H. M. S. Cockerel (25 page)

“Uhm, no, sir,” Braxton sighed, rubbing his brow.

“Then please be so good as to affix your signature to it, sir, as witness. Leave room on the page for Mister Scott, Mister Dimmock, and our surgeon's names. I'll have them in in a moment.”

“Aye, sir,” Braxton sighed again, sounding like he was deflating. He slumped deeper, slacker, into his chair like a sack of laundry. In black-and-white, he had been found remiss. He reached across the desk for a quill pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and scratched his name.

Know what you're thinkin', Lewrie told himself smugly; Daddy'll get better, he'll fix it for you. Soon as he's back on his pins, I'll be back under his thumb. But, you damned fool, it's in the log now, for all back in London to read! They all get read, sooner or later. Then a note goes to Jackson or Stephens, and questions get asked, and that goes in your permanent records! Maybe not this commission, with Daddy to protect you both, he
can't
rip those pages out! They'll ask what action Daddy took. Or didn't take. Might even convene a court. Braxtons may've ruined
this
ship, but you'll never ruin another!

“Will that be all, sir?” Braxton asked, dumbfounded in his doom.

“No sir, it will not be. As captain
pro-tem
I can go a step further. I can enter a formal reprimand against you and Mister Boutwell. ‘Our ship then engaged upon the urgent delivery of secret dispatches of the highest import, standing through enemy-controlled waters' . . . well, you know the tune, sir. I can order you to sign that, too, or be relieved of duties immediately.”

“Sir,” Braxton gasped. That was much worse than simple dereliction of duty. It was a career-ender, a reason for a court martial. “Sir, I know Father . . . the captain and you have differed. Believe me when I say that I agree with
you.
But he's my father. More than any captain, I owe him support. Dear God, I wish to the Almighty that I'd never set foot aboard this bloody ship!”

Well, that makes two of us, don't it, Lewrie sneered to himself.

“I didn't wish to serve under him, sir, but he plucked strings,” Braxton muttered. “We're a Navy family, sir. That's our problem. My grandfather was a post-captain, his before him. Go aboard a gentleman volunteer when you're eight, to your father's ship, your uncle's ship.
You
know how it works, sir, surely! Grandfather makes rear admiral . . . half-pay, that. Ashore.” Braxton was nigh to snuffling in his grief. “But I've made my
own
way in the Fleet, sir! After the leg-up. Rose on my own merits. No one can grease those wheels for you, once you're a commission officer, away from direct family. I didn't want to take this commission, I wanted to wait for something else, but Mother . . . she made me swear, just before I came away. Father'd arranged it all, told me about it, and expected me to be glad about it. She knew he'd need all the help he could get.”

“His recurring malaria?” Lewrie asked, more gently.

“That, sir, and . . .” Braxton heaved a deep sigh, like a drowning man will suck precious air the first time he surfaces. “He's changed, sir. Off in the Far East, home for a month or so, between the round voyage. Mother's health is too frail for the East Indies. She removed to Lyme Regis, years ago. Rest of us off at sea, never quite connecting . . . never quite connecting when we
were
together, either, sir. No, it was his temper. His moodiness. She knew how much command of a warship meant to him, after all . . . Christ!”

Damme, don't do this to me, Braxton, Alan squirmed, his rarely used conscience plaguing him; here I hate you more than cold boiled mutton . . . and now I'm beginning to feel
sorry
for you!

“Father's had only a moderately successful career, midshipman to commission in seven years, even
with
family patronage, sir,” Lieutenant Braxton explained. “Nothing distinguished. Two commands, both during the American War. But they were in the Far East. None since '83. God, he wrote and wrote, damned near got down on his knees, to any old friend or patron with ha'pence influence!”

“He
had
command. His Indiamen,” Lewrie coolly pointed out.

“Just for the money, sir,” Braxton shrugged. “We may be an old Navy family, but never wealthy, and times were tight. Aye, sir, he had a
ship . . .
but 'twasn't
Navy,
d'ye see. Command, respect . . . and the pay was hellish good.”

Braxton waved an inclusive hand about the cabins, at the luxuries “John Company” service had earned. Yet with a flip of dismissal.

