H. M. S. Cockerel (18 page)

“A word to the wise, Mister Fairclough,” Lewrie said sternly, finding another conspirator in the way the bosun could not seem to meet his intent gaze. “And I believe you might just have a very good idea of who those . . .
wise . . .
are, hey? There will be no more. Once was the limit, and there . . . will . . . be . . .
no
. . .
more!
Because if there is another occurrence, if things go farther, then it won't be floggings for the ones involved . . . it'll be courts-martial . . . and that means the noose for 'em. And if I'm forced to search out the man, or men, who hobbled our ship, I swear to God, I'll have their nutmegs off with a dull knife! Do you understand me plain, Mister Fairclough?”

“Aye, sir,” Fairclough nodded sadly.

“Signal sent, read and understood, I believe, then,” Alan said. “The crew's . . . and mine.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And a further word of warning, Bosun. They'd best be the finest crew a captain could ask for from now on—else even he'll take notice and flay 'em to bloody rags, first, and ‘scrag' 'em, second.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Fairclough huffed, looking as if he wished to be any place but there at the moment, getting flayed himself. “Best behaviour, sir.”

Lewrie went back amidships to find the purser, his Jack in the Bread Room, a working party of gangway idlers, the sailmaker, carpenter and their crews, with Marine help, heaving nigh to ruptures to set the shambles right. He slithered and scaled the piles forward to the cable tiers for a better view.

There, somewhat separated from the hands, and in delayed but shuddery relief that
Cockerel
hadn't been dismasted, hadn't broached or rolled completely keel-up and killed him, he began to snicker to himself. He put a hand to his mouth, looking as if he was about to “cast his accounts” to Jonah, as an uncontrollable, lunatick fit of mirth quite took him. Lewrie was forced to duck deep into the cable tiers, amid the stinking mile of thigh-thick hawsers for privacy.

“Whore-transport!” he whispered to the darkness. And then he began to laugh himself sick, until his sides hurt.

C H A P T E R 6

T
hat's
a new'un,” Capt. Sir Thomas Byard, captain of
Windsor Castle
and flag-captain of their squadron, remarked with a quirky look as he tugged his nose. “I must pass it on to our senior midshipmen to try out on the ‘younkers.'
Much
droller than sending them on deck to hear the dogfish bark. And your Leftenant Banbrook is still confined to cabins?”

“Uhm, no, Sir Thomas,” Lewrie replied, now that he had his wits back. “His close arrest ended after the second dogwatch.”

“Hmm, good,” Sir Thomas approved, then looked around the quarterdeck at
Cockerel
's
frazzled professionals. “So!” he demanded, in a semijoshing tone. “Why could you not have done this well yesterday?”

To that, though, Lewrie could have no answer; nor could any of the officers or warrants.

A little after breakfast in the morning watch, H.M.S.
Cockerel
had been ordered to close
Windsor Castle
and take station under the flag's lee, quickly followed by the dread summons, “Captain Repair on Board.” Off Braxton had gone in his gig, with a thick canvas packet of ledgers and documents under his arm. But, most surprisingly, over had stroked Captain Byard's gig, and, once he had been received aboard with proper honours, and had been genteelly introduced, he had begun issuing most disconcerting orders.

“Strike topmasts, Mister Lewrie,” he had snapped.

“Sir?”

“Strike topmasts, I said!”

For the rest of the morning watch, and through the entire forenoon,
Cockerel
had been exercised. They had stripped her down to the fighting tops and gantlines in a credible half-hour, then hoisted the topmasts, spars, sails and shrouds aloft once more. They had Beat To Quarters, heaved empty kegs over the side, and made passes at them with the great-guns booming. They'd gone through cutlass and musketry drill, officers and hands alike. Then it had been signalling practice, towing the ship with the boats, lowering the larboard bower into a cutter and pretending to anchor to it; they'd passed towing cables to the flagship then cast them free and winched them back aboard with the capstans. An hour had been spent making and reducing sail, reefing down for heavy weather, or setting “all to the royals,” with stuns'ls on the fore and main course yards. Then they'd practiced fetching-to, wearing, tacking and weaving through the line of slow-plodding line-of-battle ships like a water-walker skittering 'round leaves in a fish pond. There had been fire drills, man-overboard drills, more going to Quarters and shooting at crates thrown over the side.

