For nearly a month more, Ariadne heaved and tugged at her anchor while the business of commissioning continued. Warrants were put aboard by the various Navy Boards, powder and shot came aboard to be stowed below, sewn up into cartridge bags. The holds were filled with new casks for fresh water, barrels of salt-pork and salt-beef, barrels of rum, tobacco, purser's supplies, slop clothing, large bags of ship's biscuit, galley implements, muskets, cutlasses, boarding pikes, miles more of cordage for spare anchor and towing lines, standing rigging and running rigging-all the needs of a ship of war that would allow her to be free of the land for months at a time. More hands were recruited, most willingly, but some gathered in by the press-gangs and allotted to the vessels in harbor in need of men, a few at a time.
For Alan, it was a time of learning. He was not going to be allowed ashore, and the ship had no amusements other than reading, so he read, mostly his Falconer's. And if the descriptions seemed vague or made no sense, then he found practical examples in the ship.
He learned the names of the sails and masts, how they and their yards were raised and lowered. He found out what most of the running rigging did, tracing lines from pin rails to blocks to where they were terminated aloft. He prowled the length of the ship, plumbing secrets of cable tiers, carpenter's walks, bread rooms, spirit rooms, where the surgeon plied his trade, where the firewood was kept. He learned a bit about how Ariadne was constructed from the carpenter. He learned how to actually sleep in a hammock at night, and how to wrap it up in the required seven turns so it would be snug enough to pass through the ring measure each morning and be stowed along the nettings on the bulwarks. He also learned how to tell if one of his mess mates had taken liberties with how it was slung; one fall had been enough, as well as one good blow on the ears that had left Shirke sneezing.
Ellison, the sailing master, loaned him a book on trigonometry so he could get a head start on solving navigational problems, at the least learning how to handle the numbers obtained from the daily sights they'd take once at sea.
It was indeed fortunate that he had not joined a ship ready to go to sea. Safe in harbor, or fairly so, and with none of the daily activity of working the ship to be done in his first few weeks, he had a chance to pick up enough knowledge without killing himself in the process. And he was spared most of the officers' disgust with an ignorant newly-officers did not stand harbor watches except to supervise loading and storing, and what drills or exercises were ordered.
Alan was fortunate, too, that Keith Ashburn was deputized to be his unofficial mentor, since they were both London boys and had come from a station above the usual squirearchy.
When they were not working for the purser, the bosun, the saiIrnaker, carpenter, cooper (and to be honest, the work was either clerical or merely standing around appearing like they knew what they were doing), Ashburn delighted in his duties as guide, for it kept them out of trouble from senior warrants who detested the sight of a midshipman with idle hands.
Not that Ashburn didn't have a cruel streak, himself.
"You're going aloft, Lewrie," Ashburn told him, leaping for the mainmast chains. ’CouId we not wait until tomorrow?" Alan asked, looking up at the incredible height of the mast. It was one thing to stand on deck and follow lines to understand their use. He was hoping that midshipmen would stay on deck and supervise, or something. ’Up you go." Ashburn wore a shark's expression.
The first part wasn't so bad, going up the ratlines of the larboard mainmast shrouds, for they were angled in toward the maintop; not much worse than the ladders down to the holds. It was at the mast that it got frightening, where the shrouds crossed to either side of the top. Marines might get to go inside the crisscrossing and proceed through the lubber's hole to the top platform-real sailors had to grab hold of the shrouds that were now over their heads and angled out to the edge of the top, actually hang on with fingers and toes, and scramble up the outside angle before gaining the top platform. ’Well, that was exciting," Alan said after getting his breath back. "Nice view. We can go down now, right?’
‘Up." Ashburn laughed.
