guarded, and took 'em from both ends, so… the Spartans died to a man.'
'Oh' was Furfy's shuddery comment. He looked as if he wished to cross himself, or spit for protection against bad geas.
'They died gloriously, mind,' Lewrie added. 'Famous to this day, same as Helen of Troy, Hector, and Achilles in The Iliad. Like Horatius at the bridge, and-'
'Oh, like Horatio Nelson, then!' Furfy said, perking up.
'Ain't it a pity, Pat, that there'll niver be frigates or ships o' th' line named after Irish heroes an' such,' Lewrie's Cox'n said. 'Like Brian Boru, or the Battle o' Clontarf.'
'Cuchulain, or Conary Mцr, the high king, aye,' Furfy supplied, his eyes alight, 'or places like Tara.'
'Conall o' th' Victories, or Finn Mac Cooal,' Desmond added, in a wistful, respectful voice.
Lewrie, who knew next to nothing of Irish myths, kept his mouth shut, and even managed not to snicker, scowl, or raise a single brow, though he thought the both of them were off on a pagan religious jaunt. Just like the Irish, he thought; Swannin' off into fables.
'Pardon me more, Cap'm, but, is this Thermopylae still fittin' out?' Desmond asked him further. 'Mean t'say… if she's fresh from th' gravin' docks, it might be weeks afore she's ready for sea.'
'No, Desmond, she's aswim already, in full commission,' Lewrie informed him. 'And ready in all respects… but for the health of her captain. He's come down with the winter agues so badly, they told me, that he had to write and ask for relief, else his ship and his officers and men would miss out on things, and he thought that a worse thing than stepping aside, himself. A Captain Joseph Speaks, I think he is. Never heard of him myself, even though I imagine he's a lot senior to me, and was 'made Post' years before I was. Have either of you?'
No, they hadn't, either. Furfy went back to staring out his windows at the countryside, whilst Desmond frowned in thought. Lewrie was about to shut his eyes and try to nap, despite the jolting of the coach, when Desmond spoke up in a soft voice.
'Cap'm, sir… it might be tetchy, yer takin' over. This Cap'm Speaks most-likes been posted a year or more, an' all his people would be usedta him, by now. Here's me, yer Cox'n, replacin' his, an' sore th' fellow'll be, t'lose his 'call' an' his position, t'be certain.'
'Well, there is that,' Lewrie uneasily allowed. From his first ad hoc appointment to command of a converted bomb ketch in the Far East, to the Shrike brig when old Lt. Lilycrop had been invalided off, to the Alacrity, the Jester sloop, and the frigates Proteus and Savage, he had either commissioned them with new crews, or been the first appointed to them. Shrike, well… he'd already been her First Lieutenant when he had supplanted Lilycrop, so he'd been familiar with her crew, but… this would be the first time in his career that he would be stepping into someone else's shoes, off-loading one man's cabin furnishings and putting his own in place… and facing an utterly strange new set of faces and names and attitudes; a ship's company that most-likely had rubbed together for a year or two already, and might look upon him as an interloper. Much like his last First Officer in Savage, Lieutenant Urquhart, had probably felt, being appointed into a ship whose crew had turned over entire after three years as shipmates in Proteus!
And he would be going aboard without the usual entourage that a Royal Navy captain should have, too. Instead of his own cook, clerk, and steward, his own favoured boat crew; he had a mere two, his Cox'n Liam Desmond, and the hapless Patrick Furfy. Most captains rated at least half a dozen trustworthy people from previous commissions together, sometimes as many as fifteen for admirals, if one counted an extra clerk, and several more snot-nosed 'gentleman volunteers' too young to qualify as Midshipmen yet, but could serve as cabin servants.
Such a coterie of long-time favourites would be upsetting to the men holding small 'place' aboard a ship already in commission. Anyone who did not hold proper Admiralty Warrant could be demoted and replaced in a twinkling, and that would further foment the distrust, and dread, of the coming of a new captain, who might prove to be as big a tyrant as Pigott had been in HMS Hermione, where they'd finally mutinied, and murdered, and sailed her into an enemy port!
