Men cleared their throats and coughed, shuffled their feet, and cut their eyes left or right; but they also nodded and gave voice to a grudging assent, with a chorus of “Aye, sir.”
“You new-comes”—Lewrie continued, allowing himself to smile again and shaking his head at them—“outright volunteers …’pressed … drug off drunk or bashed senseless.” He waited and heard moans or suppressed titters of bleak amusement from some at their predicament, a few louder guffaws from the true sailors at the plight of their new shipmates.
“For the Joining Bounty, or to serve your King and Country”—Lewrie sobered—“to clear off of trouble or to get out of gaol, I could care less either. There’s an old saw in the Fleet that says, ‘You shouldna joined if ya can’t take a joke.’ And, perhaps, now you have had a tiny taste o’ Navy life, you’re wondering what in God’s name you got yourselves into, hey? But … no matter where you came from, or where the Navy found you, you start with a clean slate too. Every man present—the others we’ll recruit or bring aboard in the coming weeks before we sail—will become … sailors,” he stressed. “Seamen … Royal Navy seamen. Oh yes, we’ll make sailors of you, you mark my words! Fighting sailors, who could look the Devil in the eye and tell him to go piss himself! Sailors who can swagger into any tavern the wide world ’round and be respected … no matter where you set out in life; no matter what you did before. You new-comes … is that a fair bargain for you then?”
Pathetic, really. Some of them purse-lipped and too proud, too shattered by their comedown; some so hangdog morose, who stared down at their feet so that it appeared they hadn’t heard a word he’d said; some cutty-eyed and cynical, all but ready to spit on the decks in sullen truculence at such a promise, when every promise made to them had been broken, time and again. Most, though, Lewrie was happy to see, did respond with a whipped puppy eagerness, wary but hopeful.
“And as we make you sailors … teach you the hard things which you have to know to serve this ship properly”—Lewrie promised them—“and I’ll tell you now; it’ll be hard learning; ships and the sea are the hardest task-mistresses of any calling, and we’ll not have time to be always gentle or as patient as you’d probably like … we’ll make you something even finer … we’ll make shipmates. Make you seamen … so proud of serving in Proteus … of being known as Proteuses”—or should we call ’em Proteans? he pondered, unable to resist the urge to stick his tongue firmly in his cheek—“that this strange new horde of names and faces will become as familiar to you—perhaps as close to you—as your own families. That’s bein’ shipmates. For each other, when no one else is. For each other, when things are bleakest. With each other in danger’s hour. Or with each other, in the good times. Shipmates. Sailors … and warriors. A fine calling to aspire to. No finer name, nor sentiment to admire. And we’ll do it together. Me … you new-come lads, and our experienced hands. Startin’ fresh … together. In this marvelous new ship of ours. Starting today. That’s all, for now. Mister Ludlow, dismiss the people and carry on.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Lieutenant Ludlow piped up in a gravely basso.
Lewrie turned his head to look at him, sensing something sardonic in his First Officer’s tone of voice; a weary amusement, from having heard such inspiriting “guff” once too often from a new captain, was it?
He was a man of about Lewrie’s age, or perhaps a year or two older; wide-shouldered and thickset, with a sea-browned, sea-whipped visage half gone to well-worn leather. His features were regular enough to be unremarkable, but for a sour, down-turned mouth, and a pervading stolidity of manner. As if he’d seen it all long before, heard it all, been there and back … .
Lewrie could pretty-well sense that Lt. Simon Ludlow would never be one of those shipmates he’d recall with much fondness in later years. Competent, humourless, perhaps a bit resentful to be serving a younger man? Or wary and guarded in their first days of association? ’Long as he did a thorough job though, it didn’t signify.
His other two lieutenants were a rosier prospect, as he got an introduction to them. Second Officer Anthony Langlie was in his midtwenties and, again, a fellow of regular-enough features to be unremarkable—the sort found in an hundred gunrooms in the Navy; about as tall as Lewrie was, long and lean and rangy, with romantically curly hair in the new-fangled style which had set half the London chick-a-biddies in a swoon; dark, curly hair; smallish brown eyes set rather far apart under a beetling brow. He was all affable and cheery though and seemed the type who’d retained a devil-may-care streak beneath his professionalism.
