The King`s Commission

Chapter 1

His vouchers and records were under his arm, and in order in a sailcloth bundle. He had traded off his midshipman's rigs, sold that now decidedly shoddy dirk that had once gleamed with "gold," and had his new uniforms in his sea chest.

There had been a need to dip into his hidden cache of guineas to pay for his new finery, to equip himself with the luxury of a personal telescope, cases of wine, fresh cabin stores such as cheese and jam. And he had spent money on his man Cony's rig as well; new shoes and buckles (pinch-beck but serviceable), a new tarred hat, short blue jacket with brass buttons and slop trousers.

He had not gotten much sleep, in the end. Between the party that had turned into a drunken brawl, his escape, his passionate night with Dolly, which had lasted until dawn, and then a hectic round of chores, he was just about done in. Up and out on a crust of bread and a single cup of tea to move her to his old lodgings, which were a bit more expensive but much nicer and more refined. A quick meeting with his shore agent to deal with her affairs with her husband's regiment, a gift of twenty pounds to get her settled and tide her over until she could sell Roger Fenton's commission. And, lastly, a quiet word with the agent to tell him to advance her no more than absolutely necessary if she could not sell it.

At least, he decided, gaining his first easy breath of the day in the hired boat, he did not have a debilitating hangover. Her send-off, while the coach waited in the street to take him to the docks, had damned near killed him, and had he partaken as heavily as Ashburn and the others the night before, she damned well might have then and there.

"Da's de Shrike, sah," the black boatman told him as he sculled his small bum-boat across the still harbor at first light. Around them the watch-bells chimed from over thirty vessels as the morning watch ended and the forenoon began. Alan consulted his pocket watch and grunted in satisfaction that he would report aboard his new ship just a few minutes after the last stroke of eight in the morning.

Shrike, he could see as they got close, was foreign in origin, probably a prize. She sported two masts crossed with square-sail yards, but on her after main-mast he could espy a brailed-up sail on the lowest yard, the cro'jack, which on the three-masters he had served was usually bare. On a brig, though, they would need that main course for more speed, for there would be only the fore-course forward which might be winded if the ship sailed in a stern or quarter wind. Her spanker boom and gaff were also much larger than anything he had seen before, and were fixed to an upright spar doubled to the main-mast, which officially made her a snow instead of a brig, possibly an alteration any captain could make in the rig of his ship without upsetting higher authorities, as long as it did not cost the local dockyard too much in government funds or supplies.

Shrike's jib-boom and bow-sprit were different also, steeved at a much less acute angle to the deck, which would give her larger heads'ls, and, with the big spanker, more windward ability.

"Damme, but she's a shabby old bitch," he was forced to admit to Cony.

The hull was dark, almost black, but, like an old coat, showing a rusty brown tinge from years of exposure to weather and gallons of paint and Unseed oil. The gunwale stripe might at one time have been buff, but had faded to a scabbed and blistered dingy off-white. And where one expected to see gilt paint around the beakhead, entry port and transom carvings, white lead had been applied in lieu of a prosperous captain's gold. Her masts, though, and her running and standing rigging, were in excellent shape, bespeaking a captain poor in pelf, not care.

"Shrike, the butcher bird," Alan commented to Cony as he spotted the figurehead and pointed it out. The bird's wings were fanned back as part of the upper beakhead rail supports, clawed feet extended in the moment of seizure of prey, and the hooked bill open to reveal a red tongue. It too needed a paint job to restore the white, grey and brown tones of the real bird.

"Seen 'nough of 'em at 'ome, sir." Cony grinned in remembrance of his forest-running days in Gloucestershire. "Spikes their kills ta thorn bushes. Mayhap we'll be a'spikin' some Frogs an' Dagoes the same, sir."

"We'll see."

"Ahoy the boat!" came a call from Shrike's entry port.

"Aye aye!" Cony bawled back at them, showing the requisite number of fingers to alert their new ship's side-party to the proper show of respect to be presented.

The bum-boat chunked against the ship's side, and the native bargee and Cony held her fast to the chains while Alan squared himself away and took hold of the man-ropes, which were hung old-style from the entry port, without being strung through the boarding ladder battens. It wasn't much of a climb, though, nothing as tall as a frigate's sides, and he made it easily without tangling his hanger between his legs or otherwise embarrassing himself.

The bosun's pipes began to squeal and the Marines slapped their muskets to "present arms" as his head came up over the deck edge, and he was about to congratulate himself on arriving with the proper amount of dignity. It was at that moment that an impressively large ginger ram-cat with pale gold eyes of a most evil cast accosted him at the lip of the entry port. The cat took one look at him, bottled up, arched his back, laid back his ears and uttered a loud trilling growl of challenge.

"Fuck you, too," Alan gasped, almost startled from his grip on the man-ropes. "Shoo. Scat!"

The cat took a swipe at him, then ran off forward with a howl, there to take guard upon the bulwarks and wash himself furiously as he thought up a way to get even.

"Lieutenant Lewrie, come aboard to join," Alan said, once he was safely on his feet on the upper deck. There was very little gangway overlooking the waist, just high enough above the upper deck to clear the guns.

"Ah'm Fukes, the bosun, sir," a male gorilla in King's Coat told him, knuckling his rather prominent brow ridge from which sprouted a solid thicket of white eyebrows over a face only a mother could love. "This'ere's Mister Caldwell, the sailin' master. Lef'ten't Walsham o' the Marines… an' you'll be the new first lef'ten't, sir?"

"Yes, I suppose I am. I'd admire if you could lend my man Cony a hand with my dunnage. Is the captain aboard?"

"Aye, sir, 'e's aft in 'is cabins. Ah'll 'ave ya took there directly, sir," Fukes went on, turning to pause and spit a large dollop of tobacco juice into a spit kid. "'Ere, Mister Rossyngton, show the first officer aft."

"Aye aye, sir," a rather well turned out midshipman answered. "This way, if you will, sir."

Some ship! Alan thought with a sudden qualm of nerves. Fukes and the other senior warrants he had seen on the gangway had been much of a kind; overaged, craggy and white-haired, way senior to him in sea experience. Caldwell, the sailing master, was a gotch-bellied little minnikin in his fifties with square spectacles at the tip of his nose.

Walsham, the Marine officer, was only a second lieutenant, a boy who appeared no older than the run-of-the-mill midshipman, while his sergeant looked old enough to have helped shoot Admiral Byng in the last war. And the doddering old colt's-tooth who sported a carpenter's apron and goggled a drooling smile at him in passing had to be seventy years old if he was a day!

"Mister Pebble, the ship's carpenter, sir. Mister Pebble, the first officer, Lieutenant Lewrie," Rossyngton introduced smoothly.

