"He is resting, Capitaine. Ze strain 'as been 'orrible. It is a wonder, so enervated he 'as become, zat he 'as not succumbed himself. So far, it is ze old and weak, ze very young who fall ill and die." "Any more cases?" Lewrie asked, crossing his fingers. "Two, Capitaine … Seaman Ordinaire Harper and Landsman Drew," Durant mournfully went on. "Both, 'owever, display no sign of Yellow Jack. Only ze malaria. And zey are strong." "But only one death today," Lewrie insisted.
"Ze poor Lieutenant Wyman, oui.. . but zere are two more 'ands who 'ave the Yellow Jack, and near ze last stages of ze malady, sir. I cannot imagine zey will see tomorrow's dawn."
"Damn, damn, damn!" Lewrie spat, weakly thumping a fist atop the cap-rail of the starboard gangway bulwarks. "I'm tired o' this, Mister Durant. There must be something more we can do."
"We do all zat medicine knows, sir," Durant objected. "Chichona extract at the first sign of sickness, salt water clysters and all the fresh water zey can drink, to ease ze constipation, and lack of… my English… pissing in zose wiz Yellow Jack. Better air on deck, shade and coolness? Mister Hodson smokes ze ship below wiz faggots of tobacco, we scour wiz vinegar and salt water, we root out ze rats and cockroaches, no one 'as lice or fleas. But it is all so confusing zat we 'ave both malaria and Yellow Jack at once together, Capitaine. Is ze chichona bark good for zose wiz the Yellow Jack, or harmful? Is fruit juice helpful, or does it produce more bile, zat, I zink is a symptom of Yellow Jack, and contributes to the vomito negro? Ze liver and ze kidneys of men who die of Yellow Jack, when examined after death, are ruined. It explains ze lack of piss, ze constipation, but ze why, or ze how…?"
"And we've pumped the bilges so often, you could eat down there. There's no ordure, the pump-water comes out bright and clean," Lewrie wondered aloud. "We've burned loose gunpowder, buckets of tar, not a damned preventative that's supposed to work, works!"
"Water casks emptied, scoured wiz vinegar and sea water as well," Durant sadly agreed. "It was most odd, though, sir… ze water casks we filled once we reach Jamaica? When we open zem wiz Mister Coote an' his mate, I find ze top of ze water thick wiz little nits. Set aside in a glass I cover wiz gauze, I find zat mosquitoes hatch out. I read of zis, regarding slave ships calling at Dahomey… zat zey found nits in fresh water taken from running streams, as well as still pools. Wiz ze gauze, I filter ze water, skim ze tops, before we stow clean casks bellow, zis time. And ashore, Capitaine, pardon ze expense, but we found a shop zat sells extract of citron, and candles made wiz citron."
"They smell good, aye… better than the mess-decks do now, at any rate," Lewrie agreed, with a firm nod of his head. "How expensive?"
"Cheaper zan ze assafoetida herbs, Capitaine," Durant said right quickly, to justify what was surely an unauthorised outlay. "Besides, ze assafoetida is very 'ard to find, at present. Mais non, ze merchant assures me zat, if citron candles, or if a mix of hot tar and citron oil, is lit and let smoulder and fume, ze house where they burn does not suffer malaria or Yellow Jack."
"Damme, a cure?" Lewrie exclaimed with great relief.
"For, uhm… women of ze house, it seem, Capitaine, " Durant said, with a weasely look. "Men, who are about business outside ze home, are just as vulnerable but, sir, zose inside are protected! Ze citron, I believe, exudes a sweet miasma, countering ze bad miasmas zat cause malaria and Yellow Jack! Regard, Capitaine," Durant said, becoming agitated and cheerful, waving off Lewrie's just-as-sudden scowling. "You go into ze forest, you find ze poisonous plant or weed. But every time, growing close by, is ze antidote! Nature will 'ave her balance, n'est-ce pas? Every grand-mиre, your grannies, know of zis! Sickness follows contact wiz ze shore, but after a week or two at sea ze number of ze stricken diminishes… until ze next contact wiz shore. Citron candle and citron tar smoke-pots burning below, by the hatchways, perhaps hung all about ze upper deck after dark, blocks ze insinuation of tropical miasmas, sir!"
"How much?" Lewrie asked again, arms crossed in leeriness.
