"But, sir?" Lewrie pressed, feeling his hands twitch once more with impatience, as Proby turned the tale into a two-volume novel.
"For no apparent cause, sir… she heaved a slow roll starb'd," Proby whispered, leaning close to Lewrie on the thwart they shared near the sternsheets. "The chaplain, Reverend Talmidge, was halfway aloft, and Captain Churchwell was just by the lip of the entry-port, when she did her roll. And then, sir!-Captain Churchwell gave out a yelp, like he was stung by a wasp, he told me later-and lost his grasp on the man-ropes. He slipped and fell backwards, slid down into Reverend Talmidge and knocked him loose as well, and they both hit the water and went under. Right 'twixt ship and boat, without touching either, sir… not a mark on the gig, as there would have been had the Reverend Talmidge struck his head on her gunn'ls and knocked himself out. Captain Churchwell came to the surface a moment later, and his boat-crew pulled him out. But the chaplain never did. Now both men were strong swimmers, I was told, since boyhood; and Captain Churchwell thought that the chaplain might be beneath the gig, trapped and unconscious, and he dove under, searching for him, but never found him. He was never found, Captain Lewrie."
"That's odd," Lewrie had to admit aloud. "Usually a drowned man comes up, sooner or later. Downriver, perhaps…?"
"We searched, sir, indeed we did. Captain Churchwell had boats on the river not a half-hour later," Proby told him. "He sent news to me, requesting everything that'd float to search, as far as Gillingham Reach, the first morning and for several days after; but nary a sign of him did anyone see. And even did a man strike his noggin and put himself out well… being 'round ships, ports, and rivers the most part of my life Captain Lewrie, I've seen men fall overside, seen drownings aplenty, God save me. And the most of 'em do come up, right after they fall in. 'Fore their clothes get soaked, they've enough buoyancy for at least a single surfacing, if they've a scrap of air in their lungs."
"Well, perhaps he drew in a breath, but underwater…" Lewrie surmised. So far it was a tragic tale, perhaps indicative of his new ship's__
perverse nature? he shivered-Gaelic, Druidic, and Celtic soul. Certainly there was a frigate near her like, HMS Druid, built back in the early '80s, and there'd been a spot of bother at first over her name, with the Established Church's Ecclesiastical Court upset by an allusion to the old pagan ways and the necromancing Druids. He had never heard, though, that she'd been trouble. Made into a trooper, last he'd heard… with guns removed, en flute, so she could transport a whole battalion at once.
But the way Proby was glooming and ticking the side of his nose, as if in sage warning, he wondered when the other shoe might drop.
"It could be as you say, sir, for I've seen that happen also," Proby confessed. " 'Mongst the drunk-as-lords, the ones who did strike their heads. But, sir… Reverend Talmidge was stone-cold sober when he entered that gig. And no one could recall him striking his head… no dented wood, no smear of blood or hair…?" Proby shrugged. "And may I remind you, noted to be a strong swimmer. I sometimes wish our Lords Commissioners might follow the example of the Dutch Navy. They require every man-jack sent to sea to learn how to swim, or know how before joining. And their surgeons and surgeon's mates can revive a drowned man in almost miraculous fashion by laying him out face-down over a large keg laid on its side. Roll him back and forth and, more than half the time, he begins to cough and sputter and spew up what he swallowed or breathed in. And is returned to the living, Captain Lewrie, like Lazarus called out from his grave by Our Dear Saviour. I have seen that done too, sir, in my time."
"So he lost his chaplain, sir. But you said he was her previous captain?" Lewrie urged. "What made Captain Churchwell… 'previous'?"
"Oh, sir," Proby groaned, looking appalled. "Close as brothers they were to each other… cater-cousins from the same county, the same social set. Captain Churchwell was as heartbroken as a man who'd just lost all his brothers and sisters at a single stroke!"
"He threw over his commission due to grief, Mister Proby?" Lewrie frowned. Well, it did take all kinds, he felt like saying.
"I'll warrant there was a certain amount of grief, the cause." Proby nodded, looking seaward once more, towards HMS Proteus, to judge how near she was. "And guilt, for he was the one who'd jostled Talmidge when he slipped and fell. And that was an odd thing too, in addition to her strange roll. The man-ropes were spanking-new manila, hairy as so many badgers and dry as dust. The batten steps had been fresh-tarred, with sand scattered for a good foothold. No cause for him to slip at all. No linseed oil anywhere in sight for him to slip on with hand or foot."
"Prickly strands of manila… that might have been what he said stung him, sir," Lewrie suggested, turning to eye his new ship also.
"Sting a lubber, sir," Proby grunted most querulously. "Or sting a lady's soft hands. But never a tarry-handed sailor like him. Had a bear's grip, he did… and all over rope-handling callouses."
"So?" Lewrie shrugged. "Why that night then?"
"I recall most vividly him saying that it felt like he'd gotten stung by several wasps at once, Captain Lewrie," Proby told him. "At the tail end of winter, when they're still a'nest? No, he claimed the ship… bit him!"
"Beg pardon?" Lewrie gawped. "Bit him, did y'say?"
"Claimed she hated him and was out to kill him too," Proby told him, shrugging. "Not five days later, he wrote Admiralty asking for immediate relief. Aged ten years, he appeared, as haggard as a dog's dinner. Unkempt, his hair turned grey almost overnight, I tell you. And falling-down drunk, sir! Him, so abstemious before, but in his cups right 'round the clock afterwards. Running on deck at all hours, claiming he heard voices warning him to leave or die? Mister Ludlow claims he smelled sober in the beginning, even when he told the most horrendous fantasies and saw things no one else on deck saw, sir. Turned out the Marines to search his cabins more than a few times and claimed there was someone there, but nary a sign of an intruder there was. He began drinking soon after that. After the first two days, I think it was. Babbling to himself, weeping before the hands… 'twas a sorry spectacle Captain Churchwell was when he took the coach back to London. Never seen a man so shattered in body and soul."
"Perhaps he was one of those secret topers, Mister Proby," Lewrie wondered, "who hold it well and hide it well. Does a man play a role well enough in public… and don't most people…?"
"Seen more than my share of those too, in my time, sir"-Proby chuckled-"claiming to be the strictest abstainers… but experience gives the lie to their lies. Didn't look the sort. That sort of lust for drink will show in a man his age. In Sea Officers more than most, as I'm certain you've noted. No, sir, I may attest to you that this demonic craving for spirits was sudden. And the poor devil was quite capsized."
"Well, perhaps she bit him after all, sir. In a way? Bottle-bit?" Lewrie could not help saying, with a quirky smirk.
Proteus was near now-not a musket-shot off-and the barge was steering to pass under her out-thrust bowsprit and jib-boom, about ten yards in front of her bows to gain her starboard side. There was a thunder of feet as her partial crew was mustered, the shrill of bosun's calls to summon a side-party.
"Boat ahoy!" came a shout from her larboard cat-head, from the strange midshipman of the harbour watch.
"Proteus/" Proby's midshipman in the sternsheets cried back, to warn them that their caller was not just any officer, but her new captain. The bow-man thrust four fingers in the air, showing the number of side-men to be mustered.