"I'll be aft," Lewrie said, turning to go, but stopping at the foot of the larboard ladderway to the gun-deck to watch his sons get the first bit of their tour; Sewallis a head taller in his usual dark and sobre suit, his hat in his hands, to bare his darker hair, and Hugh, uniformed and kitted out in London before they had coached down, his new-styled narrow-brimmed and thimble-shaped hat still on his head, though with his mother's blonder hair tumbling in its usual unruly way over his shirt collar and his ears.
Would she have been proud of his choice? Lewrie wondered; much as Caroline disliked it… would she have cursed me for lettin' him go to sea? Pushed him to it?
"Damned demandin', what ye read," Sir Hugo commented as he came to join him. "All my promotions and such started out with 'To our Trusty and well beloved'-fill in the name-'Greetings'"!
"Well, ye paid enough for 'em, I should't wonder why the King wouldn't!" Lewrie teased.
Now there was a proper captain aboard, whose privacy and goods must be guarded, there was a Marine private in full kit outside the door to the great-cabins, right aft. He stamped, presented his musket in salute, and roared "Sah!"
"Good Christ!" Sir Hugo barked, once laying eyes on the place. It was bare, the black-and-white chequer canvas deck cover was faded and worn; the deal-and-canvas partitions and all the inner faces of the planking above the line of empty gun-ports and the usual dark red paint below the wainscot line-everything was done in a pale blue, picked out with gilt-painted mouldings, replete with wee painted cherubs. "The last captain ship his wife with him… or did he run a bawdy house?" "Re-paint… soonest," Lewrie vowed.
"And turn yer cats loose," Sir Hugo added, pointing with his walking-stick at a particularly large rat, with a brace of his smaller brothers, busy gnawing at what might have once been a tufted dark blue pad atop the transom settee. "Yer brothel's got rats, hee hee!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
0nce sending Sir Hugo, Hugh, and Sewallis ashore for a while, as Desmond and Furfy supervised a work-party in setting up his cabins to his liking, Lewrie made it a point to meet the Purser, Mr. Cadbury, and his clerk, the Bosun Mr. Sprague, and his Mate, Wheeler; their Master Gunner, who turned out to be the Prussian Johan Rahl, who had served with him long ago; the Gunner's Mate, Mr. Acres; and the Yeoman of the Powder, Kemp; Sailmaker, Mr. Yearsley and his Mate, Duncan, and all of the people who formed the Standing Officers who lived aboard while she was laid up in-ordinary, as well as those few other petty officers who had already come aboard.
Then he spent some time with his Lieutenants, discussing the ship's history, her material condition, her lacks, and how many hands were aboard; how many were rated Able, Ordinary, or Landsmen, and how many remained to be recruited… by fair means or foul.
"I've spoken with a printer, sir," Lt. Westcott said, "though I have not yet placed an order. Didn't know who to advert as our Captain, you see," he said with a grin. "How boastful to be."
Lt. Geoffrey Westcott was about Lewrie's height of five feet nine inches, a bit slimmer in build, and carried himself with a quick urgency. His hair was dark and cut quite short, almost as short as a fellow ashore who preferred a wig and had his scalp shorn to keep the risk of bugs down. He had a high-cheeked and slightly narrow hatchet face, which on a villain might have looked menacing. Westcott, though, seemed possessed of a merry, if slightly worldly-wise, disposition. He smiled rather a lot, sometimes only the briefest flash of a smile, with a lifting of his rather short upper lip to reveal his teeth.
"We've a partial proof, sir," Lt. Spendlove contributed, showing Lewrie a poster-sized sheet of paper, which featured VOLUNTEERS at the top, the King's royal crest and G.R. III, and a paragraph of type that called for Englishmen good and true, etc. Below that came BOLD ROYAL TARS OF OLD ENGLAND, but the rest was yet blank.
"You've chosen a 'rondy,' Mister Westcott?" Lewrie enquired.
"I have, sir. A centrally located public house, adjacent to the docks," Lt. Westcott assured him. "Though I fear there are many more ships' rendezvous in competition with us, along with the Impress Service's, which will recruit for any ship. I put a deposit down, but… "
"I'll re-pay you," Lewrie told him, liking Westcott's initiative "Well, 'faint heart ne'er won fair ladies,' and we'll not reel anyone in without proper bait. Let's go all-out and not be shy."
Together, they thrashed out the salient points; that Reliant, a Fifth Rate frigate, was spacious; come all loyal sea-rovers who wished action, speed and dash, and the chance of prize-money never to be had aboard a ship of the line! Prime rations, full issue of rum! Bounty to be paid-Ј20 for Able Seamen, Ј10 for Ordinary Seamen, Ј5 for Landsmen and Ship's Boys! And Death to the French!
Even in a hot Press, William Pitt's Quota Acts of 1795 had made the counties offer more and more to fill their required numbers, and the Navy had had to follow suit, raising the Joining Bounty from the pre-war's single Guinea, or Ј5 for Able Seamen, and even then, merchant service was more lucrative.
"Let's use my notoriety," Lewrie decided; which resulted in the blurb that Reliant was commanded by Capt. Alan "Ram-Cat" Lewrie, Black Alan the Liberator of the West Indies, Victor of Dozens of Sea Fights amp; Fortunate in Prize-Money! Confusion, And Death, to the French!
"… True Blue Hearts of Oak, and all who seek Glory and Adventure, ask of Lieutenant G. Westcott at the et cetera and et cetera" he concluded. "Oh, might toss in Cape Saint Vincent, Camperdown, and Copenhagen, too. Should that do it, sirs?"
"Topping-well, sir, indeed," Lt. Westcott agreed. "I will seek out the printer this afternoon and have him polish it up."
"I'll go ashore with you, Mister Westcott," Lewrie announced as he got to his feet. "As you can see, I badly need new paint in this… boudoir, and you may fetch it back aboard as you return from the printers. Have Desmond supervise the painting. I'll also lodge ashore for tonight, to see my son off early tomorrow, then will be back aboard by Eight Bells of the Morning Watch."
"Very good, sir."
Their last supper together at the George, though quite tasty and filling, was not without its uneasy moments. There were many Navy men and their wives dining there, and Hugh was enthralled by the sight of them, all but preening in his Midshipman's uniform and excited about the beginning of a naval career. Sir Hugo told amusing tales about his military antics (the clean ones, it must be noted!) to raise Sewallis from his gloom and disappointed mood, when not discussing more practical matters. Lewrie mostly kept a sombre silence through their repast, knowing what Hugh was facing from his own experiences as a lowly Mid, and… fearing all that weather, the sea, combat, or stupid accidents could do to such an eager and callow thirteen-year-old. Would he lose a child as well as a wife? All of a sudden it struck him that once he saw the lad off in a boat to his new ship, it was good odds that they might not see each other ever again, and even if Hugh prospered, took to the Navy like a duck to water, grim Duty might demand three or four years' separation before rencontre, and what sort of stranger might his youngest son be when they did manage to re-meet? He felt every bit of his fourty years, and wondered where so much of them had gone!
"But why can't I fight the French?" Sewallis was asking, fetching Lewrie from his dreads. "It's so unfair that Hugh gets to go, and I can't. And I want to, so very much."