Their last moming had dawned grey and miserable with a fine, misty rain that swelled the running rigging until it would have difficulty passing through the blocks and sheaves. But the wind had come around to the northwest, and Ariadne was in all respects ready for the sea. The ship was still about twenty-five men short of full complement but that could not be helped in wartime. Captain Bales evidently did not have private funds for recruiting at taverns, or for paying the crimps to deliver warm bodies with all their working parts in order who would wake and discover they were in the Fleet. He must have heaved a great sigh of relief that he was in shape to sail at all, for if a captain could not gather enough men to crew his ship out of harbor, he could lose his commission (and his full pay) and some other captain would be given a chance, while the failure went on the beach at half-pay, there to remain for the rest of his natural life. Those men he had gathered had been pummeled into some semblance of a crew, through fire drills, sail drills, gunnery exercises and the like.
Alan had been disappointed that he had not been given a chance for a final run ashore. If the awful day had indeed arrived when he cut his last ties to the land, he at least wanted to remember it with a stupendous farewell, but it was not to be. The boats had been hoisted inboard and stored upside down on the boat-tier beams that spanned the center waist of the upper gun deck, so there was no excuse to be used for a last quart of ale, a last dinner or a last rattle. ’Anchor's hove short, sir," Lieutenant Church, their feisty little third lieutenant, called from the bows. "Up and down." "Get the ship underway, Mister Swift," Captain Bales said, looking like a hung-over mastiff in the dawn light. ’Hands aloft and loose tops'ls. Stand by to hoist fores'ls.’
Lewrie joined a mob of topmen as they sprang for the shrouds and swarmed up the ratlines for the mizzen top. He was no longer dead with fear about going aloft; merely scared stiff.
Off came the harbor gaskets. Hands tailed on the jears, hoisting the yards to their full erect positions on the masts. Others tailed on the sheets to draw down the sails as they were freed, while more men stood by the braces to angle the sails to the wind as they began to draw air and fill with pressure.
There was a difference aloft. The masts were vibrating even more, the freed canvas was flapping and booming as the wind found it like a continual peal of thunder, rattling the yards and jerking them into an unpredictable motion that was like to shake hands out of the masts like autumn leaves. Then, as the topsails began to draw, the yards tilted as the ship paid off heavily to the wind, swinging through great arcs that brought cries of alarm from the newest hands, and made Lewrie moan in sheer terror as he tried to find his balance as footropes and secure holds began to slide from beneath him. The footrope he was on on the mizzen topsail yard was down at a forty-five degree angle, and new men were skittering it until it almost tucked under the yard in their panic. Senior topmen cursed them into stillness before they all tumbled to the deck.
But the topsail was set, and no one was calling for the royals yet, so Lewrie could look forward and upward to the other masts to see hands working calmly, could look down to the huge capstan head on the upper gun deck, where a hundred men at the least trundled about in a small circle on the bars, and the clank of pawls filled the air, while on the forecastle, the strongest hands in the crew were walking away with the halyards for the stays ']s and jibs, while others of their kind drew on the sheets to bring control of the jibs, laid out almost level to the deck as they strained their great muscles to gain every inch of rope aft to the belaying pins.
Ariadne was no longer sailing sideways from the wind after paying off from her head-to-wind anchorage, but beginning to make steerage way for the harbor mouth; she had changed from a helpless pile of oak and pine and iron to a ship. Admittedly, her crew's efforts must have raised some cruel amusement from more fortunate captains and officers, but she was under control, and unless taken suddenly aback from a capricious shift of wind, would make her way out of Portsmouth and past the Isle of Wight into the Channel without mishap. For a new crew made up of mostly landsmen, it was the best to be expected. ’Aloft there on the mizzen, set the spanker.’
Back to the mast at the crosstrees, then straight down the mast to the spanker gaff. Experienced topmen walked out the footropes to free the big driver, which was furled on the gaff and would hang loose-footed to the boom that swept over the taffrail. Lewrie had to join them and lie on his belly over the gaff. By this time, his immaculate white waistcoat, working rig trousers and jacket cuffs were turning a pale tan from the linseed oil of the spars and streaked with the tar of standing rigging, even beginning to smell like rancid cooking fat and pick up grey stains from the galley slush skimmed off boiling meat that was used to coat the running rigging. It was almost impossible for a midshipman to stay clean and presentable on a ship, and he knew he'd have the hide off his harnmockman if the stains would not come out.
Finally, they were called down to the deck, with Ariadne fully underway and clumping along like a wooden clog down the Channel coast. Lewrie mopped his face with a handkerchief and made his way to the starboard gangway to watch England drift by. It did not look as if any more would be demanded of him for a while, and he now had time to take note of his hunger pangs, and the soreness of his muscles from being so tense aloft. His hands were aching from the climb down a backstay, and were red from unused exertion, but beginning to toughen up. He could rub them together and feel the difference in them from a month before. He looked about him and took note that the ship was now organized-the monumental clutter and confusion of braces, halyards, sheets, clew lines and jears were coiled or flaked into order.
The anchors were catted down up forward, the stinking anchor lines were stored away below in the cable tiers to drip their harbor filth into the bilges, wafting a dead-fish tidal smell down the deck. Except for the watch, the hands had been dismissed below. Those with touchy stomachs were being dragged to the leeward rails to "cast their accounts" into the Channel, and those that could not wait were being ordered to clean up their spew. He thought about going below out of the brisk wind and misty, cold rain, but the idea of hundreds of men who at that moment resembled "Death's head on a mopstick" down on the lower gun deck, and were being ill in platoons, dissuaded him. He was dizzy from the motion of the ship, a lift and twist to larboard, a plunge that brought spray sluicing up over the forward bulkhead, and a jerky roll upright that did not bring the deck level. ’Mister Swift, I'll have a first reef in the courses," Captain Bales said. Seconds later all hands were called, but the mizzenmast had no lower course, merely a cro'jack yard to lend power to the braces and hold the clews of the mizzen tops'l down, so he could sit this one out. He went aft to the quarterdeck and stood by the larboard rail with the afterguard should he be needed to trim the braces. He could see Ashburn standing with the first lieutenant, pleased as punch to be underway, who turned and gave him a wink when Swift was too busy to notice. Lewrie became fascinated watching the water cream bone white down the leeward side, just feet away from him with the ship at a good angle of heel. The hull groaned and creaked as before, but now Ariadne also made a continual hiss as she turned the ocean to foam, and made an irregular surf roar as she met an oncoming wave.
There were ships coming up-Channel in a steady stream with the wind on their quarters, and Alan had to admit they made a brave sight to see, heeled over and rocking slowly, and he wondered if Ariadne made much the same picture to them. "Lewrie, quit skylarking and keep your eyes inboard," Lieutenant Harm snapped at him as he headed for the ladder down to the waist. Harm was making good on his promise to keep a chary eye on him, and being such a surly Anglo-Irish bog trotter, was eager to find any fault in him. ’Aye aye, sir," Lewrie answered brightly. Cheerfulness seemed to upset Lieutenant Harm very much, so Lewrie made it a point to be as happy and eager as possible around him. ’Mister Lewrie?" Lieutenant Swift called, "Come here. ’
‘Aye aye, sir?" Lewrie doffed his hat. ’I watched you on the mizzen. You did that right manfully enough, and you're too old to be wasted on the mizzenmast. See me in my quarters and I'll move you on the watch lists and quarter bills. I think we'll move one of the new lads to your place and you may serve on the mainmast.’
