‘For losing his temper?" Lewrie asked. "I mean… we go after each other all the time down here. We all have bruises to prove it. ’
‘ When's the last time I drew a blade on you and said I'd kill you?" Keith asked him. ’At least a week ago.’
’Be serious for once, Alan. That man tried to kill you. Not just wave a dirk about and shout at you," Ashburn said sternly. "He's for it, now. Just as well, before he got control over people. A man who can't control his passions is obviously not a gentleman.’
’At least that passion." Shirke.picked up some bowls. ’Though a passion for the ladies is allowed by the Navy. ’
‘If that's so, I haven't seen much sign of it," Lewrie sighed.
The next day in the Forenoon watch Rolston was paraded on deck. There had been a swift inquiry, with all involved hands testifying. It also included details of what had happened with Gibbs, with Hawkes giving the impression that while it may have been accidental, it pleased Rolston greatly. While Captain Bales could not hold a court-martial (that took a panel of five C'aptains), he could assign a punishment for fighting and assaulting a fellow midshipman with a weapon. Sea Officers had the power of life and death in their hands, for though the Admiralty might limit the number of lashes a man might receive, written reports exceeding those limits never brought even a peep of displeasure from Whitehall. Out of reach of land and senior authority, a captain could do pretty much as he pleased. So, while the Marines were formed up with their muskets on the quarterdeck, the officers below the rail on the upper gun deck and the midshipmen to one side, Rolston was called to punishment. A hatch grating was stood up and lashed to the gangway, and the bosun and his mates stood by with a red baize bag which contained a cat-o' -nine-tails.
Bales read out the charges against Rolston and asked him if… he had anything to say. Rolston bit1ris lip and did not have any words. Bales referred to his slim book containing the Articles of War, and read the specific passages aloud, to drum into the hands the folly of fighting or laying hands on one another, much less a senior. ’The Twenty-Third Article," Bales intoned in a loud voice. "'If any Person in the Fleet shall quarrel or fight with any other Person in the Fleet, or use reproachfuJ or provoking Speeches or Gestures, tending to make any Quarrel or Disturbance, he shall upon being convicted thereof, suffer such Punishment as the Offence shall deserve, and a Court-martial shall impose.''' Bales also made reference to the Thirty-Sixth Article, the "Captain's Cloak," headed "All Other Crimes Not Capital.. ‘.
Snapping the book shut, he ordered, "Seize him up!" Rolston was clad in shirt and breeches. The shirt was ripped off his back and a leather apron tied over his kidneys and buttocks. They pressed him against the grating and tied him spread-eagled with spun yarn. ’Give him a dozen!" Bosun's Mate Ream took off his coat and took the cat out of the bag. The lengths were not knotted, since it was not mutiny, theft or desertion, but that was cold comfort. Ream settled himself and drew back. He delivered the first stroke.
Rolston was a roy, after all, a vicious, bullying sixteen-yearold roy, not made to take a man's punishment. The lash made his whole OOdy leap against the gratings with a thud, and he gasped audibly. Regular as a slow metronome, the lashes struck home. By the end of the first dozen, Rolston's back was crisscrossed by angry weals and already turning blue and mottled yellow from the savage pounding. He was weeping silently and had bit his lip trying to be game arout it. ’Another rosun," Bales ordered at the end of the first dozen. Jesus God, I started this, Lewrie told himself sadly. They're half-killing the little shit and it's my fault. I truly do hate him but was it worth this…? The second rosun laid on his first stroke, and this time, Rolston screamed. Not a yell, not a plea for mercy, but a womanish scream of agony! The next stroke knocked the air from his lungs. His back was now streaming blood where further lashes had broken open the inflamed weals. The youngest midshipmen that Lewrie saw were either weeping openly, or staring as though the flogging had happened not a moment too soon to please them. Rolston would have been the oldest in the gun room, and would have made their little lives hell.
Lewrie looked at the lines of men, and he saw furtive gleams of pleasure. There was none of the swaying or shuffling they normally showed when they thought a punishment had found the wrong person. Perhaps it was an accident about Gibbs, but to the ship's people, the punishment fit the crime, or answered their sense of a final justice.
