Even before Vigilance got within sight of the other transports anchored off Milazzo, Lewrie had finished a letter to Adm. Sir Thomas Charlton informing him of his decision to temporarily relieve Dickson of his command and replace him with one of his officers. It would be a dicey act, for though Lewrie was in command of all the squadron, he had not been appointed a Commodore’s authority, and was under the command of Charlton, wherever he was at that moment, hundreds of miles away. He hedged his bets by asking whether Charlton thought he had the authority to do so, or if Charlton thought that there might be a better solution to Coromandel’s problem. Dickson had powerful patrons, and Lewrie was already the target of other people’s spite; dare he do something to turn a whole new set against him? If Charlton approved, Lewrie asked for a reply to show that he concurred, or not.
That letter was sanded to dry the ink, but not yet folded over itself to form an envelope; the sticks of sealing wax and Lewrie’s personal seal were still in a drawer of his desk. It lay flat on the desk top, making Lewrie wonder if he would ever mail it.
Cooler head, he told himself; that’s what I need. Spur of the moment, gone off at half-cock like a two shilling pistol? Dickson’s that ship’s real problem, but … can I do anything about him? Just ’cause I despise the bastard? It’ll look un-justified, and spiteful.
With a long sigh, he slipped the letter into the central drawer of his desk and shut it. “I’ll be on deck,” he told his retinue.
Lt. Rutland was officer of the watch, glooming over the windward corner of the quarterdeck, his dour face screwed up in even more dismal thoughts than usual.
“Captain, sir,” Rutland said, touching the brim of his hat as he surrendered that post to stand in front of the compass binnacle cabinet.
“Mister Rutland,” Lewrie acknowledged.
“A shambles, sir,” Rutland commented after a long silence.
“Coromandel?” Lewrie asked with a snort of sour humour.
“Aye, sir. A badly run ship,” Rutland sneered. “Pity.”
“They’re close to competent,” Lewrie told him.
“Their hearts ain’t in it, though, sir,” Rutland went on. “From the top down. Were they better led, well.”
That’s the most I’ve ever heard him say! Lewrie marvelled; He usually has less conversation than a pile o’ roundshot.
A long, uneasy silence followed that. Finally, Rutland cleared his throat and said, “Talked with them.”
“Aye?” Lewrie prompted, wondering where he was going.
“Clough, sir,” Rutland expounded. “He’s not that bad. On the young side, but mostly capable … if he could ever stop jabbering. Her Mid, Kinsey, too, sir. A ‘tarpaulin’ fellow, playing dumb ’cause he doesn’t like Mister Dickson, and won’t go out of his way to help him. Might enjoy riling him.”
“Well, he fooled me,” Lewrie said. “I thought he was hopeless.”
“Need a better officer in command of her, sir,” Rutland said.
Christ, I haven’t even said anything in front of my crew yet, Lewrie all but gawped; and news o’ what I might do has already made the rounds?
“I could straighten her out, sir, if need be,” Rutland told him, looking far forward at the dip and rise of the jib-boom and bow-sprit.
“You’d volunteer, Mister Rutland?” Lewrie asked, amazed. “You’d leave us?”
“If needs must, sir,” Rutland said, finally turning his head to look at him. “Good of the Service, the good of the squadron. Wouldn’t enjoy it, but…” he concluded with a shrug.
“I’m tempted,” Lewrie confessed, “but I haven’t decided, yet. I may not have the authority. And here I thought you liked Vigilance.”
“Oh, I do, sir, immensely,” Rutland assured him, though his expression did not change from his usual spare sternness. “But, it would be grand to have actual command of something, and make her as smart as paint.”
“A satisfying accomplishment,” Lewrie said.
“Exactly so, sir,” Rutland said, then turned to face forward again, as if that would be all he had to say on the subject.
“I’ll let you know if I do decide,” Lewrie assured him.
Makin’ Coromandel a happy, taut ship’d be an accomplishment, indeed, Lewrie thought; Aye, if Dickson don’t improve.
* * *
Astern of HMS Vigilance by two cables, sailing right up the warship’s wake, Coromandel’s people and the two companies of soldiers from the 94th could almost be thought to be in glad takings now that the exercise was over. Stiff leather collars were undone, and red coats were un-buttoned, with white pipe-clayed straps and bandoliers temporarily stowed below in the four-man cabins. Those who chewed tobacco were gathered round the spit kids, and men who smoked pipes lazed on the leeward sail-tending gangways. Soldiers and sailors made free with the dippers at the scuttlebutts for sips of water as the day warmed, and the mood aboard was slyly jovial.
