Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

"I shouldn't worry over it much," an unfamiliar lieutenant told him in a whisper. "The court martial only hanged three out often and let the rest off, lenient as possible, didn't they, now. Read Edward Christian's Minutes of the Court Martial, and the scales will balance. Fletcher Christian's brother, don't ye know?" the man sniggered. 'The First Lord, Lord Chatham… I'm told he's issued word he'd only award Bligh with a ship should Hell freeze over. Won't even give him the time of day, is the rumor! No berth to be had with him. Thank the Good Lord."

"So I've…" Lewrie sighed with a wry grin at his toadying.

"Right. Pissed down his back for nought," the other chortled.

"An occupational hazard of ours, though. Is it not, sir?" he posed with a sardonic Lift of one brow, to cover his chagrin over being so toadying. And so obvious at it.

"Oh, it is, indeed, sir!" the other officer agreed heartily, equally taken by the drollery of it all. "Hypocrisy in the service of one's career is no vice at all. One must simply be aware of when, and most importantly, to whom, one is the canting toad. Will you take tea with me, sir?"

By late afternoon, the Waiting Room was just as crowded, though at least a third of its denizens, who hid their impatience (or their dismay) behind poses of bemused boredom, stoic sternness or glum patience, were new arrivals. And Lewrie's name still had not been called. Fearing he'd miss his grand moment to ascend to the Board Room, or at least receive his orders in writing from a harried clerk, he had not even dared take time away to dine, not even as far as the inner courtyard, where one might buy dubious victuals off vendors' carts beyond the curtain wall and portal. His innards were growling by then, much as they had when he was an underfed midshipman. And the gallons of tea he had taken aboard! When a secretary at last announced that the day's business was at an end, he forgot dignity, and notions of rank, to outrun half a dozen dozy post-captains to "the jakes," where he passed water prodigiously as a cart horse, for a rather long time.

Tomorrow, he told himself, as he plodded, swell-footed after standing since breakfast, for Whitehall Steps and a boat back to his lodgings. Tomorrow'll be my day.

The Admiralty's letter had been penned on the 20th, and Lewrie had received it on the 22nd, arriving in person on the morning of the 23rd. Yet, by the morning of February 1, his "tomorrow" had yet to come. To save money, they had removed to Willis' Rooms, in New Bond Street, down at the fashionable end, closest to his old haunts around St. James'. Closer by road to Whitehall, too, so Alan could hire a one-horse hack to and from, for less than his ferryman cost daily.

He was completely fagged out, again, of course. Caroline had delighted him with yet another night of honeymoon passion, and that after a public-subscription ball at Ranelagh Gardens; a night of fine food, music alternating between patriotic and lushly romantic, and an almost palpable aura of frenetic enthusiasm. Young men in uniforms had suddenly sprang from everywhere, and young ladies to match, torn between tears of separation and last-opportunity wantonness. Caroline had come down to their common parlour in a new ball gown, a caprice of the times, like some Grecian goddess sprung from the frieze of a precious, ancient urn. Her gown was closer fitting, almost a sheath, with fewer petticoats, and scandalously hemmed above the toes, almost to her ankles, with an artfully ragged turn-back to reveal the lace of one petticoat. Her waistline was very high, her bodice low-scooped to reveal decolletage, sleeves short and gauzy, all but baring arms and shoulders. And about her neck she wore a red-velvet riband choker. What fixed his intense, open-mouthed stare was her hair-it had turned into a tangled nest of Medusas, tousled, ratted, snarled and dangled in crimped ringlets.

"What the blazesT he'd gawped. Caroline had turned herself into a cross between a Dago peasant and a Covent Garden whore who'd had a rather hard night of it!

"All the rage," Caroline had chuckled, pirouetting for him. "It is 'a la victime,' dearest. Like the French aristocrats in the tumbrils going to the guillotine? The riband… for poor, beheaded King Louis and Marie Antoinette. You… you do not care for it?" she asked hesitantly, losing her gay demeanour and her confidence.

"My word!" he gasped. "It's so…" He had been about to say that he did not, in the least, care for his wife to go out so scandalously attired, sure she would be hooted, and dunged, by the Mob. Yet seven years "Active Service" with her, standing "Watch-And-Watch" on their quarterdeck, warned him he'd crush her if he told her what he really thought. Hoping such clothes were indeed "all the rage," he decided to brazen it out and agree to deem it Fashion.

And…

Damme if she don't look fetchin', like a whole new woman, Alan had thought; fetchin' enough to eat … on the spotl Wanton, bold and brazen. Always been favourites o' mine, God help me. No sober-sided matron tonight! Aye, I think I do like it, after all. Brand new, as smart as paint… an' triced up like a present, to be unwrapped.

"Caroline!" he'd said at last, beaming forced, but total, approval. "It's so different, you look so…! So deuced handsome. Lovely! Surely, I'm the luckiest man in England tonight.

Gawd, come 'ere, you. Let me shew you how much I adore it. So artfully… uhm, artless!"

And to the titters and blushes of the house staff at Willis', her maid's and Cony's smiles, he had taken her in his arms and given her a long, rewarding kiss, right there in the public rooms.

