Despite his previous experience in the Caribbean, Lewrie hadn't known about the odd phenomenon of the sunset "green flash," that brief eye-blink of time when the sun at last declined its last hot sliver under the horizon, and the final, glorious reds, oranges, pinks, and greys were interrupted. It had been Kit Cashman who'd told him of it, over their last goodbye supper, the last night in harbour.
He had been pacing the windward bulwarks of the quarterdeck, as was a captain's sole right when not below, but crossed to leeward with his fingers crossed, hoping that Cashman hadn't been pulling his leg. Unblinking, he strained his eyes, looking directly into the sun's ball. No, not this night, for Sol blinked out, yonder over New Spain to the West, leaving only the rapidly dulling colours of the usual tropic sunset that could, at sea, turn star-strewn black as quickly as a closed window shutter.
If he had been cheated by Nature this night (or twitted by Kit's tongue-in-cheek inventions), at least the early evening was cooler than the day, and the wind rushing cross the deck was a blessing. He pushed off the bulwark, clapped his hands in the small of his back, and paced to the double-wheel and compass binnacle, now lit by a whale-oil lanthorn flickering eerily upon the faces of the quartermaster and his mate now standing their "trick" at the helm. He craned his gaze upwards to the sails and rigging in the quickly failing last light, ascertaining that everything was just so, with nothing out of order or amiss; a peek up to "weather" for threats of storm clouds; a look down into the binnacle at the compass, where the pointer wavered near to East-Sou'east, Half East, as close to the steady Nor'east wind as Proteus could steer.
And damn Pelham, Lewrie thought, frowning; sendin' us to English Harbour, Antigua, first! Antigua lay nearly due East, demanding a hard passage "Full and By" nigh against the Trades, and days of short tacks to the Nor'west, did they get pushed too far down, alee, zig-zagging on a drunken snail's track, short "boards" almost in the opposite direction before they could come about nearer to Cuba or Hispaniola and sail a "long board" on larboard tack, right on the eye of the wind, and something sure to go smash aloft, with so much pressure on the rigging- He now could barely make out the forms of spare yards, booms and light upper top-masts stowed along the gangways and on the boat-tier beams, but was sure that their number would be reduced by the time they anchored.
Quartermaster Austen stood to the weather side of the helm, his Mate to the loo'rd, a larger man who braced his strength on the wheel spokes, his eyes on the sails aloft, whilst Austen kept his glued upon the compass. A big fellow, was the Quartermaster's Mate, new-come off a Yankee smuggler taken on the north shore of St. Thomas in the Danish Virgins, where Proteus had done a little discreet "poaching."
Toby Jugg, for that was the improbable name he'd given when he reluctantly signed ship's books as a 'pressed man, had originally been rated an Ordinary Seaman, but had quickly proven Able in the past few months, and had then "struck" for Quartermaster's Mate. Big, hulking and dark-visaged, surly and noncommunicative, Jugg had only "volunteered" to qualify for the Joining Bounty to send to his woman and child on Barbados, far to the South. Odds were, Proteus would never be called upon to sail there, though, and if she did, Lewrie was sure the man would jump ship, and they'd never see him again. Or he would be forced to sic the island garrison on Jugg, who would fetch him back in chains to be bound to an upright hatch grating and given four-dozen lashes for desertion.
"Not too heavy forrud, Mister Austen?" Lewrie asked the senior Quartermaster's Mate. "Not crank?"
"Erm… she's fair-balanced, Cap'm," Austen took a long time to adjudge. "Mebbe a tad light, forrud. But she tacks right-easy, sir."
"Watch her head close, then," Lewrie said, transferring his gaze to the inscrutable Toby Jugg. "And nothing to loo'rd, it goes without sayin', right, Jugg?"
"Y'say so, sir," Jugg growled, eyes locked on the main course.
"Ahem…" Aspinall interrupted, "but yer supper's ready fer servin', sir."
"Aye, thankee, Aspinall," Lewrie grunted, irked by Jugg's coolness which was just shy of dumb insubordination. "Carry on, then, men. Mister Catterall, I leave you the deck, and the watch. Evening, all."
"Aye aye, sir," the Second Officer piped up, after hovering in summoning distance the last ten minutes. He clapped his hands behind his back and short-strutted up to windward, filled with his importance. Quartermaster's Mate Austen waited 'til he was out of earshot before he dared mutter from the lee corner of his mouth.
"Jugg, ye bloody idiot," Austen told his helm-mate. "The Cap'm ain't nowhere bad as some, an' better'n most. Keep up yer surly airs, though, an' ye'll push him t'flog ye, an' take back yer ratin'."
"Sod 'im," Jugg whispered back. "Sod all officers an' captains."
"Sod 'im, who's done right by ye?" Austen pointed out. "Ye toss yerself back t'Able Seaman, an' there's nought t'send yer ol' woman an' kid. Show willin', why don't ye? Don't cost tuppence."
"But…" Jugg began to disagree, his face working sorrowfully, but any explanation or relenting was stopped by Lt. Catterall.
"Minds on your duties, men… no talking, there," he snapped.
"Aye aye, sir," they chorused.
Mr. Peel of the Foreign Office's Secret Branch simply knew too many secrets; it was impossible for Lewrie to follow his usual custom of dining in his officers, midshipmen and "gentlemen warrants" as long as Peel was aboard. Peel, as supercargo, had to be accommodated somewhere apart from casual conversations. There was always the risk that Peel talked in his sleep, or boasted immoderately in his cups.
The only secure place where Peel could sling a bed-cot was here in Lewrie's great-cabins, and they were already cramped enough. Aspinall's little day-pantry had come down, and the chart-space had to shift aft into the day cabin, right against Lewrie's bed space; and that bed space got crowded aft and in-board into his day cabin, which had moved Lewrie's desk and chair, settee and guest chairs, portable storage chests and wine-cabinet over to larboard, nearer his quarter-gallery and his "seat of ease"-where Toulon's tin-lined sand box also was located. Toulon, usually of the most garrulous and playful nature, had not taken all those changes kindly. Whilst he had the run of the entire ship, his master's cabins were sacrosanct; or at least they should have been. The ram-cat had not taken well to Peel, either, usually dubiously on guard under the furniture when Peel was astir, his paws tucked under his chest, his eyes slit in Oriental wariness.
"Evening, Mister Peel," Lewrie said as he swept back the tails of his coat and sat himself down in the dining-coach.
"Captain Lewrie," Peel purred back, taking a place about halfway down on Lewrie's left. "Am I given to understand that we're having turtle soup tonight? Delightful."
"Green turtle, sir," Aspinall supplied as he poured their wineglasses full, waving the neck briefly at the sideboard, where a tureen with the lid off fumed. "Small'un, but tender. Turtle steaks, too."
"Our cook, Gideon, is a wonder," Lewrie boasted, discovering at least something to lighten his grumpy mood over being turfed from his own quarters, something with which to ease his careful formality.
"Gideon Cook… how apt," Peel said with a smirk as some soup was ladled into his bowl. "Your ship's cook's name, that is."