"Ah de do, sir, ah de do!" the oldster gammered through a nearly toothless mouth, what little hair he had left on his bare head waving like strands of cotton in the slight wind. "A' firs' un died, ye know, o' the quinsy, warn't it. Mister Rossyngton?"

"His heart, Mister Pebble," Rossyngton prompted.

"Ah, 'twuz Curtiss died o' quinsy. Shame, Mister Lewrie, young man like Tuckwell a'dyin', an' 'im not fifty," Pebble maundered wetly.

"Do they do a lot of dying aboard Shrike?" Alan asked as Rossyngton led him below to the cabins under the quarterdeck.

Rossyngton hid his smirk well, not sure of what sort his new first lieutenant was. "They keep you awake at night, expiring with loud thuds, sir."

"Ah," Alan managed to say, fighting manfully to keep a straight and sober face as was proper to a ship's officer. Rossyngton looked to be the product of a good family, a manly get of about seventeen or so years, and someone with whom Lewrie would have felt at home in shared outlook; and by the devilish glint in Rossyngton's blue eyes, he would have been a mirthful companion, were circumstances different.

The Marine sentry at the cabin doors announced him loudly with a smart crash of his musket butt, and a voice bade Lewrie enter.

Well, he ain't Noah, there's a blessing, Alan thought as he beheld his new master and commander.

Lieutenant Lilycrop had to be the oldest junior officer that Alan had ever laid eyes on, and he had seen some beauties in his time. He was near sixty, with a face as withered as an ill-used work glove, a pug-nosed, apple-cheeked Father Christmas whose chest and belly had merged into a massive appliance round as iron shot. He wore his own hair instead of a wig, and that hair was curly and cotton-white, but clubbed back into a seaman's queue that even plaited reached down to his middle back. Lost in the mass of wrinkles about his eyes, two bright orbs of brown could now and then be glimpsed.

"Lieutenant Lewrie, sir. Come aboard to join, sir," he said, producing his ornate commission document which warned "… nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril," his orders from the flag to come aboard, and his pay and certificates.

"Well, sit you down, young sir," Lilycrop growled in a voice gone stentorian and hoarse from a lifetime of barking orders. "Mind the kitty."

Alan halted his descent into the chair and looked down to see a black cat stretched out in the seat, tail lazily curling and uncurling like a short commissioning pendant. Not knowing what to do, and never being terribly fond of cats anyway, he gently shoved it out of the chair so it could hop down on its own with a small meow of disappointment.

"That's Henrietta, oh she's a shy 'un, she is, but she'll take to you soon enough," Lilycrop said, beaming at the black cat, dropping into baby-talk as he addressed her directly. "Henrietta takes time to make up her mind about people, yes she does, don't you, sweetlin'. Now Samson, here"-Lilycrop changed tone to introduce Alan to a black-and-white-and-grey parti-colored ram-cat which had jumped up onto his desk to be stroked and picked up-"Now Samson, he's a standoff-ish young lout, won't have truck with none but me, d'y'see? There's a good boy."

Goddamme, somebody in the flagship must have it in for me in the worst way, Alan sighed to himself. I've seen saner people eat bugs in Bedlam. Was there some back I didn't piss down right? Some grudge getting paid back on me? Did they mix me up with somebody with two heads? God rot 'em, I thought I'd go the least senior officer into a real ship, not this… Ark!

"Let's see what he's made of, this young'un of ours, Samson."

While Lilycrop bent over to peruse his records, Alan took the time to look about the cabin, and it was spartan in the extreme. Paint the color of old cheese coated the walls and interior partitions, the result of mixing what was left over from various lots. The deck was covered by sailcloth painted in black-and-white squares, and plain sailcloth made up the curtains over the stern windows. But there was no embroidered coverlet over the hanging bed-box, no padded cushions on the transom settee. The desk, the dining table, the chairs, were all harshly simple and dull, as utilitarian as a wash-hand stand. There was no wine cabinet present, and Alan suffered another qualm as he considered that his new captain was one of those evangelizing tee-totalers.

The sword that hung on the pegs on the wall next to a shabby grogram watch coat was a heavy, older straight sword more suitable for an infantry officer in a Highland regiment. Evidently, Lieutenant Lilycrop did not have two farthings to rub together other than Naval pay, and that none too good for a lieutenant in command of a small ship below the Rate. Come to think on it, mine's low enough at two shillings six pence a day. Alan grimaced. What does he get, four or five at best?

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom of the cabins, he could see that there were more cats present; a lot more. Cats of every color and constitution, some old and grizzled from fights and amours, some spry and young, and at least four kittens being nursed by their mother on the captain's berth. And there was a barely perceptible-odor.

"Ah, you've done a lot in a little over two years' service," Lilycrop finally commented, laying down the documents. "But not much more practical experience than a half-cooked midshipman."

"Aye, sir. Sorry if I do not please, but I shall endeavor to do so as we progress together," Alan said, on guard at once but making keen noises.

"A fledglin' just outa the nest. Nay, more a chick fresh from the shell," Lilycrop maundered. "My last first officer… oh, now there was a tarry-handed young cock… 'twas sorry I was to lose him. But, we do what we can with what we're given, an' if the flag says you're to be first lieutenant into Shrike, then growl I may, but agree I must."

Damme, I ain't that bad, Alan thought sourly. And if he don't like the cut of my jib, can't he toss me back for someone else to catch?

"Aye, sir," he replied, noncommittal.

"Well, sir." Lilycrop left his sulks and got suddenly and alarmingly business-like. "Shrike is Dutch-built, took by my last ship off St. Eustatius a year ago. She's eighty foot on the range of the deck, ninety-eight foot from taffrail to bow-sprit, an' you'll note she's beamy, like most Dutchies-twenty-seven foot abeam. Barely ten foot deep in the hold, of two hundred and ten tons burthen. She wasn't a fast sailer 'til I had her jib-boom an' sprit steeved lower, an' larger fores'ls cut. We added the horse an' the short trys'l mizzen to the main-mast to make her more weatherly, so she's a snow, now, tho' still rated as a brig-rigged sloop. Started out a tradin' brig, made of good Hamburg oak. She don't work much in heavy seas, don't need much pumpin' out, an' bein' just a quim-hair under ten-foot draught, an' her quick-work flatter'n any English shipwright'd loft her up, she can go places another ship'd dread to go. You'll find her a fiddler's bitch close-hauled, but she'll weather and head reach on any fuckin' frigate that ever swum, an' off the wind long's you keep her quartered, an' not 'both sheets aft,' she'll run to loo'rd like a starvin' whore. But I warn ye now, take your eyes off her to play with yourself just a second, an' she'll scare hell out of you if you let her have her head. Flat down wind, we've had her surf up her own bow-wave in a half-gale, an' that with the main course brailed up, and if you let her get away, she'll broach on you faster'n you can say 'damn my eyes, ain't my fault.'"

