sighed with an audible sniff. "Matters of state in London, with the Board of Admiralty, do you see? Ah, Captain Palmer! Captain Palmer, allow me to name to you Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, come down to assume a new command. Lieutenant Lewrie, our Regulating Captain."
"Your servant, sir," Lewrie said, extending a hand to the oily older man who had appeared with breakfast grease on his chin.
"Nay, I be yours, sir. And that, soon, I'm thinking. And what ship?"
"The Alacrity, sir."
"Alacrity, Alacrity, hmm ..." Silver-Buttons mused, searching his files stacked in untidy piles on a sideboard.
"A ketch-rigged sloop, sir. To turn over, then fit out for the Bahamas Squadron," Lewrie prodded impatiendy.
"Ah, here we are!" Silver-Buttons brightened. "Ten-gunned, once a bomb ketch. Should have been in port over a month ago, but she found nasty gales returning from Gibraltar and broke her passage, hmm ... once in Lisbon. And a second time in Nantes. Odd."
"Odd, sir? What's odd?" Lewrie fretted. "Was she damaged? How badly? To dock in Frogland... she is here, is she not, sir?"
"Well, of course she's here, Lieutenant Lewrie!" Silver-Buttons snapped. "Else how would I have this paperwork, hey? Came in Tuesday last. As to her material condition, I haven't a clue, though. I cannot be expected to keep track of everything! Aha. Docked and breamed last week, her coppering redone, and is now lying at anchor, awaiting turnover."
"And does that say how many hands stayed aboard, sir?" Lewrie continued. "Any Discharged I must recruit to replace, or will the men turn over entire?"
"Portsmouth's full o' willin' hands, sir," Captain Palmer said after masticating a last, fetching bite of bacon. "I'll be that able to fulfill yer ev'ry desire. Bahamers, is it to be, did y'say? Then y'd rest easy to know there's Cuffy sailors aplenty, awishin' the hot o' their tropics. Mister Powlett's Marine Society o' London's sent down a draft o' their very best, and were ya able to deem 'em Ordinary Seamen, seein' as how they know their knots an' can box the compass good as a hand a year at sea, then half yer problem's solved, I say!"
"I see, sir," Alan nodded. West Indies sailors were as good as any he'd seen in his limited experience, though most English captains would not take them. They were better behaved, more religious, and a lot less likely to cause trouble as long as they were treated fairly. He didn't know squit about any Mr. Powlett's Marine Society of London, but it sounded very much like some Poor Relief for street urchins. If they'd gotten any instructions at all, they'd stand head and shoulders higher than truculent, ignorant landsmen from a debtors' prison.
"I must confess ignorance as to my needs for personnel, Captain Palmer," Lewrie said, finally getting his documents slid back to him, and into his pocket once more. "I shall go aboard Alacrity and read myself in at once, determine my lacks, and get in touch with you, sir."
"Afore the Admiralty changes its mind, hey?" Palmer cajoled.
"Quite, sir," Lewrie smiled bashfully. Captain Palmer had hit the nail directly on its head.
"God, she's lovely," Alan breathed as he beheld the gun ketch which lay at anchor before him as he was rowed out by a bargee.
"Ever' ship be, sir," the bargee grunted over his oars.
Alacrity was a saucy thing. Seen side-on, which view disguised her wide beam, she possessed a lovely, curving sheer-line to bulwarks and gunwale, and the jaunty, upward thrust of her jib boom and sprit yard made her appear eager and lively. She was about seventy-five feet on the range of the deck, and ninety feet overall from taffrail to the tip of her bowsprit. She was rigged as a two-masted ketch, a bomb ketch of the older style with equally spaced masts, the after mast by the break of the quarter-deck railings shorter than the mainmast forward. Her principal motive power would be those two courses rigged fore-and-aft on the lower masts, hoisted like batwings from gaff yard atop and long
"Your servant, sir," Lewrie said, extending a hand to the oily older man who had appeared with breakfast grease on his chin.
"Nay, I be yours, sir. And that, soon, I'm thinking. And what ship?"
"The Alacrity, sir."
"Alacrity, Alacrity, hmm ..." Silver-Buttons mused, searching his files stacked in untidy piles on a sideboard.
"A ketch-rigged sloop, sir. To turn over, then fit out for the Bahamas Squadron," Lewrie prodded impatiendy.
"Ah, here we are!" Silver-Buttons brightened. "Ten-gunned, once a bomb ketch. Should have been in port over a month ago, but she found nasty gales returning from Gibraltar and broke her passage, hmm ... once in Lisbon. And a second time in Nantes. Odd."
"Odd, sir? What's odd?" Lewrie fretted. "Was she damaged? How badly? To dock in Frogland... she is here, is she not, sir?"
"Well, of course she's here, Lieutenant Lewrie!" Silver-Buttons snapped. "Else how would I have this paperwork, hey? Came in Tuesday last. As to her material condition, I haven't a clue, though. I cannot be expected to keep track of everything! Aha. Docked and breamed last week, her coppering redone, and is now lying at anchor, awaiting turnover."
"And does that say how many hands stayed aboard, sir?" Lewrie continued. "Any Discharged I must recruit to replace, or will the men turn over entire?"
"Portsmouth's full o' willin' hands, sir," Captain Palmer said after masticating a last, fetching bite of bacon. "I'll be that able to fulfill yer ev'ry desire. Bahamers, is it to be, did y'say? Then y'd rest easy to know there's Cuffy sailors aplenty, awishin' the hot o' their tropics. Mister Powlett's Marine Society o' London's sent down a draft o' their very best, and were ya able to deem 'em Ordinary Seamen, seein' as how they know their knots an' can box the compass good as a hand a year at sea, then half yer problem's solved, I say!"
"I see, sir," Alan nodded. West Indies sailors were as good as any he'd seen in his limited experience, though most English captains would not take them. They were better behaved, more religious, and a lot less likely to cause trouble as long as they were treated fairly. He didn't know squit about any Mr. Powlett's Marine Society of London, but it sounded very much like some Poor Relief for street urchins. If they'd gotten any instructions at all, they'd stand head and shoulders higher than truculent, ignorant landsmen from a debtors' prison.
"I must confess ignorance as to my needs for personnel, Captain Palmer," Lewrie said, finally getting his documents slid back to him, and into his pocket once more. "I shall go aboard Alacrity and read myself in at once, determine my lacks, and get in touch with you, sir."
"Afore the Admiralty changes its mind, hey?" Palmer cajoled.
"Quite, sir," Lewrie smiled bashfully. Captain Palmer had hit the nail directly on its head.
"God, she's lovely," Alan breathed as he beheld the gun ketch which lay at anchor before him as he was rowed out by a bargee.
"Ever' ship be, sir," the bargee grunted over his oars.
Alacrity was a saucy thing. Seen side-on, which view disguised her wide beam, she possessed a lovely, curving sheer-line to bulwarks and gunwale, and the jaunty, upward thrust of her jib boom and sprit yard made her appear eager and lively. She was about seventy-five feet on the range of the deck, and ninety feet overall from taffrail to the tip of her bowsprit. She was rigged as a two-masted ketch, a bomb ketch of the older style with equally spaced masts, the after mast by the break of the quarter-deck railings shorter than the mainmast forward. Her principal motive power would be those two courses rigged fore-and-aft on the lower masts, hoisted like batwings from gaff yard atop and long
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