Chapter 5

By the Grace of God, and the pleasure of the Admiralty, Ariadne was saved from her ennui by new orders. Lewrie could have kissed them in delight. He still shivered with cold as the ship was driven hard to the west-sou’west by a stiff trade wind. It was a grey, miserable afternoon with an overcast as dull as a cheap pewter bowl, and the sea pale green and white, humping high as hills on either beam. The ship held her starboard gangway near the water as she forged her way across the Atlantic to their new duty station in the West Indies. Somewhere over the larboard beam was Portugal, and she was beginning to pick up the Trades that sweep clockwise about the huge basin that is the Atlantic and blow due west for the islands. Soon she would turn the corner and run with a landsman’s breeze right up her stern for an entire, and exotic, new world, and Alan wondered what it would be like to be warm all the time, to get soaking wet and not consider it a disaster, to see new sights and smells and delight in the fabled pleasures of those far harbors. Like having a woman again—any woman.

Four bells chimed from the forecastle belfry—6:00 P.M. and the end of the First Dog Watch. Soon, unless sail had to be reduced for the night, they would stand to evening Quarters at the great guns. Then he could go below out of the harsh winds for more of the smell and the damp and the evil motion of the ship.

Lewrie sighed in frustration … about the women, or the lack of them, about the irritating sameness of shipboard life and the need to see an unfamiliar face, hear a new voice telling new jokes; about the bland and boiled mediocrity of the food; and most especially about the eternity of life in the Navy. It had been eight months now. With an educated eye he could see that Ariadne was broad-reaching on the larboard tack, with the wind large on her quarter, utilizing jibs, fore and main stays’ls, two reefs in the tops’ls, and three reefs in the courses. The glass was rising and the seas were calming after a day of bashing through half a gale.

Captain Bales strode the quarterdeck deep in thought, and the sailing master Mr. Ellison leaned on the waist-high bulwarks about the wheel and binnacle, squinting at the sails. Lieutenant Swift loafed by the mizzen shrouds on the lee side with the watch officer, Lieutenant Church. Bales would peer aloft, at the seas astern, and sniff the air heavily. Alan grimaced as he knew what was coming; they would have to take in the courses and take a third reef in the tops’ls for the night. He was halfway to the weather shrouds before Captain Bales shared a silent eye conference with the sailing master and made his decision.

“All hands!” Swift bellowed as the bosun’s pipes shrilled.

“Hands aloft to shorten sail.”

To ease the wind aloft, Ariadne came more southerly to take the wind abeam. Waisters hauled in the braces to larboard. With the third reef came the need for preventer braces and backstays, parrels aloft to keep the yards from swinging and flogging sails, not so much with an eye to sail or yard damage, but to keep the topmen from being flung out and down by a heavy smack by the flying canvas.

Lewrie left his hat on deck, not wanting it to disappear in the harsh wind. Going aloft had not gotten any easier for him. It still brought his scrotum up to his navel each time.

“Go, lads, go,” Captain Bales shouted from below as they passed onto the futtock shrouds. “Crack on, Mister Lewrie, speed ’em on.”

Fine day to get singled out by the old fart, he thought miserably; now I’ll have to be all keen with him watching.

The wind was a brutal live force aloft, buffeting him and setting his clothing rattling, and the higher he went, the harder it was to breathe as the wind made his cheeks flutter. They assembled in the main crosstrees. Once the yards were braced to satisfaction, and the preventers and parrels rigged, it was time to lay out on the yard. The top captain went out to the weather side first, Lewrie following. Rolston went to the lee side after the number two man. The yard had been lowered slightly and was drumming like a pigeon’s wing as the top captain prepared to pass the weather earring to the third reef line.

“Haul to weather!”

Facing inboard on the yard and footrope, they hauled with all their might to shift the weight of the sail as it was clewed up.

Once hauled up, it was Lewrie’s “honor” to duck below the yard and pass the earring through the reef cringle to the third man seated astride the yardarm. Once secured, and hugging the spar for dear life, it was the lee arm’s turn to perform that dangerous duty. Then it was nail-breaking, herniating exertion to reach forward and haul in the flogging sail, tucking the folds under one’s chest, until the third reef was gathered snug.

Then came another dangerous chore, no less so now that the sail was under control and the reef-tackles had tautened. One had to squat down on the footrope, one arm from the elbow down the only secure hold from a nasty death, and reach under the yard once again, one’s shoulder below the yard to grab the dancing reef points and bring them back up so they could be tied off. Lewrie could hear Rolston giving someone absolute hell on the lee yardarm for not seizing his on the first try.

The first and second top captains surveyed their handiwork and found it good. Below them, other men were still tidying up, taking in the main course. The forecourse would be left at three reefs, since it was a lifting effect on the bows.

“Lay in from the yard!”

Thank Christ, Lewrie thought, glad to have survived once more.

They gathered in the top and began making their way down to the deck. Lewrie took hold of the preventer backstay that was already twanging with the weight of the men who had preceded him and began to descend, after glancing over to sting Rolston with a smug look. He lowered himself away quickly and neatly, hand over hand, smearing his clothing with tar and tallow. Then there was a shrill scream …

He took a death grip on the preventer backstay and locked his legs about it tighter than a virgin, without a further bit of thought. It definitely saved his life. He glanced up, and the whole world was filled by a dirty blue-and-white-checked shirt and a man’s mouth open in a toothy rictus of terror. Horny fingers raked like talons on the sleeve of his jacket, ripping one hand from his grip, and unconsciously he clenched his hand, as though to grab back, though it would have been his own death to have tried. The desperate hand caught on the white turnback cuff of his left sleeve and ripped it loose. Then the man fell past him, and Lewrie watched him with dumb amazement as he performed a lazy spin face-upwards and limbs flailing, to smack spine first onto the inner edge of the starboard gangway. Lewrie could hear the man’s spine snap over the harsh, final thump of the impact. And then Gibbs, late maintopman in the starboard watch, dribbled off the edge of the gangway and fell to the upper gun deck like a limp sack of grain.

His bowels turned to water and his own limbs began to so tremble, he was himself lucky to reach the deck without accident. But he had to satisfy his morbid curiosity, so he made his way forward until he had a good view, after the bosun’s mates had shooed away the hands. Captain Bales was standing over the man sadly while the surgeon tried to discover some sign of life. The surgeon stood up to signify that it was hopeless. Gibbs would be commented upon in the log and the ship’s books with a very final “DD,” “Discharged, Dead,” washed by the surgeon’s mates and sewn up for burial in the morning by the sail-maker and his crew.

“A brave attempt, sir,” Bales said to Lewrie, showing the scrap of white cuff he held in his hand.

“Sir?” Lewrie asked in shock. Does he actually think I tried to save the poor bastard? Alan gawped to himself.

“Hawkes,” Bales said to the second top captain who had been on the lee yardarm, and who was now weeping openly for his dead friend. “You must keep a better control of your people aloft. I’ll not have them skylarking in the rigging.”

“Aye, sir,” Hawkes said, cutting a black glance at Rolston, who, Lewrie observed, was standing near and eyeing the corpse with a bright fascination, and licking his lips as if in satisfaction.

“What happened, Mister Rolston?” Bales demanded.

“Gibbs overbalanced on the footrope, sir, reaching for a stay before he was on the crosstrees,” Rolston answered quickly, unable to tear his gaze from the bloody body bent at so unnatural an angle, or unable to face Bales’ hard stare. “It was too far to reach.”

Did he indeed? Lewrie wondered. You had it in for him for back-talking, everybody knows that, had him gagged with a marlinspike half the Day Watch yesterday. Nobody’s so stupid as to leap that far for a stay! There’s something going on here, and I don’t think you’re the innocent Bartholomew Baby you appear to be. I could square your yards right-proper with this, if I handle it right.

“Was that what happened, Hawkes?” Bales asked.

“I … I suppose it was, sir.” He wanted to say something else, but not knowing how to in front of his betters, he sounded more resigned than anything else.

*   *   *

Once they were below after evening Quarters, Lewrie searched for a way to begin. Supper was over, the dingy mess cloth removed, and hot rum-punch circulating in lieu of decent port. The surgeon’s mates were absent, still preparing the body. Finnegan and Turner were munching on hard cheese and biscuit at the head of the table. The captain’s clerk, Brail, was writing a letter.

“Lord, what trash,” Keith said softly, wincing at the bite of the rum. “I’d give anything for a run ashore, and a real port for an after-dinner treat.”

“At least we’ll be able to buy fresh stores at Antigua,” Shirke said. “The ship’s even running low on well-fed rats to cook.”