Better the Devil ye know, Lewrie mused; Oh, damn… servants.
There was another snag. Lewrie had depended upon the staff of the Madeira Club after Aspinall had quit to enter his new career as an author. To replace all the skills Aspinall had possessed, he'd need at least three men; a cook, a manservant, and cabin steward, combined. And, most-like a cabin servant to aid the steward! As quick as his appointment had come, though, there hadn't been time to interview people and hire a few… not if he'd had two weeks' notice!
Lewrie could only hope that within his new frigate's crew, from among the people Captain Speaks had left behind, he might discover some who at least knew their left hand from their right, could boil water or brew coffee, set plates without breaking half of them, or scribble correspondence that was actually legible.
And stay out of his wine and spirits locker!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ahem?' Mr. Midshipman Tillyard announced, rapping on the door frame that led to the officers' gun-room. 'Sirs?'
'Come,' Lt. Farley, the Second Officer, lazily called out.
Officers did not stand harbour watches; that was left to the Midshipmen and the petty officers. Midshipman Tillyard stepped into the frowsty warm gun-room, hat under his arm, and beheld his superiors at their leisure. Lt. Farley and Lt. Fox, his very good friend, were at the long table down the centre of the space in their shirtsleeves, a backgammon board between them, with Lt. Fox in mid-throw of the dice. The Marine Officer, Lt. Eades, in full kit despite the officially sanctioned idleness, was reading. The Sailing Master, Mr. Lyle, was poring over a chart, as usual, and the Ship's Surgeon, Mr. Harward, was playing a wager-less game of vingt et un with the Purser, Mr. Pridemore.
'Beg pardons, sirs, but there's a sailing barge bearing down on us, and there's a Post-Captain aboard her,' Mr. Tillyard announced. 'I think our new captain is come at last.'
'Yipes!' Lt. Farley barked. 'Who has the deck?'
'Sealey, sir,' Tillyard told him.
'Bloody Hell, that'll never do!' Fox said with a snort, rising from the game, and a very promising cast of the dice, to throw on his waist-coat and coat.
'Sir?' Lt. Farley said, rapping upon the louvred door set into the deal partition to the First Officer's small cabin.
'I heard, Mister Farley, thank you,' the First Officer replied, departing his cramped private space, shrugging into his own coat.
'Sarn't Crick!' Marine Lt. Eades was calling out, already out on the gun-deck beyond. 'Side-party to the starboard entry-port!'
'Respects to Midshipman Sealey, and he's to summon all hands on deck, Mister Tillyard. How much time do we have?' the First Officer ordered as they all dressed properly and began the trot up the ladderway to the quarterdeck and gangways.
'She's still about a cable off, sir,' Tillyard replied, 'bound direct for us, but under reduced sail.'
'Not trying to catch us napping, then,' the First Officer said with a firm nod. 'Perhaps our new captain is giving us time to welcome him properly.'
'Aye, sir,' Tillyard hesitantly agreed.
The First Lieutenant took a quick inventory once he was by the open entry-port; every yard squared to mathematical perfection, every brace and halliard, all the running-rigging, properly coiled and hung on the pin-rails, or flemished down on the decks. The sails were gasketed and furled as snug as sausages, the guns were stowed at proper right angles to the bulwarks, muzzles bowsed to the bottoms of the gun-port sills, their tackle and blocks taut and neatly stowed. There was nothing out of place, nothing to be faulted for.
Despite that, the fellow crossed the fingers of his right hand behind his leg, and almost muttered a prayer. Another glance about, and he was satisfied that they were ready in all respects.
'Boat ahoy!' Midshipman Sealey shouted overside through a brass speaking-trumpet.
'Aye-aye!' a bargeman in the bows of the approaching boat yelled back, holding up one hand to show four
