"You'll have to stand in line, you bastard!" Harry screeched, tears in his eyes. "Someone else owes me satisfaction first!" He twisted free and put spurs to his stallion, making it rear and whicker with anger at his treatment.
"Now you've done it, Roger," one of the stalwarts commented as they got under way, "that lunatic is going to kill somebody!"
"If he doesn't kill himself first," Oakes shrugged, unfazed.
Off her own land, in public, Caroline was required by Society to ride a sidesaddle, so they made slower going in the middle of the pack of riders. Sometimes at a trot, sometimes at a sedate walk, as the hounds cast back and forth near the edge of Embleton lands.
They milled about for awhile before the hounds at last had a scent, and then they were off once more, this time at a lope behind the Masters and the hounds.
The first jump, once the pack increased speed, they took side by side, and Alan whooped in joy, sharing a brief grin of pleasure with Caroline. It had been years since he'd hunted down in Kent, in the times his father Sir Hugo still had acreage and the privilege of the hunt; 1779 since Alan had gone down for a summer after his last expulsion, just before his unwilling entry into the Navy. He had to admit he was rusty as a rider, but it was coming back to him, as was the heady exaltation of galloping cross-country and devil take the hindmost.
There was a second jump over a narrow but high-banked stream, and a third not two musket shots later, this time over a hedge, onto Chiswick land. And then the pack veered left toward the great house.Moments later, the hounds were circling and leaping around an oak tree, baying and yelping loud as the Hound of Cerberus, and they reined in behind the Master in confusion.
"Oh, bloody hell!" Sir Romney chortled. "Damned dogs've treed a cat, damn my eyes! Heel, sirs! Come away, damn you all, heel!"
"Good God, it's William Pitt!" Caroline gasped as the ragged ram-cat lay hunkered on a high-enough limb, bottled up and spitting, and raking the air with one paw, claws extended, at any hound's nose that came within scratching distance.
"Your pardons, milord?" Alan asked of Sir Romney as he rode up to him. "Might I pass you for just a moment? He's my cat, d'you see. And Caroline has been…"
Harry rode up as well, having gotten a later start off the mark from his house, but galloping all the way. He sawed his reins, setting the stallion back on its quarters and skidding dirt with its hooves beside them, jostling both men's mounts.
"Harry, we've treed Mister Lewrie's beast, yonder!" Sir Romney laughed as handlers began to drive the dogs off, beating at them with switches. "Think his tail'd make a good brush on my walls, hey?"
Harry gave Lewrie a black glower and spurred past him to ride under the tree, reaching up with his riding crop to slash at the cat, making Pitt howl with each lashlike blow, forcing the cat to slink backwards on the limb and climb higher.
"Feed the bastard to the dogs!" Harry almost screamed.
Lewrie spurred forward as well. Harry's actions had awakened the hounds to return to the tree and redouble their yelps, howls and blood lust. They were now almost uncontrollable.
"Damn you, sir!" Alan barked in his quarter-deck voice. "You hurt that cat, and you'll answer to me!"
"Goddamn you!" Harry shouted back. Alan took hold of his whip hand and pulled it down to waist level. Harry struck out with a left, letting go of the reins, striking Alan in the cheek and knocking his hat off. And, as Alan rocked back upright, Harry slashed him across his face with the riding crop as the excited horses circled and bit at each other. Lewrie's gelding shied away from Harry's stallion to the right, and Lewrie yanked reins to circle him small and return to what was now a fight.
"Damn you, Harry, what's got into you?" Sir Romney demanded in a hoarse shout above the gasps and cries of the other riders at this outrageous conduct. "Stop, I say, boy! Hear me?"
Lewrie spurred his mount forward to rush him, like a joust. The horses met right shoulder to right shoulder, and Lewrie swept out an arm to drag Harry from his saddle to sprawl heavily on the ground, then leapt down to finish him.
