H.M.S. COCKEREL

Chapter 7

Aye, sir, their mountebank was here," Mister Pruden told Lewrie on the quarterdeck. He didn't sound impressed by a high-flown Italian physician. "Same nostrums as I had aboard, Jesuit's Bark and such, in a tea. He went from cold to hot, 'bout the end of the second dog last evening. Sweated it out, I should think. Mercury and laudanum, that raises a sweat."

"I have to see him," Lewrie commanded.

"His 'top-lights' are still out, sir. Dead to the world."

"Still, Mister Pruden, as first officer…"

"Very well, sir."

Captain Braxton was still unconscious, and the fever hadn't done his appearance much good. He lolled on the pillows, face slack as some dead man, his mean little mouth canted to leeward, his skin as sickly a buff yellow as old parchment, his shortish hair tousled and glued to his scalp by perspiration. Mister Pruden lifted the captain's wrist to feel for a pulse.

"Thumpin' away like a band, still, Mister Lewrie," Pruden smiled. "No more shivering ague, no more hot flushes and sweats. Feels cooler, too. I think this bout's over."

"How much longer will he be unable to command, sir?" Lewrie asked.

"Mmm, Lord… no tellin', Mister Lewrie, sir." Pruden shrugged in puzzlement. "Man his age, fit as he is… well as he appeared before the fever took him? It may be several days before he regains strength enough to hobble about. Then again, it may be a week or better."

"Should he be sent ashore to convalesce, sir?" Lewrie hoped aloud.

"No need for that, sir, not since the fever burned itself out. A spell of bed rest, of a certainty. Depending on how the fever debilitated him," Pruden countered, a bit sadly. "God has a wicked sense of humour, Mister Lewrie. Here He strikes our tyrant down, raising our hopes. And then restores him to health, just when we believe we're liberated."

"Well, at least we're spared his rod, long as he's horizontal," Alan sighed, shaking his head. "Had he informed you of his infirmity before, sir? Any cause for wariness over his health?"

"None, sir. Though I did make it my duty to inquire, to assemble a roster of past injuries and illnesses among the crew. You recall, I asked of the wardroom as well, so, should some condition, my ignorance of which might do harm-"

"You asked the captain directly, sir?" Lewrie pressed, getting a germ of an idea which restored his hopes.

"I did, sir, in the pursuit of my bounden duties as ship's surgeon." Pruden nodded somberly, as sober as if testifying at a court.

"And his reply, sir?"

'To, uhm… 'bugger off,' sir, and not to meddle," Pruden smirked.

"So you think he intended to hide the possibility of a recurrence from you, sir? In your opinion, as a qualified and warranted surgeon?"

"I thought he was being his usual 'tetchy' self, Mister Lewrie. But, aye… there's a possibility. Of course, it may be that malaria had not recurred on him in several years. He may have put it 'out of sight, out of mind,' sir. Like a bad tooth which really should come out, but a man'U ignore 'til it festers his gums, Mister Lewrie."

"Very well," Lewrie sighed, putting his hands in the small of his back and pacing, ducking the overhead beams. His eyes fell on the thick logbook on the desk in the day cabin. There was still a way!

"Mister Pruden, you keep a journal of treatment, do you not?"

"Aye, sir."

"I will require a notice from you, in the ship's log, that Captain Braxton fell ill of fever, and that in his stead I had to assume command temporarily. To explain why I was forced to," Lewrie demanded.

"I would be most happy to comply, sir," Pruden beamed, getting his drift. "And should anyone care to take notice, I will write up an entry in my own journal, including what nostrums I prescribed, and their cost, of course."

"How fortunate we were, to be in port at the time," Alan hinted. "And to obtain the services of our ambassador's physician. For free?"

"Certainly, sir," Pruden agreed, jiggling with wry good humour. "I'll go and do it now, whilst my memory's fresh, shall I, sir?"

"I would be deeply obliged if you would, Mister Pruden," Lewrie said with a grateful bow. After the surgeon had departed, he sat down behind the captain's desk, opened the logbook and thumbed through to the last entry in Braxton's own hand. There had been no entry for the day before their arrival in port, Lewrie noted, most happily. Captain Braxton was more than likely already ailing and unable to write.

