The King's Commission (23 page)

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Authors: Dewey Lambdin

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“Despatches for Kingston,” Lilycrop told Lewrie after he had stowed them away in a locker in his transom settee. “Hood and Rodney'll be on their way west after us, just in case the Dons and what Frogs escaped still have plans for Jamaica. We'll crack on all the sail she can fly, and I'll be wantin' to warn you again 'bout how
Shrike
can get away from you in a stiff blow to loo'rd.”
“Aye, sir,” Alan replied. “Sail on the next tide?”
“Yes. Are we ready to put to sea?”
“Aye, sir,” Alan said, proud that he had the ship ready in all respects, in between the riotous celebrations ashore.
“By the way, the flag-captain informs me a terrible mistake was made two month ago, Mister Lewrie,” Lilycrop went on, tossing off his heavy coat, kicking off his tight shoes, and picking up a cat to stroke. “Seems a midshipman assistin' a flag-lieutenant—which is like a blind man helpin' a cripple cross a busy road—sent a Lieutenant Lyles, a man of no little experience, into the
Amphion
frigate, and sent you here as my first. Upset their little wardroom order with no end of shit.”
“I see, sir. So I am to exchange with this Lieutenant Lyles?”
“Not a bit of it. Told 'em I preferred you, now we were used to each other's ways,” Lilycrop growled, busying himself with a bottle of wine. “If they got their books wrong, it's no fault of mine, I told 'em. If Lyles got the wet end of the stick, it's their problem.”
“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.
S
hrike 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 sashwindows. “Gooch!”
“Sir?” Alan asked, standing well back from this barrage of attire.
“Not a morsel of welcome, sir, not a morsel,” Lilycrop gloomed. “Oh, aye, I've grown accustomed to small portions of hospitality in my years, but … Gooch, come open this damned bottle before I crack it over your empty head!”
“Aye, sir!” the servant bobbled.
“I'd not expect to be dined in, sir,” Lilycrop went on, almost tearing the buttons from his waist-coat as he removed it and slung it in the general direction of the pegs. “That's for post-captains an' the titled fools, but nary a drop of comfort was I offered, sir, not one drop for a newly arrived master an' commander.”
“Most inhospitable, sir,” Alan commented as Gooch got the hock open and deftly stripped Lilycrop of his heavy old sword as he raved about the cabins, drinking from the neck.
“D'ye know, Mister Lewrie, we're the first vessel in with word of The Saintes, and their salvation from the Frogs and the Dons,” Lilycrop raved on. “While they couldn't stir their arses up an' put half a dozen sail o' the line to sea to save their souls. A battle ye say? Truly, sir? Defeated de Grasse, did they? Capital doin's, but more important, who d'ye like in the Governor's Cup Races? Pahh!”
“Perhaps the flag-captain was drunk, sir.”
“An' maybe he's an addle-pated, light-footed, silk-kerchiefed sodomite fool!” Lilycrop roared. He flung himself down on the transom settee, but calmed enough to accept a mug from Gooch, who had been weaving a circumspect course to avoid his captain's wrath. “Then this dandy-prat had the gall to look down his nose an' wonder what Rodney was thinkin' of to transfer little
Shrike
to Sir Joshua Bloody Rowley an' Billy Graves' fuckin' damn flag! ‘My dear sir,' he says to me, ‘I know not to what avail a brig o' so little worth shall answer, but given enough time, we shall discover her uses, perhaps in the guarding of the harbor entrance, or the coast an' revenues'! Goddamn them!”
“Graves, sir?” Alan started. “From The Chesapeake?”
“The same. A vice-admiral servin' under Rowley, if you can imagine what a come-down that is for him.” Lilycrop wheezed humor.
Alan shrugged philosophically, approaching to within throwing distance as Lilycrop poured half the bottle of hock into his mug and began to sip. “Perhaps they still perceive a danger, and
thought themselves more in need of ships of the line, or a brace of larger frigates to add to their strength.”
