H. M. S. Cockerel (13 page)

“Well, sir, y'see an' all . . .” Cony blushed, taking a swipe at his thick, thatchy hair. “Aye, li'l Maudie'z a dear'un, but . . . they's a lass I wuz more partial to. Maggie, th' vicar's girl's maidservant? Maggie an' me, well, urhm. H'it's a tad complicated, like. Spoonin' Maudie, all but promised, like. An' 'er dad bein' a Tartar, an' all? An' th' vicar, so righteous, too? An' Maggie, urhm . . . well,
expectin',
like. Sorta.”

“Sorta,” Lewrie nodded, knocked back flat on his heels, and wondering (not for the first time) just how rakehell an influence he had been on his innocent-looking manservant. “Dear Lord!”

“Aye, sir.” Cony blushed more furiously, though with a bit of a grin that was only half-ashamed. “Sorta like th' fam'ly way, sir. An' gettin' th' Ploughman, sir. Well, workin' fer ole Beakman'da been . . . I ain't cut out t'be no publican, sir, no matter how much it'da paid. Onliest things I know're farmin', an' th' sea. Inheritin' the pub wi' Maudie . . . that'd be a hellish portion o' years yet, anyways, sir. An' then they's . . .” Cony stumbled to a sober silence.

“Mr. Beakman and Maudie suing you for false promise?” Lewrie prompted, sensing there was more Cony wished to tell. “Maggie's get?”

“Well, that'd be part, sir. C'n I speak plain, sir?”

Lewrie nodded his assent.

“Come down t' marryin', Mister Lewrie, sir . . .” Will Cony said, tongue-tied with embarrassment. “Marryin' at'
all,
sir . . . well, I seen 'ow things is wi' yerself an' yer fine lady, sir. Well, I figgered a man oughta take a wife,
someday.
But I never figgered they'd be a lot o' joy after, sir. Sorry, Mister Lewrie. I really
am,
sir. I mean, they's some, iff'n ya gets lucky'z yerself, sir. But, they's
such
a portion o' boredom an' all come with h'it. Reason I come away wi' ya, sir . . . 'sides fearin' Maggie, Maudie, th' vicar an' Beakman . . . 'twoz fearin' wot come after more, sir.”

“It's not
all
boredom and disappointments, Cony,” Lewrie told him, wondering how righteous he was sounding, and if he had a right to. “Well, there's good and bad. Good
more
than bad, most times.”

“Aye, sir, I seen 'at,” Cony countered. “But I seen ya, sir . . . a'starin' offat th' hills, sometimes, like ya wuz lookin' f'r some-thin'. An' I didn' wanna end me own days stuck in Anglesgreen, pinin' meself. Sorry f'r speakin' plain, Mister Lewrie, but . . . Navy . . . h'it's a hard life, sir, but 'thout h'it, I'da
never
seen New York, n'r China, India, n'r Lisbon, n'r
nothin'
grand. After that, sir, Lord, wot's inland an' domestic work got t'offer? Not that I
ever
. . . ! Ya been a good . . .”

“Never knew you felt this way, Cony,” Lewrie said with an assuring grasp of his shoulder, feeling deserted even so.

“Ya gotta admit, sir, we've 'ad some grand times since we fell together,” Cony grinned at last, “an' they's sure t'be a portion more 'fore this war wi' th' Frogs is done.”

“So, what do you intend to do, about . . . uhm?” Lewrie posed.

“Banns wuz never posted 'bout Maudie and me, sir. So h'it ain't
'zackly
false-promise I done. I've me prize money, me savin's . . . an' a tidy sum h'it be, sir, after all we been through. Learned me letters'n sent Maggie a note, an' a draught on me pay t'keep 'er 'til we gets 'ome. Rent her'n me a cottage, 'cause y'know th' vicar'll turn 'er out, soon'z she shows. F'r now, though . . . iff'n ya c'n spare me, sir, I'd admire'ta strike f'r bosun's mate . . . get a warrant postin' someday, make the Navy me trade. An' do I go back t'Anglesgreen f'r Maggie an' . . . do right by 'er'n our'n, well . . . I'd admire I went some'un respectable, sir.”

“First opening, Cony,” Lewrie promised, though he regretted the idea of losing the services of his man after all those hectic years. “I will put your name forrud, first chance I get. Top captain, for starters, more than like.”

