H. M. S. Cockerel by Dewey Lambdin Read Free Book Online Page B

gun cap’m . . .” he related between powerful strokes, seated to his front, knee-to-knee with Alan. “Quarter-gunner . . . Yeoman o’ th’ Powder ’fore ’twas done. Now ’ere come another war. Y’r welcome to it this time, sir. You an’ all t’other young’uns. War ’fore th’ week’s out’s my thinkin’. Can’t ’llow th’ Frogs t’spread ’eir pizen f’r long. Folks is stirred up enough a’ready, sir.”
    â€œBy leveling talk?” Lewrie inquired. His stretch of Surrey might as well have been in China, for all the rumors that missed him.
    â€œThom Paine, sir.” The old gunner beamed, tipping him a wink. “ Rights o’ Man. Correspondin’ societies. That Thom Hardy feller an’ all? Price . . . Priestley . . . dissentin’ an’ such. Learned t’ read in th’ Navy, I did, sir. Time on our hands so heavy an’ all? ’Nough t’ know all them Friends o’ the People societies’ penny tracts is trouble. Wrote in th’ same words’z anythin’ wrote in France. ’At spells rebels an’ combinations, sir. With so many folk outa work, an’ wages so low when ya do get work, well . . . ’ear tell they’ve plotted secret committees, gone right over t’ Paris itself!”
    â€œWidespread, d’ye think?” Lewrie asked, morbidly intrigued.
    â€œNot so much yet, sir. N’r by hard-handed men, d’ye see? Give ’em time, though . . . never thought I’d see ’at ‘Yankee-Doodle’ madness took up in a real country!”
    â€œBut it doesn’t upset you enough to . . . volunteer, I take it,” Lewrie said with a knowing smirk.
    The waterman tapped the brassard on his chest which protected him from the Impress Service, and tipped Lewrie another and equally knowing wink. “I ain’t thet stupid in me old age, sir!”
    He paid off the waterman at the foot of Whitehall Steps, amid a swarm of other boats, of other officers reporting for duty. A walk up Richmond Terrace to thronging Whitehall, a stroll of about one hundred or more yards north up Whitehall, and he was there, before the curtain wall with its columns and blank stone facade between; before the deep central portal which led to the inner courtyard, beneath the pair of winged sea horses which topped the portal.
    Admiralty! What a leviathan one single word implied. Ordnance Board, Victualling Board, Sick and Hurt Board, boards for control of ship’s masters, of petty officers with warrants, of officers from lowly midshipmen to fighting admirals, port admirals, the Impress Service, HM Dockyards . . . cannon foundries, clothing manufacturies, pickling works for salt beef and pork, huge bakeries for untold tons of hard biscuit. And rope, tar, seasoned timber, paint, pewter messware, iron and bronze nails, pins and bolts, the copper industry for clean bottoms and defence against teredo worms. Sailcloth, slop clothing, leather works, sheath knives and marlinspikes, forks to cutlasses and boarding pikes . . . taken altogether, the needs of the Fleet, and the myriad of suppliers, contractors, jobbers—and thieves—who filled those needs, the Royal Navy was the single largest commercial enterprise in the British Empire. Which meant, of course, the civilized world. And one single word—Admiralty—spanned it all. Just as the Royal Navy would soon span the globe, the most efficiently armed, supplied and equipped military organization known to man. The enormity of the endeavour made even a cynic such as Lewrie take pause.
    Until he got to the door, of course.
    â€¢ • •
    â€œLewrie?” The long-term tiler sighed with a weary, frazzled air as he scanned his admittance list with one arthritic finger, and applied the other index finger’s horny nail to ferret between mossy teeth. “Y’r sure they wish t’see ya,