Chapter 4

"God, what a bloody pot-mess," Alan fumed on sailing day as he beheld his little command turn from a trig gun ketch to a bloody Ark, from a sane and rational construct to a barking shambles!

"Heave, and in sight!" Parham, one of his fourteen-year-old midshipmen, howled from up forward.

"Jib halyards, gaff halyards, peak halyards, Mister Ballard!" Alan snapped. The inexperienced landsmen and volunteers were being trampled by the ordinary and able seamen; the draft of midshipmen flitted about trying to appear useful, or to avoid a mob of hands who suddenly stampeded in their general direction. A yearling steer gave out a mournful bellow of annoyance, the pigs and sheep squealed or baaed in sudden terror, and ducks and geese in the fo'c's'le manger squawked and fluttered, so that Alacrity's foredecks were nigh awash in feathers. There was a deal of cursing from professionals, too.

The ship's boys served as nippermen, seizing the lighter line to the heavier anchor hawser, whilst inexperienced landsmen under the direction of the bosun's mate, a Portuguese named Odrado, tried to deal the stinking coils of salt-stiffened cable into manageable heaps, then down to the cable tiers to drape over the bitts to dry. And it was a truism that had Alacrity been a 1st Rate 100-gunned flagship, they would still not have had enough deck space for the nippers, the men on the cable, the hands heaving on the capstan, the sailhandlers or the sheetmen on the gangways ready to brace the jibs and gaff sails.

Blocks squealed, lignum vitae sheaves hummed, and gaffs cried as the sails were hoisted aloft.

"Payin' off t'larboard, no helm, sir," Neill said from the long tiller sweep with his fellow Burke standing by, ready to lend strength for when the wind gave enough way through the water to make the rudder function.

"Forrud!" Lewrie bawled. "Walk your jib sheets to larboard and haul away! Brace up the after course, there, lads! A luff, no more, foredeck!"

Alan spun to walk to larboard to peer over the side to see if there was even the slightest hint of a wake, and to gauge distances to other anchored ships. He almost collided with the Reverend Townsley and his wife who were gawking about like farts in a trance, cackling with amusement and treating the spectacle like a rare show.

"Your pardons," he said, not sounding much like he meant it as he brushed past them. He had advised Caroline to stay below and out of the way until he sent Cony for her, once the ship had gotten under way and things were a bit less disorganized.

"Brace on the capstan, well the cable!" Ballard called, tending to his chores. "Ready on the cat!"

Thank God for a first lieutenant, Lewrie thought. And thank God for a competent one. There, a wake, he exulted! He tossed a chip of scrap wood over and watched it bob astern, foot at a time.

"Bite t'the helm, sir," Neill cried.

"Larboard your helm, Mister Neill. Bring her up to weather on a soldier's wind for now. Forrud!" Alan called, once more stumbling over the Townsleys, who had moved to the forward left corner of the quarter-deck nettings. "Haul away on your larboard sheets!"

"Silly bugger!" Burke yelped as his way with the tiller sweep was impeded. Alan didn't have to turn around to see who it was that had gotten in the way.

"You might do better all the way aft by the taffrails, Reverend," Alan said, then shouted," 'Vast hauling! Luff enough! Now belay!"

Alacrity was free of the land, free of the bottom, and moving faster. The wind was from the west, with a touch of northing, giving them a clear shot down the western passage past the Isle of Wight, with enough strength to it to let them harden up to weather to keep off the coast to their lee, to go close-hauled if they had to without a tack. With luck and no traffic, they could get to sea in the Channel on one long board.

Lewrie heaved a slight sigh of relief. Comical as they might have looked to ships longer in commission and practice, Alacrity was on her way. He walked back up to starboard, along the narrow space inside the quarter-deck railings and the after capstan-head to starboard, the windward side, which was his by right as captain.

"Anchor's fished, catted and rung up, sir," Ballard told him, touching his hat with a finger. Those studious brown eyes held the slightest hint of glee. "Cable's below, hawse-bucklers fitted."

"Thank you, Mister Ballard," Lewrie smiled. "Not too awful, considering. Two rehearsals seemed to have turned the trick. Thank you again, for your suggestion."

"My pleasure, Captain," Ballard said, inclining his head, his long upper lip curving just a trifle.

"I'd admire should you attend to the gun salute to the flag," Lewrie instructed. "The experienced hands, mind."

