Dewey Lambdin - Reefs and Shoals

“Well, sir, I’d prefer Thorn, the senior Quarter-Gunner. He’s older and more experienced,” Acres said. “Shift Kemp t’be a Quarter-Gunner, and bring a good gun-captain on as Powder Yeoman.”

“Your choice, then,” Lewrie allowed, “and we’ll see how they work out. Congratulations, Mister Acres.”

“Thankee, sir, and I’ll see ye right when it comes to gunnery.”

Half an hour later, and it was the Sailing Master, Mr. Caldwell, who stood before Lewrie’s desk, to settle who might be promoted into Midshipman Houghton’s position.

“Are either of your Master’s Mates promotable, or should I send ashore to the Port Admiral, Mister Caldwell?” Lewrie began. “Sit, and have some coffee, do, sir.”

“Thank you, sir,” Caldwell said in his usually cautious manner, even giving the collapsible leather-covered chair a good looking-over before entrusting himself to it. “I expect either of them would leap at the chance to be made a Midshipman, but… ah, thank you, Pettus. Very good coffee, I must say,” he said to the cabin steward after one taste. “Nightingale’s a tarry ‘tarpaulin man’, a bit rough about the edges, but he’s been in the Navy eight years, off and on, and he can hand, reef, and steer, and can lay a course as good as any. Ehm… there is the problem that he’s not what you’d call… gentlemanly. He came out of the fisheries, and that life’s coarser and rougher than where most Mids come from.”

“You think he might not fit in?” Lewrie asked, frowning. With Houghton all but gone, he had Mr. Entwhistle, now twenty, the “Honourable” Mr. Entwhistle, as the oldest and most experienced, a lad to the manor born. There was Mr. Warburton, now eighteen, Grainger, who was now seventeen or so, then Munsell and Rossyngton, both about fifteen. All, like most Mids, were from the landed gentry, the “squirearchy”. He could not see any of them turning top-lofty to a much older, rougher John New-come, but…

“There’s that, sir,” Caldwell said with a nod. “Now, Eldridge. He’s younger and quicker, and just as experienced as Nightingale, and I have noted that he might be a bit more aspiring, though he’s never mentioned becoming a Midshipman. Eldridge comes from Bristol, son of a ship chandler, so I expect he was raised better off than most before he volunteered, back in ’98. Better-mannered?” Mr. Caldwell added with a shrug. “Eldridge’s family could send him the funds he’d need for new kit, whilst Nightingale might have to go deep in debt to cover the expense.”

“And, which’d be more jealous of the other, Mister Caldwell?” Lewrie posed to the Sailing Master, with one brow up. “It don’t signify to me as to which is more polished, and if it does in the Mids’ cockpit, then there’ll be some boys at the mast-head, but… I’d not cause you and your department too much aggravation. If promoting one and passing over the other won’t serve, then I might as well send for a ‘younker’ from the Port Admiral, and take whichever Tom-Fool they have on the shelf, some ten-year-old ninny-pate.”

“Uhm… perhaps it’d be best did I ask them, sir,” Caldwell suggested, shifting his bulk in the chair, and crossing one leg over the other. “Sound them out on their ambitions?”

“We don’t have long, Mister Caldwell,” Lewrie pointed out. “A sudden shift of wind, and we’ll have to be off, instanter.”

Crash-bang! from the Marine sentry beyond the door.

“First Orf’cer, Mister Westcott… SAH!” Stamp-Bang!

“Enter,” Lewrie shouted back.

“Good morning, sir, Mister Caldwell,” Lt. Geoffrey Westcott said once he’d entered the great-cabins. “I’ve spoken to the Surgeon, sir, about Rahl, and it don’t look promising.” There had been but one brief flash of his teeth in greeting before Westcott’s dark-tanned and hatchet face went glummer. “Mister Mainwaring had to take off Rahl’s left leg, above the knee. He’s made it through the surgery, and he’s resting quietly, but… he needs to be gotten ashore to the naval hospital as soon as he’s able to be moved.”

“Christ, that bad?” Lewrie grimaced. “I saw how the bone was snapped, and stickin’ through his skin, but…”

“Evidently, sir, his arm and right leg were clean breaks, and didn’t jut out, but the left was not only broken, but his knee joint was so badly wrenched that it couldn’t be saved. Like a mangled turkey leg.”

“Damn,” Lewrie said with a long sigh, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Pardon my manners, Mister Westcott. Take a pew and have a coffee t’warm ye. Faulkes?” he called to his clerk and writer. “Do up a Discharge form for Mister Rahl, and a petition for him to be sent to the Pensioners’ Home at Greenwich Hospital. See the Purser to get his pay and debts cleared, would you?”

“Of course, sir. Poor old fellow,” James Faulkes sadly agreed.

“He pleaded that I’d not make him a cook,” Lewrie mused. “Now, at the least he’ll have a good retirement, in sight of Deptford Dockyard and traffic on the river.”

“With no kin that I ever heard tell of, sir, I suppose that’d be the best he could expect,” Lt. Westcott agreed. “And the best we can do for the old fellow.”

“There’ll be dozens of old gunners to trade yarns with, aye,” Caldwell chimed in. “He’ll not be slung onto the beach to starve and beg on the streets. And get his rum issue ’til Eternity.”

“Word has it were losing Mister Houghton, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked after Pettus had gotten him his coffee, with sugar and sweeter goat’s milk, the way he liked it. “Good for him.”

“Aye, we were just debating who’d take his place, Nightingale or Eldridge, or should I request some Admiral’s favourite idiot, hah!” Lewrie informed him with a sour bark of humour.

“Well, there’s your son over in Aeneas, sir,” Westcott said. “Your friend Captain Rodgers would surely oblige you.”

“Uhmm, perhaps not,” Lewrie said, making a gruesome face. “I’ve seen that before, and I never cared for it, no matter it’s so common in the Fleet. Cater-cousins, sons and nephews? Hell, the Cockerel frigate was the worst. Half the ship’s company was named Braxton! One could not dote, sooner or later, and make the rest of the Mids grit their teeth. Sewallis is best off where he is, among familiar faces, and on his own bottom, without me lookin’ over his shoulder.”

I’d scare what little he’s learned clear outta his head, did I haul him aboard! Lewrie told himself; Fragile as I still think he is, that’d be the ruin of him. And, he’d not thank me, and end up resentin’ it!

Lewrie busied himself with creaming and sweetening a fresh cup of coffee, to cover his dread that what really motivated him was fear that he would witness Sewallis should he fail!

“Suggestions, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked. “Nightingale, Eldridge, or a sprat?”

“Well, sir… I’d go with Eldridge,” the First Lieutenant said. “I’ve stood so many watches with both that one can’t help but natter, here and there. Nightingale’s ambition is to become Sailing Master, someday, he’s told me. Mister Eldridge joined as a Landsman, but he’s shot up like a rocket… Ordinary, then Able, Quartermaster’s Mate to Quartermaster, and now a Master’s Mate. And, he’s still young enough to hope for a Sea Officer’s commission. Nightingale’s married, with a child, and promoting him would most-like sling him into debtor’s prison. Midshipman’s pay’s not much improvement on what he earns, now… the cost of uniforms and such’d do him right in, sir.”