"Sentry!" Lewrie bawled, sure that a thunderclap under his cot could not rouse the captain in the sleeping cabin.

"Sah!" the Marine bawled back, stamping into his presence.

"Send down to the wardroom, Private Cargill. I need my lieutenant's journal. My compliments to them, and I'll want the sailing master's… and Lieutenant Braxton's, as well."

All Commission Sea Officers were required to keep a daily journal; practice for log entries later in their careers. From their observations and inscriptions, battles were sometimes reconstructed, careers made or broken, discipline meted out after-the-fact at courts-martial, or meritorious deeds recalled and rewarded, sea conditions agreed upon.

Somewhere in the leaky, waterlogged basements of Admiralty, on high chairs when the Thames backed up on them, a host of mole-like writers gleaned those journals for any new information, any pattern to be deduced in wind and sea conditions for given areas of the world, for a change in headlands, a new seamark erected since the last time a Royal Navy ship had chanced there. Depths especially, dangers, new entries in sailing instructions or coastal pilots… to those myopic scribblers nothing was inconsequential, and once stored, nothing was ever tossed.

From his lieutenant's journal, and from Braxton's, Lewrie reconstructed the observations proper to a ship's log, stating that the log had not been kept up… and most importantly, why.

11 July 1793, by Alan Lewrie, First Officer, HM Frigate Cockerel; log entries for the preceding day, 9 July, our Captain indisposed on 9, 10, and 11 July, and unable. Dawn, 9 July: winds SSW, ^1/2S, and blowing a quarter-gale. Sea state mildly disturbed, cat's paws and horses, visibility clear,

10 Miles. Straits of Bonifacio astem 10 leagues, Isle of Caprera stbd quarter. By sextant, distance 10 Sea Miles… Course ESE, ^1/2S, spd 7 ^1/4 knots. Exercised the…

It took an hour to transcribe everything, to recreate the voyage, from the straits to fetching Naples at first light on the 10th; anchoring, discovering the captain's illness, meeting the ambassador and delivering the secret papers… being presented to the king, and being forced to dine and sleep out of the ship. Pruden's note came to him, and he transcribed that, then took the fateful step of declaring in writing that he had assumed temporary command, until such time as the surgeon deemed Captain Braxton hale enough to resume his duties.

Then Alan entered the damning statement that the second lieutenant had not informed him of the captain's condition, though he noted in his journal that he'd been dined-in on the 8th and 9th, and had made no mention of the captain being sick after being at table with that worthy.

"Sentry!" he called again, after he'd sanded his last words.

"Sah!"

"Send for the second officer, Mister Braxton. Present to him my compliments, and I require Mister Braxton to kindly attend me, in Captain Braxton's quarters," Lewrie related, with an expectant smile.

"You sent for me, sir?" Clement Braxton asked, a little fearful. Whether he dreaded what was coming, now that Lewrie was temporary Lord and Master, or whether he more feared dire news of his father's condition, it would be hard to decide. Lieutenant Braxton glanced hangdog towards the door to his father's sleeping coach, and at the novel sight of Lewrie at ease behind his father's desk, with equal trepidation.

"Mister Braxton, you've been a very bad boy," Lewrie sneered.

"Sir, I-"

"Your father, it seems… our captain, is going to recover."

"So Mister Pruden and the civilian doctor were kind enough to inform me, sir, aye," Clement gulped, bobbing with that good news. He assayed a sheepish grin-more a rictus than anything else. Alan was having none of it, however.

"You almost killed him, you damn' fool!" Lewrie barked suddenly, crashing a fist on the ornate desk. "You and Boutwell knew he was sick as a dog, since we cleared the Straits of Bonifacio. You knew he needed the surgeon, but you hid that! Kept him from medication!"

"Dear God, sir, I…" Braxton swayed, like to faint.

Lewrie shot to his feet, temper aboil.

Thank God for all my lessons, he thought; I've been browbeat or tonguelashed by the best\ All those officers who'd shouted at me, superlative howling sessions… and now it's my turn!