’Aye aye, sir." He secretly dreaded that, for the mainmast was much taller, had longer and heavier yards, carried the main course and the largest tops'l, was the place where studding booms had to be rigged in light airs, and meant a quantum leap in work. The mizzen was manned by the oldest topmen, or the very newest and clumsiest, the nearly ruptured and the ones with foreheads as big as a hen. Some elevenor twelve-yearold sneak was going to get a soft touch, and he was going to work his young ass off. Still, it did have advantages. He would no longer be in Lieutenant Harm's division or watch, but would get to serve under Lieutenant Kenyon, the second officer, who was considered much fairer and so much more polite. Lewrie went forward to the base of the mainmast, where Kenyon and a bosun's mate were chatting and pointing at something aloft. And when Alan told him of the transfer he welcomed him to the starboard watch most pleasantly. ’Very glad to have you with us, Mister Lewrie," Kenyon said. "Though I am sure you realize that much more work is involved. Still, I can use such a well-set-up young fellow like yourself.’
’Aye, Mister Kenyon. And I may learn the faster," Alan answered, thinking that it never hurt to piss down a superior's back. Actually, he would be working much the same duties in any watch or subdivision on deck or aloft, for the watches rotated equally each four hours, using the much shorter Dog Watches in late afternoon to make sure that the same men did not have to work two nights running, and everyone turned up at 4:00 A.M. to begin the ship's working day, washing and scraping decks and standing dawn Quarters, so there wasn't much to choose, really. ’Well said, Mister Lewrie. We shall make a tarpaulin sailor of you yet, though the bosun despairs of your ropework. You are not seasick yet?" ‘Well… no, sir," Alan replied, realizing with a shock that he wasn't. He was clumsy as a new-foaled colt on the tilting deck, and he staggered from one handhold to another, but the ship's motion did not affect him overly. All he had in his stomach was a raging hunger.
How disgusting, he thought; I'm getting used to this! "When do I make the changeover, sir, from one watch to the other? ‘
‘Ship's day begins at noon, at the taking of the sights for our positions," Kenyon said. "I'd suggest you go see Lieutenant Swift as soon as he's had his breakfast. Then show up for the Second Dog Watch.’
’Aye aye, sir.’
’Oh, by the way, Mister Lewrie," Kenyon said, calling him back with a drawling voice. "We have a man missing from my division. He has run. Went out a gunport last night, probably. There's a rumor he was smuggled money and some street clothing. Heard anything about it?’
‘Who was it, sir?" Lewrie said, having a sneaking suspicion of exactly who it was, and where the money had come from. "Harrison, one of my main topmen. Had a wife and family in the port, so I'm told. ’
‘He was in one of my boat crews, sir. Had to hunt him down about two weeks ago, but he swore he was only taking a piss behind some crates and barrels," Alan carefully replied. "Hmm, that was after you had stood the boat crew to a pint?’
‘Uh, yes, sir, I did see a woman with two children but I didn't connect them with him. ’
‘Well, you weren't to know. What I regret is that he was no green hand, but a prime topman. He's probably halfway inland by now. There are some hands in this ship you can trust with your life and your sister's honor, and you'll find out who they are quick enough. There are also some men I wouldn't approach with a loaded pistol. Since you'll be closer to them than I, it is up to you to discover the shirkers and the ones who work chearly.’
’Aye, sir.’
’You can't treat them all like scum, Mister Lewrie, though they are halfway scum when we first get them. Neither can you be soft on 'em. Someday, you may have to order a great many men not only to do something dangerous, but maybe tell a whole crew to go die for you," Kenyon went on at some length. "I do not expect my midshipmen to be popular with the men, nor do I wish them to be little tyrants, either. The men respect a taut hand. a man who's firm but fair, and it man who's consistent in his punishments and his praise, and in the standards he calls for. Don't court favor; don't drive them all snarling for your blood. If you are so eager to learn the faster, as you put it, there are good lessons to be had from the older hands. I suggest you find them.’
’Aye aye, sir," Lewrie said with a hearty affirmative shake of his head, though he regarded it much like a lecture from a travelling Italian surgeon who might see salubrious benefits for mankind in the cholera. ’Now be off with you. I can hear the wolf in your stomach in full cry, Mister Lewrie. ’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Ariadne butted her way through the Channel chop until she was out past Land's End. and began to work hard in the great rollers of the unfettered Atlantic, and up into the Irish Sea to meet her duty.
It was not blockade work for her; that was for the largest 3rd Rates that mounted more guns. Since Ariadne was much older and lighter armed. her lot was convoy duties. She met her first convoy off the Bristol Channel; forty or so merchant vessels under guard by Ariadne and a 4th Rate fifty-gun cruiser named Dauntless, and if she was anything to go by, it was going to be devilish miserable work:; Dauntless was sanded down to the bare wood on her bows, and her sides as high as the upper gun deck ports were stained with salt, and her heavy weather suit of sails was a chessboard of patches of older tan and new white.
After getting the convoy into a semblance of order, Ariadne took the stem position and let Dauntless lead out past Ireland for New York: in the Americas. The weather was blowing half a gale when they began, and the bottom fell out of the glass within forty-eight hours. Ariadne rode like an overloaded cutter, pitching bow high, then plunging with her stem cocked up in the air, rolling her guts out and shipping cold water over the gangways by the ton. The hatches were battened down and belowdecks became a frowsty, reeking hell where it was impossible to get away from several nauseous stinks, impossible to cook a hot meal, impossible to sit down in safety, impossible to get warm or, once having been soaked right through on deck, to find a speck of dry clothing for days on end. Even in a hammock, one was slung about so roughly it was impossible to relax enough to really sleep. Gunnery exercises were cancelled, and sail drill became sail-saving, as lines parted, sails were tom or simply burst in the middle and flogged themselves to ribbons of flax or heavy cotton. With new rigging, it was a constant war to keep the tension necessary to support the masts as new rope stretched.
A watch could not pass without all hands being summoned to reef in or totally brail up the sails, cut away those that had blown out and manhandle new ones aloft and lash them to the yards and their controlling ropes. ’I want to die," Alan kept repeating to himself as the afternoon wore on on their tenth day of passage. He was soaked to the skin, half-frozen, and his tarred canvas tarpaulin was turning into a stiff suit of waterlogged armor that he swore weighed twenty pounds more than when he had put it on. He had not eaten in three days and had lived on rum heated over a candle. He honestly could not have choked anything down that could possibly scratch on the way back up. ’I hate this ship," he screamed into the wind, sure he could not be heard over the howling roar. "I hate this Navy, I hate the ocean. And I hate you, too. Rolston.. ‘.
Rolston stood nearby at the quarterdeck nettings, looking down at the upper gun deck, a slight smile on his cocky face. "You love this shitten life, don't you, you little bastard?" Only the wind heard him. The ship gave a more pronounced heave as a following wave smashed into the transom, rolled heavily to larboard, and Alan dropped to the deck, his feet ripped from beneath him. He slid like a hog on ice along the deck that ran with water until he fetched up against coiled gun tackle and thumped his shoulder into a gun-truck wheel. ’Goddarnn it," he howled, looking straight at Captain Bales by the wheel binnacle. Bales nodded at him with a vague expression, not knowing what the hell he had said. ’Resting?" Lieutenant Swift boomed near to him.