Harry twisted 'round and almost got to his feet, though he'd landed hard and lost half his wind. He slashed once more with the crop, grunting "You bastard!" with the effort. Alan ducked the blow to his right, letting the leather crack on the back of his coat, and then brought both fists upwards and to his left, right into Harry's startled face! Harry Embleton was almost lifted off his feet and did a half-turn, yelping in a sudden pain, to go down hard and stay down, rolling on his back with both hands to his nose, too hurt and out of wind to rise.
"Damn you, sir!" Sir Romney snarled, "If you've hurt my boy, I'll…" He threatened, his own crop raised as if to strike Lewrie to protect his son.
"He struck me, milord," Alan snapped, whirling to face him, his eyes aflame. "With fist and crop. Not the actions of a gentleman, milord! I'm within my rights as an English gentleman to demand satisfaction from him. Is that your desire, milord?"
Sir Romney looked into those eyes. Odd; he'd recalled them as being light, genial blue. But in anger, Lewrie's eyes glinted as bright and steely gray, and as hard, as a drawn sword. And in them, he saw implacable rage… and murder!
What Harry had done, for whatever mystifying reason, smacked of lunacy, Sir Romney shivered. And truly, totally unforgivable; and so public! The best of local Society, the cream of the landed gentry and superior classes the parish and county could boast had seen it!
"No," Sir Romney grunted unwillingly, the surrender wrenched out of him. Slowly, he lowered his fist to the pommel of the saddle. And he lowered his eyes, unable to match glares with the young man.
"See to your son, milord," Lewrie ordered. "And call off your hounds." Ordered, to a man whose every whim, whose every pronouncement was nearly sacred writ to parish, village, and county. Without waiting to see if that order would be obeyed, sublimely confident that it would be, Lewrie turned to see to his horse, to gentle him and stroke him over for possible injury.
"Mr. Lane, Toby… get the pack away and home," Sir Romney sighed, dismounting to go to Harry and help him to his feet, to pry his hands away from his face to look upon his smashed nose.
Caroline rode forward to join Alan as he remounted, sure his gelding had suffered no hurt. "Good God, Alan, are you alright?"She put out a gloved hand to his cheek and turned his face to look at it "He welted you with his crop," she huffed, by turns solicitous to him, and outraged at Harry. "And bruised your cheek!"
"Nothing a cold cloth and a measure of brandy won't heal." He smiled, reaching up to take her hand in fondness for a moment. "Now, how to get Pitt out of this tree?"
Alan rode under the limb and drew rein. He stood high as he might in his stirrups and reached up, wiggling enticing fingers.
"Come to me, Pitt," he cooed. "Come on down, you silly fart. Don't hiss at me… 'twasn't me treed your silly arse! Pitt, these dogs'll tear you apart if you don't come down to me. Come on, now."
The cat slunk backwards towards the trunk, reached the fork and mewed uncertainly as it turned tail-downward, and inch by wary inch, began to crab down the trunk toward Alan's outstretched hands.
"There's a brave little man," Alan encouraged. "Now come to me, that's the lad." He stretched upwards and put a hand under Pitt's tail, another 'round his middle. It was like trying to peel off barnacles. "Let go the tree, you stupid little…"
Pitt at last turned his head and leapt, curling up in a ball of angry fur as Alan fumbled him onto the saddle and his lap. Once there, William Pitt lay still, suffering for once the indignity of being enclosed and held, though he trilled deep in his throat, moaned and hissed, licking his chops at the affront.
Sir Romney had walked Harry back to his horse, away from the softly gossiping onlookers. Suddenly, he broke away from his father and advanced on Alan and Caroline, to end standing by her stirrup.
"Is it true, Caroline?" Harry demanded in a broken voice. "Is it true you're to wed this…?"
"It is, Harry," Caroline nodded somberly.
"And all we've been to each other means nothing to you?" he fumed, gaining strength from what to him felt like betrayal.
"We have been neighbors, Mister Embleton," Caroline continued. "I have never encouraged your attentions. Had you misunderstood my cordiality for something more, for that I offer my apologies, Harry."
