The Wooden World, Part 22.
There was much more to it than the clothing, of course, but the expense of that alone was considerable. He had saved up a good amount of money since he was not prone to spending it on dockside attractions the way most officers did, and he found himself wondering how on Earth other officers managed it. Of course, he knew the answer, which was that many of them had wealthy patrons or families who would bail them out if necessary.
His own family had come from unremarkable gentry stock, and while they were never poor, extravagances remained rather rare. Rothwell's father might have gone much further in the service but his injuries were simply too great, and so he had retired upon a Captain's pension; between their savings, Rothwell's, and some welcome assistance from Admiral Norris, he was able to prepare as much as he might have wished.
Aside from the uniform, there was the matter of his captain's chambers, which required linens, carpets, candlesticks, tables, chairs, lanterns, bookcase, mapcase, chests, washstand, silver, bedding, and more odds and ends than he had cared to think about in many years. He had confessed himself at a loss to his mother, who arranged much of it for him. She'd written that he was setting up house almost as if he were getting married; a joke, of course, but in many ways quite true, and Rothwell was starting to suspect that she was hinting for him to look for a wife.
While his chambers were being arranged, and his personal food and drink laid in storage, he went through every part of the Worthy with the Boatswain and inspected it thoroughly. He'd had the ship cleaned and seams caulked, so that was no matter, but there were many small repairs that needed to be made. Lines were frayed, the livestock pens were rickety, a window in the Captain's chamber was broken and boarded over, and the ammunition was not well stowed. There were other problems as well, such as the lack of consistent logbooks from the mids on up, and a certain lax behavior that he noted among the entire crew.
The large number of women lounging on the gundeck was an annoyance to Rothwell, but he had half expected it. Most captains let their men bring 'wives' onto the ship while in harbor, and many of them didn't look too carefully about any claims of matrimony. He expected the women would be off the ship before they set sail, as was usual, and so he did a rather impressive job of ignoring them.
Finally, the inspection being completed, he called all of the officers onto the quarterdeck in preparation to set sail. He was dressed immaculately in his new undress frock coat, the proper choice when at sea; his hair was tied back neatly, white silk lapels brightened with pipe clay, and in short, he looked the picture of proper Naval order. The Lieutenants, to their credit, had pulled their uniforms together rather well for this meeting; at least they were taking him seriously enough for that.
"Gentlemen," he began, politely but clearly. "As you are now under my command, I shall acquaint you with the manner of it." There was some shifting and glances between the Lieutenants, but they knew better than to interrupt. "I have read the logbooks and the proceedings from Captain Smalley's Courtmartial, and therefore I have the understanding that behavior upon this frigate has been far too lax." He let that sink in a moment, since he was quite certain they knew the problems without him really having to detail them.
"From this point forward, all logbooks shall be kept each day by officers and midshipmen. The watches will be strict and by the appropriate hour. We shall beat to quarters once a day; any rating who does not find his post within five minutes shall be flogged with twelve lashes. Any sottishness that leads to dereliction of duty will result in the same flogging, with additional punishment as required. We will have gun drills at least three times a week until we can manage a broadside under the..." Disdain crept into his voice as he continued, "...four minutes this crew was last assessed. I shall demand a maximum of three minutes per shot and less than that might improve my temper concerning..."
While he was talking, a midshipman with a message in hand made his way toward the quarterdeck, and was let through by the small compliment of red-coated marines. However, the moment the youth stepped onto the stairs, Rothwell pointed at him and spoke with augmented volume and authority.
"No one sets foot upon the quarterdeck without proper attire! You there!" The young man, about sixteen, froze in his tracks, his cheeks turning a bright shade of red. He'd left his coat behind, likely due to the heat, and was only in his waistcoat, shirt, and breeches. "Tell that message to the marines, and throw yourself into the brig until I can spare someone to waste his time teaching you a gentleman's comportment!"
There was a startled hush, but no one spoke up because they knew that their new captain was right. The youth whispered to the nearest marine, handed him the note, and dashed off with remarkable speed. Rothwell turned to silently scrutinize the officers, walking slowly past them as he did so, hands behind his back.
He wasn't as tall as some of them, though he wasn't particularly short, but the righteous indignation he was feeling was quite effectively communicated by his withering visual assessment. Even some of the taller men slumped a little after he passed them, feeling more of a sting than if he had struck them.
"How HAS it come to this," Rothwell said softly, but clearly. "I must assume that none of you are exempt from blame. You must provide an example to all of the crew, and obviously, that example has been less than impressive. We shall have this frigate at sea by eight o'clock in the morning, and all will be in readiness. Is that perfectly clear?"
The officers bowed to him, adding "Yes, Captain" in subdued tones.
"Then make it so," he responded. "Dismissed."
