H.M.S. COCKEREL - Dewey Lambdin

"Bosun," he called, trying to keep his rising malevolent grin in check. "Bosun Tatnall?" "Sir," that worthy grunted.

"Seems to me there's nought we may do to shut this horror down. Nothing official, that is, but…" Alan began, biting his cheek.

"Burn h'it t'th' groun', sir, that'd suit," Tatnall scowled. "Probably a dozen more like it in spitting distance. But, we could do some real good this night, even so," Lewrie went on. "Can't stay open without its owner, or its star performer up yonder," Lewrie joshed, almost elbowing the man in confidential camaraderie. "Do you not think that old tripes-and-trullibubs would make a fine volunteer, bosun? Once you convince him that joining's a sight better than being hanged for a bugger?"

"Oh, aye, sir!" Tatnall agreed heartily. "An' if th' bugger tries 'is ways 'board ship, they'll flay 'at maggoty flesh off n 'is bones! Cut a feller soft'z 'im like fresh cheese, 'ey would, sir!"

"Pity about that shop door below, too, bosun. When we left it, it was locked, but 'tis a rough location, after all. Pity some criminals from the stew broke in and drank him dry." "Oh, aye, sir!" Tatnall concurred again. "A hellish pity!" "I'll speak to that crimp of ours. He must have friends who'd savour a bottle or two," Lewrie snickered. "Take our deserters and the owner to the tender. I'll deal with our crimp, and catch you up later."

"I'll see to 'em, sir, never ya fear."

And I wonder if that crimp knows where a good tattoo artist may be found this time o' night, Lewrie wondered to himself, hellish happy with the evening's outcome, after all.

Bound and gagged, blindfolded, both muffled and disguised by a filthy sheet, Gerald Willoughby could but grunt, squeal and attempt to curse as the tattooist plied his skills at Bridey's knocking-shop. The old drab had bales of castoff slop-clothing to garb Gerald in, and the crimp delighted in his smart, newly exchanged gentleman's togs.

The tattooist did complain, though, as he laboured over Gerald's pale, hairless and shallow chest, as the whores hooted encouragement to him, at the poor state of his "canvas," at the boot-blacking he had to use; at the weak light and the watching crowd as he strove to complete his masterpiece.

It was rather good, though, considering how Gerald behaved, how violently he struggled against every quill prick, the liberal tots they poured down his maw. The rum won out. Towards the end, his thrashings abated, and he rambled gagged snatches of song, before his lights at last went out, and he began to snore.

And once he was thoroughly comatose, Lewrie, the chuckling crimp and their unwitting accomplice Will Cony, delivered Gerald Willoughby, Esquire, into the gentle ministrations of the Deptford district 'press tender. There to sleep off his monumental drunk-there to be sweetly wafted down-river to the Nore as an impressed sailor-there to awaken with a shriek of horror to a new Me and trade.

Lewrie was mortal certain Gerald no longer had a single influential or fashionable patron who might spring to his aid, so there could be no hope of rescue from without. And from within, Gerald, garbed in slop-clothing, and sporting an especially fine (though new) chest tattoo of a rope-fouled anchor, listed as taken by an Impress officer by the name of Brace-waight, could protest until his face turned blue that he wasn't a sailor, to no avail whatsoever. No, his only hope of escape would be to declare himself for what he was.

But, once 'pressed, he fell under the harsh strictures of the Articles of War, most especially Article the Twenty-Ninth:

If any person in the Fleet shall committ the unnatural and detestable Sin of Buggery or Sodomy with Man or Beast, he shall be punished with Death by the sentence of a Court Martial

Oh, it would be a fine and manly, though austere, life Gerald would be entering, Lewrie thought smugly. Wind, rain, the perils of the sea, foul food, rancid reeks, stern discipline, days aloft on the yards dependent on fickle footholds, the risks of battle. Flogging.

And the weeks and months spent cheek-to-jowl with hundreds of fit, healthy, lithe young men, cooped up on the gun decks, swaying in a narrow hammock, with not one whit of privacy-living as celibate an existence as so many damned monks!

Or else, of course.

Ill

Heu miseros nostrum natosque pateresque!

Hacine nos animae faciles rate nubila

contra mittimur?

Alas, for those of us with fathers or sons

alive! Is this the ship in which we

thoughtless souls are sent forth in

the face of a clouded sky?

– Valerius Flaccus

Argonautica, Book 1,149-152

Chapter 1

"Post nubila-Phoebus, Cony," Lewrie informed his man. "My thought for the day. 'After clouds-sunshine'!"

"Iff n ya say so, sir," Cony replied, trying to shelter under a scrap of canvas in the bumboat, as Portsmouth Harbour seethed at the lash of a sullen April rain shower.

Bare days after his antic over his half brother Gerald, there had at last come a packet from the Admiralty. Perhaps Rear-Admiral Sir George Sinclair had turned his toes up, or sailed. Perhaps some rumour of Garvey's past dealings in the Bahamas had come to light at last. Or, more likely perhaps, his and Captain Lilycrop's almost weekly letters to far and near had become such a nuisance to some overworked clerk- whatever, Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, RN, was ordered to make his way to Portsmouth instanter and report aboard the Cockerel frigate, a 32-gunned vessel of the 5th Rate currently fitting out, as her first officer.

Even the gloom of a drizzly day could not dampen his appreciation of his new ship as they neared her, nor could spume, mist nor rain detract from Cockerel's aggressively angular and martial appearance.

