"I see, sir," Lewrie temporised. Too damn' right, he'd toe the line and walk small about his new captain. But defer to a junior officer? Not bloody likely. "Will that be all for now, sir?"
"Hmm, aye, I s'pose so."
"Then I will take my leave, sir," Lewrie announced, getting to his feet, and almost cracking his unwary skull open on the deck beam directly over his chair. "Bit out of practice," Alan shrugged, turning crimsonly abashed. "Civilian overheads, hey, sir?"
"Hmmmm." Braxton gave him a second, more searching appraisal. And frowned as if he didn't much care for what he saw.
Alan gained the quarterdeck, relishing the cool, brisk dampness of the winds upon his overheated face. He knew that captains in the Royal Navy came in a myriad of forms; and most of those… eccentric. But Braxton was a new form in his experience, and he was almost relieved to have escaped unscathed. So far.
What a cod's-head's error, he sighed to himself-conking myself addlepated on a deck beam! Like a raw, whipjack midshipman! Which thoughts made him wonder just how rusty (and treacly!) he really was after four years on half-pay. And what had ever possessed him to thirst for a sea commission. It was Lewrie's curse to be burdened with a touch more self-awareness and introspection than the run-of-the-mill Sea Officer. He knew his faults; they were legion. Predominant among them was a fear that he would be found wanting someday, that his swaggering reputation far exceeded the competence upon which such a tarry odour should be based. That he was a thinly disguised sham.
He glanced about the quarterdeck, the wheel, the guns and their tackles. He gazed aloft up the mizzenmast, naming things to himself, recalling the pestiferously quirky terms real seamen used. Braces, lifts, jears, clews, harbour gaskets, lubber's hole in the mizzen top, ratlines strung on the side-stays, and… and what the bloody hell were those?
Tensioning shrouds strung spider-taut from larboard to starboard stays below the mizzen top, they were… oh, Jesus! Uppers were called catharpins… lowers? Swifters! Right, swifters. There's a backstay outrigger… travellin' backstay? No, breast-backstay outrigger, there is the travellin' backstay… there, the standing.
Christ, what a dunce you are, you poxy clown! It'll come to me. It'll come, soon as I'm pitched in-I think. It had better.
He determined that, in the shank of his first evening aboard, he would, on the sly, swot up on his tarry, dog-eared copy of Falconer's Marine Dictionary. Along with the peculiarities of Captain Braxton's idiosyncratic Order Book.
"Excuse me, sir. You are our new first?" another intruded upon Alan's glum musings of disaster.
"Aye," he replied, happy for any distraction at that moment.
"Allow me to name myself, sir… Dimmock, sir. Nathan Dimmock," the other fellow informed him, doffing his hat in salute. "The sailing master. Your servant, sir."
"Lewrie. Alan Lewrie, sir," he responded with a like courtesy.
Dimmock was a sturdy fellow, bluff and square, just a bit shorter than Lewrie; soberly dressed in a plain blue frock coat, red waist-coat and blue breeches. Before he clapped his hat back on, Alan saw that he wore his hair quite short, barely over his ears on the sides, with a tiny queue in back.
"Well, Mister Dimmock, how do you find Cockerel, sir?" Lewrie asked him.
"An excellent ship, sir," Dimmock replied. "A most excellently crafted vessel, sir."
"Been aboard long, have you?"
"Five weeks, sir, my mates and I."
"So your department is prepared for sea, in all respects?"
"There are some charts I lack, Mister Lewrie, sir, but other than those, we are ready, aye."
"But not the entire ship, I take it?" Lewrie pressed, mystified by the stresses Dimmock put on his words. Dimmock all but grimaced, inclined his head towards the open skylights in the coach top, then began to mutter his answer. Lewrie got the hint. He put his hands in the small of his back, and paced slowly away forrud to the nettings overlooking the waist, for more privacy.
"If I may speak plain, sir?" Dimmock grimaced again, as if he were fearful that his words would come back to haunt him, even so.
"As long as you do not speak insolence, sir," Alan chid him in a grim tone. As first lieutenant, he must quash the first sign of any carping or backbiting against his captain, no matter what he thought personally.
"She's a queer ship, sir," Dimmock fretted, with a shake of his roundish head.
"A Jonah?" Lewrie stiffened. He'd heard of hard-luck vessels, with souls perverse as Harpies, where no sailor'd ever prospered.
