H. M. S. Cockerel (15 page)

• • •

Do
I sneer? he railed within himself, standing far aft by the taffrails. His hands squeezed the timbers so hard he felt he could rip up a section and shred it to kindling. Or strangle it.
Am
I insolent to him? Well, perhaps . . . and who wouldn't be, I ask you! But . . .

He knew how well he could toady and fawn, how well he could, as every English gentleman was expected to do, bottle up his emotions and his private thoughts, wrap them in sailcloth, and dare anyone to say whether 'twas hidden claret or horse piss.

Toady? Right, I'm good at it; dined out on it for years!

Alan didn't understand what Braxton feared, to wish to cow the crew so completely—not only the crew, but the petty officers, the warrants and the commission officers, too. What might have happened in his miserable past, he wondered, that required treating
everyone
like rebellious, riotous gutter sweepings? It went, whatever it was, far past a dread that an English crew might be infected with the fever of Republicanism and Thomas Paine. It was brutal, thoughtless of the consequences.

He's right about one thing: he doesn't get joy of it. I doubt he's ever had joy of
anything.

Do I sneer at him behind his back, Alan asked himself? No, I know better; I've been in the Navy long enough to know how to put the “eager-but-earnest” phiz on. I stamp down any who dare to sneer, too! Has anybody caught me at it, even in private? No.
Certainly
not to his face! I've been careful to sound dutiful. Dull and flat, maybe . . . But then, I've never served under
his
like. And I very much doubt many others have, either.

Lewrie felt that he
had
earnestly tried to please, to obey and carry out his duties, even within the confining strictures the captain placed upon him. They did have a well-drilled, well-trained ship and crew by now, able to respond smartly to any command, perform any drill, or face action. He had been, as much as he was allowed, a buffer between captain and crew, presenting, as best he was able, a going concern ready for their master's use. All for nought, it seemed.

“It's not
me,”
Lewrie assured himself in a bitter, guarded whisper, his stomach churning with gall over his most recent scathing. “He just wants dear Clement for first lieutenant, and I'm in the way. Raise Scott to second, promote little Anthony Braxton to acting-lieutenant . . . God, I sound so bloody
pathetic!
”

Wonder if Lieutenant Mylett felt the same way right before he chucked it? he gloomed in silence, watching their wake fan out behind them.

He could not ask—for fear of sounding as if he was criticising; the rest could not volunteer information—he was duty-bound to quash such talk as disrespectful. So he knew little more about the mystery than he had the day he'd come aboard to join.

He imagined, though, that, from what little he had learned of Mylett in casual reminiscences, he'd been an honourable, decent man—too decent, too used to a more benign, less brutal order where officers did not despise the ship's people as a regular policy. And did not feel the need for a regime of near-terror.

What
was
terrorising, though, was his realisation that a third of the crew and perhaps half the Marines were experienced men who had served kindlier captains before, even if they were strict. Nothing, though, as strict as
Cockerel.
And if it continued . . . Defiance of ordained authority was the spirit of the age; the Colonies, now France and all that Republicanism, Thom Paine talk . . . Bligh's latest . . .

Mutiny!

It could make even an officer like Lewrie queasy to think that word, much less pronounce it.

You'll not have me, Lewrie vowed grimly, promising to force himself to sound and act even chirpier and more agreeable as second-in-command. Even that would not please Captain Braxton, he knew, but it might defuse any schemes to dismiss him for lack of evidence at a possible court martial.

But I'll not knuckle under and become
his
sort of officer, Alan also vowed; I'll not be his whipped dog, his dumb lackey. And I will
not
be hounded out. Or ousted.

Hmm, though, he pondered; where's the middle ground? Stay and be-damned, sooner or later—go and be-damned a failure to the Fleet—stay and counter him, somehow . . . save the stupid bastard from himself, really. Oh, that's rich, that is!

“Christ, this is hopeless!” He all but wept in frustration.