"By God, sir, you saw fit to hide his illness from me, not only endangering your father, but the ship, Mister Braxton!" Lewrie shouted. "You take filial loyalty too far, sir; too far by half! You are either a Sea Officer, charged upon your sacred honour to put the needs of the ship first, last, and always… or you're a bloody fraud! Derelict in your duties… who'd put personal, family concerns above duty!"

Clement Braxton blanched, reeled backwards half a step as he saw how deep was the pit he was about to be shoved into.

Damme, I'm good at this, Lewrie exulted, inward! Though all his talk of honour and duty did make him cringe a little, at his own hypocrisy. It sounded like the worst sort of cant, coming from his sort!

"Sir, there was no intent to be derelict…" Braxton babbled.

"Sir, I tell you that you were. By omission. Your journal. Two nights you dined with the captain, alone. Seeing how ill he'd become. Yet, there is no mention of it. You did not tell Mister Pruden about a recurrence of malaria. You did not tell me, to prepare me, should I have to take over. The ship's log, sir… no entries past dawn of the 9th," Lewrie pointed out, hefting the bedraggled, salt-stained journal like God's book of the Saved at Heaven's gates. "Good God, are you so witless, you couldn't have cobbled something together from your daily journal? Or were you so afraid of him being dismissed from the Sea Service that you thought to hide the truth from there as well, Mister Braxton?" Lewrie thundered. "False log entries … no log entries, is an offence against the Admiralty, sir! Under Article the Thirty-Third, sir. Fraudulent Behaviour!"

"I could not, sir, not in the log, I…" Braxton moaned, twisting slowly in the wind. "He urged me, but I could not! He ordered me direct, sir… but that would have been lying, sir. I could not."

"Ordered you direct to hide the truth from me, sir?" Lewrie said derisively. "Ordered you to falsify the log? Which?"

"Both, sir," Braxton sighed, red-faced. "He hasn't suffered any fever since '91, sir. Thought, back in cooler climes, he wouldn't. A tropical thing, left behind, we prayed."

"And you thought he could hide out until he'd dealt with it and gotten better, did you?" Lewrie snapped.

"The last few times, sir… more like a bad cold, sir, nothing worse. Fa… the captain hasn't had a really bad spell since '89, so we thought… he thought, that is…" Lieutenant Braxton snuffled.

"Well, it wasn't. He almost died of it, and he's going to be flat on his back for some time. That leaves me in charge. It makes you first officer. But I tell you, sir, I will dismiss you from all duties if you even think of deceiving me, or hiding something from me again."

"I give you my solemn oath, sir, I will not!" Braxton cringed.

"Come here, Mister Braxton," Lewrie commanded. "Do you look at the log. Note I've made it current, from our journals. Look it over, and determine if there's anything omitted or amiss." Lewrie paced the day cabin, hands behind his back again. "You will also note, sir, that I have made a formal statement of your father's illness, and my taking temporary command whilst our ship operates independent of the fleet."

"I see it, sir," Braxton flinched after a quick peek, as if sight of the log was like espying Medusa and her head full of snakes, which would turn him to stone at the very sight.

"Is there anything untrue in my account, sir? Any matter which you dispute? Including your failure to inform me?" Lewrie growled.

"Uhm, no, sir," Braxton sighed, rubbing his brow.

"Then please be so good as to affix your signature to it, sir, as witness. Leave room on the page for Mister Scott, Mister Dimmock, and our surgeon's names. I'll have them in in a moment."

"Aye, sir," Braxton sighed again, sounding like he was deflating. He slumped deeper, slacker, into his chair like a sack of laundry. In black-and-white, he had been found remiss. He reached across the desk for a quill pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and scratched his name.

Know what you're thinkin', Lewrie told himself smugly; daddy'll get better, he'll fix it for you. Soon as he's back on his pins, I'll be back under his thumb. But, you damned fool, it's in the log now, for all back in London to read! They all get read, sooner or later. Then a note goes to Jackson or Stephens, and questions get asked, and that goes in your permanent records! Maybe not this commission, with daddy to protect you both, he can't rip those pages out! They'll ask what action daddy took. Or didn't take. Might even convene a court. Brax-tons may've ruined this ship, but you'll never ruin another!