The punishment ended after two dozen. It was doubtful if Rolston would have survived a third, and he was so lost in agony already that one more stroke would not have affected him, or served a useful purpose.
He was cut down and hauled off to the sick-bay. The deck was washed down and the grating put back in place. The men were dismissed and chivvied off to prepare for morning gun drill and cleaning.
Rolston was officially dis-rated, deprived of gun room privilege and dressed in slop clothing like a common seaman. He was also confined in the brig as soon as the surgeon was through with him, there to languish until they docked.
"Lewrie, quit mooning," Lieutenant Kenyon snapped as he saw him lounging by the bulwarks. ’Sorry, sir. I was thinking about Rolston just now. ’
‘Don't waste your time," Kenyon told him. Lewrie gave it a long thought, then decided to come clean about his scheme to ruin his rival, but Kenyon forestalled him. ’I still do not think he caused Gibbs to fall, but the captain had enough suspicion to reprimand him. And the way he went after you was the end of him.’
’Yes, but-’
‘So you crowed about it in the mess. Believe me, I know what it's like to see a rival confounded, and Rolston was not the most popular man aboard, either. How often have I seen him having men up on charge to satisfy his petty grudges, or just to see a flogging? No, he is no loss to us. He was a brutal little monster, and would have been a real terror as an officer, God help us, as a captain. That kind, we don't need in the Navy.’
’I feel as if I precipitated the attack, sir.’
’So what?" Kenyon shrugged. "So might any of the others who had a reason to wonder what happened aloft. Let Hawkes and Blunt stew on it long enough and it might have been Rolston who came down from the rigging next, and then we'd have had to hang two good topmen for the sake of one bad midshipman.’
I doubt if he'd let me admit rape of his only sister, Alan told himself. Maybe I did do something right, after all? "You're shaping devilish-well as a midshipman, Lewrie. ’
‘Er… thank you, sir.’
’Even though you thoroughly detest the Navy, we're better off with your kind than his. And don't tell me you love the Navy like Ashburn does, 'cause I've seen you when no one was looking. I was not exactly enamored of going to sea when I was a boy, either, but there were reasons why it was necessary. I still do not love it, but I have a future in it. You'll make your way.’
’Thank you for telling me that, sir.’
’I said nothing, Mister Lewri… Now, I expect you to make sure to inspect the mess tables and report which mess has not scrubbed up properly. And check the bread barges, too. ’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
For the next couple of weeks of their passage the world seemed incredibly sweet to Alan. The weather was fresh and clean, with deep blue skies and high-piled clouds with no threat in them. From the usual disturbed grey green color, the ocean changed to a spectacular shade of blue that glittered and folded and rose again under a balmy sun, so that it was as painful to look upon as a gem under a strong light. In the steady trade winds, Ariadne shook out the reefs in her tops'ls and hoisted her t' gallants for the first time in months, even setting studding-sails on the main course yard, and except for sail drill each day, there was less cause to reef and furl. Free of convoys and sluggish merchantmen, she proved that she could fly.
With better weather and steadier footand handholds, Alan practically lived aloft in the rigging as they traded their heavy stonn sails for a lighter set, lowering tons of strained and patched flaxen sails to be aired and folded away, the new being be
nt onto the yards and stays.
Clearer skies also allowed better classes in navigation and the measuring of the noon sun's height with their quadrants, or the newfangled sextant that was Mr. Ellison's pride and joy. Alan found himself becoming pleasingly accurate at plotting their position.
Dry decks and a following wind also gave better footing for small arms drill-musketry firing at towed kegs, pistol practice, pike training, tomahawks or boarding axes, and Lewrie's favorite, sword work Kenyon let him borrow a slightly curved hunting sword, or hanger, and he became adept with it, for it was much lighter than a naval cutlass to handle, but was meant to be used partially in the same way, stamp and slash.
Ashburn's tutor had been Spanish, so he knew the twobladed fighting style of rapier and main gauche, while Alan knew the fighting style of the London streets; smalls word and cloak, lantern or walking stick for a mobile shield. They delighted in practicing on each other. It was good exercise, and taught raw landsmen how to survive at close quarters; though once in action it was pretty much expected that they would forget most of what they had been taught and fall back on their instincts, which were to flail away madly and batter someone to death rather than apply any science to the task.