'''No, sir," he shouted back, hoping Swift hadn't been close enough to hear what he had said, though a full flogging could not hurt much worse than being bounced around like this. "Then get on yer feet," Swift barked in a voice that could have carried forward in a full hurricane. Alan scrambled to obey and clung to the nearest pin rail, trying to rub his shoulder where he had smacked it. ’Go forward and check on the lashings on the boat tier," Swift ordered. "Aye aye, sir," he screamed back, inches from the officer's nose. "Bosun's Mate!" The duty bosun's mate, Ream, could not hear a word he said, so he took advantage of the ship's roll upright to dash over to him and cling to the man as the ship rolled to larboard once more and threatened to take him back where he had started.
''Come with me," he yelled into the man's cupped ear. "Boat tiers!" Alan muttered curses at everything in general all the way along the starboard gangway, clinging to anything that looked substantial. Ream fetched a couple of hands along the way, and Alan took notice that Ream and both hands were also moving their lips in a canticle of woe and anger, probably directed at Alan, but he could have cared less at that point.
They reached the thick timbers that spanned the waist of the upper gun deck between the gangways and stood studying the lashings on the stored boats that were nestled fore-and-aft on the massive beams. ’Chafing," Ream shouted into each ear, pointing at the ropes that were wearing away slowly before their eyes each time the ship did a particularly violent roll and pitch. "Tell the first lieutenant. " Alan made his way back aft, getting freshly drenched in waves of spume and spray until he could stagger to the mizzen weather chains, where Swift stood, one arm hooked through the shrouds. ’Chafing, sir," he shouted. ’Rolston!" Swift bellowed. "All hands' on deck!" Rolston's mouth moved but no sounds were to be heard as he relayed the message, and in moments men began to boil up from below and muster on the upper gun deck below them. "Rolston, take windward with Mister Kenyon," Swift ordered. "And, Mister Lewrie, go to looard with Mister Church. Oakum pads and baggy-wrinkle on old lines, and new lashings doubled up.’
’Aye, sir," Alan replied, knuckling his forehead. Shit, new words again. Baggy-wrinkle? Sounds like my scrotum about now.
He went forward with their little third officer and tried to explain what was desired to each man, but Church simply roared out one command, and everyone fell to with a sense of purpose that left Alan standing about. ’Go keep an eye on 'em," Church barked, shoving Alan toward the boat-tiers. He realized that he would have to scramble out onto the timbers to the upturned boats, and that timber could-not be more than two feet wide and deep, with absolutely no safety line of any kind.
He took a deep breath, waited until the ship rolled about as much upright as she was going to, and ran out onto one of the timbers. The ship slammed her bows into a wave as the stem lifted once more, the beakhead buried in foam, and she lurched as if she had been punched right in the mouth. The beam seemed to dance out from beneath him, but Alan was close enough to fling himself forward and grab onto one of the lashings that stood out from the nearest craft, the jolly-boat. One leg dangled into the waist, but he had made it by the merest whisker.
He scrambled up on top of the jolly-boat with the help of one of the older hands and clung to her keel with a death grip. The man smiled back at him, teeth gleaming white as foam in his face.
Don't tell me this cretin enjoys this, Alan thought… "New lashin's first, er baggy-wrinkle; sir?" The man asked, coming close enough to carry the smell of his body.
Alan clung tight as Ariadne rolled once more to larboard. He felt more than heard the grating as more than two tons of wooden boat shifted against the tiers to the leeward side-the boat he was sitting on. ’New lashings!" he decided quickly, bobbing his head nervously. "Aye aye," the man yelled, then scrambled over to the next boat, with a grace that Alan could only envy, and shout something to the rest of his party, then hopped back over to Alan. "How do we do it?" Alan asked when the wind gusted a little softer than normal. "I'm not too proud to ask.’
’Stap me if I know, sir, thought you did.’
And that's the last time I am not too proud to ask, Alan promised himself as the man beamed his stupidity at him. Alan bent over as far as he dared and studied the existing lashings, the way they threaded under the beams, crossed under like a laced-up corset and crossed over the boats. "Give me a… bight on the forward timber," Alan shouted. "Then make sure it's wrapped snug in oakum or old canvas. Take it up and over the boat, under this beam we're on, and on aft… then back forward, like… well, like a woman's bodice is tied up, see? Double lashings this time.’
’Aye aye, sir.’
Ship work on a heaving deck or shaky spar was, as Ashburn had prophesied, much like church work; it went damned slow. Alan inspected each point where the new ropes could rub on wood and had them padded and wrapped. He thumped on each bight until satisfied that they were as taut as belaying pins so there would be no play after they were finished. Lieutenant Church made his way out to him and gave him an encouraging grin, squatting on one of the boat-tiers.
Once his men had gotten the idea, Alan swung his way over to thecentermost boats, the massive cutter and barge, to watch from another vantage point. He was feeling very pleased with himself, in spite of being wet as a drowned rat and aching in places where he hadn't thought one could ache. ’Being useful?" Rolston shouted into his face, taunting him. "Yes, damn yer eyes," Alan shot back, and was disappointed that he had to repeat himself to be understood. His throat was almost raw with the effort of making himself heard. ’Church tell you to do that?" Rolston shouted back. ’Do what?’
‘Rig new lashings before padding the old… that's wrong. ’
‘What if the old ones part before you have new ones on?’
‘They won't part," Rolston shrieked into his nose. But he didn't look as confident as he had earlier, which prompted Alan to look at what his hands were doing. Rolston's team was applying a single lashing without any padding or baggywrinkling, and were loosening the frayed lashings to pad them. "Then what the hell are we doing out here?" Alan demanded. "Did Kenyon tell you to do it that way?" Rolston looked away.
Alan made his way farther to starboard over the barge to the captain's brightly painted and gilt-trimmed gig, which was being lashed down in much the fashion that Alan had thought correct, providing him with a tingle of satisfaction. He waved to Lieutenant Kenyon, who clambered out to join him. But once out there Kenyon took one look at the way the two heaviest boats were being treated and frowned. ’Rolston, you young fool," he shouted. "Leave those lashings be!’
‘Sir?" Rolston cringed, not able to believe he had done wrong. At that moment Shirke came from aft to request some topmen to go aloft and secure a comer of the mizzen tops'l that had blown out her leeward leach line. Alan looked at Rolston, gave him a large smile, then went back to his own hands, who were busily doing things all seamanlike. He climbed over the keel of the biggest and heaviest boat, the barge, and was about to traverse the short distance to the jolly boat when he felt the barge shift underneath him. A frayed lashing gave way and came snaking over past his head with the force of a coach whip. It struck the jolly-boat and cracked like a gunshot, leaving a mark in the paint. ’Jump for it," he yelled, wondering if he could do the same. There followed a series of groans and gunshots as other lashings parted under the tremendous weight they had restrained, and he was on a slide along the timbers toward the jolly-boat as the barge came free.
One of his men had been sitting on the boat -tier between the two boats. He turned to look at the weight that was about to smear him like a cockroach between a boot and a floor, and screamed wordlessly. Alan leaped over him, one foot touching the man's posterior, and flung himself across the keel of the jolly-boat. The man grabbed at him and hauled away, which pulled Alan down off the keel and down the rain-slick bottom of the upturned boat. Using Alan as a ladder, he got out of the way and disappeared over the far side.
The ship now rolled back upright for a moment, snubbed as her bow dug deep into a wave, and came up like a seal blowing foam. The barge shifted back to the starboard side, making a funereal drumming boom against the cutter.