“Away from home so far, a year from a favourable reply from the Admiralty, sir . . . if there
were
an offer of a commission,” Lieutenant Braxton sniffed. “Pining away, year after year, with never an offer, going up in seniority on the living captain's list. But no matter how high he climbed, never an offer. And seeing old shipmates junior to him being made post, captains below him on the list making admiral. Then at last we have a war, and they
have
to call him up, sir. He finally gets the chance to serve again, to
shine,
Mister Lewrie! He was so elated, and determined!”

“Perhaps a touch
too
determined, sir?” Lewrie suggested wryly.

“We could not know . . . well, Mother did. She knew how desperate he'd been, how sad. And how important this was to him. I expect she also knew his limitations best. She was afraid for him, sir. Not just his health,” Braxton confessed. “She told me he'd need the finest sort of loyalty and support. I couldn't refuse him. I couldn't turn my back on him. Apart so long, sir . . . I hardly knew him. Or what he had become, and when I saw . . . it was too late.”

“Weeding out Lieutenant Mylett?”

“Not
family,
sir,” Braxton smiled shyly. “A stranger. Father hounded him out. Like he tried with you. Made life a living hell for the man. I should have seen the signs . . . I don't know what happened, 'tween the wars, sir. Something in the Far East, I think.”

“So that's why there's no mention of our little . . . near-mutiny in the log, either,” Lewrie surmised. “Though he
was
informed of our suspicions.”

“Oh, he knew, sir. But, it's his last chance, sir, d'ye see? He
has
to succeed. There cannot be a single flaw, this time.”

“Well, there is,” Lewrie summed up. “For now, Mister Braxton, there will be no formal reprimand.”

“Thankee, sir,” Braxton perked up. “I won't let family matters hurt my performance again, sir. My word on't!”

“Your
career
on't,” Lewrie gloomed. “Our good repute, too. I expect my tenure won't last more'n a week or two, Mister Braxton, and then your father'll be well enough to restore him to his due authority. We can't change his ways too much, lest the crew run riot. And I tell you true, sir . . . his ways aren't my ways. And I despise him for
making
me do things his way. You can make a difference, though. Take those relations of yours and rattle 'em 'til their teeth fly, if that's what it takes, but we cannot have any more terror below decks. They might listen to you.”

“Aye, sir, consider it done,” Braxton vowed.

“Do you have any influence over him?” Lewrie asked, flicking a hand toward the sleeping coach.

“Not much there, sir. Sorry. Believe me, I have tried to warn him before.” Braxton shook his head sorrowfully. “I've tried as son. I've tried as a commission sea officer, a fellow professional. There are some things he simply cannot abide to hear.”

“Then God help us, when he's back in charge, Mister Braxton. Do what you can, there. We'll have the other officers in now. And once we've made formal declaration of the change in command, we'll hoist the ‘Easy.' From noon today 'til end of the second dog tomorrow, say. I think our crew's earned it, don't you?”

“They have, indeed, sir,” Braxton almost smiled.

Lewrie swiveled the log book about so he could read it. He took up the pen and dipped it. “There is, I believe, Mister Braxton, space enough for me to amend my statement about you, after all.”

“Sir?” Braxton frowned warily.

“To note the fact that you were most unfairly placed in an impossible position, between direct orders from a captain, and from a father. And were forced to choose whether to obey, disobey, or to take no action at all. I think that may best explain your actions. And soften Our Lords Commissioners back home.”

“Thankee, sir,” Braxton shuddered with gratitude. “Thankee!”

“Assuming, of course, you perform as first lieutenant to
my
satisfaction,” Lewrie both tempted and put on notice, “I do believe that when I've relinquished authority to our rightful captain, I can insert something more praiseworthy in the log.”

“I will give you no cause for dissatisfaction, sir. None!”

There was a rap at the door, the bang of a musket butt on the deck outside. “Sah! Mister Midshipman Spendlove,
SAH!”

“Enter,” Lewrie replied coolly, with the tone of a captain.

“Sir, this note came off shore for you just now,” the grinning imp reported, hat under his arm, and glancing about to see if rumours were true. “It smells
very
nice, Mister Lewrie, sir.”