The next set of shrouds were much narrower and set closer together, and they did not lead to another platform where there was much room to stand, but to the small cap and trestle-trees that supported the topmast. Ashburn thrust an arm between the topmast and the halyards and stood on the cap, while Alan gripped the mast with both arms and held on for dear life. It seemed a tenifying distance down to that very substantial deck, far below. And the ship was still moving, and the masts swayed a considerable distance with each slow roll, heave and pitch, plus the snubbing jerk as she tugged at her anchor. And the mast seemed to hum and vibrate on its own in the steady wind. Alan's heart was thudding away in his chest and his limbs felt cold. There was a tingling emptiness in the pit of his stomach, but not in his bladder, and he knew that if he did not get down from that precarious position, he was going to fall and kill himself, or piss his breeches. ’Now we'll lay out on the t'gallant yard!" Ashburn shouted to be heard over the wind. "Do what I do!" Ashburn reached up and scrambled like a monkey onto the small crosswise yard that rested on the cap, and rapidly went out to the end of it. "Oh God, you have to be joshing me," Alan said, feeling sick at the very idea. ’Be a man, for God's sake, Lewrie! Come on!" The yard seemed like a toothpick. "To hell with your nautical humbug, I can't-’
‘Can't? No such word in the Navy, Lewrie. I promise you you'll spend half your life in the rigging. Might as well learn now.’
’I would very much like to go down.’
’And what do you think Mister Swift would do with anyone who had no courage… refused to go aloft because he was frightened?" Ashburn asked, swarming back to the mast, and Lewrie's shaky perch on the cross-trees. "Dis-roting, three dozen lashes, put forward with the common robble! There'll be some dark night when it's blowing a full gale and you don't want to go. They'll drive you aloft and the best thing you can do then is jump and die, because if you don't have bottom, every hand'll be turned against you! Or they could just hang you for refusing to obey a direct order-’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘He was a carpenter's mate, not a sailor," Ashburn said. ’Now listen to me… grab hold of that yard, use the harbor gaskets to hold on to. Put your feet on the footrope. Now lean into the yard and hook your elbows over it. Whatever you do, don't lean back. Now come out here.’
Alan was panting now. There was not enough air in the whole wide world to fill his lungs. But he did as he was told, and slowly, painfully, trembling like a whipped puppy, he crabbed his way out to the end of the yard, until it was no longer the ship he would strike if he fell, but the harbor. He was one hundred and twenty feet up, with nothing but ocean below his feet.
There he stayed for long minutes. The footrope was not all that bad, if he hooked the heels of his shoes along it, and if he kept leaning forward. ’How do you work up here?" he asked with only one eye open, and that directed at Ashburn, not down. Anywhere but down! "One hand for yourself and one for the ship," Ashburn singsonged. "The trick is to reach over the yard, keep your arms or elbows across it. Even with a full crew, work aloft is like church work, it goes slow. No one but a fool would rush things if it's blowing hard.’
’Can we go down now?’
‘Take a look around," Ashburn suggested. ’Jesus!’
‘Have to climb higher for that. Look around. You can see down-Channel fairly well today. And there's a lovely frigate beating down past us.’
There was the Isle of Wight, the grey waters of the Solent, the harbor mole and the old forts, and the Channel beyond. There was a frigate, taking advantage of a favorable slant of wind to make her way west down-Channel, her sails laid as close to the wind as she could bear and well heeled over. ’Are you well?’
‘Just thumping wonderful, thank you very much for asking…" Alan sneered. ’That's my bully buck. We'll make a sailor of you yet. ’
‘Mine arse on a band-box!’
‘Got to set your mind to it or you won't get on in the Navy. Not just reading about it, but doing it, like this. Turning into a real tarpaulin man.’
’Like Chapman?" Lewrie asked sarcastically. ’Well, Chapman," Ashburn said. "There's a blank page for you. He's failed the exam twice now. A good sailor but sharp as an anvil. I expect he'll always be a midshipman.’
’Can one do that? I mean, that would be awful-’
‘You're an educated type, Lewrie. You're miles ahead of most of us, you know. Social skills, good tutors. Can't expect eight-year-olds to come aboard as a captain's servant and learn much more tOOn the sea. Think how you and I shall stand out when we become officers.’
