"Weeding out Lieutenant Mylett?"
"Not family, sir," Braxton smiled shyly. "A stranger. Father hounded him out. Like he tried with you. Made life a living hell for the man. I should have seen the signs… I don't know what happened, 'tween the wars, sir. Something in the Far East, I think."
"So that's why there's no mention of our little… near-mutiny in the log, either," Lewrie surmised. "Though he was informed of our suspicions."
"Oh, he knew, sir. But, it's his last chance, sir, d'ye see? He has to succeed. There cannot be a single flaw, this time."
"Well, there is," Lewrie summed up. "For now, Mister Braxton, there will be no formal reprimand."
"Thankee, sir," Braxton perked up. "I won't let family matters hurt my performance again, sir. My word on't!"
"Your career on't," Lewrie gloomed. "Our good repute, too. I expect my tenure won't last more'n a week or two, Mister Braxton, and then your father'11 be well enough to restore him to his due authority. We can't change his ways too much, lest the crew ran riot. And I tell you true, sir… his ways aren't my ways. And I despise him for making me do things his way. You can make a difference, though. Take those relations of yours and rattle 'em 'til their teeth fly, if that's what it takes, but we cannot have any more terror below decks. They might listen to you."
"Aye, sir, consider it done," Braxton vowed.
"Do you have any influence over him?" Lewrie asked, flicking a hand towards the sleeping coach.
"Not much there, sir. Sorry. Believe me, I have tried to warn him before." Braxton shook his head sorrowfully. "I've tried as son. I've tried as a commission sea officer, a fellow professional. There are some things he simply cannot abide to hear."
'Then God help us, when he's back in charge, Mister Braxton. Do what you can, there. We'll have the other officers in now. And once we've made formal declaration of the change in command, we'll hoist the 'Easy.' From noon today 'til end of the second dog tomorrow, say. I think our crew's earned it, don't you?"
"They have, indeed, sir," Braxton almost smiled.
Lewrie swiveled the log book about so he could read it. He took up the pen and dipped it. "There is, I believe, Mister Braxton, space enough for me to amend my statement about you, after all."
"Sir?" Braxton frowned warily.
'To note the fact that you were most unfairly placed in an impossible position, between direct orders from a captain, and from a father. And were forced to choose whether to obey, disobey or to take no action at all. I think that may best explain your actions. And soften Our Lords Commissioners back home."
'Thankee, sir," Braxton shuddered with gratitude. "Thankee!"
"Assuming, of course, you perform as first lieutenant to my satisfaction," Lewrie both tempted and put on notice, "I do believe that when I've relinquished authority to our rightful captain, I can insert something more praiseworthy in the log."
"I will give you no cause for dissatisfaction, sir. None!"
There was a rap at the door, the bang of a musket butt on the desk outside. "Sah! Mister Midshipman Spendlove, SAH!"
"Enter," Lewrie replied coolly, with the tone of a captain.
"Sir, this note came off shore for you just now," the grinning imp reported, hat under his arm, and glancing about to see if rumours were true. "It smells very nice, Mister Lewrie, sir."
"Wonder how Naples looks from the masthead, Mister Spendlove?" Lewrie pretended to frown at him. "Horrid place to spend a whole day…. even for a japing monkey such as your wee self, hmm?" he asked as he opened the scented note paper, sealed with a florid daub of wax and addressed in an ornate, high-flown hand.
"Sorry, sir," Spendlove swore, ducking his head properly, though he looked anything but contrite as Lewrie quickly perused his note.
"I will be going ashore for dinner, Mister Braxton," Lewrie told him, stuffing the note in a pocket quickly. "Some… ah, further palaver with the local authorities," he lied.
"You will wish the captain's gig, sir?" Braxton asked.
"Not mine to borrow, really," Lewrie decided. "The jolly-boat'11 suit. I should return, hmm… sundown, I should think."
He didn't really expect to get another "all-night-in" with Emma Hamilton; nor was he sure he could stand another whole night of prattle. No, an afternoon'd suffice. Watch her do her "Attitudes," of course. And then beg off, pleading too much ship's business.
And Lord knows, he sighed, there's more'n enough o' that!
Chapter 8
Their idyll in Naples ended soon afterwards. A formal treaty with the Kingdom of Naples and the Two Sicilies was signed, with Lewrie proudly witnessing the ceremony. But then on 14 July, he was hustled off to sea with more urgent despatches. Captain Braxton was making a miraculously speedy recovery, so there was no need to send him ashore, nor would a sea voyage threaten that recovery, the Italian physicians assured him after a final call on their patient.
And that voyage back to the Fleet went quickly, in good weather and brisk, invigorating winds. Cockerel scudded along like a migrating goose, winds on her larboard quarter, sails set "all to the royals," slicing the seas with the elegance of a rapier.
"How dare you!" Captain Braxton spat at him. "How dare you put such nonsense in the log, Mister Lewrie!"
"I wrote no more than the truth, sir," he replied resignedly.
"Truth?" Braxton hooted. "The truth is not in you! You're out to destroy me, sir. My entire family, all our careers! It's all mendacious tripe. For tuppence, I'd…!"
He made as if to seize the offending pages and rip them out, but stopped. There was no expunging the brutal facts, none that would not represent a greater crime in the Admiralty's eyes. Captain Braxton had no recourse. Furiously, he realised that Lewrie knew that.
"Now that you are well again, sir," Lewrie offered as a sop, "I doubt the matter will come up."
"Oh, not this commission, damn you!" the bitter old man snarled.
"Signal from the flag, sir!" Lieutenant Scott shouted down the skylight from the quarterdeck. "They acknowledge our 'Have Despatches' and send us 'Captain Repair on Board.'"
"Very well, Mister Scott!" Braxton bellowed in exasperation.
"Sir, are you that hale?" Lewrie asked. "To scale a 1st Rate's sides? It's only been a day since you resumed-"
"Your consideration for me is touching," Braxton snorted. "By God, sir, Admiral Lord Hood demands Cockerel's captain, not you! And her true captain he shall have." Braxton lifted the weighted packet and reached for his hat.
"Would you at least let me brief you on what 'you' did ashore, sir?" Lewrie offered, trying to make some amends, at least. "Were he to question you about the despatches-"
"I met our ambassador, delivered despatches and got more from him, then sailed instanter," Braxton sneered, bustling for the doors. " Naples is in. What more is there to say? Now we have two weak allies 'stead of one. Thank you, but no, Mister Lewrie… I require no more assistance from you! You've my gig ready? Good. Get out of my way."
"Very good, sir," Lewrie replied, crisply. 'Least I tried, damn yer eyes; and if Admiral Hood catches you in a lie, God alone help you. It's no skin off my backside.
But Captain Braxton evidently did not put a foot wrong. He was aboard Victory for about fifteen minutes, then came sculling back with even more bundles. He didn't drop like a leaf from her side and drown himself, didn't dodder. By sheer willpower, he scaled Cockerel's side and took his salute, though he looked white-faced and pinched once he attained the gangway, swaying more than did the deck.