"He's a nobody!" Harry groused, a little muffled from the hurt to his nose, which was now oozing blood and mucus, and swelling large as an angry turnip. "Not landed, not…"
"I love him with all my heart," Caroline replied, turning to Alan as she said it, rewarding her choice of mate with an expression that left no doubts, even among the onlookers out of ear-shot.
"Be-damned to you, then!" Harry raged, pink-tinged tears trickling past his nose. "You cheap, bloody whore! You silly, misguided… brainless… faithless… bitchl"
Alan, encumbered with Pitt in his lap, began to spur forward, but Caroline acted for herself. She leaned forward and lashed Harry with her reins, with which she had been nervously toying, across his ruined beak! Harry yelped in redoubled agony and sprang away, hands up to protect his face once more, hunching over as Caroline rode forward, herding him like a steer and lashing at him.
"That for your slurs, Harry Embleton!" she cried. "That for your cruelty! Slander me, will you? Put your dogs on our cat, will you? That for a purse-proud… Tom-Noddy! You vile wretch!"
"Caroline, for God's sake!" Alan shouted, riding up even with her and taking her hands, taking her reins to stop her and lead her away before even more lasting harm was done. "Drop it! Dead'un!"
"Damn him!" She spat, her color up and her hazel eyes ablaze.
"I think he got your point, m'dear," Alan told her. And he could not help himself from betraying his feelings with an approving smile. Caroline blew out a deep breath and looked at him, then she began to smile, too; lowered her head and bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud at the sight of Harry scuttling away, though no more blows struck him.
"By God, you're a Tartar, no error!" Alan told her. "I hope you have not deceived me with amiability. Am I to wed a termagant?" he cajoled, leading her towards the Chiswick house.
"Oh, Alan, no!" Caroline softened at last "You must never think that of me! It's simply his… I am sorry I usurped your place as my defender, darling. But the fool rowed me beyond… he struck you, Alan! He'd have killed Pitt to spite us. And what he called me! Had I a gun, I'd have soon shot him as looked at him. Had I a sword, I'd have run him through, God help me!"
"Sounds termagant to me," Alan said, tongue in cheek.
"I promise I shall be a proper wife to you, Alan." She calmed. "Properly demure and so very affectionate and complaisant. Surely, I trust to your affectionate and gentle nature. There will be nothing but the sweetest tranquility and joy between us. I know that, sure as I know anything in this life!"
"A 'goody,'" Alan japed. "Your uncle's favorite word."
"Oh, aye, a 'goody'!" Caroline replied, throwing her head backto chuckle with wry amusement. "Though I fear he favors 'economical' the more! Your 'goody,' at last, my dearest love."
They took hands between, riding knee to knee, and gazed into each other's eyes.
Damme, Alan thought, but she's got more bottom than any woman ever I did see! With her wits, and her fire, I'm in for a lively old time with her. Might be more interesting than I thought. Who said a marriage had to be drab as ditchwater?
"Your uncle won't care for this much," he sobered.
"Dearest Alan, I don't know anyone in Anglesgreen who will," she rejoined. "This is the stuff Welsh feuds are made of. Will you duel him?" she asked suddenly, realizing the ramifications. "I beg of you, do not!"
"He's a hen-hearted buffle-head." Alan sneered. "And he got a lot worse than he gave, after all. I doubt Sir Romney wants his boy carved up any more than he already is. He'll be a lifetime living this shame down, and I doubt he's the nutmegs to do more than slink away to London or Guildford. Away from all his friends and neighbors who saw his beastly behavior."
"He looked and sounded completely daft, Alan," Caroline said with a frown. "Oh, Lord, what if he found the bottom to challenge you? Crossed in love, bested before his contemporaries…"
"By you, as well, Caroline," Alan laughed heartily. "If indeed he does summon up the stones, I'll be your second!"
\
II HECUBA
Chapter 1
There was no challenge, though it had been deemed prudent for Lewrie to ride back to London to gather what household furnishings he possessed from storage with the Matthewses at his old lodgings, to make himself scarce for a week or so, whilst Caroline gathered her own trousseau and goods, bought what was lacking, and ordered a new gown from the dressmaker's.
