Dewey Lambdin - King, Ship, and Sword

The one that took Lewrie's attention first off was from Admiralty, this time properly addressed to him and HMS Thermopylae. With a pen-knife, he sliced off the wax wafer seal and unfolded it.

"Hallelujah, at last!" he muttered, a broad smile breaking out on his phyz. "See to the rest, Georges. I'll go on deck."

Once there, he ordered Acting-Lieutenant Sealey to have 'All Hands' piped, then paced along the forrud edge of the quarterdeck by the iron stanchions of the hammock nettings, which were now filled, 'til everyone, both on- and off-watch, was gathered in the waist, on the sail-tending gangways, and the forecastle.

"I trust you lads've dried out, thawed out, and eat a flllin' breakfast, at last, hey?" he began in a loud, quarterdeck voice. "We have orders from Admiralty, lads! We are 'required and directed to make the best of our way'… we all know that means-pull yer bloody finger out and get a move on…," he japed, which raised a laugh, "to Sheerness and the Nore… a few days West of here… there to lay His Majesty's Ship Thermopylae in-ordinary! To land ashore all of her artillery and small arms, to consign to His Majesty's Dockyards all stores not yet consumed, with a strict accounting to be-"

He was drowned out by the tremendous cheer that erupted, but he didn't have to say more or cite more from the officialese of those orders; it was not like he was "reading himself in" as Post-Captain or standing beside another who would relieve him.

"Mister Sealey,… Mister Lyle, sirs," Lewrie bellowed at last as the din died down a bit. "Shape the most direct course for the Nore, sirs, and lay us upon it. We are going home, lads! We're going home!"

0 quid sofutis est beatius curis,

cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino

labore fessi, venimus larem ad nostrum

desideratque acquiescimus lecto?

O what is more blessed than to put cares away when the mind lays by its burden, and tired with labour of far travel we come to our own homes and rest on the couch we longed for?

Or,

whatever your gall, you're cock-of-the-walk only on your own dungheap.

THE APOCOLOCYNTOSIS OF THE DIVINE CLAUDIUS

De-commissioning a warship demanded stacks of paperwork worthy of the weight of an 18-pounder gun; reams of it from the Victualling Board as they took possession of all consumable stores, butts, kegs, and tuns of salt-beef or salt-pork, of hard ship's biscuit, weevilly or otherwise, spoiled or fresh. Salt-meat marked "Condemned" as too rancid to be eaten would, Lewrie was mortal-certain, be dumped into new kegs, to be foisted on some unwitting captain in the future. Their motto at the Victualling Board was "Waste not, want not."

Spare upper masts and yards were sent ashore to the warehouses first, then sails and cordage, and all bosuns' stores and lumber. The frigate was stripped down to her fighting tops and main, lower trunks of her masts, "to a gant-line." The magazine was carefully emptied of kegs of gunpowder, pre-made flannel cartridge bags already filled, and bales of empty bags, all meticulously indented for and counted.

Next went the artillery, the 18-pounder main guns, the lighter 12-pounder bow chasers, the 32-pounder carronades, and the quarterdeck 9-pounders, along with their truck-carriages, gun-tools, flintlock strikers, and all breeching ropes and handling tackle blocks. Heavy barges from Gun Wharf spent two days rowing back and forth to bear all the guns away, leaving Thermopylae high in the water, and her weather decks, the foc's'le, the quarterdeck, and Lewrie's great-cabins yawningly bare and empty.

By the end of the first week of December, there was no more need of crew, for there was nothing left to remove with muscle power, and no reason to keep her manned. Clerks and paymasters from the Port Admiral came out to muster the hands to issue them their pay chits. That required another chestful of paperwork, for every sailor owed the Navy something, right from the moment he'd been pressed or had taken the Joining Bounty. Deductions had been carefully kept by the Purser, Mr. Herbert Pridemore, and his Jack-in-the-Breadroom clerk of every quid of tobacco issued, each wool jacket, blanket, each pair of shoes and stockings, each broken plate or mug, each worn-out shirt or pair of trousers. The Surgeon, Mr. Harward, offered his own list of treatments beyond the usual; a dubious Mercury Cure for venereal disease was fifteen shillings, to be deducted when the rare chance for pay to be issued occurred. Surgeon Mr. Harward and the Purser had their own accounts to square, for though they might hold Admiralty Warrant, they could be considered as independent contractors, to be reimbursed for goods, medicines, or services expended; were they not allowed a profit, it would be almost impossible to lure anyone to the posts!

As Thermopylae's captain, Lewrie was held to the most acute accounting, with reams of forms to be filled out and Admiralty satisfied that each item marked as Lost or Broken, each cable of rope rigging used up, each sail blown out or torn in heavy weather, each back-stay shifted since the moment he'd read himself in-all tallied with what he'd received and what remained to be landed ashore at the instant of his frigate's decommissioning, at the instant of his surrender of command, with penalties deducted from his own pay owing if he had been remiss.

The weather was cold, there was a faint swirl of snow falling, so the mustering-out was held below on the gun-deck. Each man came forward as his name was called; there was much hemming and ahumming 'twixt the Purser, the Surgeon, and the shore clerks, before a chit was filled out and a final sum announced, carefully noting whether a sailor had dependents to whom he'd authorised a deduction already for their support whilst he was away at sea.

"They'll be cheated, of course, poor devils," a senior clerk from the Port Admiral's offices muttered to Lewrie as they watched the proceedings from the door to the officers' gun-room.

"The Chatham Chest, deductions for Widows' Men… the jobbers," Lewrie sombrely agreed.

"Most of them will never see the Councillor of the Cheque, but will sell off their chits for half their value to the first jobber they meet," the senior clerk said with a sniff of disdain for the practice.

Selling them off was cheaper and more convenient than travelling to London for the whole sum owing; a wad of paper fiat money and a hefty handful of real, now-rare solid coin was simply too tempting to a tar who hadn't seen money-real money!-since his ship had set sail years before, even if was but a pittance of what a man earned.

"Aye, and they'll drink up half o' that the first ev'nin'," Lewrie added. "Find a whore and a tavern… and end up 'crimped' on a merchantman. Only trade most of'em know, really… the sea."

"Aye, poor fellows," the senior clerk said with a grave, sad nod and another sniff. "Though," he added with a wry grin, "if the war begins again, they'll be much easier to find, and press back into the Fleet, hmm?"

"Uhm, Captain Lewrie, sir," a fubsy official from the dockside warehouses interrupted. "Your pardon, gentlemen, do I intrude upon a conversation, but… I do not see these iron stoves listed as naval property, and I must have a proper accounting of everything aboard."

"They aren't Navy issue, sir," Lewrie informed him. "Captain Speaks, whom I relieved when he fell ill, had purchased them for the crew's comfort for service in the North Sea winters."

"Most charitable and considerate of him, I vow, sir, but… I cannot accept them into Admiralty possession, these two… "