’What about Rolston?" Lewrie asked. He had been plagued by the little bastard, showing off his skills and knowledge, finding subtle ways when they were working together to belittle Alan's small contributions, or toady to the officers and warrants and shine at Lewrie's expense. ’Now that's a real Welsh mile, he is! I feel sorry for whatever crew gets him as a post-captain. Well, let's go down. ’
‘Thank God.. ‘. ’Make your way back to the mast without killing yourself, and we'll go down one of the backstays.’
’Why can't we just climb back down the way we came up?’
‘Not seamanly. You'll have to cross your legs over the stay and let yourself down hand over hand.’
’You keep finding new ways to scare hell out of me. ’
‘If! beat you down to the deck I'll make you climb back up here and do it allover again.’
Lewrie was closest to the mast, so he reached a backstay first, but took a moment to decide how to proceed. With a death grip, he had seized the stay, levered himself out into the open air, flipped a leg around the rope and cocked it behind his knee. It was then that he discovered that standing rigging is coated with tar, which can be slippery. He could not hang on, and he could not remain in one place. Even with both legs about the stay, he was sliding slowly down, gaining speed as he went! There was nothing to do but try to go down hand over hand, but in a moment he was moving too fast to brake his descent with his hands, which were burning on the hemp rope. With some heartfelt (and very English) words of pain and terror, he screeched his way down to crash feet first onto the quarterdeck and tumble in a heap, his hands on fire. ’On your feet there, young sir," Captain Bales said angrily. "I will teach you that I will have no blaspheming in my ship. Bosun's Mate? Half dozen of your best for Mister Lewrie. At once, sir!" Alan Lewrie finally met the gunner's daughter, bent over a quarterdeck nine-pounder and slashed on the buttocks by a Bosun's Mate with a stiffened rope "starter." Once chastised, Bales ordered him aloft again, to climb each mast in succession and layout on each topsail yard in turn until Bales was satisfied with his progress. And Bales had a great deal of patience in watching him.
"Mister Lewrie," Turner, one of the master's mates, called to him as he paced along the starboard gangway above the waist, one damp and dreary afternoon. ’Aye, Mister Turner.’
’Captain Osmonde 'ere wants a boat ter go ashore an' fetch out cabin stores fer the wardroom. Yer it," Turner told him, standing rat-scruffy next to the elegantly uniformed Marine officer. ’Me, sir?" They hadn't allowed him outboard since he had joined, and he knew nothing about boats. ’O' course, yew, sir, now git wif it.’
’Here is the list, Mister Lewrie," Osmonde said, handing him a sheet of paper. "The particular chandler's name is on this bill, and his place of business. Be sure and get a receipt.’
’Aye aye, sir.’
Now, how do I do this? he wondered, turning away. The duty bosun's mate has charge of the boats. I'll try him… Lewrie hustled up Ream, a husky young man, explained what was needed, and a boat's crew was there in a twinkling, scrambling down the side to an eight-oared cutter tied below the main chains. Alan went through the gate and lowered himself down the ladder to stumble into the boat and make his way aft to the tiller. The crew sat waiting for him to say something, but for the life of him, he could not think of what the proper order was.
Well, we can't go on staring at each other like this. "Let's… shove off, then," he said, and the bowman undid the painter and fended them off from the ship's side with his boat hook.
So far, so good, he told himself shakily; now we need these oars in the water. "Out oars," he said with a confidence he did not feel.
Eight men lowered their blades into the water and shipped them to the rowlocks, then sat looking dumbly obedient for the next command. ’Give way… er… starboard.’
Sounds as good as any, he thought.