“What bloody danger? Rodney'n Hood put paid to those Frogs off The Saintes. Scattered their fleet Hell to Huttersfield, took the ships loaded with the siege artillery. Jamaica's safe as houses now.”
“Yes, sir, but where did those other ships escape to, the ones we didn't take?” Alan pondered. “Up to Cape Francois, or Havana? There are still ten Spanish sail of the line in the Indies. And the Dagoes were to provide troops for the expedition. Who's to say they might try yet, sir, strictly a Spanish adventure, with help from one of de Grasse's junior admirals and what ships he's collected after The Saintes? When you consider that, they might look upon Rodney offering them one small brig of war as an affront. Perhaps there's bad blood between Sir Joshua and Sir George, and you the intermediary between their animosity.”
“Goddamme, but you're a
political
animal, Lewrie,” Lilycrop spat.
“Aye, sir, but it's a learned habit. Society runs on rumors and grudges.” Alan grinned, now on solid ground. For all his seafaring skill and his tarry-handed knowledge, Lilycrop was a child when it came to the ways of English “Society”; childishly proud of his lack of familiarity with the back-alley routes to success, money and “place.” In contrast, Alan had cut his milk-teeth on the practice, raised as he was in the shadow of the mighty, the titled and the wealthy. Lilycrop wanted his Navy to be immune to what he thought was unfair and scheming, but the Navy was a microcosm of the society which it protected, and its officers came from families who had to play “The Game” to get ahead. Until the society changed, the Navy would reward those who knew how to grease the wheels with unctuous words. In a sudden flash of insight, Alan saw the reason why Lilycrop had named the ginger cat William Pitt. He had been a champion from the commoners, but on retirement he had accepted the King's gift of title as Lord Chatham, and all the perquisites of the wealthy Tories against whom Pitt had dueled, betraying Lilycrop's simple faith in ordinary men rising by their own abilities. No bloody wonder he was a lieutenant all this time, Alan thought a bit sadly. The wheel that squeals the loudest never gets the grease. He rubs everyone the wrong way—God help him, he's even proud of it.
“Damn Society,” Lilycrop groaned, lifting his beak from the
mug, but he had calmed himself. “Think you, though … we were too small an offerin'?”
“I'm sure of it, sir. Perhaps Admiral Rodney offered larger ships, or Drake's small division of line-of-battle ships for later in the despatches we carried, but we don't know that.”
“Nor should we have,” Lilycrop nodded firmly. “So I was the bearer of bad tidin's, the one the Roman emperors used to kill. Uriah smugly bearin' his death warrant from David to place him in the thickest fightin' so Uriah's wife would be a widow for David's pleasure.”
“Um … something like that, sir,” he shrugged, at a loss.
“Nothin' more'n I'd expect after fifty years in the Navy, man and boy, watchin' …” Lilycrop squirmed as he realized he could not expose himself or his life-long grudges to anyone, much less to an officer from that very background that seemed to spawn the successful, while he soldiered on without seeming rewards. “Stores complete, sir?”
“Ah, aye, sir,” Alan replied, caught off guard by the sudden shift of topic. “Or, that is, they soon shall be, sir. The purser is ashore, and should be returning soon.”
“Once we're replenished, be so good as to hoist ‘Easy Discipline' so the doxies can come aboard, then,” Lilycrop directed wearily. “The hands've shaped up main-well, the last two months. They've earned a few rewards. Mister Lewyss to check for pox'n fleas, mind.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Far's I know, we could tup'n sup out here 'til we sink at our moorin's, for all this admiral cares. Shore leave tickets for the senior warrants first, junior warrants second. Leave tickets for those hands deservin' afterward.”
“Aye, sir. Um …”
“Aye, I mind you've calls to make,” Lilycrop said, frowning. “I'll take a turn ashore myself, but my needs're simple. You've earned your chance for a wench and a bottle as well, young sir.”

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