"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard said, turning away.

Lewrie looked down on his gun deck and gangways. What had been total disorder was now flaked down and lashed, hung on the pintails in neat loops; halyards and sheets, braces and lifts, were stowed for instant use.

Senior seamen were explaining things to their rawer compatriots, beginning to play the role of "sea daddies."

William Pitt sprang up atop the quarter-deck railings, his tail lashing with excitement. Alan reached out and ruffled the fur behind his ears. "How does it feel to have a ship of your own to terrorize again, hey, Pitt? Good?" Pitt tucked his paws in and lay still.

For an English day, it was remarkably lovely. There was some bite to the breeze, of course, but the sun was out, peeking between thin scud, making the waters of the Solent gleam, giving them color for once beyond steely gray, brightening the vista of ships and sea.

"Cony?" Alan called, flinching as he remembered Caroline.

"Aye, sir."

"My respects to Mistress Lewrie, and inform her the deck is quiet enough for her to come up," he told him, unable to control a blush at using the unfamiliar title "Mistress Lewrie."

"There's the pretty!" Caroline said, stroking Pitt as she came to the quarter-deck by one of the short ladders from the gun deck, and Pitt stood to get his petting. "Oh, how marvelous!" she exclaimed in delight, coming to his side to link arms with him. "A perfectly gorgeous morning. Good morning, Mister Ballard."

"Good morning to you, ma'am," Ballard replied, doffing his hat to her. "Your pardons, ma'am, but 'twill be a little noisy in a few moments. Aft, there! Prepare to dip the colours! Mister Fowles, be ready!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Abeam of the principal fort, Alacrity began to thunder out a gun salute. She dipped her colours briefly as the equally-spaced shots rang out, with Fowles pacing aft from one gun to the next, muttering the ancient litany of timing, "... if I weren't a gunner, I wouldn't be here. Number three gun.... fire! I've left my wife, my home, and all that's dear. Number four gun... fire!"

"Thank you, Alan dearest," Caroline whispered to him between shots. "I'll never give you cause to regret your decision. I love you so completely!"

"And I love you, Caroline," he whispered back, bending from his rigid pose of lord and master for a second, grinning foolishly.

BOOM!

"At least on passage, I shall learn what sort of life you lead aboard your ships," Caroline went on. "So I may understand you better and picture you more clearly when you're away."

BOOM!

"Oh, Alan, we're setting out on a grand adventure!" She laughed. "Such a honeymoon, no one has ever had!"

"There, there, my dear," Lewrie comforted, almost gagging himself as his bride "cast her accounts." She knelt in the starboard quarter-gallery, the "necessary" converted from a wardrobe little larger than a small closet.

"It passes. It will."

She looked up at him, dull-eyed and wan, her livery face now devoid of expression. "Dear Jesus, could I but... Harrackkk!'"

Back her face went over the hole as her body rebelled at such infernal motion, at the stomach-churning odors of ship and food. He knelt with her to hold her head, to apply a towel below her chin as solicitously as he could, for one whose cast-iron craw had withstood the fiercest gales since his first hours in the Navy. But he had to dwell on the smells of fresh-sawn wood and new paint most closely!

There was a rap on the flimsy louvred door to their share of the great-cabins. "Mister Ballard's respects, sir, and I am to tell you he is desirous of tacking ship," a thin voice called out.

"Mister Mayhew, is it?" Alan asked, trying to differentiate between two soprano midshipmen.

"Aye, aye, sir," the fourteen-year-old said, voice cracking.

"My compliments to the first lieutenant and I shall be on deck directly," he instructed. "Caroline. Dearest ... I must go on deck to oversee a change of course. I'll be back soon, I swear. Do you think you might be alright until then, love?"

All she could do was nod, dazed by illness, her face twisted inmisery as it was poised over the slop chute. He kissed her on the top of her head, rose, and made his escape, feeling pangs of guilt.

