Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission
"Thank you, sir." Alan beamed, puffing up at the compliment.
"Didn't think an ambitious young fella like yourself would care to be third officer in a thirty-six, when you could be first, even in a little brig like Shrike."
"I do prefer it, sir," Alan replied, realizing it was true, even if being third officer in a 5th Rate would be easier on his constitution.
"Thought you'd say that." Lilycrop smiled, his eyes gleaming.
"Gooch, come open this damned bottle! I'm dry as dust! That's why I said you wished to stay in Shrike. I don't misrepresent you, do I, sir?"
"No, sir." Alan grinned back.
"Good. Now go stir up the warrants an' tell 'em we're gettin' underway at slack water tonight. And Mister Lewrie, do try an' not be as amusin' when we sail this time, eh?"
"Aye, sir."
"Oh, got the extra barrel o' sand for the kitties?"
"Clean sand from low tide, sir, nothing from further up the beach."
"Good, no reason to bring sand-fleas aboard. That's all, you can go. Think I'll sport a nip for you? Drink your own damned claret."
"Aye, sir," Alan replied, then broke off his exit. "Um, excuse me, sir, but did the flag say how long we would be at Jamaica?"
"Got calls to make there, Mister Lewrie?"
"A few, sir." Alan grinned.
"Well, you keep it to yourself, but we're bein' transferred to the Jamaica Squadron." Lilycrop sighed, as Gooch got the offending bottle open and poured him a liberal measure. "And no tales out of school for you, either, Gooch, damn yer eyes."
"Aye, sir," Gooch replied a bit insulted, as Lilycrop treated the whole affair as a joke. Most cabin servants from the wardroom or captain's quarters could trade information on the sly for favor with their shipmates; no matter how secret a matter was, it was uncanny how quickly everyone on the mess decks could hear all about it within seconds of the officers.
"Pity about Mistress Fenton," Lilycrop said. "Well, off with you, Mister Lewrie. I'm sure you have duties? And go ashore if you think it best."
Alan took himself out on deck, exulting in this stroke of good luck. He would be allowed a shore visit at Kingston, surely, to see Lucy Beauman, the perfectly lovely, and perfectly rich Lucy Beauman. Finally, he could pay court to her whenever the ship put back into Kingston, every eight weeks or so if their last cruise was anything to go by. It was all very well to have made lieutenant, have a decent rate of pay, and the annuity from his grandmother, but Alan knew his tastes and how expensive they could be; a gentleman with any pretensions to the good life back home needed three hundred pounds a year or he couldn't begin to exist. Lucy's parents were rich as Croesus, and were not adverse to a match, now that he'd made something of himself; they could not deny their beautiful little girl anything she wanted, and from the tone of her last letters, Lucy Beauman most especially desired one Lt. Alan Lewrie. She would bring a settlement, back home in England most likely, of enough land to set themselves up as property owners, ones who rented land to others, instead of the other way around. There would be a house in London, too, fashionably close to St. James's, Whitehall or the Strand, and in between smashing bed furniture in exuberant lovemaking, they could attend drums, routs, levees, and suppers, go to the theaters and the amusements of the world's greatest city, with the money to live the heady life among the titled and the elite.
"By God, but don't life just surprise the hell out of me sometimes," Alan breathed in anticipation. "Four parts of it beshit, and then Fortune drops a whole slew of guineas in your lap! Oh, shit!"
There was Dolly. Trusting, adoring Dolly. God, how could he bear to part from her! Yet it had to be. He wouldn't be coming back to Antigua anytime in the near future, and, wonderful as she was, she was (he had discovered) twenty-seven, older than he was. That was fine for the ego, fine for the libido, but not for a long-term relationship. Lucy was only eighteen. While Lucy would not even hit her full beauty for several years, Dolly could look forward to only a few more years of superb loveliness before she began to fade and lose her freshest bloom. And, unfortunately, she wasn't all that wealthy.
"But she's the sort that stays lovely for years and years," he argued. "We could… no, best we break it off now, damnit all. Best for her, really. Best she goes back to England and finds a man closer to her own age, someone who'll want to marry and make her happy, a man of substance to add to her husband's commission money."
Shit, he thought. Listen to me worrying about what a woman feels. Who'd o' thought a rogue like me'd ever worry about that? Oh, this is going to be devilish hard. I really am fond of the silly little mort. Yes, I really am. Fuck it, let's get it over with quick.
"Bosun, bring a boat round for me!" he shouted.
Chapter 3
Shrike thumped away bravely as she fired her salute to Adml. Sir Joshua Rowley's flag, ran down her Red Ensign, and trotted out the White, rounded up under tops'ls and spanker, and let the anchor go in as polished a performance as any ship of the line three years in active commission, which brought a grunt of satisfaction from Lieutenant Lilycrop and a large whoosh of relief from Lt. Alan Lewrie. Almost before the hook was on the bottom inside the Palisades of Kingston Harbor, the gig was alongside the entry port, the coxswain and his oarsmen turned out in the best uniforms they possessed (or could borrow from the purser's stores), and Lilycrop was safely into his boat and on his way to the flagship.
"Harbor gaskets on the yards, Mister Fukes," Alan ordered.