Rolston came over the top of the barge to check for damage as Alan hoisted himself out of harm's way, just in time to meet Lieutenant Church and the panicked working party. The ship tucked her stem into the air once more, rolled to larboard, and Rolston fell between the barge and the jolly-boat. He was face-down on the boat-tier as"the barge began to slide down on him, a leg dangling on either side of the thick beam. Wonderful, Alan thought inanely; I'm about to see a human meat patty and it couldn't happen to a nicer person… Then, without really thinking or calculating the risk, he planted his feet on the boat-tier, leaped forward and grabbed Rolston as he flung himself off the tier to drop to the upper gun deck, which was about eight feet below them. He had the satisfaction of landing on Rolston, who landed on a thick coil of cordage at the foot of the mainmast. Overhead, the barge slammed into the jolly-boat to the sound of splintering timber. Now why in hell did I do that? he wondered, trying to get his lungs to work again after taking an elbow in the pit of his stomach. For a moment he thought he was dying, until with a spasm his lungs began to function again and he could suck in fresh air. As for Rolston, he was stretched out like a dead man, but Alan could see his chest heaving. ’Merciful God, are you alright, young sir?" Lieutenant Roth asked him, kneeling down by both of them. ’I believe so, sir," Alan said, trying to sit up, which was about all he thought he could manage at the moment. Roth hoisted Rolston up in his arms and slapped him a couple of times, which cheered Alan a bit. In fact he wished that he could do that to Rolston himself! Rolston rolled his eyes and groaned loudly, trying to shrink away from that hard palm. "Stupid gits," Lieutenant Kenyon shouted down from above. ’Get your miserable arse up here. Now. ’
‘Aye, sir," Alan shouted back, thinking it was a summons for him, as usual. ’Both of you," Kenyon added.
Lieutenant Swift and the captain were there on the gangway by the time they had ascended to that level by the forecastle ladders and gone aft to join the officers. "Silly cack-handed, cunny-thumbed whip-jack of a sailor you are, sir," Swift howled, spitting saliva into the wind in his fury. "A canting-crew imitation tar would know better than that. There's a jolly-boat stove in and the barge damaged as well because of you.’
’Sony, sir," Alan said along with Rolston. ’Oh, not you, Lewrie, at least not this once; it's Rolston I'm talking to." Swift's face was turning red as a turkey cock's wattles. "Get back to wode, Mister Lewrie.’
’Oh, aye aye, sir," said a surprised Alan, not on the carpet for the first time since he had joined Ariadne. ’If it wasn't for Lewrie you'd be pressed flat as a flounder, and good riddance to bad rubbish…" Swift was going on as Alan scrambled back across the boat-tiers to leeward, out of earshot.
I should have let him get mashed, damme if I shouldn't have, Alan thought. But now I've done something right for a change, and somebody else is getting grief.
An hour later, they finished lashing down the boats and by then the watch had changed. Alan went down to the lower gun deck and sniffed at the odors of sickness and bodies. Even as bad as the weather was topside, he almost contemplated going back on deck rather than stand the atmosphere down here, but he peeled off the sodden tarpaulin and began to work his way through the swinging hammocks toward the after-ladders to the orlop. He passed the junior midshipmen's mess, where there was a single glim burning. The master gunner Mr. Tencher had a stone bottle by his elbow on the table, secured by fiddles, and was humming to himself. ’Lewrie," he whispered, not wanting to wake up his sleeping berth mates. "Want a wet?’
‘God, yes, Mister Tencher, sir," Alan croaked in gratitude. He seated himself on a chest and locked his elbows into place on the table so he wouldn't slide about. The gummy wetness of his clothing that had been soaked in salt-water for hours almost glued him to the dry wood. ’Cider-And, boy," Tencher promised, pouring him a battered tin mug full of something alcoholic-smelling. "And what, Mister Tencher?" Alan asked, sniffing at it as it was handed over to him. ’Good Blue Ruin, Holland gin." Tencher laughed softly, his leathery face crinkling. In the fitful light of the glim he looked as if he had tar and gunpowder pennanently ground into his wrinkles. "God in Heaven," Alan choked after a sip. He had ordered Cider-And in country inns and had usually gotten rum or mulled wine as the additive. Plus, he was never partial to gin, but he took another sip, grateful for the hot flush in his innards. ’Hear ya done somethin' right tonight, Mister Lewrie.’
’It was nice not to be caned or shouted at for a change, Mister Tencher," Alan said, tears coming to his eyes from the fumes of the gin. ’No gunner's daughter fer you, eh?’
‘Until tomorrow." Alan gave Tencher the ghost of a smile.
The man had run him ragged, trying to pound the art of handling artillery into him, and had had him caned more than once when he didn't have the right answer. He could not feel exactly comfortable with Tencher but he meant to be civil if the man was going to trot out free drink. ’Rolston should owe you a tot fer saving his life, ya know," Tencher said. filling his own mug again and taking a deep quaff. ’Well, we shall see," Alan said, forcing himself to choke down the rest of the mug. He knew that if he made it to his hammock without passing out he was going to be a lot luckier than he had any right to be. "Thankee kindly, Mister Tencher, that was potent stuff. I shall sleep like a stone if they don't call all hands again.’
’Don't mention it." Tencher winked. "Earned it.’
Alan made his way out of the mess, clinging to the top of the half partitions toward the double ladders. Someone took him by the arm in the dark and spun him to a stop. ’Lewrie. ‘
‘Rolston?" he asked. thinking he recognized the voice. "Think you're a clever cock, do you?" It was Rolston, alright. ’I'll not let you make me look ridiculous like that again-’
‘You don't need any help from me to be ridiculous." Alan tried to judge just where Rolston's head might be so that when he hit him, as he felt he soon must. he could get in a good shot. "I'll settle you." Rolston's voice was shaking.
Alan could barely make out a face, but he knew the fellow must be almost weeping with rage by then. "I'll square your yards for you for good and all-’
‘No, you won't," Alan said, prying the hand from his arm and pressing it back away from him against Rolston's best effort with an ease he would not have had weeks before. "And if you lay hands on me once more I'll kick your skinny arse up between your ears, right where it belongs.’
’Watch and see ifI don't get you, Lewrie.’
’Watch out for yourself." Alan chuckled. "I might not save your miserable life next time.. .farmer.’
Alan took a few cautious steps toward the coaming of the hatch, wary of a sudden shove from Rolston that could send him crashing to the hard deck below, ready to dive flat and let Rolston go arse-over-tit instead. But Mister Tencher came out of the mess area with his glim and a handful of scrap paper for a trip to the warrant officer's heads in the roundhouse before the focs'l, and Rolston had to turn on his heel and go forward to his own berth space. Alan, relieved, went below to his own, where he slid out of his wet dripping clothes and sat on a chest to towel himself down in the dark.
His skin was burning with saltwater rash and he could feel the chafe in crotch and limbs, where boils were erupting from the constant immersion and the sandpaper effect of wet wool. He rolled into his hammock nude, wearing a blanket wrapped about him like a cocoon. He tried to inventory what he had dry to wear but was so sleepy, exhausted, battered and drunk that he soon fell into a swoonlike sleep, dreaming once more of getting everyone who had been in any way responsible for his current predicament in the Navy all together in one place, and roasting them over slow fires.
Two days later, once the weather had moderated, they only found twenty ships of their convoy at first light. Perhaps fifteen more came straggling back into sight over the next few days. It was likely that the five missing merchantmen would never be seen by anyone again. At first Alan was a bit irked that no one said anything about his saving Rolston. then realized that it was just one of those things that was, after all, expected from a midshipman or a sailor, with no thanks needed or expected.