"Oh, no, sir… no sign of thatl" Dimmock was quick to assure him. "I speak more of a certain… tension, more like. Listen, sir. Pause a moment and give her ear."
Lewrie peeked about, cocking his head to heed any odd sounds, half-expecting some eldritch screech or moan beyond the normal creak of timbers, irons and stays, of masts working with the soft, whispery groans of the damned. But, beyond the sough of the morning wind and the far-off piping mutters of taut rigging, he heard nought.
"Dead silence, sir," Dimmock hissed softly. "No shouting or chaffering. We're still in-Discipline, e'en so, but… a crew must make some sound, sir. But no. They're below, silent as a pack of whipped curs. And more'n a few already wearin' the bosun's 'chequer.' Hands on watch, hands below, they're ordered to maintain the 'Still.' A dead-silent ship's beyond my experience, sir. And a dead-silent ship's dev'lish queer."
"Not a mutiny plot, surely!" Lewrie scoffed, though he found Cockerel's silence almost belly-chillin' eerie himself. "Six weeks in commission? Hardly, Mister Dimmock!"
"I'll not be the one dare to call it mutinous, Mister Lewrie," Dimmock gloomed, shrugging deeper into his coat collar. "Though, do we drive 'em taut as we've done so far… tauter'n any ship I've ever been aboard, well. There is the possibility, someday, d'ye see, sir?"
"Captain Braxton informed me he's a taut-hand," Lewrie allowed.
"Oh, aye, sir," Dimmock sneered.
"Ahum!" Lewrie granted in warning. "I think we're stretching the bounds of proper discussion too far, Mister Dimmock. Hate him or love him, he is our captain. And he must be obeyed. Chearly. Most of all by his commission officers and warrants."
"And your impression of him, sir?"
"Mister Dimmock, what / think don't signify. Now, unless we've professional matters to discuss?" Lewrie shot back sternly.
"Well, then, sir," Dimmock coloured, huffing up as if stifling a belch. "You will excuse me. There's to be a flogging at five bells o' the forenoon, so I must go. You'll wish to get settled in. Speak to our illustrious second lieutenant, too. I'm mortal certain you've been bid do so? Mister Braxton?"
"Captain Braxton," Lewrie growled between clenched teeth. He had never heard the like from a professional officer. Not even from himself, and Lewrie could backbite and carp with the best of 'em.
"No, sir. Lieutenant Clement Braxton, I meant," Dimmock said, grinning sardonically. "Not Captain Howard Braxton."
"Nephew?" Lewrie frowned deeper.
"His son, sir," Dimmock said with all signs of great pleasure. "Damme, it really does become confusing. We've a Mister Midshipman Anthony Braxton. Now, I do believe he is a nephew. And then, there's Midshipman Dulwer. He's cousin to them all, somehow. And the captain's clerk, Mister Boutwell. Oh, it's quite the grand family outing, this frigate of ours, Mister Lewrie, sir!"
"Bloody Helll" Lewrie exclaimed cautiously, dropping the stern demeanour required of first lieutenants. "Any more under foot, Mister Dimmock? Mean t'say… how far may one carry nepotism? How many of the hands turned over with him? Any of the warrants?"
"Ah, now that's the queerest bit, sir," Dimmock sighed. "Captain Braxton's Indiaman? A war declared, soon as he drops the hook, guinea a man Joining Bounty, and all? And nary a hand, nary a mate from his past ships followed him to the Fleet, sir."
"Christ," Lewrie all but groaned. That was hellish queer, that a captain could not entice a single tar to serve under him. Even the hardest captains had some loyal to 'em! Even the fools did!
"Forgive me for speaking plain for the nonce, Mister Lewrie, sir," Dimmock gloomed. "And that's the last you'll hear from me, by way of insubordination. My word on't, sir. But I thought you had to know. There's good men aboard, afore the mast and in the wardroom. There's many as could be good men, given half a chance, and a dose o' 'firm-but-fair' whilst they're learning. But the captain is not the onliest aboard who's… 'taut-handed.' Runs in the family, so to speak. They're a hard lot, sir. Ask Lieutenant Mylett."
"Wish I could, sir," Lewrie shivered, though not with cold. "I was told… no matter. Mister Dimmock, well met, sir. You understand, I have to make my own way in this. Come to mine own conclusions, not… well, not take the word of the first senior warrant I meet. I mean no offence, sir."
