Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

"Lieutenant Lewrie?" a flag lieutenant called at last. "Milord Hood is now free, and may see you, sir."

Lewrie crossed the vast expanse of Victory's quarterdeck, aft to the admiral's quarters under the poop-but was brought up short by the sight of Captain Howard Braxton leaving those great-cabins. He seemed ill, as ill as he had in the days just after his recovery; spent and old, white-faced, the incline of his mouth to larboard even more pronounced.

"Sir," Lewrie said icily, doffing his hat properly in salute.

It took Braxton a moment to notice him. When he did, he turned even paler, almost dropped the bundles of logbooks and ledgers he bore. Then his eyes flared before slitting in anger, and mottled ire coloured his cheeks. "Goddamn you, sir!" Braxton bleated in a harsh whisper. "Happy now, are you, Lewrie? Happy now! May God damn you to hell!" he hissed, before stalking away for the entry-port.

"Hmm, well…" Lewrie shrugged to the flag lieutenant.

"Indeed, sir," that worthy rejoined with a sad, embarrassed moue.

"Lewrie. Good," Admiral Lord Hood grunted, as he mused upon the paperwork on his desk in the day cabin to which Lewrie had been shown. A festive display of linen, crystal, fine china and a sideboard buried in bottles he'd seen, in the dining coach and reception area. Evidently, the admiral would host a supper party that evening.

"Milord, so gracious of you to receive me," Alan replied.

"Take a pew, sir. A glass of something? Do avail yourself of a quite decent brandy, there, on the side table. Pour one for me, as well." Hood signed his name with a quill pen before rising to cross the cabin to join him. Hood accepted the glass Lewrie offered him and sat himself in the matching high-backed wing chair, crossing his legs as if ready to converse with a close acquaintance at his London club.

"Now, sir," Hood began, after a refreshing sip. "Read your account of Cockerel's performance last week. And that report I requested of you, anent her past since her commissioning. Appalling, simply appalling! But… there will be no court martial, I have to tell you, sir."

"I thought… sorry, milord," Lewrie sighed, disappointed, a bit appalled himself at the reach of patronage and politics.

"Matter's been dealt with," Hood was quick to assure him. "Can't abide being lied to, either by omission or commission. Most certainly, I cannot abide a scoundrel who will not support a fellow captain brought to action… a total poltroon, no matter how plausible his explanations. Nor one, sir, who will falsify log entries in such fraudulent manner."

For a disconcerting moment, Alan thought Hood was speaking of his actions, wondering if Braxton had lied his way out once more, even if his words on the quarterdeck sounded as if he hadn't.

"Braxton, sir," Hood continued with a disguised snort, "should never have had command of a harbour-watch cutter. Fascinating, really. Made all the appropriate noises 'bout fetching aid. Claimed he took your prize frigate, and that horse transport, can you believe it, for a brace o' warships, so he felt free to scuttle off, the situation being so well in hand! Changed his tune when pressed, though, said he could not accept battle against three frigates, could never be expected to do so… conveniently forgetting that he'd already misidentified your two ships, and was later amazed to learn that two foes were corvettes! Admitting, in essence, he'd put discretion above valour, and fled. Not only showing cowardice in the face of the enemy, but disobeying a direct order-from mine own hands, sir!-to safeguard the laggard ships to his utmost. What he could have done with a single 5th Rate 32, had he remained… your valiant action, sir, proved that most assuredly. As for lying to me, anent Naples… he and his clerk, most likely, rewrote portions of Cockerel's log for that period. No mention of sickness… yet never thinking that I would have in my possession correspondence from Sir William Hamilton which proved him a complete liar, sir! Well!"

"Didn't think he'd go that far, milord," Lewrie replied, easier.

"Put it to him direct," Hood said with a wolfish grin. "Take a court… of mine own appointing, d'ye see, sir… take his chances with a board of seven post-captains. Or he could, for reasons of health, throw up his command, ask to be relieved immediately, and go on the half-pay list. Return to civilian employment. Resume his service with 'John Company,' lucrative as that is. But, I was quick to assure him, I would append to his letter of resignation, a letter of mine own to Stephens and Jackson, and our Lords Commissioners, that while he may be continued on the roster for post-captains-indeed, may attain, should he live, to the very pinnacle of that list-he should never have another appointment of any kind… sea-going command or sinecure ashore. And further, that even should Captain Braxton rise to the highest seniority as post-captain, he shall never… never, sir!… be 'Yellow-Squadroned' as a flag officer. I believe that takes care of that problem, do you not as well, Mister Lewrie?" Hood all but snickered.

"I do, indeed, milord. Most handily despatched. With the very least harm to his son's career. Or to his family."

"I fully expect his letter of resignation aboard by eight bells of the morning watch. Failing that, well…!" Hood chortled, almost looking forward to a court martial. "Now, sir… Cockerel. She shall have a new captain aboard by eight bells of the forenoon, should Captain Braxton oblige me, and himself. Tell me all about her. Who needs weeding out. And explain this, uhm… mutiny which took place, sir."

For the next quarter-hour, Hood listened, having his flag lieutenant in to make notes. Nodding grimly, surprising Lewrie by laughing when he came to the mutineers.

