“And what took you so damned long?”
“Well, after the boat was loaded we had a pint of ale, sir.”
“You stopped and had a pint of ale? You let the hands purchase drink, sir?”
“I … uh … treated, sir.”
“And what if Ariadne were ordered to sea and we had to wait for you and nine hands to finish your little drink? Have you no sense?”
“I am sorry, sir.” … Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. I’m out money and not a speck of credit for getting there and back without drowning ’em all! If he’s mad about me being late, I should have gone ahead and bulled that skinny wench while I had the chance …
“My word, you’re a brainless booby,” Swift said. “Your only concern is what the Navy wants, not what you want. You’ll have to do better than this in future if you wish to be a Sea Officer.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Now go below. No, stay a moment. From now on you’re on rowing duties. Good practice for you. And I’ll time you from the moment you shove off until the second you return, and God help you if I see you skylarking ashore, got that?”
* * *
More hands came aboard, calf-headed innocents who had been gotten at recruiting rendezvous at various taverns, where an officer and several reliable hands had bragged about Ariadne and all the prize money she would take. More came aboard from the Impress Service, willing and eager volunteers for the security of the Navy, even merchant sailors seeking better food and less work in the overmanned fighting ships; though the pay was less, they would not be cheated by a bad master.
Many more came from the tenders as volunteers, or from debtors’ prison, fleeing small debts and giving tops’l payment with the Joining Bounty, men snagged by the courts for various crimes, but which were crimes against property, not crimes of violence. Lewrie soon lost all sympathy for them, since no one had any to spare for him. If I’m here then it’s their tough luck to be here, too. Should have run faster.
They came aboard in ragpicker’s finery cast off from the great houses, perhaps even stolen from their masters. They came from shops and stores and weavers’ lofts still trying to play the upright apprentice or freeman. They came in country togs from the estates where the owners no longer needed field hands, or from the villages that had been wiped out by enclosure of public lands. They came with the prison stink and the farm stink on them, or dredged up from the cities’ gutters. Up to the first lieutenant to sign or make their marks, then out of their clothes to shiver under the wash deck pumps, and the decks ran with the accumulated grit they carried aboard on their skins. Deloused, perhaps for the first time in months, and then, chicken-white and pimply, down to the gun deck with their slop clothing, where they got sorted out into “hands.” They would, the bulk of them, serve guns in battle, haul on braces to angle the sails, tail on the jears to raise the yards, tail on the halyards to make sail, and be the human engines to shift cargo, so that Ariadne would live. The younger ones would be cabin servants and stewards, or be trained as topmen who went aloft to fight canvas.
As Ariadne approached something like her full complement, Bales decided the time had come for sail drill and gunnery exercises. Alan knew a little, which was reams more than most of the new hands knew, so he found himself leading men about the deck like tame bears, so they would know where to stand when ordered, what rope or sheet to seize when needed, what part of the deck they would scrub.
Lewrie saw what Captain Bales had meant when he had told him they could make sailors out of any material they laid their hands on; slowly the crew began to fathom what was required of them. Slowly, he began to do the same, going aloft when top and t’gallant masts were struck and re-hoisted, sails were shaken out and drawn down, then reefed over and over again until the exercise was no longer a complete shambles.
With the ship back in full discipline, and with her company hard at work, the officers were out in force once more, and though Ariadne had fourteen of her required sixteen midshipmen, he felt that he was the only name anyone knew when it came to extra duties, or something especially filthy to do.
Now he sat at the mess table in the cockpit. He had a navigation problem due to Mister Ellison in the next Forenoon, but his mind refused to function. He had been up since four in the morning, and it was now six in the evening. Supper was on its way from the galley, and he slumped over a hot mug of flip, wondering if he would be able to stay awake long enough to eat.
“Let’s play a game after supper,” Bascombe suggested. “Let’s build a galley.”
“Let’s not, unless you’re the figurehead, Bascombe,” Alan said wearily.
“Heard of that one, have you?” Alan had fallen for most of the usual pranks. He had been sent up on deck to listen to the dogfish bark; that cost Bascombe a sore shoulder. He had been sent to fetch a Marine private named Cheeks, and had dashed about the ship “passing the word for Private Cheeks” until Ream had told him it was a butt-fucker’s insult, and got even the Marines mad. He had not gone to fetch gooseberries from the foretop, or some of the other dumb japes midshipmen played on each other. He had heard of “building a galley” and had asked Lieutenant Kenyon about it; it involved one boy being the contractor and the rest being the boat, linking arms in an oval to make the sides, their feet together to be a keel. The one named the figurehead leaned forward until the contractor demanded that he wanted a gilt figurehead, at which point the mark was given a dash of shit in the face with a brush, and everyone else ran for their lives.
“Gun drill tomorrow,” Shirke said, sipping his drink. “Surely we should be doing more of that.”
“Don’t we work enough already?” Alan groaned.
“’Cause we’ve got people listed for the guns that don’t know a cap square from a cascabel, and what do we do if we run into a French line-of-battle ship going down-Channel?” Bascombe asked.
“A cap square,” Alan laughed. “Is that something you wear?”
“I’d like to see you wear one,” Bascombe snapped. “Speaking of Country Harrys who can’t even steer a damned cutter.”
“Hark that from our best bargee,” Alan shot back. “The great sailor, Tom Turdman. Learned his trade at Dung Wharf!”
“I’ll thrash you for that,” Bascombe shouted, leaping across the mess table. Lewrie sprang to meet him and the brawl was on. With the others cheering (and the senior warrants of their mess absent), it was a wrestling match just to work off tension and excess energy, only half-serious.
“Here, you spilled my brandy, you lout!”
“Ow, fight fair, you bastard!”
“Kick ’im in the nutmegs, Lewrie!” Shirke cheered. “I’ll take a shilling on Harvey.”
“Done!” Ashburn said, putting aside his book.
Until Lewrie noticed that he had hold of a silk shirt as he grappled with Bascombe. Bascombe was from a poor family; his kit was of middling quality, and it most definitely did not run to silk shirts.
“Wait a minute! Where the hell did you get silk, Bascombe?”
“Chapman gave it to me,” Bascombe lied, knowing the fight was about to become serious. In their mess, things were borrowed back and forth to make a presentable showing on deck in front of the officers, but they were mostly asked for, not taken.
“Chapman doesn’t have one, and he doesn’t look that stupid!” Lewrie said. “Have you been in my things?”
“Me? Why should I dig in your rag box?”
“Because you’re a ragpicker, Bascombe. Now take it off and put it back where you got it.”