Dewey Lambdin - H.M.S. COCKEREL

• Название: H.M.S. COCKEREL
• Автор: Dewey Lambdin
• Жанр: Морские приключения

Alan Lewrie works to get a leg over on Emma Hamilton, and comes face to face with the rising star in France, a guy called Napoleon, as well as the infamous Captain Bligh. Not a small feat!

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"Oh, I say!" Banbrook all but swooned. It was hard to tell. It could have been the rum punch. The others cheered Husie for his effort.

'Thought I explained it before," Captain O'Neal chuckled, stuffing his napkin firmly behind the rank gorget which hung high on his chest, below his throat, "Damme'f I know just how it slipped me mind, Leftenant Banbrook."

"Ahem," Mister Boutwell, the captain's clerk, interrupted at the entrance to the wardroom. Boutwell wore his usual well-fed, nose-high and top-lofty superior sneer. "Excuse me, but… Mister Lewrie, sir, the captain bids me convey his compliments to you, and inform you that he wishes you to confer with him in his cabins."

"This minute?" Lewrie grumbled, cocking an eyebrow. The pea soup smelled hellish good, and for once they had fresh roast pork to follow!

"At once, he said, sir," Boutwell purred, looking anything but sorry to deprive Lewrie of a hot dinner.

"Very well, Mister Boutwell," Alan sighed, feeling much put upon, and griping in his bowels with dread of another rant from Captain Braxton. "My utmost respects to Captain Braxton, and I shall be up directly."

"Very good, sir," Boutwell replied, bowing his way out.

"Speaking of a foul wind, gentlemen," Lieutenant Scott whispered sotto voce once the man was gone, prompting another knowing chorus of groans, or dismal chuckling.

"Mister Scott, I despair of you," Lewrie snapped, putting on his coat anew. "Damme, it's hard enough…" He almost allowed his personal feelings to escape, but checked them. "There will be no disparaging remarks in this wardroom, whether I'm present or not."

"Ah, but I was not disparaging the captain, sir," Scott gaped in pretended innocence. "I referred to the captain's clerk, Boutwell!"

"Just stop it!" Lewrie snarled in exasperation. "I'd admire you save me at least a slice of pork. Hot, I s'pose, is too much to ask."

"Might as well not," Dimmock, the sailing master, muttered once the first lieutenant was himself departed. "He never has an appetite after one of those sessions, poor man." "Christ love you, Mister Dimmock… but who does?"

Chapter 4

"You sent for me, sir?" Lewrie opened, standing before Captain Braxton's dining table. Braxton was having fresh roast chicken from his personal stores which had come off from shore. There was soft bread instead of biscuit, what smelled like a very fruity Portuguese varietal burgundy in his crystal glass; the only common touch was a dollop of pease pudding on his plate. Waiting on the sideboard for later were fruit, a fresh wheel of Stilton, and extra-fine sweet biscuit, with a blood-dark bottle of port breathing for the nonce.

"Yes, Mister Lewrie," Braxton scowled, looking as if Alan's presence put him off his food. He laid aside his cutlery to sip wine as he perused him. "The second officer informs me the steering tackle is slackening. The steering tackle, sir!"

"Mounson told me of it, sir. I ordered Mister Braxton to command the bosun below to overhaul it, soon as the hands have eat."

"You will see to it at once, sir," Captain Braxton barked. "We wallow on this following wind and sea. The ropes could part at a moment's notice under the strain. Should she round up or broach-to, we could end up dismasted. And I will not see my ship disabled because you were slack, sir!"

"Sir, the tackle is slack, not chafing or ready to part," Alan defended, trying to maintain a calm, reasonable demeanour. "A spoke'r two slack. And, should we have to re-reeve tackle ropes, then we have to fetch-to under reduced sail until it's done. For that we'd need all hands, so I adjudged it could wait 'til after-"

"I decide, sir. You do not. I am responsible for ev'rything aboard this ship. I will not be kept in the dark about matters of her safety, nor grave defects which make us unable to fulfill Vice-Admiral Cosby's orders. You did not see fit to tell me of this defect." Braxton seemed to calm, and got back to mangling a morsel off his chicken breast. "You failed me, sir."

"I instructed Mister Braxton to inform you, sir," Lewrie replied evenly, stifling his anger, not for the first time, when facing such an irritable, irascible and insecure man. "It appears that he did so. I do not see how I could be perceived as failing you, sir."

There was no discretion for watch officers, or trust in their competency; no freedom to think, or learn, for juniors. Captain Braxton was to be summoned over the most trivial matters, and then took charge from subordinates until he was satisfied. Excluding his relations, no one was trusted an inch. It had been a wearying six weeks.

