dark ocean. All glims out, and the ship's corporal, an officious able seaman named Wilhoit, making his rounds with the midshipman of the watch, to see that all was in order and quiet, that no flame burned below-decks from lanthom or candle.
Lewrie's gritty eyes fluttered, as he yawned aloud. So much tension, the last few weeks, so much last-minute folderol, the last few days and hours before sailing. Regaining his freedom.
And once back in the Mediterranean… once back with Hood, who had surely taken Corsica by siege, by now. First step, though, would be at Gibraltar, with dispatches for General O'Hara, the ancient 'Cock of the Rock.'
Where Phoebe Aretino was awaiting his return.
'Christ.' Lewrie sighed to the companionable dark.
Best to end that, fast, he thought sadly. Face to face, that'd be best, I s'pose. Letter's so bloody cowardly an' cold. Well, I had my joy of her.
Even a petite and pretty diversion. He shrugged.
'Bedtime, Toulon,' he announced in a yawny whisper.
He undressed in the dark of the sleeping coach, just abaft the chart space on the starboard side, a canvas and folding partition chamber. He pulled off his own boots, dropped his breeches, and tossed them over the top of a sea chest for Aspinall to stow away in the morning. His 'man' had laid out a clean pair of slop trousers, which Alan preferred for undress wear at sea. Cheap, durable, and easy to part with once they'd mildewed, tanned, gotten stained with tar and slush… or simply wore out.
Fresh, virginal bed coverlet, painted and embroidered by Caroline's talented hands; fresh linen sheets, and pillow slips over puffy, never-used bolsters filled with home-farm goose down. The mattress in the bed box was from Anglesgreen, too; goose down packed top and bottom over a lamb's-wool batt center, sewed into a striped ticken cover.
The narrow hanging bed cot was slung at about waist level over the black-and-white painted checker of the canvas deck covering; slung fore-and-aft instead of the more-usual athwart-ship. An elegant form of hammock, really, braced by a rectangle of oak, with double layers of heavy storm canvas inside. Six feet long, it was, and a few inches more than three feet wide.
A bachelor's box, Alan snickered to himself as he rolled into it and set it swinging, as Toulon sat on the deck crying
The little pest required a full ten minutes to satisfy, shoving his head under Lewrie's more-than-willing hands to be rubbed, purring and vibrating, nose-patting with soft paws, ear-snuffling as he kneaded the bolsters. He finally took his ease 'twixt torso and arm to the larboard side, paws braced against the canvas, with his back hard up against Alan's chest.
Damme no, not a bachelor's box. Lewrie grinned in the darkness, yawning so hard he thought he'd dislocate his jaw this time. 'Tis a
His husband's box swayed to the easy roll and slow pitch of the ship as she snored her way across the deeps, loping for the open seas. And rocking her captain, his cat, and all the sleeping off-watch tars who put their trust in her, to a pacific rest.
CHAPTER
3
The winds did indeed come more and more westerly, as
The old problem of leaving England; being driven shoreward by a brisk westerly, right up toward the
By ten of the second morning,
With a heavy sigh, Lewrie had been forced to come about south, and make that long board down toward France on the starboard tack; a day wasted, he thought, marching in place up and down, with no progress westward, if he wished to give the
But, near the start of the First Dog Watch at four p.m., the winds had begun to back southerly again, point at a time, and gain in strength. Near mid-Channel, Lewrie had summoned 'All Hands' by five p.m., and brought her back to larboard tack, to make up lost ground. They continued backing, until, by the end of the First Dog at six,
Courses unreefed, tops'ls and royals full and straining, and the ship laid so hard-over on her starboard shoulder-where she'd heel so far and no farther-furrowing a wide bridal train of foam astern. She slashed the seas, the roar and wash of her passing, the irregular watery thudding of easily broken waves, and the hull's shudders at each foamy, curling lumping was a sailor's delight! A live, luff-flattening, coat-fluttering wind invaded every open mouth, filled every ear with tumult. It took four hands at the helm; Quartermaster Spenser, his Mate Tucker, and two able seamen trainees. Spoke by wary spoke, to weather or alee, with cries of 'Meet her, easy now…' Grunts of dissatisfaction when she faltered an iota from fast, if they misjudged the infinitesimal variations in wind direction, the press of a curling roller against the windward bow, the slightest swing of the lighted compass needle in the binnacle cabinet. And sighs of ecstasy, the ' 'At's th' way, lads!
And everyone on the quarterdeck rocking and riding on horsemen's legs, springing at the knee easy, like posting a gaited mount, smiles of pleasure, and wonder, on their faces. Duty-watch sailors, lookouts along the windward side, hooting and 'whooing,' ship's boys giggling those high-pitched, heart-in-your-throat, and heart-swelling shuddery laughs, as if they'd found a 'pony' of guineas in their packet on Boxing Day. Off-watch sailors still on deck to savor this fleeting joy. Landsmen and young, first time at sea Marines staggering and reeling, whooping when a wave crest flung cold showers of spray above the bulwarks. Fiddle, fife, and tuning box from the foc'sle, near the galley and Copper Alley, speeding through a Dublin jig, the cook and his mate beating time on small pots. 'By
' 'Tis my experience, sir,' Buchanon opined reluctantly, 'that a brisk sundown indeed makes for one o' two things-storm canvas an' three reefs by midnight, or… a spell o' calm an' drizzle by dawnin'. 'Twas another red sunset, ya did note, so…' He shrugged.
'And which would you put your guinea on, sir?' Lewrie smiled.
'I'd say this'll blow out in an hour'r two, sir,' Buchanon said with a rueful wince, forced to have an opinion. After a