Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

A new red-baize bag was brought forward. A pristine new cat was let out of the bag. Each man got his own, no matter how many were to be flogged. Thence to be tossed overboard, supposedly with his sins, once punishment was done. Cockerel, ominously, had had to send ashore in Lisbon for a fresh supply of red-baize cloth once the merchant convoy had made port.

Lewrie looked away from the shivering victim, to Mister Midshipman Spendlove, Gold's alleged target of violence. Tears streamed the boy's face as he stood before the hands of his watch division. And the hands-more swaying, shuffling of feet, more discreet, reproving coughs, and mournful glances left and right at shipmates. A shy, homy hand came snaking from the press of men to touch Spendlove on the shoulder for a moment, to buck up his courage; some older seamen reassuring the distraught lad so he'd show game as Gold, and not shame him.

Whack!

"One," Bosun Fairclough grunted in a rummy, croaking basso. "One d'livered, sir."

"Ship's comp'ny… on hats, and dismiss!" Lewrie gladly ordered. Gold was made of softer stuff than Preston. He could not contain the pain, and had whimpered towards the end, sobbing aloud.

"Mister Lewrie!" Midshipmen Braxton and Dulwer called for him, scampering aft to the starboard ladder to the quarterdeck. "Mister Lewrie, sir!"

"Aye!" he gloomed, looking down at their eager, intent glares of righteousness.

"Man for report, sir!" Midshipman Anthony Braxton all but chortled. "We saw it Able Seaman Lisney, foremast. He laid hands on Mister Midshipman Spendlove, sir."

"Reached out and thumped him, sir," Midshipman Dulwer stuck in. "From behind, he did, sir. I saw it, too!"

They were as alike, God help us, Lewrie thought, as two vicious little peas in a pod. Two snapping curs from the same ill-bred litter of pit bulls! Close-set eyes, precociously heavy and thick eyebrows, the same long, narrow, semi-stupid expressions, the same pouty mouths as their elders. The same little points in their middle top lips!

Lewrie stumped down the ladder to them, gathered them close to him by seizing hold of their coat collars, and frogmarched them to the starboard side, between twelve-pounders.

"Now you listen to me, you brutal little gets!" he hissed. "I saw what you refer to, and it was nothing more than simple humanity and compassion. And, were we to ask Mister Spendlove of it, he'd tell us the same. A game, is it, my beauties? Do you earn points on which of you sends more men to the gratings? Or do you keep score by the number of lashes'! Daily, is it, weekly sums… what?"

"Now, Mister Lewrie, sir…" Midshipman Braxton dared to interrupt, with a stab at worldly, man-to-man airs.

"Damn your blood, sir!" Lewrie whispered harshly, right in the twenty-year-old fool's face. "How dare you take that tone with me! I'll have you kissing the gunner's daughter 'fore you're a minute older, and a full two dozen o' Mister Fair-clough's very best, those! It is not a game, you simpletons. Ship's people aren't dumb animals you can abuse for your nose-picking, arse-scratching amusement!"

"Sir, uncle…" Dulwer exclaimed in fear. Or tried to.

"Captain Braxton to you, you pustulent hop o' my thumb!" Alan thundered at the fifteen-year-old.

"Sir, the captain says we're to be alert for any infraction of discipline. That we're never to allow the hands to get away with one single thing, or they'll…" Dulwer persisted, filled with a dutiful but thick-witted indignation. Or as much as he dared.

"Oh, stern duty!" Lewrie sneered. "What a god, that. What cant. They're men, damn your eyes. There's infractions you must report, and quash at once. Then there's ignorance, mistakes… cock-a-whoop antics hands have always pulled. Always will. And you'd flog for all. And feel so smug and prim doing it, wouldn't you? Use some discretion. Learn some leniency, or God help you… now, or in future. Shit!"

They fluttered their lashes, eyeing their toes in truculent incomprehension.