"Twenty pound, ten shillings, five pence, Capitaine. Five pound of my own, some from Mister Hodson-zough he does not believe, he will grasp at ze straw, n'est-ce pas? Some from Mister Shirley, because he is desperate, and ze rest, uhm… from ship's funds, sir."
"For… perfume," Lewrie scoffed; for that was the only use he knew of for citron… other than colouring or zesting desserts.
"Please, I beg you, let me try it, Capitaine. Ze merchant says it is well recommended on ze Spanish Main, by ze Portugese in Brazil!"
"Oh, for God's sake, Mister Durant, he sold you a bill o' goods!"
"If nozzing else, M'sieur Capitaine, ze citron seems to drive ze pesky mosquito away," Durant insisted, playing his final card.
"Aye, then…" Lewrie finally relented. "If for nothing else but a good night's sleep, without all that buzzin' and swattin'. I'll let you try it. S'pose we could write it off as an experiment."
"God bless you, Capitaine Lewrie! Merci, merci beaucoup! You will see… I 'ave made up ze hot tar and citron oil already…"
"Thankee for asking first… sir," Lewrie scowled, turning away to go below to his cabins. "Mind you, this turns out to be a cure for malaria and Yellow Jack, put me down for a large share of the profit."
"But of course, M'sieur Capitaine … guaranteed!" Durant said with a gush, grandly doffing his plain hat and sweeping it down to the deck as he bowed his gratitude before scrambling down the ladder for the main companionway hatch, and his medical stores below.
The transom sash windows were open wide, the glazed panels in the coach-top overhead were propped open, and a canvas wind-scoop ventilator caught what little air stirred in the millpond-still harbour, but his great-cabins were still stifling. Lewrie stripped off his formal funeral finery and changed into a worn pair of white slop trousers, trading his fancy Hessian boots for a dowdy pair of calfskin slippers. He sat at his desk with a "top-silver" palmetto fan, clawing his neck-stock off and opening his shirt.
Aspinall brought him a glass of sugared lemon water, silently padding about as if fearful of catching Lewrie's eye. He'd been that deferential and insubstantial ever since the first deaths. Lewrie had a sip, and pondered which onerous task he'd undertake first. Sighing, he plopped his feet atop his desk and slouched down in his chair, feet aspraddle and crotch aired; it was too warm and humid to cross ankles.
There was the matter of letters to write to the dead mens' kin, but at the moment he felt too enervated, and too steeped in death, to tackle that chore. Besides, he had exhausted all the stock platitudes he knew for grief, and it wouldn't feel quite right to pen an identical letter to all, like an Admiralty form for indentures or broken spars.
With so many dead, dying, or bedridden for weeks as they healed, there was the Watch-And-Quarter Bill to be amended, but Lewrie thought that would best be done in concert with Lt. Langlie and the midshipmen, who worked more closely with the hands than he. Perhaps have them all in for a "working" breakfast? There was a cook to be discovered among the crew, since poor old lamed Curcy had been one of the first to pass over, and the food issued since had been positively vile. Foster, the Yeoman of The Powder, would move up to Gunner's Mate to replace poor Mr. Bess, whom they'd buried the last morning; he'd find another man handy with canvas and needles to replace the Sailmaker's Mate, young Hickey. If things went on as badly as they had so far, fully half of those thirty sick men presently laid out fiat would die before the week was out, he realised, and the survivors wouldn't be worth tuppenny shit for two or three weeks more. Only two Ordinary and two Able Seamen were lost so far, but a fair number of the sick were the spryest topmen, the young and experienced hands a ship could not do without. And their replacements were half a world away, due on the next hired supply ship and not expected to arrive before the end of hurricane season, 'round October or November when the bulk of the "liners" returned from Halifax.
And always had first choice, damn them, their captains, and the seniority and favouritism that dictated the new mens' dispersement!
Not wishing to think about Watch-And-Quarter Bills, Lewrie had another sip of sweet lemon water and scowled, one eye asquint, at his desk… at his mail from England. After the first rushed reading, he wasn't so sure that he wanted to revisit those, either!
"Damme, pile it on, why don't You?" he muttered to God or Fate. "And thankee that trouble usually comes in threes!"
Plague, uselessness, and his personal life; each one a horror!
The letters from his father Sir Hugo had been the easiest stood, and had contained more pertinent information. What little he'd gotten from Caroline had been pure vitriol!
