And a war.
BOOK V
Let the die be cast.
Begin the war and try your mettle.
Yet my case is already won-
With so many brave around me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Never seen the like, sir!" Lt. Westcott marvelled again as a fresh boatload of real, actual willing volunteers came aboard direct from the rendezvous tavern. "We've almost all our necessary hands rated Able, lack but a dozen Ordinary Seamen, and so awash in Landsmen and boys that the Surgeon, Mister Mainwaring, is rejecting people for piles and lack of teeth!"
"I told you I was notorious, Mister Westcott," Lewrie drawled as he enjoyed a morning cup of coffee on the quarterdeck. "A bit of fame… good or bad, deserved or otherwise… goes a long way. My sort, well… I've dined out on it for years!"
Wonder of wonders, people in Portsmouth had flocked to his recruiting "rondy." Free Black sailors from the West Indies who knew him as "Saint Alan the Liberator" (a sobriquet he detested) because he had stolen a dozen plantation slaves on Jamaica and made them free to crew HMS Proteus back in '97. There were Irish and West Country men who'd heard that he had a lucky geas upon him, good cess. The lure of prize-money and adventure had brought some eager young lads, that and the fact that frigates had more elbow-room per hand than other ships.
Will Cony had come through with his offer of local lads from Anglesgreen, two hay waggons of them, for a total of twenty-one. They would be Landsmen, of course, totally ignorant and unable to hand, reef, or steer, but they could learn, and they could man the guns, haul the lines, and fight. "God A'mighty, lads, but for tuppence, I'd gladly sail with ya all!" Will had declared when he'd come out to the ship with them, and assured Lewrie that he'd sternly told them what they'd be in for, so every Man Jack of 'em was there willingly, despite what shipboard life would be like.
The Third Lieutenant, George Merriman, had shown up, and he had proved to be no threat to Westcott's seniority; Merriman had passed his examinations bare months before the Peace of Amiens, and had lingered on half-pay as a Passed Midshipman 'til the government had decided to go back to war. His name fit him aptly, for he was a cheerful sort.
Their last two Midshipmen had reported aboard, both very young and with only a year or two at sea between them. The twelve-year-old was named Munsell, the thirteen-year-old Midshipman was the Honourable Phillip Rossyngton.
"Rossyngton," Lewrie had exclaimed at the time. "I served with a Midshipman Rossyngton in the old Shrike brig, the tail-end of the American Revolution. Any kin?"
"My father, sir!" Rossyngton had proudly said. "Soon as we knew who commanded Reliant, he said to extend to you his fondest regards. He said I would be in good hands… though at risk of cat scratches."
"And are you as big a tongue-in-cheek scamp as he was?" Lewrie had teased.
"But of course, sir… I'm a Midshipman, and allowed it!" the lad had rejoined with a laugh.
That had made him feel even more ancient; the last time he had seen Rossyngton, who'd been about seventeen or eighteen, and the lad was his second or third son?
After that, even more people from his past showed up. Reliant's ship's cook, the typical one-legged, lamed gammer who had been a part of the Standing Officers whilst laid up in-ordinary, a Jack Nasty-Face whose idea of "done" was either burnt black or boiled to the bones, had finally become too feeble to serve, and pled for Discharge and a pension. To replace him, up had popped Gideon Cooke, one of the Beauman plantation slaves Lewrie had freed on Jamaica; he'd cooked for scores of slaves, and when liberated, had taken Cooke, with an E, as his new name, and the crew of the Proteus frigate had sworn they'd never eat so well in any ship.
Then there was Pettus, his former cabin steward in his previous ship, HMS Thermopylae. He'd practically fallen into Lt. Westcott's arms outside the recruiting "rondy," so eager was he to sign aboard, explaining that he'd been Lewrie's "man" before.
"What've ye been up to since, Pettus?" Lewrie had just had to ask. "Did you ever get back together with that girl of yours, Nan?"
"Thankee for recalling, sir," Pettus had told him. "I traipsed about, doing this and that, 'til I landed a place as barman at the Black Spread Eagle. As for Nancy, though… time I finally discovered her whereabouts, and her employment, well… there was another man had her heart," Pettus had said, heaving a world-weary shrug. "She'd married and already had a babe, and… ye know, sir," he resignedly had related. Perking up, though, he asked, "Still have your cats, sir? Toulon and Chalky? Along with Desmond and Furfy? It'd be good to see them again, sir… if you'll have me as your steward, that is, but I'll gladly sign aboard for anything," he'd vowed.
"I do, and they'll all be glad t'see you again, too, Pettus," Lewrie had assured him, and put him to work straightaway.
Pettus had proved very useful, too, in discovering a cook for the great-cabins, and a lad who'd serve as the cabin servant. He knew a man who fancied himself a chef who'd lost his position when the chop-house he worked in burned to the ground a few weeks back, and was yet in need of a new place. Pettus was quick to vouch for Joseph Yeovill and his culinary skills; he even came with his own pots, pans, knives, and utensils, and a middling chest of spices and sauces!
And, from the intake of youngsters who would serve as servants and powder monkeys, Pettus had chosen a likely orphan with a quick wit and a very sketchy year or so of schooling, a twelve-year-old lad by name of Jessop, who, 'til he'd signed ship's articles, looked to be a half-starved street waif, puppy-grateful to be issued clean clothing, have three meals a day, and a pittance of pay, to boot.
Lastly, Lt. Westcott had presented Lewrie with a likely fellow to be his clerk. James Faulkes had been an apprentice clerk to one of Portsmouth's counting houses and had just completed his terms of indenture. Though he seemed to suffer Pettus's malady, for he'd not only been let go from his position when the previous owner died, but Faulkes had recently been disappointed in love, and, like many a heart-sick young cully, believed that the lass, whoever she was, would take pity on him and accept his suit did he run away to sea. No matter, for his handwriting was copperplate and precise, his sums always added up, and he seemed very organised.
Of course Reliant had to resort to the Impress Service, drawn mostly from the Quota Men, a group that most officers, most tars, looked on askance. They were the derelicts, the drunks, the chronically underemployed and desperately poor; the turfed-out farm labourers who had nothing once the crops were in for the winter; the foolish and unwary civilians who had been swept up "will-he-nill-he" from the streets, public houses, and brothels by Press Gangs eager to make their numbers whether the men they collared were sailors or not; and the petty criminals from the gaols. With them came the risk that they'd been got at by radical, Levelling troublemakers and their French Jacobin ideas, as well as the theft and pilfering that came with them. Some of them surely would be insubordinate, obstreperous "sea-lawyers," constant discipline problems, the leaders and enforcers of the sly-boot cliques that would try to dominate their decent mess-mates, prey on the others' rations, tobacco, and rum issue, their better slop-clothing and shoes, with violence or the threat of it.
Given his druthers, Lewrie would have gladly arranged a swap with the Army-his worst men for cash-and spent the proceeds on Joining Bounties or bribes to the Regulating Captain of the Impress or one of his more venal subordinates, but… needs must in war time.