"If it is your intention to ask for a replacement, sir, I shall understand, but damme-" Alan could not go on without breaking down as the sick shame of it overwhelmed him and his stomach fermented.
"Well, I have no intention of doin' so at present," Lilycrop told him. He belched once more, drained his beer and padded in his bare feet to the pantry, where he fetched out a squat, leather-covered bottle of brandy. "You've been prize-master in that frigate your captain took, prize-master in another ship last year, and you managed that well enough, as the records say, 'quite resourcefully.' You've stood in charge of a quarterdeck as master's mate."
"There is that, sir."
Lilycrop sipped from the neck of the brandy bottle as he paced about his day cabin, pausing to pet the odd cat. He peered into Alan's mug of cider and topped off what little was left with a liberal potation of brandy, then sat down behind his desk once more, feet up on the top.
"I come up from powder-monkey," Lilycrop informed him. "Then boy servant, midshipman and master's mate. Spent ten years a passed midshipman an' only made lieutenant after Pondichery under Pocock in '61, an' that was more due the death rate in India. Beyond Navy pay, I've not got the means to even burn good candles 'stead of rush dips. I should despise your fortunate young arse, sir."
"Aye, sir," Alan nodded, looking down and sniffing the brandy fumes, unable to face the man.
"But fifty years in the Fleet has taught me one thing, boy. The Navy don't let politics interfere when it comes to promotin' fools or gettin' rid of 'em. The rest of our society is trash, spendin' and gettin', schemin' and back-stabbin' but by God, sir, the Navy is one of the few institutions the Anglo-Saxon race ever produced that kept its hawse clear of most of that, 'cause if we go under someday an' put the titled gentlemen back in charge with the real sailors on the orlop, then England is gonna end up some Frog king's playground."
"Aye, sir."
"So I'll trust the examinin' board for now an' allow as how they know what they saw in you. You'll stay my first officer until you either improve or you prove that you're a fraud and a sham and I'll have you out of my ship before you can say 'Jack-Ketch.'"
"Thank you, sir," Alan almost gushed in sudden relief.
"Now for starters, you'll not dash about gettin' in what little hair the warrants have left tryin' to tell 'em their jobs. They never'd even have their warrants if they hadn't proved themselves already, and I'd have booted 'em back on the beach if they were frauds, too."
"Aye, sir, I'll not. But-"
"Yes?"
"I mean, as first officer, I have to know if they're ready, or how may I present the ship to you as a going concern? I was taught to check up, sir."
"All you have to do is ask, or order, not go below seein' to every little piddlin' detail like you did yesterday. Hell, boy, there're as many ways to run a ship as there are captains, and most of 'em work. We may look pinch-beck, but we're set up Bristol-fashion and nobody can fault our little ship, nor any man in her. So you do like I say from now on, and trust your warrants and mates. You give 'em trust, they learn to trust you. 'Course, it never hurts, once you got your course steady, to find 'em out in some little somethin', to prove you're on the hop. Stir up one division a week at Divisions or an exercise, an' they'll not let you down when it comes to the major stuff."
"I see. sir."
"And God help me, I'll trust you, long as you don't go off and do somethin' damn-fool lunatick with my ship. As for this mornin'. I'll say no more about it We're at sea now, and you've already proved you can handle that," Lilycrop relented. "My Order Book tells you when I should be called on deck, an' you'll have noted already that I want to be summoned anytime we have to reef, make sail or alter course, so you aren't totally on your own bottom, not yet anyway."
"Aye, sir."
"Good. Now, I'll be wantin' you to shake this crew of buggers up for me, Lewrie. We've spent three weeks in port, an' had four days outa discipline with the doxies aboard, an' that's bad for 'em. They've gone stale on quim an' drink. What's more, the ship's most likely full of shore bugs, an' I can't abide a lousy ship. Just got rid of most of the fleas, an' I don't want the cats to go through another bout of all that scratchin' an' nibblin'."
"Aye, sir," Alan replied, much more forcefully, now that he knew he had been given a second chance. He even ventured to take a sip of his "cider-and" and savor the bite of the brandy. "Smoke and scour in the day watch today, sir?"
