fingers, as well, in warning that a Post-Captain was aboard, and in need of the requisite number of men in the side-party to receive him. The senior officer in the barge had also thrown back his boat-cloak to display the gilt epaulets on his shoulders. As the barge dropped her lug-sail and turned to ghost parallel to the main-chains and boarding battens, HMS Thermopylae's First Officer's eyes crinkled at the corners, his full mouth tautening in a faint grin.
'Well damn my eyes,' he muttered.
Officers presented drawn swords, Marines in full kit stamped and slapped Brown Bess muskets in salute, so hard that small white puffs of pipeclay arose from crossbelts and taut musket slings. The Bosun, Mr. Dimmock, and his Mate, Mr. Pulley, trilled away in long duet tune upon their silver calls as the dog's vane of the new-come officer's cocked hat peeked above the lip of the entry-port as he nimbly scampered up.
The new captain attained the deck, performing a last jerk upon the tautly strung man-ropes, a little hop for the last step before he doffed his hat in return salute, his eyes roaming down the line of officers 'toed up' to the tarry seam of a freshly holystoned deck plank… and his mouth fell open in surprise.
'Arthur Ballard?' Lewrie gawped. 'I was wond'rin' where you'd got to.'
'Welcome aboard, Captain Lewrie, sir,' Lewrie's former First Lieutenant into the converted bomb ketch, HMS Alacrity, in the Bahamas, replied, performing a brief bow from the waist.
'Well, just damn my eyes,' Lewrie said with a pleased chuckle. 'It's been what… twelve years now?'
'Aye, sir, about that,' Ballard (pronounced Buh-LARD) answered in his typical sombre gravity; a gravity that camoflauged a dry wit.
'S'pose I should read myself in, then we'll have some time to catch up,' Lewrie allowed, reaching into his best-dress uniform coat for his stamped and sealed commission document. Swords were sheathed, muskets lowered, hats plumped back on heads as Lewrie walked to the cross-deck hammock nettings at the forrud edge of the quarterdeck to face his new crew, gathered along both sail-tending gangways, and in the frigate's waist below the boat-tier beams and gangways.
'Ship's comp'ny… off hats,' Lt. Ballard ordered.
' 'By the Commissioners for executing the office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain and Ireland, and all His Majesty's Plantations, and et cetera… to Captain Alan Lewrie, hereby appointed to His Majesty's Ship, Thermopylae,' ' he read to them in his 'quarterdeck voice,' so that even a half-deafened old gunner in the bows could hear him, 'by virtue of the Power and Authority to us given, we do hereby constitute and appoint you Captain of His Majesty's Ship, Thermopylae… willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the Charge and Command of Captain in her accordingly. Strictly charging all the Officers and Company belonging to said Ship subordinate to you to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective Employments with all due Respect and Obedience unto you their said Captain and you likewise to observe and execute such Orders and Directions you shall receive from time to time from your superior officers for His Majesty's Service.
' 'Hereof nor you nor any one of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril. And for so doing this shall be your Warrant. Given under our hands and the Seal of the Office of Admiralty, this twenty-third day of February, Eighteen Oh One, in the Fourty First year of His Majesty's Reign,' ' he concluded, carefully rolling up the precious document into a slim tube, to stow inside his coat 'til he had time to store it safely away in his great- cabins. Lewrie looked down on the men who were now officially his crew, and noted that some of them were smiling, whispering back and forth behind their hands or their hats. As in most ships of the Royal Navy, there were some men from almost every nation, even some from enemy states, and, of course, there was always a sprinkling of Free Blacks; Lewrie spotted at least half a dozen, and they were all beaming fit to bust. The others, though…
What, they've seen me tuppin' Tess? he puzzled to himself; Some other 'mutton'?
'I know that the sudden change in captains can be wrenching to a crew which has gotten used to the old one's ways,' Lewrie said on in a slightly softer voice, though with a stern expression plastered on his face to appear 'captainly' to the ship's people, despite wanting to grin, cut capers, snap his fingers, and do a little horn-pipe of glee to be back aboard a ship… any ship. 'I am certain Captain Speaks's Order Book, his postings to positions of trust, and his methods were carefully thought out and crafted for the overall good of the ship and her people.'
Don't know… he could've been a ravin' crank! Lewrie thought.