For it seemed that another of those damned, anonymous "My dear friend, you simply must know…" epistles had turned up on Caroline's doorstep, and this time whoever the Devil wrote them had known all and had told all regarding his visit to Theoni Connor's London town house, the day after Caroline had stormed off for Anglesgreen in high dudgeon; how Theoni had coached down to Sheerness and had cohabited as man and wife with him for an entire week before Proteus had sailed! The anonymous writer had even named the inn and the placement of their set of rooms, How early their candles were snuffed…!
So much for 'time heals all wounds, ' Lewrie glumly thought, once he'd read Caroline's lone, accusatory missive; and you can chuck 'least said and soonest mended' and 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' over the side, too!
And damn his father, but he wrote about as superciliously as he looked, with passages of sympathy interspersed with others bearing the tone of "I told you so!" or even sour amusement, as if writing one of his old cronies from the Hellfire Club or his first regiment about the peccadilloes of a total stranger, over which they could both crow!
"Sophie continues rather wan," Lewrie read, "though she has taken up of late with the company of Richard Oakes, one of Harry Embleton's fellow roisterers-one with some sense, at bottom, at the very least- who is a Captain of Cavalry in the local Yeomanry militia, and shapes well as a soldier. Pity he's a first son, not down for a set of colours like his brother Roger. He will, however, inherit substantial acreage, and may be thought a prize catch in these parts (dull as they may be). You are aware, though, that somewhere along the line, to Caroline's great Furor, you evidently gave permission for Sophie and your own First Officer, Lt. Anthony Langlie (a worthy unknown to me) to correspond. The Arrival of a letter from Jamaica is become a momentous Event in your household."
"And when the Devil did I do that?" Lewrie muttered to himself, vowing that he and young Langlie were due a heart-to-heart meeting, soonest! A rather loud one, he expected.
"Caroline, of course, dismissed the very idea at once, damning all Sailors as highly suspect, which vocal and insistent disapproval has, given Sophie's contrary Nature, made her the more eager to correspond. Just recall how your earlier disapproval of Harry Embleton almost drove her to elope with him to Gretna Green!"
And damn his father some more, but he'd found it so amusing that he simply had to relate how "… once Services were done two Sundays past, inspired perhaps by Rev. Goodacre's sermon on the forgiveness of Sins, your little Charlotte accosted all and sundry in the church yard with the pronouncement that 'My daddy's a sinner, and a filthy beast!' in her usual loud and piercing voice, extolling the congregation for their prayers. Embarassing, of course, but quite droll, you must admit. 'Out of the mouths of babes,' as it were, hey?"
Droll, hell! Lewrie thought, squirming anew in long-distance embarassment; and Caroline not so quick to shush her, either!
That was followed by a long plaint as to how he was being "cut" or snubbed by the local gentry, forced to spend more time on his farm- alone!-or being positively driven to flee up to London, where his new town house was shaping main-well, and plans for a gentlemens' hфtel and lodging club were coming together quite nicely, thankee very much, and the London Season was lively and provided him much distracting Solace and diverting Amusement, in their time of Troubles!
As to those Troubles, "… but your brother-in-law Governour is hellish exercised, nigh to choleric Frenzy, by your Faithlessness, and swears that he saw it coming years before, but could not dissuade you, or his Dear Sister, from your Folly. He now goes about swearing that, had he the Occasion to confront you visage contre visage as the French say, he would quite gleefully do you in for the Shame you have brought upon the Chiswick Name, the gentlemanly constricts of a Duel bedamned."
Lewrie had himself a skeptical snort over that threat; Governour was approaching twenty stone in weight, and getting out of bed lately was enough to turn his 'visage' choleric! Damn swords or pistols; if it came to that he'd challenge him to a foot race and see who keeled over first!
Back during the Revolution, when Governour was as lean and sinewed as a young panther, it would have been a different proposition, but good living and prosperity had taken its toll.
On that score, his father had further written "… when last I took my mid-day meal at the Red Swan Inn, the churl actually dared to banter me, your carcass not being immediately available. I quickly informed Mr. Chiswick that, should he desire an early Death, I was more than willing to oblige him. Did he desire Pistols at twenty paces, I would await his Seconds, though it was no affair of mine, and that his use of my Presence as an excuse for his disgraceful and boastful Behaviour would not be tolerated even by a gentleman of only the slightest acquaintance with you. I further informed him that I found all his Ranting to be due to your Absence, and not a thing he would do in your Vicinity. Then, following that slur, did he wish Aggrievance, I told him that I would meet him that Instant on the side lawn with a small-sword. Alan, the weather has been most cooperative this spring, and you should see how Verdant the countryside is become. The side yard, your lawn, and my new-sodded ones, have come up something wondrous to behold, do you care to know.