"I see, sir." Alan marveled at the change that had come over Lieutenant Lilycrop as he got on professional matters.

"We've two little four-pounders on the fo'c'sle, all she'll take for end weight, and only twelve six-pounders for the main battery, and two of those shifted aft into my quarters to get her stern trimmed down so the fuckin' rudder'll bite, so she's not so crank. So she'll tack right smart now. She looks en flute, 'cause there were two more guns aft once, but they wuz bronze trash I'd have no truck with, so I had 'em put ashore. Two gunports right forward on the weather deck're empty, too, to lift her bows proper. Damned Yankees, tryin' to make a sixteen-gunned privateer out o' her. Silly fools. Yankee Doodles. Ya know, the Jonathons, the Rebels," Lilycrop explained as he used the nickname with which Alan was not familiar.

"Aha," Alan nodded.

"Pierced for sweeps along the gangways above the gun deck, too. You'll find 'em damned handy for workin' outa harbor, or off a lee, but with so little quick-work you'd best not try 'em when it's too windy or she'll get away from you under bare poles. Ever use sweeps?"

"No, sir," Alan had to admit.

"Well, shit," Lilycrop grumbled.

"Sorry, sir, you were saying?"

"Like most ships commissioned from prizes on foreign stations, Shrike has her share of no-hopers." Lilycrop frowned. "Most of her warrants are a bit spavined, but with lots of practical experience. My crew was as scrofulous a lot as I've ever seen, even after my former captain let me have ten prime hands from old Bonaventure, the usual surly and slack-jawed louts you'd expect, with more'n average her number of Island Blacks, and half of those probably runaway slaves in the first place. But we've pulled together, and I'll touch 'em up sharp when needed. I'm not a Tartar when it comes to plyin' the cat, but I by God'll flay a man raw when he needs it, not like some of these Goddamn psalm-singin' hedge-priests in disguise you see clutterin' up quarterdecks these days. I don't splice the mainbrace nor cosset the people 'less I see a choir of angels to larboard announcing the Apocalypse. You're not a hedge-priest are you now, Lewrie?"

"Hell no, sir." Alan grinned. "Ow!"

Henrietta had made up her mind that his leg, encased in brand new silk stocking, was a scratching post.

"Ah, she's takin' to you, good girl," Lilycrop said softly, laying his head to one side in admiration of his cat. "Let her have a little lap to make friends with you. Go on, pick her up. She'll purr like a snare drum. Now, you ain't a Tartar, either, are you?"

"No, sir," Alan said, gingerly lifting the cat from his side to sit in his lap, where Henrietta began to lay down her head and rub to mark him, scattering a handful of black fur on his snowy-white breeches. "Firm but fair was the motto I was taught, sir."

"Good for you, then, laddie," Lilycrop nodded agreeably. "Now, as to the people. Caldwell is a sour little shit-sack, but a good master, a bit of a hymn-singer and in another life he'd turn evangel on us, so don't plan on getting much joy out of him in the wardroom. Walsham, well, he's a tailor's dummy, God help him, but what can you expect from Marines. His sergeant is good, though, but deaf as a country magistrate. Master gunner Mister Cox is a sharp'un, and Fukes is a good bosun, but we're thin in mates. Mister Lewyss the surgeon is competent but a horrid drinker, bein' Welsh, and if I hear that damned harp and his quavery fuckin' voice lollopin' out those mournful dirges in the mess past eight bells o' the second dog, I'll kick your young arse so you can kick his. Mister Henry Biggs the purser is the biggest weasel I've ever come across, and that's sayin' somethin' after fifty year at sea, man and boy. You'll watch him like a hawk, and if you discover how he prospers, you'll be the first. Midshipmen're just about what you'd expect, one stupid as cow-pats and t'other too clever for his own good."

"That would be Rossyngton, the clever one, sir?" Alan said as Henrietta draped herself over his chest like a warm blanket and began to vibrate and snore, her paws kneading his shirt front with sharp little claws.

"You're smart as paint, Lewrie. T'other, Mister Edgar, is not too long off the dung wagon, and I s'pect if it was rainin' claret he'd have a colander to catch it in, and he'd drop that. Clumsy young bastard. Stepped on Pitt's tail t'other day."

"Who, sir?"

"The ginger torn lives forrard."

"We've met, sir," Alan stated.

"Worst disposition in a cat I've ever seen," Lilycrop confessed. "Know why I named him Pitt, hey?"

"No, sir."

"Because I absolutely despise the bastard!" Lilycrop boomed with a short bark of laughter at his own wit. "Rapacious, sir, most rapacious mouser I've ever seen. Got the soul of a master-at-arms, though. Come to think of it, those are good traits in a Prime Minister, too."

"With so many cats aboard, I should think Shrike would not be plagued with rodents like other ships, sir."

"Their tribe stand no chance of prosperin'," Lilycrop boasted.

"Then what do the midshipmen eat, sir?" Alan asked.

"Ha ha, you're a wag, sir!" Lilycrop boomed again. "I can tell we'll get on, if there's a brain hidden behind all that dandy-prattery. Well, I'd expect you'd like to get settled into your cabin and get all squared away. You'll find my Order Book and all that bum fodder to look over, and then I expect you'll go over the ship and make your acquaintances, see what we have to work with, God help us."

"Thank you, sir."

"Got any questions, see me on the sly," Lilycrop commanded. "Can't let the people or the warrants think you're slack-witted or not experienced enough. Would you like a kitten?"

"Um, not right now, sir."

"You're not one of those people who can't abide the little darlin's, are you, Lewie?" Lilycrop looked at him sternly.

"Oh, no, sir," Alan assured him quickly. "It's just that none of my other ships ran to pets, and I do want to find my feet first."

"Well, keep it in mind, we've four new'uns ready for weanin' in a week or so. That'll be all, Lewrie."

"Aye aye, sir," Alan replied, standing up and trying to disentangle Henrietta from her death-grip on his shirt. She finally scaled his back, scratching him on the nape on her way down to the chair where she re-ensconced herself and began to wash.

Lilycrop turned to stare at a large, shallow wooden box by the quarter-gallery and bawled for his steward. "Gooch!"

"Aye, sir?" a wizened little mouse of a man asked, popping out of the captain's pantry by the chart-room.

"Cat shit, Gooch!"

"Aye aye, sir, right away, sir."

I've always believed it, Alan told himself as he pored over the captain's Order Book of set instructions in his small cabin. Not one captain on the face of this earth is dealing with a healthy mind. They're all daft as bats. This Lilycrop makes Treghues look sane as a banking house. What did I do to deserve this? Who did I fuck, who did I not fuck?

