King, Ship, and Sword

CHAPTER SIX

As if things weren't gloomy enough! No sooner had Lewrie gotten to his cabins, now almost stripped of all his goods, and filled with piles of chests, crates, and boxes, than he had to deal with Pettus, his steward, and Whitsell, his twelve-year-old cabin boy.

"Hot coffee and a dollop of brandy with, sir," Pettus offered, his own canvas bag, his tight-rolled bedding and hammock, and his sea-chest before the door of the wee pantry.

"Thankee, Pettus," Lewrie replied, taking a welcome sip.

"Uhm, sir… might you be needing my services ashore once the paying-off is done?" Pettus asked rather tentatively.

"I do need a man, aye, Pettus, are you of a mind," Lewrie told him. "Couldn't ask for a better, really."

"Well, sir, I'd rather not, if you could find another," Pettus replied, looking cutty-eyed. "For I was of a mind to go to Portsmouth… to look up Nan, if she's still employed there. I've a fair amount of pay due me, enough to keep me for a time before taking service with some household, and… "

"And take up with the girl where you left off, aye, I see. If you need a letter of recommendation…," Lewrie said.

"That'd be most welcome, sir, thank you," Pettus said, perking up with relief. "Sorry to let you down, sir, but… 'twas only drink and the

Press Gang that made a sailor of me, an accident, that, not in my usual nature. If it's peace, I don't intend to go to sea again."

"I'll write it for you right now," Lewrie said, going to what little was left of his desk in his day-cabin. There to find Whitsell, idly playing with Toulon and Chalky, and looking hang-dog miserable.

"C… could ye pen one fer me, too, sir?" Whitsell plaintively enquired. "I'll need a place, meself, without the Navy."

Wee Whitsell was an orphan, a street waif who'd been begging on the streets of Yarmouth when Captain Speaks's recruiting "rondy" in a pier-side tavern had scooped him up almost two years before. Whitsell had eat his best meals, his only regular meat, aboard ship, and had no prospects in civilian life except for poverty, starvation, and exploitation. "Aye, one for you as well, Whitsell," Lewrie promised.

"Back to Yarmouth, Will?" Pettus asked the lad.

"Well, I dunno…," Whitsell waffled, looking down at his scuffling shoes.

"Might come to Portsmouth with me," Pettus suggested, grinning. "A gentleman's servant, and a page or link-boy, together. Or Mister Nettles." "Nettles?" Lewrie asked, intent on his writing.

"He's a standing offer as head cook for a posting house in his old town, sir," Pettus told him. "In Ipswich. Nettles might have need of an assistant… an apprentice, Will. Learn to be what the French call a chef? It ain't a bad life, head of a grand kitchen, with grub on either hand, whenever you like, hey?"

"Aye, I'd like that!" Whitsell exclaimed, beaming with joy and avarice for hot vittles. "Ya kin stay warm in kitchens!"

"He'll be missed, by God," Lewrie told them. "I've never eat so well aboard any ship at sea in my life."

There came a rap on the deck outside his cabin door. Lt. Eades and his Marine detachment had departed days before, so one of the Ship's Corporals, either Duncan or Luck, now stood guard over his privacy.

"Th' Cox'n an' Landsman Furfy t'see th' cap'm, sir!"

"Enter!" Lewrie bade in a loud voice.

In came Liam Desmond, a dark-haired, blue-eyed "Black" Irishman, and his long-time mate, the overgrown great pudding Patrick Furfy. Both were turned out as fresh as Sunday Divisions in taped short sailors' jackets, flat tarred hats in their hands, clean chequered shirts, snowy white slop-trousers, and their shore-going best blacked buckled shoes and clean stockings.