"That's my lad," Lilycrop nodded with a bright smile. "An' in the mornin' watch tomorrow, start bringin' 'em to heel an' brightenin' 'em up. Sail drill. We'll need to go close-hauled to make our eastin' for New Providence, so we can practice tackin' 'til 'clear decks 'n' up spirits.'"
"Gun drill in the afternoon, sir," Alan suggested. "So I may discover how good your gunners are."
"Exactly! You'll find Cox is a capable shit-sack, but inclined to be a little lazy. Live firin', if you've a mind. There's a keg or two of powder from the bottom tier that's suspect I wouldn't mind expendin', though we might find some island on passage to serve for a target an' get more practical use from the firin'. I'll leave the rest up to you as to what drill, an' when. Might throw in a night fire drill after 'lights out'; we haven't done that in a month. Take one thing at a time, mind," Lilycrop warned, wagging a finger at him. "Don't over-finesse an' end up confusin' 'em. Nor confusin' yourself."
"I won't, sir," Alan swore. "I suppose I need the practice as much as the crew does."
"Aye, you do, an' I'm hopeful if you may admit it so chearly," Lilycrop rejoined. "What watches you down for?"
"Middle and the forenoon, sir, alternating the dog-watches," Alan told him. It was an easy schedule, except for having to stay up and awake from midnight to 4 a.m. on the middle watch, for he could nap in the first or second dog-watch, perhaps snooze away a little of the afternoon after drills while supposedly overlooking ship's books, and get about five hours sleep in the evening before having to take over the deck at midnight, a watch in which almost nothing ever happened in fair weather.
"No, you're the first lieutenant. Run the drills in the forenoon an' let Caldwell or Webster the master's mate have that watch," Lilycrop ordained easily, his eyes crinkling in seeming amusement once. "Dinner, then drills again in the day watch. You put yourself down for the evenin' watch an' the mornin'. Those were Tuckwell's. You can sleep midnight to 4 a.m., an' caulk a bit during the dogs, everythin' bein' peaceable."
"Aye, sir," Alan nodded, full of outward agreement but fuming at the loss of sleep he would suffer between watch-standing and running exercises.
"That'll be all for now, young sir," Lilycrop told him, picking up Henrietta the black cat as she meowed at his side for attention. "Let us pray you find your feet in the next few weeks. Then we may look back on your performance this mornin' an' laugh about it together. It did have its mirthsome moments, indeed it did, hee hee!"
Once Lewrie had left his cabins, Lieutenant Lilycrop allowed himself a soft chuckle of congratulations, and lifted the cat up to his face to nuzzle whiskers with her.
"Now, did I put the fear of God into that upstart whelp, or did I not, puss? He ain't worth a tinker's damn right now, I'll tell you truly. Maybe he's got the makin's, maybe not. What do you think? Will he do, sweetlin'? I'll promise you this, by the time I get through with him, he'll be a sight better, or you an' the kitties can feed on his tripes, would you like that?"
Henrietta would, and licked her small chops with a pink tongue.
On the quarterdeck, Alan Lewrie felt as if he had already been eviscerated for his tripes. He looked at the dour little sailing master and his minions, who sidled down to the leeward side out of his way and whispered among themselves; most likely it was conventional ship's business they were discussing, but at the moment, he was sure they were re-hashing his shambles in secret glee.
God, how much worse a showing could I have made, or is such a thing possible? he scoured himself. Well, I didn't sink us, there's a hopeful thought What were they t
hinking of to put me here? Or is Shrike such a collection of no-hopers that they thought I'd fit right in?
Much as he disliked the deprivations of Naval life, cared not a whit for most of the drudgery, the lack of sleep and the excruciatingly demanding level of skill necessary to merely survive in the Fleet, there was in his nature a stubborn streak. The more he replayed the cobbing he had received, the angrier he got; with Lilycrop for being so amused, and then with himself for providing the older man with such a pitiful show of seamanly competence. And the worst thing was that he knew he wasn't all that bad. The Navy had beaten competence into him, dragged him kicking and screaming and complaining from former disdain into knowledge of his profession; maybe he was in way over his depth at the moment, but at least he had been given a second chance, if only because there could be no ready replacement available until they got to New Providence, or back to Antigua, and God knew when that would be. If there had been a ready escape, he might gladly have chucked the whole thing right then and there, but since there wasn't, he could try to satisfy the eccentric old man back aft. His pride was on the line, along with all the good credit he had made for his name.