And his fears had been groundless. At the ball, there had been ladies, some with barely a jot of Caroline's sublime face and form, in a la victime mode, some carrying it so far as to look as bedraggled as Irish peasants. And flesh; more flesh bared that night by younger ladies (and high-priced courtesans) than a man might see had he owned a "knocking-shop," all of which inflamed Lewrie's lustful humours.

They'd drunk Frog champagne as if it were a patriotic duty to expunge the last trace from the British Isles, danced together round after round, had circulated 'round the rotunda, talking too loudly, laughing too gaily, greeting old acquaintances. And had gone home, after a midnight collation, for that longed-for "unwrapping."

"It's war!" The rumour began, just about eleven in the morning. The traffic in messengers through the lobby and foyer, up the stairs to the Board Room and offices, increased; and those couriers sent out with despatch cases and bundles of papers were in more haste than was their usual wont. Elderly Admiral Howe made an appearance, almost arm in arm with Lord Chatham, the First Lord, on the way upstairs, whispering and frowning grave, dyspeptic stoicism.

"It's war with the Frogs!" Hopefuls began to gossip, breathless with barely subdued excitement, their eyes bright as famished hounds at the prospect of scraps.

"Heard the latest?" one boasted, as if he had. " France marched into Holland yesterday. Their ambassador's packing his traps. We'll declare by midafternoon. War at last! Employment at last!"

"No, no… 'twas Austria," decried a second officer, refuting that round of news when it got to him. "Prussia, Naples… that last decree from Paris, 'bout supporting republican insurrections anywhere in Europe… they're all coming in as a coalition, 'cause of that."

"Did they march into the Austrian Netherlands yet?"

"It'd be about time, should you ask me. There's their General Coburg, with a real army…"

"Finest in Europe," opined several together.

"… sitting on their hands nigh on a whole year," continued the speaker, "feared of a tagrag-and-bobtail horde o' Frog peasants-led by former corporals, so pray you-'stead o' kickin' their arses out o' their territories a week after the invasion."

"We should have declared when France took Antwerp," another anonymous strategist declared strongly. "Why, we might as well give up the Continental, and the Baltic trade, else. What's next on the Frogs' menu? Amsterdam… Copen-haven… Hamburg?"

Finally a commodore, fresh from the seat of power in the Board Room, came down the stairs, and was almost mobbed for information. He held up a hand to silence their fervent queries.

"The true facts which obtain, sirs…" he announced solemnly. "Very early this morning, His Majesty's Brig o' War Childers, standing off-and-on without the harbour of Brest, was fired upon by French batteries. Word has reached us by the semaphore towers that she was struck several times by heavy round-shot. Childers will come in, to display her damage, and the French round-shot… in her timbers, and upon her decks."

"But, are we at war, sir?" several officers demanded.

"Better you should ask of Lord Dundas, or Lord Grenville, for that, sirs," the commodore rejoined, snippish at their lack of deference to a senior officer, and their lack of decorum. "The Secretaries of State, and the Foreign Office… our Sovereign and Parliament, will best answer." The commodore glared them to silence, harumphed a last broadside of displeasure, settled his waistcoat, and stalked away to gather his things.

"It's come!" Alan Lewrie muttered to himself, feeling a thrill run up his spine to be there, on such a momentous occasion. Secretly pleased, though, to know there would be no more indecision, no more delays. Soon he would be aboard a ship again. The time for half-measures and tentative mobilisation was ended. "By God, it's come!"

"It's war!" a lieutenant nearby cried exultantly, lifting his arms in glee. "Glorious war, at last!"

Lewrie cocked his head to peer at him searchingly, as he and his compatriots pummeled each other on the back and chortled happily. Of course, he was very young, the lieutenant, he and all his fellows in badly tailored, ill-fitting "pinchbeck" uniforms. His sword was a cheap Hamburg, not even ivoried or gilded, with a brass grip sure to betray him and turn in his grasp were his palms ever damp.

Second or third sons, the honourably penniless, with no means of livelihood but the sea, and warfare. For these desperately eager young men, peace had been a death sentence, stranding them miserly and sour on half-pay and annual remittance, perhaps, of less than fifty pounds altogether. But war, now…!

Prize-money, full pay, loot from captured ships, and a chance to practice their sea-craft, to gain advancement… to be noticed at last. Weaned as they were, as Lewrie had been, on personal honour, on "bottom" so bold they'd dare Death itself to display gay courage, risk life and limb for undying fame and glory… ox fall gloriously at the very moment of a famous victory… well, now!

Surely, Lewrie thought; the fools must recall the dangers, the fevers… the rancid food, foul living conditions… storms and peril! They weren't ignorant midshipmen, starry-eyed and joining their first ship! They'd gone months without a letter, years of separation, seen shipmates slaughtered, scattered in pieces like an anatomy lesson at a teaching hospital, hopelessly wounded men passed out the gunports alive to clear the fighting decks, dead sewn up in shrouds… or the permanently crippled amputees, the blind, the…!

'Course, there's more'n a few thought me perverse, for sneerin' at death-or-glory. No one, in his right mind, goes out of his way to die a hero, does he? 'Leastways, I didn't. Not to say that Fortune didn't have her way with me, whether I wished or no. I mean, dead is dead, for God's sake, and what's the bloody point of…