What, they've seen me tuppin' Tess? he puzzled to himself; Some other "mutton"?
"I know that the sudden change in captains can be wrenching to a crew which has gotten used to the old one's ways," Lewrie said on in a slightly softer voice, though with a stern expression plastered on his face to appear "captainly" to the ship's people, despite wanting to grin, cut capers, snap his fingers, and do a little horn-pipe of glee to be back aboard a ship… any ship. "I am certain Captain Speaks's Order Book, his postings to positions of trust, and his methods were carefully thought out and crafted for the overall good of the ship and her people."
Don't know… he could've been a ravin' crank! Lewrie thought.
"So…'til I've gotten myself sorted out and familiar with his strictures, his ways will continue in force," Lewrie assured them. "In a few weeks, perhaps sooner, the warships gathering here in this port, the ships readying in other harbours, will sail for the Baltic… by now that's no secret, is it? I fully expect that Thermopylae will be in the thick of things, and am determined that she, and all of you, will acquit yourselves in the finest traditions of our Navy. Mister Ballard?" he said, turning to face his First Officer. "Carry on, sir."
"Ship's company… on hats, and dismiss!" Ballard ordered.
Lt. Ballard then introduced Lewrie to his officers and holders of Warrant, allowing Lewrie to make quick sketch-judgements about them.
Lt. Farley, the Second Officer, was a slim fellow with curly dark blond hair and a lean face; behind his grave expression, he looked to be a bit of a tongue-in-cheek wag. Likewise the Third Officer, Lt. Fox, who might as well have been his partner in crime. Lt. Eades the Marine was about the same age as the Commission Officers, in his late twenties, but a stiffer, more sobre sort, perhaps a stickler for discipline with his Marines. The Sailing Master, Mr. Lyle, was in his late fourties, a fellow from Felixstowe just down the coast, thick-set and round-faced. Unlike most East Anglians, though, he seemed most affable.
The Purser, Herbert Pridemore, was even stouter, proof of the adage that all "Nip Cheeses" fed better than the crew. The Surgeon, Frederick Harward, seemed almost amused, which was rare in the Fleet, and young for his posting.
"I'll request that you find me a large keg of sand, sir," Lewrie bade the Purser.
"Sand, sir?" Pridemore asked, puzzled. "For the gun crews, sir?"
"For my cats, Mister Pridemore," Lewrie said with a smirk, "so they can relieve themselves. My compliments to the Ship's Carpenter, as well, Mister Ballard, and I'll have him make me a box, about so…" he said, sketching the size in mid-air with his hands. "For their necessary."
"Aye, sir," Ballard replied, with one brow cocked significantly. "Surely old Pitt can no longer be with you."
"No, he's gone to Fiddler's Green long ago," Lewrie said, "but Toulon and Chalky are still young'uns."
"The 'Ram-Cat,' " Lewrie heard someone whisper in glee. One of the Midshipmen, of course; no one else'd dare.
Lewrie was then introduced to his six Mids, from the eldest down to the youngest. Midshipman Sealey was old for the rank, in his early twenties, and looked to Lewrie's lights to be none too bright, else he would have passed the oral exams by now. There was a lad in his late teens named Furlow, who appeared bags sharper. There was a Midshipman Privette, about sixteen, as hawk-nosed and dark-haired as a Cornish-man, who looked tarry-handed. There was also Mr. Tillyard, who stood out of order with the younkers, who looked to be a wag, then a brace of fourteen-year-olds named Pannabaker and Plumb; one could barely gawk and stammer, whilst Plumb doffed his hat, gave a jerky waist-bow, and could not resist asking, "Are your cats the reason you're called the 'Ram-Cat,' sir?" in a cheeky manner.
"That's for me t'know, and for you t'find out, Mister Plumb," Lewrie said with a sly grin before turning to Ballard again. "Soon as I'm settled in, Mister Ballard, I'd wish to meet the Bosun and his Mate, the Master's Mates, Quartermasters, the Master Gunner, and all department heads. Might as well get the names and faces settled in my mind, quick as possible."
"Very good, sir," Ballard replied. "Might you care to see your quarters now, Captain? We've sent the most of Captain Speaks's things ashore already. There are some, ah… remaining, for the nonce."
"Yes, let's," Lewrie agreed. "Oh… Mister Ballard, my Cox'n, Liam Desmond, and his friend Patrick Furfy, from my old boat crew."
"Lads," Ballard said with a nod. "Mister Dimmock? Work-party to see the captain's goods aboard."
"Aye-aye, sir!"
The Marine sentry by the doors to the great-cabins presented arms and stamped boots as Lewrie entered, ducking under the deck beams. The great-cabins might have once been nice, Lewrie decided. There was the usual black-and-white chequer canvas nailed to the deck, and there were the 18-pounder guns bowsed to the port sills, which took up a lot of the space. The lower half of the inner hull planking was painted the usual blood-red, and the planking above was pale tan, as were the deal partitions that would come down, fold, and be stacked below when the frigate cleared for action. A chart-space had been constructed at the forward starboard side, its fiddled shelves now bare, and the tall desk with its slanted top empty. To larboard, Lewrie could see where a side-board, a dining table and chairs, had been placed. Much the same brighter marks or scuffs on the canvas deck covering showed where desk and chairs made the day-cabin, where a settee and more collapsing chairs had been grouped round a wine-cabinet to larboard. There was a narrow hanging-cot still slung in the sleeping-space, handily near to the larboard quarter gallery and its "necessary closet," and…
"Hello, you old bastard! Hello!" something squawked.
Furfy had fetched in the wicker cage which held the cats, both of whom stood on their hind legs, front paws working on the wicker and their tails swishing. Little jaws chattered as they let out shuddery urgent trills of hunting-killing lust.
"I meant to mention that, sir," Lt. Ballard dryly pointed out. "Captain Speaks's African Grey parrot. He's had it for years, and it's developed quite a vocabulary. Bought it at Cape Town when he-"
"Flog the bugger! Flog the bugger!" the parrot cried, once it had espied the cats.
"-was just a Lieutenant in the eighties," Ballard continued. "Captain Speaks's wife detests the bloody thing, and refuses to have it at the Wrestler's Arms… the hotel where they're lodging for him to recover."
"I'd think the hotel would agree with her," Lewrie commented.
"I'm a saucy rascal! Tweep!" the parrot cried. "Hello!"
"Go to the Devil, why don't you?" Lewrie muttered.
"Oh, don't encourage it, sir," Ballard cautioned. "That only makes it worse."
"What the Hell are we t'do with it, then, Arthur?" Lewrie asked.
"God only knows, sir. The gun-room don't want it, though there are the Midshipmen…," Ballard replied, "but the Master's Mates and Surgeon's Mates who bunk with them might object. Strenuously."
Captain Speaks had obviously doted on the bloody bird, for its cage was big enough for a frisky mastiff, with many rods and ladders, and even a spread of inch-thick tree limbs for exercise, with a ball on a twine, a small mirror, a bowl of seeds, a water dish, and a dry cuttlefish on which it could hone its beak; the whole thing was made of dulled brass rods soldered together, with a bright green painted canopy.
"Won't last a Dog Watch, once my things are in, and the cats are free to roam," Lewrie predicted, removing his boat-cloak and hat, and looking for a row of pegs on which to hang them. "Good God, that's a Franklin stove!" he exclaimed as he spotted the squat metal monster in the semi-enclosed sleeping-space.