"The cage was hung quite close to a stove, aye, sir," Lt. Ballard replied as he delicately lifted a forkful of mashed potatoes and green peas to his mouth. "It is a wonder, indeed, that the bird has not succumbed to the cold and damp already… or, the loss of its master."
"Gravely ill, is Speaks?" Lewrie asked, motioning for the cabin boy, a snot-nosed twelve-year-old named Whitsell, to refill the glasses.
"Mister Harward, the Surgeon, said it was pneumonia in both his lungs, sir, quite grave… aggravated by Captain Speaks's recurring bouts of malaria, contracted long ago in the East Indies and African waters," Ballard informed him, taking a small sip of his fresh glass of wine. "He has hopes a shore physician may bring him through, though."
"Which will take a long time for recovery," Lewrie speculated aloud, assured that his posting would not be temporary. Speaks would not be popping up like a Jack-in-a-Box to reclaim his command anytime soon. "And pray God he does recover," he added, hoping he didn't sound too impious. "For now, though… much like old times, hey, Arthur?"
"Of course, sir," Ballard replied.
His old First Officer into Alacrity 'tween the wars had changed very little. Arthur Ballard was a square-built fellow, about an inch shorter than Lewrie's five feet nine, as fit and strong as a pugilist. His face was square, with a broad but regular nose, ending in a pronounced chin cleft. His hair was still as dark and wiry as Lewrie remembered, still cut close to his head, which had become the fashion of late; his brows were heavy and dark, as well, shading intelligent eyes of dark brown hue. Well, perhaps the frown lines either side of his mouth were deeper, and the crinkles round his eyes were more pronounced, and, perhaps, he had filled out and gained a little more weight than he had in the '80s in the Bahamas, but he was the same watchful, sobre, and contained fellow he always had been. It was only his mouth that betrayed another nature, for his lips were full and almost sensual, the bottom lip slightly protruding whenever his face was in repose.
Ballard had joined the Navy as a cabin servant at age nine, and had risen to Third Officer of a frigate in 1785 before she'd paid off, and he'd come aboard Alacrity as her Second, and only, Commission Sea Officer. What he'd done since 1789, when Alacrity had paid off, Lewrie would discover, mostly over suppers such as this one. They had written a few times to each other, then civilian matters had taken precedence, and they had lost contact shortly after the outbreak of the War of the First Coalition in February of 1793.
Still a touch shabby, Lewrie noted of Ballard's uniform; as he always was. Lived on his Navy pay, with no extras from his family, as I recall. For even if an invitation to dine with the new Captain was a formal affair, no matter their long acquaintance, Arthur Ballard's best-dress coat was a bit worn, the gilt lace going dull, and his shirt a bit dingy.
"Perry," Lewrie said after a bite of bread roll and a sip from his wine glass. "I expect he feels lost without Captain Speaks aboard. And to lose his place as Cox'n to my man, Desmond. Might he be able to 'strike' for Quartermaster's Mate, or some other post, Arthur?"
"The poor fellow is mostly un-lettered, sir," Ballard said with a sad shake of his head, "and lacks the mathematical skills required. He can barely add or subtract consistently."
"Best he goes ashore, then, to tend to his Captain," Lewrie decided. "Unless Speaks's wife objects to him, too?"
"I believe both Captain Speaks and his wife regard Cox'n Perry as a 'good work' to perform, sir," Ballard replied with a sly grin on his face. "Much as a parish church employs the village dullard as their Christian duty. He's faithful and utterly loyal to them, so… sending Perry ashore would be best, sir. He's a capital seaman, but we've more than enough of those aboard already."
"And, he takes the parrot with him," Lewrie added.
"Why, I do believe that Perry is immensely fond of the parrot, as fond as he is of Captain Speaks," Ballard rejoined, bestowing a brief seated bow and nod for Lewrie's decision. "I'll tell him he's free to go, before the Forenoon Watch begins tomorrow, if that will be suitable for you, sir?"
"Damned right it'll be," Lewrie said, casting a wary glance over his shoulder towards the cage. Stocky black-and-white Toulon was still seated, mouth agape in anticipation of a bite of parrot, but the spryer Chalky had just completed a flipping-over leap of some prodigious height that had jostled the cage enough to quiet the bird. "Come, lads. Ham for supper! You can eat the bird later."
"Old William Pitt," Ballard said in reverie of Lewrie's original pet, a very surly and stand-off-ish yellow ram-cat inherited from HMS Shrike. "I would have thought, mean as he was, that he'd have put you right off all cats, sir."
"They grow on you," Lewrie fondly said as the cats trotted over the table and leaped atop it. "And they're wonderful and amusing companions. Thankfully, these two scamps are scads more affectionate than old Pitt, too. Just what a captain needs to relieve the loneliness of command, right, catlin's?" he said, ruffling their fur and stroking them "bow-to-stern" as Pettus set out two saucers heaped with tiny bits of ham and peas and shredded rolls in gravy.
Odd, Lewrie idly thought, as the cats seemed wary of eating too close to Ballard, though they'd usually make pests of themselves with any table guest, with those who disliked cats the most of all. He had to tempt them to settle onto their haunches and dig into their tucker. Lewrie looked over at Ballard, who was craning his neck over his shoulder, peering at the forward bulkhead above the side-board for a moment.
"I know it's not the done thing, Arthur, but… let's say this is more a working supper," Lewrie suggested, returning to his victuals. "We may be at sea within the week, and I'd like you to discover all ye may t'me about Thermopylae, and her people."
"Of course, sir," Ballard said with another bow of his head, and a dab at his lips with his napkin. "All told, we've been in commission for about a year and a half, do you see…"
The Second and Third Lieutenants, Farley and Fox, were as thick as thieves, having served together as Midshipmen long before, and were immensely competent, though both were possessed of a merry, prankster streak. The Sailing Master, Mr. Lyle, quite unlike most of his post, was also a cheerful soul, though quite exacting when on duty. Surgeon Harward was a bachelor in his mid-thirties, a bookish fellow intrigued by natural philosophy and science, who kept pretty much to himself even in the officers' mess. His Surgeon's Mates, Fortnum and Potter, were better-skilled and more conscientous than the run-of-the-mill "cunny-thumbed" surgeon's mates one usually encountered; due to Harward's demanding standards, and their continual tutelage under his watchful eyes.
Their Purser, Herbert Pridemore, seemed more honest than the usual "Nip Cheese," a married man with three children to support, though, so it was early days as to just how honest his measures and books were.
The Marine Officer, Lt. James Eades, was a bit of a Martinet, a strict disciplinarian, though most thought him "firm but fair." Young for his rank (he was only twenty-two), Eades was simmering-hot for glory, combat, and honour, almost as bad as an Army officer, and how he'd gotten his place without the benefits of a well-to-do family was still a mystery. Eades didn't have the innate gentlemanly manners of the class of fellows who attained commissioned rank; he could, when irate, curse like a Bosun, and was rather loud and prone to drink in the gun-room.
The Midshipmen… Sealey was the oldest at twenty-one, but he had failed his first oral examination for his lieutenancy, though he was good at his job. Furlow was eighteen, and very clever and sharp. Privette, the next youngest at sixteen, was just as competent, but a very dull sort. Oh, there was Tillyard, who was nineteen, and he was, Lt. Ballard tossed off as if it was no matter, or should not be, distant kin to him, but was shaping well as an officer-to-be. "I will not lavish him with undue praise to gain him favour with you, sir. Merely announce that we are cater-cousins," Ballard stiffly admitted.