How can I go back to London after the war, a failure even at this? he wondered. Railsford's right; it's a gentlemanly calling for such as me. I've no head for Trade, for Law or Parliament, not enough money to live an idle life, no one to sponsor me if I blow the gaff as a Sea Officer. Right, then, I'll take the proverbial round turn an' two half-hitches, and I'll stop that cat-loving sonofabitch from sneering. I'll go back home a half-pay lieutenant, former first officer, and hold my head up against any of those lazy bucks I knew before, damme if I won't. But laugh about this later? I sincerely fucking doubt it!
Chapter 2
Shrike saw nothing of interest for the next two months other than islands, and those only in passing. After a trip to New Providence, they patrolled the extreme edge of the hunting grounds split between the Leeward Islands Squadron and the Bahamas Squadron, north of the Mona Passage, beating to windward far out to sea above the Danish Virgins, snooping north of Puerto Rico. Given the reputed volume of smuggling going on, the number of privateers on the prowl, and the threat of Spanish or French warships, they should have seen something, but the sea remained achingly empty from one distant landfall to the next, and they never went close enough inshore to see anything more, using islands only as convenient proofs of the accuracy of their navigation.
During this time, Alan couldn't have cared less if a Spanish treasure galleon had come right aboard and begged to be looted, and that galleon replete with a traveling Viceroy's brothel. The initial shame and humiliation still gnawed at him, try as he did to put it behind him and concentrate on the job at hand, and the job often threatened to swamp him.
After those two months, he was sure that he was the most despised man aboard the brig of war. He had run his drills and gotten his breath back, and riled the gunner and his mates in the process, even if he knew artillery as well as they. Cox and his minions didn't like being drilled so often, with so many live-firings at floating kegs or empty coops. It fouled the guns, it made work to clean, to sew up new cartridge bags, to shift powder kegs out of the hold. He had forced them to sway out the swivels and drill with them, which created more work. Shrike had been loafing along for months with no real effort put to her warlike nature, much like Alan's first ship Ariadne had been, and the gunnery department resisted his wishes to spruce up.
Fukes the bosun glared daggers at him, worrying if he was going to order stuns'ls rigged out, top-masts struck, or merely work the ship from one point of sail to the other at a moment's notice.
But, he reassured himself, Lilycrop had told him to smarten the people up, and showed no signs that he disagreed with Alan's timing or choice of drills.
During those two months, they went through several half or full gales, nothing like the terror of autumnal hurricanes, but scary enough to pucker Alan's fundaments as he stood on deck watch after watch with no chance to go below, frightened that each helm command or action on his part would put them under in the twinkling of an eye. Shrike did not help, for she truly was a bitch, pitching about like a wood-chip in the heavy seas, rolling on her beam ends since she was so light and had so little below the waterline, unlike his previous ships. And Lilycrop had been accurate in his description of how she would almost run away with them in brisk winds unless they watched her helm, or kept too much sail up too long.
God help him, even the weather seemed to conspire against him. Order masts struck too soon, and the threatening squall lines of early afternoon would blow out and the sky would be painted with lovely and pacific sunsets. Trust that it would do so again the next time the horizon gloomed up and they would be ankle deep in rain and foam breaking over her rails as they fought to reef down until it blew over.
And through it all, there was Lilycrop, damn his blood, eyeing Alan's efforts with that maddening little smile, his eyes atwinkle and another kitten being strolled about the decks; sometimes that tiny "hee hee" could be heard from the skylight or the companionway. Lilycrop didn't spend much time talking to him, and when he did, it was the same sort of needling he had gotten after his disaster in leaving English Harbor. Oh, there was some pithy bits slung in now and again as admonitions to not do something like this or that (depending on which exercise or evolution they had been forced into), but nary a word of praise, even the faintest sort, even when Alan had the time to realize that he had done something close to right, and frankly, he was getting damned tired of Lilycrop's attitude. It got to the point that when the captain was on the deck watching Lewrie perform, Alan tensed up so much he could barely keep his victuals down, and his mind would go blank under that amused stare. To utter the right commands was a daily victory over his unsteady nerves.
