King, Ship, and Sword

directions, and it was now almost a permanent fixture on the windward side of the quarterdeck, the weather permitting. 'We both know that half the captains in the Fleet are eccentric, so…,' he said with a shrug and a pleased grin.

'Starb'd batt'ry… by broadside… fire!' Lt. Spendlove was shouting.

'Stop ears!' Lewrie warned. The gun-captains properly waited for the scend of the sea, the up-roll, before jerking their lanyards to trip the flintlock strikers. Then the guns exploded.

'Oh, well shot!' Westcott enthused to see the tall feathers of spray rise all round the chase gun's first fading shell-splash, close enough to satisfy even Captain Blanding's standards. 'Mister Merriman, Mister Spendlove! Sponge out and secure from Quarters!'

'Signal, sir… our number, and it's 'Well Done,' ' Midshipman Warburton reported from the taffrail flag lockers. 'And, 'Secure'… then 'Rum,' sir. Spelled out.'

'How oddly terse of him!' Lewrie said with a laugh. 'Must have too much on his mind.'

'God help us, sir, when he does have so much on his mind, he'll signal it to one and all!' Westcott snickered. ''Flag Flux.''

Lewrie had come to appreciate Lt. Westcott; not only was he an experienced and tarry-handed officer, he was a likeable one. Firm but fair was his manner in bringing Reliant to nigh-perfect competence, to present the frigate on a serving-plate to her captain as a going concern. Any crew appreciated a Commission Sea Officer who seemingly had eyes in the back of his head, his finger on the pulse of everything yet was not a Tartar or a soured tyrant. Westcott did almost all duties with long-practised ease and a quirky grin on his face, a brow cocked in perpetual amusement over the failings of humankind, and rarely had to rage or shout, except to call from the quarterdeck to someone halfway to the foe's'le to pass an order. Where other officers might yell and fume, a stern look from Westcott was sufficient to let his men know he was wroth with their performance. And Westcott rarely had to bring a defaulter to Lewrie for corporal punishment; he was not a flogger, but for the most extreme faults.

And his personality off-duty was slyly, wryly witty and worldly, causing Lewrie to imagine that they were kindred spirits, 'two peas in a pod' rascals, with the same sort of tongue-in-cheek humour. Ballard, now dead and gone at Copenhagen, he'd mistakenly thought was a friend, but that had been a dutiful sham; Ralph Knolles in HMS Jester had been earnest, likeable, and immensely competent, but had never attempted to cross the line from subordinate to friend. Anthony Langlie had come as close to being a companionable confidant as any of his officers in the Proteus frigate. Then had come 'Ed'rd' Urquhart in Savage; intensely sobre and determined, so new to the frigate and dumped into her long-serving officers, mates, and crew which had 'turned over' from Proteus, entire, and they'd barely spent a year together before Lewrie had lost her to another, before his trial. Geoffrey Westcott was as close as Lewrie had come in his entire career at sea to finding someone he could un-bend with… or he thought he could. Lewrie liked him! It was risky to do, lest a friendship could be taken advantage of, detrimental to good order and discipline and the enforced separateness required of a captain; like favouring one of his offspring over another, it could lead to bad feelings in the wardroom.

'Permission t'pipe 'Clear Decks and Up Spirits,' sir?' Westcott asked as Seven Bells chimed from the forecastle belfry.

'Carry on, sir.'

The guns were swabbed out, tompions replaced, muzzles washed, and the barrels and carriages bowsed below the port sills, the ports secured, and all gun-tools returned below. The Marine drummer began to beat, and the fifers launched into 'The Bowld Soldier Boy,' one of Lt. Sim-cock's particular favourites. The Purser, his clerk, and assistant, the Master-At-Arms Mr. Appleby, and the Ship's Corporals, Scammell and Keetch, escorted by Marine Sergeant Trickett and Corporals Mogridge and Brownlie, brought up the red-and-gilt painted rum keg, raising a chorus of Huzzahs and Hurrays from the waiting sailors.

I like that tune! Lewrie told himself; my father and I sang it once in Hyde Park… drunk as lords, most-like. Or well on the way to it. Where did I pack my penny-whistle?

He strolled about the quarterdeck as the ship's people queued up for their tots. Hands in the small of his back, he studied the sails and rigging for a way to wrench a bit more speed from her, where the winds stood off her starboard quarters, by craning up at the commissioning pendant. Looking ahead, then astern to the other ships, lined up with a mile between them. Hum-tootling the tune under his breath, and

… while up the street, each girl ye meet

will cry! Oh, isn't he a dar-uhl-lin'

my bowld soldier boy!

Mouthing the words, almost silently.

This won't do, Lewrie thought, suddenly losing his good mood. 'Mister Warburton!' he called, heading aft. 'A signal to Modeste… 'Submit,' then 'Form Line-Abreast.' After that, send 'Extend Hunt to Nor'west.' Take this down… 'Believe Chase Will Hug North Coast.''

'Aye, sir,' Midshipman Warburton said, scribbling it down with a pencil stub on a scrap of paper, then turning to his signalmen and the flag lockers.

Some of that only took one or two flags in the Popham Code, but the rest took a long time to spell out, letter by letter. It was nigh to Noon Sights before Modeste replied, and that was a laconic set of flags for 'Acknowledged.' After that, nothing.

And it was mid-afternoon, after Lewrie's mid-day meal, before Modeste sent up hoists, first a General for all ships, prefaced by one gun to get their attention.

''Alter Course West-Nor'west, Half North,' sir,' Midshipman Mr. Entwhistle spelled out.

At least he'll compromise, halfway between, Lewrie thought.

'Then, uhm…,' Entwhistle continued, thumbing through his book to interpret the rest. ''Form Line-Abreast… Order of Sailing… Northernmost Number Three.''

'Pylades' Lewrie said aloud.

'Number Two, that's us, sir… Number Four, then One. Distance Between Ships… Ten Miles Day… Five Miles Night,' Entwhistle read off haltingly. 'The Preparative is up, sir.'

'Very well. Mister Westcott? All Hands! Ready to haul up to windward and form line-abreast,' Lewrie ordered.

At the drop of the Preparative, Modeste surged on West-Nor'west while Cockerel wheeled off to her starboard side, and Reliant and Pylades swung onto a beam reach, bound Due North, headed for the horizon. Though it was hard on Captain Blanding to change his mind or take heed of a suggestion, Lewrie was learning, he wasn't entirely pig-headed.

Modeste could scan the seas out to twelve miles to larboard and ahead, and have Cockerel ten miles North of her, looking ahead another twelve miles, as would Reliant ten miles North of her; lastly, Pylades could see twelve miles ahead and to the North, making a scouting line that could search a swath of ocean fifty-four miles across during the daylight hours.

'Signal from Cockerel, sir… a repeat from Modeste. For all ships, all private numbers Midshipman Warburton puzzled out once they were ten miles North of Cockerel, and steady on West-Nor'west, Half North. ''Make All Sail Conformable With The Weather,' sir!'

'But of course he did!' Lewrie hooted. 'I trust the ship is in your good hands, Mister Merriman?'

'Well, aye, sir!' the Third Officer answered, not knowing quite what to say to such a statement; or was it a question of his ability?

'Good,' Lewrie said, plumping down into his sling-chair. 'Wake me at the start of the First Dog. Here, laddies!' he beckoned, patting his chest to attract his cats, Toulon and Chalky, who had been sunning themselves atop the