“Passing the word for Midshipman Lewrie,” a Marine called.
On his way up to the admiral’s cabins to testify, Lewrie saw two faces that he had not expected to run across again. The first was his dis-rated enemy Rolston. He stood by the larboard entry port with a small chest and canvas bag at his feet, going with a draft of men to one of the ships in harbor. He was dressed as a common seaman in slop trousers, checked shirt and neckerchief, with a flat, tarred hat on his head, and his feet bare. Evidently the needs of the fleet were such that there would be no further punishment for him, and he was a trained hand able to hand, reef and possibly steer. Rolston saw him and gave him such a black look that Lewrie was afraid for his life for a second. Then the irony of it struck him and he waved hello gaily.
The second face was their silent Lieutenant Church. He was in the company of a Marine Lieutenant, dressed in normal uniform but minus his sword. Lewrie attempted to speak to him, but Church turned away with a “the direct cut.”
“You’d think he could speak…” Alan groused.
“Not likely,” his guide, an elegantly turned out midshipman on the admiral’s staff, told him with a wry grin. “He’s due in there himself tomorrow.”
“What for?”
“Court-martial. Cowardice under fire,” the boy took pleasure in informing him. “Seems you lot from Ariadne have no luck at all, eh?”
Lewrie was announced, led in to face the assembled court and shown to a witness chair. Captain Bales and Mr. Swift sat to one side, and he nodded to them as he was sworn in.
He was led through his name, his date of joining, his duties, and all the mundane things. Then came the day of their fight.
“My station at Quarters was on the lower gun deck, sir,” he said, in response to the first serious question, and he tensed up, not knowing what would help or hurt Bales and Swift, and if he should even bother.
“And what occurred, Mister Lewrie?”
“We were finishing dinner, sir, when we were called to Quarters. We had been at gun drill all morning.”
“Did you think it was another drill?” a sharp-featured captain asked. It was hard to figure out if he was a lawyer or a member of the court.
“At first, sir. Just before one bell of the Day Watch.”
“What was done on the lower gun deck, Mister Lewrie?”
“We turned to the fourteen thirty-two-pounders to starboard, sir. The larboard guns had three men each. Sand was cast, the gun tackles were cast off, tompions removed and the starboard battery loaded with eight-pound charges, and single round-shot.”
“You did not run out?”
“No, sir.”
“I see. What else did you do to prepare for battle?”
“That was it, sir.” Lewrie squirmed in his hard chair as he said it, unable to look at Bales or Swift.
“You did not strike the mess tables? Take chests below?”
“Tables had been raised to the deckheads, sir. But everything else was placed on the centerline away from recoil.”
“What was … everything else?” the officer posed.
“Seamen’s chests, sir. Stools, plates, mess kits and bread barges. The gunroom was still standing and so was Marine quarters and the officer’s mess.”
“You were on the lower gun deck. How could you know about the other?” another captain snapped.
“I think what this young man means is that if those quarters had been struck below, they would have come down past him, is that right, Mister Lewrie?” the sharp-featured one put in.
“Aye, sir.”
“Did that strike you as odd?”
“Excuse me, but what a midshipman of so little experience holds as an opinion is of no interest,” a much older captain grumped.
And God save me from serving under you, Lewrie thought.
“Did your officers find it odd? Did they say anything about the fact that Ariadne would be full of dangerous sources of splinters should the ship be called upon to fight?” the sharp one pressed.
“I asked Mister Harm if we should not clear, sir. But he did not like me asking questions.”
“What did he say?”
“To keep my trap shut, sir.” Which raised a laugh from the court.
“Yess,” the sharp captain drawled, “so you went to Quarters at one bell of the Day Watch. And you did not engage until one bell of the First Dog. Is that your recollection?”
“Aye, sir. We stood easy for a long time.”
They got to the point when the Spaniard was only two cables off and struck her false Dutch flag, that awful first broadside, and the revelation of their foe’s true identity.
“And what happened on the lower gun deck?”
“Mister Harm was killed immediately, sir,” Lewrie replied, seeing again that shaved skull and the huge splinter in the man’s eye and in his brain. “Splinters from our cutter came through the gun ports, one gun was dismounted, one burst and a powder charge blew up.”
“The cutter had been lowered from the boat-tiers?”
“Aye, sir.”
“What about the other boats?”
“At divisions that morning, sir, they were all on the boat-tier. But after we went to gun drill, I cannot say, sir.”
“I would like to point out,” the sharp-faced captain said, “that Midshipman Lewrie and gunner’s mate Cole took over at this time and did exceptional service with the lower deck guns.”
“Well, not exactly, sir.”
“You did not?”
“I was blown to the deck, sir, and it was an absolute madhouse. Mister Roth did join us but he was also killed almost at once. It must have been two or three minutes before we got sorted out.”
“But you did, after that, take charge?”
“After I had gotten over being terrified, sir.”
“Mister Cole tells me he took orders from you. Did you find that strange, a warrant gunner obeying a midshipman?”
“Aye, sir … but we got the job done.”
“What was the final toll from the lower deck?” another officer asked, one who had been sitting silent for most of the testimony.
“Two officers and nine seamen killed, nineteen wounded, sir. And three more have since passed on.”
“Lots of splinter wounds, I suppose.”
“Aye, sir. A lot.” Alan gulped.
They conferred among themselves for a moment, then turned to face their court once more. “I believe that is all for this witness,” the president announced. “Unless you have anything, Captain Bales?”
“I think Mister Lewrie will bear me out that we held regular gun drills, did we not?” Captain Bales said, looking sharper and more aware than in the past few days.
“Aye, sir, we did,” Alan agreed.
“And was the starboard battery of the lower deck run out and ready to fire when that Spaniard fired into us?” Bales added.
“The guns were run out … sir, aye.”
“And ready to fire!” Bales repeated, thumping his chair arm.
“Um, no, sir. After Lieutenant Harm believed our chase to be a neutral Dutchman, he … never ordered the guns primed.”
Bales’ exuberant defense crumpled. “But … ah … the gunners and crews were thoroughly competent, were they not?”
“There goes someone asking an opinion of a newly again,” the old captain muttered.
“I shall let this one stand,” the president of the court said.
“Aye, sir, I felt we were competent,” Lewrie lied, knowing that they had been terrible shots, grudgingly adequate at best, men who had never considered gun drill a serious business; who could go through the motions but had found fighting for their lives to be a horror, not even used to the sound of their own gunfire.
Poor Bales is fucked, Alan thought. And I’ve put one of the nails in his coffin. The least I can do is soften the blow for him … God, where did I get so noble suddenly? Then Alan also realized that anything he said in Bales’ defense would look good for him as well before the members of the court. After all, he too was soon to be unemployed. Oh, you wretch …