"Why, 'tis th' auld 'Minstrel Boy,' sir!" Desmond replied.
"Well, 'Minstrel Boy,' you don't wish to part from your mates; then I'm not the one to turn my nose up at a real live volunteer. Go join 'em and be ready to transfer over to Proteus."
"I thankee from th' bottom o' me heart, sir, that I do!" volunteer Desmond boomed, doffing his hat once more and bowing from his waist. He plucked up his small bundle of belongings tied up in a thread-bare shirt and dashed to rejoin his friends before Lewrie could change his mind, despite Lt. Ludlow's grunts of disapproval.
They winnowed a few more and came within five hands of the full number of ninety-one seamen, or young teens who could be trained as seamen, and made up most of their lack in lubbers, waisters, and servants-those stout but stupid, too old to send aloft. They could use anyone who could serve on the gangways to haul in teams on halliards, braces, lift-lines, clews, buntlines, or jears; or serve the guns on the run-out tackles to drive them up a sloping deck to the gun-ports.
There were no others aboard Sandwich even remotely healthy, or suitable, and more than a few that even made Lewrie feel a twinge, now and then, of suspicion of a criminal background.
He'd done what he could to man his ship and get her ready for sea. Now, according to Captain Hartwell, he might have as long as two weeks before receiving orders to sail and join some squadron of ships, where Proteus, like all fast frigates, was all too rare and desperately needed. It would be up to his officers and petty officers from here on out to drive, lead, drag, or harangue them into a crew.
All three of his ship's boats were working, as were a brace from Sandwich, to ferry the new hands over to her. Lewrie stood by the rail with a faint smile on his face, thinking how discomfited his Purser, Mr. Coote, would be. He'd have to issue the most of the new-comes a fresh set of slop-clothing, plates, spoons, shoes, blankets… when they'd already lost, gambled away, or sold a first issue; and his books would be as badly out of joint as his nose, Lewrie was mortal-certain!
As he made his way to the entry-port to take a salute from HMS Sandwich's, side-party, he felt he had good reason for another celebratory indulgence with his supper that evening. For one, he'd missed his midday meal for all his errands; for a second, he'd succeeded at one more vital step in making Proteus a serviceable warship, safeguarding his precious commission into her; and third… he'd found a way to put a "pusser" in a bad mood!
Not bad, for a day's work! he decided.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bloody, gloomy damn'place, Lewrie thought even more grimly the next morning. It was overcast, a touch windy, and both seas and skies were fretfully grey. Sheerness hadn't blossomed overnight either-it was still the same low-lying pile of crowded warehouses, manufacturies, and houses, crammed together any-old-how. Only the sea walls and the bulkheads which elevated it above the high tide made it look substantial and fortified.
And he already had a discipline problem.
He had barely shaved and scrubbed his face and neck in a liberal basin of shore water, sat down to his breakfast of fried eggs, a hash of bacon and shredded potatoes, and fresh-baked shore bread, when he heard a commotion without the gun-deck entry to his quarters. He slurped up a scalding portion of coffee, took a morsel of jammed and buttered toast and chewed quickly before the marine sentry's musket butt thundered on the deck planking.
"First off cer… SAH!"
"Enter," Lewrie managed to mumble past his tasty quid, allowing himself as much bile into his voice as he wished for such an ill-timed interruption of his few moments of morning calm.
'' 'Morning, sir," Ludlow grunted, ducking his head to clear the overhead deck beams, with his hat under his arm. "Beg t'report, Captain… three men on charges. One for theft, sir… T'other two for the fight that resulted."
"Who are they then?" Lewrie sighed, scowling over the rim of his cup.
"Thief was Landsman Haslip, sir. Caught dipping into Landsman Furfy's seabag. Landsman Desmond caught him at it, and they both lit into him, sir."
"God help the poor bastard then." Lewrie shrugged, remembering that this fellow Haslip was a puny, shifty runt with the air of a practiced gaolbird, whilst the new-comes, Furfy and Desmond, were burlier, younger; and Furfy had fists the size of middling pot roasts! "Haslip still breathin', is he… there's a wonder, Mister Ludlow?"
"Looks like a fresh-skinned rabbit, sir," Ludlow told him, but without a trace of humour which that remark might have drawn from him. "Ship's Corporals attempted to intervene, Captain. But those Paddies wouldn't have it and took a swing or two at Burton and Ragster, sir."
"Shit." Lewrie frowned, laying down his fork.
"Told you we should have been choosy, sir…'bout taking those damned Irish aboard," Ludlow grumbled. "Nothing but trouble, the lot of f 'em… their whole bloody shiftless race."
Gloomy, he said it, but with a trace of glee for being proved to be correct; hiding it damned well, he must have thought to himself, but Lewrie glared back at him.
"Irish… Yankee Doodles… Cuffies… or bloody tattooed savages, Mister Ludlow," Lewrie barked, "now they're ours, it doesn't signify. Discipline and punishment are the same. We'll treat them all the same too, no matter where a hand springs from."
"Aye, aye, sir." Ludlow nodded, with a trace of weariness.
"And, sir," Lewrie griped, "you may suggest all you wish, 'long as it's for the common good. But, sir… you'll not take that doubtful tone with me. Or play 'I told you so.' Hear me, sir?"
"Aye, aye, sir," Ludlow cheeped, all obedient, though with his eyes slitting, either in surprise or distaste.
"We'll discuss this later, sir," Lewrie told him. "As for our offenders… I'll hold 'mast' at Two Bells of the Forenoon. Warn your midshipmen or mates to be ready to testify about their behaviour… good or ill, along with the Ship's Corporals."
"Very good, sir. I'll do it directly, sir," Ludlow said as he bowed his way out.
Lewrie picked up his knife and fork and began dining once more. Toulon jumped up on the table with a prefatory "Ummph!" to sniff, lift one paw as he sat, and fan the air as if begging, with his mournfully abused face on. "Mew?" he barely managed, as if too famished to ask.
"Aspinall, hasn't this cat had his breakfast yet?"
"Aye, 'e has, sir," his servant said, leaning out from the pantry, wiping his hands on a stained dish-clout. "Three strips o' bacon all by hisself. An' thought well o' th' tatty-hash too, sir."
"Well, damme… fetch his plate, Aspinall." Lewrie sighed. "I think another dab'd do him. Mister Padgett?"
"Aye, sir," his clerk replied from aft in his day-cabin.
"Look up Landsman Haslip in ship's books. See if he's a Quota Man or how he was recruited," Lewrie directed, as Aspinall returned with the small bowl which Toulon usually ate from, with another heap of hash from the sideboard in it. "Hmmm… another dollop for me as well, Aspinall. It's main-tasty this morning," Lewrie said, taking a pleasureable moment to watch his ram-cat tuck in most daintily.
"Not a full day aboard and you're already in trouble, lads," Lewrie pretended to sneer at Furfy and Desmond, who stood hatless and hangdog before his desk. "Did they read the Articles of War to you aboard Sandwich? Or once you were in the Impress tender?"
"Yessir," they muttered, unable to look him in the eyes.
"Read us a power o' 'whereases,' aye, sir," Furfy expanded.
"Article the Twenty-third, lads…" Lewrie intoned, "says that 'no one shall quarrel or fight in the ship, nor use reproachful or provoking speeches tending to make any quarrel or disturbance, upon pain of imprisonment'… or whatever punishment I think fit. Now Proteus is still in port. This could, d'ye wish it, be sent ashore for court martial. But I don't think you'd Kke that much, would you?"