The Third Lieutenant, Lewis Wyman, was much younger, just about as “fresh-hatched” as Lewrie had deemed the ship and crew; for Proteus was his first ship as a Commission Officer. He was a gracious, puckish lad of twenty-one or twenty-two; fair-complected and ginger-haired, with blue eyes, and a “my goodness gracious” callowness about him, as if seeing the sea for the very first time. He was half a minnikin, at least three inches shorter than Lewrie’s five-foot-nine, and looked fair to being blown away like swan’s down by their first good gale. His handshake, though, was viselike, proper-calloused, and rope-toughened.
“Delighted to be here, sir … quite,” Lt. Wyman assured him as he bobbed and grinned, unabashedly cheerful.
Lewrie turned to the next fellow, his new Sailing Master.
“Mister Winwood, sir …” Ludlow supplied in a polit-ish rasp.
“Your servant, sir,” Winwood intoned carefully, doffing his hat to him. He was youngish for a Master, perhaps a bit beyond mid-thirties … primmer and of a soberer mien than most of Lewrie’s experience, with an accent more like squirearchy Kentish, Lewrie assumed at first hearing.
“Do we sail waters with which I’m unfamiliar, I’d expect it to be me, your servant, Mister Winwood,” Lewrie allowed with an easy grin.
“Oh.” Winwood took time to ponder, as if to remind himself that people did, now and then, make jests. “Of course, Captain. I see your point.”
“In falling down the Medway to the Nore of a certainy.” Lewrie nodded back. “Only done it the once … thankee, Jesus.”
Winwood seemed to wince a bit. At the blasphemy, Lewrie asked himself, or was it me blabbin’ how new-come I am? God, take hold o’ yer bloody errant tongue and act like a proper captain ought! Solemn, all-wise … and dyspeptic!
“We’ll see her safe, Captain, sir,” Winwood declared, devoutly earnest. “Rest assured of it.”
“With your able guidance, Mister Winwood, I harbour no qualms whatsoever,” Lewrie glibly replied more forthrightly and looking him straight in the eye. “The same able guidance you’d have given Captain Churchwell,” he added, hoping for an inkling into Proteus’s mystery.
“A sorrowful pity, sir.” Winwood nodded. “Him and his chaplain both. You’d not, uhm … pardon me for asking, sir, but … will you be carrying a chaplain on ship’s books as well?”
“Hadn’t planned on it, Mister Winwood,” Lewrie answered, keeping a straight face. “More room for ’em aboard a ship of the line.”
“Ah, I see, sir.” Winwood gloomed, sounding a bit crestfallen.
’Twas the blasphemy, Lewrie decided, as he turned away to greet another stranger; Hell, p’raps me soundin’ cunny-thumbed too. Has to be another o’ Churchwell’s sort … a proper Bible-thumper.
“Leftenant Devereux, sir,” Ludlow supplied, putting stress to the “Lef-,” as the Army and Marines pronounced it. “In charge of our marine contingent.” And once more sounding almost taunting with that slight oddity of stress. It obviously irked Devereux, for that young officer suffered a tic in one cheek as he was introduced.
“First Lef-tenant Blase Devereux, Captain Lewrie, sir,” that immaculate worthy added, as he doffed his hat. “M’sergeant, Skipwith, down yonder. Corp’rals O’Neil—he’s the one puddin’-faced brawler from Limerick, sir; Plympton, sir, our Devonian. Full complement of Marines, sir … forty privates all told,” Devereux offered, with a stiff-backed professional air, though still manag
ing to sound miffed. He was in his late-twenties, as elegant and lint-less a paragon of marine “spit-and-polish” as any. A gentleman, Lewrie decided at once, with a private income in addition to his pay. And a grudge ’gainst Ludlow?
“Lieutenant Devereux, sir,” Lewrie said, with a faint smile on his face and offering his hand. “Don’t mind your Marines gettin’ yer hands dirty now and again, do you, sir?”
“Uhm … in what manner, sir?” Devereux blinked, suspicious of common pulley-hauley duties. The enforced separation between sailors and Marines, put aboard to guard against mutiny and disorders, was an ever touchy subject; the marine complement’s disdain for ship-work was not to be violated—or the two communities allowed to mingle too freely.
“I’ve found aboard my previous ships, sir, that the Marines were some of the best shots with the carriage-guns,” Lewrie told him. “Did we fight short-handed, sir, I’d admire did the Marines practice at artillery drill. The quarterdeck carronades, 6-pounders, swivels … ?”