What a shitten outlook they have in this Navy, he sighed.
Dawn was a rosy hint rising over the humps of the sea astern, lost in the grey gloom of another spring morning in the windswept North Atlantic. The taffrail lanterns and the candles in the wheel binnacle lost their strength, and one could begin to recognize people on watch by their faces instead of their voices. Like wraiths the ships in convoy began to loom as dark shadows ahead of them to leeward on either side of their bows now that another long voyage was almost over.
Alan clung to the starboard shrouds halfway up to the main top, shivering with chill and trying to steady a heavy telescope to count ships. Lieutenant Kenyon was below him at the quarterdeck ladder, his eyes flying from one vantage to the next, judging the strength of the wind, the set of the sails, Ariadne's position to the rest of the convoy, a first reassuring sight of Dauntless out to leeward and far ahead of the convoy, eyeing his watch to see they were awake and alert. Lewrie wondered if he was making nautical plans for all eventualities… or merely sniffing the aromas that occasionally swirled back from the smoking galley funnel. Today was a meat-issue day following a Wednesday "Banyan Day" on which the crew was served beer, cheese, gruel, soup and biscuit.
Lewrie clambered down to the rail and jumped the last few feet to the deck. "Twenty-five sail to starboard, sir. Some very far out of position, but all taffrail lanterns burning.’
’Very good, Mister Lewrie," Kenyon replied, referring to his pocket watch. "Almost five bells. Prepare to rotate the watch. ‘
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Five bells did indeed chime from up forward-two pairs of quick chimes, and a last single one that echoed on and on. Or was it merely the sound of so many ships around them raising a chorus of bells later than Ariadne? Lewrie kicked awake one of the ratty little ship's boys so he could turn the half-hour glass at the binnacle. Wash-deck pumps were stowed away-hands stood erect from buffing the deck with bibles and holystones to remove the filth of the day before-others boiled up from below with their rolled-up hammocks for stowing. The pipes shrilled for the lower deck to be swept clean. Pump chains clanked as the bilges were emptied of their accumulated seepage. ’Twenty-two ships to larboard and ahead, sir," Midshipman Rolston reported to Kenyon, "and Dauntless is shaking out her night reefs, sir.’
That was the main wrench of being in Kenyon's watch; having to share it with Rolston. Even after two round voyages Rolston still gave off a hatred so deep and abiding that he positively glowed, and Lewrie found himself walking stiff-legged about him, waiting for the knife in the back, or the studiedly awkward push at the wrong moment.
’Very good, Mister Rolston," Kenyon replied. "My respects to the captain and inform him that all ships in convoy are in sight, spread out from the night, and that Dauntless is making sail.’
’Aye aye, sir," Rolston answered, giving Lewrie a haughty look as if to say that he could never be en1rusted with carrying a message aft to their lord and master, as Rolston could.
Alan's belly rumbled. ’Hungry, Mister Lewrie?" Kenyon grinned. ’Always, sir." He never got enough to eat, not like back home in London, and ship's fare was plain commons. He could spend half the watch dreaming of all the spicy substance of the buffets he had seen at drums, the hour-upon-hour dinner parties of course after course, even the hearty filling nature of a twopenny ordinary, or the choices available at a cold midnight supper after the theatre. The midshipmen's mess always exhausted their livestock quickly, and had to settle for biscuit hard as lumber and alive with weevils; joints of salt-pork or salt-beef that had been in-cask so long, one could carve them into combs; thick pea soup; cheeses gone rancid, and that only twice a week; an ounce of butter now and then; and a fruit duff only on Sundays. He no longer looked askance at the hands who offered him rats that had been caught and killed in the bread room. They were three-a-penny, fat as tabbies, and surprisingly tasty; "sea squirrel," they called them.
Now that his once-fine palate had been jaded, be had to admit that the food wasn't all that bad. He had seen coaching inns and low dives in the East End of London that served worse. It was the unremitting sameness of boiled everything. And once the gristle and bone had been subtracted, there was never enough on his plate to leave him comfortably stuffed. ’Captain, sir," Lewrie whispered, catching sight of Captain Bales coming on deck from his great cabins aft. He and the mate of the watch, Byers, went down to leeward, leaving the starboard side of the quarterdeck for Bales to pace in solitary splendor. And after making his report, Kenyon joined them.
What would he have done if he had not gotten into Kenyon's watch? he wondered. The captain was so remote and aloof, and rarely seen. The first lieutenant, Mr. Swift, was a testy butler who always found a power of fault-no one could please him. The third officer, Lieutenant Church, was cold as charity and silent, while Roth, their fourth, and Lieutenant Harm, the fifth, were both full of harshly impatient bile. Kenyon was the only one he could remember who actually smiled now and then, who didn't deal out floggings and canings and viper-tongued screeches against one and all. Kenyon went out of his way to teach, to admonish his failures as faults to be corrected and not catastrophes that called for humiliating tirades. He would go to the heads aft off the wardroom in the middle of the watch, leaving Lewrie and Byers alone on the quarterdeck, totally in charge of twelve-hundred tons of ship plunging along in the dark of night. While Kenyon did not court favorites; and disliked being toadied to, Lewrie had a sneaking feeling that Kenyon liked him. When his part of the watch stood on the quarterdeck, he got quizzed by the second lieutenant. And there was time to talk softly in the black hours of the morning; Alan found himself confiding in Kenyon, as he never could with the others, even Ashburn. Had it not been for the difference in rank, Kenyon could have become much like an older brother to him. He did not think Kenyon and Rolston shared the same regard. ’As soon as the hands have eat, we'll endeavor to round up this flock of silly sheep once more, Lieutenant Kenyon," he heard the captain say. It was the same each morning of every convoy; the masters of the merchant ships would never trust the station-keeping of their own kind and would scatter like chickens going for seed corn every night, which required Ariadne to spend half the day chasing after them, herding them back toward the pack and chivvying them into order. And merchant captains did not take kindly to sharp commands from the Navy. More than once they had fired a blank charge to draw a moody merchantman's attention to their signals.
Under the captain's sharp eye, Lewrie tried to appear busy. He went up into the larboard shrouds of the mizzen to use his telescope on the convoy, now that the gloom was being chased to the west by the watery rising sun behind them. He also noticed, with some amusement, that Lieutenant Kenyon was trying to appear intent on his duties as well.
He turned his glass on Dauntless. There were flags soaring up a halyard on her mizzen, and he dug into his pocket to consult a sheet of paper that contained the meager signals for day or night. "Strange sail… south, "At last'" he crowed, leaping down and dashing to report to Lieutenant Kenyon. This close to New York, strange sail could be those Frenchies from their base in Newport, or rebel privateers. We're going to see some action, he exulted. ’Strange sail, is it?" Captain Bales said, hearing the report. "Aloft with you to the maintop, Mister Lewrie, and spy them out'‘
‘Aye aye, sir!’
‘Mister Kenyon, my respects to the master gunner and I'll have a signal gun fired to starboard. Day signal for the convoy to close up, followed by 'strange sail to the south.' ‘
‘Shall we beat to Quarters, sir?" Kenyon asked. ’No, let the hands be fed first. Time enough for that." Lewrie made it to the mainmast crosstrees to join the lookout already there, his heart beating from the exertion, and the excitement. ’Seen anything to the south?’