There had been a lot of sighing, mooning and handwringing in the Chiswick house. Uncle Phineas, bemoaning his now-confounded schemes, praying only for icy civility at best from the Embletons for the rest of his life; Mother Charlotte sunk deep in the moping Blue Devils which required an hourly change of handkerchiefs and lots of sad "alases"; Govemour and Millicent squint-a-pipes, split two ways by fondness for Alan and Caroline, and regrets for connections which were now effectively severed, removing Millicent Chiswick nee Embleton from familiar converse, and Governour from hope of support for Parliament, or the conjoining of the lands.
It had been a rather grim wedding party, with half the guests either secretly armed to prevent further scandal, in support of the Chiswicks; or present to gawk and gossip as if their nuptials were a raree show or dramatick which would end in high-flown and safely vicarious violence. Well represented though the gentry were, there had been few representatives solidly partisan, or beholden, to the baronet and his son. And, of course, no Embletons at all, save wan, but game to the last, Millicent.
The wedding supper had been held at the Ploughman instead of the Red Swan Inn, and Alan suspected that whenever he had cause to return to Anglesgreen (God help him on those rare occasions) he would do his tippling and socializing there for the rest of his natural life, odious as that thought was to him once he had inspected the dim, sooty, slightly rank gloominess of that shoddily delapidated establishment.
And, finally and most unhappily, it had been deemed, again, prudent, for the "happy couple" to depart instanter for Portsmouth, rather than consummate the vows in any local bed.
And, finally and most unhappily, it had been deemed, again, prudent, for the "happy couple" to depart instanter for Portsmouth, rather than consummate the vows in any local bed.
They had had to coach as far as Petersfield to feel safely out of range of any residual rancor. Once there, in a homey, low-ceilinged set of rooms at a rambling old coaching inn, the happy couple celebrated the especial bliss of newly begun married life in proper style, which left Caroline purring, and Alan so ecstatically spent, and so delighted by her physical charms and her ardor that he wondered just how he was going to deal with being separated from her once his new ship was ready for sea.
Charms or no, there was a thrill of expectation that morning. Following a teasing, tickling, mirthful and infinitely pleasing bout after the "abigail" at the George Inn had brought their tea, breakfast in the public rooms, and a lingering goodbye kiss, Alan still felt an impatient urge to tear away from her.
Dressed in his best, brand-new uniform, white waistcoat and breeches gleaming, and buttons and metal appointments shining fit to blind the unwary, Lt. Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy, made his presence known at the shore offices of the Port Admiral before going out to his new command.
"And you are?" a punctilious silver-buttoned naval clerk said with a traplike opening and shutting of a severe little mouth.
"Lewrie, sir," Alan replied. "I'm come to take command of Alacrity."
The clerk looked him over carefully, one bored eyebrow cocked in cynical appraisal. Silver-Buttons had sometimes been appalled by the turnout of some holders of the King's Commission, by how shabbily and "pinchbeck" salty stalwarts could dress themselves, as if their slightest attempt at nearness was a civilian crime.
Silver-Buttons also made a rough estimate of Lieutenant Lewrie's value during his appraisal. Real gold coat buttons, not gilded; a new cocked hat, and by the officer's London accent, probably from James Lock. Real silver buckles on his shoes; a good watch and impressive fob, and a damned good sword, even if it was a hanger and not a slim, straight smallsword. A Gill' s, and they didn't come cheap! Hmm!
Silver-Buttons rang a tiny handbell on his desk to summon his compatriot, the regulating captain of the Portsmouth Impress Service. Aye, this Lieutenant Lewrie had the wherewithal, unlike so many others, and could pay to get his ship commissioned and manned when the pettifogging frustrations of the dockyards (and Silver-Buttons knew just how to invent said frustrations) became insurmountable for an aspiring young captain. Not too much, though, Silver-Buttons decided; that scar upon the cheek, that restless look in those genial eyes (were they gray or were they blue, he dithered) spoke caution, and a limit to what Lewrie might abide before making loud complaints to Silver-Buttons' superior.