"Do you not, sir?" Braxton drawled. "That of itself is a failure. Of a more personal nature."

"I'll attend to the steering tackle directly then, sir. Will that be all, sir?" Alan inquired, striving hellish-hard for "bland."

"Damn your blood, sir!" Braxton boiled over suddenly. "Do not dare take that tone with me, sir!"

"Sir?" Lewrie gawped in confusion. "What tone?" Damme, I didn't even half "sound sulky. I thought I covered that well, he assured himself. But then, I've had bags of practice lately!

"Your dumb insolence, sir, your mute insubordination," Braxton accused, pointing a table knife at him. "Not for the first time, either. That puddin' face of yours, that blank stare… Curt and surly you are towards me, sir, and I tell you, I'll not have it!"

"I cannot imagine what you find disagreeable, sir," Lewrie said, flummoxed. "I replied I would deal with the tackle, then asked to be excused to do so, sir. I don't know how else one might state-"

"I've given you and your insulting ways just about all the chance I care to, Mister Lewrie," Braxton warned. This time, he confronted his first officer with a loaded fork. "Your eternal sneering, back-talking… back-stabbing, sir! As if you and the rest of those idle wastrels think you, only, know best how to command this vessel. I warned, first day, I demand complete loyalty, obedience and support given me chearly, yet I cannot rely on any of you, you most of all! The job's simple enough a fool could grasp it, Lewrie. I tell you to do something, you go and do it, without carping, without questioning. End of story. Yet you continually confront me, you presume to advise me! There is one captain aboard, not a damn' committee."

"Sir, I would be failing you if I did not relate problems, and exercise my prerogative as second-in-command to-"

"You argue with me, even now, sir. The rest of those fools in the wardroom take their lesson from you. The mates and petty officers you poison against my authority."

"Sir, there's not been a single instance-"

"You are all profane, sir," Braxton cavilled on, whacking at his chicken breast and delivering a bite to his mouth. "Wastrels, idlers, disreputable, tot'lly lacking in dedication, common sense, tot'lly without professional attention to duties. Dis-obedy'nt and truculent…"

He even chews mean, Alan thought, giddy with carefully secreted rage, as he watched his captain smack and grind, his lopsided little mouth grumbling in slack-lipped petulance, begrudging each crumb.

"You're all soft, Lewrie," Braxton belaboured sourly. "You most of all. Comes of being a married junior officer, I expect. Soft hands and soft head. Too long abed, ashore, whilst better men were out at sea getting calluses. You undermine my authority, attempt to contravene my orders, sow discontent and insolence among the crew. I should sack the entire lot. You, foremost among them."

"Sir, I must protest that I do not any such thing."

"This fellow Lisney," Braxton said, a propos of nothing suddenly, cooling quicker than sane people had a right to, as he took aboard more wine. "Who is he?"

"Sir?" Lewrie was forced to gawp anew, off-balance again.

"Lisney! Lisney! Who is he? Damme, sir, you're first officer. Don't you know? Or was he just dropped from heaven, like gull-shite?"

"Sir, Able Seaman Lisney is foretop captain, larboard watch."

Three months in commission and you don't know, Lewrie fumed to himself; or don't bloody care, more like?

"He shoved Midshipman Spendlove from behind, I'm told. Yet you refused to credit the report. Suborned two midshipmen from doing their proper duty. Let this fellow Lisney get away with laying hands upon a superior. And kept it from me, sir!" the captain scolded. "One more example of your shoddy, slack and disputatious behaviour towards me and my strictures, sir. More of your softness. Lisney an old schoolmate of yours, is he, Mister Lewrie? A particular favourite?"

'Wo, sir, he is not, but-"

"You know my strict instruction that no common seaman ever lays hands on a superior. If it's nought but a midshipman's jacket hanging on a mopstick, I'll have 'em crawl past, showing proper def rence. But no, you know best, don't you? See fit to circumvent my orders, behind my back, and corrupt two promising young men into your sort of officer. And by your inattention to duty, allow the crew to flaunt me. Cock a snook at me, sir!"

"Sir, it was not a shove," Lewrie countered, giving his version of what had occurred, and the "why" of Lisney's gentle touch. He even dared at last to suggest that Midshipmen Braxton and Dulwer were doing it for dumb, brutal fun.

"They don't keep their eyes peeled from a sense of duty, sir," he concluded, breathing high and shallow off the top of his lungs, sure of the tirade to come. By the pose of utter outrage on Braxton's face, he was relating a blasphemy as great as saying King George the Third was a woman in disguise! "They're playing a game, scoring points with floggings and lashes. They take pleasure from the men's pain, sir."