‘No, sir," the lookout replied. "Not yet, sir.’
Lewrie scrambled up onto the topmast cap and hugged the quivering t' gallant mast, unslinging his glass which had hung over his shoulder, as heavy as a sporting gun. He steadied his hands and peered to the south. ’Aloft there!" came a leather-lunged shout from the deck. ’What do you see?’
‘Not a bloody thing, damn yer eyes," Lewrie muttered. ’Tell him nothing yet." Lewrie went up higher, onto the t' gallant yard to sit astride the narrow spar. "Now, that's more like it." In his glass, he could see a tiny sliver of a tops'l, with just the hint of a triangular sail right behind it. That might be a schooner or a brigantine. He scanned farther west behind that ship and found a pair of tops' Is, and then, bringing up the rear, three tops'ls close together; possibly a brig, and a full-rigged ship, their sails painted rose red as spring flowers by the dawn. "Deck there!" he bawled. "Three strange sail to the south!’
‘What?" Lieutenant Swift shouted back through a speaking trumpet.
Lewrie left the glass with the lookout and descended rapidly to the quarterdeck by way of a backstay. ’Three ships to the south and southwest, sir," Lewrie said. ’ Due south a topsail and what looks to be a gaffsail together. ’
‘A brigantine or schooner." Swift nodded impatiently. ’Aye.’
’Aft of her two topsails… a brig most-like, sir. And three topsails to the southwest, perhaps a full-rigged ship. ’
‘Mister Swift, signal again to those damned merchantmen to close up," Captain Bales said. "Then have Dauntless move to the southern comer. ’
‘Aye aye, sir. Mister Rolston, bring your signals, sir.’
Six bells of the watch chimed from the forecastle belftyseven in the morning. The sound of the signal gun had brought everyone up from below out of curiosity. The other officers now congregated on the quarterdeck. ’Mister Lewrie," said Kenyon, "where is your glass, sir?’
‘I left it with the lookout at the crosstrees, sir, for him to see the better. ’
‘Good. You'd better take your portion of the watch below now. I doubt if you'd have much chance for breakfast if you waited 'til the end of the watch. ’
‘Aye, sir. Thank you." But Alan only got as far as the wide companionway to the lower gun deck before the first lieutenant called for all hands to hoist more sail and shake out their night reefs to make more speed. With a sigh, he dashed back to the ratlines.
Ariadne turned due south away from the easternmost end of the convoy, which by now had seen the possibly hostile sails for themselves and were fleeing northwest away from them. Alan presumed that they would pose a threat, well up to windward and ready to dash down on the raiders as they tried to close. He was much too busy for many minutes to pay attention. as Ariadne also set her l' gallants for more speed.
But by the end of the watch, they were faced with a new alignment. The schooner furthest east was now behind the convoy, and had crossed Ariadne's stem; while a fast privateer brig was dashing dead north for the convoy with the wind on her quarter; while the frigate-sized ship was challenging Dauntless for passage to the west of the convoy. Alan turned from the bulwarks and the hammock nettings, now full of tightly rolled and numbered hammocks which would act as a barrier for the Marines when action was joined within musket-shot. He saw some ship's boys gathering with their drums and fifes and trumpets. The Ariadne was beating to Quarters, really stripping herself for a battle! He could see the captain on the quarterdeck, pacing back and forth by the foremost netting rail overlooking the waist of the ship, looking like a fat duck on his thin legs. · Alan took himself down to the waist, then down to the lower gun deck, which was his station at Quarters. The deck was rapidly being transformed, as mess tables were slung from the overheads, the hammocks already removed, as were the screens and partitions from the Marine and midshipmen's berths. Chests and furniture were being carried below to the holds for safekeeping, and to lessen the danger of being shattered and turned into deadly clouds of wooden splinters.
The Ariadne was a 3rd Rate ship of the line, mounting a total of sixty-four guns, twenty-eight of them on her lower gun deck, massive thirty-two-pounder pieces that weighed over 5,300 pounds, fourteen to each beam. The ideal crew would be thirteen men to each gun, but since there was little likelihood of fighting on both sides at once, there were only three men on the disengaged side to starboard, while the bulk of the men slaved to prepare the larboard guns for action.
The deck was gloomy, for the gun ports were not yet opened, though the guns had been rolled back to the extent of their breeching ropes for tompions to be removed and to be loaded with cartridges and balls. Gun captains stood ready with powder horns, portfires with a burning length of a slow-match on one end and a pricker on the other to clear the vent of their gun and pierce the cartridge bag. Bundles of firing quills were ready to hand, goose quills filled with a fast-burning and finegrained powder that had been soaked in wine (and supposedly a bit of gunner's urine) that would be stuck down into the cartridge bags and lit off to transfer the spark that would fire the gun. Loaders rolled cannonballs from the thick rope shotgarlands or the shot racks around the hatches to find the roundest, most perfect iron balls, which would fly straight for long-range work. Rammer men plied their tools to tamp the cartridges down snug against the vents, then a hairy discshaped wad, a ball, and another wad. Other men stood by with crows and handspikes to shift the guns from left to right with brute force once they were drawn up to the sills and run out. Most of the gunnery crew stood by at the side-tackles and overhauled the train-tackles to haul those guns up to firing position. Lieutenants Roth and Hann had charge of the lower gun deck, though should they close to pistol or boarding range, Hann, as the fifth lieutenant, or lieutenant-at-arms, would go on deck to oversee the boarding parties which he had trained at musketry and the use of the pike and cutlass. ’Bout time, you," Harm fairly spat at Lewrie. ’I was at the masthead, sir.’
’Take station to starboard and stay out of the way. You might be good enough to run messages, if you've wit to remember them.’
Ariadne was allotted a complement of sixteen midshipmen, and it was galling to see the youngest and smallest boys getting assigned to the engaged side while Lewrie was rated more useless than even Striplin, an eleven-year-old who was not half the height of an average sailor. Harm and Roth, and their quartergunners in charge of four guns, had to put tools in the hands of some men, shove others out of the way of possible recoil, while Alan, who had found that gunnery exercise was one of his least hated duties, had to stand aside, silent and useless.
Once the lower gun deck was arranged to Roth's satisfaction, the deck became fairly silent, and long minutes passed as Ariadne drew up to their foe.
Alan amused himself reciting the fourteen steps of gun drill he had memorized. He daydreamed about delivering brave messages to the quarterdeck, or having both officers shot dead before him… Please God, most especially Lieutenant Harm… and himself taking charge and performing some feat that would go down in glory. When that grew dull, and he realized that an immediate commission to lieutenant might not be in the cards, he worked on other remembrances and fantasies. There was what he would have liked to have done with Harrison's slim little West Country wife, her with her burring accent from Zealand. There was that last glorious night with the little chambermaid to be relished, or the lady at Vauxhall Gardens who had found him so pretty she had taken him home to her lodgings and half-killed him with kindness. Then there was a ball in the country, where he and his hostess had struck an arrangement after the host had drunk himself into a stupor. The crotch of his slop trousers became uncomfortably tight just remembering what a rogering buck he had used to be. If I don't get ashore for some mutton in New York this trip, I don't know what I'll do…
Muter what seemed an age, little Beckett dashed down and spoke with Roth, who ordered the gun ports opened. As they hinged up out of the way, the deck became a painfully loud cavern as the heavy guns were run out to stick their black muzzles from the ports. Alan made his way to midships and knelt down to spy their target. It was the rebel privateer brig, tacking heavily to make a dash past Ariadne's bows to get at her prey in the convoy! "Stand by," Roth called. There was a loud bang from the upper deck. "As you bear.. .fire!" One by one, each piece discharged with a monumental blast that had Alan's ears ringing most painfully, but it was glorious! So much noise, so much power, so much smoke and recoil and the great guns all rolling back to snub at the end of their groaning breeching ropes! He had not taken part in a live firing yet, merely drills, yet he knew at once that if he could play with cannon, he could make a career in the Navy and not half mind all the rest of the stupidity.