The Reverend Townsley collided with him in the narrow lar-boardside passageway, hands to his mouth and sprinting for the "jakes." But Alacrity was loping like a deerhound over the sea, stern rising high then settling like a dog's haunches as it dug in for a thrust with its back legs, dropping with a giddy swoosh. One moment, running aft was hastened by the slant of the deck; the next moment one churned in place or lost ground as the bows plunged. At least, laid hard over on her starboard side by the wind she did not roll. The good reverend danced in place like Punch pursuing Judy, then was almost hurled the last few feet to crash into the transom settee and the stern timbers. His feet went flying over his head and he landed like a pile of dominie's washing— black "ditto" coat, breeches, stockings and waistcoat all of a piece. He regarded Lewrie for a mournful moment like a hound being put down would stare at the gun, then spewed the last contents of his body over his lap and chest.

So much for serving fresh pork roast, Lewrie gagged as he turned away to stumble forward; there's four shillings wasted!

The door to the Townsleys' cabin was swaying open, left gaping in the reverend's haste, and Lewrie caught a peek of Mrs. Reverend Townsley and her prunish maid fighting to share a bucket.

"Oh, land us ashore, Captain Lewrie!" she wailed, giving him such a glare as said that it was all his fault. "No more, I beseech you! We shall all drown for sure. Gracious Jesus, to be on solid ground...!"

"Approaching a lee shore in the dark in these seas, ma'am, would be drowning for certain," Lewrie explained. "Sorry. Excuse me."

Bad weather might be best, he thought as he gained the quarterdeck; save me money feedin' 'em broth an' gruel for a few days!

"Wind's dead on the bows, and blowing right up the Channel, sir!" Ballard had to shout at him. "And now the tide's turned, we're set too much northerly on the larboard tack, headed for a lee shore!"

The English Channel was a nasty piece of water, with tidal flows as strong as spring rivers in spate. Those, combined with the current and wind, could waft a ship along quick as a "diligence-coach" on the High Road. Or nail her in place for twelve hours, no matter how much wind or sail area to beat against them.

And Alacrity was, like all shoal-drafted converted bombs, tending to slip to leeward like a sot sliding off a chair. Close-hauled into that stiff wind, she would require four or five times the mileage to make good a direct course with a more favorable beam or stern wind.

"On the starboard tack, we have sea room 'til dawn, when this tide turns!" Lewrie declared in return. "Aye, make it so, Mister Ballard! Before you tack, though, take in the outer-flying jib. She's too much pressure on her bows, and I'll not have her broach beam-on to wind and sea if she tacks too sharp!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" Ballard agreed with a firm nod, and the first, slight smile Lewrie had seen him attempt "Mister Harkin, 'All Hands!' Stations for stays! Fo'c's'le captain? Take in the outer jib!"

Getting her head 'round was no problem, with no need to pay off a point free on the helm to gather speed for a successful tack. They drove her up with her helm alee and Alacrity tracked about quick as a wink, deck leveling as she approached "stays," sails luffing and thundering, blocks rattling and tinkling, hull and masts crying.

"Meet her!" Alan warned the helmsmen. "Nothing to loo'rd!"

"Let go and haul!" Ballard screamed over the howling wind. Her bows crossed the wind and in a moment, she was laid hard over on a new tack, sails cracking like cannon shots as they filled and bellied out hard as iron, some luffing still as inexperienced men tailed on sheets too slowly. But paying off a bit too far and pressed hard over.

"Helm down, helm down! Keep her hard up aweather!" Lewrie said, throwing his own strength to aid Neill and Burke on the long tiller. "Thus! Steer west-sou'west, half west."

"Better, sir," Ballard stated after the deck was back in order.

"Smartly done, Mister Ballard, for such an inexperienced crew," Lewrie complimented him. "Thank God we have enough skilled hands, or we'd have rolled her masts right out of her."

"Thank you, sir."

"This may blow out by morning, sir," Fellows the sailing master opined after recovering his hat from the scuppers. "Damme, though, she swims even this lumpy sea devilish nice, don't she?"

"Aye, she does, Mister Fellows," Lewrie agreed. "Mister Ballard, before you dismiss the hands, take a second reef in the gaff courses, now we've unbalanced her by taking in the flying jib. Trim her until you're satisfied. Hank on a storm trys'l and bare thetack comer for a balance on her head. Able seamen only out on the sprit tonight, mind."

"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard said, going forward.

"On starboard tack all day tomorrow, most like, sir," Fellows decided. "Once the tide turns, with the current... tack again, I fear, as we fetch Alderney in the Channel Isles."

"I'd admire were it Guernsey, but we make too much leeway," Lewrie agreed, picturing a chart in the mind's eye. "Then larboard tack all the way toward Torquay and Tor Bay, and hope the winds back north."

