Lilycrop was not fussy about uniform dress when Shrike was out of sight of the fleet, so Alan had served his watches and supervised the unending drills in old breeches and a shirt loose to the waist, minus stock, coat or stockings, and a woven sennet hat to ward off the sun. Lilycrop believed a large towel was clothing enough on some days for his own august personage, wrapped about his rotund body like some Roman senator's toga, and a pair of native sandals. The crew had gone about in rolled up slop trousers, belt and head-scarves like so many bloody buccaneers, except for Divisions and the rare turn-to to witness punishment in the forenoons. Now they were all chafing in full clothing, and the flesh that had been exposed to the sun was itching under the requisite layers of uniform, no matter how Red Indian-copper they had become with long service in tropic waters.
"Bum-boats comin' alongside, sir."
"Tell 'em to sheer off until the captain returns," Alan snarled. "And tell… no, the master-at-arms knows to keep drink from being passed inboard," Alan said, grinning at himself. "At least, he'd better."
William Pitt came sauntering aft along the larboard bulwarks to take a perch by the main chains and sharpen his claws on a shroud dead-eye. The cat ignored Alan until he strolled to the railing to peer down into the bum-boats which were offering their usual gew-gaws; small bottles of rum, flowers, cheap shirts, parrots and caged birds, pocket watches and shoe buckles (most likely stolen) and the women who helped scull the boats. When Alan got close enough, William Pitt had no more patience. He bottled up once more, spat and hissed, then took off forward in a ginger streak, uttering a low trilling growl.
"I hate that damned cat," Alan growled.
"Ah, he hates you, too, sir," Caldwell, the sailing master, told him with a wry grin, polishing his square little spectacles. "But then, there's not a soul aboard I've ever seen him warm up to, not even the captain. If he weren't such a deuced clever mouser, he'd have been over the side a year ago, and good riddance to bad rubbish."
"Not a half-bad idea, to trade the little bastard for a bird or something." Alan laughed.
Their captain returned about an hour later, and by the expression on Lilycrop's face as he heaved his bulk through the entry port, and the way he took his salute so testily, he obviously had not had a good time aboard the flagship.
"Mister Lewrie, attend me, sir!" Lilycrop snarled.
"Aye aye, sir," Alan replied, wondering what he had done to earn this new enmity. Had the more dubious parts of his repute made their way as far west as Jamaica? Once aft, though, he was pleased to discover he was not the reason (this time, at least) for Lilycrop's ill humor.
"Poxy, woman-handed little bastard!" Lilycrop barked, slinging his hat toward the hanging bed-box. Cats scattered to the four winds. "Insufferable arse-licker!" The shoes followed, caroming off bulkheads and decorating the sickly paint with streaks of blacking. The shirt stock nearly made it out the transom sash-windows. "Gooch!"
"Sir?" Alan asked, standing well back from this barrage of attire.
"Not a morsel of welcome, sir, not a morsel," Lilycrop gloomed. "Oh, aye, I've grown accustomed to small portions of hospitality in my years, but… Gooch, come open this damned bottle before I crack it over your empty head!"
"Aye, sir!" the servant bobbled.
"I'd not expect to be dined in, sir," Lilycrop went on, almost tearing the buttons from his waist-coat as he removed it and slung it in the general direction of the pegs. "That's for post-captains an' the titled fools, but nary a drop of comfort was I offered, sir, not one drop for a newly arrived master an' commander."
"Most inhospitable, sir," Alan commented as Gooch got the hock open and deftly stripped Lilycrop of his heavy old sword as he raved about the cabins, drinking from the neck.
"D'ye know, Mister Lewrie, we're the first vessel in with word of The Saintes, and their salvation from the Frogs and the Dons," Lilycrop raved on. "While they couldn't stir their arses up an' put half a dozen sail o' the line to sea to save their souls. A battle ye say? Truly, sir? Defeated de Grasse, did they? Capital doin's, but more important, who d'ye like in the Governor's Cup Races? Pahh!"
"Perhaps the flag-captain was drunk, sir."
"An' maybe he's an addle-pated, light-footed, silk-kerchiefed sodomite fool!" Lilycrop roared. He flung himself down on the transom settee, but calmed enough to accept a mug from Gooch, who had been weaving a circumspect course to avoid his captain's wrath. "Then this dandy-prat had the gall to look down his nose an' wonder what Rodney was thinkin' of to transfer little Shrike to Sir Joshua Bloody Rowley an' Billy Graves' fuckin' damn flag! 'My dear sir,' he says to me, 'I know not to what avail a brig o' so little worth shall answer, but given enough time, we shall discover her uses, perhaps in the guarding of the harbor entrance, or the coast an' revenues'! Goddamn them!"
"Graves, sir?" Alan started. "From The Chesapeake?"
"The same. A vice-admiral servin' under Rowley, if you can imagine what a come-down that is for him." Lilycrop wheezed humor.
Alan shrugged philosophically, approaching to within throwing distance as Lilycrop poured half the bottle of hock into his mug and began to sip. "Perhaps they still perceive a danger, and thought themselves more in need of ships of the line, or a brace of larger frigates to add to their strength."
"What bloody danger? Rodney'n Hood put paid to those Frogs off The Saintes. Scattered their fleet Hell to Huttersfield, took the ships loaded with the siege artillery. Jamaica's safe as houses now."
"Yes, sir, but where did those other ships escape to, the ones we didn't take?" Alan pondered. "Up to Cape Francois, or Havana? There are still ten Spanish sail of the line in the Indies. And the Dagoes were to provide troops for the expedition. Who's to say they might try yet, sir, strictly a Spanish adventure, with help from one of de Grasse's junior admirals and what ships he's collected after The Saintes? When you consider that, they might look upon Rodney offering them one small brig of war as an affront. Perhaps there's bad blood between Sir Joshua and Sir George, and you the intermediary between their animosity."
"Goddamme, but you're a political animal, Lewrie," Lilycrop spat.
"Aye, sir, but it's a learned habit. Society runs on rumors and grudges." Alan grinned, now on solid ground. For all his seafaring skill and his tarry-handed knowledge, Lilycrop was a child when it came to the ways of English "Society"; childishly proud of his lack of familiarity with the back-alley routes to success, money and "place." In contrast, Alan had cut his milk-teeth on the practice, raised as he was in the shadow of the mighty, the titled and the wealthy. Lilycrop wanted his Navy to be immune to what he thought was unfair and scheming, but the Navy was a microcosm of the society which it protected, and its officers came from families who had to play "The Game" to get ahead. Until the society changed, the Navy would reward those who knew how to grease the wheels with unctuous words. In a sudden flash of insight, Alan saw the reason why Lilycrop had named the ginger cat William Pitt. He had been a champion from the commoners, but on retirement he had accepted the King's gift of title as Lord Chatham, and all the perquisites of the wealthy Tories against whom Pitt had dueled, betraying Lilycrop's simple faith in ordinary men rising by their own abilities. No bloody wonder he was a lieutenant all this time, Alan thought a bit sadly. The wheel that squeals the loudest never gets the grease. He rubs everyone the wrong way-God help him, he's even proud of it.
"Damn Society," Lilycrop groaned, lifting his beak from the mug, but he had calmed himself. "Think you, though… we were too small an offerin'?"