"Ord'nary Seaman Gold, you've been found guilty of violating the Articles of War. Article the Twenty-Third-of quarreling, fighting, or using reproachful speeches towards another person of the Fleet. And of Article the Twenty-Second-of striking, or laying hands upon, person or persons superior to you. For each violation, you will receive two dozen lashes," Braxton thundered. "Bosun Fairclough, seize 'im up!"
A new red-baize bag was brought forward. A pristine new cat was let out of the bag. Each man got his own, no matter how many were to be flogged. Thence to be tossed overboard, supposedly with his sins, once punishment was done. Cockerel, ominously, had had to send ashore in Lisbon for a fresh supply of red-baize cloth once the merchant convoy had made port.
Lewrie looked away from the shivering victim, to Mister Midshipman Spendlove, Gold's alleged target of violence. Tears streamed the boy's face as he stood before the hands of his watch division. And the hands-more swaying, shuffling of feet, more discreet, reproving coughs, and mournful glances left and right at shipmates. A shy, homy hand came snaking from the press of men to touch Spendlove on the shoulder for a moment, to buck up his courage; some older seamen reassuring the distraught lad so he'd show game as Gold, and not shame him.
Whack!
"One," Bosun Fairclough grunted in a rummy, croaking basso. "One d'livered, sir."
"Ship's comp'ny… on hats, and dismiss!" Lewrie gladly ordered. Gold was made of softer stuff than Preston. He could not contain the pain, and had whimpered towards the end, sobbing aloud.
"Mister Lewrie!" Midshipmen Braxton and Dulwer called for him, scampering aft to the starboard ladder to the quarterdeck. "Mister Lewrie, sir!"
"Aye!" he gloomed, looking down at their eager, intent glares of righteousness.
"Man for report, sir!" Midshipman Anthony Braxton all but chortled. "We saw it Able Seaman Lisney, foremast. He laid hands on Mister Midshipman Spendlove, sir."
"Reached out and thumped him, sir," Midshipman Dulwer stuck in. "From behind, he did, sir. I saw it, too!"
They were as alike, God help us, Lewrie thought, as two vicious little peas in a pod. Two snapping curs from the same ill-bred litter of pit bulls! Close-set eyes, precociously heavy and thick eyebrows, the same long, narrow, semi-stupid expressions, the same pouty mouths as their elders. The same little points in their middle top lips!
Lewrie stumped down the ladder to them, gathered them close to him by seizing hold of their coat collars, and frogmarched them to the starboard side, between twelve-pounders.
"Now you listen to me, you brutal little gets!" he hissed. "I saw what you refer to, and it was nothing more than simple humanity and compassion. And, were we to ask Mister Spendlove of it, he'd tell us the same. A game, is it, my beauties? Do you earn points on which of you sends more men to the gratings? Or do you keep score by the number of lashes'! Daily, is it, weekly sums… what?"
"Now, Mister Lewrie, sir…" Midshipman Braxton dared to interrupt, with a stab at worldly, man-to-man airs.
"Damn your blood, sir!" Lewrie whispered harshly, right in the twenty-year-old fool's face. "How dare you take that tone with me! I'll have you kissing the gunner's daughter 'fore you're a minute older, and a full two dozen o' Mister Fair-clough's very best, those! It is not a game, you simpletons. Ship's people aren't dumb animals you can abuse for your nose-picking, arse-scratching amusement!"
"Sir, uncle…" Dulwer exclaimed in fear. Or tried to.
"Captain Braxton to you, you pustulent hop o' my thumb!" Alan thundered at the fifteen-year-old.
"Sir, the captain says we're to be alert for any infraction of discipline. That we're never to allow the hands to get away with one single thing, or they'll…" Dulwer persisted, filled with a dutiful but thick-witted indignation. Or as much as he dared.
"Oh, stern duty!" Lewrie sneered. "What a god, that. What cant. They're men, damn your eyes. There's infractions you must report, and quash at once. Then there's ignorance, mistakes… cock-a-whoop antics hands have always pulled. Always will. And you'd flog for all. And feel so smug and prim doing it, wouldn't you? Use some discretion. Learn some leniency, or God help you… now, or in future. Shit!"
They fluttered their lashes, eyeing their toes in truculent incomprehension.
"I'm using the King's English, sirs. Any of this get through those buffle-headed skulls of yours? Shit, no. Get out of my sight before I have both of you bent over a gun. And take your lying packet with you!"
The two midshipmen slunk away, the backs of their necks aflame; though putting their heads together for commiseration. Or for a plot.
"Gawd 'elp us, sir," Cony sighed near Lewrie's elbow once they were out of ear-shot.
