Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH
"Anchor's fished, catted and rung up, sir," Ballard told him, touching his hat with a finger. Those studious brown eyes held the slightest hint of glee. "Cable's below, hawse-bucklers fitted."
"Thank you, Mister Ballard," Lewrie smiled. "Not too awful, considering. Two rehearsals seemed to have turned the trick. Thank you again, for your suggestion."
"My pleasure, Captain," Ballard said, inclining his head, his long upper lip curving just a trifle.
"I'd admire should you attend to the gun salute to the flag," Lewrie instructed. "The experienced hands, mind."
"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard said, turning away.
Lewrie looked down on his gun deck and gangways. What had been total disorder was now flaked down and lashed, hung on the pintails in neat loops; halyards and sheets, braces and lifts, were stowed for instant use.
Senior seamen were explaining things to their rawer compatriots, beginning to play the role of "sea daddies."
William Pitt sprang up atop the quarter-deck railings, his tail lashing with excitement. Alan reached out and ruffled the fur behind his ears. "How does it feel to have a ship of your own to terrorize again, hey, Pitt? Good?" Pitt tucked his paws in and lay still.
For an English day, it was remarkably lovely. There was some bite to the breeze, of course, but the sun was out, peeking between thin scud, making the waters of the Solent gleam, giving them color for once beyond steely gray, brightening the vista of ships and sea.
"Cony?" Alan called, flinching as he remembered Caroline.
"Aye, sir."
"My respects to Mistress Lewrie, and inform her the deck is quiet enough for her to come up," he told him, unable to control a blush at using the unfamiliar title "Mistress Lewrie."
"There's the pretty!" Caroline said, stroking Pitt as she came to the quarter-deck by one of the short ladders from the gun deck, and Pitt stood to get his petting. "Oh, how marvelous!" she exclaimed in delight, coming to his side to link arms with him. "A perfectly gorgeous morning. Good morning, Mister Ballard."
"Good morning to you, ma'am," Ballard replied, doffing his hat to her. "Your pardons, ma'am, but 'twill be a little noisy in a few moments. Aft, there! Prepare to dip the colours! Mister Fowles, be ready!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Abeam of the principal fort, Alacrity began to thunder out a gun salute. She dipped her colours briefly as the equally-spaced shots rang out, with Fowles pacing aft from one gun to the next, muttering the ancient litany of timing, "… if I weren't a gunner, I wouldn't be here. Number three gun… fire! I've left my wife, my home, and all that's dear. Number four gun… fire!"
"Thank you, Alan dearest," Caroline whispered to him between shots. "I'll never give you cause to regret your decision. I love you so completely!"
"And I love you, Caroline," he whispered back, bending from his rigid pose of lord and master for a second, grinning foolishly.
BOOM!
"At least on passage, I shall learn what sort of life you lead aboard your ships," Caroline went on. "So I may understand you better and picture you more clearly when you're away."
BOOM!
"Oh, Alan, we're setting out on a grand adventure!" She laughed. "Such a honeymoon, no one has ever had!"
"There, there, my dear," Lewrie comforted, almost gagging himself as his bride "cast her accounts." She knelt in the starboard quarter-gallery, the "necessary" converted from a wardrobe little larger than a small closet.
"It passes. It will."
She looked up at him, dull-eyed and wan, her livery face now devoid of expression. "Dear Jesus, could I but… Harrackkk!'"
Back her face went over the hole as her body rebelled at such infernal motion, at the stomach-churning odors of ship and food. He knelt with her to hold her head, to apply a towel below her chin as solicitously as he could, for one whose cast-iron craw had withstood the fiercest gales since his first hours in the Navy. But he had to dwell on the smells of fresh-sawn wood and new paint most closely!
There was a rap on the flimsy louvred door to their share of the great-cabins. "Mister Ballard's respects, sir, and I am to tell you he is desirous of tacking ship," a thin voice called out.
"Mister Mayhew, is it?" Alan asked, trying to differentiate between two soprano midshipmen.
"Aye, aye, sir," the fourteen-year-old said, voice cracking.
"My compliments to the first lieutenant and I shall be on deck directly," he instructed. "Caroline. Dearest… I must go on deck to oversee a change of course. I'll be back soon, I swear. Do you think you might be alright until then, love?"
All she could do was nod, dazed by illness, her face twisted inmisery as it was poised over the slop chute. He kissed her on the top of her head, rose, and made his escape, feeling pangs of guilt.
The Reverend Townsley collided with him in the narrow lar-boardside passageway, hands to his mouth and sprinting for the "jakes." But Alacrity was loping like a deerhound over the sea, stern rising high then settling like a dog's haunches as it dug in for a thrust with its back legs, dropping with a giddy swoosh. One moment, running aft was hastened by the slant of the deck; the next moment one churned in place or lost ground as the bows plunged. At least, laid hard over on her starboard side by the wind she did not roll. The good reverend danced in place like Punch pursuing Judy, then was almost hurled the last few feet to crash into the transom settee and the stern timbers. His feet went flying over his head and he landed like a pile of dominie's washing- black "ditto" coat, breeches, stockings and waistcoat all of a piece. He regarded Lewrie for a mournful moment like a hound being put down would stare at the gun, then spewed the last contents of his body over his lap and chest.