It did not appear, however, that Ariadne's bite was quite as impressive as her bark. In point of fact, Alan could see quite a few tall splashes as heavy balls impacted with the sea. Some were far beyond the brig, having passed over her hannlessly, perhaps twitching a sail with the wind of their passage; some struck short, incredibly short, so close to Ariadne that he at first thought it was the enemy that had fired at them and missed! There were a few (frankly, more than merely a few) splashes far in front and far astern of the privateer brig where they may have killed an injudicious fish or two, but had no effect on their foe. ’Goddarnn my eyes!" Roth called as loud as the broadside after the last thunder had died away. "What a pack of duckfuckers. Try to keep your eyes open and aim at something this time. Swab out yer guns!" Ariadne began a ponderous turn to starboard to keep the enemy on her beam and within the arc of her guns. Alan could see a gay flag on the privateer, a red-and-white-striped banner with a blue canton to the upper mast. They were almost close enough to discern a circle of tiny white stars on the flag as the guns were run out again. ’Point yer guns! Handspikes and crows, there!" Hann ordered, "Aim the goddamn things, now!" They let loose a second broadside. It was about as effective as the first. Jesus, how can we miss at this range? Alan thought miserably. He spans two gun ports, so he must be no farther than three or four cables away from us. It's impossible to miss! And then the privateer brig sailed out of their gun ports to the north, outreaching the much heavier and slower Ariadne.
The hands labored at swabbing out their hot barrels, slipping in fresh cartridge bags, ramming home wads and fresh shot, then straining to roll the guns, squealing on their ungreased wooden trucks, back up to the sills.
Beckett appeared once more at Lieutenant Roth's side. "The captain's respects, Mister Roth, and you are to prepare to engage to starboard.’
’Lewrie, supervise the larboard guns and see they're secure," Roth told him, leading all but three of the numbers from each hot gun over to starboard. Alan made sure that no cartridge bags had been pricked, that all vents were covered from sparks, and that the ports were securely closed, and the heavy guns were snubbed in place by the train and side-tackles with no chance to roll about and crush someone.
By the time he and the excess numbers had finished that chore, the starboard guns were speaking, rattling the fabric of the ship. He bent down to see out, and could not detect any improvement in their aim as they fired at a much smaller target, the privateer schooner, which was in the process of cutting out a slow merchantman. And by the time the most experienced gun captains and quartergunners had found their enemy's range and had begun to slap balls close about her, she had danced out of reach and gun-arcs to rush down on another prize. Ariadne now turned about and chased after their earlier target, the brig. The men stood behind the guns in long swaying lines for what seemed like an hour. There were sounds of gunfire far off, light sixand nine-pounders, occasionally the deeper boom of a twelve-pounder. And then it was over; they were to secure from Quarters. Charges and balls were drawn, and the guns were securely bowsed down.
By the time the mess tables were being lowered between the guns, and all the other officers had left, Lewrie shrugged and went up on the upperdeck gangways. Down south to windward, or off to the southeast astern, stood the three raiders, safe as houses with Ariadne and Dauntless now far down to leeward to the north in pursuit of a panicky flock of merchantmen. The privateer ship had a fore-topmast missing and showed a few scars, but was still afloat. More to the point, five tubby merchant vessels that had lately been part of the convoy were also down to windward, prizes of the privateers.
Seven bells chimed from the belfry, and bosun's pipes began to shrill. "D'ye hear there? Clear decks an' up spirits!" the b0sun shouted as loud as a gunshot. Eleven-thirty in the moming; as if to confirm it, Lewrie drew out his gold-damascened silver pocket watch and opened it.
So that was a battle, he thought. I can't see anything we accomplished. If this is the glory of naval life, you can have this nautical humbug! How do you make all that prize money, or make a name for yourself, when you're down below getting bored to death? Lewrie took himself off to the cockpit for their issue of rum, then came back up to perform noon sights, which he got wrong, as usual, resulting in an hour of racing up and down the mainmast.
Later, at dinner, he noticed the many long faces around their mess table. Finnegan and Turner, Mr. Brail, the captain's clerk, a couple of surgeon's mates, Shirke, Chapman, Ashburn and himself. Bascombe was in the Day Watch. Except for the sound of cutlery, it was dead quiet.
Well, perhaps not too quiet; there was the sound of the master's mates, Finnegan and Turner, as they chomped and chewed and gargled and hawked-both of them were what were termed "rough feeders.’
’Um… this morning," Alan said, clearing his throat, which raised an involuntary groan from everyone as they thought of their poor performance. "What happened… exactly?’
‘Nothin' worth talkin' about," Finnegan mumbled. "Bloody shambles," Chapman said with a blank: stare. For him to make a comment of any kind was rare. "We weren't handled at all badly," Ashburn said between bites. "Placed right clever, if you ask me.’
’But the gunnery…" Alan prompted. ’Aye, that was awful," Shirke said. "It's like Harvey was telling us, we haven't spent much time at gun drill. ’
‘We've drilled," Turner said. "Jus' never fired the damn things, 'cept fer salutin' and pissin' off merchant masters. Good gunners gone stale, new 'uns couldn't hit a spit kid if it were tied to their mouths.’
’They were pretty fast, too. I expect that didn't help," Alan said. ’Dauntless did alright," Keith Ashburn said. "Got hits on her foe, chased her off, and chased off that brig once it got past us. No one could have caught that schooner once she got past us, though. Lost five ships. Not a bad morning's work for 'em, damn their eyes.’
’And there's no way we could get them back?" Alan asked. "Beat up to windward against more weatherly ships, and leave the rest 0' the convoy ta get took?" Finnegan shook his head. "Ye're a young booby, ain't ya? Wot it's all about is, we got beat, see, younker? Them damned rebel Jonathans done beat us!" Alan saw New York again, but only from the anchorage at Sandy Hook. He got to go ashore, but only as far as the fleet landing with a cutter full of demoralized and sullen hands, who had to be watched constantly to keep them from drink or the many brothels. Fresh supplies had to be ferried out, more coal and firewood, fresh water, livestock and wine, and crates of fruit and vegetables. 100 bumboats were out, offering women, rum and gewgaws, but the ship was not allowed Out of Discipline. Only Bales and the purser actually got to step ashore for pleasure.
The officers sulked in their wardroom aft, lolling over long pipes and full mugs when there was no drill, exercise, or working party. The midshipmen and mates stood anchor watch in their stead for the humdrum task of waiting, envying the men in the guard boats who rowed about to prevent desertion, or watch against a hostile move. It was an unhappy existence. The ship lay at anchor for days, stewing in the blustery early spring rains and fickle winds, too wet to stay topside, and too warm and airless to stay below. Ariadne shifted her beakhead to point at the colony, then at England. groaning her way all about the compass. The seeming lack of purpose, and their recent poor showing, began to grate on everyone. People began to put in requests for a change of mess, a sure sign of trouble below decks. There were more floggings for fighting, more backtalking and insubordination, more slow work at tasks assigned. God knew where they got it, but lots of men were turning up drunk and getting their dozen lashes on the gratings every Forenoon watch.