"Might I see your orders, Mister Lewrie?" The clerk smiled, deciding upon a larger measure of civility than was his wont.
Alan surrendered his documents from the Admiralty.
"You'd be amazed how many Sea Officers positively lurk around this anteroom," Silver-Buttons "tsk-tsked" as he read those precious papers. "Or attempt to bluff their way aboard a ship, bold as a dog-in-a-doublet. One must be certain of the bona fides in these times. Aye, yours are quite in order, sir," he concluded with a smirk.
"Quite, sir," Alan nodded, itching to get his documents back, and safely into a deep side pocket of his coat. "Would it be proper for me to make my courtesy call to the Port Admiral at once, sir, or might I perform that chore after reading myself in?"
"I regret to inform you, Lieutenant Lewrie, that that worthy is not here. Nor will he be for the rest of the week," Silver-Buttons sighed with an audible sniff. "Matters of state in London, with the Board of Admiralty, do you see? Ah, Captain Palmer! Captain Palmer, allow me to name to you Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, come down to assume a new command. Lieutenant Lewrie, our Regulating Captain."
"Your servant, sir," Lewrie said, extending a hand to the oily older man who had appeared with breakfast grease on his chin.
"Nay, I be yours, sir. And that, soon, I'm thinking. And what ship?"
"The Alacrity, sir."
"Alacrity, Alacrity, hmm…" Silver-Buttons mused, searching his files stacked in untidy piles on a sideboard.
"A ketch-rigged sloop, sir. To turn over, then fit out for the Bahamas Squadron," Lewrie prodded impatiendy.
"Ah, here we are!" Silver-Buttons brightened. "Ten-gunned, once a bomb ketch. Should have been in port over a month ago, but she found nasty gales returning from Gibraltar and broke her passage, hmm… once in Lisbon. And a second time in Nantes. Odd."Odd, sir? What's odd?" Lewrie fretted. "Was she damaged? How badly? To dock in Frogland… she is here, is she not, sir?"
"Well, of course she's here, Lieutenant Lewrie!" Silver-Buttons snapped. "Else how would I have this paperwork, hey? Came in Tuesday last. As to her material condition, I haven't a clue, though. I cannot be expected to keep track of everything! Aha. Docked and breamed last week, her coppering redone, and is now lying at anchor, awaiting turnover."
"And does that say how many hands stayed aboard, sir?" Lewrie continued. "Any Discharged I must recruit to replace, or will the men turn over entire?"
"Portsmouth's full o' willin' hands, sir," Captain Palmer said after masticating a last, fetching bite of bacon. "I'll be that able to fulfill yer ev'ry desire. Bahamers, is it to be, did y'say? Then y'd rest easy to know there's Cuffy sailors aplenty, awishin' the hot o' their tropics. Mister Powlett's Marine Society o' London's sent down a draft o' their very best, and were ya able to deem 'em Ordinary Seamen, seein' as how they know their knots an' can box the compass good as a hand a year at sea, then half yer problem's solved, I say!"
"I see, sir," Alan nodded. West Indies sailors were as good as any he'd seen in his limited experience, though most English captains would not take them. They were better behaved, more religious, and a lot less likely to cause trouble as long as they were treated fairly. He didn't know squit about any Mr. Powlett's Marine Society of London, but it sounded very much like some Poor Relief for street urchins. If they'd gotten any instructions at all, they'd stand head and shoulders higher than truculent, ignorant landsmen from a debtors' prison.
"I must confess ignorance as to my needs for personnel, Captain Palmer," Lewrie said, finally getting his documents slid back to him, and into his pocket once more. "I shall go aboard Alacrity and read myself in at once, determine my lacks, and get in touch with you, sir."
"Afore the Admiralty changes its mind, hey?" Palmer cajoled.
"Quite, sir," Lewrie smiled bashfully. Captain Palmer had hit the nail directly on its head.