“Very good, Mister Lewrie, you may set your regular watch-bill.”

“Aye aye, sir. Mister Scott, you have the watch. Bosun, pipe the change of watch. Larboard division on deck, starboard division to be relieved.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Bosun Fairclough shouted back from the waist. He hauled out his silver bosun's pipe and began a shrill on the “Spithead Nightingale.”

“Well done, Mister Fairclough!” Sir Thomas called down to him, after his pipe was done, and he'd bellowed his orders in a voice that could carry to windward in a full gale. “Still have it, I see.”

“Aye, Sir Thomas, an' grand it be t'see ya once again, sir!”

“You were shipmates, Sir Thomas?” Lewrie asked, trying to find a polite way of mopping his streaming face with a handkerchief, after a long, trying morning of funk sweat.

“
Robust,
when ‘Terrible Toby' had his first warrant, and I was fourth officer, sir,” Sir Thomas chuckled. “I went shares to purchase his pipe. Damn' good man, is ‘Terrible Toby.'”

“And still is, Sir Thomas,” Lewrie assured him.

“I am gratified to hear it, sir. What time do you make it?”

“Uhm . . . half-past noon, sir,” Lewrie replied, after producing his watch from a fob pocket in his breeches.

“My apologies for delaying the hands' dinner, then.
And
‘Clear Decks and Up-Spirits.' Is your Captain Braxton one to ‘Splice the Main-Brace,' Mister Lewrie?”

“No, Sir Thomas, he is not. So far, this passage, at least.”

Alan imparted that with a straight face, biting his cheek.

“Pity. I should not wish to call for anything your captain may not allow. But . . . they did well, I thought. Did they not, sir?”

“Very well, Captain Byard,” Lewrie agreed.

“Then it is my wish that you, this once at least, indulge me.”

“Aye aye, sir. Mister Fairclough . . . Mister Husie? Capt. Sir Thomas Byard commands we ‘Splice the Main-Brace'!”

That raised perhaps the first cheer ever heard aboard
Cockerel.
The daily rum issue would be full measure, with no deductions for men on punitive deprivement, no “sippers” or “gulpers” owed amongst them.

“Three cheer f'r th' flag-cap'm, lads!” Fairclough demanded of them, and it was lustily answered: “Hip hip . . . hooray!”

Toady,
Lewrie thought cynically. Still . . . maybe he thinks Sir Thomas'll pluck him out of this damn ship. Hmm, might suit!
Toby!

“You smile, Mister Lewrie?”

“Sorry, sir,” Alan sobered at once. “It's just . . . hard to feature Mister Fairclough having a diminuitive of his Christian name.”

“Called him ‘Terrible,' 'cause he was a holy terror. Eyes in the back of his head, bad as a master-at-arms, was Toby. Taut hand. Firm but fair, though, once he'd seasoned,” Sir Thomas reminisced with joy. “I seem to recall . . . one of our frigate captains told me of you, sir. I believe you have the good fortune to own an acquaintance with Keith Ashburn, of
Tempest?
”

“Keith, sir?” Lewrie grinned completely, his first of the day. “Aye, Sir Thomas, I do. Pray, sir, do you meet with him in future, I would be much obliged should you be able to give to him my warmest and most heartfelt regards. And my congratulations he's made ‘post.'”

“And his to you, sir, had it not slipped my mind until this instant,” Sir Thomas nodded. “I believe, further, that he told me you had a sobriquet of your own, sir. ‘Ram-cat' Lewrie, you're known as? How come you by that, sir?”

“Uhm . . . my choice of pet aboard ship, sir,” Alan fumbled, feeling that was the safest explanation.

“Ah, I see. Lady Byard's fond of 'em. God knows why. Eat the dormice . . . heartbreak in the nursery, then! Give me a good hound any day,” Sir Thomas grumped. “Odd. Mister Lewrie, other than fresh meat on the hoof, forrud in the manger, I can't recall any animals aboard. You do not, this commission, bring a pet with you?”

“Captain Braxton does not allow pets, Captain Byard.”

“Devil you say,” Sir Thomas snapped. “
Windsor Castle
's
loaded with 'em. I've a pup of my own, from the last litter. Just the one, o' course, but . . . pets do wonders to improve the morale of the hands.”

“I quite agree, Sir Thomas,” Alan answered quickly.