Her lower hull above the waterline was a glossy ebony, as were her bulwarks. Her gunwales were, however, buff-coloured, and gleamed with the sheen of prized ivory, slick-ened by the rain. The yards on her three towering masts were neatly squared away, of a golden buff from linseed oil or fresh paint where the wooden spars were bared to the gloom; courses, tops'ls, royals and t' gallants all in perfect alignment with each other a'span the decks, and lift lines tugged until each spar lay perfectly horizontal. And not a brace, parrel, halliard or jear hung slack, not a clew, brail or lift line varied from purposeful, straight-line perfection.

There were touches of red and gilt about the transom and the taffrails, the quarter-galleries, windows and ports, and the lanterns aft. There was lavish gilt about the entry port. And what Lewrie could espy of the figurehead, an irate, wing-fanning rooster wearing a golden fillet crown, and the beakhead rails, was liberally coated with gilt paint as well.

"Shiny as a new-minted guinea!" Lewrie muttered to himself as he marveled how devilish-handsome she appeared, as if she was fresh from the builder's yard-or she had a captain who possessed a duke's purse to bring her from in-ordinary, idle seediness to a state worthy of a royal yacht. Her captain had been named in Lewrie's orders as one Howard Braxton; but with no "the Honourable," "Sir Howard," or aristocratic title attached to his name and naval rank, which indicated inherited wealth. Perhaps Cockerel had been captained by one so rich, and had been turned over to Braxton entire, he speculated.

Cockerel was supposed to be fitting out, yet to Lewrie's eyes, at last (and grudgingly) experienced with such matters, the frigate's "Bristol Fashion" orderliness bespoke a warship ready at that instant to set sail.

Thankee God, Lewrie smirked to himself with relief; You surely know what a lazy bastard I am. Less work for me, my first week'r so, ha ha! She's better fitted out than any ever I did see!

"Boat ahoy, there!" came a shout from the entry port. "Aye, aye!" Cony bellowed back, shucking his sailcloth cover, and Lewrie shrugged his boat cloak over his shoulders to expose his uniform. Cony held up fingers to clue the harbour watch to the requisite number of sideboys needful to the dignity of a first officer's welcome aboard. Despite the rain, Lewrie undid the chain about his neck and folded the boat cloak for Cony to tend to, so he could go aboard unencumbered by anything that could trip him up, or embarrass his first appearance before his new crew. He tucked his hanger to the back of his left hip, and half-rose off the thwart.

Ariadne, Lewrie thought, vexed by the memory of his very first boarding, of being dunked chest-deep, nigh drowned, by the puzzles of slimy boarding battens, algae-slick man-ropes, and a ship rolling her guts out. Thankfully, there was little breeze and Cockerel lay still as a patient old hacking mare, gentle enough for a lady to ride. Man-ropes threaded through the outer ends of the battens were red-painted two-inch manila, taut as shrouds in the main-mast chains' deadeyes. And, he noted with relief, someone thoughtful had ordered fresh tar on the battens, reinforced with gritty sand to make a secure foothold.

He scampered up lithely, inclining a bit towards the entry-port as the tumblehome of the ship's side retreated inward to lessen the weight of top-hamper and spar deck above her artillery's monstrous mass.

His hat drew level with the entry-port lip as the bosun's pipes began to shrill. Marines slapped muskets and stamped their feet; sideboys lifted their hats, and a Marine sergeant and a Navy officer flourished half-pike or sword, respectively, as he arrived. Lewrie gained the starboard gangway (stepping far enough inboard so a sudden roll wouldn't sling him back where he'd come from) and doffed his own hat.

"Alan Lewrie, come aboard to join, sir," he announced, trying to quash his sudden joy.

"Welcome aboard, sir," the Navy officer said in greeting as he swept his sword down, spun it overhand with a practiced fillip, and resheathed it. "Allow me to name myself, sir… Lieutenant Lewrie. I am Barnaby Scott. Third lieutenant." If he'd said his name was Eric the Red, Lewrie would have considered it more apt; Barnaby Scott looked more like an ancient Viking raider (albeit a clean-shaven one). His body was thick and square, saved from brute commonness by his height, which was about two inches more than Lewrie's. Wide-shouldered, thick-chested, bluff and hearty as a professional boxer. Scott's hair was pale blond, almost frizzy, and only loosely drawn back into a seaman's queue that more resembled a horsetail that badly needed teazeling. His complexion was deeply tanned, though sporting ruddier colour on nose, cheeks and forehead. And his eyes were a disconcertingly penetrating watery blue.

"Mister Scott, good morrow to you, sir," Lewrie smiled, taking his hand, which more resembled a bear paw, for a hearty shake. There was no choice about that; Scott did the pumping. "And you come aboard, sir, as…?" Scott inquired, cocking one suddenly wary blond eyebrow. "First officer, Mister Scott."

"Thank bloody Christ, sir, and very welcome aboard!" Lieutenant Scott beamed of a sudden, and almost mangled Lewrie's hand with fresh vigour.

"Our captain is aboard, is he, Mister Scott?" Lewrie asked, glad to get his hand back at last, with all the requisite fingers.

"Aye, sir, Captain Braxton is aft in the great-cabins. Mister Spendlove?" Scott called over his shoulder without looking.

"Aye, aye, sir?" a tiny midshipman chirped as he popped up from nowhere.