“Gotta crawl 'fore I c'n walk, sir,” Cony brightened. “Aye, I 'spects that'd be best. Mister Scott already 'as me aloft more'n an albatross. Tops'l yard captain'd suit, f'r starters. Too high'r too quick a jump'd row t'other lads. An', well, sir . . . they's more'n enough 'plaints t'bite on already sir.”

“Ain't there just!” Lewrie agreed sadly. “Off with you, then, you rogue. And Cony . . .”

“Sir?”

“Midshipman Dulwer is in your starboard watch, on the main-mast. Watch yourself damn close about him.”

“I watches 'em
all
damn close, Mister Lewrie, sir. Way o' life, 'board this 'ere barge.”

C H A P T E R 3

L
ewrie
was required to visit the men's mess daily. Some days, he made it breakfast—today was dinner. The hands dined eight to a mess, on either side of a plank table which hung from the overhead by stout ropes, seated on sea chests or short, hand-crafted stools. With the artillery overhead, instead of between mess tables, they had more elbow room, which was why most sailors preferred frigates. More room to swing a hammock at night, too, even if headroom was a bare five feet.

It was not a happy mess, though, no matter that dinner was salt beef, cheese, biscuit and small beer; not a meatless “Banyan Day,”
and
lumpy dogs of pease pudding, boiled in net bags in the steep tubs like duffs, each with numbered brass tabs for the individual messes.

As soon as he set foot on the mess deck, the grumbling and the joshing died away to a low murmur, and men watched him warily, cutty-eyed, as he made his way aft. Hardtack being rapped was the predominant sound.

“Not so gristly today, Gracey?” Lewrie inquired of one senior hand at a larboard table.

“Nay s'bad, sir,” Gracey grinned for a moment, wiping his fingertips on a scrap of raveled rope small-stuff, in lieu of napery. “'Tis no more'n a quarter gristle'r bone t'this joint, Mister Lewrie.”

“Suffolk don't choke you, Sadler?” Lewrie japed with another.

“Damn-all hard cheeses, sir. Dry'z gravel, but . . .” he shrugged as he masticated thoughtfully on dry, crumbly Navy-issue Suffolk.

“But enough to go 'round,” Lewrie prompted. “The ‘Nip-Cheese' issues fair portion?” It was a blessing that
Cockerel
's
purser Mr. Husie was somewhat honest in his ration issue. Begrudging, but a decent feeder, nonetheless, if one kept a chary eye upon him.

“Fair 'nough, sir,” Sadler allowed, just as begrudging.

“No complaints, then?” Lewrie asked, eyeing the nearest tables. There was no familiar response, no chaffering or ironic jeers such as a hearty crew might make to such a leading statement.

“Nuffin' . . .” a young pressed man dared softly, in a bland, innocuous voice. “Nuffin' wif t'pusser, sir.”

Damme, I asked for that'un, didn't I?, Lewrie thought glumly.

“Carry on then, lads,” Lewrie called with false cheer, as he made his way farther aft between the swaying, rolling tables, beyond the Marines' mess area, to the companionway hatch to the gun deck. He paused once he reached bracing fresh air, cocking an ear to what might be said or done after his departure. The hurnmumm of low voices resumed, grew slightly in volume, but nowhere near normal level. Nor did he hear any disparaging comments about the ship's officers, or himself most particularly, that old sweats might make. That was some relief, at least. But the lack of humour, of laughter, put him off.

Lewrie ascended to the quarterdeck and took a peek at the compass in the binnacle, and stood with the quartermasters of the watch at the large double wheel as they gently fed spokes to lar-board or to starboard as
Cockerel
rolled, heaved and wallowed to a following wind on her starboard quarter, a slow-veering westerly. Somewhere off to larboard and alee was Cape St. Vincent, one of the busiest corners of Europe. Flung far beyond the plodding 1st and 3rd Rate line-of-battle ships of their squadron,
Cockerel
should have seen something. But the heaving, glittering sea was a starkly empty, folding porridge.

“Rudder tackle still working?” he asked Mounson, the senior to weather. “Or are they taut 'nough?”

“Allus works on a leadin' win', sir,” Mounson grumbled, turning to squit tobacco into his spit-kid. “Spoke'r two more'n us'll t' larb'rd, I reckon, though.”

“Ropes are stretching again. New stuff,” Lewrie decided. “I'll send the bosun below to overhaul 'em.”

