"Aye, sir," Alan replied, feeling on tenter-hooks at the sight of Lieutenant Kenyon seated aft on the transom settee with a glass of wine in his hand.
"Take a seat, Mister Lewrie," Railsford directed, meaning to put him at his ease. "Address yourself to that decanter of claret in front of you. Just in from home on the packet, though I fear it did not travel at all well. Still…"
"Thankee, sir," Alan replied, clawing a stemmed glass from the towel and pouring it almost full.
"I must tell you that when I informed Captain Treghues of your intent to attend the examining board, he was delighted at the idea," Railsford related, seating himself at the dining table. "Mister Kenyon, do come join us for a companionable drink before supper is served."
"Aye, sir," Kenyon said. When he sat down, Alan was pleased to note that, though the night was relatively cool, the first officer wore a sheen of sweat on his brow and his upper lip, and beads of moisture trickled down his cheeks.
"Little did you realize. Mister Kenyon, that our prodigy here would be presenting himself for the chance at a commission in your lifetime, hey?" Railsford began with a small jest.
"Indeed not, sir," Kenyon chuckled with a superior little drawl, like a gambler whose hole-cards will take the game as soon as he shows them. "I'd have expected more like another year or two of seasoning. Spent five years a younker before I stood a board."
"The full six for me," Railsford reminisced.
"Two years and a bit, though." Kenyon frowned, warming to his theme. "Well, that's cutting it a bit fine, even in wartime."
"But we were callow little cullies of twelve or thirteen." The captain laughed, which made Alan dart a thankful glance at him. "Mister Lewrie was more mature when he first put on King's coat, and a cut above the average midshipman in intelligence to begin with."
"Seasick in Portsmouth, and adrift in old Ariadne. In harbor," Kenyon added with relish. "Took an hour to report to our first officer after he stepped below."
"Still, he learned quickly," Railsford said, chuckling at the image of Lewrie "casting his accounts" over the side of a ship safely moored in Portsmouth. "Some learn faster than others. I've no qualms about his prospects, if you don't."
"Did I not learn, sir?" Alan interrupted, directing his gaze to Kenyon. "So many things. About the Navy. And people."
Damned if he was going to sit there being discussed like a thing, and damned if he was going to let Kenyon lay doubts about him. Kenyon almost choked on a sip of wine at the last comment.
"Enough to stand before a board, I'll warrant," Railsford went on, oblivious to Alan's little verbal shot. "Captain Treghues sent me a packet for you, Lewrie. Letter of recommendation, and a list of some questions you'll likely be challenged with. Ah, here's the one about outfitting a ship from truck to keel. And some other posers he's heard about over his years."
"I'm most grateful for any aid from him, sir."
"Didn't exactly love you when you first joined Desperate, did he?" Railsford shrugged. "Our late captain did not hold with dueling, and our Alan here had just put some Army bastard's lights out."
"Yes, I heard about that," Kenyon said. "Even if the girl was your admiral's niece, I'd not have approved, either."
"Well, I can say it now he's got his new command and is gone from us," Railsford stated. "Captain Treghues played the most devilish favorites, sometimes for the worst people. It was feast or famine for everyone, and no sense to it, no way of knowing how one may have offended."
"His cater-cousin, Midshipman Forrester, sir." Alan grimaced.
"Thank God we left the surly turd at Yorktown," Railsford said with a laugh. "Yet, prejudiced as he was in the beginning, he came 'round to appreciate Mister Lewrie, so his praise is doubly blessed."
"To everything there is a season, so to speak, sir," Kenyon replied. "Approbation or shame. But did your captain shun the worthy and praise the unworthy by seasons, sir? Then perhaps… well, if he had learned of young Alan's past, and if he was, as I've heard, a perfect Tartar on religion and proper behavior, who's to know why Captain Treghues would recommend him now so highly. Or is it more of the same?"
"You speak of Mister Lewrie's antecedents, sir?" Railsford bristled a little at his first officer. "Our purser's brother straightened that out for him. There's no shame in having a shady past, or a Corinthian brothel-dandy for a father, if one may rise above it, sir. Excuse me, Mister Lewrie, if I portray your father in that light."
