"Masts set up, top-masts standing, and lower yards crossed, sir," Proby said to him as they settled into the leather seats of his coach. "Her previous captain had seen to it… 'fore he departed, poor fellow."
"Sorry, sir, but I was not aware there had been a previous captain," Lewrie said carefully. "He left recent, then, did he? Why?"
"Not a week past, sir," Proby replied, turning sombre, shifting uncomfortably on his seat, the fine leather giving out a squeaking as he did so. He leant forward a bit to speak more softly-guardedly.
"You're getting command of a fine frigate, Captain Lewrie. Oh, a wondrous-fine new ship!" Proby assured him. "But…" he muttered, "there are some things about her a tad… queer-like, e'en so."
"Such as, sir?" Lewrie enquired, crossing his legs for luck-to protect his "nutmegs" against the eerie chill which took him.
Damme, Jester an' her doin's was queer enough! he thought.
"At her launching day"-Proby squinted as if pained-"a fine day, sir. Sunshine and the high tide… a rare event on the Medway, as I'm certain you'll agree. A retired admiral, come down from London, him and his good lady, to do the actual naming."
"His lady did her naming?" Lewrie puzzled, nigh to gaping. It was rarely allowed-it was bad luck! He constricted his thighs for more protection against such an odd event.
"As good as, in essence, Captain Lewrie. As good as," Proby sighed. "The admiral… a most distinguished fellow; he did the actual honours with the port bottle… his lady by his side, no real role in things, as it should be, no. But she was one of those er, what-you-call-'ems… the romantic, literary sorts. Quite taken with this fellow Ossian, d'ye see…"
"And who's he, when he's up and dressed?" Lewried scowled, in wonder where this was all going.
"Some deuced scribbler… translated a batch of Irish sagas and such… Gaelic myths and legends set to poetry," Proby quibbled, not sounding too impressed himself. "The romantic rage of the moment. So I'm told. Elves and brownies, dancing fairies and magic circles, sword-wielding heroes and Druid magicians conjuring up all manner of spells and potions. Singing swords, so please you! Have you ever heard the like? Irish! They probably take it as history… Gospel!"
"And so this Ossian…?" Lewrie prompted.
"The lady's enthusiasms for all this bilge water got the better of her- and she did strike me, right from the first time I clapped eye on her, that she was the forbidding sort o' mort who'd run her household her way, and Heaven help the husband who gainsayed her-well, it was obvious she'd put a flea in his ear, and him a bloody Rear-Admiral and should have known better. Comes the moment to name her…"
Tell me before I throttle you, you lame twit! Lewrie groaned.
"… stands up there on the platform 'neath her bows, thousands of folk, from Hoo, Rochester, Chalk, and Sheerness watching. Band from the Chatham Marines ready to play her into the water. Officials down from London -Navy Board and all. Bishop of Rochester there too… and that was the worst part."
Lean a tad closer, just a tad, and… Lewrie thought, furious. And his fingers twitching for the leap from his lap to the throat.
"Adrape with flags from bow-to-stern, cradle all that's holding her, and all but the dog-shores removed…" Proby whispered, acting as if, were he a Catholic, he'd be flying over his rosary beads like some Chinee merchant at his abacus. "Should have suspected. Had him a nose on at breakfast, 'fore we rowed over to Frindsbury, and her nudging at him like a fishwife all that time, whispering in his ear…"
Right, you 're for it! Lewrie thought, raising one hand, staring at how strong his fingers flexed.
"Stood up there, 'fore one and all, and called out, 'Success to His Majesty's Ship'… came all over queer he did and waited, with a smirk on his face." Proby all but groaned and wrung his hands. "At last he says… Merlin'
Uhtnhmm, Lewrie thought, feeling an urge to shrug; what's so bad 'bout that? Old King Arthur's pet conjurer. So … ?
"Well, the crowd went dead-silent, and the Bishop of Rochester damn' near swooned away, sir." Proby grunted. "Mean t'say, Captain Lewrie, a pagan religious figure, a Celt Druid! And there right in front of his nose was one of the Chicheley brother's best figureheads of the sea-god, driving his chariot drawn by dolphins and seals…!"
Seals, oh Christ!" Lewrie chilled, dropping his hands to his lap for more protection, all thought oЈ mayhem quite flown his head.
"Well, sir, she slipped away right after," Proby told him, in awe of it still himself. "Dog-shores just gave way, with no one at the saws to free 'em! Everyone whey-faced, and the Admiralty representative steps up and takes the bottle and glass from the admiral. He had drunk off the glass of port but hadn't thrown the bottle to break on her bows, so it wasn't quite done, d'ye see, and could still be salvaged. And the Admiralty man takes a quick slug from the neck, throws the bottle, it breaks on her bow-timbers, and he calls out, 'Success to His Majesty's Ship Proteus, the name they'd already picked. Then the band starts up, and the people start cheering… and…"
"And?" Lewrie pressed, crossing his fingers for good measure.
"She stuck, sir! Stuck dead on the ways, still cradled. Tons of tallow, so slick a rat couldn't crawl up the slipway, but there she was… stuck firm as anything," Proby whispered. "And the cradle, it usually starts to fall apart once a launched ship gets way on her on the skids… designed to break up once she's afloat. Held like it's bolted together. Not cocked a bit off-centre, not hung up on anything beneath her, Captain Lewrie, but… she just… won't… move!"
"Dear, Lord," Lewrie sighed. Very softly and circumspectly, it should here be noted. "A bad-luck ship… a 'Jonah'?"
"Who's to say, sir?" Proby groaned, sounding a tad miserable. "But here's a stranger part. Good sawyer in Nicholson's yards, he's out on the slipway with his little boy… to cut the dog-shores. Comes 'round afore her bows, trying to think of what to do. She misses that high tide, and it's days more before she's depth enough to launch proper, without damaging her quick-work. Everybody watching, and he just walks up to her forefoot, lays a hand on her cutwater-it appeared that he said something-then… one shove of his little boy's hand and she gives out the most hideous groan, like the cradle is about to give way and break up. But instead… away she goes, smooth as any launch as ever I did see."
"Ah, well!" Lewrie felt reason to say with a relieved chuckle, yet a bit of a shiver. "And here I thought you were about to say how she crushed him and his boy… drew blood on her naming day. Wheew!"
"Ah, but the sawyer and his son, sir… they're Irish!" Proby most ominously pointed out, hunched up in his cloak as if he was fearful of sitting too erect. "Irish, d'ye see. Seen many an odd thing in my time concerning the launching of ships. Most go smooth as silk and no problem, 'cause they're just a 'thing' at that moment and don't get their soul 'til after they've been in saltwater for a spell. Now and then, though, there are the blood-drinkers. A sloop of war once mashed three men when she veered off the straight-and-narrow on her way in, and God help every man-jack who served aboard her, 'til she ran aground five years later and drowned her entire crew off the Hebrides. There's a two-decker 64 from this dockyard that's cost the careers of four captains by now, and she's… I'll not call down bad luck by naming her… had more strange accidents and deaths among her crew than any other of her type. Man-a-month dying, last I heard of her. Even Bellerophon, sir… blowing a perfect gale the night before her launching. Came to see if the shores would hold 'til morning, and there she was afloat… Launched herself, d'ye see? Christened her myself, after the fact. I think she was so eager to swim, Captain Lewrie, that she wouldn't wait. Aye, the 'Billy Ruff n' had an odd birthing, sir. But for the life o' me I cannot recall an event stranger than Proteus, not in years!"