“Uhm, well … of course, sir,” Devereux cautiously allowed, not finding any traps in such usage. They’d not have to mix with the crew in the waist on the 12-pounder great-guns, be allowed to trod a sacred quarterdeck … . “A most sensible suggestion, sir.”
“And I thank you for your cooperation, sir.” Lewrie beamed.
“Purser, sir … Mister Coote,” Ludlow rumbled.
“Your humble servant, sir,” Proteus’s “Nip-Cheese” stated, all agreeable and welcoming. Coote was a man in his forties, togged out in a plain blue coat and breeches, with a red waist-coat, and an unadorned black cocked hat. He seemed very anxious to please. Given Lewrie’s long suspicion of “pussers,” he wondered what sins that anxiety covered.
“Pleased t’make your acquaintance, Mister Coote,” Lewrie said. “I wonder, though, sir …”
Rock him back on his heels right off, Lewrie told himself; works wonders, do they think you’re onto ’em from the very first.
“The hands, Mister Coote.” Lewrie frowned, all but making “tsk-tsk” cluckings. “Your slop-clothing is not aboard yet, is it? That’s why the new-comes are still in filthy civilian rags?”
“Why, nossir!” Coote gawped back, looking as if he wished he’d be able to wring his paws in distress. “No orders to release anything yet, Captain Lewrie. The First Lieutenant said to …”
“Told him to wait, sir,” Ludlow snapped, “’til the new captain had come aboard. Might not’ve cared for Captain Churchwell’s choices, sir. Hammocks and such’ve been issued, but we were waiting to see how you wished ’em dressed, sir.”
“And you now have aboard, Mister Coote … ?” Lewrie prompted his purser. Damme, it sounds a reasonable decision after all, he thought. Some captains had odd preferences for their men’s appearance. There was no regulated uniform for people “before the mast” yet.
“Red chequered calico shirts, sir,” Coote informed him, with a wary glance towards Ludlow. “White duck trousers, blue duck … blue round jackets, black tarred hats, sir …”
“Issue blue slop-trousers then,” Lewrie decided quickly. “A single pair o’ white for Sunday Divisions. Two pair o’ blue for sea-duty. Shows less dirt and tar, and they won’t be spending half their ‘Rope-Yarn Sundays’ tryin’ to scrub the white’uns clean.”
“Aye, sir.” Coote brightened. “And, sir, save on soap issue too. Trying to do their washing with salt water? Or a wee bucket of fresh, now and then?”
A pint a man, per day, for cleanliness—that was what was allowed for shaving, bathing (did any of them actually believe in such an activity!), or scrubbing.
“Exactly, Mister Coote,” Lewrie chuckled. “Neckerchiefs? Oh, see what you may do ’bout finding some red’uns … for a distinguishing splash o’ colour. Black hats … all of a piece, mind. So the people are as much alike in dress as we can make ’em, right from the first. A blue round jacket per man too. Brass buttons for rated men.”
“I’ve black horn buttons for the rest, sir!” Coote enthused.
“Very well, then, Mister Coote, see to it,” Lewrie ordered him. “And, Mister Ludlow, rig the wash-deck pumps and make sure the people are sluiced clean o’ vermin an’ such … have you not already? As the slop-clothing is issued.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Ludlow agreed. Or at least it sounded as if he agreed; grudgingly, did he, though?
Then Lewrie met the ship’s Surgeon, a Mr. Thomas Shirley, a gangly fellow in his mid-twenties, and his Surgeon’s Mates; one was named Hodson, even younger and greener than Shirley, little better (he himself admitted) than an apothecary, in training as it were. Mr. Durant, though, was much older and boasted more experience. Had he been English-born, he might have held Shirley’s berth. But Mr. Durant was emigré French. Landed like a gaffed fish on a strange shore, he’d wheedled a position from the Sick & Hurt Board after two years of effort, the only way he had in a leery England to support his family, he sketched out for Lewrie’s information, after trying the charity hospitals and private practice.
“You escaped, sir?”
“From Toulon, Capitaine,” Durant admitted. “Quel tragique …”
“Ah, I was there. Aye, it was, sir,” Lewrie gloomed along with him. “We left at the same time, I should think. Night before … ?”
“Oui, Capitaine. An’ I know of you,” Durant said. “What you did for so many Royalists you sail away from zere. Merci, Capitaine. I promise you grateful service, oui!”