"Beggin' th' Captain's pardons, sor," Liam Desmond, easily the sharper of the two, began with a bright-eyed grin on his phyz, "but me an' Furfy, here, we're a'wond'rin' if ye'd have any need o' us ashore, sir, oncet th' auld girl's paid off, d'ye see? I'm minded that ye've a farm, where a brace o' stout, hard workers'd be welcome. If ye've beasties, Furfy here's yer man, sor. He could charm a chargin' bull to a kitten, for so I've seen him done, sure, sor… "

"You wouldn't enter a merchantman, Desmond?" Lewrie asked as he sat back in his chair and took a sip of his laced coffee. He felt an urge to smile, for Desmond was laying on "the auld brogue" thick, as he usually did when "working a fiddle," or talking himself, or Furfy, out of trouble. "Or take the opportunity to go back to Ireland for a spell? See your home folk?" he asked with a solemn face, instead.

"Faith, sor, dear as we'd desire t'see Erin, agin, well sor…," Desmond said with a brief appalled expression and a disarming shrug, "they may be, ah… some back home who'd take exception t'th' sight o' us… do ye git me meanin', sor, so that might not be a good idee."

The law, a jilted girl, Lewrie wryly surmised; one with a bastard or two… or the Army, lookin for escaped rebels from the '98 uprising

"As fer merchant masters, arrah, they're a skin-flint lot, sor, nothin' a'tall like yer foin self, sor, an' Furfy an' me've got used t'gettin' paid an' fed regular. So, sor, do ye have need of us, we'd be that glad t'keep on in yer service, Cap'm sor," Desmond concluded.

"As a matter of fact, Desmond, Pettus here just told he that he plans to 'swallow the anchor' and take civilian domestic service back in Portsmouth, so I do have need of a man," Lewrie told him. "As for Furfy, though… "

Desmond swelled with happy anticipation, though he got a frown on his face when Lewrie mentioned his mate.

"You're good with horses, Furfy? With all manner of beasts?"

"Wi' me Mam's pigs an' chickens, sor," Furfy piped up, almost pleading to convince him, sharing a worried look with Desmond that he might be separated from him. "An' me first job o' work when I was but a lad was stableman, Cap'm sor. Nursed many a horse, colt, calf, or lamb through th' bad patches, sor, an', ah… " Furfy swallowed loudly, as if he'd lose Desmond, the one mate who looked after him.

"Th' critters follow 'im round loik a Noah, sor, so they do," Desmond stuck in quickly, "don't they, Pat? An' even fightin' dogs go puppy-sweet on 'im."

"Better a stableman I already know than one I'd hire blind back in Anglesgreen," Lewrie decided, relenting with a smile. "So be it, me lads. After all, somebody has t'keep an eye out for Furfy, and keep him in mid-channel. You've done the work before, when we coached to Yarmouth t'join. Well, we're off to London again for a few days at the Madeira Club, then down to Surrey. I trust that Anglesgreen won't be too rustic for you? It's a small and quiet place. Only the two taverns, the last I know of it, and I'm not welcome in one of em."

"They've a good local ale, sor?" Furfy asked.

"A hellish-good ale, Furfy," Lewrie assured him.

"Fine with us, sor," Desmond exclaimed, sealing the bargain.

Barely had Desmond and Furfy turned to go when there came another rap outside his door. "Mister Harper, from the Port Admiral's office, t'see the Cap'm, sir!"

"Enter!"

The senior official ducked under the overhead deck beams as he clumped aft to Lewrie's desk. "The mustering-out is done, sir."

"Very well, Mister Harper," Lewrie said, taking a peek at the face of his pocket-watch just as One Bell of the Day Watch was struck up forrud at the belfry. "Coffee with a splash of brandy?"

"That'd be most welcome, sir, welcome indeed," Harper said with joy, rubbing chilled hands together in anticipation. No matter those modern Franklin-pattern stoves, a few feet away from them and the cold belowdecks could be a damp misery.

"Pettus, a laced coffee for Mister Harper, then pass word to the First Lieutenant," Lewrie instructed. "He is to have 'All Hands' piped, then 'Clear Decks and Up-Spirits.' The Purser's parsimony bedamned," he added with a grin.

"Aye, sir."

"This damnable peace with the Frogs won't last," Harper griped after a deep sip and an appreciative sigh.

