"Well, I dunno…," Whitsell waffled, looking down at his scuffling shoes.
"Might come to Portsmouth with me," Pettus suggested, grinning. "A gentleman's servant, and a page or link-boy, together. Or Mister Nettles." "Nettles?" Lewrie asked, intent on his writing.
"He's a standing offer as head cook for a posting house in his old town, sir," Pettus told him. "In Ipswich. Nettles might have need of an assistant… an apprentice, Will. Learn to be what the French call a chef? It ain't a bad life, head of a grand kitchen, with grub on either hand, whenever you like, hey?"
"Aye, I'd like that!" Whitsell exclaimed, beaming with joy and avarice for hot vittles. "Ya kin stay warm in kitchens!"
"He'll be missed, by God," Lewrie told them. "I've never eat so well aboard any ship at sea in my life."
There came a rap on the deck outside his cabin door. Lt. Eades and his Marine detachment had departed days before, so one of the Ship's Corporals, either Duncan or Luck, now stood guard over his privacy.
"Th' Cox'n an' Landsman Furfy t'see th' cap'm, sir!"
"Enter!" Lewrie bade in a loud voice.
In came Liam Desmond, a dark-haired, blue-eyed "Black" Irishman, and his long-time mate, the overgrown great pudding Patrick Furfy. Both were turned out as fresh as Sunday Divisions in taped short sailors' jackets, flat tarred hats in their hands, clean chequered shirts, snowy white slop-trousers, and their shore-going best blacked buckled shoes and clean stockings.
"Beggin' th' Captain's pardons, sor," Liam Desmond, easily the sharper of the two, began with a bright-eyed grin on his phyz, "but me an' Furfy, here, we're a'wond'rin' if ye'd have any need o' us ashore, sir, oncet th' auld girl's paid off, d'ye see? I'm minded that ye've a farm, where a brace o' stout, hard workers'd be welcome. If ye've beasties, Furfy here's yer man, sor. He could charm a chargin' bull to a kitten, for so I've seen him done, sure, sor… "
"You wouldn't enter a merchantman, Desmond?" Lewrie asked as he sat back in his chair and took a sip of his laced coffee. He felt an urge to smile, for Desmond was laying on "the auld brogue" thick, as he usually did when "working a fiddle," or talking himself, or Furfy, out of trouble. "Or take the opportunity to go back to Ireland for a spell? See your home folk?" he asked with a solemn face, instead.
"Faith, sor, dear as we'd desire t'see Erin, agin, well sor…," Desmond said with a brief appalled expression and a disarming shrug, "they may be, ah… some back home who'd take exception t'th' sight o' us… do ye git me meanin', sor, so that might not be a good idee."
The law, a jilted girl, Lewrie wryly surmised; one with a bastard or two… or the Army, lookin for escaped rebels from the '98 uprising
"As fer merchant masters, arrah, they're a skin-flint lot, sor, nothin' a'tall like yer foin self, sor, an' Furfy an' me've got used t'gettin' paid an' fed regular. So, sor, do ye have need of us, we'd be that glad t'keep on in yer service, Cap'm sor," Desmond concluded.
"As a matter of fact, Desmond, Pettus here just told he that he plans to 'swallow the anchor' and take civilian domestic service back in Portsmouth, so I do have need of a man," Lewrie told him. "As for Furfy, though… "
Desmond swelled with happy anticipation, though he got a frown on his face when Lewrie mentioned his mate.
"You're good with horses, Furfy? With all manner of beasts?"
"Wi' me Mam's pigs an' chickens, sor," Furfy piped up, almost pleading to convince him, sharing a worried look with Desmond that he might be separated from him. "An' me first job o' work when I was but a lad was stableman, Cap'm sor. Nursed many a horse, colt, calf, or lamb through th' bad patches, sor, an', ah… " Furfy swallowed loudly, as if he'd lose Desmond, the one mate who looked after him.
