Better the Devil ye know, Lewrie mused; Oh, damn… servants.
There was another snag. Lewrie had depended upon the staff of the Madeira Club after Aspinall had quit to enter his new career as an author. To replace all the skills Aspinall had possessed, he'd need at least three men; a cook, a manservant, and cabin steward, combined. And, most-like a cabin servant to aid the steward! As quick as his appointment had come, though, there hadn't been time to interview people and hire a few… not if he'd had two weeks' notice!
Lewrie could only hope that within his new frigate's crew, from among the people Captain Speaks had left behind, he might discover some who at least knew their left hand from their right, could boil water or brew coffee, set plates without breaking half of them, or scribble correspondence that was actually legible.
And stay out of his wine and spirits locker!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ahem?" Mr. Midshipman Tillyard announced, rapping on the door frame that led to the officers' gun-room. "Sirs?"
"Come," Lt. Farley, the Second Officer, lazily called out.
Officers did not stand harbour watches; that was left to the Midshipmen and the petty officers. Midshipman Tillyard stepped into the frowsty warm gun-room, hat under his arm, and beheld his superiors at their leisure. Lt. Farley and Lt. Fox, his very good friend, were at the long table down the centre of the space in their shirtsleeves, a backgammon board between them, with Lt. Fox in mid-throw of the dice. The Marine Officer, Lt. Eades, in full kit despite the officially sanctioned idleness, was reading. The Sailing Master, Mr. Lyle, was poring over a chart, as usual, and the Ship's Surgeon, Mr. Harward, was playing a wager-less game of vingt et un with the Purser, Mr. Pridemore.
"Beg pardons, sirs, but there's a sailing barge bearing down on us, and there's a Post-Captain aboard her," Mr. Tillyard announced. "I think our new captain is come at last."
"Yipes!" Lt. Farley barked. "Who has the deck?"
"Sealey, sir," Tillyard told him.
"Bloody Hell, that'll never do!" Fox said with a snort, rising from the game, and a very promising cast of the dice, to throw on his waist-coat and coat.
"Sir?" Lt. Farley said, rapping upon the louvred door set into the deal partition to the First Officer's small cabin.
"I heard, Mister Farley, thank you," the First Officer replied, departing his cramped private space, shrugging into his own coat.
"Sarn't Crick!" Marine Lt. Eades was calling out, already out on the gun-deck beyond. "Side-party to the starboard entry-port!"
"Respects to Midshipman Sealey, and he's to summon all hands on deck, Mister Tillyard. How much time do we have?" the First Officer ordered as they all dressed properly and began the trot up the ladderway to the quarterdeck and gangways.
"She's still about a cable off, sir," Tillyard replied, "bound direct for us, but under reduced sail."
"Not trying to catch us napping, then," the First Officer said with a firm nod. "Perhaps our new captain is giving us time to welcome him properly."
"Aye, sir," Tillyard hesitantly agreed.
The First Lieutenant took a quick inventory once he was by the open entry-port; every yard squared to mathematical perfection, every brace and halliard, all the running-rigging, properly coiled and hung on the pin-rails, or flemished down on the decks. The sails were gasketed and furled as snug as sausages, the guns were stowed at proper right angles to the bulwarks, muzzles bowsed to the bottoms of the gun-port sills, their tackle and blocks taut and neatly stowed. There was nothing out of place, nothing to be faulted for.
Despite that, the fellow crossed the fingers of his right hand behind his leg, and almost muttered a prayer. Another glance about, and he was satisfied that they were ready in all respects.
"Boat ahoy!" Midshipman Sealey shouted overside through a brass speaking-trumpet.
"Aye-aye!" a bargeman in the bows of the approaching boat yelled back, holding up one hand to show four fingers, as well, in warning that a Post-Captain was aboard, and in need of the requisite number of men in the side-party to receive him. The senior officer in the barge had also thrown back his boat-cloak to display the gilt epaulets on his shoulders. As the barge dropped her lug-sail and turned to ghost parallel to the main-chains and boarding battens, HMS Thermopylae's First Officer's eyes crinkled at the corners, his full mouth tautening in a faint grin.
"Well damn my eyes," he muttered.
Officers presented drawn swords, Marines in full kit stamped and slapped Brown Bess muskets in salute, so hard that small white puffs of pipeclay arose from crossbelts and taut musket slings. The Bosun, Mr. Dimmock, and his Mate, Mr. Pulley, trilled away in long duet tune upon their silver calls as the dog's vane of the new-come officer's cocked hat peeked above the lip of the entry-port as he nimbly scampered up.
The new captain attained the deck, performing a last jerk upon the tautly strung man-ropes, a little hop for the last step before he doffed his hat in return salute, his eyes roaming down the line of officers "toed up" to the tarry seam of a freshly holystoned deck plank… and his mouth fell open in surprise.
"Arthur Ballard?" Lewrie gawped. "I was wond'rin' where you'd got to."
"Welcome aboard, Captain Lewrie, sir," Lewrie's former First Lieutenant into the converted bomb ketch, HMS Alacrity, in the Bahamas, replied, performing a brief bow from the waist.
"Well, just damn my eyes," Lewrie said with a pleased chuckle. "It's been what… twelve years now?"
"Aye, sir, about that," Ballard (pronounced Buh-LARD) answered in his typical sombre gravity; a gravity that camoflauged a dry wit.
"S'pose I should read myself in, then we'll have some time to catch up," Lewrie allowed, reaching into his best-dress uniform coat for his stamped and sealed commission document. Swords were sheathed, muskets lowered, hats plumped back on heads as Lewrie walked to the cross-deck hammock nettings at the forrud edge of the quarterdeck to face his new crew, gathered along both sail-tending gangways, and in the frigate's waist below the boat-tier beams and gangways.
"Ship's comp'ny… off hats," Lt. Ballard ordered.
" 'By the Commissioners for executing the office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain and Ireland, and all His Majesty's Plantations, and et cetera… to Captain Alan Lewrie, hereby appointed to His Majesty's Ship, Thermopylae,' " he read to them in his "quarterdeck voice," so that even a half-deafened old gunner in the bows could hear him, "by virtue of the Power and Authority to us given, we do hereby constitute and appoint you Captain of His Majesty's Ship, Thermopylae… willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the Charge and Command of Captain in her accordingly. Strictly charging all the Officers and Company belonging to said Ship subordinate to you to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective Employments with all due Respect and Obedience unto you their said Captain and you likewise to observe and execute such Orders and Directions you shall receive from time to time from your superior officers for His Majesty's Service.
" 'Hereof nor you nor any one of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril. And for so doing this shall be your Warrant. Given under our hands and the Seal of the Office of Admiralty, this twenty-third day of February, Eighteen Oh One, in the Fourty First year of His Majesty's Reign,' " he concluded, carefully rolling up the precious document into a slim tube, to stow inside his coat 'til he had time to store it safely away in his great-cabins. Lewrie looked down on the men who were now officially his crew, and noted that some of them were smiling, whispering back and forth behind their hands or their hats. As in most ships of the Royal Navy, there were some men from almost every nation, even some from enemy states, and, of course, there was always a sprinkling of Free Blacks; Lewrie spotted at least half a dozen, and they were all beaming fit to bust. The others, though…