"Not above a year," Lewrie sourly agreed. "The only reason Bonaparte asked for peace was to re-gather his forces, build up his Navy again, after the way we've savaged it since Ninety-Three."

"Perhaps two years, Captain Lewrie," Harper countered. "After all, he's a lot of building, and re-building, to do, and a proper navy is like Rome… not built in a single day."

"Aye, two years, then," Lewrie gloomed. "Refit what he already has and get them to sea in early Spring… drill and train their officers and sailors at sea, for a change, 'stead of harbour drill. Send squadrons round the world to re-claim all the colonies we've conquered so far. I haven't seen a newspaper, yet, regarding what we are to surrender to them. Have you?

"Nothing official yet, no," Mr. Harper admitted. "Though I am sure we must restore all French West Indies islands, Cape Town and all that to the Dutch… the Guyanas in South America, too. Lord, when the war erupts, we'll have to do it all over again. Senseless! Plain senseless!"

"Makes one dearly miss Pitt as Prime Minister," Lewrie scoffed. "Even Henry Dundas as Secretary of State for War… the arrogant coxcomb!"

They both took deep sips of their drinks, in silence for a bit, each wondering why the new administration had felt it necessary to end the war when England held the upper hand.

"I've only de-commissioned one ship, long ago, Mister Harper, so I may be a tad rusty when it comes to the details," Lewrie confessed. "Now the mustering-out of the crew is done… what?"

"The boats come to fetch the hands off will ferry aboard an officer in charge," Harper told him, shifting clubman fashion in his seat and crossing a leg. "Most-like, a deserving old tarpaulin man with no future prospects. He will bear orders and will read himself in as the ship's new captain, relieving you. A full-pay retirement for some old fellow."

"Midshipman Furlow, sir!" his sentry shouted, rapping the deck with a musket butt.

"Mister Farley's duty, sir," Furlow reported crisply, hat under his arm, "and he reports that a string of oared barges are making their way to us. Mister Farley also reports that the Purser is prepared to serve out the rum ration, and that the Bosun is standing by to pipe the 'All Hands' and the 'Clear Decks and Up-Spirits,' sir."

"Very well, Mister Furlow," Lewrie said, finishing his coffee, and rising. "My compliments to Mister Farley, and I shall be on deck directly."

"Aye aye, sir."

The red-painted rum keg had just emerged on deck, its colour, and the gilt-paint royal seal of the Crown, with the gilt letters spelling out KING GEORGE III and GOD BLESS HIM the only vivid sight on a bleak and grey winter's day. Honoured much like the Ark of the Covenant was by the Israelites, it made its stately way forrud to the break of the forecastle before the belfry, past Able and Ordinary Seamen and Landsmen, ship's servants and powder monkeys, petty officers and rated men, all of whom were now in a festive mood, eager to depart the ship and gruelling naval service… but just as eager to drink their last issue of rum to warm their short voyage to the docks.

"Any debts left?" Lewrie cried out. "If there are, they are to be forgiven! Before we go our separate ways, Thermopylaes will splice the main-brace one last time!"

That raised a great cheer.

"I don't know if we can trust the Corsican tyrant, Bonaparte, to keep the peace for long, lads," he went on, "but if England does face a future conflict, I can't imagine a surer way t'keep that snail-eatin' bastard awake nights than for him to know that the men of Thermopylae are at sea, and that eager t'rip the guts out of the best his navy can send against us!

"Wherever you light, you can be proud of what you accomplished here aboard Thermopylae" Lewrie told them after another great cheer had subsided. "I'm proud of you, and proud that even for a short time I was permitted to be your captain. Don't let the job-"

"Three cheers fer Cap'm Lewrie, hip hip!" interrupted him.

"A cup for you, sir?" Lt. Farley asked, for this once, the rum issue had made its way to the quarterdeck.

"Aye," Lewrie eagerly agreed.

And once the ship's crew had settled, Lewrie concluded, "Thank you kindly, men. I was about t'say, don't let the jobbers cheat you… Don't spend it all the first night… Make sure the doxy doesn't have three hands and pick your pockets blind… and go see your kin before you let yourselves get crimped!