“Two-a-penny now, not three,” Bascombe said, rubbing his eyes in weariness. “It’s amazing what an English sailor can eat.”

“If he can catch it,” Finnegan said boozily. “Now me, I’d admire me a quart of strong ale. Ya can have yer Black Strap n’ yer claret n’ yer port. Ale’s a good … Christian drink.” The pause had been to release a spectacular belch. Turner nodded agreeably, making a gobbling noise through a cheekful of cheese.

“And for you, Chapman?” Shirke asked, nudging Bascombe so he could appreciate his wit. Chapman, ponderous and dim, was always good for a laugh.

“Oh.” Chapman pondered long, knowing he was being made fun of once more and determined to respond in kind but not quite sure how. “Country beer was always nice back home. Cool stoup on a hot day.”

“After bringing in the sheaves,” Shirke said with a straight and innocent face.

“I like wine, too,” Chapman said, his face flushing with the effort of erudition and repartee. “A nice white now and again.”

“Miss Taylor, I’ll wager,” Bascombe said, naming the thin acrid white issued by the purser.

“I’m partial to ale.” Chapman’s fists clenched. It was dangerous to goad him further, for he was a big and powerful lout who could explode if pushed too far. Lewrie had made that mistake once and had been bashed silly for it, before he learned to recognize the warning signs.

“Did you really murder that topman today, Lewrie?” Shirke asked, turning to safer game.

“No, but I nicked him with my dirk as he went by,” Lewrie said with a grin. A hand’s spectacular death plunge had to be a topic of conversation in so closed a world sooner or later, and Alan was more than ready for it. It would have been remarkable if no one had thought or said a word about it.

“Did he sass you, too?” Bascombe laughed. “Wasn’t gagging with a marlinspike good enough?”

“I looked up and there he was, and I distinctly heard him say, ‘Bugger all you officer shits,’ quickly followed by ‘aarrgh splat,’” Lewrie went on, giving a shrill sound by way of punctuation, which had them all hooting and tittering.

“’Ere now, ’ave some respeck fer the dead, young sir,” Turner said. “I’ll not ’ave it.”

“Sorry, Mister Turner,” Lewrie said, trying to sound contrite.

“Men die in a King’s ship,” Finnegan said into the awkward silence. “No need to make fun of ’em a-doin’ it. Gibbs was a good hand.”

“Indeed he was, Mister Finnegan,” Lewrie said. “I never found him a back-talker or a sea lawyer. Very reliable, very steady.”

“Not steady today,” Shirke said softly, bringing grins back.

“There was danger enough to reef tops’ls before the wind,” Keith said, shaking his head sadly. “But he fell when all that was over with, on the way down. What happened to him?”

“Rolston says he jumped from the footrope to the preventer backstay and overbalanced,” Lewrie told them. “I heard him say it.”

“How cunny-thumbed can you be?” Bascombe said. “How dumb.”

“And what do you think?” Brail asked, looking up from his letter and speaking to Lewrie. Brail was close to the captain and the affairs aft, but did not trade on his confidences or what he could learn, so he was most reticent in the mess, never initiating conversation.

“Well…” Alan began, thinking: I have to be careful here. I cannot accuse, but will have to plant seeds instead to take Rolston down a peg. He’s such a bullying little shit, it’ll do everyone a favor to have the captain sit on him with some stiff warning.

“Hawkes didn’t look too happy about it. I mean, Rolston was riding Gibbs. That might have upset his judgment,” Alan said as calmly as he could, extending his left arm and sleeve, which still sported the torn cuff, as eloquent a sign of his supposed bravery as a ribbon and star of knighthood.

“What do you mean about Hawkes?” Brail asked, putting on his legal face. Brail held himself aloof from the common herd because he had been a lawyer’s clerk at one time, and fancied himself as a man who could see his way to the kernel of an argument with the discerning logic of the law. Though any clerk who had to give tops’l payment and take sea service was automatically suspect of being a bit less acute than he thought himself to be.

“Hawkes did agree with Rolston, but I don’t think his heart was in it,” Lewrie said, pouring himself another measure of grog.

“But you are not suggesting that Rolston actually did anything aloft to make Gibbs fall to his death,” Brail pressed.

Lewrie knew any scuttlebutt from below decks would reach the captain through Brail. “God, that would be unthinkable. I totally disavow any notion, Mister Brail.”

“Yet Rolston was … riding him, you say.”

“Well, shouting at him to get a move on, that sort of thing…”

“And where were you?”

“On the weather yardarm. Rolston and Gibbs were on the lee. I was next-to-last down from my side, except for Blunt. And then here came Gibbs, screaming down right at me.”

“So you did not actually see anything,” Brail concluded.

“No, I did not, and Mister Brail, the way you’re asking these questions, you seem to think there was something … wrong done. Now I told you, I refuse to place blame on anyone.”

“But it does seem queer that a steady topman like Gibbs would take such a risk,” Ashburn put in. “Who was left from the lee side?”

“Oh, Keith, not you too,” Alan said. “Well, Gibbs, Rolston, and Hawkes, who would have been at the lee earring and cringle. At least, I think so. I wasn’t paying much attention to anything but just getting down to the deck myself once I got to the crosstrees. Now look here, you’re pressing me to make some kind of charge against Rolston, and I’m not going to do it. Granted, he’s a little swine and I dislike him more than cold boiled mutton, but it has to be an accident, doesn’t it? Accidents happen all the time, no matter how careful one is.”

“Maybe Gibbs was stung by something Rolston said that took his mind off safety at the wrong moment,” Shirke said. “Maybe just being on the same yard together was enough, after the way he had been hazing him. We’ll never know.”

“I know I’d hate to be on the same yard with Rolston,” Bascombe said, expressing everyone’s general opinion.

Brail left it at that, agreeing to take a bumper with Ashburn, but Lewrie knew that he was still puzzling about it inside, and that his suspicions would get back to the captain. Rolston would be called aft and given a roasting, maybe even caned over a gun for not keeping proper concerns for safety uppermost. It would be a tidy comedown for him in every officer’s mind. That would make the little bastard seethe, Lewrie thought, and make him a little less eager to bully and bluster. And his own reputation would shine in comparison, which was the primary goal. Lewrie rolled into his hammock and blankets quite pleased with himself that night, and happily fuzzled by too much hot grog, slept peacefully as Ariadne rocked along in the night.

Gibbs’ funeral was held the next morning after dawn Quarters and deck cleaning. Bales read from the prayer book as the men swayed in even lines, since Ariadne did not carry a clergyman. As the sun rose in strength on what promised to be a bright day of sparkling waves and blue skies, the body was slipped over the side, sewn up in scrap canvas, with a final stitch through the nose to make sure that Gibbs really was a corpse to satisfy the superstition of the hands, rusty round-shot at his feet to speed his passage to the unknown depths below.

Immediately after the hands were dismissed, ship’s routine reasserted itself. Hammocks were piped up from below, and the hands were released for breakfast. Hundreds of bare feet thundered on oak decks as the men took themselves off for a hearty meal. And Captain Bales crooked a finger at Rolston, summoning him aft to his cabins, which sight delighted Lewrie.

Breakfast was also delightful, porridge and scraps of salt-pork and crumbled biscuit in a salmon-gundy, with “Scotch coffee” and small beer for drink. Lewrie was taking a second helping when Rolston appeared in their mess.

His face was as white as his coat facings, except for two dots of red on his cheeks. Before anyone could say anything to him, the angry young midshipman leaped for Alan. “I’ll see you in hell, you vicious bastard—”

He cleared the table, scattering bowls and plates and mugs in a shower of food, then dove at Lewrie as he attempted to rise from his seat on his chest. Lewrie fell to the deck with both of Rolston’s hands on his throat and his weight on top of him.

Damme, I didn’t expect him to try to kill me! Lewrie thought in shock as he struggled and flailed to free his throat. There were other hands there in a moment, however, prying Rolston loose and hauling them both to their feet.

“You miserable, lying bastard! You said I killed Gibbs! I’ll kill you for it!” Rolston cried, wriggling to break free.

“The hell I did!” Alan shot back. I didn’t say it, actually. Just hinted round it, he qualified to himself. “In the privacy of this mess I said it was a shame you were riding him, and that’s all! Nobody is going to make me make a false report, not even against you.”

“It was an accident,” Rolston said. “But it’s all over the ship I pushed him or something, and it’s your fault. I want you dead!”