The officer's wardroom was not in the extreme stern in Shrike, but aft of the main-mast and ahead of stores rooms. As a single-deck ship, she had to cram all her holds and stores onto one deck, along with all her personnel accommodations. There was a solid deck under the fo'c'sle, broken aft of the galley into a capacious hold to allow her to stay at sea for up to three months. Seamen were berthed above the stores kegs and barrels on a temporary mess-deck flooring, swung in hammocks, with the last two rows furthest aft reserved for the Marine complement.

Aft of the Marines, there was room for the officers and senior warrants, with the main after hatch leading down just before the deal partitions that screened it off from the Marines. The captain was kept in his rather spartan splendor in what was called a hanging cabin under the highly steeved quarterdeck, which had a break much like a three-foot-high poop deck near the taffrail to give him standing headroom.

This cut the wardroom off from all sunlight, even though it was above the waterline, but the only openings to the outside were gunports that were kept tightly sealed unless the ship cleared for action.

Alan's cabin was right aft on the larboard side, hard up against the after bread room, spirit store and fish room, which added to the miasma of cat droppings and the usual human odors.

If he thought that promotion to lieutenant would get him any more splendor of his own, he was sadly mistaken. The cabin was six feet wide, which left room for a wash-hand stand and his sea chest, about six feet six inches long to accommodate a fixed berth raised up high enough to give him some storage underneath. Near the door at the foot of the bed there was a tiny portable writing desk, a three-tiered bookshelf already filled with the accumulated reading of an entire commission, and a stool to sit on while he wrote letters or conducted ship's business. Across from his cabin the surgeon, Dr. Lewyss, was housed. The next two cabins were for the sailing master to larboard, and the purser to starboard. Forward of those, the cabins got smaller to make walking space around the fixed dining table and the hatchway to the orlop stores. Walsham the Marine officer, the captain's clerk, Fukes the bosun, Cox the gunner and Mr. Pebble, the enfeebled carpenter, had those cabins. The spare cabin that completed the starboard tier was wardroom stores and the captain's servant and the wardroom servant swung their hammocks in there above the personal food and drink for the officers and warrants.

The many cats may have cut down on the usual rat population, but the ship teemed with cockroaches; small ones, admittedly, since the cats would chase anything large enough to entertain them.

The only blessing for the crew, who normally had only twenty-eight inches in which to sling a fourteen-inch-wide hammock, was that the ship was not at her full-rated complement of one hundred and ten people, but was six hands short in seamen, and four in servants, and that the Marine party, which would not normally be aboard so small a brig, was only sixteen privates, two corporals, a sergeant, and Walsham. Being rated a fourteen-gunned ship in official records could be a blessing.

Alan lay propped up on his bunk, reading. The surgeon was stoking up his harp and singing some Welsh song of unrequited misery, accompanied by someone on a flute who was as mournful a specter as the doctor. Alan didn't think he would enjoy wardroom life, if that was the best entertainment they had to offer. Besides, Lieutenant Railsford had warned him to stay aloof, hard as it would be on his congenial and garrulous nature. Eager as he was for companionship, and no matter how old the others were in the wardroom, he was senior to them, and could only damage his credibility and authority if he was to join in their simple pleasures. He was the captain's voice in all things, the one who would brook no dis-satisfaction with a captain's decisions or allow anyone to carp or cavil.

No wonder old Lieutenant Swift in Ariadne was such a dry stick, Alan sighed, wondering if he was up to all the demands that would be made on his abilities, getting lost in the knowledge that he was pretty much in charge of all the various punishments books, logs, charts, pay vouchers, rating certificates, prize certificates (damned few of those, he noted grimly), quarter-bills, watch bills, and professional records of the entire crew.

It really would have been much nicer to have been second officer in a slightly larger frigate than Desperate, even the fifth or sixth lieutenant in a ship of the line, where he could hide and enjoy the joyous spirit of a drunken officers' mess without having his young arse on the line at all hours.

The paper work was, as usual, putting his mind into full yawn, and he wasn't through half of it. Once more he felt as if a terrible mistake had been made by a clumsy or inattentive clerk in the flagship, putting such a pompous little fraud as himself into such responsibility. No matter what Railsford had said, he felt like a total sham only waiting for the awful moment of truth when he would be exposed to the world.

"Supper," the servant called from beyond the door.

He tossed the paper work to the foot of his bunk and shrugged into his coat to join the others. Cony was there helping out in serving, and the two midshipmen had come up from their small dungeon in the after orlop where they usually berthed with the surgeon's mate, master's mate and other junior warrants. Rossyngton looked presentable, but Alan had a chance to get a good look at Mr. Edgar, and he was a perfect example of pimply-faced perplexity, all elbows and huge feet, a uniform that appeared to be wearing him instead of the other way around, and that none too clean.

He was introduced to Biggs, the only senior warrant he had not met on his first rounds of the ship, and saw why the captain considered him a weasel. The purser was a slovenly man of middle height who gave an impression of being much shorter and rounder, due to his furtive posture and constantly shifting eyes and hands.

I wouldn't sport a bottle for any one of these bastards if I saw them parching in Hell, he thought glumly.

"As senior in the mess, may I propose a toast to our new arrival," Caldwell the sailing master intoned somberly.

"Senior, my eyes, damn yer blood," Mister Lewyss snapped.

"Don't let your dog-Latin go to your head, Lewyss," Caldwell cautioned. "I'm not much of a drinkin' man, but 'tis the spirit of the occasion."

"Since I am seated at the head of the table, let's have done with talk of who is senior, Mister Caldwell," Alan quipped. "And I thank you for your sentiments, but I would prefer if you give me first opportunity to propose a toast instead… to Shrike."

"Aye, to Shrike," they mumbled, a little abashed that Alan had too pointedly reminded them of just who was senior in the mess, young as he was.

Supper wasn't too bad, really. There was an Island pepperpot soup seasoned with every variety of pepper known to man and flavored with shredded bits of fish; roast kid and fresh bread instead of the usual hard biscuit, along with a wine that could only have been fermented from vinegar, cat droppings and bilge scrapings.

"My word, that's terrible," Alan sputtered after his first sip. "Mister Biggs, do you think this wine failed to travel well, or was it dead before boarding?"

"Nothing' wrong with this wine, young sir," Biggs stated as if he was addressing one of the midshipmen. "'Tis s not claret, but suitable for Navy issue from ashore, same's every other ship in harbor."

"The wine stinks, Mister Biggs," Alan said with as much severity as he could summon. "And you shall address me as 'sir,' without the added modifier of 'young.' It tastes to me as if it had been diluted with water, scrubbing vinegar, and a dollop of poor French brandy to give it a disguising character. Do you concur with that, Mister Lewyss? You're a medical man-see what your nose tells you."