The same could not be said about the mood upon the quarterdeck, however, where the air between the officers almost tingled like the prickly aura of a lightning strike.
“You have badly let me down, sirs,” Lt. Dickson gravelled, his voice a’rasp with warning. “Let the ship down. Made me look like a perfect fool!”
“Wasn’t our doing, sir,” Sub-Lt. Clough objected. “Neither I, nor Kinsey, had anything to do with securing the tow lines, or the missing oars. All was in order before we sailed.”
“Saw to everything myself, sir,” Midshipman Kinsey grumped.
“Quick glances, were they?” Dickson accused. “Someone in the crew shifted those oars somewhere, somebody undid the tow line, and I want to know who they were!”
“Well, it’s not as if someone went down the tow line from the stern in the dead of night, hauled the second boat up to the first, got in it, and untied the tow to the third. It’d take a circus acrobat to get back aboard after doing that, and…”
“Or a topman!” Dickson spat. “Any of those bastards are that agile. We’re going to get to the bottom of it, hear me? More to the point, you two will get to the bottom of it. I want names, and I will have them up on charges. By God, sirs, our idiot Bosun will be up all night, making up cats o’ nine tails for the punishments I mean to hand down! I will make this crew howl before I’m through!”
“Beg pardon, sir,” Midshipman Kinsey dared say, “but that might be too harsh. A few truly deserving, maybe, but…”
“Are you ‘Popularity Dick’ now, Kinsey?” Dickson sneered. “I’d have thought that was more Clough’s line.”
“Sir!” Sub-Lt. Clough exclaimed, stung by the accusation.
“As if you wouldn’t rather josh with the crew than enforce any discipline, or uphold your authority,” Dickson said in heat. “I’ve seen you do it, Clough. This ship’s crew’s a hodgepodge of malingerers, drunks, petty criminals, and ox-heads as stupid and ignorant as so many cows! Dredged up from the cast-offs of a dozen ships, and sent here to bedevil me with their vile, lazy ways! They must be forced to do their duties, properly, efficiently, and have their backs laid open with the lash if they don’t. This ain’t an antic, a schoolboy prank, you fools! It was close to mutiny, and it will be tamped down and eliminated. They will learn to respect and obey their betters, or they’ll pay for it. And if you can’t get to the root of it, then I will write Admiralty and request your replacements!
“Now,” Dickson said, softening his rant a bit, “be about it, and bring me the names of the instigators. Go! Get out of my face!”
Dickson stomped off the quarterdeck, out along the windward sail-tending gangway, to glower at his disreputable crew, eagerly seeking someone who was not doing his duty, someone who smirked or was too jovial, whom he could punish.
“Jesus weep,” Clough muttered, after letting out a long pent-up breath. “Who’d be a sailor on this barge!”
“Remember the Hermione frigate?” Kinsey asked. “Her Captain, Pigot I think his name was, was the same sort of Tartar. When his crew mutinied, they murdered him in his bed.”
“You don’t think…!” Clough gasped. “No, not under the guns of the Vigilance. Surely not! Wasn’t Hermione sailing alone?”
“Seen a lot of officers in my time in the Navy, man and boy,” Kinsey said with a sad shake of his head. “I know we’re not to say anything about a senior officer, seeing as how it’s dis-loyal, and a court-martial offence. But … I swear he’ll be the ruin of us.”
“Dasn’t even mention the word ‘mutiny,’ either,” Clough warned him. “Unless we see one brewing, of course. He said it first,” Clough added, sounding like a schoolboy’s plaint to Kinsey’s ears.
“God, finding who did it’s nigh impossible,” Kinsey told him. “The whole crew could be in on it, for all we know, and not one of ’em will admit to it, or point a finger.”
“Have to try, though,” Sub-Lt. Clough said with a long sigh of frustration. “I don’t know what he’ll do if we don’t, or can’t, get results.”
“Aye, I suppose,” the elder Midshipman gloomily agreed. “Here now … recall what Captain Lewrie told Dickson as he was leaving the ship? Something about giving him his decision once we get back from hunting our missing barge? I wonder what that was all about.”
“Hmm, Lewrie did give him a cobbing, I expect,” Clough said, in well-hidden amusement over his commanding officer’s predicament, “and Dickson looked as happy as a hanged spaniel when they left the great-cabins. A formal complaint to Admiralty, or Rear-Admiral Charlton, a threat to have Dickson exchange with another officer? No idea.”