As he said it, he shoved hard to his left, breaking Bascombe loose from him and dragging free of Keith’s grip. Before anyone could restrain him, he drew his dirk and dove at Lewrie with the point held forward. Alan ducked across the compartment as Finnegan and Turner and the surgeon’s mates seized Rolston again, this time disarming him and forcing him to kneel on the deck.

“Stand to attention, the lot of you!” Lieutenant Swift ordered from the doorway. He had the master-at-arms and two ship’s corporals with him. He stepped inside, taking in the dirk in Finnegan’s fist, Rolston held down and raging, Lewrie looking as pale as a spook, and the mess littered with overturned utensils and bowls. “Now what’s all this about? Did I hear you threaten a man’s life, Mister Rolston? Explain yourself damned fast, boy.”

“Sir, I—”

“Did you accuse Rolston of causing Gibbs’ death, Mister Lewrie?”

“No, sir, I did not,” Alan vowed—with crossed fingers.

“Did he give anyone reason to think Rolston did it?” Swift asked the general mess. He was quickly informed that he had not; though the common opinion was against Rolston and his temper, Lewrie had refused to countenance such a thought.

“He’s a clever liar, sir. Don’t believe him!” from Rolston.

“Are you going to tell me that this is not your dirk, Rolston? Are you going to deny drawing it and attacking Mister Lewrie?”

“I…”

“Ashburn, was there a physical attack in these quarters with a weapon?” Swift turned to his trustworthy senior midshipman.

“Aye, sir, there was,” Ashburn said reluctantly, knowing he was sealing Rolston’s fate. He described the events, gave Lewrie a fair report, and quoted Rolston’s avowed purpose of murder.

“Master-at-arms, I shall have Mister Rolston taken aft to the captain at once. Charge of striking a fellow junior warrant and fighting with steel,” Swift said, specifying a charge less than murder, or the attempt at it, which would automatically qualify for hanging.

“Mister Swift, sir,” Rolston gasped, realizing what was to fall on him. “Please, sir, no.”

“Now get this place put to rights,” Swift said. “This mess looks like a pigsty. I shall expect all of you to be ready to go aft when the captain summons you.”

“Aye aye, sir,” they mumbled in a rough chorus as Swift took the evidence from Finnegan and strode out.

“Sufferin’ Jesus,” Chapman breathed after Swift was safely gone. “That’s all for that little boss-cock.”

“Rolston be damned,” Shirke said. “Just look at my breeches. Idiot.”

“What?” Chapman asked.

“I meant Rolston,” Shirke replied quickly, trying to wipe food from his clothing with the tablecloth.

“What’s going to happen to him?” Lewrie asked. The whole joke had gotten way out of hand. He had not expected Rolston to come for him like that, and was badly shaken.

“You notice the first lieutenant didn’t say attempted murder, so I doubt they’ll scrag him for it,” Bascombe said. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Dis-rating, most-like,” Chapman said. “Flog him raw and pack him off home, soon as we get to Antigua.”

“For losing his temper?” Lewrie asked. “I mean … we go after each other all the time down here. We all have bruises to prove it.”

“When’s the last time I drew a blade on you and said I’d kill you?” Keith asked him.

“At least a week ago.”

“Be serious for once, Alan. That man tried to kill you. Not just wave a dirk about and shout at you,” Ashburn said sternly. “He’s for it, now. Just as well, before he got control over people. A man who can’t control his passions is obviously not a gentleman.”

“At least that passion.” Shirke picked up some bowls. “Though a passion for the ladies is allowed by the Navy.”

“If that’s so, I haven’t seen much sign of it,” Lewrie sighed.

*   *   *

The next day in the Forenoon watch Rolston was paraded on deck. There had been a swift inquiry, with all involved hands testifying. It also included details of what had happened with Gibbs, with Hawkes giving the impression that while it may have been accidental, it pleased Rolston greatly. While Captain Bales could not hold a court-martial (that took a panel of five captains), he could assign a punishment for fighting and assaulting a fellow midshipman with a weapon. Sea Officers had the power of life and death in their hands, for though the Admiralty might limit the number of lashes a man might receive, written reports exceeding those limits never brought even a peep of displeasure from Whitehall. Out of reach of land and senior authority, a captain could do pretty much as he pleased.

So, while the Marines were formed up with their muskets on the quarterdeck, the officers below the rail on the upper gun deck and the midshipmen to one side, Rolston was called to punishment. A hatch grating was stood up and lashed to the gangway, and the bosun and his mates stood by with a red baize bag which contained a cat-o’-nine-tails.

Bales read out the charges against Rolston and asked him if he had anything to say. Rolston bit his lip and did not have any words. Bales referred to his slim book containing the Articles of War, and read the specific passages aloud, to drum into the hands the folly of fighting or laying hands on one another, much less a senior.

“The Twenty-Third Article,” Bales intoned in a loud voice. “‘If any Person in the Fleet shall quarrel or fight with any other Person in the Fleet, or use reproachful or provoking Speeches or Gestures, tending to make any Quarrel or Disturbance, he shall upon being convicted thereof, suffer such Punishment as the Offence shall deserve, and a Court-martial shall impose.’” Bales also made reference to the Thirty-Sixth Article, the “Captain’s Cloak,” headed “All Other Crimes Not Capital…”

Snapping the book shut, he ordered, “Seize him up!”

Rolston was clad in shirt and breeches. The shirt was ripped off his back and a leather apron tied over his kidneys and buttocks. They pressed him against the grating and tied him spread-eagled with spun yarn.

“Give him a dozen!”

Bosun’s Mate Ream took off his coat and took the cat out of the bag. The lengths were not knotted, since it was not mutiny, theft or desertion, but that was cold comfort. Ream settled himself and drew back. He delivered the first stroke.

Rolston was a boy, after all, a vicious, bullying sixteen-year-old boy, not made to take a man’s punishment. The lash made his whole body leap against the gratings with a thud, and he gasped audibly. Regular as a slow metronome, the lashes struck home. By the end of the first dozen, Rolston’s back was crisscrossed by angry weals and already turning blue and mottled yellow from the savage pounding. He was weeping silently and had bit his lip trying to be game about it.

“Another bosun,” Bales ordered at the end of the first dozen.

Jesus God, I started this, Lewrie told himself sadly. They’re half-killing the little shit and it’s my fault. I truly do hate him but was it worth this…?

The second bosun laid on his first stroke, and this time, Rolston screamed. Not a yell, not a plea for mercy, but a womanish scream of agony! The next stroke knocked the air from his lungs. His back was now streaming blood where further lashes had broken open the inflamed weals. The youngest midshipmen that Lewrie saw were either weeping openly, or staring as though the flogging had happened not a moment too soon to please them. Rolston would have been the oldest in the gun room, and would have made their little lives hell.

Lewrie looked at the lines of men, and he saw furtive gleams of pleasure. There was none of the swaying or shuffling they normally showed when they thought a punishment had found the wrong person. Perhaps it was an accident about Gibbs, but to the ship’s people, the punishment fit the crime, or answered their sense of a final justice.

The punishment ended after two dozen. It was doubtful if Rolston would have survived a third, and he was so lost in agony already that one more stroke would not have affected him, or served a useful purpose.

He was cut down and hauled off to the sick-bay. The deck was washed down and the grating put back in place. The men were dismissed and chivvied off to prepare for morning gun drill and cleaning.

Rolston was officially dis-rated, deprived of gun room privilege and dressed in slop clothing like a common seaman. He was also confined in the brig as soon as the surgeon was through with him, there to languish until they docked.

*   *   *

“Lewrie, quit mooning,” Lieutenant Kenyon snapped as he saw him lounging by the bulwarks.

“Sorry, sir. I was thinking about Rolston just now.”

“Don’t waste your time,” Kenyon told him. Lewrie gave it a long thought, then decided to come clean about his scheme to ruin his rival, but Kenyon forestalled him.

“I still do not think he caused Gibbs to fall, but the captain had enough suspicion to reprimand him. And the way he went after you was the end of him.”

“Yes, but—”

“So you crowed about it in the mess. Believe me, I know what it’s like to see a rival confounded, and Rolston was not the most popular man aboard, either. How often have I seen him having men up on charge to satisfy his petty grudges, or just to see a flogging? No, he is no loss to us. He was a brutal little monster, and would have been a real terror as an officer, God help us, as a captain. That kind, we don’t need in the Navy.”

“I feel as if I precipitated the attack, sir.”

“So what?” Kenyon shrugged. “So might any of the others who had a reason to wonder what happened aloft. Let Hawkes and Blunt stew on it long enough and it might have been Rolston who came down from the rigging next, and then we’d have had to hang two good topmen for the sake of one bad midshipman.”