"Ratafia for sure, sir," Lewyss said after dipping his long nose into his glass, and pointedly making sure that he addressed the first lieutenant correctly. "As to the water, it is not the usual kegged water from the holds, but it is a thin wine, that cannot be disputed, sir."

"How many gallons of this do we have aboard, Mister Biggs?"

"Um, of this particular lot, that is…?" Biggs got shifty.

"Yes, of this particular lot," Alan went on.

"Why, I believe there was thirty ten-gallon barricoes or so," Biggs replied in a much more humble tone of voice, almost wringing his hands, with his eyes shifting from one side of his plate to the other, unable to match glances with the others at the table. "Got a good price on the lot, but not so much as to make me suspicious of the seller's goods, sir."

"Tomorrow morning, following breakfast, you, the master's mate and the bosun shall hoist all of those barricoes out and taste them to determine their suitability. Mister Fukes, may I trust your palate in judging good wine or bad?"

"Oh, ah kin tell good wine, sir." The gorilla beamed, spreading his mouth so wide it looked like a hawse hole.

"Perhaps a medical opinion as well, sir," Lewyss volunteered.

"Thank you for your generous offer, Mister Lewyss, yes, you may consider yourself one of the judges. Now if it's all bad, mind, I want it condemned and returned to the seller. I shall inform the captain of unsuitable stores… I assume the hands are issued this poor excuse for Black Strap as well, Mister Biggs? Well, that'll never do. Turn it in and you'd best let Mister Lewyss and the bosun taste whatever you find in replacement. I trust this shall not upset your books too much."

It would be a bloody disaster! Biggs probably had not paid three shillings a gallon for the stuff, though the ship's books would show a larger sum, of that Alan was sure after being Mister Cheatham's pupil in Desperate long enough to learn how many "fiddles" an unscrupulous "pusser" could work. Biggs would make no money on this exchange.

"Cony, would you be so good as to go into my personal stores?" Alan bade his servant. "I took the precaution of providing myself with a small five-gallon keg of captured Bordeaux, and in place of this lot, I would be happy to offer it to assuage our thirsts, this evening at least. It's not a really fine vintage, but more palatable than this."

Biggs was the only one who did not cheer Alan's munificence, but he did put away a fair share of it when it arrived for decanting. Among eleven of them, it went fast, but there was opportunity to send ashore on the morrow for replacement, so Alan didn't think it a bad trade at all. He had stuck a baulk in Biggs's spokes, put him on guard that he would be closely scrutinized from then on, and in so doing to one of their number most despised (as most pursers were), had won a slight bit of grudging respect from the other members of his mess for such sagacity in one so young.

After supper, though, after he had stifled Lewyss and his infernal harp, and Walsham's bloody flute, there were still ship's books to study. He was the only one to keep a lamp burning after the 8 p.m. lights out, listening to the others fart in their sleep, belch, groan and snore prodigiously, listening to the ship as she creaked now and then, and the sound of the harbor watch on the deck over his head, the chime of the bells as time progressed-and several slanging matches between cats who had decided on animosity during their nocturnal turns of the deck.

There wasn't much in the Punishment Book, the log of defaulters and how many strokes they had received for their sins, at least not in the last few months. Ships' crews usually settled down after a while, even the worst collections of cut-throats, cut-purses and foot-pads, once they got used to a master and his ways. There were no entries for less than two dozen lashes, except in the case of boy-servants and the midshipmen, who got caned bent over a gun with a more gentle rope starter. But there were also several entries for three dozen, four dozen, mostly for fighting or drunkenness or sleeping on watch, and some rare insubordination. A captain could not impose more than two dozen lashes with the cat by Admiralty regulations, but Alan had also learned long before that no one at the Admiralty would even open one eye from a long snooze to hear of a captain assigning more; captains were much like God once at sea on their own, and their judgement was mostly trusted unless they were patently proven to be one of God's own lunaticks.

Likewise the log; it was boring in the extreme, capable of being read by flipping through the pages almost without looking, for the ship had seemed to cruise on her own without seeing a damned thing or taking part in any action since her commissioning. There was a convoy or two, some messages run north to the Bahamas or west to Jamaica, and suspicious sail seen but never followed up aggressively, and once they disappeared below the horizon, lost to mind.

Not a penny of prize-money, Alan sighed, thinking of how much he had made (legally and illegally) in Desperate and even in Parrot. Lilycrop must be the most contented man with Naval pay in the whole world. How long's he been in the Navy, anyway, fifty years did he say, man and boy? Joined at-eight, say, and probably thirty, thirty-five years a lieutenant? With the war almost lost in the Americas, this is the only command he'll ever hope to have, most like. But then, why not be ambitious and make the most of it? If he stayed in the Navy all those years in hopes of advancement, why not parley this little brig into a twenty-gun sloop of war, commander's rank, even a jump to post-rank? All it takes is one bloody, victorious action, God knows. Look at that idiot Treghues! Is he afraid of getting her rigging cut up and untidy? God help us, would it scare his precious cats? More like it, is he afraid of losing her?

That must be it, he decided, congratulating himself on what a sly-boots he was to figure this out so early. At the end of this commission in two years, or the end of the war, which might come at any time, Lilycrop would go onto the beach with a small pension, carried on Admiralty records still as a half-pay lieutenant unless he did something to blot his copy book; a commission was for life unless one resigned it or was caught in some terrible error in judgement. A man close to even so little financial security would not err either in commission or omission; he would not jump either way, and end his days snug as houses.

But if the war ends soon, there's only so much time left for me to do something, Alan fretted to himself. Damme, it's happening, I am taking me seriously. But I'm first lieutenant of a brig o'war, and if we come across a foe, I could goad him into action. Now that I am commissioned, why not make the most of it while there's still a war on?

Too weary to read any longer, he blew out his lantern, a new pewter one with muscovy glass panels he had purchased the day before, and stretched out to sleep until Cony came to call him at the end of the middle watch at 4 a.m. so he could supervise the morning cleaning.

It took him a while to drop off, though. William Pitt had run across another ram-cat in his night-time perambulations and they had a protracted melee that went from the taffrail to the fo'c'sle and back, and damned if he didn't think the harborwatch wasn't betting on them and egging them on!

"We shall be gettin' underway tomorrow on the ebbin' tide," the captain had told him, and Alan had sweated blood trying to determine if Shrike was in all respects ready for sea. The duties of a first officer were galling in the extreme, taking nothing for granted, forcing the warrants to swear to his face that they had all they needed, and if not, then why didn't they say something earlier? Which had prompted another flurry of activity to complete stores until he could go aft and inform Lilycrop (and Samson and Henrietta and Mopsy and Hodge and the so far un-named kittens et al) that yes, Shrike was indeed ready to go to sea.