So much for serving fresh pork roast, Lewrie gagged as he turned away to stumble forward; there's four shillings wasted!
The door to the Townsleys' cabin was swaying open, left gaping in the reverend's haste, and Lewrie caught a peek of Mrs. Reverend Townsley and her prunish maid fighting to share a bucket.
"Oh, land us ashore, Captain Lewrie!" she wailed, giving him such a glare as said that it was all his fault. "No more, I beseech you! We shall all drown for sure. Gracious Jesus, to be on solid ground…!"
"Approaching a lee shore in the dark in these seas, ma'am, would be drowning for certain," Lewrie explained. "Sorry. Excuse me."
Bad weather might be best, he thought as he gained the quarterdeck; save me money feedin' 'em broth an' gruel for a few days!
"Wind's dead on the bows, and blowing right up the Channel, sir!" Ballard had to shout at him. "And now the tide's turned, we're set too much northerly on the larboard tack, headed for a lee shore!"
The English Channel was a nasty piece of water, with tidal flows as strong as spring rivers in spate. Those, combined with the current and wind, could waft a ship along quick as a "diligence-coach" on the High Road. Or nail her in place for twelve hours, no matter how much wind or sail area to beat against them.
And Alacrity was, like all shoal-drafted converted bombs, tending to slip to leeward like a sot sliding off a chair. Close-hauled into that stiff wind, she would require four or five times the mileage to make good a direct course with a more favorable beam or stern wind.
"On the starboard tack, we have sea room 'til dawn, when this tide turns!" Lewrie declared in return. "Aye, make it so, Mister Ballard! Before you tack, though, take in the outer-flying jib. She's too much pressure on her bows, and I'll not have her broach beam-on to wind and sea if she tacks too sharp!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" Ballard agreed with a firm nod, and the first, slight smile Lewrie had seen him attempt "Mister Harkin, 'All Hands!' Stations for stays! Fo'c's'le captain? Take in the outer jib!"
Getting her head 'round was no problem, with no need to pay off a point free on the helm to gather speed for a successful tack. They drove her up with her helm alee and Alacrity tracked about quick as a wink, deck leveling as she approached "stays," sails luffing and thundering, blocks rattling and tinkling, hull and masts crying.
"Meet her!" Alan warned the helmsmen. "Nothing to loo'rd!"
"Let go and haul!" Ballard screamed over the howling wind. Her bows crossed the wind and in a moment, she was laid hard over on a new tack, sails cracking like cannon shots as they filled and bellied out hard as iron, some luffing still as inexperienced men tailed on sheets too slowly. But paying off a bit too far and pressed hard over.
"Helm down, helm down! Keep her hard up aweather!" Lewrie said, throwing his own strength to aid Neill and Burke on the long tiller. "Thus! Steer west-sou'west, half west."
"Better, sir," Ballard stated after the deck was back in order.
"Smartly done, Mister Ballard, for such an inexperienced crew," Lewrie complimented him. "Thank God we have enough skilled hands, or we'd have rolled her masts right out of her."
"Thank you, sir."
"This may blow out by morning, sir," Fellows the sailing master opined after recovering his hat from the scuppers. "Damme, though, she swims even this lumpy sea devilish nice, don't she?"
"Aye, she does, Mister Fellows," Lewrie agreed. "Mister Ballard, before you dismiss the hands, take a second reef in the gaff courses, now we've unbalanced her by taking in the flying jib. Trim her until you're satisfied. Hank on a storm trys'l and bare thetack comer for a balance on her head. Able seamen only out on the sprit tonight, mind."
"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard said, going forward.
"On starboard tack all day tomorrow, most like, sir," Fellows decided. "Once the tide turns, with the current… tack again, I fear, as we fetch Alderney in the Channel Isles."
"I'd admire were it Guernsey, but we make too much leeway," Lewrie agreed, picturing a chart in the mind's eye. "Then larboard tack all the way toward Torquay and Tor Bay, and hope the winds back north."
An hour later, Alacrity rode much easier, with her large gaff sails reduced in area, and their centers of effort lower to the deck, and the center of gravity. Eased as she was, Lewrie had the galley fires lit so hot beverages could be served to ease suffering.
"Clear broth and biscuit," Ballard mused. "Just the thing for touchy stomachs. Though my other ships ran more to hot rum and water."
"Royal Navy's panacea for all ills," Lewrie chuckled as he had a cup of steaming black coffee and rum.
"I think it… uhm…" Ballard began to say, then had a second thought. For a fleeting moment, he showed indecision.
"What, Mister Ballard?"
"Oh, just that I thought it most considerate of you, sir. To be solicitous to the hands, their first night at sea. Easing the ship as we have. The galley…"
Of course, Lewrie thought! We're feeling each other out!
For the next three years, they were stuck with each other, for good or ill; two total strangers thrown together at the whim of the Admiralty, an Admiralty which would not, or could not, take into account the personalities of officers when handing out active commissions. It could be a good relationship, or a horror; it could be friendly, or it could be cold and aloof as charity!
"Well, half of 'em're cropsick as dogs at the moment," Lewrie shrugged. "They need something hot they may keep down. Or won'tclaw on the way back up! And what's the sense of thrashing to windward as if we were pursuing a prize? The tide'll turn, after all. But those new 'uns make an easy adjustment to the sea. Don't make 'em hate the life they signed on for so eagerly."
