Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

"Come to Palazzo Sessa," she ordered, taking her gown from him. "It would help if you express a keen interest in antiquities. Hamilton will be delighted to tour you round. In the afternoon, he has his 'grampus-puff.' His nap, silly goose! A most sensible Neapolitan custom, is siesta. Especially for a gentleman his age. Do me up whilst I preen, will you? Then… the view from my chambers is just as good. And there are so many galleries, full of art… full of nude statuary. Quite inspiring, some of 'em," she taunted, leaning her bottom back to his groin as he coped with getting the right hook or button in the correct slot or eye.

"Sounds delightful," he murmured against her neck as she lifted her hair and began to pin it properly.

"Perhaps we may even dine you in," she went on matter-of-factly, a pin in her mouth. "And after supper, I will pose for you. I will do my 'Attitudes.' Hamilton loves them. I was known for them, when I was still in the theatre. He helps me with the lights, the drapes…"

"A menage a… something?" Lewrie gawped. "Mean he takes part?"

"Not like that, silly man," she laughed, turning to view his work in the mirror. "I do poses. Tableaux! Dressed, mind," Emma said with a fetching moue. "Classical figures, famous people, the ancient gods… with a tambourine and shawl, very few props. Ecco!"

She stepped to the sideboard, picked up a silver salver, struck a pose with her profile to him. "For you. 'Britannia, Mistress of the Seas.' " Quickly she changed, moving to another, announcing what allegory she represented. "A poor girl of the streets… an Amazonian warrior queen… Pallas Athena… d'ye see? Oh, pish! I've spoiled it for you! You'll know mem, and they won't be a surprise!"

"I swear I'll show all gape-jawed wonder, Emma," he promised.

"I must go. But we're not done yet, Alan. We cannot be!" She sighed, bitter at their parting, clinging to him and kissing him, dewy and full of promise of delights to come. "Dear as my life's become, I sometimes have to dare, to feel alive again. Swear you'll dare all as well. God save me, but I cannot thrive on esteem and companionship, I must have passion. Rare as it is in this world… rare as it's been in my life. But, when the right man appears and I feel so half-seas-over, like a girl again… then hang the risk!"

"Uhmhmm," Alan commented (sort of), nodding against her hair, and wondering just what half-cocked idiocy he'd gotten himself into this time. And what sort of swoony lunatick he was dealing with.

She broke free of his embrace at last, strode to the balcony doors, and turned… to pose, one hand high on the door sill. "For all the time you remain in Naples, dear Alan. All the time we have, be my bold captain. Fortune favours the bold. Buona node, caro mio. Until tomorrow, and tomorrow… and tomorrow!"

And then she swept away dramatically, making a grand exit, back for her secret passage to her borrowed chamber. Back to an air of respectability.

"Whew!" he exclaimed at her departure. Speaking softly to himself, in case she had lingered to count the house. "Buona notte, me dear. Grazie, o' course. Damn' grazie! Lord, though… wonder what Italian is for 'daft as bats'!"

Aye, sir, their mountebank was here," Mister Pruden told Lewrie on the quarterdeck. He didn't sound impressed by a high-flown Italian physician. "Same nostrums as I had aboard, Jesuit's Bark and such, in a tea. He went from cold to hot, 'bout the end of the second dog last evening. Sweated it out, I should think. Mercury and laudanum, that raises a sweat."

"I have to see him," Lewrie commanded.

"His 'top-lights' are still out, sir. Dead to the world."

"Still, Mister Pruden, as first officer…"

"Very well, sir."

Captain Braxton was still unconscious, and the fever hadn't done his appearance much good. He lolled on the pillows, face slack as some dead man, his mean little mouth canted to leeward, his skin as sickly a buff yellow as old parchment, his shortish hair tousled and glued to his scalp by perspiration. Mister Pruden lifted the captain's wrist to feel for a pulse.

"Thumpin' away like a band, still, Mister Lewrie," Pruden smiled. "No more shivering ague, no more hot flushes and sweats. Feels cooler, too. I think this bout's over."

"How much longer will he be unable to command, sir?" Lewrie asked.

"Mmm, Lord… no tellin', Mister Lewrie, sir." Pruden shrugged in puzzlement. "Man his age, fit as he is… well as he appeared before the fever took him? It may be several days before he regains strength enough to hobble about. Then again, it may be a week or better."

"Should he be sent ashore to convalesce, sir?" Lewrie hoped aloud.

"No need for that, sir, not since the fever burned itself out. A spell of bed rest, of a certainty. Depending on how the fever debilitated him," Pruden countered, a bit sadly. "God has a wicked sense of humour, Mister Lewrie. Here He strikes our tyrant down, raising our hopes. And then restores him to health, just when we believe we're liberated."

"Well, at least we're spared his rod, long as he's horizontal," Alan sighed, shaking his head. "Had he informed you of his infirmity before, sir? Any cause for wariness over his health?"

"None, sir. Though I did make it my duty to inquire, to assemble a roster of past injuries and illnesses among the crew. You recall, I asked of the wardroom as well, so, should some condition, my ignorance of which might do harm-"

"You asked the captain directly, sir?" Lewrie pressed, getting a germ of an idea which restored his hopes.

"I did, sir, in the pursuit of my bounden duties as ship's surgeon." Pruden nodded somberly, as sober as if testifying at a court.

"And his reply, sir?"

'To, uhm… 'bugger off,' sir, and not to meddle," Pruden smirked.

