But the topsail was set, and no one was calling for the royals yet, so Lewrie could look forward and upward to the other masts to see hands working calmly, could look down to the huge capstan head on the upper gun deck, where a hundred men at the least trundled about in a small circle on the bars, and the clank of pawls filled the air, while on the forecastle, the strongest hands in the crew were walking away with the halyards for the stays’ls and jibs, while others of their kind drew on the sheets to bring control of the jibs, laid out almost level to the deck as they strained their great muscles to gain every inch of rope aft to the belaying pins.
Ariadne was no longer sailing sideways from the wind after paying off from her head-to-wind anchorage, but beginning to make steerage way for the harbor mouth; she had changed from a helpless pile of oak and pine and iron to a ship. Admittedly, her crew’s efforts must have raised some cruel amusement from more fortunate captains and officers, but she was under control, and unless taken suddenly aback from a capricious shift of wind, would make her way out of Portsmouth and past the Isle of Wight into the Channel without mishap. For a new crew made up of mostly landsmen, it was the best to be expected.
“Aloft there on the mizzen, set the spanker.”
Back to the mast at the crosstrees, then straight down the mast to the spanker gaff. Experienced topmen walked out the footropes to free the big driver, which was furled on the gaff and would hang loose-footed to the boom that swept over the taffrail. Lewrie had to join them and lie on his belly over the gaff. By this time, his immaculate white waistcoat, working rig trousers and jacket cuffs were turning a pale tan from the linseed oil of the spars and streaked with the tar of standing rigging, even beginning to smell like rancid cooking fat and pick up grey stains from the galley slush skimmed off boiling meat that was used to coat the running rigging. It was almost impossible for a midshipman to stay clean and presentable on a ship, and he knew he’d have the hide off his hammockman if the stains would not come out.
Finally, they were called down to the deck, with Ariadne fully underway and clumping along like a wooden clog down the Channel coast. Lewrie mopped his face with a handkerchief and made his way to the starboard gangway to watch England drift by. It did not look as if any more would be demanded of him for a while, and he now had time to take note of his hunger pangs, and the soreness of his muscles from being so tense aloft. His hands were aching from the climb down a backstay, and were red from unused exertion, but beginning to toughen up. He could rub them together and feel the difference in them from a month before. He looked about him and took note that the ship was now organized—the monumental clutter and confusion of braces, halyards, sheets, clew lines and jears were coiled or flaked into order.
The anchors were catted down up forward, the stinking anchor lines were stored away below in the cable tiers to drip their harbor filth into the bilges, wafting a dead-fish tidal smell down the deck. Except for the watch, the hands had been dismissed below. Those with touchy stomachs were being dragged to the leeward rails to “cast their accounts” into the Channel, and those that could not wait were being ordered to clean up their spew. He thought about going below out of the brisk wind and misty, cold rain, but the idea of hundreds of men who at that moment resembled “Death’s head on a mopstick” down on the lower gun deck, and were being ill in platoons, dissuaded him. He was dizzy from the motion of the ship, a lift and twist to larboard, a plunge that brought spray sluicing up over the forward bulkhead, and a jerky roll upright that did not bring the deck level.
“Mister Swift, I’ll have a first reef in the courses,” Captain Bales said. Seconds later all hands were called, but the mizzenmast had no lower course, merely a cro’jack yard to lend power to the braces and hold the clews of the mizzen tops’l down, so he could sit this one out. He went aft to the quarterdeck and stood by the larboard rail with the afterguard should he be needed to trim the braces. He could see Ashburn standing with the first lieutenant, pleased as punch to be underway, who turned and gave him a wink when Swift was too busy to notice. Lewrie became fascinated watching the water cream bone white down the leeward side, just feet away from him with the ship at a good angle of heel. The hull groaned and creaked as before, but now Ariadne also made a continual hiss as she turned the ocean to foam, and made an irregular surf roar as she met an oncoming wave.
There were ships coming up-Channel in a steady stream with the wind on their quarters, and Alan had to admit they made a brave sight to see, heeled over and rocking slowly, and he wondered if Ariadne made much the same picture to them.
“Lewrie, quit skylarking and keep your eyes inboard,” Lieutenant Harm snapped at him as he headed for the ladder down to the waist. Harm was making good on his promise to keep a chary eye on him, and being such a surly Anglo-Irish bog trotter, was eager to find any fault in him.
“Aye aye, sir,” Lewrie answered brightly. Cheerfulness seemed to upset Lieutenant Harm very much, so Lewrie made it a point to be as happy and eager as possible around him.
“Mister Lewrie?” Lieutenant Swift called, “Come here.”
“Aye aye, sir?” Lewrie doffed his hat.
“I watched you on the mizzen. You did that right manfully enough, and you’re too old to be wasted on the mizzenmast. See me in my quarters and I’ll move you on the watch lists and quarter bills. I think we’ll move one of the new lads to your place and you may serve on the mainmast.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He secretly dreaded that, for the mainmast was much taller, had longer and heavier yards, carried the main course and the largest tops’l, was the place where studding booms had to be rigged in light airs, and meant a quantum leap in work. The mizzen was manned by the oldest topmen, or the very newest and clumsiest, the nearly ruptured and the ones with foreheads as big as a hen. Some eleven- or twelve-year-old sneak was going to get a soft touch, and he was going to work his young ass off. Still, it did have advantages. He would no longer be in Lieutenant Harm’s division or watch, but would get to serve under Lieutenant Kenyon, the second officer, who was considered much fairer and so much more polite.
Lewrie went forward to the base of the mainmast, where Kenyon and a bosun’s mate were chatting and pointing at something aloft. And when Alan told him of the transfer he welcomed him to the starboard watch most pleasantly.
“Very glad to have you with us, Mister Lewrie,” Kenyon said. “Though I am sure you realize that much more work is involved. Still, I can use such a well-set-up young fellow like yourself.”
“Aye, Mister Kenyon. And I may learn the faster,” Alan answered, thinking that it never hurt to piss down a superior’s back. Actually, he would be working much the same duties in any watch or subdivision on deck or aloft, for the watches rotated equally each four hours, using the much shorter Dog Watches in late afternoon to make sure that the same men did not have to work two nights running, and everyone turned up at 4:00 A.M. to begin the ship’s working day, washing and scraping decks and standing dawn Quarters, so there wasn’t much to choose, really.