Mr. Maurice Durant, the ship's Surgeon, a rather laconic French emigre finally promoted from Surgeon's Mate (it helped to be a Protestant Huguenot), had made a guarded comment about Capt. Lewrie's pending legal troubles anent some dozen 'stolen' slaves, seven of whom still survived among Savage's crew, which resulted in an equally cautious discussion of the how and the when of the matter. And, whether their captain might remain captain for very much longer, or might be relieved to face trial in London, and where would they be, then?
Lt. Urquhart was struck by how fond the others seemed to feel about Capt. Lewrie, despite the notoriety attached to him, the tracts and pamphlets put out by the Abolitionists, and the lurid accounts in the newspapers. The seeming depth of their feelings went beyond the usual dread of serving under a new captain of unknown abilities, temperament, or aggressiveness that might not be equal to Lewrie's when it came to seeking action, glory, or prize-money. Quite expectedly, they would fear dull, humdrum service or anything that took the gloss off the reputation they had made in HMS Proteus.
Some of it, Urquhart suspected, was the comfort of 'old shoes,' and 'better the devil you know…,' along with their rightful pride.
Together so long, Savage's wardroom did not exactly follow the traditional narrow strictures on table conversation, either. Captains and senior officers usually were never discussed, except in the most careful, praiseful way. Their foibles and idiosyncracies, 'warts and all,' were definitely off-limits, but… Savage's officers knew their captain extremely well by then, and seemed to take a perverse pride in his… weaker moments.
A glass more than he'd planned to imbibe had fuzzled Urquhart's wits just enough to mangle his attempt to quash such improper nattering. It came out as 'Well, I dare say that Captain Lewrie has made himself a fair name in the Fleet.' Said with a sober face, at least, and with the merest hint that they treaded on taboo territory as his brow furrowed. 'Such is not, usually, a thing junior officers should bandy about. I will allow, however, that I am not cognisant of every deed which has created such a sterling reputation. I was right proud to receive orders into Savage as First Officer, and… when I learned that Captain Lewrie commands her, I did, indeed, say to myself, 'Aha, I've heard of him,' and thought myself quite fortunate… as I gather that you gentlemen feel, about serving under him. Though I cannot say that I knew much beyond the fact that I had heard the Captain's name mentioned at one time or t'other. What-all have you and the Captain done in your old ship, then? What are the high-water marks you might recall?'
It was off to the races after that.
Alan Lewrie had always been reckoned an extremely lucky fellow, Urquhart was rather eagerly informed by Lt. Adair, the Second Officer, a dark and curly-haired Scot; by the Third Officer, Mr. D'arcy Gamble, who had been an 'upwards of twenty' and capable Midshipman aboard HMS Proteus 'til their last battle in the South Atlantic off the coast of Africa; by the elegant Marine officer, Lt. Blase Devereux; by Mr. Durant the Surgeon; and by the Purser, the prim little Mr. Coote. Even Sailing Master Mr. Winwood, a most taciturn and sober- sided fellow of the new 'Strenuous Christian' bent, lauded cautious praise for Capt. Lewrie… though with some reservations anent his 'extra-curricular' activities.
Lucky, aye, reckoned so by fellow officers, and especially so by the people who shipped 'before the mast,' from the lower deck, for hadn't Lewrie been blessed with a geas in the Bay of Biscay when he'd captained HMS Jester way back in '94? Why, 'twas rumoured that seals-hundreds of miles from any beach!-had come alongside and spoken to Commander Alan Lewrie at the end of a sea burial of a Midshipman of Cornwall who might've, might've mind, been born a selkie, one of those ancient cursed souls who had angered the mythic, half-forgotten Celtic sea-god, Lir, and were doomed to live lives in the sea as seals, crying for a life on land, then shedding their skins and becoming human just long enough to suffer longings for a life in the sea, 'til the end of time. Silly, pagan, and heretical, but Cornish and Irish tars walked in awe of Lewrie as one of Lir's blessed, to this very day. And how hellish-odd it was that they'd heard other officers eerily recall the barking of seals whenever HMS Jester needed an omen of danger ahead!
Lucky in battle, and in prize-money, too, Lewrie was. How had he gotten Jester in the first place? He'd been First Lieutenant into HMS Cockerel, but had ended up seconded ashore-or in charge of a captured French mortar boat, some had heard tell-during the siege of Toulon in '93, and had been captured by the bastard Frog Napoleon Bonaparte himself when the mortar vessel blew up, but saved by Spanish cavalry. Blown sky-high, but lived! There's luck for you.
Days before the evacuation of the First Coalition forces, he'd been put in charge of a leaky, half-armed French frigate, barely manned and crammed with French Royalist refugees. Chased down by a squadron of two corvettes and a frigate, Lewrie'd not only held his own, but hammered one corvette to ruin, then swung cross the bows of the next, boarded her with a scratch assault force of British soldiers and refugee Frenchmen, and took her for his own!
His patron at the time, Vice-Admiral Sir Samuel Hood, had made Lewrie a Commander once back at Gibraltar, and re-named her HMS Jester 'stead of Sans Culottes or something revolutionary.
'No, wasn't Sans Culottes,' Lt. Gamble chortled. 'The way that I heard it was, there were some japes 'bout how ridiculous some of the French warships' names were, and Captain Lewrie said that it would not do to have an HMS 'Bare-Arsed' in the Fleet, and Admiral Hood thought him too much a wag, and called hex Jester as his own little joke.'
Despite the impropriety of such talk, Lt. Urquhart found that he was quite intrigued-perhaps half a bottle of claret over, but intrigued-and even essayed an appreciative little chuckle, which only encouraged them, for this was miles beyond the usual carefully written official after-action accounts sent to Admiralty and printed in the Marine Chronicle and the Gazette.
Lewrie and Jester had been a terror to the French during the First Italian Campaign, when Napoleon had routed and annihilated the Genoese, Piedmontese, and Savoian armies, and had defeated the might of Austria, too. Raids along the coasts, shelling the few roads that could support supply waggons, capturing coastal shipping, which bore the bulk of French supplies; routing and reaping French vessels sent to support their army on Corsica against British invasion.
'Though I did hear that he did something that angered Nelson, who was in overall command,' Lt. Adair said with a puzzled shrug of incomplete knowledge. 'Made him kick furniture and swear, one time, or more.'
'Went ashore and shot some Frenchman he was pursuing, someone told me,' Lt. Gamble offered. 'Got caught up in the battle that ran the whole Austrian army twenty miles in a perfect panic, 'fore noon, but got back to the coast and was picked up by one of our boats that wasn't even looking for him. Speak of
