Unlike the other warrants, who were appointed on merit and received pay in excess of a common spacer, ship’s pursers were not only unpaid, but bought their positions. Some port admirals, faced with an open position on a newly-built or refitted ship, were even known to set the place up for auction to the highest bidder.
Why anyone would turn over good coin to take a job which paid nothing became clear once one understood the nature of the purser’s duties. Nightingale’s accounts received a certain sum from Admiralty each month, out of which the purser was to see to the needs of the ship and crew. As such, the funds for everything aboard ship passed through the purser’s hands — from the last drop of nutrient solution in the beef vats to the ship’s commissary that supplied the crew.
And with every transaction, a bit was certain to stick to the purser’s fingers.
Whether it was the “purser’s grams” of his weights and measures — the difference between the half kilo of beef the men were promised each day and the few grams less the purser, by tradition, doled out — or the markup on necessities and luxuries from the ship’s commissary — where the purser had a captive customer base on long cruises with little off-ship liberty given — or even the illegal but still common practice of carrying a dead man on the ship’s books for a time and pocketing his pay, there were countless ways to turn a bit of profit from the position.
Of course, if the ship’s books turned out showing a loss, then the purser would be responsible for making up the difference when the ship paid off at the end of her commission. It was a rare thing, but pursers were known to have been ruined or taken up for debt at the end of a poor cruise. Still, it was widely thought that any man who couldn’t turn a tidy profit from a purser’s warrant aboard a Queen’s ship was one who probably should be indentured for debt and sent to toil on some colony world — for he was clearly incompetent for any other task.
“G’afternoon, captain, g’afternoon,” Wileman said, ducking his head repeatedly as he entered the cabin.
“Good afternoon, Mister Wileman.” Alexis gestured for him to sit. “May I offer you some wine?”
“Aye, please, and thank y’, captain.” Wileman settled himself into the chair and nodded to her. He seemed to nod to everything, come to that, his head bobbing up and down continuously as though it were on a spring.
Isom filled Wileman’s glass and Alexis raised her own to drink with him.
Once the courtesies were complete, she consulted her tablet.
“I’ve been reviewing Nightingale’s accounts, Mister Wileman.”
“All in order, captain, all in order, sure.”
Alexis made a noncommittal sound. Her perusal of Nightingale’s accounts wasn’t an idle one. In another bit of Naval lunacy she was certain she’d never understand, a captain was also held responsible for the ship’s accounts at the end of a commission. Never mind that the purser handled the accounts, or that a ship might pay off with a commander different from the one who’d started the commission in command, as was the case with Nightingale, with Alexis taking command from Bensley midway through.
That accounting wouldn’t be nearly so dire as the purser’s, but she’d still have to account for and justify every bit of expenditure and missing equipment. Why shot canisters might have gone missing after an action, the cost of repairing damage from an action or a storm, even recruitment bonuses, were she to need additional crew. All of it would be gone over by Admiralty clerks when Nightingale paid off at some point in the future.
“All in order,” Wileman repeated yet again.
“Yes, it appears so,” Alexis said finally. She’d ask Isom to go over the accounts once more to be sure, but her first glance through them led her to believe that Wileman might be no worse than the typical nip-cheese, as the hands referred to his position.
Wileman fairly beamed at her acceptance, head bobbing rapidly.
“I do, however, have some changes, some minor changes, mind you, in procedure which I’d like you to look into.”
The corners of Wileman’s mouth turned downward the tiniest bit and his head-bobbing slowed almost imperceptibly.
“Changes to procedure, captain? Changes?”
“Yes, Nightingale has a rather easy patrol schedule — no more than a month between systems. I’d like you to see to it that there’s fresh meat brought aboard at each of our port calls, rather than relying solely on what’s grown in the vats.”
“Fresh, captain? Fresh meat, you say?”
“Yes. It doesn’t have to be beef,” Alexis went on to reassure him. “Whatever might be least expensive in the system. Chicken, pork, lamb, what have you.”