"Will that be all, sir?" Braxton asked, dumbfounded in his doom.

"No sir, it will not be. As captain pro-tem I can go a step further. I can enter a formal reprimand against you and Mister Boutwell. 'Our ship then engaged upon the urgent delivery of secret despatches of the highest import, standing through enemy-controlled waters'… well, you know the tune, sir. I can order you to sign that, too, or be relieved of duties immediately."

"Sir," Braxton gasped. That was much worse than simple dereliction of duty. It was a career-ender, a reason for a court martial. "Sir, I know father… the captain and you have differed. Believe me when I say that I agree with you. But he's my father. More than any captain, I owe him support. Dear God, I wish to the Almighty that I'd never set foot aboard this bloody ship!"

Well, that makes two of us, don't it, Lewrie sneered to himself.

"I didn't wish to serve under him, sir, but he plucked strings," Braxton muttered. "We're a Navy family, sir. That's our problem. My grandfather was a post-captain, his before him. Go aboard a gentleman volunteer when you're eight, to your father's ship, your uncle's ship. You know how it works, sir, surely! Grandfather makes rear-admiral… half-pay, that. Ashore." Braxton was nigh to snuffling in his grief. "But I've made my own way in the Fleet, sir! After the leg-up. Rose on my own merits. No one can grease those wheels for you, once you're a commission officer, away from direct family. I didn't want to take this commission, I wanted to wait for something else, but Mother… she made me swear, just before I came away. Father'd arranged it all, told me about it, and expected me to be glad about it. She knew he'd need all the help he could get."

"His recurring malaria?" Lewrie asked, more gently.

"That, sir and…" Braxton heaved a deep sigh, like a drowning man will suck precious air the first time he surfaces. "He's changed, sir. Off in the Far East, home for a month or so, between the round voyage. Mother's health is too frail for the East Indies. She removed to Lyme Regis, years ago. Rest of us off at sea, never quite connecting… never quite connecting when we were together, either, sir. No, it was his temper. His moodiness. She knew how much command of a warship meant to him, after all… Christ!"

Damme, don't do this to me, Braxton, Alan squirmed, his rarely used conscience plaguing him; here I hate you more than cold boiled mutton… and now I'm beginning to feel sorry for you!

"Father's had only a moderately successful career, midshipman to commission in seven years, even with family patronage, sir," Lieutenant Braxton explained. "Nothing distinguished. Two commands, both during the American War. But they were in the Far East. None since '83. God, he wrote and wrote, damned near got down on his knees, to any old friend or patron with ha'pence influence!"

"He had command. His Indiamen," Lewrie coolly pointed out.

"Just for the money, sir," Braxton shrugged. "We may be an old Navy family, but never wealthy, and times were tight. Aye, sir, he had a ship… but t'wasn't Navy, d'ye see. Command, respect… and the pay was hellish good."

Braxton waved an inclusive hand about the cabins, at the luxuries "John Company" service had earned. Yet with a flip of dismissal.

"Away from home so far, a year from a favourable reply from the Admiralty, sir… if there were an offer of a commission," Lieutenant Braxton sniffed. "Pining away, year after year, with never an offer, going up in seniority on the living captain's list But no matter how high he climbed, never an offer. And seeing old shipmates junior to him being made post, captains below him on the list making admiral. Then at last we have a war, and they have to call him up, sir. He finally gets the chance to serve again, to shine, Mister Lewrie! He was so elated, and determined!"

"Perhaps a touch too determined, sir?" Lewrie suggested wryly.

"We could not know… well, Mother did. She knew how desperate he'd been, how sad. And how important this was to him. I expect she also knew his limitations best. She was afraid for him, sir. Not just his health," Braxton confessed. "She told me he'd need the finest sort of loyalty and support. I couldn't refuse him. I couldn't turn my back on him. Apart so long, sir… I hardly knew him. Or what he had become, and when I saw… it was too late."

"Weeding out Lieutenant Mylett?"