I doubt if he’d let me admit rape of his only sister, Alan told himself. Maybe I did do something right, after all?

“You’re shaping devilish-well as a midshipman, Lewrie.”

“Er … thank you, sir.”

“Even though you thoroughly detest the Navy, we’re better off with your kind than his. And don’t tell me you love the Navy like Ashburn does, ’cause I’ve seen you when no one was looking. I was not exactly enamored of going to sea when I was a boy, either, but there were reasons why it was necessary. I still do not love it, but I have a future in it. You’ll make your way.”

“Thank you for telling me that, sir.”

“I said nothing, Mister Lewri … Now, I expect you to make sure to inspect the mess tables and report which mess has not scrubbed up properly. And check the bread barges, too.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

*   *   *

For the next couple of weeks of their passage the world seemed incredibly sweet to Alan. The weather was fresh and clean, with deep blue skies and high-piled clouds with no threat in them. From the usual disturbed grey green color, the ocean changed to a spectacular shade of blue that glittered and folded and rose again under a balmy sun, so that it was as painful to look upon as a gem under a strong light. In the steady trade winds, Ariadne shook out the reefs in her tops’ls and hoisted her t’gallants for the first time in months, even setting studding-sails on the main course yard, and except for sail drill each day, there was less cause to reef and furl. Free of convoys and sluggish merchantmen, she proved that she could fly.

With better weather and steadier foot- and handholds, Alan practically lived aloft in the rigging as they traded their heavy storm sails for a lighter set, lowering tons of strained and patched flaxen sails to be aired and folded away, the new being bent onto the yards and stays.

Clearer skies also allowed better classes in navigation and the measuring of the noon sun’s height with their quadrants, or the newfangled sextant that was Mr. Ellison’s pride and joy. Alan found himself becoming pleasingly accurate at plotting their position.

Dry decks and a following wind also gave better footing for small arms drill—musketry firing at towed kegs, pistol practice, pike training, tomahawks or boarding axes, and Lewrie’s favorite, sword work. Kenyon let him borrow a slightly curved hunting sword, or hanger, and he became adept with it, for it was much lighter than a naval cutlass to handle, but was meant to be used partially in the same way, stamp and slash.

Ashburn’s tutor had been Spanish, so he knew the two-bladed fighting style of rapier and main gauche, while Alan knew the fighting style of the London streets; smallsword and cloak, lantern or walking stick for a mobile shield. They delighted in practicing on each other. It was good exercise, and taught raw landsmen how to survive at close quarters; though once in action it was pretty much expected that they would forget most of what they had been taught and fall back on their instincts, which were to flail away madly and batter someone to death rather than apply any science to the task.

The master-at-arms was not a swordsman, and as Lewrie had proved months before, neither was the lieutenant-at-arms, Lieutenant Harm, so Marine captain Osmonde had been summoned from his life of ease in the wardroom to instruct at swordplay.

Lewrie was not exactly sure that a Marine officer had any duties to perform, except for looking elegant and lending a measure of tone to what was a minor squirearchy gathering aft. His sergeants did all the work, and he supposedly served as some sort of catering officer to the other officers, which might have taken an hour a week. Yet Osmonde was lean to the point of gauntness, always immaculately turned out in snow-white breeches, waistcoat and shirt, his neckcloth perfect, his silk stockings looking brand new, his red tunic and scarlet sash without a speck of tar (or even dust) and his gold and brass and silver fit to blind the unwary. Lewrie was quite taken with Osmonde, for his skill with a sword, his gorgeous uniform, his egalitarian way of talking to the petty officers and midshipmen at drill (he did not talk to his own Marines, ever) and mostly with the fact that the man did not appear to ever have to do a lick of work and got paid right-well for it, even getting to sleep in every night with no interruptions.

“I see you still sport Mister Kenyon’s hanger,” Osmonde said to him one sweaty day on the larboard gangway at drill.

“Aye, sir. And short enough to get under guard.”

“You would benefit with hefting a regulation cutlass. Put that away and do so,” Osmonde said, carefully phrasing each word.

“Aye, sir.” Lewrie sheathed the wonderful little sword and dug a heavy cutlass from a tub of weapons. He looked around for an opponent and found everyone already engaged.

“Here, we shall face-off each the other,” Osmonde said. “This shall be good for you. I notice you are a wrist player. Do you good to learn to hack and slash, to strengthen your whole arm.”

“Seems such a … clumsy way, sir. And inelegant,” Lewrie said, taking up a middle guard.

“So shall your opponent be, should we ever be called upon to board a foe. Some common seaman,” Osmonde said, clashing blades with him. He began to backpedal Lewrie across the gangway with crashing blows, while continuing to speak as if he were seated in a club chair. “You shall advance so gallantly and with such grace as to make your old pushing school proud, and some hulking brute like Fowles there will chop you to chutney before you can shout ‘en garde.’”

Lewrie fetched up at the quarterdeck netting, backed into it by the fury of the attack and the weight of the opposing blade.

“The damned thing has no point worth mentioning, so quit trying to frighten me with it,” Osmonde said. “Try a two-handed swing if it helps.”

They went back down the gangway toward the bows, Lewrie still retreating, and his arms growing heavier by the minute.

“The idea is to hack your opponent down, not dance a quadrille with him,” Osmonde said, his swings remorseless and the flat of the blade he wielded bringing stinging slaps on Lewrie’s arms.

Lewrie tried to respond with some wittiness, but could not find his voice which was lost in a bale of raw cotton, so dry was he. He was nearing the foredeck, and planted his feet and began to swing back with both arms, clanging his blade against Osmonde’s.

His arms were so tired they felt nerveless, though engorged with blood and heavy. Each meeting of the blades made his hands sting, and he found it more difficult to keep a grip on the wooden handle. With an air of desperation, he thrust the curved hilt into Osmonde’s shoulder and shoved him back, then aimed a horizontal swipe at him with all his remaining strength that should have removed a month’s worth of the officer’s hair. But Osmonde’s blade was just suddenly there, and his own recoiled away with a mighty clang, almost torn from his grasp. And then Osmonde thrust at him, which he barely countered off to the right. Then Osmonde brought a reverse stroke back at him and when their blades met this time, Lewrie’s spun away from his exhausted grip. Osmonde laughed and tapped him lightly on the head with the flat of the sword.

“Not elegant, was it?”

“No … sir,” Alan replied between racking gulps of air.

“Humiliating experience?”

“Bloody right … sir.”

“Such language from a young gentleman, but better being humiliated than killed by someone with bad breath and no forehead. Fetch your cutlass and we’ll get some water.”

In warmer climes a butt of water was kept on deck with a square cut, or scuttled, into the upper staves so that a small cup could be dipped inside without spillage. It was too long in-cask, that water, and tan with oak and animalcules, but in Lewrie’s parched condition it was sparkling wine.

“Most men are afraid of blades, Lewrie,” Osmonde told him as he sipped at his water, making a face at the color and taste. “That’s why people were so glad that gunpowder and muskets and cannon were invented. You don’t have to get within reach of a blade or a point to get rid of the other bastard. I am glad to see you are not one of them.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lewrie replied. “I think.”

“Most men these days wear swords the way they wear hats.” Osmonde sighed, handing the cup back to Lewrie. “Or to give them a longer reach at the buffet table. Yet society, and the Navy, require us to face up to the enemy with steel in our hands. Fortunately for us, the Frogs and the Dons are a bunch of capering poltroons for all their supposed skills as swordsmen and swordsmiths. But there are a few men who are truly dangerous with a sword.”

“Like you, sir?” Alan grinned, hoping to flatter.

“Do not toady to me, Lewrie.”

“I was merely asking if you thought yourself dangerous, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I am. I am because I like cold steel,” Osmonde said with a casualness that sent a chill down Lewrie’s sweaty back. “I can shoot, I can fence prettily but I can also hack with the best of ’em. Axe, cutlass, boarding pike, take your pick. Ever duel?”

“Once, sir. Back home.”

“Ever blaze?”

“No, sir. Smallsword only. I pinked him.”

“Huzzah for you. How did you feel?”

“Well—”

“Was he skilled?”

“No, sir. He was easy to pink.”

“And you were properly brave.” Osmonde sniffed.

“Well…”

“You were both frightened. Hands damp, throat dry, trembling all over. Probably pale as death but you stood up game as a little lion, did you not?”

“Yes, I did, sir,” Alan said, getting a little tired of being humiliated.

