The officer stared at him with eyes as blared as a first-saddled colt, unable to believe what he had heard. “Bosun. A round dozen of yer best for this idiot.”
“I believe, Mister Harm, that if the midshipman has just come aboard to join, then he is not on ship’s books, and is not yet subject to punishment,” another officer said after stifling his laughter.
Thank bloody Christ, Alan thought wildly; that dozen of the best didn’t sound like a round of drinks!
“Goddamn you, you’ll get your ass flayed raw before the day’s out, if I’ve any say in it,” the officer so appropriately named Harm said. “I’ve my eye on you from here on out, little man.”
“Yes, sir,” Alan replied, galled to give this screeching parrot any sort of courtesy, but thinking it might mollify him.
“That’s aye aye, sir,” Harm said, but sauntered off.
“Sufferin’ Jesus,” Alan whispered sadly, still standing at a loose sort of attention and doffing his hat.
“You are a bit old to be joining, aren’t you?” the second officer asked. “Why, you must be all of eighteen.”
“S … seventeen, sir,” Alan said between chattering teeth.
“What were your parents thinking of, to wait so late?”
“My father … he did not agree with my choice, sir,” Alan said, thinking his reception could get worse if they knew his real reason for being there; or the fact that if he could get a good knockdown price, he would sell the ship for his freedom, and care less if the crew was carried off in a Turk’s galley.
“Newlies usually go to the gun room, but you’re too old for that. Might be the orlop for you, with the older midshipmen.”
“The … orlop,” Alan replied, trying the new word on for size. He peeked about the deck to see if he could spot one.
“God’s teeth, what a prize booby you are. I cannot wait until Captain Bales sees his latest acquisition. You’ll need dry clothing. Mister Rolston?”
“Aye aye, sir,” said the grinning imp who had ferried him out to the ship.
“Show Mister Lewrie below to the gun room and see he gets into dry things. And the proper hat. Soon as you’re presentable, Lewrie, get back up to the quarterdeck and we’ll take you to the first lieutenant, Mister Swift, so you can be properly entered in ship’s books. By the way, I am Lieutenant Kenyon, the second officer.”
“How do you do, sir,” Lewrie asked, offering a civilian hand.
“Oh, God,” Kenyon said as Alan dropped his hand and doffed his hat once more. “Yes, I expect you shall be most entertaining for us. Now get below.”
He allowed himself to be led below from the gangway to the waist of the ship while a pigtailed seaman named Fowles staggered along behind with his chest, suffering in silence. He staggered down a steep double set of stairs to the lower gun deck, a dank and dimly lit and groaning place full of guns, mess tables, stools, thick supporting beams and the columnlike masts. Glims in paper holders shed light on hundreds of men and doxies and quite a few children scampering about. It was more like a debtor’s prison than a ship. Rolston led him aft to an area which was screened off from the rest of the gun deck by half-partitions, and filled with chests and tables.
“This is the gun room,” Rolston told him. “The master gunner Mister Tencher and his mates berth here, along with the junior midshipmen. You can stow your chest along one of the screens and it’ll be your seat. And you’ll sleep in a hammock, instead of your soft little feather bed. I trust it will be up to milord’s usual standards.”
The smell of cooking grease, some foul egestion wafting aloft from the bilges, the fug of damp wool and unwashed bodies was fit to make him gag, but he forbore manfully. “It is not St. James’s,” Alan drawled acidly, turning to look Rolston up and down, “but good enough for some, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“You’ll not last long in this ship with your snotty damned City ways, Lewrie. Just you wait ’til—”
His tirade was interrupted by the arrival of Fowles with the heavy sea chest. But as the ship groaned and creaked into another roll, Fowles staggered and performed a shaky dance to waddle past them, bump Rolston and crash to the deck atop the chest, almost on Rolston’s shoes.
“You clumsy fool!” Rolston slapped the man on the arms and chest in anger. “You did that on purpose. I’ll see you on charge for it. Laying hands on an officer, for starters.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” Fowles yelped. “Sorry, sir.”
Alan saw real fear in the man, and was amazed that a grown man of nearly fourteen stone could be so bullied by a mere boy in a blue coat.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Lewrie said, wishing they would all go away and let him be as ill as he wished. “The ship rolled heavily.”
“Thankee, sir,” Fowles said, knuckling his forehead gratefully, “I were clumsy, sir, but meant no harm, sir.”
“That’s all, fellow. You may go,” Alan told him.
Fowles ducked out like a shot, leaving Rolston blazing. “Goddamn you, Lewrie. Don’t interfere like that again, or I’ll make it hard on you.”
“You,” Alan said. “Buss my blind cheeks, turkey cock. Pigeons could sit on your shoulder and eat seeds out of your arse, hop-o’-my-thumb. Now go push on a rope, or whatever, before I decide to hurt you.”
They faced each other for a moment, one frailer boy whose voice had not broken completely, arms akimbo and chin out like Lieutenant Harm; the other broader shouldered and man-sized, coolly amused, yet at the same time threatening.
Rolston was the one to finally give way. With a petulant noise he whirled about and fled the compartment, utterly frustrated. Once he was gone, Lewrie sank down onto the nearest sea chest and began to strip off his wet clothing. He unlocked his own and dug down for dry breeches and stockings, not forgetting to pack away his cocked hat in its japanned box and fetch out the boyish round hat he had hoped not to wear. Once dry and in fresh togs, he succumbed to misery, letting go a moan of despair and sickness. He clapped a hand to his mouth.
“What the hell are you, then?” a drink-graveled voice asked. “A new midshipman? Should have known … look at yer chest, all on top an’ nothin’ handy. What’s yer name, boy?”
“Lewrie,” Alan said, ready to spew. “What are you?”
“Mister Tencher, Master Gunner. You’ll say sir to me, or I’ll have you kissin’ the gunner’s daughter before you’re a day older.”
“You want me to kiss your daughter?” Alan wondered aloud. She must be a real dirty-puzzle if he meant it as a threat.
“Are you that ignorant? I’ve a feelin’ you and the gunner’s daughter will be great friends right soon.”
“Not right now, if you please. I’m feeling a bit ill at the moment, sir.”
“You’ve a sense of humor, anyway. Sick, eh? Had your breakfast, then?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Alan mumbled, feeling his bile rise.
“Biscuit n’ burgoo’ll fix you right up.” Tencher grinned.
“Where might one … uh?”
“Need to shit through your teeth? Try it in this bucket.”
Once empty, Tencher had prescribed his own version of nostrum, a hot rum toddy and a turn about the decks in the frigid January air. Lewrie choked down the rum and staggered topside. He had to admit it worked; after an hour, no one gaped at his pallor any longer. He was ice-cold down to his bones, but the cold had a reviving effect, as did the occasional splash of salt spray that plumed off the wave tops and smacked him in the face. Once free of immediate distress, he began to take note of his surroundings, and it was awe-inspiring to see all the miles of rope that made up the maze of rigging coiled on the decks, on rails, all leading upward to the masts that swayed back and forth over his head; all the blocks and all the ordered clutter of the guns and their own ropes and blocks and tackles.