Wileman’s head bobbing had slowed further and now he added a shake, so that his head was moving in a sort of undulating, sideways figure-eight.
“Oh, the men’ll not like that, captain, not like that at all. Good beef, straight from the vat, that’s what spacers want, captain. That’s what they was promised. Half kilo a day’s what they likes.” His head shaking grew more pronounced, stretching the ends of the eight out almost to his shoulders. “Not no chickens nor wee lambs, they don’t.”
There was a long silence.
“Captain?”
Alexis shook herself. Wileman’s head weaving was almost hypnotic and she dragged herself back to the conversation.
“Right, well, as may be, Mister Wileman, this is what I would like aboard Nightingale. If any of the men find themselves distraught at the idea of fresh pork in place of their half kilo from the vat, I’m sure I’ll be made aware of it and we may speak again. Fair enough?”
Wileman’s lips pursed and Alexis could see him calculating both the cut to his profits and how he might get around it.
“As well, I should like fresh fruits and vegetables brought aboard at each stop along the way. Whatever happens to be in season when we put down and might, therefore, least impinge upon the ship’s accounts.”
“For the officers, captain, yes? For you and Mister Villar and Mister Spindler? Why, yes, captain, that’s no trouble.”
“For the entire crew, Mister Wileman.”
Wileman swallowed heavily and his eyes grew wide.
“Just enough of all so that the men may have single fresh meal — something not from the vats or freezers.” She met his eyes as well as she could with his head in constant motion and smiled. “I’m certain you can manage this for me, Mister Wileman.”
“I … aye, sir.”
“And as for those vats …”
Wileman’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir?”
“I note in the logs that it’s been some time since the vats themselves were emptied and cleaned. Is this an oversight?”
Wileman grimaced and looked away. “Well, sir, it’s as needed and they’ve not —”
“The regulations state the vats should be cleaned every six months, is this not the case?”
“At the purser’s discretion, it says, sir. At the purser’s discretion.”
Alexis remained silent and stared at him calmly.
“Discretion, sir, is like … an option, isn’t it?”
“A bit more than that, I think.”
Wileman sighed. “So it’s clean the vats, is it?”
Alexis nodded.
“Takes time, you know, sir? Have to empty the solution and any beef what’s grown — have to store that somewheres and —”
“Space it.”
“Sir?” Wileman’s eyes grew wide.
“Mister Wileman,” Alexis said, leaning forward and resting her hands on her table, “I’ve read your logs. We both know, then, how long it’s been since the vats were cleaned and how long since the nutrient solutions were replaced, not just added to. Too bloody long, yes?”
Slowly and reluctantly Wileman nodded. “It may be there’s been some delays —”
“I’ll not have beef served at my table that’s been grown from three-year’s edge-scrapings in your vats.”
“Your table, sir?” He looked down. “This table, s
ir?”
Alexis nodded. “Yes, Mister Wileman. I’ll not be eating from my own stores every day. Periodically and without — well, let’s call it on a whim, shall we — I’ll have the same beef from the same vat as the crew is served.”
Wileman’s shoulders slumped even more and he hung his head.
“Clean vats, sir, and new solution. Aye, sir.”
“Very good. And lastly, Mister Wileman, there’s the matter of breakfast.”
“Lastly, sir? Breakfast, sir?”
“Yes. Now I do understand the difficulty of ship’s stores and the regulation banyan days when there’s no meat served, but on those days when the men are allowed more than a porridge of a morning I’ve always noticed something missing aboard ship.”
“Missing, sir? At breakfast, missing?”
“Bacon, Mister Wileman. There’s no proper breakfast without bacon, now is there?”
Four
7 September, aboard HMS Nightingale, Zariah System
“Pass the word for Mister Villar, sir?” Isom asked after Wileman left.
“Give me a moment, Isom.”
Alexis rubbed at her forehead again while Isom exchanged Wileman’s glass for a fresh one in preparation for Villar’s arrival. She’d been aboard Nightingale no more than a single watch and already she was astounded at the number of things she was finding to juggle in her head all at once.