He found himself wishing, the first among many instances to come, that Watts was with him on this ship. The obvious next thought, wondering when they might serve together again or if such would ever be possible, was stowed away for another time.
His own family had come from unremarkable gentry stock, and while they were never poor, extravagances remained rather rare. Rothwell's father might have gone much further in the service but his injuries were simply too great, and so he had retired upon a Captain's pension; between their savings, Rothwell's, and some welcome assistance from Admiral Norris, he was able to prepare as much as he might have wished.
Aside from the uniform, there was the matter of his captain's chambers, which required linens, carpets, candlesticks, tables, chairs, lanterns, bookcase, mapcase, chests, washstand, silver, bedding, and more odds and ends than he had cared to think about in many years. He had confessed himself at a loss to his mother, who arranged much of it for him. She'd written that he was setting up house almost as if he were getting married; a joke, of course, but in many ways quite true, and Rothwell was starting to suspect that she was hinting for him to look for a wife.
While his chambers were being arranged, and his personal food and drink laid in storage, he went through every part of the Worthy with the Boatswain and inspected it thoroughly. He'd had the ship cleaned and seams caulked, so that was no matter, but there were many small repairs that needed to be made. Lines were frayed, the livestock pens were rickety, a window in the Captain's chamber was broken and boarded over, and the ammunition was not well stowed. There were other problems as well, such as the lack of consistent logbooks from the mids on up, and a certain lax behavior that he noted among the entire crew.
The large number of women lounging on the gundeck was an annoyance to Rothwell, but he had half expected it. Most captains let their men bring 'wives' onto the ship while in harbor, and many of them didn't look too carefully about any claims of matrimony. He expected the women would be off the ship before they set sail, as was usual, and so he did a rather impressive job of ignoring them.
Finally, the inspection being completed, he called all of the officers onto the quarterdeck in preparation to set sail. He was dressed immaculately in his new undress frock coat, the proper choice when at sea; his hair was tied back neatly, white silk lapels brightened with pipe clay, and in short, he looked the picture of proper Naval order. The Lieutenants, to their credit, had pulled their uniforms together rather well for this meeting; at least they were taking him seriously enough for that.
"Gentlemen," he began, politely but clearly. "As you are now under my command, I shall acquaint you with the manner of it." There was some shifting and glances between the Lieutenants, but they knew better than to interrupt. "I have read the logbooks and the proceedings from Captain Smalley's Courtmartial, and therefore I have the understanding that behavior upon this frigate has been far too lax." He let that sink in a moment, since he was quite certain they knew the problems without him really having to detail them.
"From this point forward, all logbooks shall be kept each day by officers and midshipmen. The watches will be strict and by the appropriate hour. We shall beat to quarters once a day; any rating who does not find his post within five minutes shall be flogged with twelve lashes. Any sottishness that leads to dereliction of duty will result in the same flogging, with additional punishment as required. We will have gun drills at least three times a week until we can manage a broadside under the..." Disdain crept into his voice as he continued, "...four minutes this crew was last assessed. I shall demand a maximum of three minutes per shot and less than that might improve my temper concerning..."
While he was talking, a midshipman with a message in hand made his way toward the quarterdeck, and was let through by the small compliment of red-coated marines. However, the moment the youth stepped onto the stairs, Rothwell pointed at him and spoke with augmented volume and authority.
"No one sets foot upon the quarterdeck without proper attire! You there!" The young man, about sixteen, froze in his tracks, his cheeks turning a bright shade of red. He'd left his coat behind, likely due to the heat, and was only in his waistcoat, shirt, and breeches. "Tell that message to the marines, and throw yourself into the brig until I can spare someone to waste his time teaching you a gentleman's comportment!"
There was a startled hush, but no one spoke up because they knew that their new captain was right. The youth whispered to the nearest marine, handed him the note, and dashed off with remarkable speed. Rothwell turned to silently scrutinize the officers, walking slowly past them as he did so, hands behind his back.
He wasn't as tall as some of them, though he wasn't particularly short, but the righteous indignation he was feeling was quite effectively communicated by his withering visual assessment. Even some of the taller men slumped a little after he passed them, feeling more of a sting than if he had struck them.
"How HAS it come to this," Rothwell said softly, but clearly. "I must assume that none of you are exempt from blame. You must provide an example to all of the crew, and obviously, that example has been less than impressive. We shall have this frigate at sea by eight o'clock in the morning, and all will be in readiness. Is that perfectly clear?"
The officers bowed to him, adding "Yes, Captain" in subdued tones.
"Then make it so," he responded. "Dismissed."
He found himself wishing, the first among many instances to come, that Watts was with him on this ship. The obvious next thought, wondering when they might serve together again or if such would ever be possible, was stowed away for another time.