C H A P T E R 5

T
here's
going to be trouble,” Lieutenant Scott intoned. They were inspecting the standing rigging along the larboard gang-way.
Cockerel
had come about just after dawn, and was now standing nor'east toward Portugal. To their sou'west, far up to windward, the tops'ls of the line-of-battle ships could barely be seen, if one were high aloft.

“Yes, and you're not helping,” Lewrie bitterly accused. “Cony has ears. Your man, too, I expect. Tongues, too, but . . .”

“But can't mollify 'em. They speak too much of obedience, it smacks of toadying cant, sir. And then they lose their ‘ears' among the people. I did try, though, sir. Same as you,” Scott rejoined, sounding sulky and heavy.

“I'm sorry, Mister Scott. It was unfair to you, what I just said, I know, but . . .” Alan muttered, pausing in their slow pacing to fix his eyes upon Scott's, as emphasis of his sincerity.

Captain Braxton had held his court, solicitously nodding with grim disapproval as the two midshipmen had presented their “evidence.” Lisney and Spendlove were in Scott's watch, so he had spoken for them, as had Lewrie. As had Lisney and Spendlove themselves. So new at sea, Spendlove looked to Lisney, a man in his late thirties who'd spent his own boyhood in the Fleet, as a “sea-daddy” who knew all the knots, all the cautions. Lisney was a leader, looked up to by everyone, seaman or landsman alike, on the foremast. Oh, aye, there'd be trouble!

But Captain Braxton was intent upon punishment. And could that bitter man have awarded lashes for back-talking sea officers, Lewrie and Scott would have been due at the gratings themselves. Three dozen he'd foreordained, and three dozen it would be, this forenoon. Spendlove already had been caned with a stiffened rope “starter,” bent over a quarterdeck six-pounder. Beating boys on the bottom was done much less formally than the gloomy, stylised ritual of a man's flogging.

There was only so much the officers could do. Obedience and loyalty in the Royal Navy were a captain's due, and the rigid Articles of War spelled out the consequences for those who didn't toe the line, even if they didn't agree, even if they felt a captain was a raving Bedlam “bugeater”—they had to support him totally, once he decided what was best. There was no recourse open to them that didn't smack of failure to support Captain Braxton, no one to whom they might complain. To inform a senior officer behind his back was disloyalty, and an officer's mutiny against him. Making matters worse, they could not even mention that dread word “mutiny” by way of warning yet. Braxton would become even harsher, perhaps spurring into occurrence the very thing his punishments were intended to prevent. And their careers would be ruined in either case—for failure to support, and to inform him of their fears, until the situation had so festered that it was moments from eruption— or for failure to nip it in the bud in the first place. It might even appear at a court martial that they had encouraged it, or at least sympathised, and hidden a plot's existence.

“Like runnin' before a hurricane bare-poled, sir,” Scott grunted, sounding almost amused. “One hears of it bein' done, but damme if one wants to try it firsthand. Damned if we do, damned if we . . . ”

That made Lewrie grin for an instant, even so. Lt. Barnaby Scott was normally a loud, blustery jackanapes—exuberant and blister-ingly profane, the sort who went through life windmilling his arms fit to wake the dead with an improbable curse, a side-splitting jest, and the sort of booming laugh that made one wish to place a bet or order one more bottle, even if one knew better. He was also exceedingly competent—more so, perhaps, Lewrie suspected, than he himself was.

“No leaders yet, though?” Lewrie asked softly as they gained the foc's'le ladders. “No
real
sign of trouble?”

“Not that organised yet, sir,” Scott scoffed, looking at that moment anything but exuberant. “Leaders, well . . . none who stand out. For obvious reasons, too. Too new a crew, too many lands-men aboard, who've never known a fair . . .” He choked off his comments as a working party under Bosun's Mate Porter neared. It was dangerous to be heard criticising the captain by the hands, or be recalled later as one who mentioned mutiny. That would be
his
ruin.

