Pendexter slept through the striking of four bells the next morning, slept through McDuff's and Longbottom's shouts of "Out or down!" as they roused the ship's company. The sounds of the pumps being rigged and manned brought him around at last.
"Bolton, God damn your eyes!" he shouted, swinging his legs over the edge of his cot.
Bolton, his servant, came running at the call. He was a short man, and hunched over as well, which gave him the advantage of not having to stoop beneath the deck beams, his bald head with its fringe of brownish hair never coming within six inches of the overhead.
"Where is the hell is my coffee?" Pendexter demanded.
"Beg pardon, you didn't say you wanted no coffee, sir."
"Stupid man. I have coffee every morning, do I not? Must I order it every morning? Don't answer, just go and get me some damned coffee, and make it strong this time!" These last words were shouted through the doorway at Bolton's retreating back.
It was two bells in the forenoon watch before Bolton had served out Pendexter's coffee, laid out his uniform, and helped him dress. Pendexter stepped out of the great cabin and crossed the dark gunroom. He could hear voices, Dibdin's and McDuff's, on the deck just beyond the scuttle.
"Mr McDuff!" he heard Dibdin say in a quiet, hissing voice. "I have told you before that you are too free by far with your starter. You must lead the men, not drive them like animals!"
"Lieutenant Smeaton says I's to put the men to work however I sees fit," protested McDuff.
"I am the officer of the deck and shall remain so until such time as the captain or first lieutenant emerge from their cabins, and I do not wish to see the men beaten!"
It was time for the captain to intervene. Pendexter threw open the door to the scuttle, catching the brilliant winter sun square in the face. He blinked and squinted, holding a hand up to shield his eyes. He felt his eyes water and a tear run down one cheek.
"What seems to be the problem here, Mr Dibdin? he asked, blinking more tears from his eyes.
"The bosun is being far too liberal with the use of his starter, once again. I do not wish to see the hands beaten like animals, sir. Commander Bleakney—"
"I am not in the least interested in Commander Bleakney, Mr Dibdin," said Pendexter, cutting the master short. The sunlight had renewed the pounding in Pendexter's head and exhausted his spirit of confrontation. "Mr McDuff, pray be less liberal with the use of your starter," he said, and hurried aft to the sanctity of his quarterdeck.
The first scrubbing in the predawn hours had eliminated most of the evidence of the night's bacchanalia. The sweepers had found the broken glass, and holystones applied to the great splotches of red wine had returned the planking to all of its former snowy whiteness. Now the remarkable quiet of the morning was broken only by the steady clank-clank-clank of the capstan pawls, the curses of McDuff and Longbottom, muted now in deference of Dibdin's wishes, and the crisp orders of the master as he coordinated the swaying out of the fourteen guns, each of them weighing in excess of twenty-four hundred pounds.
As Pendexter watched, number-four gun, starboard side, emerged through the hatch, hanging in midair beneath the twelve-inch block of the stay tackle.
"Vast the capstan!" shouted Dibdin, and the men at the bars froze.
"Haul away your yard tackle!" Dibdin called. A party of seamen hauled away at the tackle that hung from the mainyard. The gun began a slow arc outboard, rising and moving across the deck, seeming to float weightlessly under the straining block and tackle. The gunner and his mate grabbed the barrel where it hung and swiveled it around, positioning it above its carriage. The gunner gave the master a nod of his head.
"Slack away all! Slack away slow! Dibdin ordered. The straining manila creaked and popped as it slipped through blocks and around the capstan drum, and the gun came easily to rest in its carriage.
"Slack away lively! shouted Dibdin, and as the tackles went slack, seamen jumped to disengage them from the sling and pull the sling from the gun's barrel. The gunner clapped the caps over the trunnions, secured them, and another party of seamen stepped up to haul the gun to number-five gunport, starboard side.
"Very nicely done, Mr Dibdin," said Pendexter in a conciliatory tone.
Dibdin spat over the side. "Thank you, sir. We'd be closer to done if all the hands was aboard."
"All the hands are not aboard?"
"No, sir. Thirteen of the liberty men didn't make it back this morning. Probably just waking up in some whorehouse now."
This was hardly an appropriate observation to make to the captain, in Pendexter's opinion, and he was about to make that opinion known when Smeaton stepped onto the quarterdeck.
"Capital party last night, just capital!" he said with genuine enthusiasm.
"Capital indeed," agreed Pendexter.
"And how did your advances upon the young Miss Williams end? All's well, I hope?"
"I dare say. I dine with her and the colonel this afternoon. In fact, it's high time that we go ashore, if we are to accomplish anything today. Bosun!" Pendexter shouted down to the waist.
McDuff turned and raced aft. "Sir?"
"We shall need the longboat and crew—" he began, but Dibdin's powerful voice cut him off.
"Boat ahoy!" he shouted. All heads turned and looked over the starboard rail. A cable away a small boat was pulling for the Icarus, the four oars manned by smartly dressed seamen, a midshipman in the stern sheets.
"Dispatches!" came the voice of the midshipman. "And orders from Admiral Graves!"
Pendexter took up the signal glass and trained it on the boat. "Dear God, it's Thornbird."
"You know him?" asked Smeaton.
"He's a midshipman on the Preston. A most ill-natured fellow. Well, we'll see how sharp his tongue is aboard my ship."
Thornbird brought the boat easily alongside and scrambled up the boarding steps. He was followed by a seaman carrying a full canvas bag.
Pendexter remained aloof on the quarterdeck. Thornbird looked around before spotting him, then stepped aft.
"Ah, Lieutenant Pendexter, there you are," he said, stepping up to the quarterdeck.
"I believe that courtesy dictates that you should address me as captain.
"Indeed. Quite the to-do aboard last night, what?"
"Yes, it was a fine affair. Please forgive my not inviting you. It was really just for the quality of Boston; you may not have been at ease."
"Oh, no offense taken. I wouldn't have come for anything. Not with the way the admiral was fuming and inquiring what the hell you were about. No thank you. Guilt by association, and all that."
This sufficiently unnerved Pendexter that he was not able to reply, so Thornbird continued, "I have dispatches here, sir, and letters to the West Indies." He indicated the bag at his feet. Smeaton snatched up the bag and Thornbird pulled a sealed letter from his coat pocket. "Orders from Admiral Graves to Lieu... Captain Pendexter, sir," he said, handing the letter over.
"Thank you," Pendexter said, taking the letter and plucking nervously at the hard wax seal. He tore the letter open and had begun to unfold it when he realized that Thornbird was still standing in front of him. "Thank you, Mr Thornbird. That will be all."
"I'm to wait in case there's a reply for the admiral."
"Yes, fine, then wait in the waist, if you please." Pendexter turned his back to the others as he unfolded the page, afraid that the note was some kind of censure. He was not disappointed.