"I don't know why I bother, Cony," Lewrie confessed. "They're so sure of their ground, so steeped in… Damme, in one ear and out t'other. They'll be back in full cry by the first dog-watch, soon'z they get over their sulks."
"They's vicious, sir, no error," Cony agreed, cautiously. "I sometimes wisht I'da took yer offer, 'bout th' farm, sir."
"Hmm?" Lewrie posed, cocking a brow as he turned to his man. "I've been puzzled by why you didn't, Cony. Or take that position at the Ploughman, with Maude and her father."
"Well, sir, y'see an' all…" Cony blushed, taking a swipe at his thick, thatchy hair. "Aye, li'l Maudie'z a dear'un, but… they's a lass I wuz more partial to. Maggie, th' vicar's girl's maidservant? Maggie an' me, well, urhm. H'it's a tad complicated, like. Spoonin' Maudie, all but promised, like. An' 'er dad bein' a Tartar, an' all? An' th' vicar, so righteous, too? An' Maggie, urhm… well, expectin', like. Sorta."
"Sorta," Lewrie nodded, knocked back flat on his heels, and wondering (not for the first time) just how rakehell an influence he had been on his innocent-looking manservant. "Dear Lord!"
"Aye, sir." Cony blushed more furiously, though with a bit of a grin that was only half-ashamed. "Sorta like th' fam'ly way, sir. An' gettin' th' Ploughman, sir. Well, workin' fer ole Beakman'da been… I ain't cut out t'be no publican, sir, no matter how much it'da paid. Onliest things I know're farmin' an' th' sea. Inheritin' the pub wi' Maudie… that'd be a hellish portion o' years yet, anyways, sir. An' then they's…" Cony stumbled to a sober silence.
"Mister Beakman and Maudie suing you for false promise?" Lewrie prompted, sensing there was more Cony wished to tell. "Maggie's get?"
"Well, that'd be part, sir. C'n I speak plain, sir?"
Lewrie nodded his assent.
"Come down t' marryin', Mister Lewrie, sir…" Will Cony said, tongue-tied with embarrassment. "Marryin' at'all, sir… well, I seen 'ow things is wi' yerself an' yer fine lady, sir. Well, I figgered a man oughta take a wife, someday. But I never fig-gered they'd be a lot o' joy after, sir. Sorry, Mister Lewrie. I really am, sir. I mean, they's some, iff n ya gets lucky'z yerself, sir. But, they's such a portion o' boredom an' all come with h'it. Reason I come away wi' ya, sir… 'sides fearin' Maggie, Maudie, th' vicar an' Beakman… t'woz fearin' wot come after more, sir."
"It's not all boredom and disappointments, Cony," Lewrie told him, wondering how righteous he was sounding, and if he had a right to. "Well, there's good and bad. Good more than bad, most times."
"Aye, sir, I seen 'at," Cony countered. "But I seen ya, sir… a'starin' offat th' hills, sometimes, like ya wuz lookin' fr somethin'. An' I didn' wanna end me own days stuck in Anglesgreen, pinin' meself. Sorry f r speakin' plain, Mister Lewrie, but… Navy… h'it's a hard life, sir, but 'thout h'it, I'da never seen New York n'r China, India, n'r Lisbon, n'r nothiri1grand. After that, sir, Lord, wot's inland an' domestic work got t'offer? Not that I ever…! Ya been a good…"
"Never knew you felt this way, Cony," Lewrie said with an assuring grasp of his shoulder, feeling deserted even so.
"Ya gotta admit, sir, we've 'ad some grand times since we fell t'gether." Cony grinned at last. "An' they's sure t'be a portion more 'fore this war wi' th' Frogs is done."
"So, what do you intend to do, about… uhm?" Lewrie posed.
"Banns wuz never posted 'bo
ut Maudie and me, sir. So h'it ain't 'zackly false-promise I done. I've me prize-money, me savin's… an' a tidy sum h'it be, sir, after all we been through. Learned me letters'n sent Maggie a note, an' a draught on me pay t'keep 'er 'til we gets 'ome. Rent her'n me a cottage, 'cause y'know th' vicar'U turn 'er out, soon'z she shows. F'r now, though… iff n ya c'n spare me, sir, I'd admire'ta strike f r bosun's mate… get a warrant postin' someday, make the Navy me trade. An' do I go back t' Anglesgreen f r Maggie an'… do right by 'er'n our'n, well… I'd admire I went some'un respectable, sir."
"First opening, Cony," Lewrie promised, though he regretted the idea of losing the services of his man after all those hectic years. "I will put your name forrud, first chance I get. Top captain, for starters, more than like."