The oarsmen paused for a short moment, took the opportunity to look at each other, and then the four starboard oarsmen dug in for a stroke. Naturally, under their thrust, the boat swung back alongside Ariadne and nuzzled her timbers with a series of bumps, much like a piglet would prod her sow for a teat. ’God strike me blind, but you're hopeless," came a strangled wail from the quarterdeck. "Oh, stop that," Alan said, waving at the starboard oarsmen. ’Shove off again. Give way… over here!" Someone in the boat began to snigger, choking on a laugh that could cost him a dozen lashes if he was not careful. The boat made it away from Ariadne's side this time. She also continued to circle to the right until she was pointing back at the ship. ’Today, you clown!" came a shout from above. ’Just what does he expect, Jason and the bloody Argonauts?" Lewrie muttered under his breath. Two more oarsmen began to laugh. I couldn't look any more stupid if I sank the damned thing. "I'm open to suggestions," he said with a sheepish grin. ’Easy all, sor," the closest oarsman whispered. ’Easy all," Lewrie parroted aloud. ’Tiller, sor," the other closest man muttered. "Center it up.’
He took hold of the heavy tiller bar and laid his arm along it, lining it up in the direction of the bows. ’Ah, yes. Now… give way all," Lewrie said, remembering those instructions that Rolston had used weeks before.
The two closest hands winked at him and began to set the pace for the stroke. The boat began to pick up speed, lifting and rising through a slight chop, with a pleasing sort of surge forward each time they dug in with the oars.
He was headed in the general direction of the shore, but there was one slight problem; from water level, he hadn't a clue where he was going, and nothing looked remotely familiar. He was lost. ’Anyone from Portsmouth here?" he asked. ’I am… sir," one of the forward men said between strokes. "I am looking for a certain chandler's named Kenner Sons. Do we have to land at the fleet landing and walk, or is there an easier way?’
‘Pale… brick place… sir. There's a… red n' white gig by it right now… sir," the man said. Lewrie found the distinctive gig and gingerly turned the tiller, first the wrong way, then back to the other side of a few degrees, which brought them in a gently curving path towards the particular landing where they needed to go.
Here, that's not so tricky, after all! he marveled. Now when we get there, we don't want to go this fast, so I should tell them to… ease the stroke, I guess. Easy all stops' em. Now what do you say to get 'em sticking up? God, I can't remember and I don't think my Falconer's mentioned it. You're just supposed to know…
As they approached, he told them to ease the stroke, and the speed fell off. The bowman stood up with his boat hook ready. They had to come alongside the stone wharf sideways, Lewrie knew, but how he was going to do it was beyond him. He steered directly for the dock until the bowman began to cough alarmingly, and he took it as a cue to throw the tiller over. ’Toss yer oars," the bowman called, and all eight oars were unshipped and raised aloft as one, Lewrie realized he was sitting on the stem mooring line, and he raised up and dug it out from under his bottom, but neglected the tiller, and the boat swung away from the dock, and the bowman almost went overboard trying in vain to hook onto something solid. On the second try, he caught a ringbolt and pulled the cutter's bow in close enough so that Lewrie couId grab hold of another ringbolt and pass the line through it. He made a hash of his knot, but he had arrived. ’Boat yer oars," the bowman ordered softly, and down went the blades, to be stored alongside the gunwales. "Thalt never make a sailor-man," a toothless oldster on the dock said with a tubercular cackle. ’Go to the devil, why don't you? Is this Kenner Sons?’
‘Aye, so it be, young 'un.’
’You come with me," Lewrie said, indicating his starboard stroke oar. "Who is senior man? Keep an eye on 'em, bowman." He scrambled to the dock and entered the chandler's shop. He found a clerk, presented the list, and began the task of having his men carry the cabin stores to the waiting cutter, noticing he was mostly ferrying wine for the officers to drink. It gave him a thirst for something himself. The only drinks available in Ariadne were rum, Miss Taylor, a thin and acrid white wine, Black Strap, a thin and acrid red, and small beer, which at least stayed fresh longer than the water. What he wanted was a good ale, a stout English ale foaming in a pint mug. There was a keg behind the counter of the chandler's, and a row of wooden mugs. Why not? "Here, let me have a pint of ale. How much?’
‘Penny a pint, sir," the counterman said and Lewrie flipped a coin out to jingle on the counter. He got his mug and started to lift it to his lips when he saw stroke oar staring at him with a short look of disgust.