"To Thermopylae… to you… and to us!" he shouted, lifting the wee brass rum cup to his lips and tossing its contents back whole.

Don't… cough! he chid himself, for the neat rum, with but a ha'porth of water to "grog" it this time, almost made his eyes water.

"Dismiss the hands, Mister Farley," Lewrie ordered, once he had control of his vocal chords again.

"Aye aye, sir! Ship's company… dismiss! Good luck and Godspeed to one and all!"

Taking leave of his officers, warrants, and midshipmen was much more genteel; handshakes and doffings of hats, a brief jape or two to the "younkers," and wishes for good fortune, promotion, another active sea commission soon, and hopes to serve together again someday.

"My Jack-in-the Breadroom's made arrangements for your cartage, sir," Mr. Pridemore told Lewrie, "and there will be a good-sized barge alongside within the hour for all your dunnage."

"Might have to make it two barges, Mister Pridemore," he had to confess. "The dockyard won't accept the stoves, and thinks I must send them on to Captain Speaks at mine own expense."

"Oh, really, sir?" Pridemore said, brightening. "If that is so, sir, might I suggest that you leave all that to me, for I have Captain Speaks's address, already, and made arrangements for most of his goods to be sent on to his home in Yorkshire months ago."

Just knew it'd be a long, long way off! Lewrie told himself.

"In point of fact, sir," Pridemore went on, "two of them would be more than welcome whilst we're laid up in-ordinary this winter. If I… lease them from Captain Speaks for my comfort, and the comfort of my fellow ship-keepers, it goes without saying," the Purser quickly added, "and, so long as we purchase our own coal, the dockyard people can have no objection, d'ye see, sir?"

"That leaves me two t'haul off," Lewrie glumly replied.

"Well, not really, sir," Mr. Pridemore schemed on, "not if Captain Speaks authorises me to sell them for him. So many warships laid up in-ordinary… so many shivering ship-keepers right here in Sheerness, or a quick sail up to the Chatham Ordinary? I'm certain their usefulness, and their rarity, shall allow me to turn a good profit, to the benefit of Captain Speaks, and myself, of course. All that is needful is for you to sign a chit consigning Captain Speaks's property to me, and all's aboveboard, so to speak."

"Really? That'd do it?" Lewrie marvelled, though there was the dread that Pridemore was a Purser, a skillful man of Business and Trade after all, and undertook nothing without a scheme to "get cheap, then sell dear." Pursers were not called "Nip Cheeses" for nothing!

"Do it admirably, sir," Pridemore assured him. "And, whilst we are at it, I believe the Russian gentlemen gifted you with nigh half a bargeload of dainties and luxury goods? Should you wish to dispose of some of them, and save yourself the carting fee to the London market, where you are certain to be 'scalped,' I assure you, Captain, for I am a veteran, and a victim, of sharp practices in the city."

"Not a big market for Roosky vodka, Mister Pridemore," Lewrie said, now sure that he might be being "scalped" on his own quarterdeck, "nor for caviar and pate in Sheerness, I'd think, though. And, there is some of it I'd like to haul along home."

"But of course, sir!" Pridemore said with a little laugh, "for so would I. The bulk of it, though, I could purchase from you."

"With the bill of sale, though…," Lewrie said, reminded by the word bulk, as in "breaking bulk cargo"; unlawful for a warship to do aboard a ship made prize, and the penalty for landing captured goods. "There are the King's Custom Duties to be paid. Do you undertake to pay them, once the goods are transferred to your possession, and note such in your bill of sale… "

Did I just pinch his testicles? Lewrie had to wonder, to see a brief wince twitch Pridemore's face.

"But, of course, sir, it shall be as you say," Pridemore agreed.

"Let's go below and sort it all out, then," Lewrie suggested, "and have my clerk, Georges, draw up the paperwork, with copies to all before I depart."

Whew! Lewrie thought; once bitten, twice shy. Maybe with age wisdom does come. The last thing I need is another brush with the law over smuggled goods!