'Twos the blasphemy, Lewrie decided, as he turned away to greet another stranger; Hell, p'raps me soundin' cunny-thumbed too. Has to be another o' Churchwell's sort … a proper Bible-thumper.
"Leftenant Devereux, sir," Ludlow supplied, putting stress to the "Lef- " as the Army and Marines pronounced it. "In charge of our marine contingent." And once more sounding almost taunting with that slight oddity of stress. It obviously irked Devereux, for that young officer suffered a tic in one cheek as he was introduced.
"First Lef-tenant Blase Devereux, Captain Lewrie, sir," that immaculate worthy added, as he doffed his hat. "M'sergeant, Skipwith, down yonder. Corp'rals O'Neil-he's the one puddin'-faced brawler from Limerick, sir; Plympton, sir, our Devonian. Full complement of Marines, sir… forty privates all told," Devereux offered, with a stiff-backed professional air, though still managing to sound miffed. He was in his late-twenties, as elegant and lint-less a paragon of marine "spit-and-polish" as any. A gentleman, Lewrie decided at once, with a private income in addition to his pay. And a grudge 'gainst Ludlow?
"Lieutenant Devereux, sir," Lewrie said, with a faint smile on his face and offering his hand. "Don't mind your Marines gettin' yer hands dirty now and again, do you, sir?",
"Uhm… in what manner, sir?" Devereux blinked, suspicious of common pulley-hauley duties. The enforced separation between sailors and Marines, put aboard to guard against mutiny and disorders, was an ever touchy subject; the marine complement's disdain for ship-work was not to be violated-or the two communities allowed to mingle too freely.
"I've found aboard my previous ships, sir, that the Marines were some of the best shots with the carriage-guns," Lewrie told him. "Did we fight short-handed, sir, I'd admire did the Marines practice at artillery drill. The quarterdeck carronades, 6-pounders, swivels…?"
"Uhm, well… of course, sir," Devereux cautiously allowed, not finding any traps in such usage. They'd not have to mix with the crew in the waist on the 12-pounder great-guns, be allowed to trod a sacred quarterdeck… "A most sensible suggestion, sir."
"And I thank you for your cooperation, sir." Lewrie beamed.
"Purser, sir… Mister Coote," Ludlow rumbled.
"Your humble servant, sir," Proteus's "Nip-Cheese" stated, all agreeable and welcoming. Coote was a man in his forties, togged out in a plain blue coat and breeches, with a red waist-coat, and an unadorned black cocked hat. He seemed very anxious to please. Given Lewrie's long suspicion of "pussers," he wondered what sins that anxiety covered.
"Pleased t'make your acquaintance, Mister Coote," Lewrie said. "I wonder, though, sir…"
Rock him back on his heels right off, Lewrie told himself; works wonders, do they think you're onto 'em from the very first.
"The hands, Mister Coote." Lewrie frowned, all but making "tsk-tsk" duckings. "Your slop-clothing is not aboard yet, is it? That's why the new-comes are still in filthy civilian rags?"
"Why, nossir!" Coote gawped back, looking as if he wished he'd be able to wring his paws in distress. "No orders to release anything yet, Captain Lewrie. The First Lieutenant said to…"
"Told him to wait, sir," Ludlow snapped, " 'til the new captain had come aboard. Might not've cared for Captain Churchwell's choices, sir. Hammocks and such've been issued, but we were waiting to see how you wished 'em dressed, sir."
"And you now have aboard, Mister Coote…?" Lewrie prompted his purser. Damme, it sounds a reasonable decision after all, he thought. Some captains had odd preferences for their men's appearance. There was no regulated uniform for people "before the mast" yet.
"Red chequered calico shirts, sir," Coote informed him, with a wary glance towards Ludlow. "White duck trousers, blue duck… blue round jackets, black tarred hats, sir…"
"Issue blue slop-trousers then," Lewrie decided quickly. "A single pair o' white for Sunday Divisions. Two pair o' blue for sea-duty. Shows less dirt and tar, and they won't be spending half their 'Rope-Yarn Sundays' tryin' to scrub the white'uns clean."