"Aye, sir," Fukes rumbled. "'N, could I be a'borryin' a boat ta row about n'see to squarin' away the yards, sir, while we set kedges?"
"My pleasure, Mister Fukes."
It would be a long row to get ashore, Alan noted, but Lilycrop had insisted that they anchor far out from the main anchorage, far off shore so the night miasmas that brought fever could not reach them, so they could still have a sea-breeze at night to keep the number of insects down. It would also reduce the thoughts of desertion among the hands, none of whom were strong enough swimmers to reach that tantalizing shore.
"Rig the awnings now," Alan said. "It'll get a lot hotter this afternoon."
There was still work to do, rowing out kedge anchors to hold the ship without swinging all about the compass on her bower rode and fouling another ship, tidying up aloft, coiling the miles of sheets and halyards, clews and buntlines down into neatly flaked piles or hung on the bitts and pin-rails. Then boats would have to go ashore for fresh water and firewood, and every department had needs which the purser would have to refer to the captain, hoping to keep the expense down in some cases, and seeking a way to make extra money in others. Biggs was already rubbing his dry hands together, expense ledgers under his arms, and eyeing the shore with an expression that could only be described as avidly expectant.
But for now, Alan could relax. The ship was at anchor, and nothing short of fire or hurricane could disturb her, which meant he could lower his guard from active trepidation to wary ease. The life of a first officer was onerous when one considered all the things that could go wrong, but, tentatively, he was beginning to admit to himself that he could cope, most of the time, at least. Tedious, some matters were, but no longer a reason for a dry mouth. Exacting, some chores might be, but no longer a cause for shaky limbs. When Alan had time to think of this change (and those times were damned rare) he supposed it had come about after the supper with Lieutenant Lilycrop. Being told that he was passably acceptable had removed the greatest part of the fears he had suffered, allowing him enough personal breathing room to grow into the job instead of staggering from one possible disaster to the next with the feeling that he was about five steps behind the acceptable pace. Witness their last passage from Antigua to Kingston, which had gone past in six days of (mostly) tranquility, giving Alan time to savor sunrises and sunsets, the joy of sailing over an inspiritingly benign ocean with winds enough for a glutton under a sky of Wedgewood blue. He had even begun to enjoy the banter in the wardroom, though he could not join in as joyously as was his usual wont when japes, liquor and high spirits were aflying.
Lilycrop was not fussy about uniform dress when Shrike was out of sight of the fleet, so Alan had served his watches and supervised the unending drills in old breeches and a shirt loose to the waist, minus stock, coat or stockings, and a woven sennet hat to ward off the sun. Lilycrop believed a large towel was clothing enough on some days for his own august personage, wrapped about his rotund body like some Roman senator's toga, and a pair of native sandals. The crew had gone about in rolled up slop trousers, belt and head-scarves like so many bloody buccaneers, except for Divisions and the rare turn-to to witness punishment in the forenoons. Now they were all chafing in full clothing, and the flesh that had been exposed to the sun was itching under the requisite layers of uniform, no matter how Red Indian-copper they had become with long service in tropic waters.
"Bum-boats comin' alongside, sir."
"Tell 'em to sheer off until the captain returns," Alan snarled. "And tell… no, the master-at-arms knows to keep drink from being passed inboard," Alan said, grinning at himself. "At least, he'd better."
William Pitt came sauntering aft along the larboard bulwarks to take a perch by the main chains and sharpen his claws on a shroud dead-eye. The cat ignored Alan until he strolled to the railing to peer down into the bum-boats which were offering their usual gew-gaws; small bottles of rum, flowers, cheap shirts, parrots and caged birds, pocket watches and shoe buckles (most likely stolen) and the women who helped scull the boats. When Alan got close enough, William Pitt had no more patience. He bottled up once more, spat and hissed, then took off forward in a ginger streak, uttering a low trilling growl.
"I hate that damned cat," Alan growled.
"Ah, he hates you, too, sir," Caldwell, the sailing master, told him with a wry grin, polishing his square little spectacles. "But then, there's not a soul aboard I've ever seen him warm up to, not even the captain. If he weren't such a deuced clever mouser, he'd have been over the side a year ago, and good riddance to bad rubbish."
"Not a half-bad idea, to trade the little bastard for a bird or something." Alan laughed.
Their captain returned about an hour later, and by the expression on Lilycrop's face as he heaved his bulk through the entry port, and the way he took his salute so testily, he obviously had not had a good time aboard the flagship.
"Mister Lewrie, attend me, sir!" Lilycrop snarled.
"Aye aye, sir," Alan replied, wondering what he had done to earn this new enmity. Had the more dubious parts of his repute made their way as far west as Jamaica? Once aft, though, he was pleased to discover he was not the reason (this time, at least) for Lilycrop's ill humor.
"Poxy, woman-handed little bastard!" Lilycrop barked, slinging his hat toward the hanging bed-box. Cats scattered to the four winds. "Insufferable arse-licker!" The shoes followed, caroming off bulkheads and decorating the sickly paint with streaks of blacking. The shirt stock nearly made it out the transom sash-windows. "Gooch!"
