Awnings were spread over the deck, and canvas chutes for ventilation, while hammocks were slung below in the crew’s mess area, and crude blanket partitions were hung for some semblance of privacy for their rutting. The women would work hard to earn their few shillings, paired off for a day or night to a lustful seaman who would feed her and ply her with drink out of his earnings like a temporary wife. Her man had duties to attend to, still, but she would be waiting below for him once he was released.
Once the sun had lost most of its heat, the awnings were taken in and stowed and supper was served along with the second rum ration. Lewrie made a quick tour of the lower deck to see if all was in order, then attended to his own meal.
He lounged at the mess table in the wardroom, half his uniform removed for comfort and sipping at a very decent hock just brought from shore. Their Creole cook had come up with roast chicken, fresh bread and butter, boiled onions, carrots and peas. There had been some new Stilton, and a small apple apiece, too. Had it not been for the occasional squeal of delight or a husky grunt of transport coming from the crew’s quarters he could have fallen asleep, pleasantly stuffed.
“A bumper with ya, lad,” Boggs said, happily cup-shot, and his scruffy white bag-wig askew on his head. “Give us heel taps on the last of yer hock and have port with me.”
He accepted a full measure after draining his glass, and clinked glasses with Boggs.
“Goddamn me, we’re close to losing British Florida,” Leonard told them as he read a newspaper nearly three months old but new to them.
“Good riddance,” Claghorne said. “Whole lot of colonies south of the Chesapeake is nothin’ but swamp and bugs and sweat.”
“But, I mean, the Rebels’ll never hold ’em against the Spanish. They’ll take ’em right back, and then we’re in a pickle,” Leonard went on, waving the paper at them.
“But if the Spaniards lost their fleet in that storm last year,” Tad Purnell asked, “what have we to worry about?”
“Hark the younker,” Claghorne said.
Purnell and Lewrie shared a look between them. If one were a midshipman, every one of your questions was greeted with ridicule, and every one of your answers was usually wrong, according to the older men. Samuel Johnson as a midshipman would have been caned for even opening his mouth.
“DeGuichen has a Frog fleet back in the Windwards,” Leonard said. “Rodney and Parker tangled with him all summer but couldn’t finish him off. They provide the ships, the Dons provide the troops, we could have trouble somewhere. Then the closest American port open to us would be Charleston, and you know they’d try to take that back. Cornwallis has enough on his plate as it is.”
“Let the French come out,” Boggs said loudly. “Let them come, I say, and the King’s Navy will square their yards for ’em.”
“Gentlemen, the Navy,” Claghorne shouted, raising his glass, and they all had to knock their wine back and refill.
Claghorne dipped a taper into the lamp hung over the mess table to get a light for a long clay pipe, and was soon happy to lean back with a wreath of tobacco fumes about his head. Leonard, crossed in his opinions by the others, withdrew from the fray and put aside the paper to peruse his account books, making clucking sounds now and then as he either found some expense he deplored, or didn’t think he could get the Admiralty to believe. Boggs began to rock and sing, but the exact tune was hard to make out, and the words slurred together, until his wig fell off. As he bent to retrieve it he slipped to the deck and stayed there in a heap, beginning to snore loudly.
“Thank God,” Purnell said. When most men considered it a gentlemanly accomplishment to be a three-bottle man, Boggs was more like a half-dozen man, and that on top of his rum or Black Strap issue. The suspicion was strong that drink had run him to sea, and God help the hand who really needed a surgeon if only Boggs was available …
Claghorne got to his feet and dragged their surgeon’s mate to bed, and Alan and Tad slipped out on deck for some fresh air. There was none to be had. The harbor was as smooth as a millpond and not a capful of wind stirred. Parrot could almost roll on her beam-ends under bare poles in a stiff breeze, but she now lay as calm as a stone bridge.
“Damned hot for December,” Purnell said quietly beside him, studying the many riding lights in the harbor.
“We’ll have some weather. Maybe a late storm. It’s unreal for it to be so still and airless,” Alan replied.
“My, how salty we’ve become, for one dipped in brine so little time,” Purnell softly jeered him.
“I still say we’ll get a shift of wind out of this,” Alan insisted. “You mark my words.”
“Think enough to put up half a crown on it?” Tad pressed.
“Done. But you should know better. Pity to take your money so easy. Your brothers would know.”
Purnell’s family were from Bristol, shipowners, traders, importers, and his older brothers were already merchant captains. Their clan was so absolutely stiff with the chink that Purnell clanked when he did a turn about the decks, but for all his money, he was all right as a mate. He did not compete with Lewrie for favor, and each had their own specialty. For Purnell, it was sail-handling and navigation—Lewrie was capable, but more at home with artillery and small arms. Tad Purnell was also a good fellow to know, fairly upright and honest in their dealings but still possessed of a sense of humor and a streak of deviltry that his family, and now the Navy, sat upon to keep from running riot.
Claghorne emerged from the hatchway, his pipe still fuming, and a newspaper clutched in his hand for a long, contemplative visit to the heads. “Damn still,” he said to them. “We’ll get half a gale out of this right soon, I swear.”
“Sorry about your half a crown,” Lewrie whispered, delighted to hear his opinion confirmed by an old tarpaulin man.
“And I’ll bet our ‘live-lumber’ will be casting up their accounts as soon as we get beyond the breakwater,” Tad said happily.
“Just who is this Lord Cantner?” Lewrie asked Purnell after hearing Lieutenant Kenyon drop the name to his clerk Leonard earlier that afternoon.
“Rum old squint-a-pipes, tries to see six directions at once. He used to be a very big planter and trader out here before the war started. As big a cutthroat as a Mohawk. I heard he’d become one of Lord North’s creatures, come to see if the war is still winnable. But most-like to collect what he can from his old estates.”
“Thing that amazes me is that he’d bring his wife out here to this place,” Alan said. “It’s a sickly climate for a woman.”
“Well, I hear she’s much younger, and her dowry was worth a duke’s ransom. Probably couldn’t stand the thought of her being left back home with time on her hands.”
“Or someone else’s hands on her.” Alan leered.
“Look, Lewrie,” Tad began, suddenly unsure of himself, “if we get ashore this time I was wondering … you seem to know a bit about the fairer sex, and I…”
God help me but I really should become a pimp, Alan told himself; everyone seems to think I’m so topping good at it …
“And the sound of our crew slaking their lust is driving you mad, is that it, Purnell?”
“Well, I am fifteen now, almost sixteen, and I’ve spent the last three years of my life afloat. This ship seems my best chance,” Purnell confessed.
“Probably cost you one guinea for a good bareback rider,” Alan warned him with a grin, “and you have to be careful that you don’t get a poxy one.”
“I don’t know how to tell,” Tad said, turning red at his own words, “but if you sort of gave me a fair wind, and a course to steer…”
“And you don’t want to just hop on and hop off.”