“Uhm… perhaps it’d be best did I ask them, sir,” Caldwell suggested, shifting his bulk in the chair, and crossing one leg over the other. “Sound them out on their ambitions?”
“We don’t have long, Mister Caldwell,” Lewrie pointed out. “A sudden shift of wind, and we’ll have to be off, instanter.”
Crash-bang! from the Marine sentry beyond the door.
“First Orf’cer, Mister Westcott… SAH!” Stamp-Bang!
“Enter,” Lewrie shouted back.
“Good morning, sir, Mister Caldwell,” Lt. Geoffrey Westcott said once he’d entered the great-cabins. “I’ve spoken to the Surgeon, sir, about Rahl, and it don’t look promising.” There had been but one brief flash of his teeth in greeting before Westcott’s dark-tanned and hatchet face went glummer. “Mister Mainwaring had to take off Rahl’s left leg, above the knee. He’s made it through the surgery, and he’s resting quietly, but… he needs to be gotten ashore to the naval hospital as soon as he’s able to be moved.”
“Christ, that bad?” Lewrie grimaced. “I saw how the bone was snapped, and stickin’ through his skin, but…”
“Evidently, sir, his arm and right leg were clean breaks, and didn’t jut out, but the left was not only broken, but his knee joint was so badly wrenched that it couldn’t be saved. Like a mangled turkey leg.”
“Damn,” Lewrie said with a long sigh, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Pardon my manners, Mister Westcott. Take a pew and have a coffee t’warm ye. Faulkes?” he called to his clerk and writer. “Do up a Discharge form for Mister Rahl, and a petition for him to be sent to the Pensioners’ Home at Greenwich Hospital. See the Purser to get his pay and debts cleared, would you?”
“Of course, sir. Poor old fellow,” James Faulkes sadly agreed.
“He pleaded that I’d not make him a cook,” Lewrie mused. “Now, at the least he’ll have a good retirement, in sight of Deptford Dockyard and traffic on the river.”
“With no kin that I ever heard tell of, sir, I suppose that’d be the best he could expect,” Lt. Westcott agreed. “And the best we can do for the old fellow.”
“There’ll be dozens of old gunners to trade yarns with, aye,” Caldwell chimed in. “He’ll not be slung onto the beach to starve and beg on the streets. And get his rum issue ’til Eternity.”
“Word has it were losing Mister Houghton, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked after Pettus had gotten him his coffee, with sugar and sweeter goat’s milk, the way he liked it. “Good for him.”
“Aye, we were just debating who’d take his place, Nightingale or Eldridge, or should I request some Admiral’s favourite idiot, hah!” Lewrie informed him with a sour bark of humour.
“Well, there’s your son over in Aeneas, sir,” Westcott said. “Your friend Captain Rodgers would surely oblige you.”
“Uhmm, perhaps not,” Lewrie said, making a gruesome face. “I’ve seen that before, and I never cared for it, no matter it’s so common in the Fleet. Cater-cousins, sons and nephews? Hell, the Cockerel frigate was the worst. Half the ship’s company was named Braxton! One could not dote, sooner or later, and make the rest of the Mids grit their teeth. Sewallis is best off where he is, among familiar faces, and on his own bottom, without me lookin’ over his shoulder.”
I’d scare what little he’s learned clear outta his head, did I haul him aboard! Lewrie told himself; Fragile as I still think he is, that’d be the ruin of him. And, he’d not thank me, and end up resentin’ it!
Lewrie busied himself with creaming and sweetening a fresh cup of coffee, to cover his dread that what really motivated him was fear that he would witness Sewallis should he fail!
“Suggestions, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked. “Nightingale, Eldridge, or a sprat?”
“Well, sir… I’d go with Eldridge,” the First Lieutenant said. “I’ve stood so many watches with both that one can’t help but natter, here and there. Nightingale’s ambition is to become Sailing Master, someday, he’s told me. Mister Eldridge joined as a Landsman, but he’s shot up like a rocket… Ordinary, then Able, Quartermaster’s Mate to Quartermaster, and now a Master’s Mate. And, he’s still young enough to hope for a Sea Officer’s commission. Nightingale’s married, with a child, and promoting him would most-like sling him into debtor’s prison. Midshipman’s pay’s not much improvement on what he earns, now… the cost of uniforms and such’d do him right in, sir.”
“And, he’d not be the one t’pick his nose at table, or use the wrong fork?” Lewrie joshed.
“God, they all do that, sir!” Westcott laughed out loud. “Mids have the manners of so many pigs.”
“Mister Caldwell?” Lewrie asked. “Sound right to you?”
“Aye, sir,” the Sailing Master slowly intoned, nodding solemnly. “I’ll advance Quartermaster Hook to Eldridge’s place, if I may…”
“Good man, he was aboard Thermopylae with me,” Lewrie said.
“Then move Malin up as a Quartermaster, and ask about for one who wishes to strike for Quartermaster’s Mate, sir,” Caldwell agreed.
Crash-bang! “Midshipman Munsell, SAH!” Slam-crash!
“Enter,” Lewrie bade. “Busy as a tavern door today, ain’t it?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but Mister Houghton is ready to depart, and the Surgeon sends his duty, and a request for a boat to bear Mister Rahl ashore to hospital, as well,” young Munsell reported.
“My hat and sword, Pettus,” Lewrie asked. “Let’s give both of ’em a proper send-off. If you gentlemen will join me?”
“All Hands” was piped to summon the ship’s company on deck to see Houghton off, with three cheers raised. A bit of a dullard that Houghton was, he was recognised by all as a competent officer-to-be, and a “firm but fair” disciplinarian who’d treated everyone the same.
The Marines turned out with the side-party to render honours, the bosuns’ pipes blew, and Houghton’s fellow Mids and the officers shook hands with him and wished him well.
“Make us proud o’ bein’ a Reliant, Lieutenant,” Lewrie urged.
“Thank you for everything, again, sir, and I shall!” Houghton vowed before doffing his hat at the entry-port, and beginning to make a careful way down the boarding-battens to the waiting gig, where the boat crew were turned out in Sunday Divisions best.
A few moments later, though, and it was a much sombrer send-off for Gunner Johan Rahl. Strapped to a carrying board, and swaddled in blankets, he came up from the forward companionway hatch, rolling his head with his eyes half-glazed from doses of laudanum to smother his pain. The ship’s people parted to let the loblolly boys through, and many reached out to give him goodbye pats and reassurances, though he was all but oblivious. “Take care, mate!” and “Bye, ye old son of a gun!” and “Get well an’ back on yer pins soon!” were called out.
“Greenwich ’Ospital’z good’z Fiddler’s Green, Mister Rahl. Ale an’ rum, they flow like warter, an’ niver a reckonin’!” one hopeful older hand assured him. “Music an’ fetchin’ girls visitin’ round th’ clock, they say, ye lucky ol’ devil!”
It wasn’t the entry-port for Rahl, though. Bosun Sprague had rigged a lift for the four handles of the carrying board, The main-mast course yardarm was fitted for hoisting out, with hands standing by at braces and clews to raise him up and out-board of the starboard gangway bulwarks, then down into a waiting cutter. Rahl’s battered old sea-chest, has hammock, rolled up into a fat sausage with all of his bedding and spare clothing, and a pale grey sea-bag sat amidships to be lowered down, too… meagre as it was, that represented everything that Rahl had amassed in decades of spartan Navy life.
“I’ve his Discharge papers, and pay chits, sir,” Mainwaring told Lewrie, who had come down from the gangway to shake Rahl’s hand one last time. “I’ll see him ashore, myself, if that’s alright?”