"I could not, sir, not in the log, I…" Braxton moaned, twisting slowly in the wind. "He urged me, but I could not! He ordered me direct, sir… but that would have been lying, sir. I could not."
"Ordered you direct to hide the truth from me, sir?" Lewrie said derisively. "Ordered you to falsify the log? Which?"
"Both, sir," Braxton sighed, red-faced. "He hasn't suffered any fever since '91, sir. Thought, back in cooler climes, he wouldn't. A tropical thing, left behind, we prayed."
"And you thought he could hide out until he'd dealt with it and gotten better, did you?" Lewrie snapped.
"The last few times, sir… more like a bad cold, sir, nothing worse. Fa… the captain hasn't had a really bad spell since '89, so we thought… he thought, that is…" Lieutenant Braxton snuffled.
"Well, it wasn't. He almost died of it, and he's going to be flat on his back for some time. That leaves me in charge. It makes you first officer. But I tell you, sir, I will dismiss you from all duties if you even think of deceiving me, or hiding something from me again."
"I give you my solemn oath, sir, I will not!" Braxton cringed.
"Come here, Mister Braxton," Lewrie commanded. "Do you look at the log. Note I've made it current, from our journals. Look it over, and determine if there's anything omitted or amiss." Lewrie paced the day cabin, hands behind his back again. "You will also note, sir, that I have made a formal statement of your father's illness, and my taking temporary command whilst our ship operates independent of the fleet."
"I see it, sir," Braxton flinched after a quick peek, as if sight of the log was like espying Medusa and her head full of snakes, which would turn him to stone at the very sight.
"Is there anything untrue in my account, sir? Any matter which you dispute? Including your failure to inform me?" Lewrie growled.
"Uhm, no, sir," Braxton sighed, rubbing his brow.
"Then please be so good as to affix your signature to it, sir, as witness. Leave room on the page for Mister Scott, Mister Dimmock, and our surgeon's names. I'll have them in in a moment."
"Aye, sir," Braxton sighed again, sounding like he was deflating. He slumped deeper, slacker, into his chair like a sack of laundry. In black-and-white, he had been found remiss. He reached across the desk for a quill pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and scratched his name.
Know what you're thinkin', Lewrie told himself smugly; daddy'll get better, he'll fix it for you. Soon as he's back on his pins, I'll be back under his thumb. But, you damned fool, it's in the log now, for all back in London to read! They all get read, sooner or later. Then a note goes to Jackson or Stephens, and questions get asked, and that goes in your permanent records! Maybe not this commission, with daddy to protect you both, he can't rip those pages out! They'll ask what action daddy took. Or didn't take. Might even convene a court. Brax-tons may've ruined this ship, but you'll never ruin another!
"Will that be all, sir?" Braxton asked, dumbfounded in his doom.
"No sir, it will not be. As captain pro-tem I can go a step further. I can enter a formal reprimand against you and Mister Boutwell. 'Our ship then engaged upon the urgent delivery of secret despatches of the highest import, standing through enemy-controlled waters'… well, you know the tune, sir. I can order you to sign that, too, or be relieved of duties immediately."
"Sir," Braxton gasped. That was much worse than simple dereliction of duty. It was a career-ender, a reason for a court martial. "Sir, I know father… the captain and you have differed. Believe me when I say that I agree with you. But he's my father. More than any captain, I owe him support. Dear God, I wish to the Almighty that I'd never set foot aboard this bloody ship!"
Well, that makes two of us, don't it, Lewrie sneered to himself.
"I didn't wish to serve under him, sir, but he plucked strings," Braxton muttered. "We're a Navy family, sir. That's our problem. My grandfather was a post-captain, his before him. Go aboard a gentleman volunteer when you're eight, to your father's ship, your uncle's ship. You know how it works, sir, surely! Grandfather makes rear-admiral… half-pay, that. Ashore." Braxton was nigh to snuffling in his grief. "But I've made my own way in the Fleet, sir! After the leg-up. Rose on my own merits. No one can grease those wheels for you, once you're a commission officer, away from direct family. I didn't want to take this commission, I wanted to wait for something else, but Mother… she made me swear, just before I came away. Father'd arranged it all, told me about it, and expected me to be glad about it. She knew he'd need all the help he could get."
"His recurring malaria?" Lewrie asked, more gently.
"That, sir and…" Braxton heaved a deep sigh, like a drowning man will suck precious air the first time he surfaces. "He's changed, sir. Off in the Far East, home for a month or so, between the round voyage. Mother's health is too frail for the East Indies. She removed to Lyme Regis, years ago. Rest of us off at sea, never quite connecting… never quite connecting when we were together, either, sir. No, it was his temper. His moodiness. She knew how much command of a warship meant to him, after all… Christ!"
Damme, don't do this to me, Braxton, Alan squirmed, his rarely used conscience plaguing him; here I hate you more than cold boiled mutton… and now I'm beginning to feel sorry for you!
"Father's had only a moderately successful career, midshipman to commission in seven years, even with family patronage, sir," Lieutenant Braxton explained. "Nothing distinguished. Two commands, both during the American War. But they were in the Far East. None since '83. God, he wrote and wrote, damned near got down on his knees, to any old friend or patron with ha'pence influence!"
"He had command. His Indiamen," Lewrie coolly pointed out.
"Just for the money, sir," Braxton shrugged. "We may be an old Navy family, but never wealthy, and times were tight. Aye, sir, he had a ship… but t'wasn't Navy, d'ye see. Command, respect… and the pay was hellish good."
Braxton waved an inclusive hand about the cabins, at the luxuries "John Company" service had earned. Yet with a flip of dismissal.
"Away from home so far, a year from a favourable reply from the Admiralty, sir… if there were an offer of a commission," Lieutenant Braxton sniffed. "Pining away, year after year, with never an offer, going up in seniority on the living captain's list But no matter how high he climbed, never an offer. And seeing old shipmates junior to him being made post, captains below him on the list making admiral. Then at last we have a war, and they have to call him up, sir. He finally gets the chance to serve again, to shine, Mister Lewrie! He was so elated, and determined!"
"Perhaps a touch too determined, sir?" Lewrie suggested wryly.
"We could not know… well, Mother did. She knew how desperate he'd been, how sad. And how important this was to him. I expect she also knew his limitations best. She was afraid for him, sir. Not just his health," Braxton confessed. "She told me he'd need the finest sort of loyalty and support. I couldn't refuse him. I couldn't turn my back on him. Apart so long, sir… I hardly knew him. Or what he had become, and when I saw… it was too late."