They were over halfway through their supplies. Another two weeks of patrol and they would have to go back to Antigua to resupply, and Alan had absolutely no idea if he would be retained, or chucked out for incompetence. Alan was sure Lilycrop would wait until the last moment after they dropped anchor to tell him he was out, and the uncertainty was enough to make him want to scream.
Finally, on a fine day while the hands were enjoying their rum ration, he stirred up his courage and accosted Lilycrop on the quarterdeck, perversely wanting to know his fate, though dreading it.
"Dine with me tonight, then," Lilycrop said, ending his stroll about the deck and going below, still wearing that enigmatic twinkle.
"Aye, sir," Alan replied, trying to sound cheerful for the invitation, the first of its kind since he had come aboard. Probably tell me with the port, so I can weep in private, he quailed sadly.
But he showed up halfway through the second dog-watch, turned out in his best kit, and let the Marine sentry announce him and pass him aft into the great cabin to hear his fate.
"Ah, right on time, I see." Lilycrop beamed at him, waving him to a chair. "Gooch, get the first lieutenant a glass of whatever strikes his fancy." Lilycrop had tricked himself out in his best uniform as well, and the white coat lapels, shirt, waist-coat and breeches gleamed in the candle and lantern light.
Dressed for my execution, Alan cringed to himself.
Alan got a glass of poor Black Strap-Lilycrop's purse did not run to claret or Bordeaux-Lilycrop was already slurping away at a mug of brandy, and from the harsh reek of the fumes that Alan could smell all the way across the cabin, it was no better than captured French ratafia, the raw stuff they issued their wretched sailors.
"We're havin' a joint of pork tonight, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop told him genially. "One of the shoats escaped the manger and took his death dive down the forrud hatchway. Thought pigs'd survive a fall such as that. 'Tis kitties that land on their feet, ain't it, Samson? But I don't tell you nothin' you don't already know, do I, Mister Lewrie?"
"No, sir," Alan agreed, having seen the accident, and having heard the uproarious cheer from the hands when it was known that the pig had succumbed and would be fresh
supper for all. There was a rumor on the rounds that the pig had been "pushed," and how he had escaped the foredeck manger was still a mystery. "Perhaps it was Pitt killed him, sir," Lewrie japed, hoping he could cajole Lilycrop into leniency.
"Wouldn't put it past the young bugger, indeed I would not." Lilycrop laughed heartily at Alan's small attempt at humor. "A clever little paw on the latch peg, a scratch on the arse, some judicious herdin'… he'll get his share, same as the others. I do believe that cats are smarter than most people give 'em credit. Gooch, how long now?"
"Not half a glass, sir," Gooch answered from the pantry by the small dining alcove. The table had already been set with a somewhat clean cloth, wide-bottomed bottles to anchor it down after it had been dampened to cling to the wood, and plates and utensils already laid out. Shrike was on an easy point under reduced sail, so they would not have to fight the table for each morsel that reached their mouths; she wasn't heeled over ten degrees from upright and her motion was easy tonight. Cooling sunset breezes blew down the open skylight and through the quarter-gallery windows.
They chatted ship's business for a few minutes, interrupted often by the antics of the various cats or kittens that shared the captain's quarters, until Gooch announced that supper was ready.
There was a soup of indeterminate ancestry, most likely "portable soup" reconstituted from its boiled-dry essence. The biscuits were the usual weevily lumber that took much rapping to startle out the occupants and some soaking in the soup so they could be chewed. But the leg of young pork arrived to save the day, crackling with fat and running with juices their bodies craved after weeks of salt-meat boiled to ruin in the steep-tubs. There was pease pudding, too, and a small loaf of fresh bread they sliced thin as toast so it would last, something the cook had whipped up for the captain alone.
"The sweetlin's gettin' theirs, too, Gooch?" Lilycrop demanded.
"Um, aye, sir," Gooch tried to say through a mouthful of pork from the pantry, taking his pleasure with some slices that had been intended for the platoon of felines, who were crowding around his feet and yowling for their tucker.
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