A Sea Unto Itself (8 page)

“Don’t you think you’d better read yourself in?” Bevan prompted. Charles looked and again saw Lieutenant Stephen Winchester and Midshipman Michael Sykes, whom he recognized; along with a few others he did not, standing near the wheel. All were looking at him with concern. It crossed his mind that they would be as worried as he about the difficulties they found themselves in. One step at a time, he decided. The first thing would be to at least appear as if he had some confidence in what he was doing. He took a last look down at the men on the gundeck and saw that the crowd had mostly disbursed, although a few of the seamen stared sullenly up at him. Bevan wanted him to read himself in. That would make him legally Cassandra's commander, with every one of the considerable powers and responsibilities implied. All that was required was to read his orders aloud in front of the crew. Well, he wouldn’t—not yet. He wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him hurry. The men would be anxious about his appearance and how he would react. He would let them brood on it. It was the kind of thing a confident captain would do.

Charles pulled his watch from his coat pocket, flipped open its cover and saw that it read two thirty-five. “No,” he said to Bevan. “I’ll read myself in at three bells in the first dog watch. Everyone’s supper will be afterward.” He made an attempt at a smile. “Come along, I haven’t yet spoken to the other officers.” With that, he pulled on the lapels of his coat to straighten them and started aft.

“Hello, Stephen,” he said to Winchester and extended his hand. “I’m to tell you that Ellie sends her love.”

Winchester touched his hat and grinned. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said. Serving as second, he was also, by chance, married to Charles’ younger sister. The two Winchesters lived with a newborn son just by the village of Tattenall, and Charles had seen his brother-in-law off on the coach to London only two weeks before.

“Good day, Mr. Sykes,” Charles said to his senior midshipman. “You are well, I trust?”

“Oh yes, sir,” Sykes answered happily. “If I may say, it’s good to have you back. I’m sorry about the difficulties with the crew, sir.” The young man had served for two years on Louisa, first coming onboard at the awkward age of fourteen. Charles had developed a certain fondness for him. Sykes looked more grown now, his features beginning to fill out and a hint of blond fuzz on his chin.

“Thank you, Mr. Sykes. I’m sure we will have the situation in hand presently.”

Two additional boys wearing midshipmen’s jackets fidgeted anxiously to one side. Charles assumed them to be the ‘young gentlemen’ he had agreed to take on board. Neither looked old enough to be allowed far from their nanny’s skirts. They were ushered forward to be introduced as Thomas Hitch of Yorkshire and Horace Aviemore, from the west of Scotland. Charles recalled both names, as their fathers had written him to request that he take each under his tutelage in the hope that their sons would establish themselves on the way to honorable careers in the navy. The regulations only stipulated that such young gentlemen be at least thirteen years of age. Charles guessed that Hitch probably met this criterion, if only just. Aviemore, however stood in an oversized jacket whose sleeves reached past his fingertips. “How old are you, son?” he asked.

“Eleven and a half, sir, almost,” Aviemore squeaked in a thick Scottish burr.

Charles sighed. The boy’s father had assured him otherwise. Oh well, it would be a larger inconvenience to arrange to send the child home than to keep him onboard. He’d decide later. He had enough problems for the present. “I am pleased to make both your acquaintances,” he said evenly. “You may return to your duties.”

“Where is Beechum?” Charles asked. Lieutenant Beechum, the senior midshipman on Louisa, had been provisionally raised in rank the year before. The Admiralty had since confirmed the promotion and Charles had requested that he be posted with him as Cassandra's third lieutenant.

“Asleep below,” Bevan answered. “I’ve kept the lieutenants as watch officers because of our situation. He was up all night.” Then he added, “Who’s this?”

Charles turned and saw Augustus carrying one of his sea chests toward him. The other lay on the deck boards by the entry port. As there were no hands to sway them aboard the man must have hauled the things up the side himself. Charles introduced his steward to the assembled officers. Augustus answered seriously as each name was spoken with a nod of his head. “If you would be so good as to take them to my cabin, I’ll be along presently,” Charles said.

Augustus looked around him. “Where be your cabin?”

Charles realized that he had no knowledge of the frigate’s arrangements. There would be a lot that would have to be explained. “Aft on the gundeck,” he said patiently.

“Yes, Cap’n,” Augustus answered. “What am the gundeck and where be aft?”

“I see. Mr. Sykes, would you be so good as to show the way?”

“Of course, sir,” Sykes said.

“Afterward, perhaps you could acquaint him with the general layout of the ship. Take your time; it’s a lot to learn if it’s all new.”

“Yes, sir,” Sykes answered. Turning to the black man and arching his head back, he said, “Augustus, is it? If you would accompany me, please. You ain’t small, are you? Mind your head.” Winchester also took the opportunity to be excused.

Alone with Bevan, Charles looked around him once more, attempting to take in the details of the ship. The contrasts to his previous command were immediately apparent. There were gangways running above both sides of the gundeck connecting the fore and after castles and providing some protection for the gun crews below. She was longer by about fifteen feet to accommodate the four additional twelve-pounder cannon that were her main armament and proportionately wider in the beam. An evident Englishness stood out, whereas Louisa had been originally French. He could see that she was of heavier construction and, because of her increased size and sturdier frame members, would displace a greater weight of water. His mind turned irresistibly to how she might run with the wind on her quarter or how handy when tacking. He decided that she would probably not be as fast as some, due to her greater weight, but she would hold her own in rough seas, and he saw no reason she might not be as quick as any in the stays. This led him to thoughts of putting out to sea, and to the state of her fittings, armament, and supplies.

“What still needs doing before we are prepared to sail?” he asked.