"I'm using the King's English, sirs. Any of this get through those buffle-headed skulls of yours? Shit, no. Get out of my sight before I have both of you bent over a gun. And take your lying packet with you!"

The two midshipmen slunk away, the backs of their necks aflame; though putting their heads together for commiseration. Or for a plot.

"Gawd 'elp us, sir," Cony sighed near Lewrie's elbow once they were out of ear-shot.

"I don't know why I bother, Cony," Lewrie confessed. "They're so sure of their ground, so steeped in… Damme, in one ear and out t'other. They'll be back in full cry by the first dog-watch, soon'z they get over their sulks."

"They's vicious, sir, no error," Cony agreed, cautiously. "I sometimes wisht I'da took yer offer, 'bout th' farm, sir."

"Hmm?" Lewrie posed, cocking a brow as he turned to his man. "I've been puzzled by why you didn't, Cony. Or take that position at the Ploughman, with Maude and her father."

"Well, sir, y'see an' all…" Cony blushed, taking a swipe at his thick, thatchy hair. "Aye, li'l Maudie'z a dear'un, but… they's a lass I wuz more partial to. Maggie, th' vicar's girl's maidservant? Maggie an' me, well, urhm. H'it's a tad complicated, like. Spoonin' Maudie, all but promised, like. An' 'er dad bein' a Tartar, an' all? An' th' vicar, so righteous, too? An' Maggie, urhm… well, expectin', like. Sorta."

"Sorta," Lewrie nodded, knocked back flat on his heels, and wondering (not for the first time) just how rakehell an influence he had been on his innocent-looking manservant. "Dear Lord!"

"Aye, sir." Cony blushed more furiously, though with a bit of a grin that was only half-ashamed. "Sorta like th' fam'ly way, sir. An' gettin' th' Ploughman, sir. Well, workin' fer ole Beakman'da been… I ain't cut out t'be no publican, sir, no matter how much it'da paid. Onliest things I know're farmin' an' th' sea. Inheritin' the pub wi' Maudie… that'd be a hellish portion o' years yet, anyways, sir. An' then they's…" Cony stumbled to a sober silence.

"Mister Beakman and Maudie suing you for false promise?" Lewrie prompted, sensing there was more Cony wished to tell. "Maggie's get?"

"Well, that'd be part, sir. C'n I speak plain, sir?"

Lewrie nodded his assent.

"Come down t' marryin', Mister Lewrie, sir…" Will Cony said, tongue-tied with embarrassment. "Marryin' at'all, sir… well, I seen 'ow things is wi' yerself an' yer fine lady, sir. Well, I figgered a man oughta take a wife, someday. But I never fig-gered they'd be a lot o' joy after, sir. Sorry, Mister Lewrie. I really am, sir. I mean, they's some, iff n ya gets lucky'z yerself, sir. But, they's such a portion o' boredom an' all come with h'it. Reason I come away wi' ya, sir… 'sides fearin' Maggie, Maudie, th' vicar an' Beakman… t'woz fearin' wot come after more, sir."

"It's not all boredom and disappointments, Cony," Lewrie told him, wondering how righteous he was sounding, and if he had a right to. "Well, there's good and bad. Good more than bad, most times."

"Aye, sir, I seen 'at," Cony countered. "But I seen ya, sir… a'starin' offat th' hills, sometimes, like ya wuz lookin' fr somethin'. An' I didn' wanna end me own days stuck in Anglesgreen, pinin' meself. Sorry f r speakin' plain, Mister Lewrie, but… Navy… h'it's a hard life, sir, but 'thout h'it, I'da never seen New York n'r China, India, n'r Lisbon, n'r nothiri 1 grand. After that, sir, Lord, wot's inland an' domestic work got t'offer? Not that I ever …! Ya been a good…"

"Never knew you felt this way, Cony," Lewrie said with an assuring grasp of his shoulder, feeling deserted even so.

