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then on, or do something that would row him beyond all temperance. He could not abide serving under such an arrogant bastard for long, and he knew himself well enough to realise that his own patience was not everlasting. Sooner or later, there would be a blow-up.
    Get him so irked, he’d be glad t’see the back o’ me, and send me very far away? Lewrie pondered; There’ll be lots o’ drink sloshin’ at the ball tonight. Maybe that’s where t’make a start.

 
    CHAPTER SEVEN
    Despite Commodore Grierson’s unfortunate little jest that had frightened the good citizens of Nassau Town and New Providence Island so badly, they would not have, at that moment, trusted their own arses with a fart, the new Senior Naval Officer Commanding in the Bahamas had to be welcomed and regaled with an introductory supper and grand ball, no matter the personal feelings of the aforesaid citizens, who had at last regained their accustomed aplomb, and were back to business. The Governor-General, hoping perhaps that the new Commodore had fired the last shot from his humour locker, staged the affair at Crown expense, a cost which he would try to get underwritten by the better-off of the aforesaid good citizens, or justify to His Majesty’s Government.
    Lewrie took pains to sponge off, shave closely, and wait until the very last minute to dress that early evening, so he would not end soaked in perspiration before he combed his hair or left his cabins for the deck. He despised the new style of slipper-like shoes, but he had a good, mostly un-used pair of buckled shoes with coin-silver buckles, into which he stuck his silk-stockinged feet. His breeches were snow-white new, his waist-coat with gilt buttons just as pristine, and his shirt and carefully pressed neck-stock were of silk, as well, stowed at the bottom of one of his sea-chests for such rare occasions. Over the waist-coat, his steward, Pettus, draped the broad blue sash of his knighthood. Lastly, just before departure, Pettus offered him his best-dress uniform coat with the silver and enamelled star of the Order of The Bath pinned to the left breast. Pettus had carefully brushed it earlier, then hung it from a peg driven into one of the overhead deck beams, so the cats, Toulon and Chalky, could not roll on it and mark it with fur. One gold medal hung from a button hole on a ribbon, for his participation in the Battle of Camperdown. Dangling just over the vee of the waist-coat hung another on a pale blue ribbon; that’un was for being at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent.
    “You look champion, sir,” Pettus told him as he held up a small mirror from the wash-hand stand so Lewrie could preen a bit, and sweep hair back on both sides of his head. At his nape there was a sprig of hair, neatly tied with black ribbon and no more than three inches long.
    Styles were changing, and there were many younger officers who eschewed even a hint of sailor’s queues, deeming them old-fashioned, or best worn by the common seamen up forward, as a mark of class difference. Lewrie’s had been shortened over the years, and he suspected that some-day he might lop his off, too, but not yet.
    “Just keep the cats from leapin’ on me ’til I’m in the boat,” Lewrie told Pettus with a laugh. He donned the offered hat, a cocked one with a wide gold lace band round the outer edges, with the gilded button, loops of gold lace, and the fanned black silk cockade over the left eye, the “dog’s vane”. “And I hope someone’s either leashed our dog out o’ the way, or wiped his paws.”
    “I’ll see you to the entry-port and keep a weather eye peeled for Bisquit, sir,” Pettus offered.
    Thankfully, Bisquit was below with the hands who were just then getting their boiled meat from the galley, hoping for the offer of a nibble or two. Once in the boat, Lewrie sat down on a piece of new, un-sullied canvas to protect the seat of his breeches and coat tails from tar or dirt. “Town piers, Desmond!” he