Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

An odd lot, those officers he'd just barely met too; not quite the most promising at first appearance. But then, who ever was, Lewrie sarcastically wondered?

Then here came the phrase he hated the most. Army commissions were almost like love-letters, replete with "Greetings," and spoke of the recipients as "trusty and beloved," in whom the Sovereign reposed "especial Trust and Confidence in your Loyalty, Courage, and Good Conduct." The Fleet, however…

'… superior Officers for His Majesty's Service. Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril. And for so doing this shall be your Warrant. Given under our hands and the Seal of the Office of Admiralty this ninth day of May, 1797 in the thirty-seventh year of His Majesty's Reign.' "

Lewrie carefully slipped his precious commission document into a folio of other papers and handed it to his Cox'n, Andrews, then turned to peer once more into that sea of strange new faces, that ear-cocked, shuffling pack.

"Not many get this chance," he carefully began, weighing words' meanings. "A spanking-new ship to serve in, not a month from the slipways, a ship still in search of her heart, her soul, as young and callow as a spring hatchling."

And we 'II just hope she's not found a spiteful heart, he wished to himself, feeling the urge to cross his fingers behind his back, for luck. He noted the grave nods from the older hands, the long-serving petty officers who knew the nature of ships; from those horny-handed men already clad in slop clothing whom he wished he could mistake for experienced Ordinary or Able Seamen upon whom he could rely.

"A spanking-new captain, too," he allowed himself to say, with no shame in confessing, "from command of one of the sweetest sloops of war ever you did see. You older men… you know better than any what makes a new ship come alive. From your old ships, where you came of age and rate… gladsome ships, for the most part, I trust. Do you miss them, well… you just bring our Proteus that spirit, and we'll get on well. Did you come from ships you're glad to see the back of, did you fetch along bad habits and bad feelings, well… overside with 'em, For I will tell you all that I'm firm… but I do trust that I'm fair, as well. Did some turnover as bad bargains… then Proteus is your place to start over with a clean slate. Do you serve her… and me… chearly, then all that's gone before is so much jetsam. Is that a fair bargain, lads?"

Men cleared their throats and coughed, shuffled their feet, and cut their eyes left or right; but they also nodded and gave voice to a grudging assent, with a chorus of "Aye, sir."

"You new-comes"-Lewrie continued, allowing himself to smile again and shaking his head at them-"outright volunteers…'pressed… drug off drunk or bashed senseless." He waited and heard moans or suppressed titters of bleak amusement from some at their predicament, a few louder guffaws from the true sailors at the plight of their new shipmates.

"For the Joining Bounty, or to serve your King and Country"-Lewrie sobered-"to clear off of trouble or to get out of gaol, I could care less either. There's an old saw in the Fleet that says, 'You shouldna joined if ya can't take a joke.' And, perhaps, now you have had a tiny taste o' Navy life, you're wondering what in God's name you got yourselves into, hey? But… no matter where you came from, or where the Navy found you, you start with a clean slate too. Every man present-the others we'll recruit or bring aboard in the coming weeks before we sail-will become… sailors," he stressed. "Seamen… Royal Navy seamen. Oh yes, we'll make sailors of you, you mark my words! Fighting sailors, who could look the Devil in the eye and tell him to go piss himself! Sailors who can swagger into any tavern the wide world 'round and be respected… no matter where you set out in life; no matter what you did before. You new-comes… is that a fair bargain for you then?"

Pathetic, really. Some of them purse-lipped and too proud, too shattered by their comedown; some so hangdog morose, who stared down at their feet so that it appeared they hadn't heard a word he'd said; some cutty-eyed and cynical, all but ready to spit on the decks in sullen truculence at such a promise, when every promise made to them had been broken, time and again. Most, though, Lewrie was happy to see, did respond with a whipped puppy eagerness, wary but hopeful.

"And as we make you sailors… teach you the hard things which you have to know to serve this ship properly"-Lewrie promised them-"and I'll tell you now; it'll be hard learning; ships and the sea are the hardest task-mistresses of any calling, and we'll not have time to be always gentle or as patient as you'd probably like… we'll make you something even finer… we'll make shipmates. Make you seamen… so proud of serving in Proteus… of being known as Proteuses"- or should we call 'em Proteans? he pondered, unable to resist the urge to stick his tongue firmly in his cheek-"that this strange new horde of names and faces will become as familiar to you-perhaps as close to you-as your own families. That's bein' shipmates. For each other, when no one else is. For each other, when things are bleakest. With each other in danger's hour. Or with each other, in the good times. Shipmates. Sailors… and warriors. A fine calling to aspire to. No finer name, nor sentiment to admire. And we'll do it together. Me… you new-come lads, and our experienced hands. Startin' fresh… together. In this marvelous new ship of ours. Starting today. That's all, for now. Mister Ludlow, dismiss the people and carry on."

"Aye, aye, sir," Lieutenant Ludlow piped up in a gravely basso.

Lewrie turned his head to look at him, sensing something sardonic in his First Officer's tone of voice; a weary amusement, from having heard such inspiriting "guff" once too often from a new captain, was it?