"Gotta crawl 'fore I c'n walk, sir," Cony brightened. "Aye, I 'spects that'd be best. Mister Scott already 'as me aloft more'n an albatross. Tops'l yard captain'd suit, f r starters. Too high'r too quick a jump'd row t'other lads. An', well, sir… they's more'n enough 'plaints t'bite on already, sir."
"Ain't there just!" Lewrie agreed sadly. "Off with you, then, you rogue. And Cony…"
"Sir?"
"Midshipman Dulwer is in your starboard watch, on the main-mast. Watch yourself damn close about him."
"I watches 'em all damn close, Mister Lewrie, sir. Way o' life, 'board this 'ere barge."
Chapter 3
Lewrie was required to visit the men's mess daily. Some days, he made it breakfast-today was dinner. The hands dined eight to a mess, on either side of a plank table which hung from the overhead by stout ropes, seated on sea chests or short, hand-crafted stools. With the artillery overhead, instead of between mess tables, they had more elbow room, which was why most sailors preferred frigates. More room to swing a hammock at night, too, even if headroom was a bare five feet.
It was not a happy mess, though, no matter that dinner was salt beef, cheese, biscuit and small-beer; not a meatless "Banyan Day," and lumpy dogs of pease pudding, boiled in net bags in the steep tubs like duffs, each with numbered brass tabs for the individual messes.
As soon as he set foot on the mess deck, the grumbling and the joshing died away to a low murmur, and men watched him warily, cutty-eyed, as he made his way aft. Hardtack being rapped was the predominant sound.
"Not so gristly today, Gracey?" Lewrie inquired of one senior hand at a larboard table.
"Nay s'bad, sir," Gracey grinned for a moment, wiping his fingertips on a scrap of raveled rope small-stuff, in lieu of napery. " 'Tis no more'n a quarter gristle'r bone t'this joint, Mister Lewrie."
" Suffolk don't choke you, Sadler?" Lewrie japed with another.
"Damn-all hard cheeses, sir. Dry'z gravel, but…" he shrugged as he masticated thoughtfully on dry, crumbly Navy-issue Suffolk.
"But enough to go 'round," Lewrie prompted. "The 'Nip-Cheese' issues fair portion?" It was a blessing that Cockerel's purser Mister Husie was somewhat honest in his ration issue. Begrudging, but a decent feeder, nonetheless, if one kept a chary eye upon him.
"Fair 'nough, sir," Sadler allowed, just as begrudging.
"No complaints, then?" Lewrie asked, eyeing the nearest tables. There was no familiar response, no chaffering or ironic jeers such as a hearty crew might make to such a leading statement.
"Nuffin'…" a young pressed man dared softly, in a bland, innocuous voice. "Nuffin' wif t'pusser, sir."
Damme, I asked for that'un, didn't I?, Lewrie thought glumly.
"Carry on then, lads," Lewrie called with false cheer, as he made his way farther aft between the swaying, rolling tables, beyond the Marines' mess area, to the companionway hatch to the gun deck. He paused once he reached bracing fresh air, cocking an ear to what might be said or done after his departure. The hummumm of low voices resumed, grew slightly in volume, but nowhere near normal level. Nor did he hear any disparaging comments about the ship's officers, or himself most particularly, that old sweats might make. That was some relief, at least. But the lack of humour, of laughter, put him off.
Lewrie ascended to the quarterdeck and took a peek at the compass in the binnacle, and stood with the quartermasters of the watch at the large double wheel as they gently fed spokes to larboard or to starboard as Cockerel rolled, heaved and wallowed to a following wind on her starboard quarter, a slow-veering westerly. Somewhere off to larboard and alee was Cape St. Vincent, one of the busiest corners of Europe. Flung far beyond the plodding 1st and 3rd Rate line-of-battle ships of their squadron, Cockerel should have seen something. But the heaving, glittering sea was a starkly empty, folding porridge.
"Rudder tackle still working?" he asked Mounson, the senior to weather. "Or are they taut 'nough?"
"Allus works on a leadin' win', sir," Mounson grumbled, turning to squit tobacco into his spit-kid. "Spoke'r two more'n us'U t'larb'rd, I reckon, though."
"Ropes are stretching again. New stuff," Lewrie decided. "I'll send the bosun below to overhaul 'em."
"Anything I might do for you, Mister Lewrie, sir?" Lieutenant Clement Braxton asked him, wearing a quirky, bemused, only slightly anxious expression on his beady-eyed countenance, as if he were just the slightest bit irked that anyone, much less Lewrie, would find fault in his watch-standing abilities. "Do we conform to your standards, sir?" he all but simpered. It was irksome to Lewrie, but he was competent.
"Quiet enough, so far," Lewrie rejoined, biting off the urge to slap him silly. "The merest child could do it. I don't suppose, though, you have inquired about the slackness in the steering tackle, sir?"
