Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

"Uhm, well… of course, sir," Devereux cautiously allowed, not finding any traps in such usage. They'd not have to mix with the crew in the waist on the 12-pounder great-guns, be allowed to trod a sacred quarterdeck… "A most sensible suggestion, sir."

"And I thank you for your cooperation, sir." Lewrie beamed.

"Purser, sir… Mister Coote," Ludlow rumbled.

"Your humble servant, sir," Proteus's "Nip-Cheese" stated, all agreeable and welcoming. Coote was a man in his forties, togged out in a plain blue coat and breeches, with a red waist-coat, and an unadorned black cocked hat. He seemed very anxious to please. Given Lewrie's long suspicion of "pussers," he wondered what sins that anxiety covered.

"Pleased t'make your acquaintance, Mister Coote," Lewrie said. "I wonder, though, sir…"

Rock him back on his heels right off, Lewrie told himself; works wonders, do they think you're onto 'em from the very first.

"The hands, Mister Coote." Lewrie frowned, all but making "tsk-tsk" duckings. "Your slop-clothing is not aboard yet, is it? That's why the new-comes are still in filthy civilian rags?"

"Why, nossir!" Coote gawped back, looking as if he wished he'd be able to wring his paws in distress. "No orders to release anything yet, Captain Lewrie. The First Lieutenant said to…"

"Told him to wait, sir," Ludlow snapped, " 'til the new captain had come aboard. Might not've cared for Captain Churchwell's choices, sir. Hammocks and such've been issued, but we were waiting to see how you wished 'em dressed, sir."

"And you now have aboard, Mister Coote…?" Lewrie prompted his purser. Damme, it sounds a reasonable decision after all, he thought. Some captains had odd preferences for their men's appearance. There was no regulated uniform for people "before the mast" yet.

"Red chequered calico shirts, sir," Coote informed him, with a wary glance towards Ludlow. "White duck trousers, blue duck… blue round jackets, black tarred hats, sir…"

"Issue blue slop-trousers then," Lewrie decided quickly. "A single pair o' white for Sunday Divisions. Two pair o' blue for sea-duty. Shows less dirt and tar, and they won't be spending half their 'Rope-Yarn Sundays' tryin' to scrub the white'uns clean."

"Aye, sir." Coote brightened. "And, sir, save on soap issue too. Trying to do their washing with salt water? Or a wee bucket of fresh, now and then?"

A pint a man, per day, for cleanliness-that was what was allowed for shaving, bathing (did any of them actually believe in such an activity!), or scrubbing.

"Exactly, Mister Coote," Lewrie chuckled. "Neckerchiefs? Oh, see what you may do 'bout finding some red'uns… for a distinguishing splash o' colour. Black hats… all of a piece, mind. So the people are as much alike in dress as we can make 'em, right from the first. A blue round jacket per man too. Brass buttons for rated men."

"I've black horn buttons for the rest, sir!" Coote enthused.

"Very well, then, Mister Coote, see to it," Lewrie ordered him. "And, Mister Ludlow, rig the wash-deck pumps and make sure the people are sluiced clean o' vermin an' such… have you not already? As the slop-clothing is issued."

"Aye, aye, sir," Ludlow agreed. Or at least it sounded as if he agreed; grudgingly, did he, though?

Then Lewrie met the ship's Surgeon, a Mr. Thomas Shirley, a gangly fellow in his mid-twenties, and his Surgeon's Mates; one was named Hodson, even younger and greener than Shirley, little better (he himself admitted) than an apothecary, in training as it were. Mr. Durant, though, was much older and boasted more experience. Had he been English-born, he might have held Shirley's berth. But Mr. Durant was йmigrй French. Landed like a gaffed fish on a strange shore, he'd wheedled a position from the Sick Hurt Board after two years of effort, the only way he had in a leery England to support his family, he sketched out for Lewrie's information, after trying the charity hospitals and private practice.

"You escaped, sir?"

"From Toulon, Capitaine, " Durant admitted. "Quel tragique …"

"Ah, I was there. Aye, it was, sir," Lewrie gloomed along with him. "We left at the same time, I should think. Night before…?"

"Oui, Capitaine. An' I know of you," Durant said. "What you did for so many Royalists you sail away from zere. Merci, Capitaine. I promise you grateful service, oui!"

"I count on it, sir," Lewrie replied.

"You'll be going to your cabins now, sir?" Ludlow supposed. "Get settled in, sir?"

"No." Lewrie frowned. "Might as well make the acquaintance of as many warrants as I can. Have the Bosun, his mate, the Master Gunner… the department heads, gather in the waist, Mister Ludlow."

"Aye, aye, sir," Ludlow answered, sounding aggrieved? Lewrie had to think, again. What was the man's problem? Bit more o' that, and I will really give him a problem t'fret over!

So while Andrews, Padgett, and Aspinall turned-to aft to erect his furnishings and possessions in the great-cabins, Lewrie descended to the gun-deck, admiring his lovely new artillery pieces. A crowd of older hands gathered 'round him. The Bosun was a Mr. Arthur Pendarves, a hawk-billed, sere fellow from Cornwall, who looked as if he'd spent most of his life squinting at wind and weather. As did his mate, Mr. Towpenny, a shorter, spritelier version from Bristol. Mr. Handcocks, the Master Gunner, a tall, lean, and balding fellow in his middle forties; and his mate, Mr. Morley, who was, again, younger. Mr. Garraway, their Carpenter; Mr. Reyne, the Sailmaker; Offley, the Armourer; the Yeomen of the Sheets, who served on the sail-trimming gangways, Betts and Robbins; the Yeoman of The Powder, who served in the magazine; a man named Kever, who looked as pasty as if he hadn't left the magazine since his teens; the three Quartermasters: Motte, Austen, and O'Leary; Hickey, a young apprentice Sailmaker's Mate; a whole slew of Quarter Gunners- Proteus was rated a full eight petty-officer gunners; Dowe, O'Hare, and Magee, who were the Quartermaster's Mates on the helm; the gloomy Mr. Neale, who was their Master At Arms and had probably been born gloomy; and a brace of Ship's Corporals-Burton and Ragster. And, of course, they all made the lame jape that that poor fellow was "Ragster-riches"!