Then there had been another utter frenzy for Lieutenant Lewrie to see to everything that could be seen to. Were the braces, lifts, tops'l halyards, tacks, sheets coiled down and ready for running? Were there enough belays? Were the lower booms swung in and crutched? The log-line, hour-glasses and heaving lines had to be brought up. The yards had to be got up for the t'gallants and royals, and the stun'sl's ready for deployment. Chafing gear had to be renewed on yard slings and quarters, on anything that could rub and chafe aloft. Had old Mister Pebble sounded the pump-wells, checked the scupper flaps, hawse bucklers, fitted the gunports with splash-boards, etc.? Were the boats secured and the yards squared, and all the safety equipment laid out for the hands? Were the guns securely bowsed down, with tompions in? Had the quartermaster put the helm hard-over a couple of times to see if the tiller-rope ran freely? Were the catting and fish-tackles rove, and the main capstan and jeer capstan over-hauled? If one little thing went awry, it was the first lieutenant's fault; if everything went well, then it was the captain's credit. Alan was trembling like an aspen in a high wind by the time he had finished his last-minute checks, and his hands were best off in his pockets where they would not betray his nervousness.

"Ready for sea, Mister Lewrie?" Lilycrop asked lazily as he came on the quarterdeck. He had one of the kittens in his hands.

"Aye aye, sir, ready for sea," Alan stammered, already reduced to a shuddering wreck.

"Shouldn't be too bad at slack water, just afore the ebb," Lieutenant Lilycrop surmised, sniffing the slight breeze. "Very well, then, you may proceed, sir."

"Me!?" Alan gaped, staring at him slack-jawed and trying to think of the proper commands.

"Yes, you, sir."

"Bosun, pipe 'all hands,' stations for getting under way."

God, it was a mad-house on that single deck crowded already with guns and their assorted tackle, with all the running rigging in flaked heaps, the tops'l halyard men already snarling at the fo'c'sle captain and his crew for walking space, the hands around the capstans and the nippermen ready with the messenger.

"Capstan's ready!" some kind soul shouted back, or Alan would have never thought of it.

"B… bring to, the messenger!" Three and a half turns of the lighter line were wound about the capstan and the nippermen seized the lighter messenger line to the thicker cable.

Thank bloody Christ somebody knows what they're doing, for it sure ain't me! he thought as he saw men manning the bars, dropping them into the pigeon-holes, securing the drop-pins and breasting to the bars.

"Fleet the messenger!" And two men on each capstan plied their middle-mallets to force the turns of the messenger up the drum of the capstan to make room for the turns to come as they heaved in. Bloody hell, makes me wish I'd paid more attention to these things before! thought Alan.

"Heave around!" he shouted, trying to keep his voice from breaking. The pawls clanked slowly as the men walked about the drums of the capstans, chests pressing against the bars with their hands gripping the wood from below, thumbs turned outward to avoid injury.

"At long stays!" came a wail from the fo'c'sle.

"Heave chearly!" Alan encouraged them as the cable came in at a much steeper angle from the bottom.

"Short stays!"

"I'd not forget the dry nippers for the heavy heave," Lilycrop said at his elbow suddenly as he held up the kitten to observe so much activity. "Ain't it a show, littl'un?"

"Do you wish to set sail at short stays, sir?" Alan asked.

"I leave it to you, Mister Lewrie. Proceed."

God rot and damn the man! Alan thought, ready to weep.

"Dry nippers, ready for the heavy heave! Surge ho!"

"Up an' down, sir!"

"Heave and pawl!"

Suddenly, the men at the capstan bars leaned forward and the pawls began to clank faster and faster. The anchor had broken free of the bottom and was on its way up, and the ship was under way under bare poles in the light wind in English Harbor. And just as suddenly, Alan Lewrie realized that it was an incredibly crowded English Harbor. There was an armed transport big as a bloody island astern, not one cable off, toward which they were slowly drifting, an anchored line of seventy-fours to starboard, and a line of warping posts to larboard, upon which some newly repaired 3rd Rate line-of-battle ship was making her way toward the outer roads, and Shrike was in the way of her towing boats.

"Hee hee!" Lilycrop laughed softly as he read the angry hoist from the post-captain whose way had been interposed. "He's not happy with us, I can tell you, Mister Lewrie!"

"Anchor's awash!"

"Heave and awash, then."

"Cat's two-blocked, well the cat!"

"'Vast heaving," Alan ordered. "Bosun, make sail, topmen aloft!"

It was really comfortable being a midshipman, even being a master's mate, Alan thought in despair as that armed transport loomed even larger as they made a slow stern-board down onto her.

"You'll not fuck up my transom paint, will you, Mister Lewrie?" Lilycrop asked as if he were out strolling Piccadilly or St. James's Park.

"I'll try not to, by God, sir. Loose foresails! Head sheets to starboard! Lead out tops'l sheets and halyards! Ready aloft? Lay out and loose!" Shrike obstinately refused to turn, still making her slow stern-board, and the loosed fore tops'l went flat aback, giving her even more impetus to ram that damned armed transport.

"Spare hands to starboard," Lilycrop whispered sagely. "Run out number-one gun to starboard."

Having no better idea in mind, Alan repeated the command, and he was amazed that the bows slowly inclined right as men and Marines and an artillery piece canted her deck slightly in the same direction.

"Let fall aloft! Hands to the braces!"

"Don't forget the bloody anchor, mind," Lilycrop whispered once more, allowing the kitten to climb on his shoulder and tenuously balance.

"Man the cat and haul taut!"

"They've done that," Lilycrop advised.

"Rig the fish! Quartermaster, how's her helm?"

"'Ard up ta larboard zurr, no bite. Nah, 'ere she coom, zurr."

"Sheet home and hoist away tops'ls, lay aft to the braces, port head, starboard main, port cro'jack!"

"The anchor?" Lilycrop prompted. "And we don't have a cro'jack."

"Man the fish, haul taut!"

Alan had a chance to glance around and his heart leaped into his mouth and he chilled all over. They had succeeded in getting her stern-board stopped, the bows around, but she was close enough to the transport to make out features of the people on her rails as Shrike began to go ahead slowly.

"Walk away with the fish! Brace up the head sheets! Ease the helm, quartermaster. Lay us to windward of those anchored seventy-fours."

"Aye, zurr."

"Well the fish, sir!"

"Belay, ring up the anchor, unrig the fish!"

Thank God, Alan could only gasp, and that to himself as he dug out a handkerchief to mop himself down. The ship was now under way, clear of that transport, away from that frustrated post-captain, well up to windward from the anchored ships of the line. The mess on the deck was being flaked down, the yards were braced up, the head sheets and spanker were trimmed up, and the bower was secured forward. But the ordeal was only beginning, for the exit from English Harbor to the outer roads and the open sea was a tortuous dog-legged channel framed by high hills and that meant capricious winds that could veer from one beam to another at a second's notice.