"God, she's lovely," Alan breathed as he beheld the gun ketch which lay at anchor before him as he was rowed out by a bargee.
"Ever' ship be, sir," the bargee grunted over his oars.
Alacrity was a saucy thing. Seen side-on, which view disguised her wide beam, she possessed a lovely, curving sheer-line to bulwarks and gunwale, and the jaunty, upward thrust of her jib boom and sprit yard made her appear eager and lively. She was about seventy-five feet on the range of the deck, and ninety feet overall from taffrail to the tip of her bowsprit. She was rigged as a two-masted ketch, a bomb ketch of the older style with equally spaced masts, the after mast by the break of the quarter-deck railings shorter than the mainmast forward. Her principal motive power would be those two courses rigged fore-and-aft on the lower masts, hoisted like batwings from gaff yard atop and long booms below. She sported crossed square-sail yards for tops'ls on both masts, and stays forrud for outer-flying jib, inner jib and fore-topmast stays'l.
Her hull below the black chainwale was linseeded or oiled a dark brown with a glossy new sheen, while her gunwale and bulwarks, all her upper hull was a spritely blue several shades lighter than royal blue, and her rails, transom carvings, quarter-galleries, beakhead and projecting strips above and below the gunwale were done in a yellow deep enough to at first be mistaken for giltwork. Her crowned-lion figurehead at the tip of the beakhead, below the thrusting jib boom, was the only place true gilt appeared.
"Boat ahoy!" one of the harbor watch shouted in query.
"Alacrity!" the bargee bellowed, and raising several ringers in the air to indicate the number of side-boys due their visitor; and with his shout telling them that their new lord and master had arrived. He stilled his oars and let the rowboat coast to give them time to sort out a proper welcome.
The boat at last thudded against the hull by the boarding battens and dangling manropes. Alan hitched his hanger out of the way, set his hat firmly on his head, and stood. He reached out, took hold of the manropes and heaved himself onto the wide and deep shelf-like battens to ascend to the entry port cut into the bulwarks above. He heard the sweet trills of bosun's pipes squealing his first salute as a captain of a man of war, and once through the entry port and standing on the starboard sail-handling gangway (his gangway, he relished!) he doffed his hat in reply. Surprised as they were to see him, he was as much surprised to see a Commission Officer standing before him with a sword drawn and presented in salute.
"Welcome aboard, sir," the young man said once the ceremony was done, and he had sheathed his sword.
"Lewrie," Alan announced. "Alan Lewrie. And you are?"
"Ballard, sir," the trim little officer replied. "Arthur Ballard." He pronounced it Ball-ahhrd, emphasizing the last syllable.
"Are you temporary, or…?" Alan quizzed.
"First officer, sir," Ballard informed him with a slight raise of his eyebrows. "A bomb would normally rate but one Commission Officer as master and commander, sir, but rerated as a sloop, sir…"
"Ah, I see!" Alan nodded with a smile. He would have someone else to help with the navigation, and the watch-standing, which suited his indolent nature perfectly! "Did you turn over with her, sir, from her previous commission?"
"Came aboard to join four days ago, sir, just after she left the careenage," Ballard rejoined.
"Right, then," Lewrie said, digging into that side pocket for his precious orders. "Assemble ship's company, Mister Ballard."
"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard intoned with a sober mien.
It was thin audience Lewrie had to witness his reading-in. Two gangly midshipmen of fourteen or so, hopefully salty enough from being at sea since the usual joining age of ten or twelve; eight or nine boys dressed the usual "Beau-Nasty" he took for servants and powder monkeys; twenty or so hands from fifteen to forty dressed in blue and gray check calico and slop-trousers, plus the older men who affected cocked hats and longer frock coats with brass buttons who would be her holders of Admiralty warrants; the bosun, carpenter, cooper, sailmaker and gunner, and their immediate mates who were the ship's career professionals.