"One might add forgerer, thief, bigamist, false witness and bugger, sir," Alan ticked off cheerfully. "I'm told he only sticks his head out o' Sundays when he can't be taken for debts."
"There's no family so blameless the light of day wouldn't turn up a rogue or two, Mister Kenyon. All the more reason to wish Lewrie well with the examining board, since he's risen so far above his own. A captain must not become too familiar with his officers and crew, so I will most definitely not mention the rumors of smuggling and ship-wrecking spoken about the Railsford's in the past back in Weymouth." He gave them a look in conclusion that indicated they should laugh.
"I must confess I was not bound for the sea from the time I was breeched, sir, as you were," Alan said to Railsford. "But, once I did get to sea, and I found my legs, as it were, I must own to an ambition to become a commission officer and serve as best I can."
Oh God, Alan thought, if I heard another shit-sack like me spout such things, I believe I'd box his ears first and then spew in his lap. Damn Kenyon! First poison about my abilities, now these slurs on Treghues' opinion, and my past. Surely Railsford can see the bastard's prejudiced against me! I'll most likely fail the board and then he'll have me triced up and ruined if I don't put him in his place now!
"One would think you harbored some grievance against Lewrie yourself, Mister Kenyon," Railsford chid his first officer.
"I wish him fortune with the board, sir, though I doubt he's seasoned enough to be a commission officer yet," Kenyon countered with a beatific grin that belied his motives. He did look a little desperate, though, as he realized that he had overstepped the bounds of subtlety. He had his own place to earn with Railsford in this new ship.
"Perhaps, sir," Alan said to Railsford, "Mister Kenyon remembers my first days aboard old Ariadne, when I as much confessed to him that I did not wish to make the sea my calling. But, Mister Kenyon, I remember as well, you once told me that you were not enamored of going to sea when you first joined, but that certain reasons made it necessary. Would your own personal history be reflected upon mine? Ordinarily I would not presume to inquire, but this seems such an informal occasion. Perhaps your beginning might make a merry tale."
Squirm your way out of that, you whoreson! Alan thought happily.
"Yes, Mister Kenyon. How did you get your ha'porth of tar?" Railsford asked, pouring them another glassful as the salad arrived.
Kenyon had not expected such a frontal attack, and he turned queasy as a land-lubber in a full gale. But, over the years, he had invented a plausible past, and had polished it with retelling, so whatever unnatural act he had committed that forced him to sea "to make a man of him" had been submerged. It should have tripped from his lips without effort, usually. And he began it, but didn't quite gain that casual, bluff and hearty, tarry-handed air he usually affected.
"Well, sir, boys will be wild animals, you know…" he started with a shaky laugh, taking time to glare evilly at Lewrie in warning.
That carried them through soup and salad. Commander Railsford in his turn related his own entry into the Navy after that, and through most of the main course, unbending from the stiffness, aloofness and anonymity expected of a captain who held the lives and careers of his dining companions in his hands for good or ill.
At least, Alan noted, Kenyon dropped his dirge about Alan being so unready for the attempt at a commission, and watched him with a chary eye for the rest of the dinner, never knowing at what moment he might pop up with another question, or a veiled comment that would expose him.
The
man sipped from the same glass of wine all through dinner, and sweated as though he had been forced to stoke the fires of Hell, which gave Alan a great deal of pleasure to witness.
Chapter 5
Feeling nervous as a kit-fox who has just heard the hunter's horn, Alan Lewrie climbed through the entry port into Barfleur on the morning appointed for his ordeal. The waters in English Harbor had been swarming with boats trying to ply oars as midshipmen from all the vessels currently present had assembled to the summoning flag pendants, bearing their hopeful occupants.
He clutched his canvas-wrapped documents to his breast after he had saluted the side-party and the quarterdeck, feeling an urge to read through them once more to assure his twanging nerves that they were still all there, and that they still sang his praises as nicely as they had when he had first received them.