“It was only natural. And until you are really skillful with steel you will always feel that way, trusting to luck and hoping the foe is clumsy. Like going aloft, which I sincerely thank God I do not have to do, one learns caution, but goes when called, by facing one’s fear and conquering it.”

“I think I see, sir.”

“Most likely you do not, but you shall someday. You do not know how many young fools have rushed blindly into danger and died for their supposed honor, or for glory. Those two have buried more idiots than the plague. Heroism cannot conquer all. You’ll run into someone better someday. Better to be truly dangerous and let them come like sheep to the slaughter. Let the other fool die for his honor. Your job is to kill him, not with grace and style, but with anything that comes to hand.”

“I suppose I’d live longer if I were that sort of man, sir?” Lewrie asked, not above placing his valuable skin at a high premium.

“Exactly. So I suggest you find the oldest and heaviest cutlass aboard and practice with that, until a smallsword or hanger becomes like a feather in your hand. Keep fitter than the other fellow. Not only will you tire less easily, but the ladies prefer a fit man.”

“Aye, sir,” Lewrie replied, now on familiar ground.

“Practice with all this ironmongery until they each become an instinctive part of you. I will let you know if you are slacking.”

“Aye, sir,” Lewrie said, not looking forward to it. It was a lot of work, and he had to admit that the sight of a pike head coming for his eyes was most unnerving. “I shall try, though the ship’s routine does take time from it. It must be easier to devote oneself to steel if one were a Marine officer, sir.”

“Tempted to be a ‘bullock,’ Mister Lewrie?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, sir.”

“Prohibitively expensive to purchase a commission, d’you know,” Osmonde said by way of dismissal. “Certain appearances to maintain in the mess, as well.”

“Well,” Alan said, turning to go as seven bells of the Forenoon watch rang out, and the bosun’s pipes sounded clear-decks-and-up-spirits for the daily rum ration. Osmonde’s Marine orderly was there with a small towel and Osmonde’s smallsword and tunic, as the Marine sniffed the air from the galley funnel.

“Bugger the snooty bastards, anyway,” Alan muttered, going below to his own mess, soaking wet from the exertion. He dropped off Lieutenant Kenyon’s hanger and vowed that before the voyage was over, Captain Osmonde would rate him as a dangerous man.

*   *   *

Days passed as Ariadne made her westing, running down a line of latitude that would take them direct to Antigua as resolutely as a dray would stay within the banks of a country lane. There were two schools of thought about that; it made navigation easier to perform, and could almost be done by dead reckoning with a quick peek at the traverse board to determine distance run from one noon to the next, but it was a lazy, civilian way of doing things. Or, it was quite clever, since lazy civilian merchant captains would do it, and that put Ariadne in a position to intercept enemy Indiamen, or conversely, those privateers who might be lying in wait to prey upon British ships. But since the ship had not distinguished herself in the past as a great fighting ship, the latter was a minority opinion. Gun drill and some live firings were practiced, but it was undertaken with the tacit assumption that Ariadne would never fire those guns in anger—spite or pique, perhaps, but not battle—and it showed.

What a happy ship we are, Alan thought, stripping off his coat and waistcoat as he sat down for dinner following one of those morning gun drills in the Forenoon watch. Lieutenant Harm had yelled himself hoarse with threats and curses to the gun crews on the lower deck, and the mechanical way they had gone through the motions. And when Lewrie had told some of them to remember to swab out so they would do it for real in action, Harm had screeched something like “a midshipman giving advice, by the nailed Christ?” and for him to shut the hell up, if he knew what was good for him.

There may have been a war raging in the Colonies, all round the world as France, Spain, perhaps soon even Holland joined to support the rebels and rehash the Seven Years’ War, and ships may have fought in these very waters; somewhere over the horizon British vessels could be up to close-pistol-shot with the broadsides howling, but the general idea was that Ariadne was not part of that same fleet, and never would be, so drilling on the great guns was make-work, sullenly accepted.

The pork joint in their mess was half bone and gristle, and the real meat was a piece of work to chew. Their peas were lost in fatty grease; the biscuit was crumbling with age and the depredation of the weevils. Lewrie watched his companions chew, heard the rapping of the biscuits on the table like a monotonous tatoo. He was sick to death of them all, even Ashburn. Shirke was telling Bascombe the same joke for the umpteenth time, and Bascombe was braying like an ass as he always did. Chapman chewed and blinked and swallowed as though he was concentrating hard on remembering how, and in which order, such actions of dining occurred. The master’s mates smacked like pigs at a trough, and the surgeon’s mates whispered dry rustlings of dog-Latin and medical terms like a foreign language that set them apart from the rest. Brail fed himself with a daintiness he imagined a gentleman should, and maintained a silence that was in itself maddening.

I’d love to put a pistol ball into this damned joint, just to have something new to talk about, Lewrie decided. It might wake old Chapman up, at least. No, probably ricochet off the pork and kill one of them …

“And was our young prodigy all proficient at gun drill today?” Shirke asked him.

“What?” Lewrie said, realizing he had been asked a question.

“Were you a comfort to Lieutenant Harm?” from Bascombe.

“I’m sure the foretopmen heard it,” Ashburn teased. “‘By the nailed Christ,’ I think the expression was.”

“Did big bad bogtwotter hurt baby’s feewings?”

“I see you have reverted to your proper age and intellect, Harv,” Lewrie said. “How refreshing. For a while there, I thought counting higher than ten at navigation was going to derange you.”

Bascombe was not exactly a mental wizard when it came to the intricacy of working navigation problems, and had spent many hours at the masthead as punishment. The insult went home like a hot poker up the arse.

“You’re a right smart little man, ain’t you, Lewrie?”

“Smarter than some I know. At least I can make change.”

“You bastard—”

“That’s educated bastard, to you.”

“For twopence I’d call you out.” Bascombe leaped to his feet with fists clenched.

“You want me to pay you,” Lewrie said calmly, looking up at him with a bland expression. “Funny way to make a living. I didn’t know you were that needy.”

“Goddamn you—”

“And a parson’s son, at that!” Lewrie was enjoying himself hugely. This is the best lunch we’ve had in days.

“’Ere, now,” Finnegan said, waving a fork at them. “There’s a midshipman awready wot’s been rooned this voyage. Now shut yer traps.”

Bascombe plumped back down on his chest, his hands still fisted in his lap. He stared at his plate for a long moment.

“Who ruined Rolston?” he asked softly. “Lewrie was the one that ran on about him, and swearing so innocent he meant nothing by it.”

I didn’t know he was that sharp, Lewrie thought; have to watch young Harvey in future.

“Rolston ruined himself, and we all know it,” Keith said, as if he was the only one to lay down the law. “And I think his case is example enough for all of us. We are here to learn to get along with each other. Alan, I think you owe Harvey an apology. And you owe one to Alan as well.”

Mine arse on a band-box, Lewrie thought, but saw that the others were waiting on him to start. “Well, perhaps Lieutenant Harm made me raw, and being teased about it didn’t do my temper any good. Sorry I took it out on you, Bascombe. What with this morning, I lashed out without thinking.”

“For my part, I’m sorry for what I said as well,” Bascombe said after taking a long moment to decide if Lewrie had actually apologized to him.

“Now shake hands and let’s finish eating,” Ashburn said.

They shook hands perfunctorily, Lewrie glaring daggers, and Bascombe thinking that he would find a way to put Lewrie in the deepest, hottest hell.

“Better.” Ashburn smiled and picked up his knife and fork. “Did I hear right? Did Mister Harm really intend to put Snow up on a charge and see him flogged?”

“Mister Harm got hellish angry when two men slipped, and when Snow told him they couldn’t help it because of the water on the deck from the slow-match tubs, Harm thought it was back-talk and went barking mad.”

“Mister Harm, mind ye,” Turner said.

“Aye, sir,” Lewrie corrected, waiting for Turner to tell him that commission lieutenants don’t go barking mad, either, but evidently they sometimes do, for Turner went back to his meal. “Snow’s a good quartergunner, been in forever, I’m told.”

“Won’t stand,” Ashburn said, smearing mustard on his meat and hoping the flavor was improved. “Captain Bales will take it into account. Come to think of it, I cannot remember Snow ever being charged.”

“Ten years in the Fleet and never a lash? My last captain would have had him dancing,” Shirke said.

“Taut hand, was he?” Chapman asked, now that he remembered what came after chewing.

“Best days were Thursday Forenoon,” Shirke told them. “Looked like the Egyptians building the pyramids … whack, whack, whack.”

