Perched in the gently swaying longboat, the clerk-coxswain looked about him in dismay, then down at his feet.
"The plug!" he cried, and gave the thing a yank before Bold could stop him. The icy water in the longboat's bilges poured onto the crew at the hoisting tackles below, to the sound of bitter curses. Lorimer hurled the offending plug into the empty bilges, retrieved it, and shoved it home solidly once more.
"The 'green' boat's gone from 'stow' to 'stow' in three minutes already," Bold said, "and all squared away. Before I'm through with ye, ye'll both go into the water and come back aboard in half that. Hoist away again, lads."
The red boat's crew spit on their blistered hands and took a new purchase on their tackles.
A weird hooting call drew Hoare's attention to activity in the upper rigging of Royal Duke's main topmast. It reminded Hoare of the howler monkeys he had once heard in the jungles of Guiana.
"Nay, nay, ye farmer!" Iggleden called. "If ye crosses yer 'ands that way in any kind of a blow, the sharks'll bite 'em off when ye falls off alongside. Or ye'll mash the Captain beneath ye. Better the sharks. Now, out to the yardarm again, and use yer 'ands the way I shown ye!"
Hoare nodded in agreement and went below again to finish today's paperwork.
Before eight bells sounded the beginning of the first dog watch, he went topside again to watch Clay watch Stone's efforts to teach his volunteer gun crews the rudiments of hauling a four-pounder inboard for loading. Despite the hands' obvious willingness to learn, it was a slow, slow business, and Clay as well as Stone champed visibly with frustration. It helped no one to have Clay and Hoare, too, watching. He summoned Clay to his side with a chirp of his boatswain's pipe.
"If we are ever to make this ship seaworthy, Mr. Clay," he said, "we must get those pigeonholes belowdecks. Where do you suggest we stow the creatures?"
Clay looked quizzical. He appeared to weigh, not the question his Captain had just posed, but that Captain's most likely reaction to what he was about to say.
"Simply to put them under hatches would serve no purpose, sir," he said. "How would the birds get about? And I do not like to imagine the state in which our open 'tween-decks space would find itself before long. Pigeon shit all over the papers. No, sir, that would never do. I have already consulted Hancock on the subject."
Clay paused and gave Hoare what seemed like a final appraising look, then took the plunge.
"We concluded that the best solution is to erect a bulkhead a few feet forrard of your stern gallery, sir, and open up the gallery for access by the pigeons. As long as we are at anchor or making to windward, the birds can then approach by flying into the wind-a matter of importance to them, according to Hancock."
Clay paused again, as if preparing to withstand the explosion he anticipated from Hoare. The explosion came.
" What?" Hoare gasped. "Turn my very own new gallery into private quarters for a batch of filthy birds? And half my own quarters?"
As he had expected, he found the ceremony aboard Niobe lightly attended, for changes in command were so frequent in the Royal Navy as to arouse more yawns than cheers among those not directly involved. The new Lieutenant in command returned Hoare's salute to the quarterdeck with a patronizing flourish and left him to fend for himself. Hoare did not hesitate to advance across the deck to where a small flotilla of lady guests stood, managing their hats and skirts with varying degrees of skill.
Selene Prettyman was one of the more adept of these. She allowed no more sight of her person than she saw fit to grant. She was warmly dressed against the stiff autumn breeze, with a pelisse of finest wool, tinted a blue-gray that brought attention to her sapphire eyes. In reply to the leg Hoare made to her, she merely nodded.
"I am not used, sir, to gentlemen who do not see fit to respond to my invitations. Can you offer me any reason why I should excuse you?"
"Pressure of duty, ma'am," Hoare hastened to whisper. "I shall not bore you with the petty details… They would be of interest only to another sailor, if to anyone at all."
"Then perhaps you would care to carry me ashore after this little ceremony. It promises to be so interesting."
Hoare thought Selene Prettyman's comment insincere, but not her request. Coming as it did from a Colonel's wife in the entourage of royalty, it was tantamount to a command.
"Delighted, ma'am," he said. He was prevented from a longer reply by the chirping call of "All Hands." To himself, he resolved to teach more of his hands the boatswain's pipe. His plans for Royal Duke did not include the senile Joy, and, of course, for Hoare himself as the brig's Commander to pipe his visitors aboard would hardly be the thing.
The ceremony took no more time than was necessary for Delancey to rattle through his orders, reading faster and faster as he went. And Delancey seemed almost eager to see the backs of his guests. He did, however, arrest the departure of Hoare and Selene Prettyman long enough to say, "Pity, Captain, that we shall have no chance to sail in company."
Hoare had no difficulty gauging the sincerity of that remark, at least. They both knew perfectly well that should the two ever meet at sea, the senior officer and therefore the one who ordered while the other obeyed would not be Francis Bennett but Bartholomew Hoare.
With that, a brainstorm struck him.
"Perhaps that can be arranged, Captain," he whispered. "I expect to put to sea myself within a fortnight. To give my people an airing, you know," he added, on seeing Delancey's stare of disbelief.
"An airing," the other said.
"Yes. And do you not sail for the Groyne about then?"
"Yes."
"Give us twenty-four hours' grace before you weigh anchor," Hoare said, "and Royal Duke will await you somewhere between the Needles and Portland Bill."
"Done, by God," Delancey said. "For a new hat?"
"Agreed. For a new hat," Hoare replied. He held out his arm to assist Selene Prettyman into Royal Duke's gig.
"The cheer for Mr. Delancey demonstrated more uncertainty than goodwill, I thought," Mrs. Prettyman said.
"Delancey would be an unknown quantity for Niobe's people," Hoare whispered. The Hard was to leeward, so he knew she would be able to hear him easily enough.
"But why did you address him as 'Captain' when he is a mere Lieutenant?" she asked.
"A custom of the Service. When an officer is in command of a vessel, as Delancey now is in Niobe, we address him as 'Captain.' "
"I vow I shall never understand you sailormen. Prettyman's a soldier, thank God."
Hoare coxed his own gig. He told his crew to stand by until he returned, unless eight bells struck earlier, in which case they could rejoin their ship for dinner. He offered his arm to Selene Prettyman, the cobbles of the Hard being somewhat uneven.
The walk to Mrs. Prettyman's lodgings at the Three Suns took them past the Blue Posts, suitable for Midshipmen and Junior Lieutenants, and the Crown, where older Lieutenants and miscellaneous officers of the Army most commonly roosted. As Hoare and his companion passed the Crown, two flushed cavalry officers emerged, laughing loudly over their shoulders to companions within. One of them collided with Hoare, who recognized him as having been ejected from one of the Assemblies. Hoare had been one of the ejectors. The man had been troublesome then; he was troublesome now.
"Damn you, fellow, mind where you're goin'!" he exclaimed, and grasped Hoare by his free left arm. He looked at Hoare and at Selene Prettyman.