"Uhm,…" Braxton junior stumbled, casting a quick glare at his leading helmsman. "Mounson didn't say anything to me, sir, I-"
"That's why one should ask, sir." Lewrie replied. "I leave her in your capable hands."
"Uhm, quite, Mister Lewrie, sir," Lieutenant Braxton fumed.
"My compliments to Mister Fairclough, and he is to overhaul the tackle, soon as the hands have finished dinner," Lewrie snapped, going below once more to the companion-way, then aft to the wardroom for his midday meal. "Inform the captain," he tossed off over his shoulder.
The wardroom was not nearly as grand as the captain's quarters. There were small, rectangular deadlights in the stern transom, either side of the thick rudder post. Below those windows was a long, narrow settee. On either side were dog-box cabins, temporary shelters framed in light deal, with canvas walls, with insubstantial narrow doors made of shutter-like louvers. There were no locks; commission and warrant officers were supposed to be gentlemen-above stealing or prying. A space long enough for a bed-cot, wide enough for sea-chest and bed, and room enough in which to dress-that was their individual portion. That portion was about six feet long and five feet wide for the junior officers who berthed furthest forward around the mess table and mizzenmast trunk; Lieutenant Braxton and Lieutenant Scott, a Marine captain named O'Neal and his lieutenant, Banbrook. Lieutenant Banbrook was the merest child, fair and slight, a seventeen-year-old whose parents had purchased him a commission upon the outbreak of war, and (Lewrie thought) had done so with the greatest sense of relief. All they'd seen him do was rail at Sergeant Haislip and the corporals, flick lint off his uniform, and drink. The Marine captain, O'Neal, a saturnine Belfaster, despaired of the lad ever learning a single blessed thing, and in private referred to Banbrook as "Leftenant Sponge," or "Little Left-enant Do-Little."
Farther aft, slightly (but only very slightly) larger cabins were for first officer, Sailing Master Mister Dimmock, the ship's surgeon Mister Pruden, a roly-poly font of what little good cheer their mess possessed, and the "pusser," Mister Husie. And no purser was ever of good cheer.
"Come and cup a rum of take," Lieutenant Barnaby Scott offered, lolling idle on the long, narrow settee with Lieutenant Banbrook.
"Hey?" Lewrie gawped, wondering if he'd heard right.
"Or is that a cup of rum, sir?" Scott amended with a befuddled squint. "No matter, there's plenty." He indicated a glistening pewter pitcher on the dining table. "Fresh Vigo lemons
, Azores lump sugar in the bottom somewhere… touch o' Madeira. And rum, o' course. Have a cup, sir. I'm quite took a'ready."
"Bit early in the day for me, Mister Scott."
"For me, too, sir. Heep" Banbrook hiccoughed myopically.
"Pacing yourself are you, I see, sir?" Lewrie scoffed.
"Heep!" Banbrook nodded, looking angelic.
"Saving his energies for the ladies, he is, sir," Lieutenant Scott said with a wink. Every now and then, when his faculties had been dulled by drink (more so than usual), the wardroom made Banbrook the butt of their old jokes. They'd sent him capering throughout the ship, the first days at sea, calling for Marine private Cheeks. "Private Cheeks! I say now, Private Cheeks, front and center!" he'd bawled, never suspecting that it was a bugger's term. Banbrook, righteous but reeling, had reported back that Private Cheeks had evidently either deserted, or fallen overboard. There wasn't a sign of him anywhere, though Sergeant Haislip had recalled seeing him up forrud, relieving himself on the beakhead rails.
"Pish!" Banbrook snorted. "What ladies, I ask you? Heepr
"Well, hardly ladies, really," Bamaby Scott confided, turning to Lewrie for help. "The first officer knows all about 'em. About the whore transport? I expect we'll fetch her under our lee, oh… 'bout the end of the second dog? Isn't that true, sir?"
"Perhaps not until first light tomorrow, I'm sorry to say," Alan said with a somber shake of his head, which awakened a chorus of groans. "And you know they'll have to service the liners first. They might not put 'em straight to work when we sight her. Might give 'em a morning to rest first." More disappointed groans-even one from Banbrook, who did not yet have the first inkling what they were talking about.
"Whores, sir?" he asked. "Heep!"
"Can't allow a new crew ashore in wartime, don't you know anything, sir?" Lewrie frowned sternly. "No, shore leave's out, right out. But a ship will go Out of Discipline, now and again. If she's allowed time in harbour, she'll replenish firewood and water, then hoist the 'Easy' pendant, and out come the whores, or the wives, if she's in home waters. Ever hear the old saw 'bout sailors having a wife in every port? That's where it comes from, Mister Banbrook."
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