"Aye," Hood said at last. "Mister Clement Braxton deserves a second chance. The midshipmen must be separated and assigned to new ships. Under a new order of captains. Tell me, Lieutenant Lewrie… you ended up with most of those men whom your captain deemed troublemakers. Did they ever cause you any grief, sir?"

"None, milord," Lewrie could state with assurance.

"Damme, loath as I am to turn a bund eye to an act of mutiny, or to condone the crime by taking no action against the perpetrators," Hood gloomed. 'Terrible times we live in, Lewrie. Rights of Man and this spirit of revolution, a world turned upside down, as it were… time out of mind, we've kept our sailors in strict discipline with the lash, which they understand. Now, faced with two nations which have revolted against the proper, ordained authority of their betters… I fear your Captain Braxton may become a more common figure aboard our ships, in future. As our tars absorb the radical, levelling teachings of the American Rebels and these French we fight, we may all have to become ever more watchful and taut-handed to keep Jack obedient. I should…"

"Excuse me, milord, but…" the flag lieutenant interrupted. "Your guests should even now be arriving."

"Aye, enough for now, then. You will do me the signal pleasure of dining aboard as my guest, Lieutenant Lewrie?"

"With all gratefulness for your kind hospitality, milord!" he replied, stunned by the invitation.

It was hearty English fare. Portable Navy soup, local fish in a vinegar sauce, chicken with vegetable removes, then salad, and roast beef, of course. Lewrie was in heady company: Admirals Gell, Goodall and Cosby, Captain Elphinstone off Robust, Nelson off Agamemnon, and a dozen more distinguished officers, Victory's Rear-Admiral Sir Hyde Parker and her flag captain John Knight, Holloway off Britannia, and Sir Thomas Byard off Windsor Castle, flag captain John Childs Purvis of GoodalFs Princess Royal and GelFs Captain Thomas Foley from the St. George, with a sprinking of commanders towards the middle of that groaning table, and a smattering of lieutenants who had distinguished themselves on detatched service at Toulon at its foot.

With the food came lashings of wine, a new one with every course-national origin be-damned-of which Lewrie took full measure, down near the token midshipman who served as Mister Vice at its far end. It was a convivial, very sociable supper, with many toasts made and drunk, and officers proposing individual "A glass with you, sir" duet toasts among themselves almost every minute. To observe them, it would have seemed hard to believe that these were officers who had just taken part in an appalling and embarrassing defeat.

Finally the last plates were cleared, the linen and water glasses removed, and cheeses fresh from England, nuts and extra-fine sweet biscuit set out with the port bottles, which began to circulate larboardly.

Hood was prosing on from the top of the table, conducting a conversation concerning the material condition of the ships brought away from Toulon, and no one sounded exactly pleased, Lewrie noted, though a touch "squiffy." Few of those prize vessels sounded like they'd been exactly good value returned upon their investment.

"Lieutenant Lewrie," Hood called out, making Alan start in his chair and set down his glass of port. "That vessel you brought off… Radical, was she? Tell us of her state, sir."

He explained the weeding, the slovenly dockyard work done by the French, the iron and copper, and the further damage she'd taken.

"Milord, gentlemen… I fear she may require a full quarter of this next year in dock, to set her right," Lewrie concluded, queazy with all eyes upon him. "Decommissioned, though… a chance to rename her?" he said with a quirky and shyly ingratiating grin.

"Quite!" Vice-Admiral Cosby grunted. "Can't have a ship named Radical in our Navy."

"Nothing radical allowed, ha ha," said Sir Thomas Byard, quite amused (and half-seas-over with drink).

"And those two corvettes you fought, Lieutenant Lewrie," Hood probed on. "The, uhm…"

"Oh, the Sans Culottes and the one we disabled, milord, the Libertй," Alan replied, sitting up straighter, or trying to. "Both are in decent condition, milord. Libertй requires minimal repairs… new masts, spars and canvas, mostly. Sans Culottes, perhaps a month in the yards to repair battle damage. Other than that, fully found."

"Three warships, the gallant Lieutenant Lewrie has won for us, gentlemen," Hood announced. "Though with so many of our vessels 'in-sight' at the moment the corvettes struck their colours, I fear little in the way of prize-money and head-money as reward."

"Dare I say, though, milord," Captain Nelson posed, "that given the parlous state of his prize frigate, lightly armed as she was, and with so many untrained civilian volunteers aboard… to dare a full three enemy vessels, cripple one, and take a second… was an act of such conspicuous skill, not to mention pluck and bottom… that Lieutenant Lewrie's gallantry, and his victory, were the true rewards."

"Hear, hear!" they shouted, lifting their glasses high, pounding their fists on the table.

"And I suppose," Hood said with a twinkle in his eye, after the tumult had died down, "that we may avail ourselves of those two ships' time in dock to decommission them, and rename them as well. Libertй, perhaps, is innocuous, but…"

"Tradition is to keep the name of the captured ship, milord," Sir Hyde Parker countered. "In sign to our foes that the Royal Navy's to be feared upon the seas."

"If only our foes had the good sense and common decency, Admiral Parker, to christen their vessels with worthy names," Captain Sir George Elphinstone of Robust rebutted with a chuckle, his comment raising a laugh among the others. "Sans Culottes! I ask you!"