The master-at-anns was not a swordsman, and as Lewrie had proved months before, neither was the lieutenant-at-anns, Lieutenant Harm, so Marine captain Osmonde had been summoned from his life of ease in the wardroom to instruct at swordplay.
Lewrie was not exactly sure that a Marine officer had any duties to perform, except for looking elegant and lending a measure of tone to what was a minor squirearchy gathering aft. His sergeants did all the work, and he supposedly served as some sort of catering officer to the other officers, which might have taken an hour a week. Yet Osmonde was lean to the point of gauntness, always immaculately turned out in snow-white breeches, waistcoat and shirt, his neckcloth perfect, his silk stockings looking brand new, his red tunic and scarlet sash without a speck of tar (or even dust) and his gold and brass and silver fit to blind the unwary. Lewrie was quite taken with Osmonde, for his skill with a sword, his gorgeous uniform, his egalitarian way of talking to the petty officers and midshipmen at drill (he did not talk to his own Marines, ever) and mostly with the fact that the man did not appear to ever have to do a lick of work and got paid right -well for it, even getting to sleep in every night with no interruptions. ’I see you still sport Mister Kenyon's hanger," Osmonde said to him one sweaty day on the larboard gangway at drill. ’Aye, sir. And short enough to get under guard.’
’You would benefit with hefting a regulation cutlass. Put that away and do so," Osmonde said, carefully phrasing each word. "Aye, sir." Lewrie sheathed the wonderful little sword and dug a heavy cutlass from a tub of weapons. He looked around for an opponent and found everyone already engaged. ’Here, we shall face-off each the other," Osmonde said. "This shall be good for you. I notice you are a wrist player. Do you good to learn to hack and slash, to strengthen your whole arm.’
’Seems such a… clumsy way, sir. And inelegant," Lewrie said, taking up a middle guard.. ’So shall your opponent be, should we ever be called upon to board a foe. Some common seaman," Osmonde said, clashing blades with him. He began to backpedal Lewrie across the gangway with crashing blows, while continuing to speak as if he were seated in a club chair. "You shall advance so gallantly and with such grace as to make your old pushing school proud, and some hulking brute like Fowles there will chop you to chutney before you can shout 'en garde.' " Lewrie fetched up at the quarterdeck netting, backed into it by the fury of the attack and the weight of the opposing blade. "The damned thing has no point worth mentioning, so quit trying to frighten me with it," Osmonde said. "Try a twohanded swing if it helps.’
They went back down the gangway toward the bows, Lewrie still retreating, and his arms growing heavier by the minute. ’The idea is to hack your opponent down, not dance a quadrille with him," Osmonde said, his swings remorseless and the flat of the blade he wielded bringing stinging slaps on Lewrie's arms.
Lewrie tried to respond with some wittiness, but could not find his voice which was lost in a bale of raw cotton, so dry was he. He was nearing the foredeck, and planted his feet and began to swing back with both arms, clanging his blade against Osmonde's.
His arms were so tired they felt nerveless, though engorged with blood and heavy. Each meeting of the blades made his hands sting, and he found it more difficult to keep a grip on the wooden handle. With an air of desperation, he thrust the curved hilt into Osmonde's shoulder and shoved him back, then aimed a horizontal swipe at him with all his remaining strength that should have removed a month's worth of the officer's hair. But Osmonde's blade was just suddenly there, and his own recoiled away with a mighty clang, almost tom from his grasp. And then Osmonde thrust at him, which he barely countered off to the right. Then Osmonde brought a reverse stroke back at him and when their blades met this time, Lewrie's spun away from his exhausted grip. Osmonde laughed and tapped him lightly on the head with the flat of the sword. ’Not elegant, was it?’
‘No… sir," Alan replied between racking gulps of air. "Humiliating experience?’
‘Bloody right… sir.’
’Such language from a young gentleman, but better being humiliated than killed by someone with bad breath and no forehead. Fetch your cutlass and we'll get some water.’