Hell, they did get me here, he thought; and they've been at hard work loading those cases. "Here, man. A pint for every hand," Lewrie said, slapping down a shilling. "Thankee, sir, thankee right kindly," the bowman said for all of them as they began to guzzle and sigh with pleasure. "Nothin' like a good wet afore rowin' back to the ship, sir." They were halfway into the boat after finishing their drinks before Alan realized that they were a man short. ’Who's missing?’
‘Uh… Harrison, sir," the bowman said sheepishly. " 'E must be takin' a piss, sir. Not run. ’
‘Hell he is," Alan decided in a panic, "you stay here and keep your eye on the rest of the hands. You, come with me, and we'll search for him." Lewrie and his stroke oar began to dart about the dock and the storage areas. There were a million places to hide among all the barrels and crates, a thousand ways out of the dock area into the town. How could he have let him slip away? And how much hell would he catch if he went back a man short? They had warned him; the men were signed on for at least three years of commission with only rare spells of freedom, and it was common for men to payoff one ship and go right into another with no chance to see wives and families. When in port, it was safer to let wives and children come out to the ship and live on the man's rations and pay until the ship was placed back in full discipline. Let them go ashore and it was good odds they'd run inland as fast as their legs would carry them. Once into "long clothing" beyond the immediate reach of the watch and Impress Service, and they were lost to the Aeet. Most desertions came from new crews in home ports; they had told him to be vigilant. ’There, sir," stroke oar said, pointing to an area behind the chandlery. Lewrie saw his quarry, a youngish man in a brass buttoned short jacket, hugging a thin and poorly clad young woman. One dirt child clung to her skirts, and she held another still in swaddling clothes. ’ Harrison," Lewrie snapped. ’Comin', zurr," the man replied sadly, letting go his woman. "Coming? So is Christmas!" Alan scoffed. ’ 'E weren't n:m. zurr," the woman said, fearful for her man. "Juss wanted ta see 'is babbies, zurr.’
’Why didn't you come out to the ship, then?’
‘Ah didn' have no money, zurr," Harrison told him. "Ah had no way ta have 'em come out ta the ship. ’
‘It been a year they been wi' out their daddy, zurr. Just a few minute more?" Harrison 's wife pleaded. "We have to go. Harrison, go back to the boat with this mana’
‘Aye aye, zurr," Harrison said. giving his wife one last quick kiss and patting the dirty little boy on the head. The oldest child was wailing, and Lewrie wanted to get away from the damned noise. He turned to follow his men, but the girl took him by the arm. ’ 'Tis a hard service what never pays a man but in scrip, zurr, an' that two years behind, if 'e's lucky. Bum boat men an' jobbers give 'alf what the scrip's worth. Don't 'ave 'im flogged, please, zurr.’
’Well…" Lewrie managed, embarrassed by her tears. "Anythin' ta keep 'im from bein' flogged, zurr.’
By God, she's a pretty thing under all that dirt. ’IT ya don't tell on 'im, I'd… I'd…" She shuddered, pointed to a building across the alley that was obviously cheap lodgings.
God, even I'm not that low, he told himself. Well, maybe I am, I'm a Willoughby. No, I have to go back to the ship now. ’I'll not make a habit of this," Lewrie said, digging into his breeches and fetching out coins. He gave her two half -crown pieces and watched her eyes go wide in astonishment. "You get some food for these children and pretty yourself up, and come out to the Ariadne. And I won't say anything to anyone, if you won't. Can't have the hands thinking I'm a soft touch, can I?’
‘God bless ye forever, zurr, ye're a true Christian!’
‘Er… right," he said, and trotted away from her.
Once in the boat he glared at Harrison. "Just' cause I sported you a pint is no reason to think you can take a piss on my time behind a crate, Harrison, or I'll have you up on a charge. ’
‘Aye, zurr," Harrison said, nodding his relief. ’Out and toss your oars. Shove off, bowman. Ship your oars.