Not only were there Nightingale’s accounts to familiarize herself with, but also the ship’s log, the punishment book, recording those spacers having committed some offense which couldn’t be corrected by the bosun — Alexis was pleased to see that neither the departed Lieutenant Bensley nor Villar had been at all liberal with the cat. More than those, there was the muster book itself which listed all of Nightingale’s crew — Alexis was determined to have their names and faces memorized in short order. Not too ambitious a task, since the ship had only fifty-four souls aboard, including Alexis herself.
Next would be the ship’s log, so that she could familiarize herself with how Bensley and Villar had gone about their patrols. That would take more study than she had time for without keeping Villar waiting too long; and there were other things to think of as well. The myriad little details of command she’d never before considered. Some of them seemingly trivial, but nonetheless important.
“I suppose I’ll need a cook, Isom,” she said. “Would you ask amongst the men for someone who might have a bit of skill?”
“I will, sir, and you’ll be needing a coxswain, as well.”
Alexis nodded. She’d be just as happy to share a cook with the gunroom, there being only the two midshipmen and a handful of warrants aboard, but it was traditional for a ship’s captain to have her own. As for a coxswain, the spacer who would be in charge of her boat crew, she thought Nightingale was far too small to bother with that formality. And it was a new crew to her — a coxswain was generally a trusted man who’d follow along with his captain from ship to ship.
“Just the cook for now, Isom, until I’ve learned enough of this crew to choose someone properly.”
“Aye, sir. I’ll ask around a bit.”
Alexis nodded her thanks. Isom’s position was a new one as well. He’d followed her from ship to ship since Hermione, but as a sort of unofficial servant, lieutenants without an official command being generally not able to have personal servants aboard ship. Alexis had never asked how the man wrangled his transfers along with her, though she suspected he’d simply shown up with her baggage and followed her, then put his name down in each new ship’s muster book. What captain would turn away a fresh pair of hands, after all?
And it’s not as though we’ve left previous ships in any semblance of good repair.
Hermione had been turned over to the Hanoverese, after all, and the crew members Alexis had brought out of captivity with her had been disbursed throughout the fleet. Shrewsbury, her last official ship where she’d been a very junior lieutenant, was still missing. Off with Admiral Chipley’s fleet somewhere in Hanoverese space and no word on their fate. Her last ship, a temporary command of a captured barque, had been destroyed delaying a Hanoverese frigate from catching up with the unarmed transports carrying troops and refugees from the aborted invasion of Giron.
Now, though, she had a proper command and Isom was officially her cabin servant and clerk. A much more appropriate position for the former legal clerk caught up by the Impressment Service and thrown into life aboard a Queen’s ship, as he’d no longer have to work the ship’s sails or berth with the crew. He’d have a cot in the captain’s pantry and his sole duties would be to Alexis.
Alexis closed her eyes for a moment and offered a silent prayer as she always did when her thoughts turned to Giron. First for the dead, especially those who’d stood with her on that ship, then for those left behind on Giron or with Admiral Chipley’s fleet, and lastly, but most ardently, for Delaine Theibaud, a lieutenant in the French fleet which had sailed with Chipley off in pursuit of the Hanoverese.
Please, Delaine, stay safe and come back to me.
A clank of bottles behind her drew her attention back to Isom. He’d finished clearing another pile of the mess Villar had left behind.
And if the man had to play at being commander these last few weeks, could he not have had one of the men keep his quarters clean?
Alexis eyed the cabin’s cot with sudden distaste.
“I’ll want fresh bedding, I think, Isom.”
“Of course, sir. I was thinking to have some hands in and scrub the whole lot down to the hull soon as you were off to the quarterdeck.”
Alexis nodded. “Yes, good thought. Thank you.”