"He made a great Show of Apoplexy, but side-wise demurred, not refusing exactly, and stated that his Argument was with you, not your poor old Father. At which shilly-shally I brusquely informed him of the consequences of his rash Intemperance, assuring him that once you were returned to England, you would be more than willing to confront him in any manner he wished, and to temper his utterances with the sure certain, and fatal, Risk to his self in Mind…"
And set me up for a killin ' duel, Lewrie gloomed; thankee very damn much, you old braggart! You never did me any favours, did ya?
Sir Hugo further carped that he now took his. custom to the Olde Ploughman Inn, and that, sterling beer notwithstanding, he had never been so bored in his life, nor entered such a seedy establishment than that, comparable to a tumbledown Irish shebeen or Hindoo arrack-dive! Poor him, being forced to rub elbows with the common folk!
It seemed that Caroline, in a raging snit, had determined that all plans for Hugh to take colours as an Army officer, or even see the slightest glimpse of sea water all his born days, much less go in his father's (disreputable!) footsteps as a Midshipman in the Royal Navy, were quite well "scotched," too. Sewallis and Hugh, she had written him, would board away this fall, at a school which stressed Christian and Classical preparation for the civilian, country gentry life, if not a career in the clergy; which decision Sir Hugo had deemed a mortal-pity in his letter, decrying the waste, of Hugh at least, who was so suited for a military or naval career.
Caroline had portrayed the school differently, of course, and spitefully implied that it was the least expensive she could discover that still held the acceptable ton for Hugh and Sewallis's entry into Society; that they could no longer count upon "their oft-absent, and indifferent Father" in his "meanness" to fund a better schooling.
Their new school was small, she'd written, but not too far away, in Guildford, and was run by a renowned and respected High Church rector and his equally virtuous wife, well recommended by the Reverend Good-acre.
"… at least your Sons will grow up in proper Fear of the Lord, under a strict Christian tutelage that imparts modest and humble Moral Behaviour, even if you were deprived of such, sir. Sewallis and Hugh, I vow, will never emulate you!"
And, to his greater sorrow, Caroline no longer thought that any purpose would be served by any correspondence from him, nor would they be allowed the distraction of writing back. His sons had greeted that edict with much wailing and weeping, she had confessed, but "… the least said, soonest mended,' and 'out of sight, out of mind.' I know that boys shed their Grief after a Season, unlike girls. After a time, the rigours of Education, the distractions of games and healthy sports would engross their interests, making your memory an eminence gris, one best left unseen and un-thought of. Hence, sir, sooner or later quite justly Forgotten, as all Ogres merit!"
Damn, but that felt so unfair! Right, so he'd strayed; rather like a rutting bull run from his pasture, admittedly, but… to turn his children against him, actively encourage their hatred, break their hearts and send them weeping and snuffling, just for spite and revenge, well… that was simply too much! Lewrie shook his head in sorrowful wonder that his sweet and gentle wife, who made such a "do" about the works of Christian charity and forgiveness, would go so far as to seem a Medea, who would slay her children to get her own back against that bootless Jason!
Poor little tykes, was his first thought; Wonder what this will cost me, was his second.
In comparison, the thick packet of letters from Theoni Connor, one for every week he'd been gone, were a drink oн cool water, ambrosia of the Olympian gods, rather than the gall and dirt that Caroline had offered up. Oh, they were so chatty, so informative about her doings, how her firstborn Michael was sprouting, and how much joy their son Alan James Connor provided her, now that he was toddling and beginning to babble almost comprehensible words! Scandals in Society (in which theirs didn't signify, thankee Jesus!), political rumours from supper parties among the powerful, notice of naval actions farther afield from his own bailiwick…
And firm, devoted, fond, and teasing Love!
Most especially, the non-judgmental kind of Love. To her lights he was still a Paragon, a Hero, her own True Blue Heart of Oak, one who could do no wrong, and "… though we may never dare show our Affection in Public, yet every night I clutch my pillows, proud to be your Amour, dear Alan, and sometimes find it hard to eschew a ringing Declaration of the fact of Us to one and all, and bedamned to their disapproval."
