H.M.S. COCKEREL - Dewey Lambdin

"None, sir. Though I did make it my duty to inquire, to assemble a roster of past injuries and illnesses among the crew. You recall, I asked of the wardroom as well, so, should some condition, my ignorance of which might do harm-"

"You asked the captain directly, sir?" Lewrie pressed, getting a germ of an idea which restored his hopes.

"I did, sir, in the pursuit of my bounden duties as ship's surgeon." Pruden nodded somberly, as sober as if testifying at a court.

"And his reply, sir?"

'To, uhm… 'bugger off,' sir, and not to meddle," Pruden smirked.

"So you think he intended to hide the possibility of a recurrence from you, sir? In your opinion, as a qualified and warranted surgeon?"

"I thought he was being his usual 'tetchy' self, Mister Lewrie. But, aye… there's a possibility. Of course, it may be that malaria had not recurred on him in several years. He may have put it 'out of sight, out of mind,' sir. Like a bad tooth which really should come out, but a man'U ignore 'til it festers his gums, Mister Lewrie."

"Very well," Lewrie sighed, putting his hands in the small of his back and pacing, ducking the overhead beams. His eyes fell on the thick logbook on the desk in the day cabin. There was still a way!

"Mister Pruden, you keep a journal of treatment, do you not?"

"Aye, sir."

"I will require a notice from you, in the ship's log, that Captain Braxton fell ill of fever, and that in his stead I had to assume command temporarily. To explain why I was forced to," Lewrie demanded.

"I would be most happy to comply, sir," Pruden beamed, getting his drift. "And should anyone care to take notice, I will write up an entry in my own journal, including what nostrums I prescribed, and their cost, of course."

"How fortunate we were, to be in port at the time," Alan hinted. "And to obtain the services of our ambassador's physician. For free?"

"Certainly, sir," Pruden agreed, jiggling with wry good humour. "I'll go and do it now, whilst my memory's fresh, shall I, sir?"

"I would be deeply obliged if you would, Mister Pruden," Lewrie said with a grateful bow. After the surgeon had departed, he sat down behind the captain's desk, opened the logbook and thumbed through to the last entry in Braxton's own hand. There had been no entry for the day before their arrival in port, Lewrie noted, most happily. Captain Braxton was more than likely already ailing and unable to write.

"Sentry!" Lewrie bawled, sure that a thunderclap under his cot could not rouse the captain in the sleeping cabin.

"Sah!" the Marine bawled back, stamping into his presence.

"Send down to the wardroom, Private Cargill. I need my lieutenant's journal. My compliments to them, and I'll want the sailing master's… and Lieutenant Braxton's, as well."

All Commission Sea Officers were required to keep a daily journal; practice for log entries later in their careers. From their observations and inscriptions, battles were sometimes reconstructed, careers made or broken, discipline meted out after-the-fact at courts-martial, or meritorious deeds recalled and rewarded, sea conditions agreed upon.

Somewhere in the leaky, waterlogged basements of Admiralty, on high chairs when the Thames backed up on them, a host of mole-like writers gleaned those journals for any new information, any pattern to be deduced in wind and sea conditions for given areas of the world, for a change in headlands, a new seamark erected since the last time a Royal Navy ship had chanced there. Depths especially, dangers, new entries in sailing instructions or coastal pilots… to those myopic scribblers nothing was inconsequential, and once stored, nothing was ever tossed.

From his lieutenant's journal, and from Braxton's, Lewrie reconstructed the observations proper to a ship's log, stating that the log had not been kept up… and most importantly, why.

11 July 1793, by Alan Lewrie, First Officer, HM Frigate Cockerel; log entries for the preceding day, 9 July, our Captain indisposed on 9, 10, and 11 July, and unable. Dawn, 9 July: winds SSW, 1/2S, and blowing a quarter-gale. Sea state mildly disturbed, cat's paws and horses, visibility clear,

10 Miles. Straits of Bonifacio astem 10 leagues, Isle of Caprera stbd quarter. By sextant, distance 10 Sea Miles… Course ESE, 1/2S, spd 7 1/4 knots. Exercised the…

It took an hour to transcribe everything, to recreate the voyage, from the straits to fetching Naples at first light on the 10th; anchoring, discovering the captain's illness, meeting the ambassador and delivering the secret papers… being presented to the king, and being forced to dine and sleep out of the ship. Pruden's note came to him, and he transcribed that, then took the fateful step of declaring in writing that he had assumed temporary command, until such time as the surgeon deemed Captain Braxton hale enough to resume his duties.

Then Alan entered the damning statement that the second lieutenant had not informed him of the captain's condition, though he noted in his journal that he'd been dined-in on the 8th and 9th, and had made no mention of the captain being sick after being at table with that worthy.

"Sentry!" he called again, after he'd sanded his last words.

"Sah!"

"Send for the second officer, Mister Braxton. Present to him my compliments, and I require Mister Braxton to kindly attend me, in Captain Braxton's quarters," Lewrie related, with an expectant smile.

"You sent for me, sir?" Clement Braxton asked, a little fearful. Whether he dreaded what was coming, now that Lewrie was temporary Lord and Master, or whether he more feared dire news of his father's condition, it would be hard to decide. Lieutenant Braxton glanced hangdog towards the door to his father's sleeping coach, and at the novel sight of Lewrie at ease behind his father's desk, with equal trepidation.

