Dewey Lambdin - King, Ship, and Sword

"There are four, actually," Lewrie further informed him. "One in the gun-room here, and one in my cabins as well. Mostly to keep his pet parrot from freezin' t' death, I imagine."

"Four, sir? Four? My word, he was profligate!" the fubsy old fellow vowed, scratching his scalp under his wig with a pencil stub. "And the coal, well! Why, there must be at least two hundredweight bagged up, to boot. What am I to do with it all, sir?"

"Leave 'em for the Standing Officers," Lewrie hopefully suggested, "t'see 'em through the winter?"

Once Thermopylae was officially de-commissioned, Mr. Pridemore the Purser; Mr. Dimmock, the Bosun; Lumsden, the Ship's Carpenter; the Master Gunner, Mr. Tunstall; and the Ship's Cook, Sauder, would watch over her in the Sheerness Ordinary, along with a small crew of other ship-keepers to manage her maintenance, paid by the dockyard at their full pay-rate for as long as their frigate sat at anchor, for as long as Admiralty deemed her valuable enough to keep in reserve. Wives and children would accompany them, of course. Unless those worthies asked for transfer to a new construction, wangled an exchange with another ship-keeper in a Navy port more desirable to them, or outright retired from service, they had full employment 'til Thermopylae rotted away or was stricken and sent to the breakers. Indeed, they'd been assigned to Thermopylae even as she had been constructed on the stocks, and were "hers" for the ship's entire life.

"Quite impossible, Captain Lewrie," the dockyard official pooh-poohed, "for, without a regular issue of coal with which to stoke them… absent the kindling and firewood issued for the galley… they're useless, and His Majesty's Dockyards are not responsible for the cost."

"Stow 'em on the orlop, then, and let the next captain sort it out," Lewrie replied, sensing that there was bad news coming.

"Franklin-pattern iron stoves are not carried on our books as naval property, sir, and must be removed ashore," the official pressed. "If, as you say, the former captain purchased them at his own expense, then they remain his property, and should quite properly be sent on to him, wherever he may be."

Oh, good God! Lewrie thought, wondering how much that'd cost, for he had no idea whether Captain Speaks had survived his pneumonia, or where he resided if he had. Lands' End, John O' Groats? Lewrie speculated, worrying what the carting fee would be for four heavy metal stoves all that way. His own carting charges would be steep enough, to bear away all his furniture, wine and spirits remaining, his tableware, chests, and boxes… and, there were all the luxury goods, the dainties that those Russian counts, Rybakov and Levotchkin, had left aboard when he'd landed them close to St. Petersburg. They'd bought as if preparing for a six-month voyage to China on an Indiaman, not a two-week dash up the Baltic, and Devil take the cost, to boot. There were two-gallon stone crocks, five-gallon wooden barricoes, and costly cased bottles of vintage wines and champagnes, crocks of caviar, bags of coffee beans, cocoa beans, and assorted caddied tea leaves by the ten-pound lot,… along with lashings of vodka and gin, of course; so much that he might clear a nice profit in selling most of it off once he got to London. Why, the brandies, the rarely seen, expensive liqueurs could fetch a-

"Shall we say, for now, sir, that the stoves are of a piece with your personal stores, and will be removed when yours are landed, sir?" the rotund older fellow decided for them with an oily little smile.

"Just damn my eyes," Lewrie muttered, but had to nod an assent. Were the stoves still aboard a week from now, after his own departure, there'd be Hell to pay, and a full two years' worth of angry letters flying back and forth 'til someone claimed them.

"Most satisfactory, sir!" The dockyard official beamed.

"I'll be in my cabins," Lewrie announced. "I leave it to you, sirs, to continue the mustering-out. Pray inform me when you're done, and I'll say a few last words. The boats will be alongside by…?"

"By Two Bells of the Day Watch, sir," the Port Admiral's senior clerk assured him.

"A final 'Clear Decks and Up-Spirits,'" Lewrie decided. "Later than usual, but… later, gentlemen," Lewrie decided, meaning a last issue of rum, full measure for all with no "sippers or gulpers," given to his crew to "splice the main-brace" just one last time.

As if things weren't gloomy enough! No sooner had Lewrie gotten to his cabins, now almost stripped of all his goods, and filled with piles of chests, crates, and boxes, than he had to deal with Pettus, his steward, and Whitsell, his twelve-year-old cabin boy.

"Hot coffee and a dollop of brandy with, sir," Pettus offered, his own canvas bag, his tight-rolled bedding and hammock, and his sea-chest before the door of the wee pantry.

"Thankee, Pettus," Lewrie replied, taking a welcome sip.

"Uhm, sir… might you be needing my services ashore once the paying-off is done?" Pettus asked rather tentatively.

"I do need a man, aye, Pettus, are you of a mind," Lewrie told him. "Couldn't ask for a better, really."

"Well, sir, I'd rather not, if you could find another," Pettus replied, looking cutty-eyed. "For I was of a mind to go to Portsmouth… to look up Nan, if she's still employed there. I've a fair amount of pay due me, enough to keep me for a time before taking service with some household, and… "

"And take up with the girl where you left off, aye, I see. If you need a letter of recommendation…," Lewrie said.

"That'd be most welcome, sir, thank you," Pettus said, perking up with relief. "Sorry to let you down, sir, but… 'twas only drink and the

Press Gang that made a sailor of me, an accident, that, not in my usual nature. If it's peace, I don't intend to go to sea again."

"I'll write it for you right now," Lewrie said, going to what little was left of his desk in his day-cabin. There to find Whitsell, idly playing with Toulon and Chalky, and looking hang-dog miserable.

"C… could ye pen one fer me, too, sir?" Whitsell plaintively enquired. "I'll need a place, meself, without the Navy."

Wee Whitsell was an orphan, a street waif who'd been begging on the streets of Yarmouth when Captain Speaks's recruiting "rondy" in a pier-side tavern had scooped him up almost two years before. Whitsell had eat his best meals, his only regular meat, aboard ship, and had no prospects in civilian life except for poverty, starvation, and exploitation. "Aye, one for you as well, Whitsell," Lewrie promised.

"Back to Yarmouth, Will?" Pettus asked the lad.

"Well, I dunno…," Whitsell waffled, looking down at his scuffling shoes.

"Might come to Portsmouth with me," Pettus suggested, grinning. "A gentleman's servant, and a page or link-boy, together. Or Mister Nettles." "Nettles?" Lewrie asked, intent on his writing.

"He's a standing offer as head cook for a posting house in his old town, sir," Pettus told him. "In Ipswich. Nettles might have need of an assistant… an apprentice, Will. Learn to be what the French call a chef? It ain't a bad life, head of a grand kitchen, with grub on either hand, whenever you like, hey?"

"Aye, I'd like that !" Whitsell exclaimed, beaming with joy and avarice for hot vittles. "Ya kin stay warm in kitchens!"

"He'll be missed, by God," Lewrie told them. "I've never eat so well aboard any ship at sea in my life."

There came a rap on the deck outside his cabin door. Lt. Eades and his Marine detachment had departed days before, so one of the Ship's Corporals, either Duncan or Luck, now stood guard over his privacy.

"Th' Cox'n an' Landsman Furfy t'see th' cap'm, sir!"