"She's a queer ship, sir," Dimmock fretted, with a shake of his roundish head.
"A Jonah?" Lewrie stiffened. He'd heard of hard-luck vessels, with souls perverse as Harpies, where no sailor'd ever prospered.
"Oh, no, sir… no sign of thatl" Dimmock was quick to assure him. "I speak more of a certain… tension, more like. Listen, sir. Pause a moment and give her ear."
Lewrie peeked about, cocking his head to heed any odd sounds, half-expecting some eldritch screech or moan beyond the normal creak of timbers, irons and stays, of masts working with the soft, whispery groans of the damned. But, beyond the sough of the morning wind and the far-off piping mutters of taut rigging, he heard nought.
"Dead silence, sir," Dimmock hissed softly. "No shouting or chaffering. We're still in-Discipline, e'en so, but… a crew must make some sound, sir. But no. They're below, silent as a pack of whipped curs. And more'n a few already wearin' the bosun's 'chequer.' Hands on watch, hands below, they're ordered to maintain the 'Still.' A dead-silent ship's beyond my experience, sir. And a dead-silent ship's dev'lish queer."
"Not a mutiny plot, surely!" Lewrie scoffed, though he found Cockerel's silence almost belly-chillin' eerie himself. "Six weeks in commission? Hardly, Mister Dimmock!"
"I'll not be the one dare to call it mutinous, Mister Lewrie," Dimmock gloomed, shrugging deeper into his coat collar. "Though, do we drive 'em taut as we've done so far… tauter'n any ship I've ever been aboard, well. There is the possibility, someday, d'ye see, sir?"
"Captain Braxton informed me he's a taut-hand," Lewrie allowed.
"Oh, aye, sir," Dimmock sneered.
"Ahum!" Lewrie granted in warning. "I think we're stretching the bounds of proper discussion too far, Mister Dimmock. Hate him or love him, he is our captain. And he must be obeyed. Chearly. Most of all by his commission officers and warrants."
"And your impression of him, sir?"
"Mister Dimmock, what / think don't signify. Now, unless we've professional matters to discuss?" Lewrie shot back sternly.
"Well, then, sir," Dimmock coloured, huffing up as if stifling a belch. "You will excuse me. There's to be a flogging at five bells o' the forenoon, so I must go. You'll wish to get settled in. Speak to our illustrious second lieutenant, too. I'm mortal certain you've been bid do so? Mister Braxton?"
"Captain Braxton," Lewrie growled between clenched teeth. He had never heard the like from a professional officer. Not even from himself, and Lewrie could backbite and carp with the best of 'em.
"No, sir. Lieutenant Clement Braxton, I meant," Dimmock said, grinning sardonically. "Not Captain Howard Braxton."
"Nephew?" Lewrie frowned deeper.
"His son, sir," Dimmock said with all signs of great pleasure. "Damme, it really does become confusing. We've a Mister Midshipman Anthony Braxton. Now, I do believe he is a nephew. And then, there's Midshipman Dulwer. He's cousin to them all, somehow. And the captain's clerk, Mister Boutwell. Oh, it's quite the grand family outing, this frigate of ours, Mister Lewrie, sir!"
"Bloody Helll" Lewrie exclaimed cautiously, dropping the stern demeanour required of first lieutenants. "Any more under foot, Mister Dimmock? Mean t'say… how far may one carry nepotism? How many of the hands turned over with him? Any of the warrants?"
"Ah, now that's the queerest bit, sir," Dimmock sighed. "Captain Braxton's Indiaman? A war declared, soon as he drops the hook, guinea a man Joining Bounty, and all? And nary a hand, nary a mate from his past ships followed him to the Fleet, sir."
"Christ," Lewrie all but groaned. That was hellish queer, that a captain could not entice a single tar to serve under him. Even the hardest captains had some loyal to 'em! Even the fools did!
"Forgive me for speaking plain for the nonce, Mister Lewrie, sir," Dimmock gloomed. "And that's the last you'll hear from me, by way of insubordination. My word on't, sir. But I thought you had to know. There's good men aboard, afore the mast and in the wardroom. There's many as could be good men, given half a chance, and a dose o' 'firm-but-fair' whilst they're learning. But the captain is not the onliest aboard who's… 'taut-handed.' Runs in the family, so to speak. They're a hard lot, sir. Ask Lieutenant Mylett."
"Wish I could, sir," Lewrie shivered, though not with cold. "I was told… no matter. Mister Dimmock, well met, sir. You understand, I have to make my own way in this. Come to mine own conclusions, not… well, not take the word of the first senior warrant I meet. I mean no offence, sir."
"None taken, sir," Dimmock muttered back, glancing about to see if they had been witnessed talking together too long, in too covert a confidence. "I'll leave you to get squared away. At supper, though, tonight… I've a brace of French calvados. Apple brandy. Better'n any country applejack you ever swigged. My treat, to 'wet' you into the mess?"
"I should be delighted, Mister Dimmock, thankee."
"And, sir…?"
"Aye?"
"We all tread wary, and watch our tongues," Dimmock whispered, though he performed a hat-doffing salute and slight bow, with a smile on his phiz, as if he were imparting nothing peculiar. "It isn't the hands alone who find the 'Stih" the safest way."
"I will keep that in mind, Mister Dimmock. Later, sir." Lewrie nodded his head in dismissal, clapped his hands in the small of his back, and paced. He looked below into the waist, where a bosun's mate was braiding a cat-o'-nine-tails, and a sailmaker's assistant was sewing up a small red-baize bag. They looked up at him, as if trying to read his soul, then looked away hurriedly when caught under his gaze. The harbour and anchor watch-standers on deck stood their posts rigid as carved wooden soldiers, stiff-backed and mute.
Those men hi working parties, swaying up tuns and kegs on the midships hull skids, heaving away on stay tackles, performed their labours with mere, unisoned grunts, instead of a pulley-hauley chanty or fiddle tune.
Three midshipmen were scaling the rigging of the mainmast, up by the cross-trees, ready to go further aloft. They looked down at him, pausing in their vigorous exercise. Two, fearful; one with the air of a leery customer in a poor tradesman's shop, who'd seen better goods elsewhere. Lewrie matched gazes with him, unblinking, until the lad's face suffused and he returned to his instructive "play."
Wull, stop me! Alan thought; what the Devil've I got meself into this time!
He turned to the nearest gangway ladder, to descend to the waist and make his way below through the nearest hatchway to the wardroom.
Perversely, he began to whistle a gay country air Caroline had played an hundred times, if she'd played it once, on her flute. One he had taught her.
It was familiar to all hands, making a few smile timidly.
The lyrics were hellish vulgar.
Chapter 2
Whack!
The bosun's mate ran the braids of the cat-o'-nine-tails through his fingers to unravel them, drew back, took a deep breath, and delivered his next stroke. " 'Leven!" he grunted.
Landsman Preston shivered as with ague, vibrating to the lash of the cat, against the square-cut hatch grating to which he was tethered at wrists and ankles. The skin of his back crawled of its own, goose-pimpling as if to writhe away from the pain. There were red-hot weals diagonaled on his bare back, some broken open and beginning to seep a torrent of crimson tears which puddled in the small of his spine, down by the band of his slop-trousers-down by the leathern apron worn by men receiving punishment to protect their kidneys. Landsman Preston was gagged, too, with a leathern strop; something to bite on.