“You mean aside from finding a crew that’s willing to actually work?” Bevan answered. “Let’s see, we’ve yet to receive our powder and shot. That’s the biggest thing. I’ve had to put the deliveries off since we’ve no one to stow them. I did manage to complete our stores of water, victuals, and wood. Told them they wouldn’t be fed otherwise. There’s some small rigging work still to be done aloft, and a few other odds and ends, but we could attend to that as we go. We’d be ready to weigh most any time after we find some additional hands and the ones we have get over their current fit of pique.”

“We’ll see what we can do,“ Charles said. “In the meantime, I am going to my cabin. If you would please send someone for me when it’s time.” He turned and made his way below, trying to take in the details of the ship. She was untidy with unsecured falls and carelessly placed gear, but her line and cable work were all new and freshly tarred against the weather. At the base of the mainmast he took a moment to collect a loose signals halyard that particularly offended him. He looped the excess around his hand and elbow, tied it off, and hung the line in its proper place.

Once down the ladderway to the gundeck he paused to examine the freshly painted twelve-pounder cannon neatly aligned on their carriages, thirteen to a side. They were the newer Bloomfield pattern guns. The Ordinance Board must have ordered them to replace the outdated Armstrong models. This pleased him. He was aware that a number of the crew were watching him warily from across the deck; indeed, some had removed themselves from the pathway to his cabin to give him a wide berth. He did not acknowledge their presence, but noted that most were able seamen, the older, professional, highly skilled men who knew the ropes and the accepted customs of shipboard life. Most had been at sea all their lives and tended to be conservative in their outlook and expectations. In the normal way of things, nothing happened without their consent and they had their own methods of enforcing discipline below decks, almost none of which ever reached a captain’s ears. If there were to be a real mutiny, it would only be with their blessing. If the crew were to return to their work, it would be because the able seamen said so. In whatever they decided, the ordinary seamen, landsmen, and ship’s boys usually followed.

The marine sentry at the door to the captain’s cabin came to attention as he approached, then stepped aside for him to pass through.

“Thank you, Private,” Charles said. “May I know your name?”

“John Smith, sir.”

“How long have you been posted on board?”

“’Bout a week, sir,” the sentry answered, still standing rigidly erect, his eyes fixed on some point over Charles’ shoulder.

“And how do you find life aboard?”

A flicker of curiosity passed over the marine’s face, but he answered formally, “I find it agreeable, sir.”

“Truthfully,” Charles said. “Have you no complaints?”

“Well, sir,” the man’s eyes settled on Charles momentarily before looking away again. “The victuals ain’t too special, if you take my meaning, sir.”

“Thank you again, Private Smith. I’ll look into what can be done about that. Pass the word for the ship’s cook and purser to attend to me, if you will.” Charles pushed open the door and entered his cabin. He found it a relatively large room, at least larger than he’d had on Louisa. A desk set against the forward bulkhead and a table with six chairs midships close to the stern windows were the only furnishings. The deck beams were just high enough for him to walk upright beneath them, and there was a raised skylight cut into the quarterdeck above. The canvas-shrouded forms of four cannon projected into the space, two on each side. When cleared for action, the forward bulkhead to the cabin and all his things would be struck below, the guns uncovered, and his quarters would become an indistinguishable part of the gundeck running the length of the ship.

Charles hung his hat and sword on pegs fastened near the door. The sea chests lay on the deck in the center of the room, which meant that Augustus was still being shown around the ship by Sykes. He crossed to the table and sat; steepled his fingers, and attempted to decide what he should do next. A knock at the door interrupted him. “Mr. Burton and Mr. Wells are here, sir,” he heard the marine private announce. Charles assumed this would be the cook and the purser.

“Come,” he called back.

The door swung open; two men entered. One was rather short, wearing a stained apron and a wool cap. He had a cheerful look about him aided by a certain ruddy tint to his cheeks. The other was of average height, somewhat elderly, and more presentably dressed. He carried a ledger tightly under his arm. Charles stood and gestured for them to take chairs opposite him at the table.

“Which of you is the ship’s cook?” he said as soon as they were seated. He knew which was the cook by his dress, of course, but he didn’t know which name belonged to whom.

“Peter Burton, sir. Pleased to meet ye,” the pink-cheeked man said affably.

“What are your intentions for this evening’s dinner, Mr. Burton?” Charles asked directly.

“Dinner, sir? For the crew?”

“Yes, Mr. Burton. For the crew. Not, for example, the populace of China.”

“The usual, sir,” the cook answered, any sarcasm evidently lost on him. “I’ve salt beef, fresh from the cask, ship’s bread, and sauerkraut. The kraut’s good for the scurvy, I hear.”

“You’ve no vegetables, fresh bread, flour for gravy, anything like that?”

“I ain’t got stores for provisions like that,” the cook protested.

“We are in harbor, Mr. Burton. Provisions like that can be obtained from the victualing wharf.”

“Well, yessir, but . . .”

Charles cut him short. “These are my orders, Mr. Burton. “It is too late to change tonight’s supper, although you may send someone on shore for fresh bread.”

“Yes, sir,” the cook said doubtfully.

“I further require that in future, dinner and supper will include fresh vegetables, soft bread, fresh meat if you can get it, and the like. It is my wish that it be palatably cooked. This will be the rule whenever we come into a port or harbor where local provisions can be obtained. Is that understood?”

The cook nodded.

“Good. Don’t forget about the bread, and add some fresh butter while you’re at it.” Mr. Burton pushed back his chair, rose, and started toward the door.

Charles turned to face the purser who eyed him cautiously. “Do you have a concern, Mr. Wells?” he said.