"Aye, sir… all plain sail. Bosun Porter? Ready about!"
More canvas-more speed; white-hued virginal canvas never exposed to weather except at sail drill during their working-up period of River Discipline. Course-sail brails undone, drawn down by their clews to sheet them home, with a wary portion gathered in reserve about the yards to the first line of reef points. Long yards creaking around to the best angle for a beam wind-a "soldier's wind"-powerfully long English yards, and wider, fuller-cut sails than the more-timid French practice.
More flutings and keenings aloft, more moans and whisperings. Jester began to bound over the sea, her wake-breath sonorous yet insistent. As Commander Lewrie left his quarterdeck, at last satisfied, to go below, he could almost believe he could hear her singing to herself-a chorale of freedom and power.
While around her forefoot and cutwater, around her transom post, that chuckling, gurgling rush…
HMS Jester, he could almost conjure, was laughing softly with delight, as she stood out to sea. Stood out to find the war.
CHAPTER
2
Jester's first sunset spent upon the sea, a rare and rosy-hued wonder to the west, the end of a pleasant and bracing late May day of sailing. Lewrie had no time to go on deck to appreciate it, however; he was concluding the last of his voluminous paperwork with his clerk and the purser.
"I think that should be all for today, at least, Mister Mountjoy." He sighed, after looking over the last revisions to what was now the thrice-amended watch-and-quarter bills, and the sheaf of instructions to guide quarterdeck watch-standers as to his personal idiosyncrasies, his Order Book. "A fair copy of watch-and-quarter bills for Knolles, Mister Buchanon, Bosun Porter and Cony, and the purser here, by, oh… say, four bells of the forenoon. Order Book by the beginning of the First Dog Watch, tomorrow."
"So sorry, sir, but that would be…?" Thomas Mountjoy asked, a quizzically amused, and sheepish, grin on his face (which seemed so far his only expression) becoming even more pronounced.
"Umphh," commented Mister Giles, the purser, from the offhand side of the well-polished cherry-wood desk at which they sat in Lewrie's day-cabin. But Giles was, even for one as young as his hapless captain's clerk, a "scaly fish," with years at sea, to Mountjoy's "new-come."
"Ten in the morning for the watch-bills, Mister Mountjoy," Lewrie explained patiently. "And four p.m. for the Order Books."
"Ah! Comes the dawn, so to speak, sir!" Mountjoy japed, with a theatrical overplay of voice and "phyz." "So much to take in, d'ye see. I should have thought, though… once away from all those pettifogging shore officials, there'd bit a bit less, uhm… correspondence."
Alan hoped he wouldn't be sorry that he'd done his solicitor a favor, in taking his ne'er-do-well younger brother aboard. He needed a clerk, and when offered… Perhaps he'd agreed too readily!
But, he'd been fit and full of cream at the moment; and full of himself with being confirmed, fresh from Coutts's and the deposit of his officially honored prize-money certificates, smug with his acclaim in the London Gazette that had made much ado over his most recent action in the Mediterranean, which had won him Jester, and having saved those Royalist French йmigrйs-men, women, and children doomed to slaughter on the spot, or beneath the guillotine, had he not been victorious.
And, full of a rather good claret, he recalled, at Matthew Mountjoy's office. This younger Thomas, though, was a hopeless legal student, a "Will He-Nill He" sort only playing at reading law around Lincoln 's Inn Fields, and so easily drawn from his studies! Might a gallant captain-to wit, Lewrie!-prevail upon the Admiralty, and obtain Thomas an appointment? Take him to sea, away from venal amusements… why, he could clerk, continue to read his law, profit financially, and return a man, with more self-discipline, hmm?
Daft, Alan thought, studying Mountjoy. He's the forehead of an addled hen, and that, in the clouds! Writes a fair hand, though… He puffs and pants his way through, but gets there, in the end. Mountjoy had at least appareled himself for sea (with some delight). He wore a dark blue plain undress coat, waistcoat, and breeches; though he clung to land in his choice of hats-a tall, tapering, narrow-brimmed high-crowned civilian style. He'd made sartorial concessions to the fleet, while, it seemed, not one whit of effort to accommodate himself to its lore and lingo.
"Should've thought, 'fore joining, sir," Giles snickered, removing his square-lensed brass spectacles to polish on his handkerchief. " 'Cause once back in the pettifoggers' reach, a man'd think the Papist Inquisition's got him, if his accounts and books don't make sense. Oh, whoa-up, there, young sir. That book'd be one o' mine. The green'un, there, I believe?"
"Oh, so sorry, Mister Giles." Mountjoy gaped, looking sheepish and hopelessly muddled anew, as he gathered up all his untidy piles of rough drafts, books, and forms. "But they do appear all of a hellish piece, so far, sir."
Alan suspected that Thomas Mountjoy was too hen-headed to come in from out of a driving rain, a harmless but will-less mote who would waft through Life on the first wind that found him.
Giles, though… Same age, same build, same ink-stained stricture to his career; but there, all semblance ended. Giles had come up from the orlop, first jack-in-the-bread-room, then assistant and clerk to some purser, apprenticed since his early teens to a dour, penny-pinching trade far longer than Mountjoy, all ledgers and finger cramp; fretting over ha'pence per gallon and stone, Lewrie shouldn't wonder, since his voice broke.
He played the cynical, "wise beyond his years" wizard with his records and sums, an able and efficient administrator down from the Victualing Board at Somerset House, though he sang his "old tarpaulin man" song a bit too often for Lewrie's taste. Confident in his first warrant on his own, wry and acting just a touch "fly," as if it were all a nudging, wink-tipping, cheese-paring game; he reminded his captain of an East End confidence man, with his three walnut shells, and a single pea on a blanket, and suspected Giles had had mentors who'd been real "Captain Sharps," archetypical "Nip-Cheeses"-and quite possibly crooks!-as his teachers.
Sadly, Lewrie could dismiss Mountjoy should he not work out, but he was stuck with Giles. Mountjoy served at the captain's pleasure, paid the same as a midshipman (which wasn't much worth bragging about!) and had no protected status. Giles, though, had an Admiralty Warrant, after performing Mountjoy's job for at least a year aboard another ship, in addition to his long period of training in dispensing food, drink, clothing, and sundries. Should Jester pay off after a three-year commission, officers and crew would depart, while the purser, gunner, boatswain, cook, and a few others with senior warrant would remain aboard to await a new captain and crew. Or should she be laid up in-ordinary, Giles would live aboard, at full pay. Like the Church, it was a lifetime living.
A good purser went far toward developing a reasonably happy ship; a dishonest one could ruin even the best. Giles could be the sort who could, with dexterous and creative ledgering, "make dead men chew tobacco," and continue to purchase china mugs, plates, slop clothing, hats, shoes, and… and, well-plug or twist tobacco, long after they'd been discharged-dead, discharged, or run!
So far, Alan had kept a wary eye on Giles and his ledgers, and could find nothing out of the ordinary, insisting to see, and help account for, the quality and quantity of everything that had come aboard, which Giles would issue in future.