"I'd not like to get a nasty letter from his excellency Admiral Hood 'cause you forgot passin' honors to the flag, Mister Lewrie," the captain said.

"Oh God," was the last thing Alan remembered he said. The gun and flag salutes to Hood, to Comdr. Sir George Sinclair, the forts by the outer roads, the trip down the roads and out to sea, getting the courses on her, selecting a passage northabout to Antigua's lee for the Bahamas; it all passed in an unreal fog that he could never recall, even in later years, and every time he thought of it, his skin crawled.

He turned the watch over to the sailing master Mister Caldwell and went below to sponge himself down with a bucket of seawater and to don dry clothing, his previous garments wringing wet with perspiration.

"Passin' the word fer the first lieutenant!"

Oh God, here comes the axe, Alan thought with a heavy sigh. He went aft to the captain's cabins. Lieutenant Lilycrop was looking comfortable in old and patched slop trousers rolled up to the knees, a loose shirt without stock, and at the moment, no stockings or shoes, either.

"Sit ye down, Mister Lewrie. Sip o' somethirf? Black Strap? Miss Taylor? Got some right nice cider, all fizzy an' tangy."

"Cider, sir," Alan said, grateful for Lilycrop's obvious show of good cheer. Maybe I won't get a cobbing, he thought hopefully.

"Ah, good. Gooch? Cider for Lieutenant Lewrie, and small-beer for me. That'll be all, Gooch," he added as the drinks were put out on the desk. They waited while Gooch finished his puttering and departed the cabins. Lilycrop picked up his mug of beer and took a sip; Alan tasted his cider. They sat and sipped and looked at each other for what felt like about a full watchglass.

Lilycrop belched loudly to break the silence. "Well now, this mornin', gettin' under way," he said softly. "That was-damme-that was entertainin', sir."

"I'm sorry, sir. I know I must have made a total fool of myself," Alan confessed, burning with sudden shame. "'Twas a shambles."

"I don't think 'shambles' really does it justice, 'pon my soul, I don't," Lilycrop told him sadly, but with a trace of a wry grin as if he truly did find some cruel amusement in Alan's discomfiture.

"I thought I had the ship ready to weigh, sir, but I never had a thought you'd trust me to take her out the first time and I wasn't ready," Alan tried by way of explanation.

"She was ready to weigh, I'll give you that," Lilycrop agreed. "But your choice of timin', and the way you parroted the commands like you'd read 'em out of a book, 'thout understandin' a word you were sayin'…"

"It was the first time I was ever allowed to weigh anchor and take a ship out, sir," Alan said, trying to defend himself.

"God help me, then, what's the Navy thinkin' of, to send me a newly so unprepared," Lilycrop spat, that wry grin now gone. "As for givin' you the deck, how am I to find out what sort of sailor you are if I don't test your abilities? Why the hell are you wearin' the coat of a commission officer if you have to be warned to be ready for any eventuality? You should know to be prepared."

"I don't know, sir," Alan said in a hoarse whisper.

"You come from money?"

"No, sir, not really."

"Got relatives to give you interest an' place?"

"No, sir."

"But you made master's mate, an' then lieutenant, in a little over two years," Lilycrop carped on petulantly. "Done some brave things, by your record, been in some fights, brought up like a hot-house rose on blood an' thunder and not proper shiphandlin'. I know there's a war on, but even so, I'd not like to think that a panel of hard-nosed post-captains would pass a total fool an' then shove you into such a responsible position 'thout they saw somethin' in you worth promotion."

"One would hope they knew what they were doing, sir," Alan said, hanging onto that scrap of legitimacy.

"You're not somebody's favorite protege, are you?"

"Um, I exchange letters with Sir Onsley Matthews, sir, and Lord and Lady Cantner, but no one of note locally."

"So if I tossed you back for the fish to play with, nobody'd have my head for it, would they now?" Lilycrop demanded.

"No, sir," Alan had to admit, his eyes stinging at the thought of being turned out of his first posting as a commission officer within a week as an incompetent. Damme, he thought, I don't love the bloody Navy any more today than I did a month ago, but I'll be damned to hell if I'll suffer that humiliation. At least, God, let me leave this shitten mess with my credit intact, with my pride still attached.

"If it is your intention to ask for a replacement, sir, I shall understand, but damme-" Alan could not go on without breaking down as the sick shame of it overwhelmed him and his stomach fermented.

"Well, I have no intention of doin' so at present," Lilycrop told him. He belched once more, drained his beer and padded in his bare feet to the pantry, where he fetched out a squat, leather-covered bottle of brandy. "You've been prize-master in that frigate your captain took, prize-master in another ship last year, and you managed that well enough, as the records say, 'quite resourcefully.' You've stood in charge of a quarterdeck as master's mate."

"There is that, sir."

Lilycrop sipped from the neck of the brandy bottle as he paced about his day cabin, pausing to pet the odd cat. He peered into Alan's mug of cider and topped off what little was left with a liberal potation of brandy, then sat down behind his desk once more, feet up on the top.

"I come up from powder-monkey," Lilycrop informed him. "Then boy servant, midshipman and master's mate. Spent ten years a passed midshipman an' only made lieutenant after Pondichery under Pocock in '61, an' that was more due the death rate in India. Beyond Navy pay, I've not got the means to even burn good candles 'stead of rush dips. I should despise your fortunate young arse, sir."

"Aye, sir," Alan nodded, looking down and sniffing the brandy fumes, unable to face the man.

"But fifty years in the Fleet has taught me one thing, boy. The Navy don't let politics interfere when it comes to promotin' fools or gettin' rid of 'em. The rest of our society is trash, spendin' and gettin', schemin' and back-stabbin' but by God, sir, the Navy is one of the few institutions the Anglo-Saxon race ever produced that kept its hawse clear of most of that, 'cause if we go under someday an' put the titled gentlemen back in charge with the real sailors on the orlop, then England is gonna end up some Frog king's playground."

"Aye, sir."

"So I'll trust the examinin' board for now an' allow as how they know what they saw in you. You'll stay my first officer until you either improve or you prove that you're a fraud and a sham and I'll have you out of my ship before you can say 'Jack-Ketch.'"

"Thank you, sir," Alan almost gushed in sudden relief.

"Now for starters, you'll not dash about gettin' in what little hair the warrants have left tryin' to tell 'em their jobs. They never'd even have their warrants if they hadn't proved themselves already, and I'd have booted 'em back on the beach if they were frauds, too."

"Aye, sir, I'll not. But-"

"Yes?"

