Lewrie took himself off to the cockpit for their issue of rum, then came back up to perform noon sights, which he got wrong, as usual, resulting in an hour of racing up and down the mainmast.
Later, at dinner, he noticed the many long faces around their mess table. Finnegan and Turner, Mr. Brail, the captain’s clerk, a couple of surgeon’s mates, Shirke, Chapman, Ashburn and himself. Bascombe was in the Day Watch. Except for the sound of cutlery, it was dead quiet.
Well, perhaps not too quiet; there was the sound of the master’s mates, Finnegan and Turner, as they chomped and chewed and gargled and hawked—both of them were what were termed “rough feeders.”
“Um … this morning,” Alan said, clearing his throat, which raised an involuntary groan from everyone as they thought of their poor performance. “What happened … exactly?”
“Nothin’ worth talkin’ about,” Finnegan mumbled.
“Bloody shambles,” Chapman said with a blank stare. For him to make a comment of any kind was rare.
“We weren’t handled at all badly,” Ashburn said between bites. “Placed right clever, if you ask me.”
“But the gunnery…” Alan prompted.
“Aye, that was awful,” Shirke said. “It’s like Harvey was telling us, we haven’t spent much time at gun drill.”
“We’ve drilled,” Turner said. “Jus’ never fired the damn things, ’cept fer salutin’ and pissin’ off merchant masters. Good gunners gone stale, new ’uns couldn’t hit a spit kid if it were tied to their mouths.”
“They were pretty fast, too. I expect that didn’t help,” Alan said.
“Dauntless did alright,” Keith Ashburn said. “Got hits on her foe, chased her off, and chased off that brig once it got past us. No one could have caught that schooner once she got past us, though. Lost five ships. Not a bad morning’s work for ’em, damn their eyes.”
“And there’s no way we could get them back?” Alan asked.
“Beat up to windward against more weatherly ships, and leave the rest o’ the convoy ta get took?” Finnegan shook his head. “Ye’re a young booby, ain’t ya? Wot it’s all about is, we got beat, see, younker? Them damned rebel Jonathans done beat us!”
* * *
Alan saw New York again, but only from the anchorage at Sandy Hook. He got to go ashore, but only as far as the fleet landing with a cutter full of demoralized and sullen hands, who had to be watched constantly to keep them from drink or the many brothels. Fresh supplies had to be ferried out, more coal and firewood, fresh water, livestock and wine, and crates of fruit and vegetables. The bumboats were out, offering women, rum and gewgaws, but the ship was not allowed Out of Discipline. Only Bales and the purser actually got to step ashore for pleasure.
The officers sulked in their wardroom aft, lolling over long pipes and full mugs when there was no drill, exercise, or working party. The midshipmen and mates stood anchor watch in their stead for the humdrum task of waiting, envying the men in the guard boats who rowed about to prevent desertion, or watch against a hostile move. It was an unhappy existence. The ship lay at anchor for days, stewing in the blustery early spring rains and fickle winds, too wet to stay topside, and too warm and airless to stay below. Ariadne shifted her beakhead to point at the colony, then at England, groaning her way all about the compass. The seeming lack of purpose, and their recent poor showing, began to grate on everyone. People began to put in requests for a change of mess, a sure sign of trouble below decks. There were more floggings for fighting, more back-talking and insubordination, more slow work at tasks assigned. God knew where they got it, but lots of men were turning up drunk and getting their dozen lashes on the gratings every Forenoon watch.
If he didn’t have to set some sort of example, he wouldn’t have minded getting cup-shot himself, Alan decided. Here I stand, dripping wet, can’t see a cable, the food stinks, the people stink, and I still can’t get ashore for sport. Why can’t I help out on the press-gang or the patrol?
“What a nautical picture you make,” Keith told him as he climbed to the quarterdeck to join him. “Perhaps a watercolor is appropriate.”
“Water is the word,” Alan agreed, feeling the wet seeping down his spine under the heavy tarpaulin he wore.
“Mister Brail and the Jack In The Bread Room said we could buy fresh food from shore on the next trip for cabin stores. Any ideas?”
“A warm, dry whore for starters,” Lewrie muttered.
“Seriously,” Keith scoffed.
“Potatoes,” Lewrie said with some heat. “I’d love some boiled potatoes. And carrots with parsnip. Turkey or goose … coffee, wine.”
“That’s one meal. How about some onions?”
“Drag it back aboard and I’ll go shares. God, what a shitten life this is,” Alan mourned.
“It will get better once we’re back at sea. This idling is bad for us,” Keith said.
“What’s the bloody difference?” Lewrie eyed a passing barge with the spy glass. “Ahoy there!”
“Passing,” came the faint reply.
“Boredom and deprivation in port is pretty much like boredom and deprivation at sea, only not as noisy,” Lewrie griped.
“At least at sea, we’re too busy to care.”
“Of all the ships I had to be put on, why this one? Why not one that can shoot and do something exciting?”
“We’ll do better,” Ashburn promised firmly. “Now we see how bad we did, we’ve been working the gun crews properly.”
“Do you really believe that?” Alan drawled.
“Of course I do, I have to.”
“Is the rest of the Navy like this? Because if it is I’ll be glad to make my fortune as a pimp soon as we’re paid off.”
“That’s disloyal talk, Alan,” Ashburn told him.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Keith. You’re educated. You’ve been in a couple of ships now. Let’s just say I have a fresher outlook. Tell me if you’ve seen better ships. And don’t go all noble about it.”
“Alan, you must know that I love the Navy…” Keith began.
“Believe me, after listening to you for three months, I know.”
“It … Ariadne is not the best I’ve served in,” Keith muttered. “What’s your concern? You’re the one was dragooned here. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“All your talk about prize money and fame,” Alan said. “What do I have if this war ends? A small rouleau of guineas and that’s it. In peacetime, I’d end up selling my clothes in a year. I can’t go home, and without a full purse I can’t set myself up in any trade. I think I could make a go of this, miserable as it can be at times, if I were on another ship, one that could fight and shoot, and go where the prize money is.”
“Hark the true sailorman!” Keith was amused at Lewrie’s sudden ambitions, which made him sound like any officer or warrant that Ashburn had ever listened to. “Bravo! We’ll make a post-captain of you yet.”
“Or kill me first,” Alan said. But the fantasy was tempting. If I were a post-captain, wouldn’t that make all those bastards back home bite on the furniture? Now that would be a pretty crow pie …
* * *
Ariadne finally weighed and sailed, and it was back across the Atlantic to England with another convoy. Once home, she swung about her anchor in Plymouth, in Falmouth, in Bristol before shepherding more ships across the Atlantic to Halifax, Louisburg or New York, facing the same winds, the same seas, the same food and hours of gun drill and sail handling with the same work of replenishment and loading at each end, until Ariadne could have done it in her sleep. Some men died, fallen from aloft and vanished astern. Some sickened from the weather and came down with the flux. Some could not stomach the food, though it was more plentiful and regular than what they would have gotten in their country crofts, and more healthful than the dubious offerings of a slum ordinary.