Nugent and Shoemake, the Master's Mates, Nugent being another Irishman. Lewrie was beginning to notice that they had more than their fair share of hands aboard from that unhappy and rebellious isle! And finally, the midshipmen-all bloody six of them.

There were the young'uns-Midshipmen Elwes and Nicholas, both about fourteen or fifteen and seemingly sweet-natured and a tad shy. There was a Midshipman Sevier, who looked to be around eighteen, the sort who would bob and choke on even polite conversation. A slightly older, and very quick-witted, Mr. Adair, but, being a Scot, and well-educated in comparison to his English contemporaries, he would seem to be witty; a Mr. Catterall, who was now twenty-one, a blond-haired wag Lewrie could deduce at once-he was most notably from Lanes, for all his local accent; and finally, Mr. Midshipman Peacham, a tad older in his mid-twenties, a very tarry customer, but one unfortunate in "interest" or patronage so far. He was curtly polite, horny-handed; the type of senior midshipman Lewrie thought he could depend on from his first impression. Peacham looked the perfect image of a real tarpaulin man, of the most knowledgeable sort, and overdue for a lieutenancy.

He shared a few words with them all, taking over an hour or more to do so. Though he doubted he'd be able to recall all those names by 4:00 a.m. when they rose to scrub decks and begin the ship's day, he was of the opinion that making the effort to reach out was the main thing. Not so chearly with them as to be taken for a "Popularity Jack," but it never hurt to try and size people up and make them realise that he was not a tacit, tyrannical Tartar either.

"Well, gentlemen…" He shrugged at last. "I hope you will not take it to heart if I have to ask your names again over the next week. Too long aboard a smaller ship, where after a time one'd wish to see just one unfamiliar face. Until the morrow. Oh, Mister Pendarves?"

"Aye, sir," the Bosun replied, perking up, yet looking guarded.

"Once the hands have eat tomorrow, we'll look her over," Lewrie warned him. "Keel to trucks, and me in my worst slop-clothing. Then you may tell me what you lack, before we fall downriver."

"Well, sir… hands for work'd be my mainest plaint, sir," Mr. Pendarves told him bluntly. "Recruit or press more hands, sir. We are in fair shape for stores and such, else. A tad light on rations… keep her draught light for the trip to the Nore, sir, where we'll stock, at Sheerness."

"But given fair recruiting here at Chatham, a few more Able or Ordinary Seamen… and a week's 'River Discipline,' we could let slip, Mister Pendarves?" Lewrie pressed him for his opinion.

"Aye, sir. Could." The Bosun shrugged, almost wincing.

"But…" Lewrie queried closer, getting a bit fed up with all the tiptoe-y responses he'd gotten since he'd stepped aboard. "Might you think there's a reason not?"

"Recruitin', sir," Pendarves muttered in a gruff voice, taking off his hat to stand like a supplicant labourer at the rear door of his master. "Warrants an' petty officers, some of their mates, an' friends… a first draught off th' receivin' ship. An' Cap'um Churchwell's men… that's all we have, sir. Doubt we find many more willin'; not here in Chatham, Captain. Cause o'…" Pendarves winced again at being on the spot, of being the one to bring bad news.

"Oh, I see." Lewrie nodded, cocking his head to one side. "There is her… reputation to deal with."

"Aye, sir… that'd be it, mainly." Pendarves flushed.

"Many aboard wish they could turn over into a new ship, Bosun?"

"Well, sir… there's more than a few Irish aboard… hands outa the West Country too, sir. An' I know it sounds daft, but…"

"West Country yourself, I'd guess, Mister Pendarves?" Lewrie interjected and received a bob of the Bosun's head. "Welsh, Devonian, Cornish… men who think her cursed. Men who wish off her?"

"Some, like I say, sir," Pendarves confessed.

"Hmmm… how well did Captain Churchwell do at recruiting then?" Lewrie wondered.

"Well… right awful, Captain." Pendarves grimaced for bearing even more bad news. "Onliest volunteers, d'ye see, were shipmates come aboard t'sail with old friends, sir. 'Pressed men, a few hands turned over from the hulks… Quota Men'n such. Cap'um Churchwell only tried but a few days 'fore he was, uhm… when the chaplain drowned. Give it up, I s'pose, right after, sir."

"And the First Officer, Mister Ludlow?" Lewrie frowned. "Went ashore and tried too, did he? Afterwards? After Captain Churchwell departed?"

"A day or two, sir, but… jacks see him comin', they'd scamper off 'fore he could trot out an ale!" Bosun Pendarves marvelled that British tars would refuse even free drinks, no matter could they sign up, or refuse to, at a 'rondy.' "Come back two days, since, an'…"

Pendarves bit off any trace of criticism of an officer.

"I see." Lewrie sighed, pacing about the deck, over to larboard to lay a hand on one of his new Blomefield Pattern 12-pounders, to lean a hip against the gun's cascabel and the swell of the breech. "Short of real sailors and too many landsmen lubbers. Can't crew her with a pack of know-nothings right out of gaol. Unless… unless Proteus is really a very lucky ship after all, Mister Pendarves."

"Lucky, sir?" The Bosun came near to openly scoffing.