"We've spent the last year running the Baltic convoys," Ballard explained, "and prowling the Dutch and German coasts, right into the Heligoland Bight. There are French and Dutch privateers working out of Christiana and Amsterdam. Captain Speaks bought several of them, for the gun-room, and the people's quarters on the gun-deck. They've come in handy to take the chill off… when we can obtain coal. And that only during the day, when the wind and sea allow. The Victualling Board does not see the need to provide heat belowdecks in winter, and told us that supplying coal was our own business. Captain Speaks was thoughtful, but not so rich that he could purchase enough, all by himself, and it's been rare that the officers and hands could chip in and afford a decent store, either, sir."
"Meaning that I should, is that it, Arthur?" Lewrie asked.
"I would not presume to speculate, sir," Ballard replied. "But I admit some coal would be welcome, so long as we're firmly anchored. The harbour, and the North Sea, have been awfully raw this winter."
Lewrie could agree with that. If the weather had seemed to moderate in London, the further east he'd come, closer to the sea, the wind had blown colder and colder, wetter and downright icy. Even here, belowdecks and out of the wind, he still felt an urge to shiver now and then. "Well, we'll see, depending," he allowed. He pulled out his pocket-watch and checked the time; half-past eight in the morning. To prove it, One Bell of the Forenoon Watch chimed, far forward at the belfry. And a glad sound that half-hour bell was to Lewrie, for time to be rung… aboard a ship once again.
"I'd expect I'll be hard at it, past dinner, to get all my dunnage and bumf set up properly," Lewrie announced. "But I would like you to sup with me tonight, Arthur. Shall we say seven?"
"Of course, sir," Ballard responded with a solemn half-bow.
"Oh, shit," Lewrie said. "I've no cook or steward, or personal victuals… live or not."
" 'Scuse me, Cap'm," Furfy said as several sailors entered with chests and furniture. "Settee t'starb'd, same as ye like, sir?"
"Aye, Furfy, thankee," Lewrie told him. "Any recommendations, Mister Ballard?" he asked, now that others were present, and the use of first names might be taken the wrong way by the hands.
"Well, sir… Captain Speaks took his manservant ashore with him, to help nurse him through his illness," Ballard explained. "His wife insisted one of the cabin servants go, too. His cook is still aboard, though, a fellow named Nettles. He's very good. Used to be at an Ipswich hotel before the Captain discovered him and hired him away. You've one cabin servant left, a lad named Whitsell, though he isn't much. Only twelve, after all. You didn't bring the usual entourage, sir? I'd have expected to see Will Cony with you."
"He's a Bosun into a Sixth Rate now," Lewrie told his old compatriot. "Married to a woman in Anglesgreen. He and Maggie have two boys now. No, when I had to give up command of Savage, I could only take away three or four people, and one finally went back aboard her, and t'other, my prime man, had family need of Discharge. Since then, I lodged at a gentlemen's club where I had no need to hire anyone on, and… quick as a wink, orders came to report aboard, instanter."
"Aye, I heard, sir," Ballard said, with a veiled look, as if he disapproved but would not say so, about Lewrie's recent contretemps. "I do have a suggestion, sir, if I may?" he added, tilting his head to the chart-space, where there was more privacy. Once there, and with the first load of furnishings delivered and the work-party departing for a second load, Ballard continued. "There's a young fellow who's been aboard about a year, sir, who's more suited to steward duties than ever he would be as a sailor. Last up the shrouds, last down, and damn all useless aloft. Too puny for pulley-hauley, as well. The Bosun and mast-captains, gun-captains, all despair of him. He's named Pettus. A Pressed man, no matter he was never a seaman."
"How well I know that fraud," Lewrie said with a wry sigh.
"Indeed, sir. He claims he was a manservant to a bishop's residence, at Brighton, before he was rounded up," Ballard said. "Do you wish to see him, sir?"
"Round Seven Bells, aye," Lewrie decided. "I should have enough of my cabins set up, by then. Beggars can't be choosers, I s'pose. Ye have things t'see to, Arthur? Then I'll not keep you, if you do."
"Very well, sir," Ballard replied, delivering another grave half-bow, and departing.
"Hello, you old bastard!" the parrot squawked, bobbing its head.
"Stop yer gob, ye bloody… pigeon," Lewrie snapped.
"Give me the punch ladle, I'll fathom the bowl!" the bird responded, singing the old drinking tune right on key.
"Roast parrot on a bed of rice!" Lewrie shot back.
"Damn my eyes, damn my eyes!" the bird sing-songed.
"I'll sic the cats on you if you don't shut up," Lewrie warned.
"I'm a good parrot, I am… tweep!"
"Christ on a crutch," Lewrie muttered, "but you're a nuisance."
"Bloody nuisance!" the parrot uttered, making Lewrie whirl about to gawp in wonder. How smart was the damned thing? he wondered; And what'll he blab next, if I say anything unguarded in here?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Landsman Pettus t'see th' Captain… SAH!" the Marine sentry cried, banging the brass-bound butt of his musket on the deck.
"Enter," Lewrie commanded, looking up from his desk, where he and Captain Speaks's former clerk, a former solicitor's clerk with the unfortunately chosen name of George Georges, were going over the ship's myriad of forms and accounts, to assure that Lewrie was not accepting responsibility for a "pig in a poke."
In came a young fellow in his early twenties, tall enough to have to duck under the overhead deck beams… barely. It was more a hunched-shoulder diffidence or wariness, Lewrie thought, noting how the fellow appeared on the lookout for a cuff, or a touch-up from the Bosun's starter.
"You wished to see me, Captain sir?" Pettus said, looking fearful of committing some wrong without knowing.
"That'll be all for a little while, Georges," Lewrie told his new clerk. "Get some air on the gangway 'til I send for you again."
"Aye, sir."
"Flog the bugger!" the parrot squawked. "Trice him up!"
"I do not have a steward, Pettus," Lewrie said, rising from the desk in the day-cabin. "I came away at short notice, and your former captain's man is ashore with him, and I'm loath to call him back aboard, as long as Captain Speaks is so ill and in need of him. Mister Ballard suggested your name."
"Aye, sir?" Pettus said with a note of hope to his voice. He'd made an attempt to be as presentable as he would be at Sunday Divisions. His face was shaved, his thick thatch of light brown hair was combed, and his slop-trousers were mostly free of slush and tar smuts. He wore a chequered blue shirt, a printed red calico neckerchief, and a short sailor's taped jacket that was a bit too short in the sleeves, and with some brass buttons replaced with plain black horn ones. His flat, tarred hat was in his hands before his waist, being turned round about in involuntary nervousness. Pettus looked lean and spry enough to make a topman, yet…
"You've served a gentleman before, I'm told?" Lewrie asked.
"I have, sir, aye!" Pettus eagerly replied, breaking out in an open grin. "In Brighton, sir, I was a footman to the diocese's bishop, him and his family. Not his personal man, sir, but I was with them for six years… since I was fourteen, and first got my position. I did for his younger son, for a year or so, as well as waiting at-table… There was a lot of entertaining, sir, so I know my way about. It was a grand place, sir."
"Wardrobe? Laundry? Keep track of plates, and utensils and all that?"
"There were others who did that, sir," Pettus admitted, seeming as if his hopes were suddenly dashed, then quickly spoke up once more. "I did keep the son's wardrobe, sir, so he'd always have clean linen and pressed stocks, that everything was fresh and presentable, from the laundry maid. Blacked and buffed shoes, polished silver and such, for all the suppers, too! And, helped the scullery maids with the dishes, sir, before and after."