The King`s Coat

For nearly a month more, Ariadne heaved and tugged at her anchor while the business of commissioning continued. Warrants were put aboard by the various Navy Boards, powder and shot came aboard to be stowed below, sewn up into cartridge bags. The holds were filled with new casks for fresh water, barrels of salt-pork and salt-beef, barrels of rum, tobacco, purser's supplies, slop clothing, large bags of ship's biscuit, galley implements, muskets, cutlasses, boarding pikes, miles more of cordage for spare anchor and towing lines, standing rigging and running rigging-all the needs of a ship of war that would allow her to be free of the land for months at a time. More hands were recruited, most willingly, but some gathered in by the press-gangs and allotted to the vessels in harbor in need of men, a few at a time.

For Alan, it was a time of learning. He was not going to be allowed ashore, and the ship had no amusements other than reading, so he read, mostly his Falconer's. And if the descriptions seemed vague or made no sense, then he found practical examples in the ship.

He learned the names of the sails and masts, how they and their yards were raised and lowered. He found out what most of the running rigging did, tracing lines from pin rails to blocks to where they were terminated aloft. He prowled the length of the ship, plumbing secrets of cable tiers, carpenter's walks, bread rooms, spirit rooms, where the surgeon plied his trade, where the firewood was kept. He learned a bit about how Ariadne was constructed from the carpenter. He learned how to actually sleep in a hammock at night, and how to wrap it up in the required seven turns so it would be snug enough to pass through the ring measure each morning and be stowed along the nettings on the bulwarks. He also learned how to tell if one of his mess mates had taken liberties with how it was slung; one fall had been enough, as well as one good blow on the ears that had left Shirke sneezing.

Ellison, the sailing master, loaned him a book on trigonometry so he could get a head start on solving navigational problems, at the least learning how to handle the numbers obtained from the daily sights they'd take once at sea.

It was indeed fortunate that he had not joined a ship ready to go to sea. Safe in harbor, or fairly so, and with none of the daily activity of working the ship to be done in his first few weeks, he had a chance to pick up enough knowledge without killing himself in the process. And he was spared most of the officers' disgust with an ignorant newly-officers did not stand harbor watches except to supervise loading and storing, and what drills or exercises were ordered.

Alan was fortunate, too, that Keith Ashburn was deputized to be his unofficial mentor, since they were both London boys and had come from a station above the usual squirearchy.

When they were not working for the purser, the bosun, the saiIrnaker, carpenter, cooper (and to be honest, the work was either clerical or merely standing around appearing like they knew what they were doing), Ashburn delighted in his duties as guide, for it kept them out of trouble from senior warrants who detested the sight of a midshipman with idle hands.

Not that Ashburn didn't have a cruel streak, himself.

'You're going aloft, Lewrie,' Ashburn told him, leaping for the mainmast chains. ’CouId we not wait until tomorrow?' Alan asked, looking up at the incredible height of the mast. It was one thing to stand on deck and follow lines to understand their use. He was hoping that midshipmen would stay on deck and supervise, or something. ’Up you go.' Ashburn wore a shark's expression.

The first part wasn't so bad, going up the ratlines of the larboard mainmast shrouds, for they were angled in toward the maintop; not much worse than the ladders down to the holds. It was at the mast that it got frightening, where the shrouds crossed to either side of the top. Marines might get to go inside the crisscrossing and proceed through the lubber's hole to the top platform-real sailors had to grab hold of the shrouds that were now over their heads and angled out to the edge of the top, actually hang on with fingers and toes, and scramble up the outside angle before gaining the top platform. ’Well, that was exciting,' Alan said after getting his breath back. 'Nice view. We can go down now, right?’

‘Up.' Ashburn laughed.