"Ya gotta admit, sir, we've 'ad some grand times since we fell t'gether." Cony grinned at last. "An' they's sure t'be a portion more 'fore this war wi' th' Frogs is done."

"So, what do you intend to do, about… uhm?" Lewrie posed.

"Banns wuz never posted 'bout Maudie and me, sir. So h'it ain't 'zackly false-promise I done. I've me prize-money, me savin's… an' a tidy sum h'it be, sir, after all we been through. Learned me letters'n sent Maggie a note, an' a draught on me pay t'keep 'er 'til we gets 'ome. Rent her'n me a cottage, 'cause y'know th' vicar'U turn 'er out, soon'z she shows. F'r now, though… iff n ya c'n spare me, sir, I'd admire'ta strike f r bosun's mate… get a warrant postin' someday, make the Navy me trade. An' do I go back t' Anglesgreen f r Maggie an'… do right by 'er'n our'n, well… I'd admire I went some'un respectable, sir."

"First opening, Cony," Lewrie promised, though he regretted the idea of losing the services of his man after all those hectic years. "I will put your name forrud, first chance I get. Top captain, for starters, more than like."

"Gotta crawl 'fore I c'n walk, sir," Cony brightened. "Aye, I 'spects that'd be best. Mister Scott already 'as me aloft more'n an albatross. Tops'l yard captain'd suit, f r starters. Too high'r too quick a jump'd row t'other lads. An', well, sir… they's more'n enough 'plaints t'bite on already, sir."

"Ain't there just!" Lewrie agreed sadly. "Off with you, then, you rogue. And Cony…"

"Sir?"

"Midshipman Dulwer is in your starboard watch, on the main-mast. Watch yourself damn close about him."

"I watches 'em all damn close, Mister Lewrie, sir. Way o' life, 'board this 'ere barge."

Lewrie was required to visit the men's mess daily. Some days, he made it breakfast-today was dinner. The hands dined eight to a mess, on either side of a plank table which hung from the overhead by stout ropes, seated on sea chests or short, hand-crafted stools. With the artillery overhead, instead of between mess tables, they had more elbow room, which was why most sailors preferred frigates. More room to swing a hammock at night, too, even if headroom was a bare five feet.

It was not a happy mess, though, no matter that dinner was salt beef, cheese, biscuit and small-beer; not a meatless "Banyan Day," and lumpy dogs of pease pudding, boiled in net bags in the steep tubs like duffs, each with numbered brass tabs for the individual messes.

As soon as he set foot on the mess deck, the grumbling and the joshing died away to a low murmur, and men watched him warily, cutty-eyed, as he made his way aft. Hardtack being rapped was the predominant sound.

"Not so gristly today, Gracey?" Lewrie inquired of one senior hand at a larboard table.

"Nay s'bad, sir," Gracey grinned for a moment, wiping his fingertips on a scrap of raveled rope small-stuff, in lieu of napery. " 'Tis no more'n a quarter gristle'r bone t'this joint, Mister Lewrie."

" Suffolk don't choke you, Sadler?" Lewrie japed with another.

"Damn-all hard cheeses, sir. Dry'z gravel, but…" he shrugged as he masticated thoughtfully on dry, crumbly Navy-issue Suffolk.

"But enough to go 'round," Lewrie prompted. "The 'Nip-Cheese' issues fair portion?" It was a blessing that Cockerel's purser Mister Husie was somewhat honest in his ration issue. Begrudging, but a decent feeder, nonetheless, if one kept a chary eye upon him.

"Fair 'nough, sir," Sadler allowed, just as begrudging.

"No complaints, then?" Lewrie asked, eyeing the nearest tables. There was no familiar response, no chaffering or ironic jeers such as a hearty crew might make to such a leading statement.

"Nuffin'…" a young pressed man dared softly, in a bland, innocuous voice. "Nuffin' wif t'pusser, sir."

Damme, I asked for that'un, didn't I?, Lewrie thought glumly.