Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

And if it all goes to shit, he assured himself, though still a bit more than a tad shuddery; we just douse sail and drop anchors. Do we meet a string o' barges, or get goin' too fast, we brace the tops 'Is aback to slow down. Balance wind 'gainst tide… just sit in one spot for a bit…? As long as the wind complied and continued out of the Nor'east, it was-quite illogically and most disconcertingly-what was known as "smooth sailing"!

"Neatly done, sir," the river pilot drawled, with a beamish eye. "Incredible, ain't it… what you can do with a ship, do you set your mind to it? Short handed you may be, Captain Lewrie, but you've a talented batch of officers and mates. Includin' yerself, sir. Goes without sayin'."

"Ah… hmm, well," Lewrie cautiously allowed, wondering if he was being twitted. There was still plenty of river left in which he could come a spectacular cropper. Don't know what the blaies I'm about, he chid himself. Never done this in me life; don't know… damn fraud!

"This'll be the worst stretch, sir," the pilot went on, rocking on the balls of his feet, looking as if he'd be inclined to sing or hum in another minute. "No traffic this early it seems. Once to the bend Sou'east into Gillingham Reach, we'll be off the wind on larboard tack. Inner, outer jibs, an' foretopmast stays'l to get her bows down, then we'll fly for a spell. Tricky bit there, sir, oh mercy!" the pilot enthused. "Tricky as anything."

"Indeed!" Lewrie snapped, feeling more reason for misery. "Traffic, for certain, in Gillingham Reach, sir," the man went on, most blithe. "Upriver boats huggin' the weather shore, and us to cross the Reach and hug it too… beam-reachin' the wind for the main channel. Nasty shoals t'loo'rd, I can tell ye, so ye won't wish to be forced down on 'em. Where the channel narrows, 'fore it opens up once more? Sutherly pass below the shoals is possible, but 'tis fearsome narrow, and this tide'll be ebbin' too quick to trust to it by the time we get there. Short, sharp, beat t'weather into the northern channel where there's more room, I'd suggest, Captain Lewrie. Barring the odd lighters and ignorant barge captains, hey? Or some brute of a iiner' comin' upriver for a refit, ha, ha? No worry though, sir. We'll be right as rain. Right… as… rain, ha, ha!"

If I didn't need him so damn' much, Lewrie grimly told himself, I think I could most cheerfully kill him!

"Uhm… Mister Ludlow. Sheet home the spanker," he instructed instead, bleakly taking in their progress, taking notice of what lay outboard, again. "We're stern-high." "Aye, aye, sir!"

He looked aft. Amazingly, Chathman and Rochester 's spires were already far astern, the King's Stairs unable to be seen. He'd sailed his family "under the horizon" and hadn't had the time to give them a final backward glance, even a last wave of his hat. Proteus, according to the small-scale chart tacked to the traverse board by the binnacle cabinet, was already nearly two miles downriver, within a mile of the bend into Gillingham Reach and making a goodly way on the strengthening tide. He'd been too busy to notice, would still be busy… about as busy as a one-armed tavejn wench, 'til they got into the estuary by Queenborough, within sight of Sheerness and the wider mouth of the rivers in the Nore anchorage, where they could drop anchor at last between the Isle of Sheppey and the Isle of Grain.

He felt a surge of remorse, which rose to dominate his worries of handling this strange new ship, for ignoring his family so completely. Yet beneath his qualms from imagining the disaster which still could happen… he felt a sense of relief. Loved and cherished as they were, he was free of them, freed from their concerns, their domestic

God, yer such a callous bastard, he sighed to himself!

Across the lowlands, marshes, and mudflats, the Nor'east winds brought a faint hint of deeper waters, of ocean beyond. He was free, almost asea once more, in a spanking-new frigate. With a bit more luck to this short passage, he'd be at the edge of the sea, almost ready for anything…

Whack! Quickly followed by an outraged yelp.

Lewrie turned to see one of the new-comes in the afterguard on his knees by the weather braces for that backed mizzen tops'l. Mr. Peacham stood over him, with a petty officer close by, whacking at his palm with a rope "starter."

"Gittup, ya stewpid git!" the petty officer snarled. "You'll learn t'keep yer hands off that brace 'til I tells ya t'tail on!"

"Worn't gonna free it," the lubber carped, getting back to his feet, " 'twoz just seein' 'ow ya tie h'it proper… ow!"

Midshipman Peacham cuffed the volunteer on the side of his head, sending him sprawling again. "None of your civilian sauce, damn you! No back talking to your betters!" He held out a hand to demand of the petty officer his starter, as if he planned to lash the unfortunate to the deck until he learned. The other new-comes stood aghast, and even the few experienced men of the afterguard looked cutty-eyed over it.

"Mister Peacham, sir!" Lewrie barked. "A word with you. Sir."

Peacham put on a bland expression and came to his side, dutiful and obedient.

"Mister Peacham," Lewrie muttered, leaning close so others could not hear. "We're short-handed and barely a herd, much less a crew yet. I will allow the Bosun and his mates to 'touch up' crewmen when necessary, but damme if my midshipmen will lay hands on our people. You will not indulge in such again, sir. Do I make my meaning clear to you?"

"Uh, aye, sir. Perfectly clear, sir," Peacham managed to choke out, still striving for blandness, though seeming appalled by the idea that physical force would be denied him.

