Aware of the eyes upon him from the decks and the rigging, Curran started up the side. Halfway up he remembered the pistol in his waist, made it secure, and came through the entry port onto the quarterdeck. On deck his arrival generated no ceremony. Men passed fore and aft, rolling out hogsheads for the ship’s fresh water, mending and splicing, and removing the battens and hatch covers from the hold under the foremast. A lieutenant about Curran’s own age had a long glass tucked under his arm, the emblem and principal instrument of the officer of the deck.
A short, tousle-headed midshipman sat on the ladder of the main companion-way, glancing around generally and then staring at Curran openly. Curran turned aft, touched his hat to the colors, and then faced the officer of the deck. “Permission to come aboard, sir?”
“Granted. Come aboard.”
The smells of the ship were familiar—tar, turpentine, paint, sweat, and galley smoke. “My name is Curran, sir, reporting aboard from Epevier.”
A smile now, the first one Curran had seen all afternoon, and the officer of the deck held out a tanned, callused hand. “Welcome aboard, Mister Curran. My name is Kerr.”
Down from the quarterdeck came a large, broad-shouldered man wearing a short blue coat and duck trousers. Kerr put his heels together and touched his hat. “Good morning, sir.” Curran at once guessed this man to be the ship’s executive officer, and a taut one despite his working clothes. Curran saluted, though the man in the stained jacket was not covered.
Kerr said, “Mister Erskine, may I present Lieutenant Curran, just reported . . .” Kerr faltered on the foreign word, and Curran quickly covered, “Reporting transferred from Epevier, sir.”
“Excellent, Mister Curran. We have been expecting you. I’m Erskine, the exec.” Obviously a man who trusted his own work, Erskine carried a marlinspike in his belt. He bellowed an order to a pair of sailors working in the mizzen top; at that same moment, a rooster in the coops at the waist chose to crow at the top of its lungs, and a group of caulkers forward started a fine, syncopated hammering.
“Sir,” Curran shouted over the din, “I have dispatches for the squadron and mail for the ship.”
The word “mail,” a single syllable muttered on the quarterdeck, was able to penetrate through the clangor and passed quickly with smiles and winks from maintop to the cable tier.
“Mail, did you say? Well then, sir, you are welcome indeed.”
The mail and dispatches were brought up from the cutter, and the canvas sacks were at once taken up by the captain’s clerk and a smiling group of sailors. Erskine then noticed the pistol tucked into Curran’s waist.
“Was there some excitement ashore, Mister Curran?”
“No sir, I shipped this to guard the prisoner from Constellation.”
Kerr mumbled a remark about every man aboard Constellation being a villain, or at least a degenerate, for there was a great rivalry and even antagonism between the ships. One of Enterprise’s old salts sauntered to the rail and looked down into the cutter.
“It’s Plain Buttons, sir,” said Padeen Hoyle, senior petty officer in the starboard watch, “still on his cruise of the world.”
Erskine looked over the rail and said softly, “Poor bastard,” and then turned to Curran. “Do you have the prisoner’s instructions?”
Curran touched his jacket. “Here, sir.” The leather envelope was next to his own precious certificates and orders.
“Mister Kerr, see that Mister Curran’s things are brought aboard directly,” Erskine said. “Midshipman Wainwright will show you to the wardroom.”
When Mister Midshipman Wainwright did not appear instantly, Erskine barked, “Wainwright, goddamn your eyes, you idle lollygagger . . .”
The midshipman sprang like a cat from the hatchway and bounded over to the larboard quarterdeck. He was a thin little boy, almost swallowed up by his round hat. “Here I am, sir.”
Erskine’s eyes were hooded. “Mister Wainwright, I hope you are not unaccommodated. Are you at leisure, sir? Available for an assignment?”
Wainwright blinked as if he were peering into the mouth of a carronade. “Oh yes, sir. I am quite available, sir.”
“Then you will please show Mister Curran below and see that his things are placed in his cabin.” Erskine said these words as though he were speaking to a particularly intelligent but untrustworthy monkey. The exec’s smile returned when he said, “We’ll give you some time to settle aboard, Mister Curran. At four bells, please be so kind as to present yourself to Captain Pelles.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Wainwright stepped forward, touching his hat again and again. “Good afternoon, sir, welcome aboard, sir, and this way, sir, if you please.”
Kerr rolled his eyes and did his best to stifle a smirk. The after companion-way was being used to hoist out barrels, and Wainwright led Curran forward and then below by the forward hatch. As they departed, Curran heard Mister Erskine roar again, “Master at Arms! Marines to the quarterdeck, and lay a guard on the prisoner.”
Descending to the gun deck, Curran could feel the heat of the great black camboose stove. The smell of roasted meat came to him, and as they passed down the starboard side of the galley Curran watched as the mess cranks lined up before the stove. Big scoops of lobscouse and wedges of cabbage were being thumped into growlers to be carried to individual messes. Wainwright led Curran aft through the happy jostle, but only half the mess tables had been lowered, owing to the liberty men going ashore.
“Where did you come from, sir?” Wainwright asked. Clearly, the boy’s spunk returned when he was out from under the first lieutenant.
“Epevier,” said Curran.
“She’s now homebound,” the boy piped. Mister Wainwright was very well informed.
“I was put ashore at Cádiz,” Curran answered. “Epevier’s been transferred to the Atlantic Squadron.”
“Ah, God’s own ocean,” said Wainwright. “Mind ’yer head, sir. Some of them rammers is kept low.”
Curran was already being sized up by the men gathering at the mess tables hanging between the guns. Like the news of mail, the fact that a new officer was reporting on board was already known throughout the ship.
Curran followed past the starboard 24-pounders, all bowsed neatly, their tackle laid just so, the lines faked down, and round shot and bar glistening in their racks. Over each gun was painted a name: “Liberty’s Trumpet,” “Honey Don’t,” and “Woolybooger” were a few of the standouts among the midships battery. Curran became aware that Wainwright was talking again; he would soon discover it was something the midshipman almost never stopped doing.
“I wish I was in the Atlantic Squadron, sir,” said Wainwright. “Of course, here we’re supposed to be chasing Barbary pirates, Ay-rabs, sir, Tripolitans and Algerines. Broke the treaty they had with Mister Jefferson and have been none to kind to Mister President Monroe, neither. But they know better than to sail when we’re about. It’s lucky for them that what we see is mostly empty water.”
That patrols could be monotonous Curran knew already, but aboard Enterprise apathy did not seem to be