“Could be welcome news for some,” Kinsey said with a brief bit of hope as he rubbed his unshaven chin, “or bad news for someone in particular. Well, I think I’ll go below and see if I can turn up those missing oars, before we go laying blame on anyone.”
“I’ll keep us from running aground ’til the change of watch,” Clough promised. “Good luck to you.”
* * *
“Anchored securely fore and aft, sir,” Lt. Farley reported to Lewrie, “five-to-one scope paid out on the hawsers in five and a half fathoms of water. Ehm … do you still wish to hold cutlass drill, sir?”
“No, I think not, Mister Farley, not today,” Lewrie decided, after a long moment of thought. “Best we inspect our barges, and see to their painters and tow lines for chafing or wear. It wouldn’t do us any good to tear a strip off one ship for laxness, then go and lose a boat, ourselves, what?”
“Oh no, no good at all, sir!” Farley said with a snigger. “I’ll see to it, directly.”
“Be sure to point out the markers to the harbour watch, so we can tell if the anchors drag,” Lewrie said, having a look-round for a large barn three points off the starboard bows, and a church bell tower three points off the larboard quarter, in the village of Milazzo, “The flagpole in the Army camp’ll do for one, as well as the signals post by the docks.”
“And Mount Etna over yonder, too, sir,” Farley pointed out.
“Very well, I’ll be aft,” Lewrie told him, but only took two steps toward his door before pausing, and going up to the poop deck to watch Coromandel as she completed anchoring closer inshore near the other transports, and putting the boarding nets overside to send her temporary complement of soldiers ashore.
Since she would soon be departing to hunt up her missing boat, Dickson had only let go her best bower, ignoring a stern kedge anchor, and Lewrie watched closely to see how much scope he’d let run through the hawse-hole. There was a light wind off the sea, but Coromandel was a big ship, with a lot more freeboard than the other transports, and even a light wind could shuffle her about. Had he taken into account for a possible swing that might put his ship crunching into Spaniel or Lady Merton, anchored fore-and-aft nearby?
Go on, Dickson, smash something up so I can dismiss you, Lewrie thought as he peered closer with a telescope; Some damnfool, lubberly idiocy that I can justify as good cause!
From his vantage point, Coromandel’s stern seemed hellish-close to Lady Merton’s bow-sprit and jib-boom, but no one aboard the smaller trooper was scurrying forward in concern, or shouting warnings as the wind made Coromandel swing round her anchor to point her bows higher into the breeze, and her stern at the beach.
I’m bein’ perverse, wishin’ for that, Lewrie chid himself; Fine, so I’m perverse! But! If he’s slow gettin’ his anchor up and sails set, he can still put her stern aground!
But, ever so slowly, Coromandel’s barges returned from the beach and the boarding nets were hauled up over her bulwarks. Jibs and staysails were hoisted, along with the spanker aft, and the ship drew up to her anchor ’til the hawser was “up and down,” and, after a brief stern board, the bower was being rung up to the catheads, and she was under way with a faint mustachio of foam under her forefoot.
Oh well, better luck next time, Lewrie thought, collapsing the tubes of his telescope and clumping down the ladderway to the quarterdeck. He entered his great-cabins, shedding hat, coat, waist-coat, and neck-stock, delighted to find that the transom sash windows’ upper halves were open for a breeze, as was the wood, glass-paned door to his stern gallery, and, out of the late morning sun, his cabins were relatively cool and comfortable.
His cat, Chalky, sat by the tight mesh of the strung twine door to the stern gallery, jaws chittering and making wee hunting noises. His paws worked on the taut twine as if he was playing a harp.
“Something cool before dinner, sir?” Deavers tempted.
“A mug of ale, if we’ve any left, thankee,” Lewrie told him, going to his fiddled rack of books to find something amusing to read, as Dasher hung his shed clothing on pegs too high for the cat to get to and “adorn” with white fur. “Here, Chalky, leave the seabirds be. You ever do catch a gull, he’d peck your eyes out like raisins in a duff. Here, puss puss! Lap!” he invited, and Chalky finally left off his dream of killing something and trotted over to the starboard side settee, sprang up atop the cushions with his tail up, and pawed his shirt sleeve with talons sheathed.
“There’s a good catling, yayss,” Lewrie cooed, petting him.
I may re-write that letter to Charlton, Lewrie told himself; Who knows? I may still have to send it.