You just keep up that eschewing, old girl! Lewrie thought, with a groan or two for the consequences, squirming some more in his chair, groping at his crutch in remembered fever, and thinking that he should write her back, instanter, to warn her about that anonymous scribbler so eager to ruin his life. Sooner or later he could find a target for his bile closer to home, and heap calumny on her, as well.
But it was so hot and still, and he was so very tired and worn down to a nubbin by his cares, that any task involving anything more of him than slouching and brooding felt quite beyond him at the moment.
Faintly, he heard groans from up forrud and below on the mess-deck. There came a retching noise, a weak "Oh God, save me!" from one of the sick or dying, he knew not which, as one of the fevers caused a sailor to void his stomach.
There was nothing he could do to help them, he now realised in grim sorrow. Durant's citron-tar fumes would avail, or not, and only
God would decide-it was beyond him. All he could do was bide his time 'til the next death, the next drear funeral, the next grief.
He closed his eyes, lolled back his head, and tried to nap, to find at least a little mindless, temporary escape in unaware sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Now it was fourteen hands dead and buried.
Proteus still lay immobile from her best bower and stern kedge anchors, moored seemingly forever in a Slough of Despond, days after the ships of the line had departed to "summer" on the North American Station at Halifax; taking with them hundreds upon hundreds of whole, fit, and healthy sailors, their crews made up to full capacity or even beyond-sailors Lewrie would have happily killed for, just for some of them, the merest pittance of re-enforcement.
Was there a single bright spot to their situation, Mr. Durant had provided it; for the liberal use of smouldering, guttering citron candles and hot tar and citron oil pots seemed to have cut the number of new men infected almost to nothing, even still moored near the miasmic Jamaican shore, which should have been a ready source of new infection.
Oh, there were still over fourty hands sick or staggering weakly on light duty as they mended, and of those sick, Durant expected at least five or six more to succumb, mostly to Yellow Jack, which was a much more pernicious disease. The bulk of the crew who had gone sick had caught malaria, which was manageable with chichona bark extract; a man could live with malaria, despite the unpredictable recurring bouts that would follow him the rest of his days, Hodson and Durant had assured him.
The Surgeon could no longer assure Lewrie of anything; he was the thirteenth corpse to be laid to rest ashore, wearing out his strength in caring for others. Cox'n Andrews had expressed the thought that Mr. Shirley had perished of shame and guilt, for not being able to do more, or save more.
That had presented Lewrie with a vexing problem, of explaining to Durant that his warrant as Surgeon's Mate was predated by Mr. Hodson, making him senior, and earning him promotion to Acting-Surgeon instead of Durant. Durant had taken it with seeming good grace, disappointed though he was. Hodson was risen from a doctor's apprentice before he joined the Navy, whilst Durant had been a trained and certified doctor in France before the Revolution and the Terror, educated even beyond the usual, damned-near as well as a university educated Englishman who could merit the prestigious title of "Physician," and be addressed as a "Doctor" instead of the "Mister" of a mere surgeon. Lewrie had tried to assure him that it was the perverse way of the service, not a slur upon his nationality. Mr. Durant had squinted his eyes in the faintest expression of pain-Hell's Bells, perhaps in frustration, or simple bitterness in the face of British prejudice-and had said no more.
"I assure you, Mister Durant, my reports to superiors mention your stalwart efforts, your acumen, and your dauntless fervour, along with your countering sweet miasma theory with the citron oil extract," Lewrie had stressed, almost going to his knees to beg his pardon, "and I know who is the better man, but damned seniority rules me, else I'd name you in charge this instant, sir! The staff-captain…"
Durant had merely shrugged philosophically once more, then gone forward and below, and Lewrie was sure that he'd lost him. As if one more thing could go wrong.
Aye, the staff-captain, Sir Edward "Bloody" Charles, too! When Lewrie had taken his reports over to Giddy House and Fort Charles, he had found a new source of worry and aggravation! This time, there had been no "chummy" glass of claret for him, no clubman's wing chair.
"Captain Blaylock describes you pretty-much as I expected you to turn out, Captain Lewrie," Sir Edward had gravelled from behind his desk, face as frownish as a stout bulldog's, "rash, intemperate, self-centred, obstreperous, and nearly insubordinate! Ah, but you will have your own way, go your own way, orders bedamned, will you not?"
"I consider that an unfair characterisation, sir," Lewrie told him, as reasonably and as moderately as he could.
"I decide how you are characterised, sir!" Sir Edward had barked in full dyspepsia. "I'm also aware of your foolhardiness over this 'indirect' gunfire support. Good God, man, you could have killed half our own soldiers!"