"Officers are not allowed such," Lewrie expanded with a growl of displeasure. "You, sir, are an officer in training. You must learn to enforce discipline and obedience without resorting to violence on your own part. That's what the senior hands are for."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Peacham nodded.

"And you will caution your petty officer to save his starter, and his fists, for worse reasons than a new-come's curiosity," Lewrie concluded. "Storm, battle, imminent shipwreck, a real cause for haste, sir! Not to preface a warning about accidentally slacking the mizzen weather brace. Can he not instruct and lead without his starter, then I'll find myself a likely lad who can. You will put him on notice on that head, Mister Peacham. Firmly and forcefully. Lead… not drive!"

"Aye, aye, Captain." Peacham nodded again, sounding grave, but looking a touch wary of his new commanding officer's ways. He doffed his hat and departed.

Lewrie whirled about to see if Proteus had gone out of control during his intimate tirade, but found her drifting along rather nicely, still broadside-on to the river and the wind, and nearing the bend into Gil-lingham Reach. There was a small two-master anchored on the weather shore, unable to stem the tide with her sails on that light wind. She was far out of the main channel and would present no threat. Over the waving marsh grasses and stunted trees, he could see what he took for a large sailing barge 'round the bend. It was going to get exciting in a minute!

"When we bear up to windward, then haul off, sir?" he enquired of the river pilot. "How much depth is there, do we intend to shave the eastern lee shore and avoid yon barge, sir?"

"Bags o' water, sir, 'til you're within half a cable of shore," the pilot breezed off with a wave of his hand in the general direction. "Barge'll bear up, I'd expect, Captain. He already sees us, and he'll not wish to get any further down to loo'rd than he is at present," he said, then took a half-step closer to caution, "Were I you, sir, 'tis about time to bare the spanker and swing her bows windward, ready to haul off and fly once we're mid-channel of the bend, sir."

"Mizzen tops'l?" Lewrie fretted in a whisper. "Spanish reef 'til we're round and clear of the barge?"

"I would, sir, aye."

"Very well. Mister Ludlow? Hoist the spanker and stand by to brail up the mizzen tops'l… Spanish reefed, and ease the weather brace. Stand by to hoist the inner jib once we're off the wind."

"Aye, aye, sir," Ludlow parroted, barking orders through a brass speaking trumpet so there'd be no confusion (well, as little as possible anyway) and no chore left undone for lack of hearing. That done, he turned inboard to look at Lewrie, waiting for a nod of acknowledgment that his orders were complete. And did he barely smirk, with one eye cast aft towards the afterguard and that recent incident?

It could have been innocent, Lewrie fumed; wryness over a newly gettin' whomped. Or was it wryness over me bein' soft?

Peacham and Ludlow, so he'd learned in the few days he'd had to familiarise himself with ship and crew, had served together before; and Peacham had come aboard on Ludlow 's recommendation. The younger gentlemen volunteers were of the previous captain's choosing, allowed berths to foster support and "interest" with patrons.

Damme, Lewrie fretted; is Proteus t'be Cockerel all over again? A pack o' brutes I'll have to watch like a hawk 'fore they ruin this ship with starters an' the lash? Beat an' cuff this crew right from the start an' poison her? Damme, there's mutiny enough in the Fleet already for that shitten sort! Won't they ever…?

"Brail up mizzen tops'l, bare the inner jib tack!" Lewrie shouted. Proteus swung up bows to windward a bit too far for his liking, tops'ls rustling and unable to draw enough wind. The tide would carry her about, but…

"Better… wait for it…" he counseled, as his frigate wafted on, angled for the centre of the river bend, pointed right at that unfortunate barge which was now seen to be towing two empty lighters, each with a scrap of lugsail aloft on short masts to help out. An eye for the lee shore, judging drift to leeward once they turned, and…

"Helm over, Quartermasters," he cried. "Lee tops'l braces, lee jib sheets! Hoist the inner jib, hoist spanker!"

Proteus began to swing to the right, taking the faint breeze on her larboard side, the tops'ls wheeling about and filling once more as the winds found them, the mizzen tops'l creaking as it pivoted, and the spanker filling and whooshing from left to right above the quarterdeck. There was a chuckle of water 'neath her stern, 'round her transom post and her rudder, as she began to gather way, faster than the tide could draw her.

Missed you by a bloody mile! Lewrie crowed to himself, seeing the barge captain waving a fist (and making some very English gestures) in his direction as Proteus bore off and began to rumble downriver… at least two musket-shots clear of collision with barge or lighters.

"Quartermasters, a full point to weather… mid-channel," Lewrie instructed. "Once abeam the wind, allow nothing to loo'rd."

"Aye, aye, sir… nothin' t'loo'rd," Mr. Motte the senior said.

There's one tricky bit over, Lewrie congratulated himself; now… only four or five more t'go 'til we're safe as houses. He gave his First Officer, Ludlow, another searching glance; but he was huddled in his coat, round-shouldered and enigmatic once more. Lewrie turned to spy aft at Peacham and the afterguard, but could find nothing amiss in that direction either. Some hurt feelings, a touch of sulkiness…?

Well, do I have potential trouble aboard, he assured himself, I have time to get it sorted out at the Nore. Cure some newlies' ignorance fore sailing further, sort out the truly stupid, and.. .