"How dare you, sir!" Captain Braxton snarled. "Next you'll say / take pleasure in flogging! No, sir. No! It is from a sense of duty, nothing more… a grim duty, aye. And I have drilled into them that sense of duty. I want the man on report, Mister Lewrie. And I want Midshipman Spendlove on report as well, for failure to tell me of this fellow Lisney laying hands upon him."

"Sir, it was compassionate. The hands like Spendlove."

"And they do not like the others?" Braxton drawled, drumming his fingers on the dining table. "What a bloody pity! Those scum are there to do their duty, obey orders, and walk in fear of their betters, whether they like 'em or not!"

"That goes without saying, sir," Lewrie dared once more. "But they fear Midshipmen Braxton and Dulwer, sir. The sort of fear that turns bowels to water, and harms the proper disposal of their duties."

"Fear 'em?" Braxton cawed, almost gleeful. "I should certainly hope so, sir. Exactly as I wish. Reason they tike Spendlove, he lets them have latitude. Can't bear down taut as he should. Soft. Soft as you and the others. Scott, Dim-mock…" Braxton waved dismissively. "Even the bosun's gone calf-eyed lately. Well, three dozen lashes to this Lisney, and two dozen on Spendlove's bottom'll take the insolent Jack-Sauce out of 'em."

"You'd decide punishment before a hearing, sir?" Alan inquired, feeling his spine crawl with dread. That would really cause trouble.

"I wish those people on report at once, sir."

"Sir, as first officer, I must advise you," Alan implored. "The ship's people know what Lisney's touch was about. They expect a captain's court to represent even-handed justice. But if Lisney's given three dozen, which is excessive, without a chance to-"

"I tell you, Mister Lewrie," Braxton thundered, "I want those people on report. I give you a direct order, sir. Disobey me at your im-med-j't peril." He looked like he was gloating.

"Sir, there must be some discretion allowed me, to sort out conduct which really is prejudicial to discipline and-"

"Answer me, you impertinent fool. Will you, or will you not, put them on report as I order?"

"I…" Alan wavered. Christ, think, he told himself; not answering is insubordination! "Aye, aye, sir," Lewrie had to reply. "I will place them on charge."

"Thought as much," Braxton all but sneered over the rim of his glass. "And no more of your obstreperous interceding. I mean to have a first officer who will stand behind me to the hilt, Mister Lewrie. Whether that is you or not, in future, well…" he allowed with one more wave of his hand and a grumpy, fussy dissatisfaction.

"Sir, I can't stand mute if I think an injustice is being done."

"And I am ordering you to do so, in future, Mister Lewrie. What think ye of that?" Braxton coloured quickly. "Damme, you'll not play Fletcher Christian with me, sir! I'll dismiss you at once!"

"I do nothing of the sort, sir!" Lewrie paled. Captain Braxton had just all but accused him of mutinous behaviour! "I do say though, sir, that punishment in this instance may run counter to your intent, that it might be prejudicial to good order. The final decision is up to you, sir. But as your deputy, I must be allowed to advise… aye, to intercede; or at least ask for leniency, sir. I must do everything in my power to present you a well-drilled, disciplined and seaworthy ship and crew, sir. And I think I've done that. But when events happen that might upset that good order, it's my solemn duty to apprise you of such, sir."

"I'll not play a chuckleheaded, gullible Bligh to you either, Mister Lewrie. Oh no, I'll not, you mark my words!" Braxton warned.

"Sir…" Alan began, then clapped his trap shut, knowing that one exchange more, and there'd be no going back. I'll shoot off somethin' hot, and that's the end of me; he told himself; sure as Fate, he'd clap me in irons! "Sir," Lewrie assayed again, in a softer tone, "I assure you, you have the complete loyalty and obedience of every officer aboard."

"Then why don't I see it, Lewrie?" Braxton all but wailed with self-pity. "Get yourself out of my sight, sir. Attend to the steering tackle, as you should have an hour ago. And put Lisney and Spendlove up on charges."

"Aye, aye, sir," he was forced to reply, looking Captain Braxton firmly in the eyes, and putting as much chirpy goodwill into his answer as he had left at that moment. He felt he was all but piping his eyes, racing off a chorus of "Rule, Britannia," and breaking into some loose-limbed hornpipe to please.

Do I sneer? he railed within himself, standing far aft by the taffrails. His hands squeezed the timbers so hard he felt he could rip up a section and shred it to kindling. Or strangle it. Am I insolent to him? Well, perhaps… and who wouldn't be, I ask you! But…

He knew how well he could toady and fawn, how well he could, as every English gentleman was expected to do, bottle up his emotions and his private thoughts, wrap them in sailcloth, and dare anyone to say whether 'twas hidden claret or horse piss.