had mounted to the quarterdeck from the galley up forward, holding a black, battered two-gallon pot by its bail, with a towel-wrapped hand beneath. His breath steamed in the chilly air nigh as lustily as the pot's spout… though nowhere near as enticing a scent as the hot coffee's, Lewrie cynically thought.
'Aye, that'd be handsome,' Lewrie quickly rejoined with a faint smile of pleasure, holding out his empty mug.
'A right nippy mornin', sir, fer certain,' Aspinall said, with a long- established and casual familiarity. There were no secrets 'twixt employer and servant, master or slave, mighty captain or the fellow who quietly managed his life belowdecks, and any brusque, stand-offish, and aloof 'dignity' on Lewrie's part would have been pointless, by then, and pretentiously cruel, to boot.
'Mmm, good and hot!' Lewrie happily exclaimed after one sip.
It was a continual disappointment to go ashore, even to the best establishments in London where the coffee- house had been king for years on end, and get a tepid (tiny but expensive!) cup of semi-opaque gnat's piss. Aboard ship, it came from the galley stove still half-boiling, as stout and black as the strongest Irish brew.
'Nothin' yet, sir?' Aspinall felt fit to ask, casting a glance at the activity on the starboard gangway.
'No, not yet,' Lewrie told him, grinning once more a trifle. 'I assure you, when it happens, you can't miss hearing it. I see Mister Catterall licking his chops. Best top up the others, too, lad.'
'Aye, sir,' Aspinall cheerfully replied, then turned and walked forward to the others gathered near the cross- deck hammock nettings by the break of the quarterdeck overlooking the ship's waist, forward of the helm, and the compass binnacle cabinet and traverse board. He held out the pot in silent offering, gaining glad looks from the rest; the First Officer, Lt. Anthony Langlie, a handsome young man with what women
Lt. Catterall, the Second Officer, their wryly waggish and sarcastic bear of a fellow,
Lewrie hooked his left arm through the larboard mizen shrouds and cupped his everyday mug in both bare hands, sticking his snout into the rising steam,. sniffing deep before sipping. Did he gulp down the scalding coffee quick enough, he might temporarily dispel the chill he felt. Even with his undress uniform coat doubled over his chest, and the nine gilt buttons done up, even with his heavy grogram boat cloak draped over his shoulders and clasped at his throat, he shivered, for he had spent too much time in warmer climes, and had yet to be inured to North Atlantic, or British, weather. Even three months of a Nova Scotian late summer and early autumn hadn't quite done the trick.
'One, and two, and three, and… away!' the Bosun cried as the deep-sea lead, the heavy 25-pound hollow- bottomed cone, was 'armed' with tallow, at last, swung out, and dropped into the sea with a loud splash, and the two-cable line went thrumming out through the main-yard block, the sheave keening, and the long flakes of the line laid out atop the starboard gangway twitching back and forth, one end to the other.
'Watch yer fackin' feet, boys,' an Irish sailor cautioned, 'or Davy Jones'll swig yer rum ration 'is fair mairnin'!'
Whip-whip-whip went the flakes, racing in pursuit of the plummet as it dove for the stygian depths. One hundred fathoms of it gone, already, the ten-fathom sets of knots passing in a blur, and the Bosun and his Mate, Mr. Towpenny, already looking towards the 'bitter end' on the light, horizontal barrel-winch to assure themselves that it would not go overboard. Yet…!
The whip-whipping
'A hun'erd an' twenty… hun'erd an'
The cheer that that news elicited could have split the heavens, nearly equalled the volume of a well-controlled, simultaneous broadside from the starboard-side guns, or shivered the main course!
'Hoist, and haul away!' Mr. Winwood roared as the din died off. 'Note carefully the
Long minutes, it took, to winch up the length of sodden manila line, for the pair of sailors on the main-chain platform to guide the line, and the heavy plummet, to the surface, then up the ship's flanks and tumblehome to the entry-port, where Mr. Winwood, Mr. Pendarves, and Mr. Towpenny knelt down, and looked at the muck caught in the tallow in its hollow bottom.
'Ah, hmm,' the Sailing Master announced, after a long, furrowed-brow study, and a peer at his sea-charts once he'd attained the quarterdeck without Lewrie noticing. 'A blue-grey ooze, sirs, a clay-ey
'The Sou'wester gale blew us further North than we had thought,' Lt. Langlie gayly opined, nodding his head sagaciously. 'If we wish to round the Lizard, not put into the Bristol Channel…'
'Captain, sir,' Mr. Winwood ponderously stated, drawing himself fully erect, 'in my humble opinion, we should shape a course abeam the Westerlies, 'til we may take a second sounding, towards evening.'
'Just so, Captain,' Winwood agreed, with a slight bow.
'Then we won't have to embarrass ourselves by speaking the very first ship we see,' Lewrie japed, 'and