Yrs;
Sir Saml Hood
R. Adml. of the Blue Squadron
"Jesus Christ," Alan breathed with a shudder partly of delight, partly of dumb-struck consternation. "I'm going to have to start taking all this nautical shit a lot more seriously!"
He had always thought Admiral Hood a poltroon, for his inexplicable behavior in hanging back at the Battle of The Chesapeake. Even the empty defensive victory at St. Kitts had not changed his opinion much-they lost the island anyway, hadn't they? And now this!
The man must be more of an addle-pate than I thought, Alan told himself, his hands trembling as he scanned the second sheet of paper in the packet and saw what it represented. Anybody that'd give me command of a King's ship has to have his buttocks where his ears ought to be. Mind you, I ain't arguin' much.
He looked up at the people on the quarterdeck; Rossyngton with his slight smile because he knew the secret first; Caldwell on tenter-hooks to find out what it was all about, and sweating that it perhaps might represent a chance for him to keep his acting lieutenancy.
I'd better do this before they change their bloody minds, he thought, feeling an urgency to read himself in before that new officer from Bedford came aboard. They still had at least a mile to go before they were close enough to hail her, and a cutter from Barfleur had not even reached her yet.
"Mister Caldwell, assemble the ship's people if you would be so kind," he ordered.
"Aye aye, sir. Ship's company!" Caldwell boomed. "Muster aft and face the quarterdeck!"
Once they were gathered, wondering what this new summons was about, Alan folded out the sheet of vellum and scanned it so the words would not be unfamiliar and trip him up at this unbelievably fortunate moment.
"Issued aboard HMS Barfleur, flagship to the Leeward Islands Squadron, this 20th day of March, in the year of our Lord, 1783. From Sir Samuel Hood, Rear Admiral of the Blue. To Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy. Sir; it is my wish and direction that you take upon yourself the charge and command of his Majesty's 12-gunned brig of war, Shrike…"
He paused and looked up, feeling as if someone would shout over to them that they were "just kidding!" But there were no signs of laughter from the hands-no pulled faces or sidelong glances of aiarm. They stared back at him, nodding as though his superseding to command in place of a real sailorman was his due.
So he savored every syllable, every nuance as he finished reading the document aloud. Shrike wasn't much, too small, and below the Rate, for a more senior officer, he realized. And she had been brought in as prize on a foreign station, so the dream could end the day after the war ended, and that blessed event could occur at any moment. Even if she stayed in service, there was only a year left of her original three years' commission. But for now, she was his.
What else should I say? he wondered, once he had rolled up the precious document. "A new captain," he finally began slowly, "brings to his next command his own way of doing things. But since Shrike is my first command, and since I have learned the most in how to exercise command in her, from an officer we all revere as a real tarry-handed sailor, I can think of no finer way to begin than to continue as if Lieutenant Lilycrop was still with us in spirit. His order book, his discipline, and his strictures stay in effect. They were sensible and fair, and I see no reason to depart from them, or any way to improve on them at present."
Not trusting himself to utter one more word, he turned to Mr. Caldwell and nodded, and Caldwell dismissed the hands to their duties.
There was no whole-hearted cheer such as Lilycrop had gotten. But no one was cursing and skulking, either, and no one was throwing loose objects at him, so Alan could be satisfied with his reception, if only slightly disappointed that he did not receive the same affection Lilycrop had evinced from them. Several hands were smiling broadly, and they went off to their work at least somewhat cheerful.
"Ah, Mister Caldwell," Alan said, noticing Caldwell's hangdog expression at last. "I believe that Commodore Affleck is to be allowed to appoint a lieutenant into us, to take my place. Sorry you could not keep your acting status. I did mention you to the admiral when I wrote concerning the captain."
"That's alright, sir," Caldwell said, though it didn't look alright. It would have been his best, and perhaps last, opportunity to attain to a commission instead of a warrant, and he was already approaching fifty. "Who would you like for cabin-servant, sir? And your cox'n?"
"Cony," Alan said without a second's hesitation, and then gave the matter of cox'n some thought. A third of the hands were Island Blacks, and Andrews was at least listed as a free-bom volunteer. He was deserving of some notice after Florida. "Andrews for my cox'n."
"Aye, I'll make it so, Captain," Caldwell replied.
That has a nice ring to it-Captainl Alan thought happily.
"I'll be aft for a moment," Alan said. "Summon me when we near Bedford."
He made his way aft of the wheel and the main-mast trunk, to the low poop and the coach-top built into it to allow standing headroom for entry to the hanging cabin. There was now a Marine sentry on duty, who banged his musket on the deck and brought it up to salute as Alan opened the door that offered the short flight of steps below.
His cabins! Though they seemed more spacious with all of Lieutenant Lilycrop's poor furniture gone, they didn't look all that grand. The black-and-white checkered canvas on the deck was frayed, and the wall paint had not improved with age. He could see that this unlooked-for promotion was going to cost him, to equip himself with dining space table and chairs, a sideboard, a wine cabinet, desk and chairs, and paint. Not to mention more lamps, and silver and plates. Still, he was now in receipt of five shillings per day instead of his earlier two shillings six pence; eighty-four pounds a year, for as long as it lasted, figured at the miserly twenty-eight days per lunar month of the parsimonious Admiralty.
"Thought I'd shift yer dunnage, sir," Cony said, entering the cabins with loose bedding and linen under his aims. Alan could hear a couple of seamen struggling with his heavy sea chest.
"Oh, there 'e be, sir. That damn cat," Cony snapped.
"Hmm?" Alan replied, coming out of his inventory of expenses. "Oh, him."
"Over the side with 'im, sir?" Cony asked.
William Pitt was stretched out on his side on the bare, straw-filled mattress of the hanging bed-box, tail curling lazily and supremely at ease, washing himself, as if he had won the space for himself with his claws. The kitten Belinda was huddled as far away as she could get on the sill of the transom windows, bottled up and sitting ready to pounce in flight. Between hisses, she licked her lips and chops nervously, for fear of what the bigger male cat would do.
"You mangy young bastard," Alan said, walking up to the bed. "Think you earned the right to stay aft just 'cause you did for that Lieutenant Sharpe, hey? Think I'm grateful to you or something?"
Pitt did not bristle up as he usually did when Alan got anywhere near him, but rolled to his stomach with his front paws stretched out, looking up with his yellow eyes. Alan put out a tentative hand, half expecting to get his fingers ripped off, but was surprised that William Pitt allowed him to actually touch the top of his wide, battle-scarred head and gently rub him between the ears.
"Well, I'm damned, sir," Cony whispered.
It didn't last long, of course; after a few too many rubs, Pitt had claws out and ready to swat, shaking his head vigorously.