"Not family, sir," Braxton smiled shyly. "A stranger. Father hounded him out. Like he tried with you. Made life a living hell for the man. I should have seen the signs… I don't know what happened, 'tween the wars, sir. Something in the Far East, I think."

"So that's why there's no mention of our little… near-mutiny in the log, either," Lewrie surmised. "Though he was informed of our suspicions."

"Oh, he knew, sir. But, it's his last chance, sir, d'ye see? He has to succeed. There cannot be a single flaw, this time."

"Well, there is," Lewrie summed up. "For now, Mister Braxton, there will be no formal reprimand."

"Thankee, sir," Braxton perked up. "I won't let family matters hurt my performance again, sir. My word on't!"

"Your career on't," Lewrie gloomed. "Our good repute, too. I expect my tenure won't last more'n a week or two, Mister Braxton, and then your father'11 be well enough to restore him to his due authority. We can't change his ways too much, lest the crew ran riot. And I tell you true, sir… his ways aren't my ways. And I despise him for making me do things his way. You can make a difference, though. Take those relations of yours and rattle 'em 'til their teeth fly, if that's what it takes, but we cannot have any more terror below decks. They might listen to you."

"Aye, sir, consider it done," Braxton vowed.

"Do you have any influence over him?" Lewrie asked, flicking a hand towards the sleeping coach.

"Not much there, sir. Sorry. Believe me, I have tried to warn him before." Braxton shook his head sorrowfully. "I've tried as son. I've tried as a commission sea officer, a fellow professional. There are some things he simply cannot abide to hear."

'Then God help us, when he's back in charge, Mister Braxton. Do what you can, there. We'll have the other officers in now. And once we've made formal declaration of the change in command, we'll hoist the 'Easy.' From noon today 'til end of the second dog tomorrow, say. I think our crew's earned it, don't you?"

"They have, indeed, sir," Braxton almost smiled.

Lewrie swiveled the log book about so he could read it. He took up the pen and dipped it. "There is, I believe, Mister Braxton, space enough for me to amend my statement about you, after all."

"Sir?" Braxton frowned warily.

'To note the fact that you were most unfairly placed in an impossible position, between direct orders from a captain, and from a father. And were forced to choose whether to obey, disobey or to take no action at all. I think that may best explain your actions. And soften Our Lords Commissioners back home."

'Thankee, sir," Braxton shuddered with gratitude. "Thankee!"

"Assuming, of course, you perform as first lieutenant to my satisfaction," Lewrie both tempted and put on notice, "I do believe that when I've relinquished authority to our rightful captain, I can insert something more praiseworthy in the log."

"I will give you no cause for dissatisfaction, sir. None!"

There was a rap at the door, the bang of a musket butt on the desk outside. "Sah! Mister Midshipman Spendlove, SAH!"

"Enter," Lewrie replied coolly, with the tone of a captain.

"Sir, this note came off shore for you just now," the grinning imp reported, hat under his arm, and glancing about to see if rumours were true. "It smells very nice, Mister Lewrie, sir."

"Wonder how Naples looks from the masthead, Mister Spendlove?" Lewrie pretended to frown at him. "Horrid place to spend a whole day…. even for a japing monkey such as your wee self, hmm?" he asked as he opened the scented note paper, sealed with a florid daub of wax and addressed in an ornate, high-flown hand.

"Sorry, sir," Spendlove swore, ducking his head properly, though he looked anything but contrite as Lewrie quickly perused his note.

"I will be going ashore for dinner, Mister Braxton," Lewrie told him, stuffing the note in a pocket quickly. "Some… ah, further palaver with the local authorities," he lied.

"You will wish the captain's gig, sir?" Braxton asked.

"Not mine to borrow, really," Lewrie decided. "The jolly-boat'11 suit. I should return, hmm… sundown, I should think."

He didn't really expect to get another "all-night-in" with Emma Hamilton; nor was he sure he could stand another whole night of prattle. No, an afternoon'd suffice. Watch her do her "Attitudes," of course. And then beg off, pleading too much ship's business.

And Lord knows, he sighed, there's more'n enough o' that!