“I fear the cat is a poor way to keep order,” Brail said. “I should think grog or tobacco stoppage would be more effective.”

“Nonsense,” Finnegan said, digging for gristle with a horny claw. “Wot’s better, d’ye think, hangin’ fer stealin’ half a crown, er takin’ a dozen lashes fer drunk on duty?”

“Well…”

“I’d take the floggin’. It’s done, it’s over, yer back hurts like hell, but yer still breathin’. Ashore, they hang fer everythin’.”

“Flogging is a brutal way to discipline,” Brail maintained.

“Bein’ on a King’s Ship ain’t brutal enough awready?”

“Exactly my point,” Brail said. “The hands would do anything for tobacco or grog. Deprive them of it for a few days and they’ll learn their lessons.”

“Aw, Able Seaman Breezy lays Ordinary Seaman Joke open from ’is gullet ta ’is weddin’ tackle, an’ you’d stop somebody’s grog?” Turner gaped at this dangerous notion. “Somebody says ‘no’ ta me when I tells ’im ta do somthin’, an’ you’d take his baccy from ’im?”

“Nothing like the cat ta make ’em walk small about ya,” Finnegan said firmly.

“I had a captain who had a hand who could not stop pissing on the deck. Learned it in his alley, I’ve no doubt,” Ashburn told them. “Grog, tobacco, nothing helped. Had him flogged, a dozen to start. Nothing worked. Finally tied him up in baby swaddles, itchy old canvas. Had to see the bosun whenever he had to pump his bilges and be unlocked. That cured him.”

“Shamed ’im afore ’is mates, too,” Finnegan said. “Felt more like a man iffen ’e’d got two-dozen an’ they learned him the right way.”

“Flogging is not always the best answer,” Ashburn said with a saintly expression. “Some intelligence must play a part.”

In the middle of their discussion, they heard the call of the bosun’s pipes. Then came the drumming of the Marine to call them to Quarters, bringing a groan. “Damme, not another drill,” Lewrie said. “I know we were terrible this morning, but do we have to go through it all afternoon?”

He raced up to the lower gun deck, where the crew had been having their meal. It was a mass of confusion as hands slung food into their buckets and bread barges, stowing everything away out of sight and slamming their chests shut. Tables had to be hoisted up to the deckheads out of the way so they could fetch down the rammers, crows and handspikes to serve the guns, grumbling at their lost meal.

Ariadne turned slightly north of their westerly course as the gun captains came up from the hanging magazines with their tools of the trade. By then, chests and stools and eating utensils had been stacked on the centerline out of the way of the guns, and the tompions were being removed. Ship’s boys arrived with the first powder cartridges borne in flashproof leather or wood cases.

“Another drill, sir?” Lewrie asked Lieutenant Harm.

“No, you fool. We’ve sighted a strange sail.”

“Oh, I see, sir…” This could be a real fight, a chance to do something grand … maybe even make some prize money. No, what am I saying? This is Ariadne. We’ll lose her or she’ll turn out to be one of our packets …

Little Beckett came scuttling down from the upper deck and went to Lieutenant Roth. “The captain’s respects, Mister Roth, and would you be so good as to attend to the lowering of a cutter for an armed party to go aboard the chase once we have fetched her,” he singsonged.

“My compliments to the captain, and I shall be on deck directly. Wish me luck, Horace,” he said to Harm. “If she’s a prize, I may be the one to take her into port. What an opportunity!”

Roth fled the deck as though devils were chasing him.

Horace Harm? Lewrie thought, stifling a grin with difficulty. No wonder he’s such a surly Irish beau-nasty.

“Arrah now, fuck you, Jemmy Roth,” Harm muttered under his breath. His associate could parley the strange ship into an independent command, first crack at fresh cabin stores, and a good chance at a promotion into another ship, while Harm languished aboard Ariadne, moving up to fourth officer, but still stuck in her until old age.

“Lewrie,” Harm said, spinning on him and following the old adage that when in doubt, shout at someone. “Check to see that sand is spread for traction. And look to the firebuckets. Can you stretch your little mind to handle all of that, Lewrie?”

“Aye aye, sir,” Lewrie replied sweetly, which he knew galled the officer. Horace!

By the time Lewrie had finished his inspection, had ordered more sand, told some crews to clear away their raffle and gone back to report, the guns had been loaded with quarter-weight powder cartridges, eight pounds of powder to propel a thirty-two-pound iron ball. An increase in powder charge would not impel the shot any farther or faster, since all the powder did not take flame at once. It was good enough for random shot at long range, about a mile. As they closed with the chase, they might reduce the charge for short range, especially if they double-shotted the guns. Then, a normal charge would likely burst the piece.

“Should we not clear for action, Mister Harm?” Lewrie asked, seeing all the mess deck gear stowed on the centerline, and the partitions still standing for the midshipmen’s mess.

“Should the captain require it, we shall,” Harm said. “And if he does not, then we shan’t. Now shut your trap and quit interfering with your betters, Lewrie, or I’ll see you bent over a gun before this day is out.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Lewrie chirped again, full of sham eagerness to serve, and wondering why he had expected a sensible and polite answer from such a man. It must be one of ours, he decided. There are recognition signals. We’ll most likely stand around down here until we’re bored silly and then be released.

Once more, there was nothing to do for a long time as the day wore on and Ariadne bore down on the chase, plunging along with the wind on her starboard quarter and her shoulder to the sea. But it was still an hour before Beckett came below and told the crews to stand easy. They dragged out their stools and sat down. Lewrie took a seat on a chest. In his heart, he knew it was wrong not to strike all the assorted junk below into the holds, take down those partitions and get rid of the chests and stools, but what could a midshipman do about it? And even if he got Harm to send a message with a respectful suggestion on the matter, what shrift would a lieutenant’s advice receive from a post-captain intent on the whiff of prize money?

Some of the older hands had tied their neckerchiefs about their ears, making them look decidedly piratical. When he asked a quartergunner, old Snow in fact, he was told that it would keep him from going deaf from the sound of the guns.

By four in the afternoon, the order came down to open the gun ports, and blessed sunlight flooded in, along with sweet fresh air.

The hands were called back to attention by their guns but they still ducked to peer out the ports at their possible prize.

“Full-rigged, boys!” a rammer man whispered to a side-tackle mate. “Maybe a French blockade runner full o’ gold.”

“Have ta be a rum ’un ta get took by us!” a handspike man said.

“Silence, the lot of you,” Lieutenant Harm shouted. “Watch your fronts!”

And it was another half hour by Lewrie’s watch before the strange ship was near enough to hail, about two cables off their starboard bows. A chase gun barked from the upper deck and a feather of spray leaped up right under the other ship’s bowsprit. A flag broke from the chase’s gaff—it was Dutch.

Everyone sighed with a hiss of disappointment. They weren’t at war with Holland yet. They had wasted their whole afternoon.

“Damme,” a hand cursed, rubbing his hands together with a dry rustle. “Thort she were a beamy one, woulda been a good prize.”

There goes the start of my fortune, Alan thought, easing his aching back from long standing by the guns. He could have almost felt and heard those “yellowboys” clinking together … good golden guineas.

Beckett appeared on the companionway. “Mister Harm, the captain wishes you to run out, sir.”

“Right,” Harm crackled. “Run out yer guns.” And fourteen black muzzles trundled up to the port sills with a sound resembling a stampede of hogs. “Point yer guns, handspikes there, number six!”

Harm had drawn his smallsword and stood with it cocked over his shoulder, and Alan wondered just exactly what good the officer thought a blade was going to do to a ship more than four hundred yards away.

“But she’s neutral, is she not?” Alan asked.

“Might be smuggling,” Harm said. “I’d have thought ya’d have brains enough to realize we’ll board her and check her papers anyway. Might pick up a few hands to flesh us out. Damn Dutchies always have a few English sailors aboard hiding out from the press-gang under a foreign flag.”

The Dutch ship took a look at that menacing broadside pointing at her and took the path of sanity. Her flag slowly fluttered down the gaff.

Alan hoped that she was indeed a smuggler, loaded with contraband goods destined for some American port, or had papers that would make her liable to seizure. If so they could take her into Antigua and sell her, cargo, hull and fittings. “Um, how much do you think she might be worth, if she is a smuggler, Mister Harm?”

“Hull and rigging’ll fetch near ten thousand pounds,” Harm told him, a gleam coming to his own eye. “Now, if she’s carrying contraband, it’ll be military stores and such-like, and that may double her value.”