Give way starboard… backwater, larboard. Easy all. Now give way all. Row, damn your eyes!" He arrived back at Ariadne in much better fashion than when he had left, coming alongside gently and issuing the correct commands at the right time, so that they hooked on and tied up properly. He arrived on deck very proud of himself, but no one took the slightest note of his improved performance. He organized a party to hoist the stores up from the boat on his own initiative, and saw them delivered below to the wardroom, just in time to meet Mister Swift. ’Lewrie, where the hell have you been?’
‘Mister Turner had me take a boat ashore and fetch wardroom stores, sir," he said, proud of his accomplishment. "And what took you so damned long?’
‘Well, after the boat was loaded we had a pint of ale, sir. ’
‘You stopped and had a pint of ale? You let the hands purchase drink, sir?’
‘I… uh… treated, sir.’
’And what if Ariadne were ordered to sea and we had to wait for you and nine hands to finish your little drink? Have you no sense?’
‘I am sorry, sir."… Damned if you do and damned if you don't. I'm out money and not a speck of credit for getting there and back without drowning 'em all! If he's mad about me being late, I should have gone ahead and bulled that skinny wench while I had the chance… ’My word. you're a brainless booby," Swift said. "Your only concern is what the Navy wants, not what you want. You'll have to do better than this in future if you wish to be a Sea Officer.’
’Aye aye, sir.’
’Now go below. No, stay a moment. From now on you're on rowing duties. Good practice for you. And I'll time you from the moment you shove off until the second you return, and God help you if I see you skylarking ashore, got that?" More hands came aboard. calf-headed innocents who had been gotten at recruiting rendezvous at various taverns, where an officer and several reliable hands had bragged about Ariadne and all the prize money she would take. More came aboard from the Impress Service, willing and eager volunteers for the security of the Navy, even merchant sailors seeking better food and less work in the overmanned fighting ships; though the pay was less, they would not be cheated by a bad master.
Many more came from the tenders as volunteers, or from debtors' prison, fleeing small debts and giving tops'l payment with the Joining Bounty, men snagged by the courts for various crimes, but which were crimes against property, not crimes of violence. Lewrie soon lost all sympathy for them, since no one had any to spare for him. If I'm here then it's their tough luck to be here, too. Should have run faster.
They came aboard in ragpicker's finery cast off from the great houses, perhaps even stolen from their masters. They came from shops and stores and weavers' lofts still trying to play the upright apprentice or freeman. They came in country togs from the estates where the owners no longer needed field hands, or from the villages that had been wiped out by enclosure of public lands. They came with the prison stink and the farm stink on them, or dredged up from the cities' gutters. Up to the first lieutenant to sign or make their marks, then out of their clothes to shiver under the wash deck pumps, and the decks ran with the accumulated grit they carried aboard on their skins. Deloused, perhaps for the first time in months, and then, chicken-white and pimply, down to the gun deck with their slop clothing, where they got sorted out into "hands." They would, the bulk of them, serve guns in battle, haul on braces to angle the sails, tail on the jears to raise the yards, tail on the halyards to make sail, and be the human engines to shift cargo, so that Ariadne would live. The younger ones would be cabin servants and stewards, or be trained as topmen who went aloft to fight canvas.
As Ariadne approached something like her full complement, Bales decided the time had come for sail drill and gunnery exercises. Alan knew a little, which was reams more than most of the new hands knew, so he found himself leading men about the deck like tame bears, so they would know where to stand when ordered, what rope or sheet to seize when needed, what part of the deck they would scrub.
Lewrie saw what Captain Bales had meant when he had told him they could make sailors out of any material they laid their hands on; slowly the crew began to fathom what was required of them. Slowly, he began to do the same, going aloft when top and t' gallant masts were struck and re-hoisted, sails were shaken out and drawn down, then reefed over and over again until the exercise was no longer a complete shambles.
