Unable to remain quiet any longer Gabe spoke out, “But sir, the ropes are new they’ll stretch again in a couple of hours if this gale keeps up.”
“Ahum? You may very well be right, Mr. Anthony. I should have thought of that. However, never to steal one’s thunder, you can wake Mr. Davy every two hours so that he can make sure the lashings are secure.”
“Damn you!” Davy blurted as Witz was leaving the berth.
Wheeling around, Witz glared. “What was that?”
Gabe and Markham were too shocked to reply. Miller, the old salt, used his savvy in responding to the officer, “The young sir said thank you. Only ‘is lips are so busted it be hard to understand. ‘E can barely speak as yer ownself can see.” All the time Miller was patting Davy on the head and shoulders. “It’s a bad time ‘e be avin of it sir.”
Realizing he’d get nowhere with pursuing it, Witz snarled, “One day you’ll make a mistake and I’ll be there. Mark my word, one day.”
As soon as he’d dressed and shaved, Kramer, the surgeon, made his way to the wardroom for breakfast. Settling into his usual spot he spied Lieutenant Witzenfield.
Seeing Witz reminded him of young Davy whose blisters became sores, sores that became scabs only to be torn off and became sores again. His injured lips so battered it was days before he could eat anything but gruel. In his third day of being awakened every two hours to check gun lashings he now had a croup. But the torture was not only directed at Davy but at Mr. Anthony as well. How many times had he been mastheaded? He’d been given three lots of extra duty in three days. How many times had he been sent aloft to check the splices where something had been repaired? These tasks usually given after dark or during a gale. All this time the captain stayed silent. Kramer could only guess at his patience. How much longer would it be before Davy or Gabe broke? Kramer had seen Gabe in a quiet but heated conversation with Dagan. Was Witz so stupid he couldn’t sense the stares he was getting from the man? How long before Dagan threw caution to the wind and took justice into his own hands? Gabe couldn’t control him forever, not with Witz treating Gabe so cruelly. Kramer couldn’t help but think a lot of Davy’s abuse by Witz was to get at Gabe, to make him cross that line.
With as sharp a look as he could muster, Kramer tried to demonstrate all the resentment he felt as he spoke to the wardroom as a whole.
“It appears our esteemed Fourth Lieutenant has singlehandedly taken upon himself all these duties normally carried out by the bosun, the master-at-arms, the First Lieutenant and at times even almighty God himself!”
Peckham, the master, Marine Lieutenant Dunn, Lieutenant Earl and Lieutenant Pitts all looked astonished as the surgeon spoke.
“Tell me, sir,” Kramer was again speaking, this time directly to Witz, “Do you have a grievance against Mr. Anthony and Mr. Davy?”
Shocked that he was being addressed so, Witz replied, “Why would I have a grievance?”
“Your actions, sir. Anybody not totally blind can see you have an agenda.”
“I resent your accusations,” Witz replied, his anger starting to show, “I’m merely doing my duty to make good officers of them, unlike some lickspittles.”
Standing, Lieutenant Earl spoke, “To whom are you addressing as a lickspittle?”
Witz knew he was now in jeopardy as both lieutenants were his senior. He also knew while he outranked the surgeon and the master he’d best trod lightly with both. “Oh, not officers,” he replied. “I just want to do my part to make better seaman and officers out of them as I stated.”
“Huh!” Peckham snorted. “You’d do well to have Mr. Anthony help you, with you’re navigation.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my navigation,” Witz hurled back.
“Nothing wrong…Well, damme, my boy but where’s the black ivory?”
“Black ivory?”
“Why yes, by your noon readings yesterday, Drakkar should be slap dab in the middle of ‘Affrica’ by God!” This caused a howl from the rest of the officers.
Scowling at the Master, Witz almost screamed, “You lie, dammit, tell them now, you lie.”
“Careful sir,” Lieutenant Dunn addressed Witz.
“He can’t talk to me that way,” Witz cried.
“What you gonna do boy, masthead me?” Peckham responded.
Trying to allay the situation, Pitts spoke quietly, “Let’s all calm down.” Being next to Witz, he placed his hand on his shoulder and continued, “It wasn’t long ago I felt I had to prove myself. Now I realize I already have. I made lieutenant. And with good luck I’ll make captain and then admiral.”
This created another howl as Pitts knew it would but at least the situation had been diffused. Later when Witz relieved Pitts on watch, Pitts offered more advice. “I don’t know what you have against Mr. Anthony and it’s none of my business. But just because the cap’n hasn’t said anything don’t mean he isn’t watching and so’s Mr. Buck. I’d not cross Mr. Buck if I was you. He’s got a mean streak for those he doesn’t like.’’
“I’m not concerned about Buck or the Cap’n,” Witz snorted. “Captain or not he has to do his duty regardless of family.”
“It’s your career,” Pitts answered, then turned to go down to his cabin. As he turned he saw Dagan. He had to have heard the conversation. Well, Witz had been warned by all, now his actions were his worry. Pitts was ready for a glass of wine and three hours of sleep.
It had been fifteen days since they had slipped moorings at Portsmouth. Anthony had not spoken to Witz since that first day underway. On the surface, everything appeared fine. Appeared, he thought to himself. He wasn’t blind; he’d been mindful of Witzenfeld’s actions and treatment of Gabe and Davy. How many times had he seen Buck looking at him, just a nod and Buck would have made Witz’s life hell? How many times had Bart said something? Even Silas, the silent one, said, “Mr. Anthony’s bound to break sooner or later, sir.”
Anthony glanced down at his log. It was full of entries, but how could a few lines describe all that went on? A sailor would know, but never a landsman. Fifteen days-but it seemed longer. They had dealt with heavy seas, gales, and strong head winds. Then for a whole day they lay becalmed.
It was all hands to shorten sails, then set more sails, and then reef down. It seemed every evolution was carried out a hundred times. But it all served a purpose. The ship was coming together. All except Witz. Command was a solemn duty at times. Anthony could recall the longing for command he’d experienced as a lieutenant. But as Lord Sandwich had warned, “Command was doing one’s duty, not what one wished to do.” He knew he had to address the Witz situation soon.
Thinking of Buck, Anthony had to give him credit for a fine job with the crew. He was not completely satisfied with gun drill, but even that was improving.
“Cleared for action in ten minutes and fifteen seconds,” Buck had said, snapping his watch shut.
Yes, that was far better than the fourteen minutes plus on their first drill-but not good enough. Fire drill was still dismal. That had to improve. Anthony also sensed camaraderie building among the officers. He commented on his observations to Buck one evening.
“Yes, sir,” Buck agreed. “Did you know young Gabe can sing, sir?”
Anthony didn’t.
“He and Mr. Earl, the second lieutenant, will get together after their watch-weather permitting-and put on a fair show. The crew seems to enjoy it. Mr. Earl has a flute, and Gabe has some sort of little stringed instrument. When they get to going on a real sassy tune, sir, half the damn crew will dance up a jig. You should come hear it, sir.”
“Maybe, I will,” replied Anthony.
“By the bye, sir, Mr. Gabe has the makings of a fine officer. He’ll do you proud, sir. I’m certain.”
“Well, thank you Rupert. I’m glad to hear it. Your evaluation means a great deal to me.”
Hearing the music and merriment through the open skylight, Anthony strolled on deck. He saw the master’s mate nudge the officer of the watch.