He folded that precious document up, again, and stuck it in a side pocket of his uniform coat, then leaned his palms on the railing.
“Just about ten years ago to the month, here at the Nore, I was made Post into my first command, the Proteus frigate,” he told his new crew, now that they were all officially his, “and I have been fortunate to command several frigates over the years. Sapphire is my first two-decker. She is new to me, as you are, as well … just as I am new to you. It may take me twice as long to get to know you all by face and name than I did the men of my last ship, the Reliant frigate, so I ask for your indulgence on that head.
“Sapphire may not be as swift and dashing as a frigate, but we … you and me together.…” he continued, “will still find ways to toe up against our King’s enemies and bash them to kindling and send Frenchmen, Spaniards, and Dutchmen, and all who side with Bonaparte, to the eternal fires of Hell! I am not one to tolerate boredom for long, and have always found a way to hear my guns roar in earnest, as I trust you all wish, as well. So, let’s be at it, and ready our ship for great deeds to come!”
He turned and nodded to Lt. Westcott, who stepped forward to bellow dismissal of the hands, then walked over to his waiting officers and Mids. “If you’ll do the honours, Mister Westcott?” he asked.
There was the ship’s Second Lieutenant, Arnold Harcourt, a man in his mid-thirties with dark hair and eyes, and a lean and weathered face. The Third Lieutenant, Edward Elmes, was younger, leaner, and blond. Sapphire’s Sailing Master was a rough-hewn Cornishman, George Yelland, with a great hooked beak of a nose. There were two Marine officers, First Lieutenant John Keane, a ruddy-faced fellow in his late twenties with ginger hair, and Second Lieutenant Richard Roe, a slip of a lad not quite nineteen with brown hair and blue eyes, who looked to be as new to the sea as a fresh-baked loaf, a right “Merry Andrew” with a possible impish streak, a counterbalance to Keane’s severe nature.
There were a whole ten Midshipmen, led by a burly fellow in his late twenties named Hillhouse, whom the First Secretary had thought to make Acting-Lieutenant before Lewrie had offered up Westcott. He did look salty enough. Behind him were Britton and Leverett, two more men with poor connexions most-like, for they were in their mid-twenties and still had not gained their Lieutenancies. Below them were the usual sort of Mids in their late teens, Kibworth, Carey, Spears, Harvey, and Griffin, then two lads in their early teens, Ward and Fywell.
Sapphire’s Purser and his clerk, the “Jack In The Bread Room”, Mister Joseph Cadrick, and Irby, Lewrie decided to keep a chary eye on, for though butter would not melt in their mouths on the first introductions, Lewrie sensed a “fly” streak.
The Surgeon was a thin and scholarly-looking man named Andrew Snelling who looked as if a stiff breeze would carry his skeletal frame away. The Surgeon’s Mates, Phelps and Twomey, in their middle twenties, cheerfully admitted that they were medical students who were too poor at present to attend physicians’ colleges, but were happy to serve alongside Snelling, who seemed to know everything medicinal, or surgical, they assured him.
The Bosun and his two mates, Matthew Terrell, and Nobbs and Plunkett, seemed solid and competent fellows, from Terrell’s early fourties to the mid-thirties, with years of experience at sea, as did the Master Gunner, Dick Boling; his Mate, Haddock; and the Yeoman of the Powder, Weaver.
Lewrie would get round to the Cook, Carpenter, Cooper and Armourer, Sailmaker, and their Mates later. His goods were coming aboard.
Pettus and Jessop, Desmond and Furfy, Yeovill and his Captain’s clerk, James Faulkes, had gained the deck during the introductions, and were beginning to direct his chests and crates, his furniture and personal stores up from the hired boats and aft into the great cabins. A pair of slatted crates were slung up and over the bulwarks, one containing Lewrie’s cat, Chalky, mewing and growling in fear, and the other containing Bisquit, Reliant’s old ship’s dog.
“Well, hallo, Bisquit!” Lt. Westcott cried in delight to see him as the crate was lowered to the quarterdeck. “Still with us, are you? There’s a good boy, yes!”
“I’d thought t’leave him on my father’s farm,” Lewrie explained, “but, when the waggons were loaded, he kept hoppin’ on and wouldn’t be left behind. When they trotted off, he ran after ’em all the way down to the village, and the lads took pity on him. He just wouldn’t let himself be abandoned by everyone he knew. No, you wouldn’t, would ye, Bisquit,” Lewrie cooed, kneeling down by his crate. “You are a headstrong little beast, yes, you are. God help ye, you’re a sea-goin’ Navy dog.”
Lewrie was rewarded with excited yips, whines, and a bark of two, and lots of tail wags to implore to be freed from his crate that instant. Lewrie un-did the latch and let him out, then stood up as Bisquit dashed to say hello to Westcott, run round the quarterdeck to sniff, then dashed up a ladderway to the vast expanse of the poop for more exploring. Lewrie stood up and caught Pettus’s eye.
“I’d much admire did you hunt up the Carpenter, Pettus, and see to the construction of a sand-box for Chalky, and the proper width of my hangin’ bed-cot,” Lewrie bade him. “We’ll have a shelter for Bisquit fashioned under one of the poop deck ladderways, later.”
“Yes, sir. See to it, directly,” Pettus promised. “We’ll have your office and day cabin set up in a few minutes more, and the dining coach and bed space ready by the end of the Forenoon.”
“Excellent!” Lewrie congratulated him, then turned to Westcott. “What do you make of her so far, Mister Westcott?”
“The ship is fully found and in very good material condition, sir,” Westcott told him. “She’s short of at least ten Able Seamen and about a dozen men rated Ordinary, but her officers and mates have run many of her Landsmen through catch-up instruction over the last nine months she’s been in commission … her former Captain’s idea, that … so a good many of them can hand, reef, and steer. They know their way round a bit better than most ship’s companies.”
“Well, that’s a partial relief, at least,” Lewrie commented. “How many Quota Men, and gaol scrapings? Many troublemakers?”
“The other Lieutenants and Mids have filled me in on the hands they’re leery of, sir,” Lt. Westcott continued. “You’ll find their names in her former Captain’s punishment book … often.”
“A happy ship, is she, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked.
“On that head, sir…?” Westcott said in a low voice, casting his eyes up and aft towards the poop deck. “Perhaps we might go see what Bisquit’s up to?”
They went up the starboard ladderway to the poop deck for more privacy, and strolled to the flag lockers where they could sit and converse with no one else listening in.
“I feel like I’m sittin’ on the roof of a mansion!” Lewrie had to exclaim first, “or, halfway up the main mast shrouds.”
“The poop is rather high above the water, aye, sir,” Westcott agreed with a brief chuckle. “A happy ship? I don’t believe I could say that, sir. I’ve only been aboard a week, so I haven’t gotten the people’s feelings completely sorted out, but I can say that she’s of two minds. Maybe three … those who miss Captain Insley and thought him a proper officer … those who sided with Lieutenant Gable, her First … and the bulk of her hands who don’t give a damn either way.”
“Christ, sounds like Bligh and Christian aboard the Bounty,” Lewrie said, leaning back against the taffrails.
“Captain Insley was a very formal and strict officer,” Westcott imparted in a mutter, no matter the lack of people within earshot. “A no-nonsense disciplinarian, to boot, and I gather that he was a man who held most people in a very top-lofty low regard. Cold, aloof, and with a quick and cutting wit sharp enough to smart.”