Treghues had penned a fulsome letter from his new command in Capricieuse. His aptly named capriciousness of mood had indeed turned full circle, and now Midshipman Lewrie had been one of his best junior warrants right from the start, more mature and quicker of mind than any young man he had ever met, etc.
Railsford had penned a neat little recommendation, not so laudatory as to stir disbelief; taut and nautical like the man himself. And, Alan still marveled, Kenyon had added recommendations of his own, with no mention of nagging worries that Lewrie might be a little wet behind the ears. Beyond the bare recitation of the deeds in which Alan had taken part and distinguished himself by his conduct and bravery, or his developing knowledge of sea lore, there was little real praise, but it did leave the impression that he was at least somewhat worthy of examination.
Lukewarm Kenyon's approval might be, but at least he did not disapprove, and Alan thought that Railsford had something to do with that. He might have had to press Kenyon for a favorable letter, but what could Kenyon do, Alan asked himself in a moment of smugness, refuse to recommend his new captain's favorite? Show displeasure with such a well thought of young fellow with so much promise?
There was also the possibility that Kenyon was hedging his bets, laying groundwork of his own so that when Alan failed the board and came back aboard with his tail between his legs, he could tell Railsford that he had told him so. And if Alan failed, would he lose enough of Railsford's approval that Kenyon could then begin to lay a stink upon him, carp at failures and bring him down until he caught him out and then proceeded to break him?
"There must be an hundred of us, I swear to God," a gangly midshipman commented at Alan's elbow. "And more coming all the time. Every fool with white collar tabs must think he has a chance, this board."
The speaker was in his twenties, and while all the others that Alan had seen were turned out in their best kit, this one was wearing a somewhat shabby coat, and his waist-coat and breeches were dingy. Was he poor as a traveling tinker, or did he just not care? Alan wondered.
"Let us hope most of them are abominably stupid," Alan said to be pleasant, still praying, as most of them did, that he would pass.
"This is my third board," the older midshipman confided with a breezy air. "But I'll pass this time. Think you I look salty enough?"
"Aye, salty's the word for you," Alan said with a raised eyebrow.
"They'll have a host of little angels in there today, all alike as two peas in a pod, scrubbed up so their own mothers wouldn't know 'em," the older lad reasoned. "But when they see a real tarry-handed younker, they'll just assume they've a prime candidate on their hands and go easy on me."
Alan wished the fellow would go away. He was trembling with anxiety, and all the guidance, set questions and trick posers he had been coached in had flown out of his head. He was sure if he did not have space to think for a while before they started examining people, his brains would leave him utterly. But he had to respond.
"I should think they would dig down for the most arcane stuff if you show too knowledgeable as soon as you enter the room," Alan said.
"God, don't say that," the young man snapped, losing a little of his swagger. "Besides, I know my stuff, you see if I don't."
"Then the best of luck to you." Alan bowed, wanting to be alone. The quarterdeck was swarming with midshipmen, all furrowing their brows as they re-read their texts once more, casting their hopeful faces skyward, reciting silently the hard questions they had drilled on as though at heartfelt prayer.
"Right, you lot," an officer shouted above the low din. "Now, who'll be first below?"
Not a soul moved, shocked by the suggestion of being the first sacrificial lamb to the slaughter.
"What a pack of cod's-heads," the officer grunted with a sour expression. "You lads to starboard, then. Lead off. You, the ginger-haired one, you're the bell-wether, whether you like it or not. They've had their breakfasts already, so they might be pleasant."
That started a parade toward the ladders into the captain's quarters on the upper gun deck, where clerks met them and took down their names and ships. All the furnishings from the outer cabins had been cleared, so they were forced to stand. Alan was about twentieth on the list; he had reasoned that the closer the examining board got to their mid-day meal, the less time they would want to spend asking damn-fool questions of damn-fool midshipmen, and might throw him two or three posers and then make up their minds quickly, allowing him a better chance to show well without being grilled like a steak.
