He could not go on, his tongue dangerously close to letting go something that could be construed as insolence or insubordination, as much as he wanted to rant and slap the old bugger silly.
"Want your mammy's teat to cosset you?" Lilycrop scowled as he topped up his glass again. "Want me to pat you on the back an' tell you how marvelous you are? Damme, you're a commission Sea Officer, there's no room for your bloody feelin's. There's the ship, her people, an' the Navy that comes first before makin' you feel good."
"I…" Alan started to say before clamping his mutinous trap shut once more.
"You started on the wrong foot, but that didn't last a day," Lilycrop continued. "I told you I'd say no more about it, and I haven't. 'Sides, 'tisn't my nature to go around praisin' somebody to the skies. You do your duty an' that's all I expect of any man. If you do your duty proper, you know it, an' you can pat yourself on the back if you've a mind. 'Sides, you learned, didn't you?"
"I… I think so, sir," Alan said realizing it was true.
"Found your feet, got a firm grip on the hands, found out how to run Shrike to my satisfaction, what more would you be wantin'?" Lilycrop shrugged. "More port?"
"Aye, sir. But how can you-most people respond to some sign of encouragement, sir. They have to hear that they did something right now and then, just as they need to be told they did something the wrong way if they make a muck of things." Alan floundered.
"Life's an unfair portion, ain't it, Mister Lewrie?" Lilycrop chuckled, slicing himself a morsel of cheese, which he plumped down on a thin slice of the remaining bread in lieu of extra-fine biscuit. "I told you once I don't splice the main-brace without I see the angel Gabriel close abeam. Now what would you a'done if I'd said 'you're doin' splendid, laddie' when you weren't? Gone all smug an' satisfied before you had it down pat. I gave you instruction, let you find your own way, an' you've come around to be a man I'd trust with this ship. Mind you, I had my doubts when you first came aboard. Um, good cheese."
"So you'll not ask for a replacement, sir?"
"Oh, Hell no. You'll do." Lilycrop grinned through a mouthful of cheese and bread.
"Well I'm damned!" Alan exhaled heavily, leaning back in his chair.
"No, you've turned more competent, an' you've gotten the ship smartened up right clever. I'm satisfied," Lilycrop sniffed.
"Even if every hand hates my guts, sir," Alan said, smiling, feeling he was ready to burst into hysterical laughter at his redemption.
"Oh, give 'em no mind, they always hate the first officer, an' don't you go tryin' to be their bosom friend, either," Lilycrop told him, wagging a finger down the length of the table at him. "They despise you, they tolerate me, and beside you an' your fault-findin' an' carpin' I'm a fuckin' saint in comparison. You didn't come aboard to be popular. You came aboard to be efficient in runnin' my ship for me. You're not a heavy flogger, nor are you a hand-wringin' hedge-priest. Firm but fair, you said your motto was, remember, young sir?"
"Aye, sir, I do."
"You're not half-seas-over are you, Mister Lewrie?"
"No, sir," Alan assured him of his relative sobriety.
"Then wipe that lunatick smile off your face and tip up your glass. Gooch, trot out another bottle of this poor excuse for port!"
I'm safe! Alan rejoiced inside as the servant puttered about and drew the cork from a fresh bottle. I'm safe in my place. He'll not chuck me. I'll do, he says? That must mean I'm not at all bad, even if he did half-kill me. Now, can I keep this pace up? Don't I ever get a chance to relax?
Ruefully, he decided that he probably would not. That was Lilycrop's sort of Navy, where one labored long and hard with not one whit of praise or encouragement, ready at all times to care for the ship first, last and always, with little chance for letting one's guard down.
"Now, sir," Lilycrop sighed after he had sampled the new bottle and sent Gooch off for his own supper. "I get the feelin' you may disagree with me 'bout how to train men. Maybe were we talkin' of raw landsmen, I might soften my methods, but 'tis the way I was brought up, you see. When you've a ship of your own to run, you may employ your own methods, and I give you joy of 'em. But I've never seen a sailor yet who was worth a cold-mutton fart for bein' cossetted like he was still in leadin' strings. You just have to make 'em get on with the work, trust your mates and warrants to pound 'em into line, and see they don't get brutalized, nor pushed too fast. Nor do you want 'em dandled on daddy's knee and told what good lads they are when they ain't."
"It varies with the man, some say, sir. What's sauce for the goose isn't sauce for gander all the time, sir," Alan replied, laid back at complete ease for the first time in two months, his breeches tight about his middle after a splendid repast, and his head light with wine fumes.
"But you never have time to train 'em, one man at a time. Some never'll do, no matter what you do with 'em." Lilycrop frowned. Samson leaped up on the table and arched his hindquarters into the air as Lilycrop stroked his back. "I've seen boys come aboard so starry-eyed for bein' at sea you'd have thought they'd seen Jesus in the riggin'. Some made it, some didn't. Raw landsmen, midshipmen, pressed men, we make sailors of 'em all if we can, or kill some of 'em in the process. When the shot starts to fly, you don't have time to make allowances for a weaklin', you got to have men you can count on. Take yourself."
"Me, sir?" Alan asked, back on his guard again.
"You have brains, Mister Lewrie. You can learn, even if you have to get hurt in the process. Now young Mister Edgar, he's been in the Fleet four years, and God help the poor young ass, he'll never make a Sea Officer 'thout somebody on high parts the waters to let him cross over. I had to depend on you right from the start. No way you can have a first officer you have to spoon-feed. So you got your feelin's hurt, an' had yourself a weep now an' again. Well, this is a hard Service, an' I'm damned if I'll go to my grave seein' the ones that come after me have it easy an' soft, a mewlin' pack of children too weak an' whiny to serve our Navy, when it needs tarry-handed men!"
"This has been the absolute worst two months I have ever spent in the Navy, sir," Alan confessed as the wine crept up on him.
"And twenty years from now, you'll know you learned somethin'." Lilycrop nodded in agreement, all good humor gone from his face as he spoke with absolute conviction. "By God, sir, you'll be grateful someday you had it this hard, 'cause the worst times later'll feel like a stroll in Vauxhall Gardens. Not that I'm through with you, sir."
"Oh?"
"I said you'll do, but you've still a way to go. Everybody does. Don't go smug and satisfied on me. Well, you've the evenin' watch?" Lilycrop snorted, busying himself with Samson up on his chest.
"I exchanged with Webster, sir, so I'll have the morning."
"Heel-taps, then, and I'll let you go to your rest," Lilycrop said, lifting his glass and draining it.
"Goodnight, sir. Thank you for supper. And for… everything."
"Goodnight to you as well, Mister Lewrie."
Alan left the cabin and went out on the quarterdeck, where the night winds soughed and sang in the rigging, bringing a touch of cool dampness to what had been a warm day. Shrike loafed along, speared by the trough of a waxing moon, and the tropic skies were a blue as deep as his officer's coat, littered with stars that burned clear and cold.
He stopped at the wheel long enough to check the binnacle for a peek at the course and the dead reckoning of the day's run on the traverse board, scanned aloft at the set of the sails to see if they needed adjusting, and exchanged a few words with the watch. Then he took himself forward along the larboard gangway, until he was up on the fo'c'sle, where the spray sluiced and showered now and again as the ship's bow rose and fell so gently.