"So you think he intended to hide the possibility of a recurrence from you, sir? In your opinion, as a qualified and warranted surgeon?"

"I thought he was being his usual 'tetchy' self, Mister Lewrie. But, aye… there's a possibility. Of course, it may be that malaria had not recurred on him in several years. He may have put it 'out of sight, out of mind,' sir. Like a bad tooth which really should come out, but a man'U ignore 'til it festers his gums, Mister Lewrie."

"Very well," Lewrie sighed, putting his hands in the small of his back and pacing, ducking the overhead beams. His eyes fell on the thick logbook on the desk in the day cabin. There was still a way!

"Mister Pruden, you keep a journal of treatment, do you not?"

"Aye, sir."

"I will require a notice from you, in the ship's log, that Captain Braxton fell ill of fever, and that in his stead I had to assume command temporarily. To explain why I was forced to," Lewrie demanded.

"I would be most happy to comply, sir," Pruden beamed, getting his drift. "And should anyone care to take notice, I will write up an entry in my own journal, including what nostrums I prescribed, and their cost, of course."

"How fortunate we were, to be in port at the time," Alan hinted. "And to obtain the services of our ambassador's physician. For free?"

"Certainly, sir," Pruden agreed, jiggling with wry good humour. "I'll go and do it now, whilst my memory's fresh, shall I, sir?"

"I would be deeply obliged if you would, Mister Pruden," Lewrie said with a grateful bow. After the surgeon had departed, he sat down behind the captain's desk, opened the logbook and thumbed through to the last entry in Braxton's own hand. There had been no entry for the day before their arrival in port, Lewrie noted, most happily. Captain Braxton was more than likely already ailing and unable to write.

"Sentry!" Lewrie bawled, sure that a thunderclap under his cot could not rouse the captain in the sleeping cabin.

"Sah!" the Marine bawled back, stamping into his presence.

"Send down to the wardroom, Private Cargill. I need my lieutenant's journal. My compliments to them, and I'll want the sailing master's… and Lieutenant Braxton's, as well."

All Commission Sea Officers were required to keep a daily journal; practice for log entries later in their careers. From their observations and inscriptions, battles were sometimes reconstructed, careers made or broken, discipline meted out after-the-fact at courts-martial, or meritorious deeds recalled and rewarded, sea conditions agreed upon.

Somewhere in the leaky, waterlogged basements of Admiralty, on high chairs when the Thames backed up on them, a host of mole-like writers gleaned those journals for any new information, any pattern to be deduced in wind and sea conditions for given areas of the world, for a change in headlands, a new seamark erected since the last time a Royal Navy ship had chanced there. Depths especially, dangers, new entries in sailing instructions or coastal pilots… to those myopic scribblers nothing was inconsequential, and once stored, nothing was ever tossed.

From his lieutenant's journal, and from Braxton's, Lewrie reconstructed the observations proper to a ship's log, stating that the log had not been kept up… and most importantly, why.

11 July 1793, by Alan Lewrie, First Officer, HM Frigate Cockerel; log entries for the preceding day, 9 July, our Captain indisposed on 9, 10, and 11 July, and unable. Dawn, 9 July: winds SSW, 1/2 S, and blowing a quarter-gale. Sea state mildly disturbed, cat's paws and horses, visibility clear,

10 Miles. Straits of Bonifacio astem 10 leagues, Isle of Caprera stbd quarter. By sextant, distance 10 Sea Miles… Course ESE, 1/2 S, spd 7 1/4knots. Exercised the…

It took an hour to transcribe everything, to recreate the voyage, from the straits to fetching Naples at first light on the 10th; anchoring, discovering the captain's illness, meeting the ambassador and delivering the secret papers… being presented to the king, and being forced to dine and sleep out of the ship. Pruden's note came to him, and he transcribed that, then took the fateful step of declaring in writing that he had assumed temporary command, until such time as the surgeon deemed Captain Braxton hale enough to resume his duties.

Then Alan entered the damning statement that the second lieutenant had not informed him of the captain's condition, though he noted in his journal that he'd been dined-in on the 8th and 9th, and had made no mention of the captain being sick after being at table with that worthy.

"Sentry!" he called again, after he'd sanded his last words.

"Sah!"

"Send for the second officer, Mister Braxton. Present to him my compliments, and I require Mister Braxton to kindly attend me, in Captain Braxton's quarters," Lewrie related, with an expectant smile.

"You sent for me, sir?" Clement Braxton asked, a little fearful. Whether he dreaded what was coming, now that Lewrie was temporary Lord and Master, or whether he more feared dire news of his father's condition, it would be hard to decide. Lieutenant Braxton glanced hangdog towards the door to his father's sleeping coach, and at the novel sight of Lewrie at ease behind his father's desk, with equal trepidation.

"Mister Braxton, you've been a very bad boy," Lewrie sneered.

"Sir, I-"

"Your father, it seems… our captain, is going to recover."

"So Mister Pruden and the civilian doctor were kind enough to inform me, sir, aye," Clement gulped, bobbing with that good news. He assayed a sheepish grin-more a rictus than anything else. Alan was having none of it, however.

"You almost killed him, you damn' fool!" Lewrie barked suddenly, crashing a fist on the ornate desk. "You and Boutwell knew he was sick as a dog, since we cleared the Straits of Bonifacio. You knew he needed the surgeon, but you hid that! Kept him from medication!"