“Anything I might do for you, Mister Lewrie, sir?” Lt. Clement Braxton asked him, wearing a quirky, bemused, only slightly anxious expression on his beady-eyed countenance, as if he were just the slightest bit irked that anyone, much less Lewrie, would find fault in his watch-standing abilities. “Do we conform to your standards, sir?” he all but simpered. It was irksome to Lewrie, but he
was
competent.

“Quiet enough, so far,” Lewrie rejoined, biting off the urge to slap him silly. “The merest child could do it. I don't suppose, though, you have inquired about the slackness in the steering tackle, sir?”

“Uhm . . .” Braxton junior stumbled, casting a quick glare at his leading helmsman. “Mounson didn't say anything to
me,
sir, I—”

“That's why one should
ask,
sir.” Lewrie replied. “I leave her in your capable hands.”

“Uhm, quite, Mister Lewrie, sir,” Lieutenant Braxton fumed.

“My compliments to Mister Fairclough, and he is to overhaul the tackle, soon as the hands have finished dinner,” Lewrie snapped, going below once more to the companionway, then aft to the wardroom for his midday meal. “Inform the captain,” he tossed off over his shoulder.

The wardroom was not nearly as grand as the captain's quarters. There were small, rectangular deadlights in the stern transom, either side of the thick rudder post. Below those windows was a long, narrow settee. On either side were dog-box cabins, temporary shelters framed in light deal, with canvas walls, with insubstantial narrow doors made of shutterlike louvers. There were no locks; commission and warrant officers were supposed to be gentlemen—above stealing or prying. A space long enough for a bed-cot, wide enough for sea chest and bed, and room enough in which to dress—that was their individual portion. That portion was about six feet long and five feet wide for the junior officers who berthed furthest forward around the mess table and mizzenmast trunk; Lieutenant Braxton and Lieutenant Scott, a Marine captain named O'Neal and his lieutenant, Banbrook. Lieutenant Banbrook was the merest child, fair and slight, a seventeen-year-old whose parents had purchased him a commission upon the outbreak of war, and (Lewrie thought) had done so with the greatest sense of relief. All they'd seen him do was rail at Sergeant Haislip and the corporals, flick lint off his uniform, and drink. The Marine captain, O'Neal, a saturnine Belfaster, despaired of the lad ever learning a single blessed thing, and in private referred to Banbrook as “Leftenant Sponge,” or “Little Leftenant Do-Little.”

Farther aft, slightly (but only very slightly) larger cabins were for first officer, Sailing Master Mr. Dimmock, the ship's surgeon Mr. Pruden, a roly-poly font of what little good cheer their mess possessed, and the “pusser,” Mr. Husie. And no purser was ever of good cheer.

“Come and cup a rum of take,” Lt. Barnaby Scott offered, lolling idle on the long, narrow settee with Lieutenant Banbrook.

“Hey?” Lewrie gawped, wondering if he'd heard right.

“Or is that a cup of rum, sir?” Scott amended with a befuddled squint. “No matter, there's plenty.” He indicated a glistening pewter pitcher on the dining table. “Fresh Vigo lemons, Azores lump sugar in the bottom somewhere . . . touch o' Madeira. And rum, o' course. Have a cup, sir.
I'm
quite took a'ready.”

“Bit early in the day for me, Mister Scott.”

“For me, too, sir.
Heep!
”
Banbrook hiccoughed myopically.

“Pacing yourself are you, I see, sir?” Lewrie scoffed.

“Heep!”
Banbrook nodded, looking angelic.

“Saving his energies for the ladies, he is, sir,” Lieutenant Scott said with a wink. Every now and then, when his faculties had been dulled by drink (more so than usual), the wardroom made Banbrook the butt of their old jokes. They'd sent him capering throughout the ship, the first days at sea, calling for Marine private Cheeks. “Private Cheeks! I say now, Private Cheeks, front and center!” he'd bawled, never suspecting that it was a bugger's term. Banbrook, righteous but reeling, had reported back that Private Cheeks had evidently either deserted, or fallen overboard. There wasn't a sign of him anywhere, though Sergeant Haislip
had
recalled seeing him up forrud, relieving himself on the beakhead rails.

“Pish!” Banbrook snorted. “What ladies, I ask you?
Heep!
”

“Well, hardly ladies, really,” Barnaby Scott confided, turning to Lewrie for help. “The first officer knows all about 'em. About the whore transport? I expect we'll fetch her under our lee, oh . . . 'bout the end of the second dog? Isn't that
true,
sir?”