He was a man of about Lewrie's age, or perhaps a year or two older; wide-shouldered and thickset, with a sea-browned, sea-whipped visage half gone to well-worn leather. His features were regular enough to be unremarkable, but for a sour, down-turned mouth, and a pervading stolidity of manner. As if he'd seen it all long before, heard it all, been there and back…

Lewrie could pretty-well sense that Lt. Simon Ludlow would never be one of those shipmates he 'd recall with much fondness in later years. Competent, humourless, perhaps a bit resentful to be serving a younger man?, Or wary and guarded in their first days of association? 'Long as he did a thorough job though, it didn't signify.

His other two lieutenants were a rosier prospect, as he got an introduction to them. Second Officer Anthony Langlie was in his midtwenties and, again, a fellow of regular-enough features to be unremarkable-the sort found in an hundred gunrooms in the Navy; about as tall as Lewrie was, long and lean and rangy, with romantically curly hair in the newfangled style which had set half the London chick-a-biddies in a swoon; dark, curly hair; smallish brown eyes set rather far apart under a beetling brow. He was all affable and cheery though and seemed the type who'd retained a devil-may-care streak beneath his professionalism.

The Third Lieutenant, Lewis Wyman, was much younger, just about as "fresh-hatched" as Lewrie had deemed the ship and crew; for Proteus was his first ship as a Commission Officer. He was a gracious, puckish lad of twenty-one or twenty-two; fair-complected and ginger-haired, with blue eyes, and a "my goodness gracious" callowness about him, as if seeing the sea for the very first time. He was half a minnikin, at least three inches shorter than Lewrie's five-foot-nine, and looked fair to being blown away like swan's down by their first good gale. His handshake, though, was vise-like, proper-calloused, and rope-toughened.

"Delighted to be here, sir… quite," Lt. Wyman assured him as he bobbed and grinned, unabashedly cheerful.

Lewrie turned to the next fellow, his new Sailing Master.

"Mister Winwood, sir…" Ludlow supplied in a politish rasp.

"Your servant, sir," Winwood intoned carefully, doffing his hat to him. He was youngish for a Master, perhaps a bit beyond mid-thirties… primmer and of a soberer mien than most of Lewrie's experience, with an accent more like squirearchy Kentish, Lewrie assumed at first hearing.

"Do we sail waters with which I'm unfamiliar, I'd expect it to be me, your servant, Mister Winwood," Lewrie allowed with an easy grin.

"Oh." Winwood took time to ponder, as if to remind himself that people did, now and then, make jests. "Of course, Captain. I see your point."

"In falling down the Medway to the Nore of a certainy." Lewrie nodded back. "Only done it the once… thankee, Jesus."

Winwood seemed to wince a bit. At the blasphemy, Lewrie asked himself, or was it me blabbin' how new-come I am? God, take hold o'yer bloody errant tongue and act like a proper captain ought! Solemn, all-wise… and dyspeptic!

"Weil see her safe, Captain, sir," Winwood declared, devoutly earnest. "Rest assured of it."

"With your able guidance, Mister Winwood, I harbour no qualms whatsoever," Lewrie glibly replied more forthrightly and looking him straight in the eye. "The same able guidance you'd have given Captain Churchwell," he added, hoping for an inkling into Proteus's mystery.

"A sorrowful pity, sir." Winwood nodded. "Him and his chaplain both. You'd not, uhm… pardon me for asking, sir, but… will you be carrying a chaplain on ship's books as well?"

"Hadn't planned on it, Mister Winwood," Lewrie answered, keeping a straight face. "More room for 'em aboard a ship of the line."

"Ah, I see, sir." Winwood gloomed, sounding a bit crestfallen.

'Twos the blasphemy, Lewrie decided, as he turned away to greet another stranger; Hell, p'raps me soundin' cunny-thumbed too. Has to be another o' Churchwell's sort … a proper Bible-thumper.

"Leftenant Devereux, sir," Ludlow supplied, putting stress to the "Lef- " as the Army and Marines pronounced it. "In charge of our marine contingent." And once more sounding almost taunting with that slight oddity of stress. It obviously irked Devereux, for that young officer suffered a tic in one cheek as he was introduced.

"First Lef-tenant Blase Devereux, Captain Lewrie, sir," that immaculate worthy added, as he doffed his hat. "M'sergeant, Skipwith, down yonder. Corp'rals O'Neil-he's the one puddin'-faced brawler from Limerick, sir; Plympton, sir, our Devonian. Full complement of Marines, sir… forty privates all told," Devereux offered, with a stiff-backed professional air, though still managing to sound miffed. He was in his late-twenties, as elegant and lint-less a paragon of marine "spit-and-polish" as any. A gentleman, Lewrie decided at once, with a private income in addition to his pay. And a grudge 'gainst Ludlow?

"Lieutenant Devereux, sir," Lewrie said, with a faint smile on his face and offering his hand. "Don't mind your Marines gettin' yer hands dirty now and again, do you, sir?",

"Uhm… in what manner, sir?" Devereux blinked, suspicious of common pulley-hauley duties. The enforced separation between sailors and Marines, put aboard to guard against mutiny and disorders, was an ever touchy subject; the marine complement's disdain for ship-work was not to be violated-or the two communities allowed to mingle too freely.

"I've found aboard my previous ships, sir, that the Marines were some of the best shots with the carriage-guns," Lewrie told him. "Did we fight short-handed, sir, I'd admire did the Marines practice at artillery drill. The quarterdeck carronades, 6-pounders, swivels…?"