was not a chore comfortably, or safely, done in such a wallowing, rolling sea-way, in the small mirror of his wash- hand stand with a straight razor. Lewrie had to brace himself like a runner frozen in mid-stride, his left leg behind him and his right in front, balancing from one to the other as
'Get out of it, ye bloody little…!' Lewrie snapped as Chalky, the younger and spryer of his cats, leaped atop the wash-hand stand for the
'Sir?' his cabin steward replied, carefully hiding his smile.
'Isn't there some amusement ye could offer him?' Lewrie griped.
'I'll take him, sir,' Pettus offered, coming to scoop up the white and grey-splotched cat and bear him away, spraddled atop his forearm. An instant later, and it was Toulon, the bigger and older (and clumsier) black-and-white torn that wished to see what had taken Chalky's attention, but
'I still love ye t'death, Toulon,' Lewrie commiserated, bending down to retrieve the hand towel and give the embarrassed cat a 'wubbie' or two. He had to grin, for there had been scraped-off shaving soap on the towel, and Toulon had gotten some of it on his whiskers, which made him go slightly cross-eyed trying to see it and swipe it off, sitting up rabbit-fashion and whacking away with both paws.
The larboard roll took Lewrie back to the wash-hand stand, where he took a firm grip with one hand and braced himself for another stab at shaving.
'Um… might you need me to do it for you, sir?' Pettus asked.
'No no, Pettus!' Lewrie countered with a false grin on his phyz, 'Done for meself for years, in worse weather than this. Dined
'If you say so, sir,' Pettus replied with a dubious expression.
Once he'd scraped his whiskers as close as he dared, without cutting his own throat, Lewrie swabbed his face, tied his neck-stock, and donned his uniform coat. He made a careful way forrud to the dining-coach and his table, and his breakfast.
It was a Banyan Day, without any salt-meat issue, and after a miserable two months on blockade, a paltry and dull breakfast it was. There was oatmeal porridge, boiled up in water, not milk, and livened with a daub of rancid butter and a largish dollop of strawberry preserves. There was a slab of cheese from his own stores, not that crumbling, dry-as-sawdust Navy issue so beloved of the Victualling Board, but even that was beginning to go over, though showed no signs of red worms yet. And there was ship's biscuit. Lewrie had purchased extra-fine for himself, but it was tough going, even after being soaked in water for the better part of an hour before being served, and, did he wish to keep his remaining teeth, he'd chew it
Lewrie turned his eyes towards the cats' dish at the far end of his table, where a reassured Toulon and a cocky Chalky were having their own porridge, laced with cut-up sausages and jerkied beef, and felt a trifle envious!
With his second piping-hot cup of coffee, Lewrie considered one more biscuit, and peered into the bread barge… just in time to see the weevils crawling out of the last piece.
'I'll be on deck, Pettus,' Lewrie said, shoving back from his plate and rising. 'Shove me into my boat-cloak, and I'm off.'
'Captain's on deck!' Midshipman Tillyard announced to one and all as Lewrie trotted up the larboard gangway ladder from the waist. 'Morning, sir,' Tillyard added, with a hand to his hat.
'And a dull'un, Mister Tillyard,' Lewrie replied, his own right hand touching the front of his cocked hat. 'Good morning to you, Mister Farley. Anything of interest to report?'
'Good morning, Captain. No, nothing of interest so far, sorry to say,' the First Officer told him. Lewrie began to pace the windward side of the quarterdeck, with Farley in-board of him. 'The mast-head lookouts have reported seeing some of those canal barges under sail behind the dikes, every now and then, but I can't imagine a way to get at them, not through those shoals, yonder.'
'Seemed an organised sort o' thing?' Lewrie asked. 'Or merely a civilian barge or two?'
'We've gathered they're singletons, sir, swanning along slowly in both directions,' Lt. Farley said in answer as they reached the flag lockers and taffrail lanthorns right aft, forcing them both to turn inwards and reverse their course. 'One or two with washing strung up, and women aboard, and not more than two of those could be described as being close together.'
'Dull as Dutchmen,' Lewrie decided aloud, with a sigh. 'Unfortunately, sir,' Lt. Farley agreed. 'Dead- boresome,' Lewrie said further. 'Indeed, sir,' Farley said with a nod.
'I fear we all are, sir. Bored, that is,' Farley told him. 'Ah, about drill on the great-guns, sir… '
'Not with this bloody rolling, Mister Farley. Not today. We'd be safer at pike and cutlass work. And musketry, aye!' Lewrie said in suddenly brighter takings. 'One hour o' cut an' thrust, then an hour o' musketry at a towed keg.'
'Very good, sir,' Lt. Farley said with a relieved grin.
'Aloft with you, Mister Pannabaker,' Lt. Farley ordered one of the younger Midshipmen of the Forenoon Watch, 'and mind you don't drop the glass.'
'Aye, sir!' young Pannabaker,
'Come to spell us, one'd hope,' Lewrie said with a yawn, rocking impatiently on the balls of his booted feet.
'She's the
'Mister Tillyard, do you hoist Acknowledged' to
'Hmm, sir,' Lt. Farley commented, drawing Lewrie's attention to his First Lieutenant, whose face bore a pensive, wolfish grin. It was not the done thing to speculate, but…
'I'd not get my hopes up, Mister Farley,' Lewrie had to say to him.
'The Baltic powers've had quite enough of us… The Dutch can't put a rowing boat regatta to sea… and, are the French out, I doubt they've business in the North Sea. One'd
'They also serve, who only stand and wait, I suppose, sir,' Lt. Farley replied, seeming to slump into his