"Aye, sir." Coote brightened. "And, sir, save on soap issue too. Trying to do their washing with salt water? Or a wee bucket of fresh, now and then?"
A pint a man, per day, for cleanliness-that was what was allowed for shaving, bathing (did any of them actually believe in such an activity!), or scrubbing.
"Exactly, Mister Coote," Lewrie chuckled. "Neckerchiefs? Oh, see what you may do 'bout finding some red'uns… for a distinguishing splash o' colour. Black hats… all of a piece, mind. So the people are as much alike in dress as we can make 'em, right from the first. A blue round jacket per man too. Brass buttons for rated men."
"I've black horn buttons for the rest, sir!" Coote enthused.
"Very well, then, Mister Coote, see to it," Lewrie ordered him. "And, Mister Ludlow, rig the wash-deck pumps and make sure the people are sluiced clean o' vermin an' such… have you not already? As the slop-clothing is issued."
"Aye, aye, sir," Ludlow agreed. Or at least it sounded as if he agreed; grudgingly, did he, though?
Then Lewrie met the ship's Surgeon, a Mr. Thomas Shirley, a gangly fellow in his mid-twenties, and his Surgeon's Mates; one was named Hodson, even younger and greener than Shirley, little better (he himself admitted) than an apothecary, in training as it were. Mr. Durant, though, was much older and boasted more experience. Had he been English-born, he might have held Shirley's berth. But Mr. Durant was йmigrй French. Landed like a gaffed fish on a strange shore, he'd wheedled a position from the Sick Hurt Board after two years of effort, the only way he had in a leery England to support his family, he sketched out for Lewrie's information, after trying the charity hospitals and private practice.
"You escaped, sir?"
"From Toulon, Capitaine," Durant admitted. "Quel tragique …"
"Ah, I was there. Aye, it was, sir," Lewrie gloomed along with him. "We left at the same time, I should think. Night before…?"
"Oui, Capitaine. An' I know of you," Durant said. "What you did for so many Royalists you sail away from zere. Merci, Capitaine. I promise you grateful service, oui!"
"I count on it, sir," Lewrie replied.
"You'll be going to your cabins now, sir?" Ludlow supposed. "Get settled in, sir?"
"No." Lewrie frowned. "Might as well make the acquaintance of as many warrants as I can. Have the Bosun, his mate, the Master Gunner… the department heads, gather in the waist, Mister Ludlow."
"Aye, aye, sir," Ludlow answered, sounding aggrieved? Lewrie had to think, again. What was the man's problem? Bit more o' that, and I will really give him a problem t'fret over!
So while Andrews, Padgett, and Aspinall turned-to aft to erect his furnishings and possessions in the great-cabins, Lewrie descended to the gun-deck, admiring his lovely new artillery pieces. A crowd of older hands gathered 'round him. The Bosun was a Mr. Arthur Pendarves, a hawk-billed, sere fellow from Cornwall, who looked as if he'd spent most of his life squinting at wind and weather. As did his mate, Mr. Towpenny, a shorter, spritelier version from Bristol. Mr. Handcocks, the Master Gunner, a tall, lean, and balding fellow in his middle forties; and his mate, Mr. Morley, who was, again, younger. Mr. Garraway, their Carpenter; Mr. Reyne, the Sailmaker; Offley, the Armourer; the Yeomen of the Sheets, who served on the sail-trimming gangways, Betts and Robbins; the Yeoman of The Powder, who served in the magazine; a man named Kever, who looked as pasty as if he hadn't left the magazine since his teens; the three Quartermasters: Motte, Austen, and O'Leary; Hickey, a young apprentice Sailmaker's Mate; a whole slew of Quarter Gunners-Proteus was rated a full eight petty-officer gunners; Dowe, O'Hare, and Magee, who were the Quartermaster's Mates on the helm; the gloomy Mr. Neale, who was their Master At Arms and had probably been born gloomy; and a brace of Ship's Corporals-Burton and Ragster. And, of course, they all made the lame jape that that poor fellow was "Ragster-riches"!