Davit blocks squealed as the large cutter was lowered over the side directly in front of their midships guns, the main course yard being employed as a boat boom. Their prize had let fly all instead of bringing to into the wind, and her canvas fluttered like a line of shirts on wash day.

“Dutchies can carry right rich cargoes,” Harm went on half to himself, almost pleasant for once in his greed. “Maybe fifty thous—”

The late afternoon was torn apart with red-hot stabs of flame and the lung-flattening booming of heavy guns. The side of the Dutch ship lit up and was wreathed in a sudden cloud of smoke as she fired a broadside right into Ariadne, two full gun decks of twenty-four- and eighteen-pounders. The air seemed to tremble and moan with the weight of iron headed their way, and another flag was shooting up the naked gaff. But this time it was the white and gold of Bourbon Spain!

“Bastard Dons,” Harm shouted. “Prime yer—”

Once more Lieutenant Harm was interrupted as the lower gundeck exploded. Heavy balls slammed into the ship’s side at nearly 1,200 feet per second, and Lewrie could hear the shrieking of her massive oaken scantlings as they bulged and splintered.

The cutter that was dangling before their gun ports was demolished, and a cloud of splinters raved through the open ports, striking down men. One ball struck a gun and upended it, hurling it free of sidetackles, breeching ropes and train tackles and sending it slewing to the larboard side. Another loaded gun was hit right on the muzzle, which set off its charge, and it burst asunder with a great roar! A little powder monkey standing terrified by the hatch to the orlop had his cartridge case explode in his arms, and was flung away like a broken doll, his clothes burned off and his arms missing!

There were screams of pain and surprise as though a pack of women were being ravaged. There were howls of agony as oak and iron splinters ripped into flesh, and guns turned on their servers and crushed them like sausages.

Lewrie had been blown off his feet by the explosion of the powder cartridge, and lay on the deck, still buffeted by the noise and the harsh thump of each cannonball striking deep into Ariadne’s hull. He saw and heard throaty gobbling and sobbing all about him as men clawed at their hurts and burns. In a split second, the ordered world of the lower gun deck had become a colored illustration from a very original sort of hell. He got to his feet, unsure what to do or where to go, but certain he wanted to go anywhere else, fast. A hand touched him on the shoulder and he jumped with a yelp of fear. He turned to see who it was.

Lieutenant Harm had been struck in the face by a large splinter. Half his face, the side nearest Lewrie, had been shaved off to the bone. One eye was gone, and in its place was a splinter nearly a foot long and nearly as big around as Lewrie’s wrist. Harm’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times like a dying fish before he toppled forward like a marionette with the strings cut. He fell on top of Snow, the quartergunner, whose entrails were spread out in a stinking mess on the deck. Just beyond him, Lewrie could see a side-tackle man lying beneath the overturned gun, and still screaming at the ruin of his legs.

“Oh,” Lewrie managed to say, gulping in fright. The fear that seized him made him dizzy, turned his limbs to jelly and took him far from the unbelievable sights and smells of the deck. He tried to take a step but felt like he was walking on pillows, and fell to his knees.

That’s an eye, he decided, regarding the strange object below his face. He threw up his dinner on it. Overhead, but no business of his, he could hear the upper deck twelve-pounders banging away raggedly, and the roar of the trucks as they recoiled. It sounded as if Ariadne was being turned into a pile of wood chips.

A second broadside from the Spanish ship slammed into them. More screams, more singing of flying debris, and a muffled explosion somewhere! He got back to his feet, clinging to a carline post.

Lieutenant Roth came skidding down the hatchway with his hat missing, and the white facings of his uniform and breeches stained grey with powder smoke. “Harm! Lewrie, where’s—”

And then someone jerked Lieutenant Roth’s string, or so it seemed, for he left his feet and flew across the width of the gun deck to slam into the larboard side where he left a bloody splash, cut in half by shot.

Got to get out of here, he told himself, considering how dark and safe it would be in the holds below the waterline snuggled up by the rum kegs. He seemed to float to the hatch, but Cole, the gunner’s mate, stopped him by hugging his leg in terror.

“Zur,” Cole pleaded on his knees, clutching tight. “Zur.”

“Not now.” Alan was intent on salvation, but there was a Marine sentry at the hatch using his bayonet to disincline others who had already had the same thoughts, and he looked over at Lewrie as one more customer for his trade.

Couldn’t make it with this bastard anyway, Alan decided, unable to move without dragging the mate along with him. “Goddamn you, you’re a mate … tell me what to do!”

“Zur!” the mate babbled, shuffling on his knees with Alan.

“I want out of here, hear me? OUT,” Alan yelled.

“Run out, zur?” the gunner’s mate asked, eager for any sane suggestion. “Run ’em out? Right, zur!”

“Let go of me, damn you, and do your job! Get up and do your job! Stand to your guns!” And he hauled Cole to his feet and shoved him away. “Corporal, run those shirkers to their guns!” Right, he told himself; I wouldn’t believe me, either, seeing the Marine’s dubious look.

“Ready, zur!” Cole was wringing his hands in panic.

“Fire as you bear!” Lewrie ordered, hoping to be heard in all the din. The thirty-two-pounders began to slam, rolling back from the sills and filling the deck with a sour cloud of burnt powder. This isn’t happening to me, he thought wildly. I refuse to be killed. I will not allow myself to believe this is real …

Lewrie staggered to a port which no longer contained a gun and peered out to see through the smoke cloud. He was amazed to see some ragged holes punched into the enemy’s hull. The range was less than a cable as the two ships drifted down on each other.

“Beautiful! Hit him again!” he shouted, happy that he might take a few of the bastards with him. “Swab out, there, charge your guns…”

“Git yoor ztupid foot atta the bight a that tackle er yew’ll be Mister Hop-kins,” the gunner’s mate told someone. Just to be sure it wasn’t himself, Lewrie stepped back to the centerline of the deck. Knew we should have struck all this below, he thought, studying the wreck of chests and stools and spare clothing.

As they were ramming down round-shot, a rammer man beside him took a large splinter of oak in his back and gave a shrill scream as he toppled over, scattering the terrified gun crew.

“Clear away, there! Wounded to the larboard side! Run out your guns!” Lewrie was glad to have something to do besides shiver with fright. He had not thought it would be that cold below decks. Teeth-chattering cold!

“Prime! Point!” He saw fists rise in the air as each gun was gotten ready and he felt the hull drumming to hits, but he also felt the scend of the sea under Ariadne. “On the uproll … fire!”

This was much more organized, a twelve-gun broadside fired all at the same time. An avalanche of iron seemed to strike the enemy. She visibly staggered, and three waist gun ports were battered into one, whole chunks of scantling blown apart by the impact. Surely there was a cloud of splinters on her gun deck this time.

“Kick ’em up the arse!” Lewrie sang out, which raised a ragged cheer from the men. “Sponge out your guns!”

“B … better, zur!” the mate said as Ariadne was struck deep in the hull but not on the gun deck. He looked at Lewrie like a puppy who had lost his man in a crowd.

“They’re not sullen about gun drill now, are they?” Lewrie said with a manic smile. “We’ll take a few of the shits with us, hey?”

“Aye, zur!” Cole said, finding his courage and gazing at him with frank admiration, which Lewrie found disconcerting in the extreme.

“Have we fired twice or three times?” he asked. “Should we worm the guns? Don’t want a charge going off early.”

“I’d worm, zur!” Cole said. “Worm out yer guns there!”

He must think I’ve gone mad, Lewrie thought, getting away from Cole as far as possible. In doing so he stepped over the body of a boy, a tiny, young midshipman who had lost a leg and bled to death, his dirk still clenched in a pale fist. Odd that after eight months in the same ship together Alan could not place him at all. Fuck me, I’m dead or deranged already, he told himself. If I have to go game, I wish I could stop shaking so badly. I’m ready to squirt my breeches! He clung to a support beam amidships and tried to get a grip.

Within a minute, fresh charges had been rammed down, wads, ball and sealing wads, and the guns trundled up to the ports. God, they’re close now. At this range, we ought to shoot right through them …

“Prime your guns, point … on the uproll … fire!”

Another solid broadside, a blow beneath the heart.

“Sponge out!” Lewrie shrilled. “Gunner’s mate, reduce charges and load with double shot … double shot and grape…”

Powder monkeys scampered like panting rats as they came up from below with lighter powder bags, eyes widening in their blackened faces at the sight of the gore.

“No wonder they paint everything red down here,” Lewrie told a handspike man as he levered his charge about. “Like the cloaks that the Spartans wore, I suppose, what?”

