Nugent and Shoemake, the Master's Mates, Nugent being another Irishman. Lewrie was beginning to notice that they had more than their fair share of hands aboard from that unhappy and rebellious isle! And finally, the midshipmen-all bloody six of them.
There were the young'uns-Midshipmen Elwes and Nicholas, both about fourteen or fifteen and seemingly sweet-natured and a tad shy. There was a Midshipman Sevier, who looked to be around eighteen, the sort who would bob and choke on even polite conversation. A slightly older, and very quick-witted, Mr. Adair, but, being a Scot, and well-educated in comparison to his English contemporaries, he would seem to be witty; a Mr. Catterall, who was now twenty-one, a blond-haired wag Lewrie could deduce at once-he was most notably from Lanes, for all his local accent; and finally, Mr. Midshipman Peacham, a tad older in his mid-twenties, a very tarry customer, but one unfortunate in "interest" or patronage so far. He was curtly polite, horny-handed; the type of senior midshipman Lewrie thought he could depend on from his first impression. Peacham looked the perfect image of a real tarpaulin man, of the most knowledgeable sort, and overdue for a lieutenancy.
He shared a few words with them all, taking over an hour or more to do so. Though he doubted he'd be able to recall all those names by 4:00 a.m. when they rose to scrub decks and begin the ship's day, he was of the opinion that making the effort to reach out was the main thing. Not so chearly with them as to be taken for a "Popularity Jack," but it never hurt to try and size people up and make them realise that he was not a tacit, tyrannical Tartar either.
"Well, gentlemen…" He shrugged at last. "I hope you will not take it to heart if I have to ask your names again over the next week. Too long aboard a smaller ship, where after a time one'd wish to see just one unfamiliar face. Until the morrow. Oh, Mister Pendarves?"
"Aye, sir," the Bosun replied, perking up, yet looking guarded.
"Once the hands have eat tomorrow, we'll look her over," Lewrie warned him. "Keel to trucks, and me in my worst slop-clothing. Then you may tell me what you lack, before we fall downriver."
"Well, sir… hands for work'd be my mainest plaint, sir," Mr. Pendarves told him bluntly. "Recruit or press more hands, sir. We are in fair shape for stores and such, else. A tad light on rations… keep her draught light for the trip to the Nore, sir, where we'll stock, at Sheerness."
"But given fair recruiting here at Chatham, a few more Able or Ordinary Seamen… and a week's 'River Discipline,' we could let slip, Mister Pendarves?" Lewrie pressed him for his opinion.
"Aye, sir. Could." The Bosun shrugged, almost wincing.
"But…" Lewrie queried closer, getting a bit fed up with all the tiptoe-y responses he'd gotten since he'd stepped aboard. "Might you think there's a reason not?"
"Recruitin', sir," Pendarves muttered in a gruff voice, taking off his hat to stand like a supplicant labourer at the rear door of his master. "Warrants an' petty officers, some of their mates, an' friends… a first draught off th' receivin' ship. An' Cap'um Churchwell's men… that's all we have, sir. Doubt we find many more willin'; not here in Chatham, Captain. Cause o'…" Pendarves winced again at being on the spot, of being the one to bring bad news.
"Oh, I see." Lewrie nodded, cocking his head to one side. "There is her… reputation to deal with."
"Aye, sir… that'd be it, mainly." Pendarves flushed.
"Many aboard wish they could turn over into a new ship, Bosun?"
"Well, sir… there's more than a few Irish aboard… hands outa the West Country too, sir. An' I know it sounds daft, but…"
"West Country yourself, I'd guess, Mister Pendarves?" Lewrie interjected and received a bob of the Bosun's head. "Welsh, Devonian, Cornish… men who think her cursed. Men who wish off her?"
"Some, like I say, sir," Pendarves confessed.
"Hmmm… how well did Captain Churchwell do at recruiting then?" Lewrie wondered.
"Well… right awful, Captain." Pendarves grimaced for bearing even more bad news. "Onliest volunteers, d'ye see, were shipmates come aboard t'sail with old friends, sir. 'Pressed men, a few hands turned over from the hulks… Quota Men'n such. Cap'um Churchwell only tried but a few days 'fore he was, uhm… when the chaplain drowned. Give it up, I s'pose, right after, sir."
"And the First Officer, Mister Ludlow?" Lewrie frowned. "Went ashore and tried too, did he? Afterwards? After Captain Churchwell departed?"
"A day or two, sir, but… jacks see him comin', they'd scamper off 'fore he could trot out an ale!" Bosun Pendarves marvelled that British tars would refuse even free drinks, no matter could they sign up, or refuse to, at a 'rondy.' "Come back two days, since, an'…"
Pendarves bit off any trace of criticism of an officer.
"I see." Lewrie sighed, pacing about the deck, over to larboard to lay a hand on one of his new Blomefield Pattern 12-pounders, to lean a hip against the gun's cascabel and the swell of the breech. "Short of real sailors and too many landsmen lubbers. Can't crew her with a pack of know-nothings right out of gaol. Unless… unless Proteus is really a very lucky ship after all, Mister Pendarves."
"Lucky, sir?" The Bosun came near to openly scoffing.
"You're quite right, Bosun." Lewrie grinned, shoving off from his resting spot. "It sounds daft, doesn't it. Superstition or not, sailors believe in good and bad luck, don't they."
"Well… aye, sir."
"You and me, Bosun," Lewrie intimated, "we're seamen. We've seen things, heard things… odd, strange, unexplainable things…"
And ain't it smug o' me, Lewrie chid himself, t'put us both on the same footing. He's more experience in his least finger than I'll ever…!
"What's her name, Mister Pendarves?"
"P… Proteus, sir," the Bosun answered with a slight pause, as if afraid to say it aloud.
"Her figurehead, sir…" Lewrie all but winked. "Proteus, the Roman shepherd of the sea… Greeks called him Nereus, but either name meant the same sea-god. A divine oracle, he was. And there he is… in his chariot he drove 'cross the wide world's oceans, drawn by dolphins and… seals, Mister Pendarves. Seals!"
"Like L… uhm, ah…," Bosun Pendarves flummoxed, afraid to say that fearsome name from his boyhood tales either.
"Funny thing about Proteus, or Nereus, or whatever he went by. A man wished his prophecies, he had to find him first. Then he had to wrestle him, hold him so he couldn't get away. Proteus changed his shape… he could become any living thing in the sea, d'ye see, sir?" Lewrie intimated further, almost crooning as he spun his tale. "Turned into little things so, he could swim out of your grasp. Turned into whales and sharks or ferocious sea-dragons to frighten you into letting go. You had to let him run through his gamut of creatures… last of all, he was a seal… and then a man, sir," Lewrie elaborated, not sure from his ancient readings, not sure if he wasn't spinning a huge lie he'd be caught in by Pendarves and the others later for lack of lore.
"Like a, uhm…" Pendarves goggled, eyes blared in wonder by then, to hear the ancient tales retold in a slightly different version, to hear an officer relate them, as if he too believed! "Like he was a… selkie, sir?"
"Very like a selkie, Mister Pendarves." Lewrie beamed, as his Bosun caught on, feeling a dread, eldritch chill ascend his spine, no matter if he was lying and manipulating or not! "So… how close do you think they really came… when they chose her name? Merlin, that would've suited her, hey? But then Admiralty changed things at the last second and took that back. But that Celtic or Gaelic sawyer and his wee lad… what'd he say to her, Bosun?"