“Yes,” Lewrie agreed with a bleak nod. “After today, though, I'd expect that to change, don't you? Black as their mood is . . .”

“Count on it, sir.”

“And then we'll be in the unenviable position of being
bound
to tell him of our suspicions, else . . .” Alan shrugged heavily.

“More suppression, even more floggings,” Scott agreed gloomily, lifting his hat to swipe his unruly hair. “
Make
it happen.”

“Duty-bound to uphold . . .
him!
”
Lewrie fretted, “'Cause when it does occur, there'll be a court, and we'll end up tainted black as—”

“SAIL HO!”
came a wild cry from the mainmast crosstrees.

They froze in their tracks, sharing astonished looks.

“Where away?” Lieutenant Braxton on the quarterdeck demanded.

“
Two
points off t'
star
b'rd bow, sir!” came the singsong reply, like the wail of a passing soul. “T'
gall
-ants! Three . . .
FOUR!
Four, sir! Four
sets
o' t'
gall
-ants!”

“A French squadron out for prizes, I'll wager!” Lewrie yelped with sudden joy.

“Convoy, p'rhaps, sir!” Scott countered, whooping fit to bust with his own excitement. “Rice ships from New Orleans? East Indiamen, loaded gunn'l-down! Prize money, sir! Lashings of it! Action, at last!”

“Maybe salvation, at last!” Alan hooted, clapping Scott on the shoulder.

Cockerel
had gone to Quarters, with a purpose for once. Drums rattled, fifes peeped, the ship rang to the slamming of doors as the temporary partitions were struck below to the orlop. The cabin furnishings were removed to a place of safety, and to lessen the danger of splinters. The gun deck and the mess deck became two long roadways, bare of any fittings or comforts. Sand was slung to give gunners and gun carriages a grip on the white-sanded planking. Fire buckets were topped up, slow match was lit and coiled in case the flintlock strikers of the artillery failed to work. In case they had to board a foe, the weapons chests were flung open, and pistols, muskets and cutlasses were distributed, piled 'round the bases of the masts below the wicked pikes in their beckets.

Twelve minutes it took to convert
Cockerel
into a vessel ready for battle, a little slower than the previous day's drill, Alan noted, but still a respectable time. Perhaps the hands were clumsier and more nervous than before, since it was a real foe they'd be spying out.

“Give us three points free, quartermaster. Steer east-nor'east,” Captain Braxton commanded, sounding grumpy and out-of-sorts. “Mister Braxton, signal to
Windsor Castle:
‘Enemy In Sight.'”

“Aye aye, sir,” the midshipman snapped, turning aft to the taff-rails. A moment later, the proper signal flag soared aloft on a light halliard. With a jerk of the line, when it was “two-blocked” as high as it would go, the bunting bale burst open.

“Deck, there!” the lookout howled. “
Tops'ls,
now!
Tops'ls
're
'bove
t' 'orizon, sir!
FIVE
chase, now, sir! Five chase!”

“We're overhauling 'em damn' fast,” Lewrie exulted. He looked aloft. The signal flag was streaming at an odd angle, which made him frown. The westerlies which prevailed 'round Cape St. Vincent were at this latitude usually tending northerly, down where ships turned for the Caribbean. Today, though, they were perversely backing, blowing from west-nor'west, and it wasn't exactly the clearest day he'd ever seen, either. “Mister Braxton, any reply from the flag?” he inquired.

“Uhm, nossir,” the midshipman replied, a digit up his nose.

“You can't tell from the deck, sir,” Lewrie rasped. “Go aloft. They may not have seen it yet. Captain, sir?”

“What is it, Mister Lewrie?” Braxton grumbled impatiently.

“Signal flag's streaming, larboard quarter to starboard bows, sir. Might be unreadable yonder.”

Captain Braxton rocked back on his heels, craning his neck to peer upward over his shoulder. “Has the flagship replied?” he bade of the midshipman, now in the mizzen top.

