutenant Roth asked him, kneeling down by both of them. ’I believe so, sir," Alan said, trying to sit up, which was about all he thought he could manage at the moment. Roth hoisted Rolston up in his arms and slapped him a couple of times, which cheered Alan a bit. In fact he wished that he could do that to Rolston himself! Rolston rolled his eyes and groaned loudly, trying to shrink away from that hard palm. "Stupid gits," Lieutenant Kenyon shouted down from above. ’Get your miserable arse up here. Now. ’
‘Aye, sir," Alan shouted back, thinking it was a summons for him, as usual. ’Both of you," Kenyon added.
Lieutenant Swift and the captain were there on the gangway by the time they had ascended to that level by the forecastle ladders and gone aft to join the officers. "Silly cack-handed, cunny-thumbed whip-jack of a sailor you are, sir," Swift howled, spitting saliva into the wind in his fury. "A canting-crew imitation tar would know better than that. There's a jolly-boat stove in and the barge damaged as well because of you.’
’Sony, sir," Alan said along with Rolston. ’Oh, not you, Lewrie, at least not this once; it's Rolston I'm talking to." Swift's face was turning red as a turkey cock's wattles. "Get back to wode, Mister Lewrie.’
’Oh, aye aye, sir," said a surprised Alan, not on the carpet for the first time since he had joined Ariadne. ’If it wasn't for Lewrie you'd be pressed flat as a flounder, and good riddance to bad rubbish…" Swift was going on as Alan scrambled back across the boat-tiers to leeward, out of earshot.
I should have let him get mashed, damme if I shouldn't have, Alan thought. But now I've done something right for a change, and somebody else is getting grief.
An hour later, they finished lashing down the boats and by then the watch had changed. Alan went down to the lower gun deck and sniffed at the odors of sickness and bodies. Even as bad as the weather was topside, he almost contemplated going back on deck rather than stand the atmosphere down here, but he peeled off the sodden tarpaulin and began to work his way through the swinging hammocks toward the after-ladders to the orlop. He passed the junior midshipmen's mess, where there was a single glim burning. The master gunner Mr. Tencher had a stone bottle by his elbow on the table, secured by fiddles, and was humming to himself. ’Lewrie," he whispered, not wanting to wake up his sleeping berth mates. "Want a wet?’
‘God, yes, Mister Tencher, sir," Alan croaked in gratitude. He seated himself on a chest and locked his elbows into place on the table so he wouldn't slide about. The gummy wetness of his clothing that had been soaked in salt-water for hours almost glued him to the dry wood. ’Cider-And, boy," Tencher promised, pouring him a battered tin mug full of something alcoholic-smelling. "And what, Mister Tencher?" Alan asked, sniffing at it as it was handed over to him. ’Good Blue Ruin, Holland gin." Tencher laughed softly, his leathery face crinkling. In the fitful light of the glim he looked as if he had tar and gunpowder pennanently ground into his wrinkles. "God in Heaven," Alan choked after a sip. He had ordered Cider-And in country inns and had usually gotten rum or mulled wine as the additive. Plus, he was never partial to gin, but he took another sip, grateful for the hot flush in his innards. ’Hear ya done somethin' right tonight, Mister Lewrie.’
’It was nice not to be caned or shouted at for a change, Mister Tencher," Alan said, tears coming to his eyes from the fumes of the gin. ’No gunner's daughter fer you, eh?’
‘Until tomorrow." Alan gave Tencher the ghost of a smile.
The man had run him ragged, trying to pound the art of handling artillery into him, and had had him caned more than once when he didn't have the right answer. He could not feel exactly comfortable with Tencher but he meant to be civil if the man was going to trot out free drink. ’Rolston should owe you a tot fer saving his life, ya know," Tencher said. filling his own mug again and taking a deep quaff. ’Well, we shall see," Alan said, forcing himself to choke down the rest of the mug. He knew that if he made it to his hammock without passing out he was going to be a lot luckier than he had any right to be. "Thankee kindly, Mister Tencher, that was potent stuff. I shall sleep like a stone if they don't call all ha
nds again.’
’Don't mention it." Tencher winked. "Earned it.’
Alan made his way out of the mess, clinging to the top of the half partitions toward the double ladders. Someone took him by the arm in the dark and spun him to a stop. ’Lewrie. ‘
‘Rolston?" he asked. thinking he recognized the voice. "Think you're a clever cock, do you?" It was Rolston, alright. ’I'll not let you make me look ridiculous like that again-’
‘You don't need any help from me to be ridiculous." Alan tried to judge just where Rolston's head might be so that when he hit him, as he felt he soon must. he could get in a good shot. "I'll settle you." Rolston's voice was shaking.
Alan could barely make out a face, but he knew the fellow must be almost weeping with rage by then. "I'll square your yards for you for good and all-’
‘No, you won't," Alan said, prying the hand from his arm and pressing it back away from him against Rolston's best effort with an ease he would not have had weeks before. "And if you lay hands on me once more I'll kick your skinny arse up between your ears, right where it belongs.’
’Watch and see ifI don't get you, Lewrie.’
’Watch out for yourself." Alan chuckled. "I might not save your miserable life next time.. .farmer.’
Alan took a few cautious steps toward the coaming of the hatch, wary of a sudden shove from Rolston that could send him crashing to the hard deck below, ready to dive flat and let Rolston go arse-over-tit instead. But Mister Tencher came out of the mess area with his glim and a handful of scrap paper for a trip to the warrant officer's heads in the roundhouse before the focs'l, and Rolston had to turn on his heel and go forward to his own berth space. Alan, relieved, went below to his own, where he slid out of his wet dripping clothes and sat on a chest to towel himself down in the dark.
The King`s Coat l-1 Page 8