It was all hands to shorten sails, then set more sails, and then reef down. It seemed every evolution was carried out a hundred times. But it all served a purpose. The ship was coming together. All except Witz. Command was a solemn duty at times. Anthony could recall the longing for command he’d experienced as a lieutenant. But as Lord Sandwich had warned, “Command was doing one’s duty, not what one wished to do.” He knew he had to address the Witz situation soon.
Thinking of Buck, Anthony had to give him credit for a fine job with the crew. He was not completely satisfied with gun drill, but even that was improving.
“Cleared for action in ten minutes and fifteen seconds,” Buck had said, snapping his watch shut.
Yes, that was far better than the fourteen minutes plus on their first drill-but not good enough. Fire drill was still dismal. That had to improve. Anthony also sensed camaraderie building among the officers. He commented on his observations to Buck one evening.
“Yes, sir,” Buck agreed. “Did you know young Gabe can sing, sir?”
Anthony didn’t.
“He and Mr. Earl, the second lieutenant, will get together after their watch-weather permitting-and put on a fair show. The crew seems to enjoy it. Mr. Earl has a flute, and Gabe has some sort of little stringed instrument. When they get to going on a real sassy tune, sir, half the damn crew will dance up a jig. You should come hear it, sir.”
“Maybe, I will,” replied Anthony.
“By the bye, sir, Mr. Gabe has the makings of a fine officer. He’ll do you proud, sir. I’m certain.”
“Well, thank you Rupert. I’m glad to hear it. Your evaluation means a great deal to me.”
Hearing the music and merriment through the open skylight, Anthony strolled on deck. He saw the master’s mate nudge the officer of the watch.
Mr. Pitts turned and greeted his captain. “Evening sir. We’re sou’sou’west and about to take in another reef. The master promises a hot night and hotter morrow.”
“Mr. Peckham is usually right. Are you enjoying the festivities?” Anthony asked his third lieutenant.
“Yes, sir. I don’t have an ear for music like some, but it makes the watch go quicker to have something going on. I’ve stressed to the look-outs to keep close vigil.”
Anthony was glad to hear Pitts say this. He was also mad with himself for not thinking the activities on the fo’c’s’le could possibly distract the lookouts from their duties. This was something to consider.
Lt. Pitts had returned to the wheel and made a show of checking the compass. Anthony knew this was to give him his space on the quarterdeck. As Anthony turned, he spied Dagan lounging against the bulwark amidships, puffing on his pipe. Anthony approached the man, wanting to get to know “Gabe’s uncle and protector” better.
“I say, Dagan, I didn’t know you smoked a pipe.”
“Aye, sir, mostly at night when I have the time to fill the bowl and enjoy it full. I can’t abide lighting up, having it go out, and then fetching another match.”
“I see,” said Anthony. “I have my father’s old pipe and I intend to see if I like it better than cigars.”
“I have some fine tobacco,” Dagan volunteered. “Blended for your father by his tobacconist. He always got me a tin when he ordered his.”
“Why thank you,” Anthony said. Not wanting to end his conversation, Anthony volunteered, “The master assures us it’ll be a hot day tomorrow.”
Dagan took his pipe from his mouth and looked at Anthony with cold hard eyes. “Storm on the horizon.”
“Storms!” rebuked Anthony. “The master’s rarely wrong about the weather, Dagan.”
“More ‘n one kind of storm, Cap’n. You’ve been told.” Then he was gone like a ghost. Anthony felt like a midshipman who’d just been dismissed by his betters. Storms!
The day was as hot as the master predicted. A gentle wind blew sou’westerly, but did little to reduce the heat. After a good breakfast and shave, Anthony went on deck with Bart trailing.
“Ah, Mt. Buck! I hope you’ve broken your fast.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Buck replied.
“Well,” said Anthony, “I believe this would be an opportune time for gun drill. Beat to quarters if you will, and clear for action.”
“Directly, sir.” Buck answered and gave the order. He had already taken out his watch.
“Bart!”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
“See the purser if you will. Give him my respects, and tell him I’d take it kindly if he were to donate those barrels that had contained rancid meat for target practice. They should make fair targets for our gunners.”
As Bart turned to go, Anthony saw he was grinning.
“Bart!”
“Aye, sir!”
“What pray tell has humored you so to produce such a grin?”
“I was just imagining what kind of lie the purser would make up to explain the loss of the barrels. No doubt it’ll cover not only the barrels but that beef that we fed to the sharks.”
“Think so, do you?” Anthony asked, seeing the humor in Bart’s prediction.
“No doubt, sir, and in such a way so as to shirk the blame and still show as much profit as plausible for himself.” Bart had the purser pegged right enough.
No sooner had the order “clear for action” been given than the ship became a beehive of activity. The drummer started his roll. The below watch came up on deck with wild cries of encouragement from the petty officers. It was like a mad dash as the crew flung themselves to their tasks.
Bulkheads were removed-with care, Anthony hoped, thinking of the ornamental partitions in his cabin. The decks were drenched with seawater, and then sand was strewn. Breathless powder monkeys ran with their arms weighted down with cartridges for the guns. Fire parties took their places. The marines under Lt. Dunn smartly made their way to their battle stations. The surgeon and his mates had made their wares ready. The gun crews cast off lashings and removed covers from the breeches. Then with a strain, they tugged at the tackles to drag the heavy guns inboard to be loaded. Powder and shot were rammed home. The muzzles were then depressed. Once again, the crews tugged like demons at the tackles. The guns were run out through open ports. The sweat- drenched men then stood back signifying they were ready.
Anthony sensed Buck approaching.
“Cleared for action, sir-nine minutes flat,” Buck said proudly
“Excellent, Mr. Buck, excellent. Now let’s check for their accuracy. Please be certain they know to aim at the barrels and not the boat crews.”
“No fear, Cap’n. The purser is in his hole, not in the jolly boat.” Buck had not been able to contain his own little jab at the purser.
Hearing the snickers from the gun crew who had overheard Buck’s comment, Anthony rebuked Buck good- naturedly. “Mr. Buck, kindly watch your remarks, sir. Mr Lott holds a king’s warrant.”
“And lots more ‘e does when given the chance, sir,” some unknown voice within the crowd quipped, making fun of the purser’s name.
“Silence,” Buck ordered, but doing so with a smile. It is good when men can laugh so, thought Anthony. Laughter usually meant a contented crew.
“Master-at-arms, pass the word for the master-atarms to report aft to Mr. Witzenfeld in the great cabin!” Anthony looked at Buck, who exclaimed, “Jesus wept. By gawd, I’ll string up the sniveling shit before sundown.”