Like a patient waiting for the surgeon to attend him, he took a place against an interior partition and forced himself to think of something pleasant. It was already too crowded and warm in the cabins, and there was almost no elbow room to dig into his snowy-white breeches for a pocket handkerchief to mop the slight sheen of sweat from his face.
"Git off my fuckin' shoes, damn yer blood."
"Who's on the board, then?"
"Captain of the Fleet, Napier off Resolution, Captain Cornwallis of Canada..."
"Oh, fuck me, he's a Tartar!"
"Box-hauling? What the hell do I know about box-hauling?"
Hands flurried to open texts at that strangled wail of despair.
Alan had considered bringing his own books with him, but after two days of cramming in every spare moment, he realized that he would either know the answers or he would not, and anything he read at the last second would melt away before he could recall it. So he did not have the diversion of reading to pass the time as the others did.
The first young aspirant, the ginger-haired boy of about seventeen who had been first below, went into the examining room, and everyone hushed and leaned closer to see if they could hear the proceedings through the deal partitions. Close as he was, Alan could only hear a dull rumble now and then. The boy was out in five minutes, shaking like a whipped puppy and soaked in sweat.
"It's box-hauling," he stammered, tearing at his stock as though he was strangling. "Fourteen steps of gun-drill, d… d… dis-masting in a whole gale… Lord, I don't know what else! They love lee shores!"
The next hopeful was in there for ten minutes, and he came out fanning himself with his hat, but wearing a smug expression, as though he had been informed that he had been passed. To their eager questions as to what had been required of him, he had another terrifying list of stumpers, which made all of them dive back into their texts, and Alan suddenly didn't feel so very confident any longer. He could cheerfully have killed one of the others for a book to review.
The board also upset his hopes; they went through a dozen young men in the first hour-and-a-quarter, and not two of them looked at all sanguine about their prospects when they emerged. Most were told they had failed, and to try again in another six months or so.
The older midshipman in the shabby coat went in, and he was out in three minutes, his eyes moist with humiliation at the quick drubbing he had received. Please God! Alan thought as a litany, Please!
"Midshipman Lewrie?" the clerk called from the open door at last. "Midshipman Alan Lewrie."
"Here," Alan heard himself manage to say through a suddenly dry throat.
"Then get in… here," the clerk simpered at his own jest.
Alan tugged down his waist-coat and shot his cuffs, played with his neck-stock and then strode to the open door as if he were walking on pillows in some fever-dream. He stepped through the door and past the partitions, and the door was closed behind him. He beheld a long dining table set athwartships, behind which were seated at least a dozen post-captains in their gold-laced coats, and every one of them looked grumpy as ill-fed badgers. There was a single chair before the table as though it was a court-martial, and Alan almost stumbled over it as he took a stance before it.
"Well?" one of the captains snapped.
"Midshipman Alan Lewrie, sir, of the Desperate frigate," he managed to say, clutching his packet of letters to his side and almost crushing his cocked hat into a furball under the other aim.
"Desperate, hey?" one of the others said, beaming almost pleasantly. "Saw your fight with Capricieuse. Damned fine stuff. Your Captain Treghues has a lot of bottom, what?"
"Aye, sir."
"Well, don't stand there like death's head on a mop-stick, give me your packet."
Alan handed over his letters and bona fides, and the flag-captain in the center of the board looked over them, reading aloud salient points to the other members.
"Joined January of '80, Ariadne, 3rd Rate of sixty-four guns. Only the two years of service?"
"Aye, sir."
"Mentioned honorably. Took charge of the lower gun deck after both officers were killed, credited with getting the guns back in action and thus saving the ship. My, my, we have been busy, have we not?" The flag-captain chuckled. "I remember you, I believe. You were the lad escaped Yorktown with some soldiers. Turned a brace of river barges into sailing craft. Fought your way out too, as I remember."
This ain't so bad after all! Alan thought with relief. Was there some "interest" on his behalf of which he was unaware working in his favor-was it from Admiral Hood, or his flag-captain here? "Aye, sir, we did. But as for the boats," he informed them, "I had two fine petty-officers who did most of the creative work. Mister Feather and Mister Queener. Both dead now, unfortunately."
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