An hour later, Alacrity rode much easier, with her large gaff sails reduced in area, and their centers of effort lower to the deck, and the center of gravity. Eased as she was, Lewrie had the galley fires lit so hot beverages could be served to ease suffering.

"Clear broth and biscuit," Ballard mused. "Just the thing for touchy stomachs. Though my other ships ran more to hot rum and water."

"Royal Navy's panacea for all ills," Lewrie chuckled as he had a cup of steaming black coffee and rum.

"I think it... uhm..." Ballard began to say, then had a second thought. For a fleeting moment, he showed indecision.

"What, Mister Ballard?"

"Oh, just that I thought it most considerate of you, sir. To be solicitous to the hands, their first night at sea. Easing the ship as we have. The galley ..."

Of course, Lewrie thought! We're feeling each other out!

For the next three years, they were stuck with each other, for good or ill; two total strangers thrown together at the whim of the Admiralty, an Admiralty which would not, or could not, take into account the personalities of officers when handing out active commissions. It could be a good relationship, or a horror; it could be friendly, or it could be cold and aloof as charity!

"Well, half of 'em're cropsick as dogs at the moment," Lewrie shrugged. "They need something hot they may keep down. Or won'tclaw on the way back up! And what's the sense of thrashing to windward as if we were pursuing a prize? The tide'll turn, after all. But those new 'uns make an easy adjustment to the sea. Don't make 'em hate the life they signed on for so eagerly."

"Most captains would not consider such, sir."

"I had a few good teachers," Lewrie allowed. "As I'm sure you did."

"Aye, sir," Ballard grinned. "And how fares our live-lumber?"

"Wailing and spewing," Lewrie snickered uncharitably. "Praying for dry land, last I saw of 'em."

"And ... and your good lady, sir?" Lieutenant Ballard asked carefully.

"Good Christ!" Lewrie cried. "I told her I'd be right back, and here it's been two hours at the least! Uhm, when I left her, she was suffering bad as the Townsleys, Mister Ballard."

"My tenderest respects to Mistress Lewrie, sir, and I pray that her seasickness will soon abate," Ballard offered.

"I'm certain she will be heartened by your kind concern, sir," Lewrie replied. "Stap me, two whole hours! She'll scalp me! But, I must confess, being on deck, being active, relieved some of my pangs, too."

"Uhm ... and will Mistress Lewrie be ... ah ... ?" Ballard squirmed.

"Oh," Alan snorted, "do I intend to cruise the West Indies with my wife aboard? Was that your question, Mister Ballard?"

"Your pardons, Captain, I mean no disrespect. It's just that the warrants, some of the turned-over hands were talking, and..."

"Do they disapprove?" Lewrie demanded.

"Your predecessor, Lieutenant Riggs, had no storm damage, sir," Ballard admitted. "He shammed it, and used Admiralty promissory notes in Lisbon and Nantes to stock his wine cellars. He was never without female companionship aft. A veritable parade of foreign morts, I'm told, sir. I gather that the people resented it, and feared you might be..."

"I'm not Augustus Hervey, Mister Ballard," Lewrie said, thinking even so that he'd made a fair beginning on that worthy's estimable record of over 200 women in a single three-year commission.

"Hardly a man may be, sir, and may still walk," Ballard found courage to jape with a droll, dry expression.

"Much as I might care for it, mind..." Lewrie laughed. "But, as you say, the hands would grow surly and insubordinate were I to parade what they want and can't have in their faces. I may not be an experienced captain yet But I do know better than that, sir!"

"I'm sorry if I discomfited you, sir. And I am of the same opinion as you, sir, and understand completely," Ballard said, even if he didn't yet understand what would compel a man to wed so early in a career, risk the loss of it. It had taken so much for him to even get to sea, and progress as far as he had, son of a Kentish innkeeper, a private school letter boy. Had it not been for a Navy captain who kept lodgings with them when he was ashore doinghis father a favor to take young Arthur on as a cabin servant, he might still be forrud garbed in slop-clothing, still a topman and Able Seaman, a mate at best!

"If you will allow me the deck, sir, you may see to your wife," Ballard extended as a peace-offering. "For this evening at the least, unless there's an emergency, you might..."