"None taken, sir," Dimmock muttered back, glancing about to see if they had been witnessed talking together too long, in too covert a confidence. "I'll leave you to get squared away. At supper, though, tonight… I've a brace of French calvados. Apple brandy. Better'n any country applejack you ever swigged. My treat, to 'wet' you into the mess?"
"I should be delighted, Mister Dimmock, thankee."
"And, sir…?"
"Aye?"
"We all tread wary, and watch our tongues," Dimmock whispered, though he performed a hat-doffing salute and slight bow, with a smile on his phiz, as if he were imparting nothing peculiar. "It isn't the hands alone who find the 'Stih" the safest way."
"I will keep that in mind, Mister Dimmock. Later, sir." Lewrie nodded his head in dismissal, clapped his hands in the small of his back, and paced. He looked below into the waist, where a bosun's mate was braiding a cat-o'-nine-tails, and a sailmaker's assistant was sewing up a small red-baize bag. They looked up at him, as if trying to read his soul, then looked away hurriedly when caught under his gaze. The harbour and anchor watch-standers on deck stood their posts rigid as carved wooden soldiers, stiff-backed and mute.
Those men hi working parties, swaying up tuns and kegs on the midships hull skids, heaving away on stay tackles, performed their labours with mere, unisoned grunts, instead of a pulley-hauley chanty or fiddle tune.
Three midshipmen were scaling the rigging of the mainmast, up by the cross-trees, ready to go further aloft. They looked down at him, pausing in their vigorous exercise. Two, fearful; one with the air of a leery customer in a poor tradesman's shop, who'd seen better goods elsewhere. Lewrie matched gazes with him, unblinking, until the lad's face suffused and he returned to his instructive "play."
Wull, stop me! Alan thought; what the Devil've I got meself into this time!
He turned to the nearest gangway ladder, to descend to the waist and make his way below through the nearest hatchway to the wardroom.
Perversely, he began to whistle a gay country air Caroline had played an hundred times, if she'd played it once, on her flute. One he had taught her.
It was familiar to all hands, making a few smile timidly.
The lyrics were hellish vulgar.
Chapter 2
Whack!
The bosun's mate ran the braids of the cat-o'-nine-tails through his fingers to unravel them, drew back, took a deep breath, and delivered his next stroke. " 'Leven!" he grunted.
Landsman Preston shivered as with ague, vibrating to the lash of the cat, against the square-cut hatch grating to which he was tethered at wrists and ankles. The skin of his back crawled of its own, goose-pimpling as if to writhe away from the pain. There were red-hot weals diagonaled on his bare back, some broken open and beginning to seep a torrent of crimson tears which puddled in the small of his spine, down by the band of his slop-trousers-down by the leathern apron worn by men receiving punishment to protect their kidneys. Landsman Preston was gagged, too, with a leathern strop; something to bite on.
Preston flinched, hunching his flayed shoulders, as he heard Thorne, the burly bosun's mate, suck in his breath as he prepared to stroke again. In the awe-full silence he could be heard to groan.
Whack! Soggier, wetter, meatier, this time.
"Twelve!" Thorne barked, turning away to face the captain above, amidships of the quarter-deck nettings. "Doz'n d'liv-ered, sir!" And Captain Braxton nodded grim approval as he looked down into the waist, with his officers a solid blue wall of agreement behind him, and the Marine contingent, in their best red "lobster-back" coats, with their muskets at the Present at his feet, facing the ship's "people" forrud.
"Another bosun," Braxton snapped with a larboard leer to his lip.
Bosun's Mate Porter came forward, a younger, slimmer man, not as burly as Thorne. He took the cat-o'-nine-tails, knuckled a salute to the captain, and turned to lay on. Porter was a cack-handed man, so the dozen he'd administer would be crosswise to Thome's.
Porter shook the cat, shook his wrist to flex out any kinks. Shook the cat so blood already drawn wouldn't bind the strands with sticky sera. He took a deep breath, poised on the balls of his feet. Then, displeased with his placement, he took a half-step to his right, and faced a little away from the grating, to open his swinging room.
"B'oony henn!" Landsman Preston could be heard to say impatiently through his leather gag. "Gi' on 'i eet!"
Seamen drawn up by watch divisions shuffled their feet, swayed, and tittered uneasily. Landsman Preston was a game cock, at least!