“I also note . . .” the flag-captain said, pulling at his nose once more, “your crew labours in dead silence. E'en now . . . yonder. Now they're queued up for their grog, they're quiet as mice. Why?”

“Captain's orders, sir. He prefers it that way.”

“Good practice, perhaps . . . no bawling aloft and back. A twitch of a halliard is good as a bellow. 'Specially in a raw-blowing gale, a tug on a brace is as good as a wink. Yet . . . any skylarking allowed, sir? ‘Make and Mend'? ‘Rope-Yarn' Sundays? Hornpipes in the Dogs?”

“Uhm . . . the captain is not completely satisfied with them yet, Sir Thomas,” Lewrie squirmed, trying to find a safe answer, yet a way to impart
some
clue—and wishing, not for the first time, that a junior officer could just blurt out raw truth to a senior. “One may not presume to speak for one's commanding officer, sir, toward his motives, but . . . we're a new crew, with most of them landsmen and lubbers. And it may be that Captain Braxton is more used to a well-drilled ‘John Company' crew. They have not yet met
his
high standards, Captain Byard.”

“Raw men, that obtains in every ship in the Fleet, Mister Lewrie,” Sir Thomas scoffed. “I cannot guess your captain's standards, either, but . . . were I a younger man, entrusted with such a smart frigate, I'd be over the moon that my crew had shaken down so nicely in such brief practice.”

That did not require an answer, until Sir Thomas pressed him to give an opinion; all Alan could do was nod enthusiastically.

“Well, hard as I pressed, I can find no fault in
Cockerel,
sir. She's weathered my scrutiny smart as paint. All of you did.”

“Thankee kindly for your good opinion, Sir Thomas.”

“Keep it up, though,” Byard warned in a softer, more intimate voice. “I don't need tell you my admiral's . . . wroth with you.”

“Me, sir?” Oh, damme!

“With
Cockerel,
I should have said,” Byard expanded. “A convoy . . . a deuced
rich
Frog convoy, and all that prize money, lost? And a French national ship allowed a laugh at the Royal Navy's expense. More to the point, sir, at Admiral
Cosby's
expense, d'ye see.”

“I should imagine so, Sir Thomas,” Alan nodded somberly.

“Deaf, dumb and blind, swanning about like a fart in a trance, and cunny-thumbed seamanship . . . dear Lord, sir!” Sir Thomas winced, as if recalling his vice-admiral's tirade of the day before.

It cheered Lewrie to imagine that tirade, though; surely Captain Braxton had spent the past six hours in a living Hell, and had gotten at least the afterglow of all that rancour heaped upon his head, soon as he'd gained Cosby's great-cabins.

“Had this ship not performed so well this morning, well, then . . . heads would have rolled, sir, indeed they would have.”

Good God, I saved the bastard from dismissal, Alan wondered? Or did I save myself? No heads to roll, no brutal shaking up, then? What a bleak idea. More of the bloody same! With official sanction!

“Order your officer of the watch to close
Windsor Castle,
Mister Lewrie,” Sir Thomas instructed. “Put us under her lee once more, and I shall take my leave of you.”

“Aye aye, sir. Mister Scott! Stations for wearing ship. Close the flagship, in her lee.”

“Very good, sir,” Scott rejoined, then began bawling orders.

“That will give me a few minutes to speak with ‘Terrible Toby.' Before I do, though . . .” Sir Thomas concluded with a searching glance.

“Aye, Sir Thomas?”

“Is there anything pertinent I might be remiss in asking, sir? Any matter you'd care to impart concerning
Cockerel?
”

Oh, Christ, Lewrie sagged in bewilderment; I can't! One simply can't; it's not on. That's insubordination, disloyalty. He
seems
as if he sees what's going on, but . . . ! It's not a direct order to tell him, it's only a request. God, make it order!

“I . . . there is nothing which strikes me at present, Sir Thomas,” he was forced to intone, though keeping his eyes level and un-blinking as he locked gazes with the flag-captain. And hoping the misery and the lack of enthusiasm in his voice might make the first shoe drop.

“I see,” Byard harrumphed softly. Neither disappointed nor disapproving, but with no hint of approbation for loyalty, either.

Leaving Lieutenant Lewrie to wonder just exactly what the Hell “I See” really meant.