"Mister Braxton, you've been a very bad boy," Lewrie sneered.

"Sir, I-"

"Your father, it seems… our captain, is going to recover."

"So Mister Pruden and the civilian doctor were kind enough to inform me, sir, aye," Clement gulped, bobbing with that good news. He assayed a sheepish grin-more a rictus than anything else. Alan was having none of it, however.

"You almost killed him, you damn' fool!" Lewrie barked suddenly, crashing a fist on the ornate desk. "You and Boutwell knew he was sick as a dog, since we cleared the Straits of Bonifacio. You knew he needed the surgeon, but you hid that! Kept him from medication!"

"Dear God, sir, I…" Braxton swayed, like to faint.

Lewrie shot to his feet, temper aboil.

Thank God for all my lessons, he thought; I've been browbeat or tonguelashed by the best All those officers who'd shouted at me, superlative howling sessions… and now it's my turn!

"By God, sir, you saw fit to hide his illness from me, not only endangering your father, but the ship, Mister Braxton!" Lewrie shouted. "You take filial loyalty too far, sir; too far by half! You are either a Sea Officer, charged upon your sacred honour to put the needs of the ship first, last, and always… or you're a bloody fraud! Derelict in your duties… who'd put personal, family concerns above duty!"

Clement Braxton blanched, reeled backwards half a step as he saw how deep was the pit he was about to be shoved into.

Damme, I'm good at this, Lewrie exulted, inward! Though all his talk of honour and duty did make him cringe a little, at his own hypocrisy. It sounded like the worst sort of cant, coming from his sort!

"Sir, there was no intent to be derelict…" Braxton babbled.

"Sir, I tell you that you were. By omission. Your journal. Two nights you dined with the captain, alone. Seeing how ill he'd become. Yet, there is no mention of it. You did not tell Mister Pruden about a recurrence of malaria. You did not tell me, to prepare me, should I have to take over. The ship's log, sir… no entries past dawn of the 9th," Lewrie pointed out, hefting the bedraggled, salt-stained journal like God's book of the Saved at Heaven's gates. "Good God, are you so witless, you couldn't have cobbled something together from your daily journal? Or were you so afraid of him being dismissed from the Sea Service that you thought to hide the truth from there as well, Mister Braxton?" Lewrie thundered. "False log entries … no log entries, is an offence against the Admiralty, sir! Under Article the Thirty-Third, sir. Fraudulent Behaviour!"

"I could not, sir, not in the log, I…" Braxton moaned, twisting slowly in the wind. "He urged me, but I could not! He ordered me direct, sir… but that would have been lying, sir. I could not."

"Ordered you direct to hide the truth from me, sir?" Lewrie said derisively. "Ordered you to falsify the log? Which?"

"Both, sir," Braxton sighed, red-faced. "He hasn't suffered any fever since '91, sir. Thought, back in cooler climes, he wouldn't. A tropical thing, left behind, we prayed."

"And you thought he could hide out until he'd dealt with it and gotten better, did you?" Lewrie snapped.

"The last few times, sir… more like a bad cold, sir, nothing worse. Fa… the captain hasn't had a really bad spell since '89, so we thought… he thought, that is…" Lieutenant Braxton snuffled.

"Well, it wasn't. He almost died of it, and he's going to be flat on his back for some time. That leaves me in charge. It makes you first officer. But I tell you, sir, I will dismiss you from all duties if you even think of deceiving me, or hiding something from me again."

"I give you my solemn oath, sir, I will not!" Braxton cringed.

"Come here, Mister Braxton," Lewrie commanded. "Do you look at the log. Note I've made it current, from our journals. Look it over, and determine if there's anything omitted or amiss." Lewrie paced the day cabin, hands behind his back again. "You will also note, sir, that I have made a formal statement of your father's illness, and my taking temporary command whilst our ship operates independent of the fleet."

"I see it, sir," Braxton flinched after a quick peek, as if sight of the log was like espying Medusa and her head full of snakes, which would turn him to stone at the very sight.

"Is there anything untrue in my account, sir? Any matter which you dispute? Including your failure to inform me?" Lewrie growled.

"Uhm, no, sir," Braxton sighed, rubbing his brow.

"Then please be so good as to affix your signature to it, sir, as witness. Leave room on the page for Mister Scott, Mister Dimmock, and our surgeon's names. I'll have them in in a moment."

"Aye, sir," Braxton sighed again, sounding like he was deflating. He slumped deeper, slacker, into his chair like a sack of laundry. In black-and-white, he had been found remiss. He reached across the desk for a quill pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and scratched his name.

Know what you're thinkin', Lewrie told himself smugly; daddy'll get better, he'll fix it for you. Soon as he's back on his pins, I'll be back under his thumb. But, you damned fool, it's in the log now, for all back in London to read! They all get read, sooner or later. Then a note goes to Jackson or Stephens, and questions get asked, and that goes in your permanent records! Maybe not this commission, with daddy to protect you both, he can't rip those pages out! They'll ask what action daddy took. Or didn't take. Might even convene a court. Brax-tons may've ruined this ship, but you'll never ruin another!