The King`s Commission

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.