Lewrie did some rapid calculations. He would get a little over seventy-two pounds, more than a lieutenant made in a 1st Rate ship of the line for a year’s work! Naturally, he would not see ten pounds of it in real money, but it was welcome.
“Now there’s going to be about three pounds per man paid out in coin and the rest in certificates. I want you all to warn your men in your watches and divisions to watch out for the sharks who’ll try to buy them out for twenty percent in ready money,” Treghues warned. “I believe there’ll be some few who have allotment papers on the books who’ll want it forwarded all, or in part, to their parents or families. We’re anchored far enough out to prevent someone going out a gun port, and Antigua is an island, after all. Each of you pick out the men most likely to run, and let the rest go ashore for a two-day leave. Mister Lewrie, you have a good copperplate hand. See my clerk and begin writing out blank leave-tickets. Mind you, any man who runs, or overstays his leave, ruins it for the rest of his subdivision or watch, and I’ll have him run the gauntlet when he’s fetched back aboard. I want to see liberty lists tomorrow in the forenoon.”
Another idea foundered, Lewrie thought, amazed at what he learned from Treghues, for all his coyness and preachifying. No one had talked to him of leave. He assumed the men stayed aboard from the beginning of the commission ’til the ship paid off, without a chance to go ashore except in a supervised working party. But if the man was owed back pay and prize money, it made sense to let him have his fun ashore, especially on an island. How could he walk away from two years’ wages, and enough in prize-certificates to set him up for life? And the crew had been together for a long while; they were used to each other, less eager to change their situation for something new. How much had poor Harrison sacrificed back there in Portsmouth when he took “leg-bail” and ran inland with his skinny little wife?
“Admiral Matthews also informs me that whatever we lack in manpower shall be made good at his personal selection,” Treghues told them after they had calmed down from the momentous news. “This is quite an honor for us to receive, possibly the last people personally spoken for by our squadron admiral before he hauls down his flag.”
What? Lewrie thought, almost choking on Treghues’ excellent claret. Hauling down his flag? How soon? God, there goes my one source of interest in the West Indies. Now what the hell’s going to happen to me?
He had been in the Fleet long enough to know that petticoat influence in London did not count for that much—civilians could not get into naval affairs. Petticoat influence was only good when the petticoats controlled naval influence.
Officers normally gathered to them in their ships, and in their squadrons and fleets and staffs, men they could count on, from able seamen to post-captains, and were judged by how wisely they chose protégés to sponsor and promote and aid throughout their careers. They also expected others of their close acquaintance to aid their followers, and were prepared to aid followers of others in a fair swap of “interest.”
There was only one requirement that never varied—you could not advance a total fool, for the abiding needs of the Navy came first, last and always. And it took a certain political skill to play the game right. Admiral Rodney did not, had recommended poor choices and promoted unprepared people when in command of foreign stations beyond the immediate reach of Whitehall, abusing the system, angering friends.
“Do you need some water, Mister Lewrie?” Treghues asked.
“No, thankee, sir. I was already spending my share on a very tasty meal.” Lewrie coughed.
“Got carried away, eh? Remember to swallow first, that’s always the way. A midshipman’s stomach controls his brains, and then there’s all hell to pay.” Treghues chuckled.
Lewrie did not in the least feel like smiling, but it was a social occasion and he had to show a civil face, so he grinned sheepishly, which was what midshipmen were good at … was what Treghues expected from his young gentlemen.
“Do you know how soon Sir Onsley will be going home, sir?” Alan had to enquire.
“His replacement, Sir George Sinclair, is purported to be on his way already.”
“Sir Onsley and Lady Maude have been most kind to me, sir. I shall miss him. Came as a shock.” Alan sighed.
Treghues nodded, remembering that Lewrie himself was one of Sir Onsley’s followers. “Then you shall be relieved to know that Sir Onsley shall be appointed to the Admiralty Board upon his return to London,” Treghues said, handing him the tacit reassurance that the admiral could still look out for him even thousands of miles away.
“There is also a scheme that Admiral Rodney wished to put into action regarding these so-called neutral islands,” Treghues informed his gathering. “I cannot reveal any details as of yet, but you can be sure that Desperate shall play a part in it, and it may promise to be a most rewarding part, for the public good, and our private gain.”
* * *
Once Desperate began to let her people ashore in manageable batches for shore leave, Mr. Monk and the bosun discovered a healthy crop of underwater growth on her bottom. She should have put to sea immediately once her people were back inboard, but it was thought a good opportunity to bream her.
This involved everyone in nearly a week of heavy labor, hoisting out all her guns, powder and shot, beef and pork barrels, striking her masts down to maintops and gantlines, and warping her into the inner harbor where she was careened at low tide on a sand bank so the dock workers could burn and scour her bottom clean, then coat her with a mix of sulfur, tallow and pitch to retard future marine growth.
While she was empty, the carpenter and his crew inspected her for rot in her bilges and below-water beams and keel members. She was pronounced healthy for at least another year in the tropics, where any proud ship could be eaten down to hollow kindling once the teredo worms got to her.
With nearly a knot and a half restored to her best speed, they floated her upright and began to reload her. They had just begun to hoist topmasts once she was back at her moorings when the day’s work was interrupted by the sound of a salute being fired.
Lewrie went up the shrouds with a glass, eager for a chance to take a breather, and watched a handsome thirty-two-gun frigate ghosting into harbor, firing a salute to Hood and the forts. At her mizzen truck she flew a broad pendant, the sign of a commodore or rear admiral.
“So that’s our new commodore,” Lewrie said, half to himself. “We won’t sail right away, not if Matthews will be hauling down his flag. We shall all want to get to know the new man.”
* * *
It was a farewell ball for Sir Onsley and Lady Maude, and the introductory social event for Commodore Sir George Sinclair. The harbor gleamed in another of those splendid West Indies sunsets that Alan had come to enjoy so much, though there was not a breath of wind and the summer evening was close, hot and humid. By the time their party from Desperate had climbed the hill road on foot to Admiralty House, their shirts and waistcoats were glued to them by sweat. Fortunately there was, like a tops’l breeze, a cooling breath of the Trades once atop the hill, and servants offered towels so they could mop themselves down.
Admiral Hood was present, standing tall and slim and beaky over the normal-sized guests, surrounded by a set of admirers. Sir Onsley and Lady Maude were off in a corner with less of a coterie; he was now only a half-pay rear admiral of the red, and sycophants no longer had to be quite so attentive. The crowd had transferred their attention to the newest officer by the buffets, eager to get a first look at their new Commodore. That was where the Dockyard Superintendent, the Master Attendant and the Prize Court Agents lurked and simpered.