"Th' critters follow 'im round loik a Noah, sor, so they do," Desmond stuck in quickly, "don't they, Pat? An' even fightin' dogs go puppy-sweet on 'im."
"Better a stableman I already know than one I'd hire blind back in Anglesgreen," Lewrie decided, relenting with a smile. "So be it, me lads. After all, somebody has t'keep an eye out for Furfy, and keep him in mid-channel. You've done the work before, when we coached to Yarmouth t'join. Well, we're off to London again for a few days at the Madeira Club, then down to Surrey. I trust that Anglesgreen won't be too rustic for you? It's a small and quiet place. Only the two taverns, the last I know of it, and I'm not welcome in one of em."
"They've a good local ale, sor?" Furfy asked.
"A hellish-good ale, Furfy," Lewrie assured him.
"Fine with us, sor," Desmond exclaimed, sealing the bargain.
Barely had Desmond and Furfy turned to go when there came another rap outside his door. "Mister Harper, from the Port Admiral's office, t'see the Cap'm, sir!"
"Enter!"
The senior official ducked under the overhead deck beams as he clumped aft to Lewrie's desk. "The mustering-out is done, sir."
"Very well, Mister Harper," Lewrie said, taking a peek at the face of his pocket-watch just as One Bell of the Day Watch was struck up forrud at the belfry. "Coffee with a splash of brandy?"
"That'd be most welcome, sir, welcome indeed," Harper said with joy, rubbing chilled hands together in anticipation. No matter those modern Franklin-pattern stoves, a few feet away from them and the cold belowdecks could be a damp misery.
"Pettus, a laced coffee for Mister Harper, then pass word to the First Lieutenant," Lewrie instructed. "He is to have 'All Hands' piped, then 'Clear Decks and Up-Spirits.' The Purser's parsimony bedamned," he added with a grin.
"Aye, sir."
"This damnable peace with the Frogs won't last," Harper griped after a deep sip and an appreciative sigh.
"Not above a year," Lewrie sourly agreed. "The only reason Bonaparte asked for peace was to re-gather his forces, build up his Navy again, after the way we've savaged it since Ninety-Three."
"Perhaps two years, Captain Lewrie," Harper countered. "After all, he's a lot of building, and re-building, to do, and a proper navy is like Rome… not built in a single day."
"Aye, two years, then," Lewrie gloomed. "Refit what he already has and get them to sea in early Spring… drill and train their officers and sailors at sea, for a change, 'stead of harbour drill. Send squadrons round the world to re-claim all the colonies we've conquered so far. I haven't seen a newspaper, yet, regarding what we are to surrender to them. Have you?
"Nothing official yet, no," Mr. Harper admitted. "Though I am sure we must restore all French West Indies islands, Cape Town and all that to the Dutch… the Guyanas in South America, too. Lord, when the war erupts, we'll have to do it all over again. Senseless! Plain senseless!"
"Makes one dearly miss Pitt as Prime Minister," Lewrie scoffed. "Even Henry Dundas as Secretary of State for War… the arrogant coxcomb!"
They both took deep sips of their drinks, in silence for a bit, each wondering why the new administration had felt it necessary to end the war when England held the upper hand.
"I've only de-commissioned one ship, long ago, Mister Harper, so I may be a tad rusty when it comes to the details," Lewrie confessed. "Now the mustering-out of the crew is done… what?"
"The boats come to fetch the hands off will ferry aboard an officer in charge," Harper told him, shifting clubman fashion in his seat and crossing a leg. "Most-like, a deserving old tarpaulin man with no future prospects. He will bear orders and will read himself in as the ship's new captain, relieving you. A full-pay retirement for some old fellow."
"Midshipman Furlow, sir!" his sentry shouted, rapping the deck with a musket butt.
"Mister Farley's duty, sir," Furlow reported crisply, hat under his arm, "and he reports that a string of oared barges are making their way to us. Mister Farley also reports that the Purser is prepared to serve out the rum ration, and that the Bosun is standing by to pipe the 'All Hands' and the 'Clear Decks and Up-Spirits,' sir."