“No return signal, sir! They're barely in sight!”

“Damn,” Braxton growled, scratching his unshaven chin.
Cockerel
was almost t'gallants-down over the horizon from the squadron, with the wind fluttering her alert
toward
the unidentified ships.

“Mister Lewrie, we'll put about. Lay her close-hauled on this lar-board tack. We'll close the flagship,
then
spy out our visitors.”

“Aye aye, sir. Bosun!” he roared through his brass speaking trumpet. “Hands to the braces! Man for full-and-by!”

Lewrie had little charity for the captain; even so, he thought it professionally slovenly not to have alerted the squadron first off,
before
going to Quarters and turning eastward, even further down-wind out of visual, and signaling, range.

Cockerel
came trundling about, bows chopping on the lively sea, shrouds and lines beginning to moan to the apparent wind. Abeam the wind as she'd been sailing, it had not seemed so boisterous; but now spray dashed high as the bulwarks, and she heeled, hobbyhorsing over long-set wavetops, loping into the wind something champion.

It took a quarter-hour on that exhilarating beat before they fetched high enough above the hazy horizon, before
Windsor Castle
rose tops'l high, and finally caught her urgent signal. Bunting soared up the flagship's masts, and sails foreshortened, as the squadron of line-of-battle ships altered course eastward, to get in on whatever it was which the scouting frigate had found.

“Now, by God . . .” Braxton snapped. “Put about, Quartermaster. Make her course due east. Haul our wind, Mister Lewrie.”

Back they flew toward the unidentified ships which were now well below the horizon, without the tiniest scrap of masthead trucks visible, guessing at where they might reappear.

“Buggered off to loo'rd once they spotted us,” Lewrie opined with Mr. Dimmock. “If they had a lick o' sense, o' course.”

“Bound for Toulon or Marseilles, perhaps, sir,” the sailing master agreed. “But . . . be they French East Indiamen, they'd hope to get inshore, finish at that L'Orient of theirs, on the Bay of Biscay and—

“Silence, both of you,” Braxton barked. “Speculate off duty, not on. We've work to do. Or hadn't you noticed, sirs?”

“Of course, sir,” they almost chorused.

“SAIL HO!”
the lookout shrieked. “
Four
points off t'
star
board bows!
Five
sail, same'z
afore,
there!”

“Running?” Braxton shouted back.

“Can't tell, sir!”

“Allow me to go aloft, sir,” Lewrie bade, wriggling with curiosity. And to get away from Braxton for a few precious moments.

“Uhm . . . very well,” the captain grudgingly allowed, giving him a grumpy once-over. Lewrie snatched his personal telescope from the binnacle-cabinet rack and dashed for the mizzen chains.

Up the ratlines on the windward side, where the ship's angle of heel made the ascent less steep, laying out on the futtock shrouds, then up and over the mizzen top deadeyes onto the upper shrouds for the crosstrees, with
Cockerel
shrinking to a toothpick below him. A heaving, wallowing toothpick, and the mastheads swaying like treetops in a stiff wind.

They were almost hull-up to him, those unknown ships. Running downwind almost at
Cockerel
's
point-of-sail, with the wind large on their larboard quarters. Big, dark, bulky three-masters, as impressive as 1st Rates. There were winks of cloudy sunshine on their wide sterns, on transom windows, gilt galleries and an acre of glass. But they were not warships. They looked like Compagnie des Indies
ships, stiff with priceless Asian cargoes, and loaded so heavily they wallowed in the sea like cattle on a boggy moor.
Cockerel
had fetched them hull-up, almost in the time it had taken Lewrie to scale the mast! They could not outrun her. Slow and logy as the squadron's line-of-battle ships were to the west, even they would overhaul them within the hour.

“Seen their like before, Gittons?” he asked the mizzen lookout, lending him the heavy, shotgun-long telescope at full extension.