H.M.S. COCKEREL

another rant from Captain Braxton. 'My utmost respects to Captain Braxton, and I shall be up directly.'

'Very good, sir,' Boutwell replied, bowing his way out.

'Speaking of a foul wind, gentlemen,' Lieutenant Scott whispered sotto voce once the man was gone, prompting another knowing chorus of groans, or dismal chuckling.

'Mister Scott, I despair of you,' Lewrie snapped, putting on his coat anew. 'Damme, it's hard enough…' He almost allowed his personal feelings to escape, but checked them. 'There will be no disparaging remarks in this wardroom, whether I'm present or not.'

'Ah, but I was not disparaging the captain, sir,' Scott gaped in pretended innocence. 'I referred to the captain's clerk, Boutwell!'

'Just stop it!' Lewrie snarled in exasperation. 'I'd admire you save me at least a slice of pork. Hot, I s'pose, is too much to ask.'

'Might as well not,' Dimmock, the sailing master, muttered once the first lieutenant was himself departed. 'He never has an appetite after one of those sessions, poor man.' 'Christ love you, Mister Dimmock… but who does?'

Chapter 4

'You sent for me, sir?' Lewrie opened, standing before Captain Braxton's dining table. Braxton was having fresh roast chicken from his personal stores which had come off from shore. There was soft bread instead of biscuit, what smelled like a very fruity Portuguese varietal burgundy in his crystal glass; the only common touch was a dollop of pease pudding on his plate. Waiting on the sideboard for later were fruit, a fresh wheel of Stilton, and extra-fine sweet biscuit, with a blood-dark bottle of port breathing for the nonce.

'Yes, Mister Lewrie,' Braxton scowled, looking as if Alan's presence put him off his food. He laid aside his cutlery to sip wine as he perused him. 'The second officer informs me the steering tackle is slackening. The steering tackle, sir!'

'Mounson told me of it, sir. I ordered Mister Braxton to command the bosun below to overhaul it, soon as the hands have eat.'

'You will see to it at once, sir,' Captain Braxton barked. 'We wallow on this following wind and sea. The ropes could part at a moment's notice under the strain. Should she round up or broach-to, we could end up dismasted. And I will not see my ship disabled because you were slack, sir!'

'Sir, the tackle is slack, not chafing or ready to part,' Alan defended, trying to maintain a calm, reasonable demeanour. 'A spoke'r two slack. And, should we have to re-reeve tackle ropes, then we have to fetch-to under reduced sail until it's done. For that we'd need all hands, so I adjudged it could wait 'til after-'

'I decide, sir. You do not. I am responsible for ev'rything aboard this ship. I will not be kept in the dark about matters of her safety, nor grave defects which make us unable to fulfill Vice-Admiral Cosby's orders. You did not see fit to tell me of this defect.' Braxton seemed to calm, and got back to mangling a morsel off his chicken breast. 'You failed me, sir.'

'I instructed Mister Braxton to inform you, sir,' Lewrie replied evenly, stifling his anger, not for the first time, when facing such an irritable, irascible and insecure man. 'It appears that he did so. I do not see how I could be perceived as failing you, sir.'

There was no discretion for watch officers, or trust in their competency; no freedom to think, or learn, for juniors. Captain Braxton was to be summoned over the most trivial matters, and then took charge from subordinates until he was satisfied. Excluding his relations, no one was trusted an inch. It had been a wearying six weeks.

'Do you not, sir?' Braxton drawled. 'That of itself is a failure. Of a more personal nature.'

'I'll attend to the steering tackle directly then, sir. Will that be all, sir?' Alan inquired, striving hellish-hard for 'bland.'

'Damn your blood, sir!' Braxton boiled over suddenly. 'Do not dare take that tone with me, sir!'

'Sir?' Lewrie gawped in confusion. 'What tone?' Damme, I didn't even half 'sound sulky. I thought I covered that well, he assured himself. But then, I've had bags of practice lately!

'Your dumb insolence, sir, your mute insubordination,' Braxton accused, pointing a table knife at him. 'Not for the first time, either. That puddin' face of yours, that blank stare… Curt and surly you are towards me, sir, and I tell you, I'll not have it!'

'I cannot imagine what you find disagreeable, sir,' Lewrie said, flummoxed. 'I replied I would deal with the tackle, then asked to be excused to do so, sir. I don't know how else one might state-'

'I've given you and your insulting ways just about all the chance I care to, Mister Lewrie,' Braxton warned. This time, he confronted his first officer with a loaded fork. 'Your eternal sneering, back-talking… back-stabbing, sir! As if you and the rest of those idle wastrels think you, only, know best how to command this vessel. I warned, first day, I demand complete loyalty, obedience and support given me chearly, yet I cannot rely on any of you, you most of all! The job's simple enough a fool could grasp it, Lewrie. I tell you to do something, you go and do it, without carping, without questioning. End of story. Yet you continually confront me, you presume to advise me! There is one captain aboard, not a damn' committee.'

'Sir, I would be failing you if I did not relate problems, and exercise my prerogative as second-in-command to-'

'You argue with me, even now, sir. The rest of those fools in the wardroom take their lesson from you. The mates and petty officers you poison against my authority.'

'Sir, there's not been a single instance-'

'You are all profane, sir,' Braxton cavilled on, whacking at his chicken breast and delivering a bite to his mouth. 'Wastrels, idlers, disreputable, tot'lly lacking in dedication, common sense, tot'lly without professional attention to duties. Dis-obedy'nt and truculent…'

He even chews mean, Alan thought, giddy with carefully secreted rage, as he watched his captain smack and grind, his lopsided little mouth grumbling in slack-lipped petulance, begrudging each crumb.

'You're all soft, Lewrie,' Braxton belaboured sourly. 'You most of all. Comes of being a married junior officer, I expect. Soft hands and soft head. Too long abed, ashore, whilst better men were out at sea getting calluses. You undermine my authority, attempt to contravene my orders, sow discontent and insolence among the crew. I should sack the entire lot. You, foremost among them.'

'Sir, I must protest that I do not any such thing.'

'This fellow Lisney,' Braxton said, a propos of nothing suddenly, cooling quicker than sane people had a right to, as he took aboard more wine. 'Who is he?'

'Sir?' Lewrie was forced to gawp anew, off-balance again.

'Lisney! Lisney! Who is he? Damme, sir, you're first officer. Don't you know? Or was he just dropped from heaven, like gull-shite?'

'Sir, Able Seaman Lisney is foretop captain, larboard watch.'

Three months in commission and you don't know, Lewrie fumed to himself; or don't bloody care, more like?

'He shoved Midshipman Spendlove from behind, I'm told. Yet you refused to credit the report. Suborned two midshipmen from doing their proper duty. Let this fellow Lisney get away with laying hands upon a superior. And kept it from me, sir!' the captain scolded. 'One more example of your shoddy, slack and disputatious behaviour towards me and my strictures, sir. More of your softness. Lisney an old schoolmate of yours, is he, Mister Lewrie? A particular favourite?'

'Wo, sir, he is not, but-'

'You know my strict instruction that no common seaman ever lays hands on a