In warmer climes a butt of water was kept on deck with a square cut, or scuttled, into the upper staves so that a small cup could be dipped inside without spillage. It was too long incask, that water, and tan with oak and animaIcules, but in Lewrie's parched condition it was sparkling wine. ’Most men are afraid of blades, Lewrie," Osmonde told him as he sipped at his water, making a face at the color and taste. "That's why people were so glad that gunpowder and muskets and cannon were invented. You don't have to get within reach of a blade or a point to get rid of the other bastard. I am glad to see you are not one of them.’
’Thank you, sir," Lewrie replied. "I think.’
’Most men these days wear swords the way they wear hats.’
Osmonde sighed, handing the cup back to Lewrie. "Or to give them a longer reach at the buffet table. Yet society, and the Navy, require us to face up to the enemy with steel in our hands. Fortunately for us, the Frogs and the Dons are a bunch of capering poltroons for all their supposed skills as swordsmen and swordsmiths. But there are a few men who are truly dangerous with a sword.’
’Like you, sir?" Alan grinned, hoping to flatter. ’Do not toady to me, Lewrie.’
’I was merely asking if you thought yourself dangerous, sir.’
’Yes, yes, I am. I am because I like cold steel," Osmonde said with a casualness that sent a chill down Lewrie's sweaty back. "I can shoot, I can fence prettily but I can also hack with the best of 'em. Axe, cutlass, boarding pike, take your. pick. Ever duel?’
‘Once, sir. Back home.’
’Ever blaze?’
‘No, sir. SmaIIsword only. I pinked him. ’
‘Huzzah for you. How did you feel?’
‘ WeIl-’
‘Was he skilled?’
‘No, sir. He was easy to pink.’
’And you were properly brave." Osmonde sniffed. ’Well.. ‘. ’You were both frightened. Hands damp, throat dry, trembling all over. Probably pale as death but you stood up game as a little lion, did you not?’
‘Yes, I did, sir," Alan said, getting a little tired of being humiliated. ’It was only natural. And until you are really skillful with steel you will always feel that way, trusting to luck and hoping the foe is clumsy. Like going aloft, which I sincerely thank God I do not have to do, one learns caution, but goes when called, by facing one's fear and conquering it.’
’I think I see, sir.’
’Most likely you do not, but you shall someday. You do not know how many young fools have rushed blindly into danger and died for their supposed honor, or for glory. Those two have buried more idiots than the plague. Heroism cannot conquer all. You'
ll run into someone better someday. Better to be truly dangerous and let them come like sheep to the slaughter. Let the other fool die for his honor. Your job is to kill him, not with grace and style, but with anything that comes to hand.’
’I suppose I'd live longer if I were that sort of man, sir?" Lewrie asked, not above placing his valuable skin at a high premium. ’Exactly. So I suggest you find the oldest and heaviest cutlass aboard and practice with that, until a smallsword or hanger becomes like a feather in your hand. Keep fitter than the other fellow. Not only will you tire less easily, but the ladies prefer a fit man.’
’Aye, sir," Lewrie replied, now on familiar ground. "Practice with all this ironmongery until they each become an instinctive part of you. I will let you know if you are slacking. ’
‘Aye, sir," Lewrie said, not looking forward to it. It was a lot of work, and he had to admit that the sight of a pike head coming for his eyes was most unnerving. "I shall try, though the ship's routine does take time from it. It must be easier to devote oneself to steel if one were a Marine officer, sir.’
’Tempted to be a 'bullock,' Mister Lewrie?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind, sir.’
’Prohibitively expensive to purchase a commission, d'you know," Osmonde said by way of dismissal. "Certain appearances to maintain in the mess, as well.’
’Well," Alan said, turning to go as seven bells of the Forenoon watch rang out, and the bosun's pipes sounded cleardecks-and-up-spirits for the daily rum ration. Osmonde's Marine orderly was there with a small towel and Osmonde's smallsword and tunic, as the Marine sniffed the air from the galley funnel. ’Bugger the snooty bastards, anyway," Alan muttered, going below to his own mess, soaking wet from the exertion. He dropped off Lieutenant Kenyon's hanger and vowed that before the voyage was over, Captain Osmonde would rate him as a dangerous man.
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