Five Post-Captains was the minimum number required for a court-martial on a foreign station, or at sea in foreign waters.
"All I ask of you is to do your duty, Commander," Lewrie hissed, suddenly weary of the fellow. "Chearly, promptly, and whole-heartedly as an Able-rated man o' war's man. I hold no grudge, or spite, against you. I put you out of mind, years ago. But, do you continue in your obstreperous, uncooperative, and sulky fashion…," Lewrie warned.
Enough was said, and Kenyon, once again, realised that he'd gone too far; the first time months before when he was in drink, and now in anger. "I will take my leave, sir," Kenyon said 'tween gritted teeth, pointedly setting aside his empty glass.
"I will see that Lieutenant Noble and your First Officer-Mister Cottle, is it?-are provided a boat back to Erato. No need to deprive them of a meal, is there, Commander Kenyon?"
"Course not, sir," Kenyon said with a grunting sound. He bobbed a short bow from the waist, turned, and went to look for his hat, boat cloak, and sword, waving off Lt. Cottle in passing the dining table.
"Forgive me if I do not escort you to the gangway, sir," Lewrie said in parting; wasted on the truculent Kenyon. Once the man was past the door to the main deck and gone, Lewrie heaved a bitter sigh, going to Desmond to get a first glass of wine since his toast.
Damn my eyes, what's wrong with that man? he wondered silently; doesn 't he know how close he is to losing his career?
"Sure, an' this Pomerol whativer's right-tasty, sor," Desmond said with a snicker as he poured Lewrie a full bumper. "An' so'z them sammidges, too, Cap'm."
"Took a sample, did you?" Lewrie wryly asked.
"Well, sor… Furfy helped me tote it all in, like," Desmond answered. "An' faith, who'd pass up a nip'r two, here an' there."
"God help us," Lewrie chuckled, picturing Patrick Furfy and his two large hands snatching up tasties like a street urchin who had just come upon an abandoned pieman's cart.
"Be trouble wi' that'un, sor… that Commander Kenyon, beggin' yer pardons fer sayin', Cap'n," Desmond said in a soft whisper, inclining his head towards the sad-looking Lt. Cottle. "There's a young'un jist dyin' t'tell a tale o' woe 'board 'is ship, arrah. Don't ken th' meat of it, but there's somethin' odd 'bout that Erato, sor. Not that it's any o' my 'nivver-mind,' sure."
"You have no idea, Desmond, how odd Eraco is," Lewrie muttered. "And, aye… I'll speak with him. Mine arse on a band-box, but you've become quite the busybody since I made you Cox'n," he quipped.
"Me Cap'm's best int'rests're me own best int'rests, sor," the fellow said, turning blank-faced and deferent. "Else Oi'll nivver be in sich a foin p'sition, begorra."
Like Sophie de Maubeuge sounding more French when she went all coy, Liam Desmond could put on "the brogue" when he worked a "fiddle," or was in a spot where whey-faced "Paddy" innocence might suit.
Lewrie strolled among the officers, sharing brief comments and gathering impressions of their capabilities, or enthusiasm, for the impending landings. At last, he got to Lt. Cottle.
"Your captain left early," Lewrie began.
"Uhm… aye, sir," Cottle replied with a shy gulp, unable to look him in the eyes.
"Knew each other long ago, in the West Indies," Lewrie prompted. "Ended not liking each other very much."
"So… so Commander Kenyon has mentioned to me, sir, but…," the young man stuttered in nervousness.
"Loudly and often, I take, it, sir?" Lewrie said, half in jest.
"Uhm, aye sir," Cottle admitted, with a brief, rueful wince,
"Anything you wish to tell me about your ship, Mister Cottle?" Lewrie posed in a soft voice, smiling, so casual observers might think they were merely yarning. "Anything which might endanger the success of the coming landings? A problem of… morale, perhaps?"
"Don't wish to speak ill of… the hands, they don't," Cottle stammered, "they haven't come together as shipmates, as crews do in my experience, and… there's bad blood, Captain Lewrie."
"Because your captain plays favourites most shamefully, and cannot master himself?" Lewrie pressed.
Lt. Cottle winced again, so hard his eyes shut, then could only nod and blush in shame. "They could be a fine crew, sir, were some of them weeded out. Erato could be a taut ship, yet…"
"Under a new captain, who doesn't cosset the 'pretty lads,' and treat them like a private harem, d'ye mean, sir?" Lewrie asked.
"You know, sir?" Cottle gasped.
"Suspected," Lewrie countered. "Is he healthy enough to carry out his orders, sir? Of a mind to do so, despite his grudge, and his… peculiarity?"
"I think so, sir," Lt. Cottle stated. "He's a thorough seaman, and can't be faulted at ship-handling, yet… he will rant at times in nonsense words, just blurt out whatever springs to mind that had nought to do with… he's cautious and conservative, mostly, sir. Not one to dare too much. I took the boats in so close to the beach, sir."
"And I am glad t'see you survived, sir," Lewrie congratulated. "I imagine he tore a strip off your hide, yes? You say he… rants? He don't look well that's for certain, but, is his mind sound?"
"I… sometimes am forced to wonder, sir," Cottle confessed, now he had a welcoming ear. "At first, he seemed sound, but lately… Erato'?, his first decent command, sir, and I cannot think that he would take such risks to lose it, and his career, but… there is nought I can do to amend things aboard, short of…," Cottle whispered, edging round the word "mutiny," which a court-martial would call his attempt to usurp a senior officer's place. Unsaid was the fact that Kenyon's ruin would be Cottle's, too, his career forever blighted by connexion to such a scandal. "I know it's 'gainst the Articles of War, sir, and the Good Book, and a mortal sin, but there's little I may do! Yet, if something isn't done, soon, the bulk of our people will…"
Sling a few "handsome " boys over the side? Lewrie thought, finishing Cottle's dread for him; maybe Kenyon, to boot? Purge Erato like the Hermione mutineers did?
"As First Officer, you're there to spur him in the right direction, in action, at least," Lewrie told him. "As for his personal life, well… hiding what he is all these years is slowly killing him, we can see that. That, and the amount of drink he glugs down."
"We let it continue, sir?" Lt. Cottle goggled at him.
"No," Lewrie grimly said. "You brought the matter to a senior officer's attention, at long last. I will see that it is amended just as soon as I am able." Christ, listen t'me, prosin' like an Admiral! Lewrie marvelled at himself. "I can't do anything this instant since I may need Erato tomorrow morning, does the weather moderate. But, were you to write a report on it and send it to me, I'll pass it on to the Commodore… who will most-like pass it on to Lord Boxham as if it was a red-hot fire poker, as quick as dammit. Would you do that, sir?"
"Aye, sir, I shall," Lt. Cottle replied, sounding and looking much firmer in his resolves, with what might be called a relieved smile on his face; even a pleased one, in point of fact.