With the ship back in full discipline, and with her company hard at work, the officers were out in force once more, and though Ariadne had fourteen of her required sixteen midshipmen, he felt that he was the only name anyone knew when it came to extra duties, or something especially filthy to do.
Now he sat at the mess table in the cockpit. He had a navigation problem due to Mister Ellison in the next Forenoon, but his mind refused to function. He had been up since four in the morning, and it was now six in the evening. Supper was on its way from the galley,. and he slumped over a hot mug of flip, wondering if he would be able to stay awake long enough to eat. ’Let's playa game after supper," Bascombe suggested. "Let's build a galley." "Let's not, unless you're the figurehead, Bascombe," Alan said wearily. "Heard of that one, have you?" Alan had fallen for most of the usual pranks. He had been sent up on deck to listen to the dogfish bark; that cost Bascombe a sore shoulder. He had been sent to fetch a Marine private named Cheeks, and had dashed about the ship "passing the word for Private Cheeks" until Ream had told him it was a butt-fucker's insult, and got even the Marines mad. He had not gone to fetch gooseberries from the foretop, or some of the other dumb japes midshipmen played on each other. He had heard of "building a galley" and had asked Lieutenant Kenyon about it; it involved one boy being the contractor and the rest being the boat, linking arms in an oval to make the sides, their feet together to be a keel. The one named the figurehead leaned forward until the contractor demanded that he wanted a gilt figurehead, at which point the mark was given a dash of shit in the face with a brush, and everyone else ran for their lives. ’Gun drill tomorrow," Shirke said, sipping his drink. ’Surely we should be doing more of that.’
’Don't we work enough already?" Alan groaned. ’'Cause we've got people listed for the guns that don't know a cap square from a cascabel, and what do we do if we run into a French line-of-battle ship going down-Channel?" Bascombe asked. ’A cap square," Alan laughed. "Is that something you wear? ‘
‘I'd like to see you wear one," Bascombe snapped. "Speaking of Country Harrys who can't even steer a damned cutter. ’
‘Hark that from our best bargee," Alan shot back. "The great sailor, Tom Turdman. Learned his trade at Dung Wharf!’
‘I'll thrash you for that," Bascombe shouted, leaping across the mess table. Lewrie sprang to meet him and the brawl was on. With the others cheering (and the senior warrants of their mess absent), it was a wrestling match just to work off tension and excess energy, only half-serious. ’Here, you spilled my brandy, you lout!’
‘Ow, fight fair, you bastard!’
‘Kick 'im in the nutmegs, Lewrie!" Shirke cheered. "I'll take a shilling on Harvey.’
’Done!" Ashburn said, putting aside his book.
Until Lewrie noticed that he had hold of a silk shirt as he grappled with Bascombe. Bascombe was from a poor family; his kit was of middling quality, and it most definitely did not run to silk shirts. ’Wait a minute! Where the hell did you get silk, Bascombe?’
‘Chapman gave it to me," Bascombe lied, knowing the fight was about to become serious. In their mess, things were borrowed back and forth to make a presentable showing on deck in front of the officers, but they were mostly asked for, not taken. ’Chapman doesn't have one, and he doesn't look toot stupid!" Lewrie said. "Have you been in my things?’
‘Me? Why should I dig in your rag box?’
‘Because you're a ragpicker, Bascombe. Now take it off and put it back where you got it.’
’I'll not, it's mine-’
‘Hell, it's yours, you parish waif, now have it off!" Bascombe took a serious swing at Lewrie and caught him on the side of the head. Alan shot a fist straight into his face and bloodied Bascombe's lips and nose, dropping the other boy to the deck. ’Damn you!" Bascombe wiped blood from his face on the shirt sleeve, got to his feet and ripped his waistcoat off, then the shirt, balled it up and threw it at Lewrie. "Here's your damned shirt, I hope you choke on it.’
