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Mr. Pitts turned and greeted his captain. “Evening sir. We’re sou’sou’west and about to take in another reef. The master promises a hot night and hotter morrow.”

“Mr. Peckham is usually right. Are you enjoying the festivities?” Anthony asked his third lieutenant.

“Yes, sir. I don’t have an ear for music like some, but it makes the watch go quicker to have something going on. I’ve stressed to the look-outs to keep close vigil.”

Anthony was glad to hear Pitts say this. He was also mad with himself for not thinking the activities on the fo’c’s’le could possibly distract the lookouts from their duties. This was something to consider.

Lt. Pitts had returned to the wheel and made a show of checking the compass. Anthony knew this was to give him his space on the quarterdeck. As Anthony turned, he spied Dagan lounging against the bulwark amidships, puffing on his pipe. Anthony approached the man, wanting to get to know “Gabe’s uncle and protector” better.

“I say, Dagan, I didn’t know you smoked a pipe.”

“Aye, sir, mostly at night when I have the time to fill the bowl and enjoy it full. I can’t abide lighting up, having it go out, and then fetching another match.”

“I see,” said Anthony. “I have my father’s old pipe and I intend to see if I like it better than cigars.”

“I have some fine tobacco,” Dagan volunteered. “Blended for your father by his tobacconist. He always got me a tin when he ordered his.”

“Why thank you,” Anthony said. Not wanting to end his conversation, Anthony volunteered, “The master assures us it’ll be a hot day tomorrow.”

Dagan took his pipe from his mouth and looked at Anthony with cold hard eyes. “Storm on the horizon.”

“Storms!” rebuked Anthony. “The master’s rarely wrong about the weather, Dagan.”

“More ‘n one kind of storm, Cap’n. You’ve been told.” Then he was gone like a ghost. Anthony felt like a midshipman who’d just been dismissed by his betters. Storms!

***

The day was as hot as the master predicted. A gentle wind blew sou’westerly, but did little to reduce the heat. After a good breakfast and shave, Anthony went on deck with Bart trailing.

“Ah, Mt. Buck! I hope you’ve broken your fast.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Buck replied.

“Well,” said Anthony, “I believe this would be an opportune time for gun drill. Beat to quarters if you will, and clear for action.”

“Directly, sir.” Buck answered and gave the order. He had already taken out his watch.

“Bart!”

“Aye, Cap’n!”

“See the purser if you will. Give him my respects, and tell him I’d take it kindly if he were to donate those barrels that had contained rancid meat for target practice. They should make fair targets for our gunners.”

As Bart turned to go, Anthony saw he was grinning.

“Bart!”

“Aye, sir!”

“What pray tell has humored you so to produce such a grin?”

“I was just imagining what kind of lie the purser would make up to explain the loss of the barrels. No doubt it’ll cover not only the barrels but that beef that we fed to the sharks.”

“Think so, do you?” Anthony asked, seeing the humor in Bart’s prediction.

“No doubt, sir, and in such a way so as to shirk the blame and still show as much profit as plausible for himself.” Bart had the purser pegged right enough.

No sooner had the order “clear for action” been given than the ship became a beehive of activity. The drummer started his roll. The below watch came up on deck with wild cries of encouragement from the petty officers. It was like a mad dash as the crew flung themselves to their tasks.

Bulkheads were removed-with care, Anthony hoped, thinking of the ornamental partitions in his cabin. The decks were drenched with seawater, and then sand was strewn. Breathless powder monkeys ran with their arms weighted down with cartridges for the guns. Fire parties took their places. The marines under Lt. Dunn smartly made their way to their battle stations. The surgeon and his mates had made their wares ready. The gun crews cast off lashings and removed covers from the breeches. Then with a strain, they tugged at the tackles to drag the heavy guns inboard to be loaded. Powder and shot were rammed home. The muzzles were then depressed. Once again, the crews tugged like demons at the tackles. The guns were run out through open ports. The sweat-drenched men then stood back signifying they were ready.

Anthony sensed Buck approaching.

“Cleared for action, sir-nine minutes flat,” Buck said proudly

“Excellent, Mr. Buck, excellent. Now let’s check for their accuracy. Please be certain they know to aim at the barrels and not the boat crews.”

“No fear, Cap’n. The purser is in his hole, not in the jolly boat.” Buck had not been able to contain his own little jab at the purser.

Hearing the snickers from the gun crew who had overheard Buck’s comment, Anthony rebuked Buck good-naturedly. “Mr. Buck, kindly watch your remarks, sir. Mr Lott holds a king’s warrant.”

“And lots more ‘e does when given the chance, sir,” some unknown voice within the crowd quipped, making fun of the purser’s name.

“Silence,” Buck ordered, but doing so with a smile. It is good when men can laugh so, thought Anthony. Laughter usually meant a contented crew.

***

“Master-at-arms, pass the word for the master-atarms to report aft to Mr. Witzenfeld in the great cabin!” Anthony looked at Buck, who exclaimed, “Jesus wept. By gawd, I’ll string up the sniveling shit before sundown.”

As Buck’s head disappeared below the companionway on his way to the captain’s quarters, Anthony was filled with a sudden urge to follow and see first hand what was going on, even though his better judgment told him to remain on deck. Turning toward the wheel, Anthony saw the second lieutenant and called him over.

“Mr. Earl-you have the watch. Secure from quarters if you please.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Anthony’s urge got the better of his judgment so he headed to his cabin with Bart trailing. Anthony raised his hand to his lips to silence the marine sentry from calling out and announcing the captain’s presence to all.

Anthony could hear loud voices coming from his cabin as he eased the door open. Lt. Witzenfeld’s high shrill voice was very distinctive. “He disobeyed my order, my direct order. He was insubordinate and insolent. I want him flogged-flogged do you hear? I’ve ordered it. A midshipman can’t countermand my order or talk to me like that. I’ve ordered him flogged and flogged he’ll be. I’ll do my best to see him out of the service for his insolence.”

“Dammit, man shut up!” Buck shouted. “Do you have no need to catch a breath?” Lt. Buck found himself wiping Witzenfeld’s spittle from his face. “I declare sir, you need to get a hold of yourself. You’ve sprayed all in your path with your damn spittle, and I for one have had enough of your outburst.”

“Gawd,” Buck exclaimed, his handkerchief busy wiping spittle from his face and coat. “Have you forgot whom you are addressing?” Buck then called for Paul, the master-at-arms, “Escort Mr. Anthony to the cockpit if you please. I’ll be there directly.”

“You there,” Buck called, addressing the gun crew, “Go see the purser. Give him my compliments, and tell him I’d be grateful if he’d give you all a tot.”

The gun crew’s eyes lit up, “Thank you sir,” they said in unison.

“Mind you now,” Buck continued, “There you stay till I send for you.”

“Aye sir,” each acknowledging his instructions.

Buck then turned his attention back to Lt. Witzenfeld, who was still stammering and sputtering to himself. “Go to the wardroom and have a glass of wine,” Buck ordered. “You need to get hold of your emotions and pull yourself together, then we’ll talk.”

“But sir,” argued Witzenfeld, “I don’t need to pull myself together. I have the smug ‘bastard’ where I want him and he’ll pay for his ways, captain’s brother or not.”

Still standing at the entrance of his cabin, Anthony felt himself tremble upon hearing his brother called a bastard. He started through the door only to feel Bart’s hand restraining him.