'So…'til I've gotten myself sorted out and familiar with his strictures, his ways will continue in force,' Lewrie assured them. 'In a few weeks, perhaps sooner, the warships gathering here in this port, the ships readying in other harbours, will sail for the Baltic… by now that's no secret, is it? I fully expect that Thermopylae will be in the thick of things, and am determined that she, and all of you, will acquit yourselves in the finest traditions of our Navy. Mister Ballard?' he said, turning to face his First Officer. 'Carry on, sir.'
'Ship's company… on hats, and dismiss!' Ballard ordered.
Lt. Ballard then introduced Lewrie to his officers and holders of Warrant, allowing Lewrie to make quick sketch- judgements about them.
Lt. Farley, the Second Officer, was a slim fellow with curly dark blond hair and a lean face; behind his grave expression, he looked to be a bit of a tongue-in-cheek wag. Likewise the Third Officer, Lt. Fox, who might as well have been his partner in crime. Lt. Eades the Marine was about the same age as the Commission Officers, in his late twenties, but a stiffer, more sobre sort, perhaps a stickler for discipline with his Marines. The Sailing Master, Mr. Lyle, was in his late fourties, a fellow from Felixstowe just down the coast, thick-set and round-faced. Unlike most East Anglians, though, he seemed most affable.
The Purser, Herbert Pridemore, was even stouter, proof of the adage that all 'Nip Cheeses' fed better than the crew. The Surgeon, Frederick Harward, seemed almost amused, which was rare in the Fleet, and young for his posting.
'I'll request that you find me a large keg of sand, sir,' Lewrie bade the Purser.
'Sand, sir?' Pridemore asked, puzzled. 'For the gun crews, sir?'
'For my cats, Mister Pridemore,' Lewrie said with a smirk, 'so they can relieve themselves. My compliments to the Ship's Carpenter, as well, Mister Ballard, and I'll have him make me a box, about so…' he said, sketching the size in mid-air with his hands. 'For their necessary.'
'Aye, sir,' Ballard replied, with one brow cocked significantly. 'Surely old Pitt can no longer be with you.'
'No, he's gone to Fiddler's Green long ago,' Lewrie said, 'but Toulon and Chalky are still young'uns.'
'The 'Ram-Cat,' ' Lewrie heard someone whisper in glee. One of the Midshipmen, of course; no one else'd dare.
Lewrie was then introduced to his six Mids, from the eldest down to the youngest. Midshipman Sealey was old for the rank, in his early twenties, and looked to Lewrie's lights to be none too bright, else he would have passed the oral exams by now. There was a lad in his late teens named Furlow, who appeared bags sharper. There was a Midshipman Privette, about sixteen, as hawk-nosed and dark-haired as a Cornish-man, who looked tarry-handed. There was also Mr. Tillyard, who stood out of order with the younkers, who looked to be a wag, then a brace of fourteen-year-olds named Pannabaker and Plumb; one could barely gawk and stammer, whilst Plumb doffed his hat, gave a jerky waist-bow, and could not resist asking, 'Are your cats the reason you're called the 'Ram-Cat,' sir?' in a cheeky manner.
'That's for me t'know, and for you t'find out, Mister Plumb,' Lewrie said with a sly grin before turning to Ballard again. 'Soon as I'm settled in, Mister Ballard, I'd wish to meet the Bosun and his Mate, the Master's Mates, Quartermasters, the Master Gunner, and all department heads. Might as well get the names and faces settled in my mind, quick as possible.'
'Very good, sir,' Ballard replied. 'Might you care to see your quarters now, Captain? We've sent the most of Captain Speaks's things ashore already. There are some, ah… remaining, for the nonce.'
'Yes, let's,' Lewrie agreed. 'Oh… Mister Ballard, my Cox'n, Liam Desmond, and his friend Patrick Furfy, from my old boat crew.'
'Lads,' Ballard said with a nod. 'Mister Dimmock? Work-party to see the captain's goods aboard.'
'Aye-aye, sir!'
The Marine sentry by the doors to the great-cabins presented arms and stamped boots as Lewrie entered, ducking under the deck beams. The great-cabins might have once been nice, Lewrie decided. There was the usual black-and-white chequer canvas nailed to the deck, and there were the 18-pounder guns bowsed to the port sills, which took up a lot of the space. The lower half of the inner hull planking was painted the usual blood-red, and the planking above was pale tan, as were the deal partitions that would come down, fold, and be stacked below when
