H.M.S. COCKEREL

drill… Lewrie had run every evolution of proper seamanship until they were a well-trained pack of sailors. Not a crew, though, he thought; that took a confident, shared spirit. And misery and pain were the only commonalities Cockerel's 'people' had to share amongst themselves, so far. Oh, they could perform any task in the book, lately even to Captain Braxton's grudging satisfaction. But there was something vital missing. As if they were well-drilled puppets in a travelling Punch and Judy, a pack of wind-up German clockwork toys. But they weren't a crew.

Whack!

'Dozen!' Bosun Porter announced, sounding relieved a dirty task was complete. 'Dozen d'livered, sir!'

'Very well. Cut 'im down.'

'Jeezis!' Preston all but wept as his lashings parted. He almost sank to his knees, wobbly as a sickbed patient. But he waved off those who would assist him, and hobbled away toward the surgeon's mate and his waiting loblolly boys, who would escort him below to salve his hurts with sea-water and tar.

He hadn't wept, though it was a close-run thing, and he hadn't cried out. He was still a man grown, and his mates from the foremast of the larboard division could be heard whispering and muttering congratulation as he passed between their tightly ordered ranks.

'Eyes to your front!' Lewrie was forced to bark, feeling greasy as he did so. 'Silence on deck.'

He cut another glance at the captain, but that worthy was busy. Lieutenant Braxton met his gaze, however, and lifted one eyebrow.

'Ord'nary Seaman Gold!' the captain doomed.

The master-at-arms and ship's corporals led the next man to the gratings, which were being sluiced down with buckets of sea-water.

'Ord'nary Seaman Gold, you've been found guilty of violating the Articles of War. Article the Twenty-Third-of quarreling, fighting, or using reproachful speeches towards another person of the Fleet. And of Article the Twenty- Second-of striking, or laying hands upon, person or persons superior to you. For each violation, you will receive two dozen lashes,' Braxton thundered. 'Bosun Fairclough, seize 'im up!'

A new red-baize bag was brought forward. A pristine new cat was let out of the bag. Each man got his own, no matter how many were to be flogged. Thence to be tossed overboard, supposedly with his sins, once punishment was done. Cockerel, ominously, had had to send ashore in Lisbon for a fresh supply of red-baize cloth once the merchant convoy had made port.

Lewrie looked away from the shivering victim, to Mister Midshipman Spendlove, Gold's alleged target of violence. Tears streamed the boy's face as he stood before the hands of his watch division. And the hands-more swaying, shuffling of feet, more discreet, reproving coughs, and mournful glances left and right at shipmates. A shy, homy hand came snaking from the press of men to touch Spendlove on the shoulder for a moment, to buck up his courage; some older seamen reassuring the distraught lad so he'd show game as Gold, and not shame him.

Whack!

'One,' Bosun Fairclough grunted in a rummy, croaking basso. 'One d'livered, sir.'

'Ship's comp'ny… on hats, and dismiss!' Lewrie gladly ordered. Gold was made of softer stuff than Preston. He could not contain the pain, and had whimpered towards the end, sobbing aloud.

'Mister Lewrie!' Midshipmen Braxton and Dulwer called for him, scampering aft to the starboard ladder to the quarterdeck. 'Mister Lewrie, sir!'

'Aye!' he gloomed, looking down at their eager, intent glares of righteousness.

'Man for report, sir!' Midshipman Anthony Braxton all but chortled. 'We saw it Able Seaman Lisney, foremast. He laid hands on Mister Midshipman Spendlove, sir.'

'Reached out and thumped him, sir,' Midshipman Dulwer stuck in. 'From behind, he did, sir. I saw it, too!'

They were as alike, God help us, Lewrie thought, as two vicious little peas in a pod. Two snapping curs from the same ill-bred litter of pit bulls! Close-set eyes, precociously heavy and thick eyebrows, the same long, narrow, semi-stupid expressions, the same pouty mouths as their elders. The same little points in their middle top lips!

Lewrie stumped down the ladder to them, gathered them close to him by seizing hold of their coat collars, and frogmarched them to the starboard side, between twelve-pounders.

'Now you listen to me, you brutal little gets!' he hissed. 'I saw what you refer to, and it was nothing more than simple humanity and compassion. And, were we to ask Mister Spendlove of it, he'd tell us the same. A game, is it, my beauties? Do you earn points on which of you sends more men to the gratings? Or do you keep score by the number of lashes'! Daily, is it, weekly sums… what?'

'Now, Mister Lewrie, sir…' Midshipman Braxton dared to interrupt, with a stab at worldly, man-to-man airs.

'Damn your blood, sir!' Lewrie whispered harshly, right in the twenty-year-old fool's face. 'How dare you take that tone with me! I'll have you kissing the gunner's daughter 'fore you're a minute older, and a full two dozen o' Mister Fair-clough's very best, those! It is not a game, you simpletons. Ship's people aren't dumb animals you can abuse for your nose- picking, arse-scratching amusement!'

'Sir, uncle…' Dulwer exclaimed in fear. Or tried to.

'Captain Braxton to you, you pustulent hop o' my thumb!' Alan thundered at the fifteen-year-old.

'Sir, the captain says we're to be alert for any infraction of discipline. That we're never to allow the hands to get away with one single thing, or they'll…' Dulwer persisted, filled with a dutiful but thick-witted indignation. Or as much as he dared.

'Oh, stern duty!' Lewrie sneered. 'What a god, that. What cant. They're men, damn your eyes. There's infractions you must report, and quash at once. Then there's ignorance, mistakes… cock-a-whoop antics hands have always pulled. Always will. And you'd flog for all. And feel so smug and prim doing it, wouldn't you? Use some discretion. Learn some leniency, or God help you… now, or in future. Shit!'

They fluttered their lashes, eyeing their toes in truculent incomprehension.

'I'm using the King's English, sirs. Any of this get through those buffle-headed skulls of yours? Shit, no. Get out of my sight before I have both of you bent over a gun. And take your lying packet with you!'

The two midshipmen slunk away, the backs of their necks aflame; though putting their heads together for commiseration. Or for a plot.

'Gawd 'elp us, sir,' Cony sighed near Lewrie's elbow once they were out of ear-shot.

'I don't know why I bother, Cony,' Lewrie confessed. 'They're so sure of their ground, so steeped in… Damme, in one ear and out t'other. They'll be back in full cry by the first dog-watch, soon'z they get over their sulks.'

'They's vicious, sir, no error,' Cony agreed, cautiously. 'I sometimes wisht I'da took yer offer, 'bout th' farm, sir.'

'Hmm?' Lewrie posed, cocking a brow as he turned to his man. 'I've been puzzled by why you didn't, Cony. Or take that position at the Ploughman, with Maude and her father.'

'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.

'Mister 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?'