“Perhaps not until first light tomorrow, I'm sorry to say,” Alan said with a somber shake of his head, which awakened a chorus of groans. “And you know they'll have to service the liners first. They might not put 'em straight to work when we sight her. Might give 'em a morning to rest first.” More disappointed groans—even one from Banbrook, who did not yet have the first inkling what they were talking about.

“Whores, sir?” he asked.
“Heep!”

“Can't allow a new crew ashore in wartime, don't you know anything, sir?” Lewrie frowned sternly. “No, shore leave's out, right out. But a ship will go Out of Discipline, now and again. If she's allowed time in harbour, she'll replenish firewood and water, then hoist the ‘Easy' pendant, and out come the whores, or the wives, if she's in home waters. Ever hear the old saw 'bout sailors having a wife in every port? That's where it comes from, Mister Banbrook.”

“And you'll note, we didn't stay anchored long at Lisbon, sir,” Scott rejoined, weaving the web thicker. “Top you up there, lad? A rum of cup, sir?”

“Believe I shall,” Lewrie smiled. “What one in harm?”

“Hey?” Banbrook goggled, trying to decypher the first officer's last statement. He looked down into his full mug, wondering if he had not taken perhaps a
tad
too much aboard. They were beginning to sound . . . higgledy-piggledy. Or something.

“Thank God the Navy's so thoughtful of its people, sir,” Mister Pruden confided from his seat at the long mess table. “Better this way. There's many a Jack been hung for buggery, else. Months and months at sea, without feminine companionship? And, if you hoist the ‘Easy' in harbour, why just any old drab may come aboard, and then there's your crew, poxed to their hairlines. No, sir, this is the better way. The British consul at Lisbon will hire the prettiest doxies, get 'em certified by a Navy Sick and Hurt Board
physician . . .
can't expect one surgeon and a mate to do it, y'know . . . contract a ship, and send her out to tag along with the squadron. Then, when a vessel's deserving-like—”

“Or the hands've no fingers left, from ‘boxing the Jesuit,'” Alan stuck in, “and can't pulley-hauley any longer.”

“Over she'll sail, sir,” Scott cajoled, putting a comradely arm about the foxed Marine. “Tippy-toin' under our lee, coy as any minx.”

“The hands take their pleasures below, on their mess deck, elbow to elbow. Shockin' t'watch, sir,” Captain O'Neal confided to his swozzled second-in-command. “We officers, though, now . . . ah, we get rowed over to the whore transport, d'ye see, lad.”

O'Neal was almost cooing in a soft, lilting, more affected Irish brogue, whilst Lewrie had to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“Handsomer run o' quim for officers, aye,” Scott stuck in from the other side. “Only the prettiest'll do, with the awesomest poonts.”

“And in private, in cabins much grander than these, d'ye know,” O'Neal went on.

“What . . .
heep! . . .
what 'bout th' ‘socket fee,' sir?” Banbrook inquired, eyes round as fried eggs with lustful wonderment by then.

“Why, laddy, that's the best part,” O'Neal beamed, though he did bite the lining of his cheek to stifle a hellish case of the sniggers. “You get a guinea ride for ten shillings . . . Navy sports the rest. Just be sure you sign your mess bill, and Mister Husie sorts it all out later.”

“Heep!” Lieutenant Banbrook speculated hopefully, fingering his crutch.

“Dinner's on, gentlemen, sirs,” the senior wardroom steward sang out as he entered with a tureen of pea soup. Ship's boys trailed him, bearing bread barges of only very slightly weevily biscuit.

“Ah, pea soup!” Lieutenant Scott enthused as he came to the table. “God, there'll be a foul wind from astern this night, I'll wager.”

“Do we get long, sir?” Banbrook asked the purser as he took his seat. “Ab . . .
heep! . . .
aboard the whore transport?”

Husie sighed, pulling at his large, though puggish nose, gazing at the expectant, prompting faces of his messmates. Though Husie deplored their high cockalorum, damme-boy antics from the nether depths of his well-ordered, double-entry soul, he felt forced to abet them, just the once, and play up in similar spirit. “Well, d'ye see, young sir . . . much like Marines and idlers aren't required to stand ev'nin' watches . . . one gets what is pretty much, how do you describe your nights off? ‘All-Night-In,' so t' speak, sir?”