"But I didn't, sir! General Sir Harold Lamb was most appreciative of it. He sent Admiral Parker a letter about it, I have a copy of it," Lewrie had shot back, unable to stifle his combative nature in the face of an injustice to his repute. "Captain Blaylock of Halifax seemed eager to emulate our work, next morning. Did he, sir?" Lewrie asked, "Did he kill anyone from our side when he took my anchorage, sir?"
"No, he did not," Sir Edward had truculently admitted, "but he only fired a few rounds before our troops, re-enforced by the regiments he landed, retook enough of their old perimeter beyond the range of his carronades. Poor Blaylock… lost his First Lieutenant, Duncan, along with three seamen. Shot from ambush, Captain Lewrie, by sneaking, low-down skulkers! Bad as 'Jonathon' riflemen! Officers deliberately targeted, bah!"
Poor Duncan, Lewrie thought, feeling fey and queasy; knew Iwas talkin ' to a dead man, last time I saw him! Price you pay, when you go huntin' fame and glory.
"My condolences, sir, but I lost two midshipmen under much the same circumstances," Lewrie had replied.
"And a damn' good reason never to engage in such hare-brained idiocy," Sir Edward had glowered. "Only a perfect lunatic'd dare it, Captain Lewrie… someone daft as you, I dare say. Aye, we received Sir Harold's letter, but he's a bloody soldier, so what does he know of things? Both Admiral Parker and I concur in deeming your experiment a mad-hatter exercise, and are considering sending a letter of censure to Admiralty. Unless you are thinking of ever doing it again, hmmm?"
Things had gone downhill from there.
No, the ships of the line needed every fit sailor they had, to work them North, so Proteus could not have a one of them. Sir Edward feared
that, with the Fleet so reduced by fevers already, sending him healthy men would be "good money after bad," since Proteus was still a raging pest-house, where valuable hands would quickly sicken and die.
And no, neither the shore hospitals nor the other vessels could at present spare a Warrant Surgeon to replace poor Mr. Shirley; with so many ill to tend no Surgeon's Mates were available, either. So Lewrie would have to "soldier on" short-handed.
No, the cost of citron oil and candles could not be reimbursed from Admiralty funds; did Captain Lewrie wish his ship to "smell" nice and cover the funk of vomit, that was his own lookout and the costs could come from his own pocket.
"Sir, here's my report on how Surgeon's Mate Durant reduced the rate of infection by the use of citron oil, much like the purchase of fresh fruit eliminates scurvy, which is covered by Admiralty-"
"Well, if your rate of new infection is dropping so precipitously," Sir Edward had haughtily sniffed, "you really do not have need of a Surgeon or extra Surgeon's Mate, do you?"
"I still have fourty hands sick, and they need care, sir! With so many so weak, on light duties, barely able to rise from their beds, sir…"
"Then you may remain in harbour 'til they're well, and take joy of the port, sir." Sir Edward had chuckled over the rim of a glass of claret. "Though, with your crew still infectious, there will be no more shore liberty, you understand. Might not even be able to fetch off the bum-boatmen and their doxies 'til your diseases have passed and gone." Oh, but he'd enjoyed ordering that! "You will not place your ship 'Out of Discipline,' therefore. Do you wish, as I gather you do, to amuse yourself ashore-you and your officers-liberty will be allowed to you and them, of course."
Sir Edward had had himself a hearty simper over that'un, as if gossip about Lewrie's personal life had made its way as far as the West Indies, at last.
"Speaking of officers, sir," Lewrie had said, leaping for the opportunity and letting the slur slide off his back like water off a duck's, "I am one Commission Officer and two Midshipmen short."
Sir Edward had gotten a crafty look, had simpered and chuckled to himself a tad, as if contemplating which of his many lieutenants on the West Indies Station was possibly the most despised and useless to the Fleet… whom he could lumber on Lewrie.
Lewrie had realised that Sir Edward would rather prefer to deny him everything, but that was too blatant an act of prejudice, one that could be documented and complained about to officials in London. And, sure that Sir Edward was a top-lofty prig, who would have no use for a Midshipman come from the lower deck, up "through the hawsehole," he'd further said, "I s'pose I could promote a pair of Quartermaster's Mates or a pair of literate seamen as acting Midshipmen, sir, but…" he winced, as if the very idea was disgusting to him as well.