“I count on it, sir,” Lewrie replied.
“You’ll be going to your cabins now, sir?” Ludlow supposed. “Get settled in, sir?”
“No.” Lewrie frowned. “Might as well make the acquaintance of as many warrants as I can. Have the Bosun, his mate, the Master Gunner … the department heads, gather in the waist, Mister Ludlow.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Ludlow answered, sounding aggrieved? Lewrie had to think, again. What was the man’s problem? Bit more o’ that, and I will really give him a problem t’fret over!
So while Andrews, Padgett, and Aspinall turned-to aft to erect his furnishings and possessions in the great-cabins, Lewrie descended to the gun-deck, admiring his lovely new artillery pieces. A crowd of older hands gathered ’round him. The Bosun was a Mr. Arthur Pendarves, a hawkbilled, sere fellow from Cornwall, who looked as if he’d spent most of his life squinting at wind and weather. As did his mate, Mr. Towpenny, a shorter, spritelier version from Bristol. Mr. Handcocks, the Master Gunner, a tall, lean, and balding fellow in his middle forties; and his mate, Mr. Morley, who was, again, younger. Mr. Garraway, their Carpenter; Mr. Reyne, the Sailmaker; Offley, the Armourer; the Yeomen of the Sheets, who served on the sail-trimming gangways, Betts and Robbins; the Yeoman of The Powder, who served in the magazine; a man named Kever, who looked as pasty as if he hadn’t left the magazine since his teens; the three Quartermasters: Motte, Austen, and O’Leary; Hickey, a young apprentice Sailmaker’s Mate; a whole slew of Quarter Gunners—Proteus was rated a full eight petty-officer gunners; Dowe, O’Hare, and Magee, who were the Quartermaster’s Mates on the helm; the gloomy Mr. Neale, who was their Master At Arms and had probably been born gloomy; and a brace of Ship’s Corporals—Burton and Ragster. And, of course, they all made the lame jape that that poor fellow was “Ragster-riches”!
Nugent and Shoemake, the Master’s Mates, Nugent being another Irishman. Lewrie was beginning to notice that they had more than their fair share of hands aboard from that unhappy and rebellious isle! And finally, the midshipmen—all bloody six of them.
There were the young’uns—Midshipmen Elwes and Nicholas, both about fourteen or fifteen and seemingly sweet-natured and a tad shy. There was a Midshipman Sevier, who looked to be around eighteen, the sort who would bob and choke on even polite conversation. A slightly older, and very quick-witted, Mr. Adair, but, being a Scot, and well-educated in comparison to his English contemporaries, he would seem to be witty; a Mr. Catterall, who was now twenty-one, a blond-haired wag Lewrie could deduce at once—he was most notably fro
m Lancs, for all his local accent; and finally, Mr. Midshipman Peacham, a tad older in his mid-twenties, a very tarry customer, but one unfortunate in “interest” or patronage so far. He was curtly polite, horny-handed; the type of senior midshipman Lewrie thought he could depend on from his first impression. Peacham looked the perfect image of a real tarpaulin man, of the most knowledgeable sort, and overdue for a lieutenancy.
He shared a few words with them all, taking over an hour or more to do so. Though he doubted he’d be able to recall all those names by 4:00 A.M. when they rose to scrub decks and begin the ship’s day, he was of the opinion that making the effort to reach out was the main thing. Not so chearly with them as to be taken for a “Popularity Jack,” but it never hurt to try and size people up and make them realise that he was not a tacit, tyrannical Tartar either.
“Well, gentlemen …” He shrugged at last. “I hope you will not take it to heart if I have to ask your names again over the next week. Too long aboard a smaller ship, where after a time one’d wish to see just one unfamiliar face. Until the morrow. Oh, Mister Pendarves?”
“Aye, sir,” the Bosun replied, perking up, yet looking guarded.
“Once the hands have eat tomorrow, we’ll look her over,” Lewrie warned him. “Keel to trucks, and me in my worst slop-clothing. Then you may tell me what you lack, before we fall downriver.”
“Well, sir … hands for work’d be my mainest plaint, sir,” Mr. Pendarves told him bluntly. “Recruit or press more hands, sir. We are in fair shape for stores and such, else. A tad light on rations … keep her draught light for the trip to the Nore, sir, where we’ll stock, at Sheerness.”
King's Captain Page 16