’You'll hand it back to me clean, or I'll make it a gift. If the blood won't come out, then ~u'll have exactly one silk shirt-’
‘ 'Ere now, 'ere now," said Finnegan, one of the master's mates, as he came into the compartment. "Christ, wot a pack of yowlin' ram-cats; Mister Bascombe, I see summun tapped yer claret. N' nice Mister Lewrie alookin' like Goodyer's Pig'never well but when in mischief.' Wot is it, then, summat seryuss enough fer the captain, er does it stop' ere?’
‘Just a little wrestling match for a glass of flip, Mister FInnegan," Ashburn said. "Got out of hand.’
’Rip, ya say? I'll take a measure. Now let's git this cockpit stright fer eatin'," Finnegan ordered, knowing exactly what had happened, but relieved that he did not have to report it, which would reflect on his ability to supervise the midshipmen.
Alan tossed Bascombe the shirt with a sly smile and watched as Bascombe dashed out of the compartment to fetch some seawater to stanch his nose and lips. ’You really know how to make friends, Lewrie," Ashburn said in a low voice after they had sat down away from the others. ’He took that shirt from my chest, didn't he? He'll not have my blessings to take what he wants, when he wants.’
’But you don't have to rub his nose in it," Ashburn replied. "There's no harm in him, he just had to look good to attend the Captain's gig this afternoon. I'd have loaned him one but all mine were dirty.’
’He could have asked.’
’He doesn't know you well enough to ask. Besides, your usual answer to sharing is 'no,''' Ashburn said. "My family could buy up yours a dozen times over, most like, but that don't make me as purse-proud as you! You haven't gone shares on anything in the mess yet.’
’It's still stealing," Alan insisted, blushing red. ’Not stealing… borrowing.’
’Aye, if the hands 'borrow,' they get flogged for it, but if we do, it's Christian charity," Alan said sarcastically. ’For your information, Harvey 's the son of a country parson. I doubt he's got two shillings to rub together and no hope of more. His father probably makes less than thirty pounds per annum. ‘
‘Shit," Alan said. "I didn't know. But what's mine is mine. I have to protect it. I don't have enough to keep a gentleman in the first place and my family won't part with another pence for me, not if it was for a coffin. Let's say the splendor of my kit was a very firm goodbye.’
’Just be civilized. Lewrie. You'll get by with us a lot better. Now Bascombe's going to get his own back on you and I don't know what he'll do, but it won't be hurtful… much. Don't take it to heart. We don't need a Scottish feud down here.’
’Damn you, Ashburn," Alan muttered. "You always find a way to make me feel like such a low bastard.. ‘. ’That's because you are. Mind now, I like you, Lewrie, I really do. You're a ruthless, uncivilized young swine, and I doubt you'll ever be buried a bishop, but you're an interesting person anyway. You'll go far in the Navy. Like me.’
Supper was decent, since they were still close to shore and had the opportunity to send for fresh meat and vegetables. And when Ashburn raised the suggestion that they go shares on some cabin stores, Alan did offer to help out, so they would have some drinkable wine and some livestock of their own in the forecastle manger to delay the day when they would have to live totally on issue salt-meats.
Before Lights Out at 9:00 P.M. Lewrie took some bum fodder in his hand and made a postprandial journey to the heads up by the beakhead under the jib-boom. At sea the heads would be scoured continually by the sea, but in harbor no waves reached high enough to relieve the odors, or remove their source. At least at sea, there would be no Marine sentry standing over him to prevent desertions over the bow, as one now patrolled in port.
He returned to the cold orlop deck that was buried in darkness, for after Lights Out, no glims could burn except where permitted by the ship's corporals. He found his hammock by touch, slipped out of his clothes and rolled in, drawing the blanket over him gratefully. ’Oh my God," he muttered, feeling the cold and sticky semifluid substance against his legs and buttocks. "They've shat in my hammock!" He raised a hand to his nose, expecting the worst, and detected a sweet odor tinged with sulfur. "My hammock is full of molasses." From the darkness came a furtive snigger. ’Bascombe, I swear to God I'll murder you," he shouted into the dark, bringing snorts of laughter from the others, and shouts from the senior warrants to shut up and let them sleep.