“Wonder how Naples looks from the masthead, Mister Spendlove?” Lewrie pretended to frown at him. “Horrid place to spend a whole
day
. . . even for a japing monkey such as your wee self, hmm?” he asked as he opened the scented note paper, sealed with a florid daub of wax and addressed in an ornate, high-flown hand.

“Sorry, sir,” Spendlove swore, ducking his head properly, though he looked anything but contrite as Lewrie quickly perused his note.

“I will be going ashore for dinner, Mister Braxton,” Lewrie told him, stuffing the note in a pocket quickly. “Some . . . ah, further palaver with the local authorities,” he lied.

“You will wish the captain's gig, sir?” Braxton asked.

“Not mine to borrow, really,” Lewrie decided. “The jolly-boat'll suit. I should return, hmm . . . sundown, I should think.”

He didn't really expect to get another “all-night-in” with Emma Hamilton; nor was he sure he could stand another whole night of prattle. No, an afternoon'd suffice. Watch her do her “Attitudes,” of course. And then beg off, pleading too much ship's business.

And Lord knows, he sighed, there's more'n enough o' that!

C H A P T E R 8

T
heir
idyll in Naples ended soon afterwards. A formal treaty with the Kingdom of Naples and the Two Sicilies was signed, with Lewrie proudly witnessing the ceremony. But then on 14 July, he was hustled off to sea with more urgent dispatches. Captain Braxton was making a miraculously speedy recovery, so there was no need to send him ashore, nor would a sea voyage threaten that recovery, the Italian physicians assured him after a final call on their patient.

And that voyage back to the Fleet went quickly, in good weather and brisk, invigourating winds.
Cockerel
scudded along like a migrating goose, winds on her larboard quarter, sails set “all to the royals,” slicing the seas with the elegance of a rapier.

“How dare you!” Captain Braxton spat at him. “How dare you put such nonsense in the log, Mister Lewrie!”

“I wrote no more than the truth, sir,” he replied resignedly.

“Truth?” Braxton hooted. “The truth is not
in
you! You're out to destroy me, sir. My entire family, all our careers! It's all mendacious tripe. For two pence, I'd . . . !”

He made as if to seize the offending pages and rip them out, but stopped. There was no expunging the brutal facts, none that would not represent a greater crime in the Admiralty's eyes. Captain Braxton had no recourse. Furiously, he realised that Lewrie knew that.

“Now that you are well again, sir,” Lewrie offered as a sop, “I doubt the matter will come up.”

“Oh, not this commission, damn you!” the bitter old man snarled.

“Signal from the flag, sir!” Lieutenant Scott shouted down the skylight from the quarterdeck. “They acknowledge our ‘Have Dispatches' and send us ‘Captain Repair on Board.'”

“Very
well,
Mister Scott!” Braxton bellowed in exasperation.

“Sir, are you that hale?” Lewrie asked. “To scale a 1st Rate's sides? It's only been a day since you resumed—”

“Your consideration for me is
touching,
”
Braxton snorted. “By God, sir, Admiral Lord Hood demands
Cockerel
's
captain, not you! And her true captain he shall have.” Braxton lifted the weighted packet and reached for his hat.

“Would you at least let me brief you on what ‘you' did ashore, sir?” Lewrie offered, trying to make some amends, at least. “Were he to question you about the dispatches—”

“I met our ambassador, delivered dispatches and got more from him, then sailed instanter,” Braxton sneered, bustling for the doors. “Naples is in. What more is there to say? Now we have
two
weak allies 'stead of one. Thank you, but
no,
Mister Lewrie . . . I require no more assistance from you! You've my gig ready? Good. Get out of my way.”

“Very good, sir,” Lewrie replied, crisply.

Least I tried, damn yer eyes; and if Admiral Hood catches you in a lie, God alone help you. It's no skin off my backside.

But Captain Braxton evidently did not put a foot wrong. He was aboard
Victory
for about fifteen minutes, then came sculling back with even more bundles. He didn't drop like a leaf from her side and drown himself, didn't dodder. By sheer willpower, he scaled
Cockerel
's
side and took his salute, though he looked white-faced and pinched once he attained the gangway, swaying more than did the deck.