Alan read them his orders, savoring every mellifluous, ringing phrase which directed him "to take charge and command" of His Majesty's Sloop Alacrity. Finished at last, he rolled up the document and retied the ribbons, wondering if he should say else.
"I am certain," he began, looking down at their hopeful faces peering back up at him from the waist amidships, "that many of you came up on blood and thunder in the recent war, as did I. Service in a ship in peacetime may not hold the ever-present threat of battle. We may have more time for 'make-and-mend,' more 'Rope-yarn Sundays.' But that is only after we've drilled and trained to be ready to fight, and I am satisfied. And our old friend the sea is still a demanding mistress. I deem peacetime service no less rigorous than war. Mind you, I'm no Tartar nor a slavedriver. But I am a taut hand, and a taut ship where every man-jack works chearly for me, our ship, his mates, and our Fleet is a happy ship, I've found. And that is what will satisfy me, and that is what will bring us safely home from the fiercest gales or the hottest fight, should they come to us. Fair enough?" he asked, expecting no answer. "That'll be all for now. Dismiss the hands, Mister Ballard."
"Aye, aye, Captain," Ballard replied, using that honorific for the first time now that Lewrie's assumption of command was official. "Ship's company, on hats and dismiss! What next, sir?"
"Introduce me to the warrants and mates, Mister Ballard." Once more, Lewrie felt he was standing outside himself like some theatregoer, judging his own performance on the Navy's stage. He had almost reddened with embarrassment as he uttered those trite-but-true phrases he'd borrowed from other, and whom he considered, better, men.
I've six years in the Navy; why do I still feel like such a low fraud? he asked himself.
He knew his own preferences for peacetime service would be to cruise like a hired yacht, sip claret and dine well, perhaps carry some doxy in his cabins for sport. Yet he wore the King's Coat, and perforce had to live what felt like a great sham; a sham which he was sure others would someday recognize.
"Mister Fellows the sailing master, sir," Ballard said as Alan's senior mates gathered round. Fellows was short, wiry, ginger-haired, and seemed like a timorous store clerk. "Mister Harkin the bosun, sir." Harkin was built like a salt-beef barrel with arms as thick as hawsers, and a round hard face. "Mister Maclntyre the surgeon's mate. This is Mister Taft, the sailmaker, Mister Fowles the master gunner…"
"Fowles?" Lewrie interrupted. "Ariadne, winter of '80. You were but an able seaman then. My first ship as a newly."
"Aye, sir, I were. Thankee fer 'membrin' me, Cap'n, sir," the clumsy older salt bobbed happily. "An' that 'appy I be t' be a'servin' unner 'Ram-Cat' Lewrie, sir." The introductions finished, Lewrie plucked at his uniform. "I meant to pay my respects to the Port Admiral, else I'd have dressed more suitable for a first-day's inspection, men," he said with a small jape at himself. "Something less grandl So, I'll delay going over the ship from bilges to mast trucks until tomorrow at eight bells of the morning watch. At which time I will wear slop-clothing and put my nose into everything. So put right what you will, and have a list ready concerning any deficiencies you want corrected in your departments, or items still wanting, hey?" He gave them a warning, and time enough to present a going concern, sure there were glaring faults hereabouts in a ship fresh from the graving dock and careenage, with most of her furniture and fittings recently reloaded. "Mister Ballard, let us go aft. I assume the ship's books are in the great-cabins?"
"They are, sir. This way, sir," Ballard replied gravely.
"How many hands have turned over, Mister Ballard?" Alan asked as they descended to the waist from the quarter-deck for the hatch to the aft cabins.
"At present, sir, there are thirty-six hands aboard, ordinary, able or landsmen. All but eleven may be rated seamen. The purser Mister Keyhoe has nine men away from the ship at present, to row him over to the dockyards. Alacrity came into port with fifty-five, ten short of her rated complement. Five were discharged, sprung or ruptured, three retired. But, there's a new frigate fitting out here, sir, and we lost eleven hands into her. The Port Admiral sent an officer aboard and got them to… ahem… volunteer for her," Ballard said with a wry pout.