"No, Mister Ballard," Lewrie decided, finishing the last dregs of his coffee. "I'm no Augustus Hervey. Nor am I a Lieutenant Riggs. Call me, as stated in my Order Book, should circumstances merit. But I will take advantage of your kind offer and go below for awhile. God, over two hours! She'll have my liver! Good evening, Mister Ballard."

"And good evening to you, sir," Ballard replied, relieved. "And do convey my sympathies to Mrs. Lewrie."

"I will and thankee."

He's a raw 'un, no error, Ballard thought as Lewrie stumped down to the weather-decks. Means well. But not too well. Ain't playing a "Robin Goodfellow" to be popular with the hands, just taut but caring. So far.

Ballard should have envied Lewrie bitterly. He was taller and fairer, boyishly handsome, and came with an indolent courtier's repute; he'd not gained the sobriquet of "Ram-Cat" Lewrie for his choice of pet alone, Ballard grimaced! Womanizer, a brothel-dandy, he'd heard, with the confidence around women that Ballard lacked, the panache the Frogs called it to spoon them just shy of scandalous, and the devil-take-ye glint in his eyes to seem dangerous and desirable.

Yet he was a good sailor, and a married one!

Ballard should have resented Lewrie's rapid rise in the Service. Six years from gentleman volunteer to not only Commission Officer, but a captaincy in foreign waters! While it had taken young Arthur Ballard long nights of study, years of quiet observation to develop his skills with a stubbornly silent will to equal or best his contemporaries, and gain this first coveted slot as a first officer. Eleven years to his commission, to Lewrie's six! Why, he should have despised him for a whip-jack sham, a well-connected idler!

Oddly, he did not. Lewrie was too much of a puzzle to envy or despise. Trust? Ah, that might come as they progressed together. He already felt he might come to trust him. But it was early days.

The one thing that genuinely irked was the lovely Caroline who adored the fellow so enthusiastically, the sort of young woman Ballard had always most desired, but never seemed to find. And Lewrie had found her so effortlessly!

"Caroline," he whispered, testing her name on his lips.

"Say somethin', Mister Ballard, sir?" Neill the quartermaster inquired.

"Steady as you go, Mister Neill," Ballard said, shrugging deep into his soggy grogram boat-cloak.

Caroline was asleep on the transom settee's pad, curled up hard against the stern timbers by an open sash window overlooking the wake, hugging her knees. Alan took the painted coverlet from the hanging-cot and folded it about her to ward off the chill of the stiff winds.

"Oh, you're back!" she groaned, weary as death, spent from all her wracking heavings. She reached out for him, weak as a kitten, as he got a damp cloth to wipe her face. She didn't sound accusatory, he noted with relief!

"I'm so sorry, Caroline, but that's a ship for you," Alan lied. "It took forever. A tug here, a pull there. Are you feeling perhaps the tiniest bit better, darling?"

"A bit," she allowed. "Now you're here. Just hold me, Alan."

"Miss me?" he teased, easing down on the edge of the settee by her side as she rolled to him and embraced him.

"My love, I was much too ... busy, to miss you," Caroline sighed, amazingly able to jest even then. "The fresh air helped best. Once I got the window open, and made my final offering to Neptune, I was dead to the world."

"You should get into bed. Sleep's the thing for you now. The bedbox doesn't pitch or roll. Would you care for some brandy?"

"I do not trust myself," she said after one quick peek at their hanging-cot, which swayed impressively. She rinsed her mouth with the brandy, but spit it out over the stern, not trusting her stomach with any fresh contents, either.

"You are so good to me," she crooned sleepily, stroking his face as he came back to her side. "I'm so sorry to be a burden, when I promised just this morning I'd not be."

"You're no burden, love," Alan smiled. "Every sailor has to find his sea legs. You sleep, now. And you'll feel better in the morning."

He reclined with her, stroking her hair until her breathing went slow and regular. Only then did he close his own eyes and nod off, his head pressed against hard oak, lulled and hobbyhorsed to sleep by the ship's motion.There was a rapping at the door.

"Unnh?" he groaned, starting awake from treacly sleep.

"Midshipman Parham, sir. The sailing master's respects, and he wishes to shake out the second reef in the main course and inner jib, Captain, sir."

"Very well, Mister Parham," Alan replied, reeling with weariness. "I'll be on deck directly."