The handspike man was too busy to talk to him, or even to listen, and Lewrie chastised himself for beginning to sound like one of those Hanoverians at Court with their eh, what, what’s.

“Gunner’s mate, on the downroll this time, rip the bottom out from under them!”

“Aye aye, zur!” The gunner’s mate stood in awe as he watched Lewrie take out his pocket watch, consult it, then pace about.

He knows I’m off my head … “On the downroll, fire!”

Below the level of the enemy’s lower gun ports, star-shaped holes appeared. The range was a long musket-shot now with hardly a chance for a miss.

“Lewrie, where’s Lieutenant Harm?” Beckett yelled up at him.

“Dead as cold boiled mutton,” Lewrie told him conversationally. “So is Roth. He’s over to larboard someplace. Need something?”

“The Spanish are closing us, we must cripple them now—”

“Oh. Right. We’ll give it a shot, pardon the play on words. Double shot the guns again. Or do you think, if we reduce to saluting charges, we could triple-shot the damned things?”

Beckett and he had strolled aft through all the carnage, until Beckett spotted the dead midshipman, gave a shrill scream of disbelief and began to spew. “Striplin! Oh dear God, it’s Striplin!”

“Wondered who that was,” Lewrie said. “Ready? Run out your guns.”

The enemy ship was evidently in trouble with her larboard battery, and was painfully tacking about to point her bows toward Ariadne to bring her undamaged side to bear. Her turn could also cut across their stern, and round-shot fired down the length of the gun deck would be like a game of bowls through the thin transom wood. But for that instant, the Dons were vulnerable to the same thing.

“As you bear … fire!”

It was too much to ask for a synchronized broadside, but he could count on a few steady gunners to let fly as they readied their pieces. One at a time the thirty-two-pounders barked, no longer rolling back from the ports but leaping back and slamming to the deck with a crash as loud as their discharge as the breeching ropes stopped them.

The forward bulkhead aft of the jib-boom burst open. The boom and the bow sprit were shattered, releasing the tension of the forestays that held the rigging tautly erect. Forward gun ports were hammered to ruin as they swung into view. Splinters and long-engrained dust and paint chips fluttered out in a cloud from each strike. With a groan they could hear below decks the Spaniard’s foremast came apart like a snapped bow, royal and t’gallant and topmasts sagging down into separate parts and trailing wreckage over the side, or leaning back into the mainmast, ripping sails apart and creating more havoc.

“Yahh … fry those shits,” Lewrie heard himself scream.

Ariadne struggled to swing to starboard to keep the enemy on her beam, for there was still half that waiting broadside in reserve that could still do terrible damage. Lewrie pounded on people, rushing the swabbing and the loading and the running out. But they could not bear, and the enemy was drifting astern more and more.

“Point aft! Hurry it up!” Lewrie demanded, seizing a crow and throwing his own weight to shift a gun. “Quoins in! Prime your guns as we shift!”

“Done it!” the gunner’s mate sounded off.

“Stand clear … fire!”

Someone yelled as a gun recoiled over his foot, and a cloud of smoke rushed back in the ports. Lewrie went halfway out the nearest port for a look. “Sonofabitch! Marvelous!”

There would not be a return broadside. There was not one port showing a muzzle that did not tilt skyward, and close as they were, he could not see anyone working in the gloom.

Damme, it’s nearly dark … is it over, please, God?

Ariadne could not stay to windward, for she had taken much damage aloft from chain and bar-shot that had torn her rigging to rags. She sagged down off the wind, while the Spaniard drifted away, going off the wind as well, but far down to the south, able to beam-reach out of danger, and Ariadne could not follow.

“Think it’s over fer now, zur,” the gunner’s mate told him.

“Water,” Lewrie said. “Organise a butt of water.”

“Right away, zur.”

Lewrie sat down on what was left of a midshipman’s chest and caught his breath. Now that the gunsmoke had been funneled out by fresh air, he could see a stack of bodies to the larboard side, and a steady stream of screaming wounded being carried below to the cockpit and the dubious mercies of the surgeon and his mates. The sound from below on the orlop was hideous as they sawed and cut and probed; mostly sawed, for badly damaged limbs had to come off at once.

“There was a gun dismounted,” Lewrie said suddenly, aching at the effort of communication. “Has it been bowsed down?”

“Aye, sor,” a quartergunner told him. “Got her back on her truck an’ lashed snug ta larboard.”

“Good. Good.” He nodded. “Organise a crew from larboard to rig a wash-deck pump and begin cleaning up. We may not be through yet.” He could see that once the guns ceased to speak, the men were sagging into shock, and that sneaky bastard might come back. They would be useless the next time, and he did not know what to do.

“Water, zur,” the gunner’s mate said. “Have a cup.”

“They’re falling apart. What do I do?” Lewrie pleaded.

“I’ll see to keepin’ ’em on the hop, zur. Yew take a breather. Yew done enough fer now,” Cole said, making it sound like a reproof.

I must have screwed this up royally, Lewrie sighed. Well, who cares? I never wanted this anyway! I wonder if all this was famous or glorious? What would Osmonde say? Is he alive to say anything?

Bosun’s pipes shrilled and the bosun yelled down, “D’ye hear, there? Secure from Quarters!”

“Iffen yew want, zur, I’ll finish up here,” the gunner’s mate said. “When ya zees the first lieutenant, the count is eleven dead an’ nineteen wounded an’ on the orlop.”

“Jesus,” Lewrie breathed. “Sweet Jesus.”

“Aye, zur. Damned bad, it was.”

Anything to get away from the screams from the surgery, he decided, getting to his feet with a groan and slowly ascending to the upper deck and the quarterdeck.

“Good God, are you wounded, Mister Lewrie?” Swift asked him as he reveled at the coolness and sweetness of the evening winds.

“I don’t think so, Mister Swift,” wondering if he had been struck and did not yet realize it. Perhaps that explained his weakness and the trembling of his limbs.

“You gave me a fright with all that blood,” Swift said. Lewrie looked down and saw his trousers, waistcoat and facings blotched black in the gloom with dried blood as if he had been wallowing in an abbatoir.

“I beg to report that the lower gun deck is secured, sir. One gun burst, one overturned but righted. All lashed down snug. The gunner’s mate said to tell you eleven dead and nineteen on the orlop with the surgeon.”

“What about Mister Roth and Mister Harm?”

“Dead, sir. Mister Harm had this big baulk of wood stuck in his face. And Mister Roth came below and just … went splash across the deck.”

“Who ran the gun deck, then?”

“Me and the gunner’s mate, sir.”

“Wait here, Lewrie,” and Swift tramped off across the splintered deck toward the binnacle, where Lewrie could make out the sailing master and the captain.

“You look like ‘Death’s Head on a mopstick,’” Kenyon said as he strolled up.

“Who won, sir?”

“Draw, I’d say. Those Dons are off to the suth’rd making repairs. We’ll have to work like Trojans through the night, or they’ll be back at dawn and finish us off. Where are Roth and Harm?”

Lewrie recited his litany of woe once more, leaving Kenyon at a loss for words. “I shall need you to assist replacing the maintopmast with the spare main-course yard.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Lewrie, come here,” from Lieutenant Swift.

Standing before Bales, he had to explain when Harm and Roth had fallen, and what had happened following their deaths, what the state of the lower gun deck was, how many wounded and killed. It felt like an old story that he couldn’t dine out on for long.

“And you did not think to report your officers fallen?” Bales asked.

“There wasn’t time, sir.” Lewrie was feeling faint again, ready to drop in his tracks. “Could I sit down, sir? I’m feeling a bit rum.”

If they want to cane me for not sending a messenger, then they can have this bloody job. I quit! he told himself, leaning on the corner of the quarterdeck netting.

The captain’s servant offered him a mug of something which he said would buck him right up, and Lewrie took it and tipped it back, drinking half of it before he realized it was neat rum. No matter, it was wet and alcoholic, whatever it was. He smiled and belched contentedly at all of them.

The gunner’s mate was there, pointing at Lewrie, but he could not hear what he was saying … Probably telling him what a total poltroon I was. I should’ve been taking orders from him, not the other way around …

“God bless you, Mister Lewrie,” someone very like Captain Bales said to his face. “From the most unlikely places we find courage and leadership in our hour of troubles. I shall feature your bravery in my report most prominently, believe you me.”

Here, now, you can’t be saying that, Lewrie goggled at him, unable to feature it. He could not speak, merely nod dumbly, unable to remove his weary, drunken smile.

But then he had to go aloft to clear away the raffle of all their damage, which sobered him up right smartly but did nothing for his aching weariness.