On the quarterdeck were rows of chairs, brought up from the wardroom. About a dozen in all. McEwan was sitting in one, eating a piece of candied ginger. “Here, Mr. Lenox!” he said, after gulping a bit down. “I’ve got you a seat, here in the first row!”
Now here was impressive loyalty. “Splendid. Thank you.”
“I hoped to make a request, too, sir.”
“Go on.”
“If you could release me from my duties for the evening, I’ve been nominated by the other stewards to compete.”
“In Follow the Leader?”
“Yes, sir.”
So it was some sort of eating contest. “Well, of course.”
“Are you quite sure, sir? You might want a glass of wine during the show.”
“No, I’d rather keep a clear head. If you could fetch me up a cloak you can be on your own. It’s cooler than I had expected here.”
“Very good, sir. And, sir, have ten bob on me, if you like a flutter. I reckon you’ll get decent odds, too.”
“I’ll put ten bob on you for each of us,” said Lenox. “Who makes the book?”
“Thank you, sir! Just talk to Mr. Mercer, sir.”
This was Pimples, who was taking bets from all sides, presumably with the tacit approval of his superiors. Lenox found him and placed the two bets.
The midshipman frowned. “McEwan, Mr. Lenox? Are you sure of that? I don’t want you to lose your money, after you treated us to that bread and ham and champagne and all.” He said the word champagne “shampin,” or something that sounded approximately like that.
“My finances can just about stand the loss, should McEwan let me down,” Lenox said, trying to keep the corners of his mouth down.
Pimples nodded gravely. “If you feel sure, sir. The odds will be nineteen to three. Already set, wish I could give you better.”
“As you please.”
Lenox, a full smile on his face now, resumed his seat, the cloak he had asked for laid across it. The deck was filling. A group of men had lofted paper lanterns up along the rigging, which cast a lovely soft yellow color over the whole ship.
“We’ll have to pray there aren’t pirates, or Frenchies,” muttered the person next to Lenox. It was Carrow, he saw.
“Why?”
“Ship all lit up, sails slack, the men saving their second ration of grog for just now…”
“Still, the ship looks wonderful with the lanterns.”
“To each their own, Mr. Lenox.”
Nearly every Lucy was on deck now, and to Lenox’s surprise a group of them began singing. The melody caught on, and soon more than half the men had joined in. It was a long, flowing ballad called “Don’t Forget Your Old Shipmate.” Lenox tried to memorize the first verse as the next several proceeded: “We’re the boys that fear no noise/Whilst thundering cannons roar, And long/We’ve toiled on rolling wave, And soon/We’ll be safe on shore,/Don’t forget your old shipmate, Folde rol…”
By the time he had this committed to memory he was in time to hear a verse that gave him a pang for Jane, when the men shouted the word, “Plymouth”: “Since we sailed from Plymouth Sound, Four years”—here many shouted “days!”—“gone, or nigh, Jack, Were there ever chummies, now, Such as you and I, Jack? Don’t forget your old shipmate, Fal dee ral dee ral dee rye eye doe…”
After some two dozen verses of this song a small faction broke out singing a frankly pornographic ditty called “The Mermaid,” which was the cause of tremendous merriment and laughter. Then a smaller group, admired by all the others, sang in wonderfully mellow voices a song about Admiral Benbow. This was the leader of a fleet whose subordinates had rebelled against him and refused to fight the French, a refusal for which they had been court-martialed. If anyone other than Lenox saw the irony of the Lucy’s crew singing a song about insubordination, they didn’t show it. But Lenox reminded himself to bring up Benbow to his nephew. The admiral had been born to a tanner, a birth no doubt lower than Billings’s.…
Suddenly the song broke off and the master’s mate, a fellow with a booming voice, called them to order. All the officers turned forward and watched; for a moment the ship was entirely silent.
“The contestants!” he said.
Up the main hatchway—the passage from the main deck to below deck—came a parade of two dozen men, all of them grinning fearlessly. (Their bravery in part liquid, Lenox suspected.) Last among them was McEwan, and though in proportion he was not dissimilar to an ox, he was the only man in the group who didn’t look to possess that beast’s natural strength.
“And now, a game of Follow the Leader! Place your final bets, sirs!”
“Hey now!” called out Martin, but good-naturedly, and the sailors laughed.
“The nominee of the first mess, sponger Matthew Tart, to lead the first round, time to be no more than two minutes and thirty seconds! Ready, gentlemen? Yes? In that case proceed to the cathead at the fore of the ship, as per tradition, and keep an eye on Mr. Tart.”
“Christ in the waves,” muttered Tradescant, who was behind Lenox.
“Something the matter?”
“I always have to treat one or two of the buggers.”
“I still don’t know the game.”
Now he learned. Matthew Tart, sponger of the Lucy’s first gun, took his hand off the cathead and with no little speed began to shimmy up the foremast, hiking his haunches up behind him with his arms and then pushing with his feet. When he was halfway up, not far from the perch where Halifax had been murdered, Tart leaped forward into thin air and then, after an excruciating second or so, grabbed onto a thin rope. He traversed this hand over hand to the mainmast, flung himself onto the rigging there, and then dropped in a somersault onto the deck just beside the sunlight of the captain’s dining room. From there he walked on his hands to the aft of the ship, the sailors congregated on deck respectfully making way for him, all silent, and when he had reached the taffrail launched himself clear off the ship.
There was a gasp. Lenox half stood, while beside him Carrow emitted a hoarse chuckle.
Then Tart’s head popped up. He was evidently perched on the Bumblebee, the jolly boat stowed behind the ship’s back rail.
It had been a spectacular performance, and the ship cheered Tart with universal admiration.
Each of the two dozen men followed him now, attempting to traverse the Lucy exactly as Tart had: for such was the game. One slipped on the foremast, to general groans, and two others failed to walk on their hands. Another refused to jump onto the covered jolly boat. “Which I’ll do anything, but I ain’t going overboard this ship. I can’t swim,” he said, and was mocked for his sincerity.
The last man to go was McEwan. From the second his steward’s hand left the cat’s head Lenox found himself not breathing. But he needn’t have worried. McEwan, for all his size, was as nimble and agile as a monkey. He made it through the first course in the quickest time, and rewarded himself with a chicken leg from his pocket, to general good-natured jeering.
The second round began, and Lenox found that he was enjoying himself immensely. So were the other officers, who gasped when a contestant almost fell and cheered when the round’s leader did something spectacular.
They went places on the Lucy that Lenox hadn’t even thought existed: up and down the bowsprit, hanging upside down by their legs, all across every mast and rope that would hold a human’s weight, in and out of every boat slung up on deck. They went on their hands, on their legs, on one foot, and holding a flag. They went quickly and slowly—sometimes too slowly, as in the third round two men were ejected for dawdling. A great popular favorite from the eighth gun was disqualified for using his hands to brace himself as he walked along the ship’s rail, and attempting the same trick a man came perilously close to falling off the side of the ship.