“Mister Lewrie, there's mail for us. Distribute it,” he said, weakening fast. “I'll be in my cabins.” And he staggered away.

“Aye aye, sir!” Lewrie cried, all but pouncing on the discarded mail sack.

Mail—word from home! How rare it was to get it. Ships went down in storms, taken by privateers, and precious letters with them. Months, a year behind, they were, even under the best of circumstances. All too often they arrived at the wrong place, chasing the erratic and unknown movements of a squadron. Or might reach the squadron, but moulder in the mail sacks for months, held for independent ships. And that capriciousness worked both ways, for both senders.

Lewrie had letters from India, from his father, and from Burgess Chiswick, his brother-in-law, a captain in his father's regiment. They were over a year in transit, round Good Hope to the Admiralty, then to Anglesgreen, then . . . There was information from his bank, his solicitor, from creditors. Those he set aside for later.

And a bundle from Caroline and the children.

In the privacy of his narrow cabin he opened the earliest dated letter, hoping the salt, rain, tar smudges and mildew hadn't ruined what she had written:

My dearest Husband,

We are all so immensely proud of you, far off in our
King's Service. Your spring letters came at last, delighting
us. Yet how immensely Hard is my continuing burden of
Loneliness, how oft . . .

Bloody Hell, he groaned, tearing up a little as she described her own tears. He gazed at a miniature portrait, a rather good copy of the one hanging in their entry hall.

God help me, I'm
such
a bastard, he thought. A hound! Rakehelling about, back to my old ways. Putting the leg over just any new piece that crosses my hawse, no matter my . . . well, she was a rather
good
bit o' batter, wasn't she, that Emma? Oh, I'm such a
low hound,
though, to . . . I feel so guilty! I mean, I
should
feel guilty . . .

Hold on, though . . .

Hmmmm!

He recalled the free black woman, the widow he'd met in Clarence Town, in the Bahamas, after six months of exile in the Out Islands. A single afternoon of rutting, because he'd been so
very
lonely, too long separated from Caroline . . . didn't recall her name, but she had been so bloody good at lovemaking, and at restoring his spirits.

Mean t'say . . . ! Shouldn't I feel . . . abject? Or something?

He felt the urge to measure his pulse, to see if he was human. Oh, well . . .

The children missed him sorely, he read on; Sewallis has a new tutor and is learning his letters. There was scrawled proof of that in the margins—but it was early days as to what they spelled. Hugh left a thumb-print and an even shakier
X,
his mark. Charlotte was now on solid foods, toddling about, taking her first steps and out of her swaddles at last. Mrs. MacGowan, Caroline had dismissed; she'd simply gotten too dictatorial about running the entire household. There was a scandal about Maggie Fletcher, the vicar's daughter's maidservant, Maudie Beakman jilted by the same man who'd . . .

The planting season had gone well, and the weather bid fare for a bountiful harvest. And old William Pitt had passed over.

“Oh, damme . . .” Lewrie sighed bitterly.

I do not know how to tell you this, beloved, but Pitt is gone. Once you went to sea, the poor old dear began to fade. Lord, how sad he also seemed, prowling the house and grounds, as if in search of you, ever-napping in your chair alone, upon items of your clothing were they left out, and crying piteously for attention, demanding explanation of your absence. He climbed into my lap his last afternoon, as I sat and knitted by the garden. He played with some wool, then curled up and went to sleep, and I sensed, somehow, that I should not disturb him, no matter the distraction. He woke, looked up, put one paw to my breast, and then he lay back down, uttering one last trill . . .

“Oh, Pitt!” Lewrie cried, dropping the letter to his lap, tears in his eyes for certain now. “Poor old beast. Poor old puss! Least your last years were peaceful. Chickens to chase . . . Catnip and cream, good scraps . . .”

God, you inhuman
bastard,
he scathed himself. No remorse for cheatin' on your wife . . . yet you cry over the death of a stupid
cat!

“Maybe it's all of a piece,” he muttered throatily, covering his face with a dirt-stiffened towel so no one else would hear as he wept. Very possibly, for all.