"I mean, as first officer, I have to know if they're ready, or how may I present the ship to you as a going concern? I was taught to check up, sir."

"All you have to do is ask, or order, not go below seein' to every little piddlin' detail like you did yesterday. Hell, boy, there're as many ways to run a ship as there are captains, and most of 'em work. We may look pinch-beck, but we're set up Bristol-fashion and nobody can fault our little ship, nor any man in her. So you do like I say from now on, and trust your warrants and mates. You give 'em trust, they learn to trust you. 'Course, it never hurts, once you got your course steady, to find 'em out in some little somethin', to prove you're on the hop. Stir up one division a week at Divisions or an exercise, an' they'll not let you down when it comes to the major stuff."

"I see. sir."

"And God help me, I'll trust you, long as you don't go off and do somethin' damn-fool lunatick with my ship. As for this mornin'. I'll say no more about it We're at sea now, and you've already proved you can handle that," Lilycrop relented. "My Order Book tells you when I should be called on deck, an' you'll have noted already that I want to be summoned anytime we have to reef, make sail or alter course, so you aren't totally on your own bottom, not yet anyway."

"Aye, sir."

"Good. Now, I'll be wantin' you to shake this crew of buggers up for me, Lewrie. We've spent three weeks in port, an' had four days outa discipline with the doxies aboard, an' that's bad for 'em. They've gone stale on quim an' drink. What's more, the ship's most likely full of shore bugs, an' I can't abide a lousy ship. Just got rid of most of the fleas, an' I don't want the cats to go through another bout of all that scratchin' an' nibblin'."

"Aye, sir," Alan replied, much more forcefully, now that he knew he had been given a second chance. He even ventured to take a sip of his "cider-and" and savor the bite of the brandy. "Smoke and scour in the day watch today, sir?"

"That's my lad," Lilycrop nodded with a bright smile. "An' in the mornin' watch tomorrow, start bringin' 'em to heel an' brightenin' 'em up. Sail drill. We'll need to go close-hauled to make our eastin' for New Providence, so we can practice tackin' 'til 'clear decks 'n' up spirits.'"

"Gun drill in the afternoon, sir," Alan suggested. "So I may discover how good your gunners are."

"Exactly! You'll find Cox is a capable shit-sack, but inclined to be a little lazy. Live firin', if you've a mind. There's a keg or two of powder from the bottom tier that's suspect I wouldn't mind expendin', though we might find some island on passage to serve for a target an' get more practical use from the firin'. I'll leave the rest up to you as to what drill, an' when. Might throw in a night fire drill after 'lights out'; we haven't done that in a month. Take one thing at a time, mind," Lilycrop warned, wagging a finger at him. "Don't over-finesse an' end up confusin' 'em. Nor confusin' yourself."

"I won't, sir," Alan swore. "I suppose I need the practice as much as the crew does."

"Aye, you do, an' I'm hopeful if you may admit it so chearly," Lilycrop rejoined. "What watches you down for?"

"Middle and the forenoon, sir, alternating the dog-watches," Alan told him. It was an easy schedule, except for having to stay up and awake from midnight to 4 a.m. on the middle watch, for he could nap in the first or second dog-watch, perhaps snooze away a little of the afternoon after drills while supposedly overlooking ship's books, and get about five hours sleep in the evening before having to take over the deck at midnight, a watch in which almost nothing ever happened in fair weather.

"No, you're the first lieutenant. Run the drills in the forenoon an' let Caldwell or Webster the master's mate have that watch," Lilycrop ordained easily, his eyes crinkling in seeming amusement once. "Dinner, then drills again in the day watch. You put yourself down for the evenin' watch an' the mornin'. Those were Tuckwell's. You can sleep midnight to 4 a.m., an' caulk a bit during the dogs, everythin' bein' peaceable."

"Aye, sir," Alan nodded, full of outward agreement but fuming at the loss of sleep he would suffer between watch-standing and running exercises.

"That'll be all for now, young sir," Lilycrop told him, picking up Henrietta the black cat as she meowed at his side for attention. "Let us pray you find your feet in the next few weeks. Then we may look back on your performance this mornin' an' laugh about it together. It did have its mirthsome moments, indeed it did, hee hee!"

Once Lewrie had left his cabins, Lieutenant Lilycrop allowed himself a soft chuckle of congratulations, and lifted the cat up to his face to nuzzle whiskers with her.

"Now, did I put the fear of God into that upstart whelp, or did I not, puss? He ain't worth a tinker's damn right now, I'll tell you truly. Maybe he's got the makin's, maybe not. What do you think? Will he do, sweetlin'? I'll promise you this, by the time I get through with him, he'll be a sight better, or you an' the kitties can feed on his tripes, would you like that?"

Henrietta would, and licked her small chops with a pink tongue.

On the quarterdeck, Alan Lewrie felt as if he had already been eviscerated for his tripes. He looked at the dour little sailing master and his minions, who sidled down to the leeward side out of his way and whispered among themselves; most likely it was conventional ship's business they were discussing, but at the moment, he was sure they were re-hashing his shambles in secret glee.

God, how much worse a showing could I have made, or is such a thing possible? he scoured himself. Well, I didn't sink us, there's a hopeful thought What were they thinking of to put me here? Or is Shrike such a collection of no-hopers that they thought I'd fit right in?

Much as he disliked the deprivations of Naval life, cared not a whit for most of the drudgery, the lack of sleep and the excruciatingly demanding level of skill necessary to merely survive in the Fleet, there was in his nature a stubborn streak. The more he replayed the cobbing he had received, the angrier he got; with Lilycrop for being so amused, and then with himself for providing the older man with such a pitiful show of seamanly competence. And the worst thing was that he knew he wasn't all that bad. The Navy had beaten competence into him, dragged him kicking and screaming and complaining from former disdain into knowledge of his profession; maybe he was in way over his depth at the moment, but at least he had been given a second chance, if only because there could be no ready replacement available until they got to New Providence, or back to Antigua, and God knew when that would be. If there had been a ready escape, he might gladly have chucked the whole thing right then and there, but since there wasn't, he could try to satisfy the eccentric old man back aft. His pride was on the line, along with all the good credit he had made for his name.

How can I go back to London after the war, a failure even at this? he wondered. Railsford's right; it's a gentlemanly calling for such as me. I've no head for Trade, for Law or Parliament, not enough money to live an idle life, no one to sponsor me if I blow the gaff as a Sea Officer. Right, then, I'll take the proverbial round turn an' two half-hitches, and I'll stop that cat-loving sonofabitch from sneering. I'll go back home a half-pay lieutenant, former first officer, and hold my head up against any of those lazy bucks I knew before, damme if I won't. But laugh about this later? I sincerely fucking doubt it!