Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL
"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 'bout 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.