If he didn't have to set some sort of example, he wouldn't have minded getting cup-shot himself, Alan decided. Here I stand, dripping wet, can't see a cable, the food stinks, the people stink, and I still can't get ashore for sport. Why can't I help out on the press-gang or the patrol? "What a nautical picture you make," Keith told him as he climbed to the quarterdeck to join him. "Perhaps a watercolor is appropriate.’
’Water is the word," Alan agreed, feeling the wet seeping down his spine under the heavy tarpaulin he wore. "Mister Brail and the Jack In The Bread Room said we could buy fresh food from shore on the next trip for cabin stores. Any ideas?’
‘A warm, dry whore for starters," Lewrie muttered. "Seriously," Keith scoffed. ’Potatoes," Lewrie said with some heat. "I'd love some boiled potatoes. And carrots with parsnip. Turkey or goose… coffee, wine.’
’That's one meal. How about some onions?’
‘Drag it back aboard and I'll go shares. God, what a shitten life this is," Alan mourned. "It will get better once we're back at sea. This idling is bad for us," Keith said. "What's the bloody difference?" Lewrie eyed a passing barge with the spy glass. "Ahoy there!’
‘Passing," came the faint reply. ’Boredom and deprivation in port is pretty much like boredom and deprivation at sea, only not as noisy," Lewrie griped. ’At least at sea, we're too busy to care.’
’Of all the ships I had to be put on, why this one? Why not one that can shoot and do something exciting?’
‘We'll do better," Ashburn promised firmly. "Now we see how bad we did, we've been working the gun crews properly.’
’Do you really believe that?" Alan drawled. ’Of course I do, I have to.’
’Is the rest of the Navy like this? Because if it is I'II be glad to make my fortune as a pimp soon as we're paid off. ’
‘That's disloyal talk, Alan," Ashburn told him. ’Oh, for God's sake, Keith. You're educated. You've been in a couple of ships now. Let's just say I have a fresher outlook. Tell me if you've seen better ships. And don't go all noble about it.’
’Alan, you must know that I love the Navy…" Keith began. "Believe me, after listening to you for three months, I know. ’
‘It… Ariadne is not the best I've served in," Keith muttered. "What's your concern? You're the one was dragooned here. It's all I've ever wanted. ’
‘All your talk about prize money and fame," Alan said. "What do I have if this war ends? A small rouleau of guineas and that's it. In peacetime, I'd end up selling my clothes in a year. I can't go home, and without a full purse I can't set myself up in any trade. I think I could make a go of this, miserable as it can be at times, if I were on another ship, one that could fight and shoot, and go where the prize money is.’
’Hark the true sailorman!" Keith was amused at Lewrie's sudden ambitions, which made him sound like any officer or warrant that Ashburn had ever listened to. "Bravo! We'll make a post-captain of you yet.’
’Or kill me first," Alan said. But the fantasy was tempting. If I were a post-captain, wouldn't that make all those bastards back home bite on the furniture? Now that would be a pretty crow pie…
Ariadne finally weighed and sailed, and it was back across the Atlantic to England with another convoy. Once home, she swung about her anchor in Plymouth, in Falmouth, in Bristol before shepherding more ships across the Atlantic to Halifax, Louisburg or New York, facing the same winds, the same seas, the same food and hours of gun drill and sail handling with the same work of replenishment and loading at each end, until Ariadne could have done it in her sleep. Some men died, fallen from aloft and vanished astern. Some sickened from the weather and came down with the flux. Some could not stomach the food, though it was more plentiful and regular than what they would have gotten in their country crofts, and more healthful than the dubious offerings of a slum ordinary.
Some were injured by cargo or gun carriages, and suffered amputation. Men were ruptured by heaving on lines or cables. Men went on a steady parade to the gratings. So many miles were rolled off astern across the ocean in all her moods and weathers. So many pounds of salt-beef, pork, biscuit, peas, and raisins and flour were issued. So many gallons of small beer, red wine and tan water were swallowed. It all blended into seven months of such a limitless, unremarked and pointless existence that hardly anything seemed to relieve it of its sameness. There were some small delights, even so. He crossed swords at small arms drill with Lieutenant Harm and thoroughly humiliated him. to the clandestine joy of the other midshipmen (and most of the crew).
And there were moments of freedom, when the ship was moored so far out that rowing supplies out would have halfkilled the hands, and Alan discovered the pleasure of sailing a small boat under a lugsail, racing other cutters to the docks on a day of brisk wind, then a quick quart for all hands before racing back.
With his new detennination to succeed burning in him, he pored over all the books on the ship, and the only books were nautical in nature. It was impossible not to learn something. One can only practice a task so long without gaining the knowledge of how to do it, and more important, when, unless one were like Chapman. Do a bad knot, get a caning or a tonguelashing, so one learns a world of useful knots. Do a bad splice and be called a booby by people who have your career in their hands, and one learns to do a good splice.
Execute the steps of gun drill so often, get quizzed on the amount of powder to be used in various circumstances until you're letter perfect, and you no longer get abused. Go aloft until you know every reef cringle and clewgarnet, block and splinter of spars, and one finally is allowed a grudging competence to be able to fulfill one's duty, from both the officers, and the senior hands.
Measure the sun at noon and work out the spherical trigonometry often enough and you soon learn what is right and what is wrong, whether you really like doing it or not, and navigation can become a tedious but useful skill, and not a horror of stupid errors and their price.
And with each slowly gained bit of knowledge, with each more seamanly performed chore, with each more day full of danger and challenge that was experienced, Lewrie noticed a change in the way he was treated. From the captain, from Kenyon certainly, old Ellison the sailing master, the mates, the bosun, the Marine captain, even from Mr. Swift, he found less harsh shouting or exasperated invective, fewer occasions to be bent over a gun "for his own good." There was a gruff acceptance of him and his abilities, as though he and the blue coat were one, and he could do anything that any other blue coat on a blustery night-deck could do in their seagoing pony show, and his new anonymity was blissful.
And when he performed something so particularly well that even he knew it, there was now and then a firm nod, or a bleak smile, or even a grunt of approval that was as much a treat to his spirits as an hour with a wench with the keys to her master's wine cabinet.
There were, too, the reactions of his fellow midshipmen to go by.
There was Ashburn's bemused acceptance, Shirke and Bascombe's sullen scowls of disdain at his progress. There were Chapman's heavy sighs as he realized that he was being surpassed by yet one more contender for commission, and that his own chances were flying farther from his poor grasp every day. And there was the unspoken deference of the younger boys like Beckett and Striplin, who were already cowed by his size and seeming maturity, and now by his knowledge which had accrued faster than theirs.
Most especially, there was the hot glow of dislike that Lewrie felt whenever he was around Rolston that was so warming that he thought he could easily toast cheese on it. Ashburn had been the top dog in a blue coat, then Rolston, in the officers' estimations. It was only natural that an older boy such as Lewrie, once he had attained Rolston's level in skill and sea-lore, would be thought of as more competent by those worthies, which would automatically force their opinion of young Rolston down to third place, perhaps lower.
Much as it galled him, Lewrie realized his life had become more tolerable since he had, in the parlance, taken a round turn and two half hitches.
But that is not to say that he did not secretly loathe every bloody minute of it.