The next set of shrouds were much narrower and set closer together, and they did not lead to another platform where there was much room to stand, but to the small cap and trestle-trees that supported the topmast. Ashburn thrust an arm between the topmast and the halyards and stood on the cap, while Alan gripped the mast with both arms and held on for dear life. It seemed a tenifying distance down to that very substantial deck, far below. And the ship was still moving, and the masts swayed a considerable distance with each slow roll, heave and pitch, plus the snubbing jerk as she tugged at her anchor. And the mast seemed to hum and vibrate on its own in the steady wind. Alan's heart was thudding away in his chest and his limbs felt cold. There was a tingling emptiness in the pit of his stomach, but not in his bladder, and he knew that if he did not get down from that precarious position, he was going to fall and kill himself, or piss his breeches. ’Now we'll lay out on the t'gallant yard!' Ashburn shouted to be heard over the wind. 'Do what I do!' Ashburn reached up and scrambled like a monkey onto the small crosswise yard that rested on the cap, and rapidly went out to the end of it. 'Oh God, you have to be joshing me,' Alan said, feeling sick at the very idea. ’Be a man, for God's sake, Lewrie! Come on!' The yard seemed like a toothpick. 'To hell with your nautical humbug, I can't-’

‘Can't? No such word in the Navy, Lewrie. I promise you you'll spend half your life in the rigging. Might as well learn now.’

’I would very much like to go down.’

’And what do you think Mister Swift would do with anyone who had no courage… refused to go aloft because he was frightened?' Ashburn asked, swarming back to the mast, and Lewrie's shaky perch on the cross-trees. 'Dis- roting, three dozen lashes, put forward with the common robble! There'll be some dark night when it's blowing a full gale and you don't want to go. They'll drive you aloft and the best thing you can do then is jump and die, because if you don't have bottom, every hand'll be turned against you! Or they could just hang you for refusing to obey a direct order-’

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘He was a carpenter's mate, not a sailor,' Ashburn said. ’Now listen to me… grab hold of that yard, use the harbor gaskets to hold on to. Put your feet on the footrope. Now lean into the yard and hook your elbows over it. Whatever you do, don't lean back. Now come out here.’

Alan was panting now. There was not enough air in the whole wide world to fill his lungs. But he did as he was told, and slowly, painfully, trembling like a whipped puppy, he crabbed his way out to the end of the yard, until it was no longer the ship he would strike if he fell, but the harbor. He was one hundred and twenty feet up, with nothing but ocean below his feet.

There he stayed for long minutes. The footrope was not all that bad, if he hooked the heels of his shoes along it, and if he kept leaning forward. ’How do you work up here?' he asked with only one eye open, and that directed at Ashburn, not down. Anywhere but down! 'One hand for yourself and one for the ship,' Ashburn singsonged. 'The trick is to reach over the yard, keep your arms or elbows across it. Even with a full crew, work aloft is like church work, it goes slow. No one but a fool would rush things if it's blowing hard.’

’Can we go down now?’

‘Take a look around,' Ashburn suggested. ’Jesus!’

‘Have to climb higher for that. Look around. You can see down-Channel fairly well today. And there's a lovely frigate beating down past us.’

There was the Isle of Wight, the grey waters of the Solent, the harbor mole and the old forts, and the Channel beyond. There was a frigate, taking advantage of a favorable slant of wind to make her way west down-Channel, her sails laid as close to the wind as she could bear and well heeled over. ’Are you well?’

‘Just thumping wonderful, thank you very much for asking…' Alan sneered. ’That's my bully buck. We'll make a sailor of you yet. ’

‘Mine arse on a band-box!’

‘Got to set your mind to it or you won't get on in the Navy. Not just reading about it, but doing it, like this. Turning into a real tarpaulin man.’

’Like Chapman?' Lewrie asked sarcastically. ’Well, Chapman,' Ashburn said. 'There's a blank page for you. He's failed the exam twice now. A good sailor but sharp as an anvil. I expect he'll always be a midshipman.’

’Can one do that? I mean, that would be awful-’

‘You're an educated type, Lewrie. You're miles ahead of most of us, you know. Social skills, good tutors. Can't