"Silence on deck!" Braxton shouted. "Silence, the lot of you!" He turned a cold glare upon his first lieutenant, who should have been the first to cry for order. "Carry on!"
Porter shook his wrist once more, drew back, and swung.
"One!" he called in a shuddery voice. "One d'livered, sir!"
Then Two, then Three, in quick succession. Preston barely moved.
"Put yer back into it, bosun!" Braxton snarled. "Don't dust him! 'Tis punishment he deserves, and punishment he shall have."
"Aye, aye, sir. Sorry, sir." Bosun's Mate Porter reddened.
Whack! Much harder this time, Porter almost going arse-over-tit with the effort he put into it. Preston leapt like a touched deer.
"Four! Four d'livered, sir!"
"Ahhh," Landsman Preston moaned, leaning his head against the curved hatch grating which was bowsed upright to the larboard gangway. Perhaps he would not turn out game, after all.
Lewrie sneaked a glance at his Braxtons, father and son, captain and second lieutenant. Braxton the younger had brought Preston up on charges. He'd been owed "gulpers" from Ordinary Seaman Gold's daily rum ration, and Gold'd thought his gulp was more than a tad healthy, so they had snarled at each other. Some elbowing and shoving, a word or two more spoken in anger over the mind-numbing rum, which was the only escape from their misery, their precious elixir. Now both were to be lashed-four dozen apiece.
Had Lewrie his druthers, he'd have given Gold an extra dollop to make it up, then deprived them both for a week, with a harsh talking to. Four dozen, he thought excessive, too. Their first fight or trouble, no knives drawn, not even fists swung, really. And Midshipman Spendlove had been there cat-quick, to bark them apart, thrusting his skinny body of authority between them. But Lieutenant Braxton had been certain they'd laid hands on him, ignoring his orders, no matter how accidentally, and had demanded swift and condign punishment. And, as in every instance, Captain Braxton had been more than quick to agree.
Since Cockerel had sailed in mid-April as one of the escorting frigates with Vice-Admiral Philip Cosby's small squadron of two ninety-eight-gun 1st Rates, three seventy-four-gun 3rd Rates and two other frigates, there'd been men at the gratings almost daily-sometimes in twos and threes-and the call for "Hands Muster Aft to Witness Punishment" was now as routine to them as "Clear Decks and Up Spirits."
Lashes for fighting, as a new crew shook down. For Drunken on Watch, Asleep on Watch, Insubordination, Dumb Insolence… which meant they didn't understand a command, or hadn't sprung into action immediately. With more than half the crew complete novices at sea… well! Ignorance had become, it seemed, a punishable offence.
On the slow passage escorting the trade from Engla
nd, past French Biscay ports, where lurked privateers and swift frigates, they had beaten Cockerel's crew into a shambling semblance of discipline, had flogged or terrified raw lubbers into some sort of seamen. Sail drill, boat drill, gunnery drill… Lewrie had run every evolution of proper seamanship until they were a well-trained pack of sailors. Not a crew, though, he thought; that took a confident, shared spirit. And misery and pain were the only commonalities Cockerel's "people" had to share amongst themselves, so far. Oh, they could perform any task in the book, lately even to Captain Braxton's grudging satisfaction. But there was something vital missing. As if they were well-drilled puppets in a travelling Punch and Judy, a pack of wind-up German clockwork toys. But they weren't a crew.
Whack!
"Dozen!" Bosun Porter announced, sounding relieved a dirty task was complete. "Dozen d'livered, sir!"
"Very well. Cut 'im down."
"Jeezis!" Preston all but wept as his lashings parted. He almost sank to his knees, wobbly as a sickbed patient. But he waved off those who would assist him, and hobbled away toward the surgeon's mate and his waiting loblolly boys, who would escort him below to salve his hurts with sea-water and tar.
He hadn't wept, though it was a close-run thing, and he hadn't cried out. He was still a man grown, and his mates from the foremast of the larboard division could be heard whispering and muttering congratulation as he passed between their tightly ordered ranks.
"Eyes to your front!" Lewrie was forced to bark, feeling greasy as he did so. "Silence on deck."
He cut another glance at the captain, but that worthy was busy. Lieutenant Braxton met his gaze, however, and lifted one eyebrow.
"Ord'nary Seaman Gold!" the captain doomed.
The master-at-arms and ship's corporals led the next man to the gratings, which were being sluiced down with buckets of sea-water.
H.M.S. COCKEREL l-6 Page 10
