Lewrie sat and steamed in his impermeable storm coat and worst, oldest hat. He'd had his canvas sling-chair fetched up and lashed to the larboard side, near the mizen-mast shrouds, where he could keep a wary eye on things. Something else for older, more senior officers to chide him for, should they ever see it, that chair. Real tarry-handed tarpaulin men lived and died on their feet when on deck, never stuck a hand in a pocket, never slouched or leaned on anything… never had a wee nap, either! Lewrie held to most concepts about how a sea-captain should behave, even the one about holding the power of life and death, of being the next-best thing to God when sailing independently… but, did God have an idle streak, well then!
Savin' m'self for important chores, he oft told himself, as he once flore did that night; fore called t'rise to the occasion. Didn't God Himself not 'Make And Mend', the first Sunday, after six days' work at creatin' the world? That hard a week, I'd've caulked away the seventh.
The striking of Six Bells of the Middle Watch roused him from a soggy "nod" with a grunted "Mmmph." Three in the morning, and an hour 'til all hands were summoned again to scrub decks. It was still black as a boot, and the seas were still lively, but the frigate was easier in her motion, no longer yawing as she scaled the waves, no longer in full cry of working timbers, nor jerk-snubbing twisting when meeting a wave as her bow dipped. She sat firmly on her starboard shoulder to the press of wind, and the faint wails aloft were the keens of passage, not torment.
He rose and stretched, undid the buttons of his storm coat, and let out the trapped, sweaty air, letting the coat be swept abaft of his hips and chest. By God, but the forceful airs were almost nippy-cool, as refreshing as a rare shore bath in a brass or copper hip-tub! Off went his hat to allow the winds to have their way, to cool his scalp, to re-comb his locks, and the fitful rain to rinse away a week's worth of oils and dander.
Fitful rain, hmmm, he took note. It no longer pummeled him or slanted in like stinging grapeshot; in point of fact, half the drops he felt were large dollops wind-stripped from sails and rigging aloft. He heard gurgles above the soughing roar of Proteus'?, hull slicing a firm way over the waves. Scuppers to loo'rd were open, and rainwater sheeted cross the angled deck to go gargling out alee; canvas scoops led fresh, clean water into spare casks and smaller kegs, and a work-party under the Purser, Mr. Coote's, direction, were trundling caught barrels on their lower rims to the edge of the companionway hatches, to be lashed or bowsed firmly in place 'til dawn, when they would be lowered down to the orlop, giving them a few more days of stores with which to keep the sea just that much longer in search of their foes.
Lewrie went forward to the nearest chute, tore off his storm coat, and bent over it for an impromptu shower, wishing he had his bar of soap handy, thoroughly rinsing his hair, scrubbing his face and chest, restoring his alertness, wishing that he could shed all of his clothing, swing the scoop over a little, and lay and wallow on deck in the steady stream without sacrificing his dignity.
The keg was full; to hell with it!
"Lift the end, there. Direct it at me," Lewrie ordered. There! Even clad in shirt and slop-trousers, he turned under the spurts, rinsing salt crystals, mildew, and old sweat from his clothes, first, then (perhaps) cleaning his skin beneath, second.
"God, that'll wake you up," he exclaimed, for the water was as cool as the dying storm winds, while his hands stood about and gawped with broad smiles on their faces. "Everyone take the opportunity for a good scrub while it lasted, men?"
"Oh, aye, sir!" a sailor agreed.
"E'en got up enough lather t'shave with, sir," another said, for salt water would never lather with soap, and the usual issue for bodily use was a meagre cup a day, but for the happenstance of a rain shower.
"Drunk our fill, for oncet, we did, Cap'um," a third chortled.
"Who's got the cup, then?" Lewrie cried. "Give it here." And caught two full wooden piggins of sweet, fresh rainwater from the canvas scoop and downed them like a sweaty smith. "Ah, thankee. Rare treat, that. Carry on, men. And after we take Noon Sights, we'll double the water ration, for one day at least. Now we've enough to go around."
Sated, indeed with his belly sloshing, which forced a belch from his lips, Lewrie picked up his storm coat, draped it over one arm, put his hat on, and paced back to the helm, and the waiting Mr. Adair, who had less than an hour left of the Middle Watch.
"Mister Adair," he said, peering at the compass bowl.
"Captain, sir. The wind's easing, and the sea's not as boisterous. Course is still Sou'east by East, though I do believe she might abide our standing a touch closer to the wind, again, sir."
"Our run, by Dead Reckoning, Mister Adair?" Lewrie asked.
"Uhm… half-hour casts of the log, sir," Adair said, fumbling a soggy sheet of folded paper from the breast pocket of his coat. His marks had been made with a stub of metallic lead, and done in the dark or the faint binnacle glow, so his accounting was extremely difficult to read, but Adair found a way to decypher it.
Ten knots, then eight… nine knots, even reefed and eased… Lewrie caught himself counting on his fingers to keep track; a spell of ten knots during gusts of the storm, three casts in a row, hmmm…
"At least twenty miles alee of our former course, sir, and about thirty miles forrud over the ground, sorry," Adair puzzled out at last.
"Mister Winwood leave his precious chart, did he, Mister Adair?"
"Aye, sir, in the cabinet."
Lewrie fetched it out and knelt under the lit binnacle, straining his eyes to find the finely pencilled marks of their course, using a handy pair of dividers and a parallel ruler to estimate the deviation, and pace it out to leeward on Sou'east by East.
"Well, damme, Mister Adair," Lewrie said, rising. "Even if the wind shifts back to the Nor'east, we'll spend another day beating back West-Nor'west to make it up, or miss Antigua completely. Put us into the lee of Guadeloupe, even if we could return to our old course this instant."
And what was so important about putting into English Harbour on Antigua? Lewrie wondered. Was it a mere courtesy call to let the local admiral know that they were in his waters, but not under his command, on secret business? Did Peel have someone to meet there, with intelligence which might await him that was that vital to their mission?
He rather doubted it.
Guadeloupe, though, was South of Antigua, and not by much, just about as much as they'd lost during the storm-if they stayed on a course a little to leeward of their old one, even if the Trades swung back where they belonged. Guadeloupe, the last French stronghold in the Antilles-and now Guillaume Choundas's lair. Lewrie bent under the binnacle lamp to study the chart just one more time, tracing a nail to the East'rd…
"Aye, Mister Adair, the wind has eased," he said, rolling up the chart and stowing it away. "Try to brace her up a point to windward. A half-point, if that's all she'll tolerate, and hold it 'til the end of watch, and inform Mister Langlie when he replaces you."
He paced back up to his rightful place to windward, took hold of the bulwarks, and gripped, trying to divine what message the sea sent up his arms. They were too far out to feel the return waves from the lee shore of the distant islands, but in his mind's eye, he could see HMS Proteus at tomorrow's dawn, perhaps halfway up the coast above Basse-Terre, the main lee-side port on Guadeloupe.