But I'll not knuckle under and become his sort of officer, Alan also vowed; I'll not be his whipped dog, his dumb lackey. And I will not be hounded out. Or ousted.
Hmm, though, he pondered; where's the middle ground? Stay and be-damned, sooner or later-go and be-damned a failure to the Fleet-stay and counter him, somehow… save the stupid bastard from himself, really. Oh, that's rich, that is!
"Christ, this is hopeless!" He all but wept in frustration.
Chapter 5
"There's going to be trouble," Lieutenant Scott intoned. They were inspecting the standing rigging along the larboard gangway. Cockerel had come about just after dawn, and was now standing nor'east toward Portugal. To their sou'west, far up to windward, the tops'ls of the line-of-battle ships could barely be seen, if one were high aloft.
"Yes, and you're not helping," Lewrie bitterly accused. "Cony has ears. Your man, too, I expect. Tongues, too, but…"
"But can't mollify 'em. They speak too much of obedience, it smacks of toadying cant, sir. And then they lose their 'ears' among the people. I did try, though, sir. Same as you," Scott rejoined, sounding sulky and heavy.
"I'm sorry, Mister Scott. It was unfair to you, what I just said, I know, but…" Alan muttered, pausing in their slow pacing to fix his eyes upon Scott's, as emphasis of his sincerity.
Captain Braxton had held his court, solicitously nodding with grim disapproval as the two midshipmen had presented their "evidence." Lisney and Spendlove were in Scott's watch, so he had spoken for them, as had Lewrie. As had Lisney and Spendlove themselves. So new at sea, Spendlove looked to Lisney, a man in his late thirties who'd spent his own boyhood in the Fleet, as a "sea-daddy" who knew all the knots, all the cautions. Lisney was a leader, looked up to by everyone, seaman or landsman alike, on the foremast. Oh, aye, there'd be trouble!
But Captain Braxton was intent upon punishment. And could that bitter man have awarded lashes for back-talking sea officers, Lewrie and Scott would have been due at the gratings themselves. Three dozen he'd foreordained, and three dozen it would be, this forenoon. Spendlove already had been caned with a stiffened rope "starter," bent over a quarter-deck six-pounder. Beating boys on the bottom was done much less formally than the gloomy, stylised ritual of a man's flogging.
There was only so much the officers could do. Obedience and loyalty in the Royal Navy were a captain's due, and the rigid Articles of War spelled out the consequences for those who didn't toe the line, even if they didn't agree, even if they felt a captain was a raving Bedlam "bug-eater"-they had to support him totally, once he decided what was best. There was no recourse open to them that didn't smack of failure to support Captain Braxton, no one to whom they might complain. To inform a senior officer behind his back was disloyalty, and an officer's mutiny against him. Making matters worse, they could not even mention that dread word "mutiny" by way of warning yet. Braxton would become even harsher, perhaps spurring into occurrence the very thing his punishments were intended to prevent. And their careers would be ruined in either case -for failure to support, and to inform him of their fears, until the situation had so festered that it was moments from eruption-or for failure to nip it in the bud in the first place. It might even appear at a court martial that they had encouraged it, or at least sympathised, and hidden a plot's existence.
"Like rannin' before a hurricane bare-poled, sir," Scott grunted, sounding almost amused. "One hears of it bein' done, but damme if one wants to try it firsthand. Damned if we do, damned if we…"
That made Lewrie grin for an instant, even so. Lieutenant Barnaby Scott was normally a loud, blustery jackanapes- exuberant and blisteringly profane, the sort who went through life windmilling his arms fit to wake the dead with an improbable curse, a side-splitting jest, and the sort of booming laugh that made one wish to place a bet or order one more bottle, even if one knew better. He was also exceedingly competent- more so, perhaps, Lewrie suspected, than he himself was.
"No leaders yet, though?" Lewrie asked softly as they gained the foc's'le ladders. "No real sign of trouble?"
"Not that organised yet, sir," Scott scoffed, looking at that moment anything but exuberant. "Leaders, well… none who stand out. For obvious reasons, too. Too new a crew, too many landsmen aboard, who've never known a fair…" He choked off his comments as a working party under bosun's mate Porter neared. It was dangerous to be heard criticising the captain by the hands, or be recalled later as one who mentioned mutiny. That would be his ruin.
"Yes," Lewrie agreed with a bleak nod. "After today, though, I'd expect that to change, don't you? Black as their mood is…"
"Count on it, sir."
"And then we'll be in the unenviable position of being bound to tell him of our suspicions, else…" Alan shrugged heavily.
"More suppression, even more floggings," Scott agreed gloomily, lifting his hat to swipe his unruly hair. "Make it happen."
"Duty-bound to uphold… himl" Lewrie fretted, " 'Cause when it does occur, there'll be a court, and we'll end up tainted black as-"
"SAIL HO! " came a wild cry from the main-mast cross-trees.
They froze in their tracks, sharing astonished looks.
"Where away?" Lieutenant Braxton on the quarterdeck demanded.
"Two points off t'starb'rd bow, sir!" came the singsong reply, like the wail of a passing soul. "Tgall-antsl Three… FOURl Four, sir! Four sets o' t'ga//-ants!"
"A French squadron out for prizes, I'll wager!" Lewrie yelped with sudden joy.
"Convoy, p'rhaps, sir!" Scott countered, whopping fit to bust with his own excitement. "Rice ships from New Orleans? East Indiamen, loaded gunn'1-down! Prize-money, sir! Lashings of it! Action, at last!"
"Maybe salvation, at last!" Alan hooted, clapping Scott on the shoulder.
Cockerel had gone to Quarters, with a purpose for once. Drums rattled, fifes peeped, the ship rang to the slamming of doors as the temporary partitions were struck below to the orlop. The cabin furnishings were removed to a place of safety, and to lessen the danger of splinters. The gun deck and the mess deck became two long roadways, bare of any fittings or comforts. Sand was slung to give gunners and gun carriages a grip on the white-sanded planking. Fire buckets were topped up, slow match was lit and coiled in case the flintlock strikers of the artillery failed to work. In case they had to board a foe, the weapons chests were flung open, and pistols, muskets and cutlasses were distributed, piled 'round the bases of the masts below the wicked pikes in their beckets.
Twelve minutes it took to convert Cockerel into a vessel ready for battle, a little slower than the previous day's drill, Alan noted, but still a respectable time. Perhaps the hands were clumsier and more nervous than before, since it was a real foe they'd be spying out
"Give us three points free, quartermaster. Steer east nor'east," Captain Braxton commanded, sounding grumpy and out-of-sorts. "Mister Braxton, signal to Windsor Castle : 'Enemy-In-Sight.'"
"Aye, aye, sir," the midshipman snapped, turning aft to the taffrails. A moment later, the proper signal flag soared aloft on a light halliard. With a jerk of the line, when it was "two-blocked" as high as it would go, the bunting bale burst open.
"Deck, there!" the lookout howled. "Tops'ls, now! Tops'ls' 'bove t' 'orizon, sir! FIVE chase, now, sir! Five chase!"