She looked down at the table’s surface again and closed the logs and accounts. It was time to speak with Villar again, she supposed, and get his take on the state of Nightingale. She truly didn’t want to, though it was likely unfair to him. The warrants and Spindler hadn’t expressed any distaste or disdain for her, she thought it possible they, and the crew, thought the same as Villar did. Perhaps more so, as surely some of the crew would have come to like Villar and be more put out at his not receiving Nightingale than the man himself was. Villar had just had the bad judgment to express it to her.
Nothing for it but to move on, though.
She tapped the table’s display to summon him. He must have been waiting nearby, because it was just a few seconds before the Marine at the hatch announced him.
“Midshupmon Villar, sar!”
“Send him in, please.” The hatch slid open and Villar entered. “It’ll be First officer, if you please, Clanly,” she called to the Marine. She could give Villar that distinction at least.
“Oye, sar!”
Villar sat when she gestured to the chair across from her. He was seated stiffly, but not still. Alexis could see a bit of a twitch in his leg and he was rubbing the knuckles of one hand with his thumb, clearly nervous.
“So, Mister Villar,” Alexis started, “I’ve met with Mister Spindler and the warrants. They seem a decent lot.”
Silence dragged on. Alexis had hoped that would prompt Villar to offer his opinion of them, but he remained silent. That told her more about Villar and how he was feeling at the moment than anything else.
If there’s no question before you and you have no wish to muck things up worse than you have, keep your bloody mouth shut.
She’d found herself keeping silent on the other side of a captain’s desk more than once, so she could sympathize with him on that point.
“Your opinion, Mister Villar?”
Villar cleared his throat and frowned. “Mister Spindler’s young, sir, but he shows promise,” he said tentatively.
Alexis nodded encouragement.
“The warrants are all steady men. They’ve experience in other ships before Nightingale, but they’ve been here with her quite a while now. All of us … them, sir, since the start of the war.” Villar paused and then went on. “All except Mister Poulter, that is, he’s new come aboard just b
efore our last patrol — eight weeks now.”
Just about the time Alexis had left the border to take her place aboard Nightingale. Villar’s voice changed slightly as he spoke of Nightingale’s surgeon, whom Alexis had not yet met.
“When is he expected back aboard?” she asked.
Villar took a deep breath. “I couldn’t say, sir, it’s … Mister Poulter appears to prefer going his own way, if I may be so bold as to say so.”
Alexis frowned. “Despite our, shall we say, rocky start, I shall be relying on you heavily, Mister Villar. Nightingale’s is a small crew and you know them well. I should prefer it if you were as bold as you deem necessary, at least when we are in private conference.”
Villar’s eyebrows rose at that. “Thank you, sir.”
She’d just given him a great deal of leeway in speaking to her, more than many captains would. Perhaps it would turn out to be a mistake, but she’d rather he spoke his mind to her than keep something important to himself for fear of reprisal. If it did turn out to be a mistake she could attempt to correct it later, but for now she wanted Villar’s honesty more than propriety.
“About Poulter?”
Villar’s mouth quirked and his brow furrowed as though he were searching for the correct words.
“He’s private, not commissioned,” Villar said. Alexis had assumed that from the fact that he was listed on Nightingale’s books as “Mister” and not by rank. “The Sick and Hurt Board appointed him, of course, but he has a low opinion of the Navy in general and the Fringe in particular. Not that he’s said so outright, but he’s from the Core, you can tell.” He looked to Alexis as though wondering if he should truly go on and seemed relieved when she nodded. “Very … modern. Seems more interested in talking than in fixing up injuries. Goes on and on about the workings of men’s minds, and … well, in the gunroom he’s constantly asking us about … well, our feelings, if you can believe it.”
“Oh …” Alexis had felt growing dismay as Villar had gone on. She’d rather liked most of the ship’s surgeons she’d dealt with. Even aboard Hermione, the surgeon, though a bit cowardly, had been a decent hand at patching up the crew, and what more could one ask, really? But what Villar described was quite a bit more like … “Oh, dear.”
HMS Nightingale (Alexis Carew Book 4) Page 3
