King's Captain

by Dewey Lambdin

“Yes. By first light tomorrow. You write your letters, whilst I pack.” She kissed him once more, deeper, with more meaning, before going to the door. “And be sure to reserve us a separate room at Willis’s, will you? I mean to hold you to your wager … dear Alan!”

  Whew! he thought in relief; can I finesse ’em or not?

  “Children … boys! Sophie? Guess what?” Caroline announced.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Like a presaging omen of his new-found prospects, the coach ride up to London had been a cool but sunny delight. The weather had turned off splendid, the roads dried out, but not so dusty they couldn’t lower the sash windows of their coach and savour the aromas and sounds of a marvelous springtime, though travelling with children aboard wasn’t a thing Lewrie was quite used to. There were times he envied Andrews—up on the driver’s seat with their coachee to make room in-board and free of the nonsense. “London!” Charlotte would scream, whenever a new village or town loomed up before them. “Are we there yet?” Hugh would demand … at about every tenth milepost. Sewallis, thankfully, kept his own counsel for the most part, and his lip buttoned, decrying only the most marvelous sights which flickered by as their coach reeled off a goodly clip, almost as fast as one of the new “balloon coaches” which bore the Royal Mails. No mud—well, not much, anyway—flew up to daub them, no herds of geese, sheep, beeves, or turkeys blocked the road so completely they’d have to come to a complete stop …

  No, the delays they suffered were for nourishment, for sweets or fruits hawked by pedlars at the kerbs of the towns they passed. And, of course, the inevitable “ … Mummy, I have to, uhm … now!” bawled by Charlotte, sometimes by Hugh. “But, darling, you just, uhm … not a mile back.” “I know, but Mummy … !” Hugh, at least, could be taken behind a hedge by the side of the road, whilst the horses got a rest; Charlotte, though … well, that required a proper inn, a proper jakes, a proper escort from Caroline or Sophie with the family’s travelling “necessary” bundle. Followed by a sweet, perhaps … ?

  “Commander Lewrie?” the tiler gawked. “Back again, are we, sir? Aye, sir … on th’ list, sir. Workin’ ya like a dray-horse, ain’t they, sir? In an’ out, in an’ out. Go-on-in, sir, there’s-a-horde-o’-others waitin’ …”

  And again in a promising omen, his heels had barely cooled in the infamous Waiting Room before his name was called and he was abovestairs to see Nepean once more. And it was personally gratifying for Lewrie to have so many contemporaries in the Waiting Room that day, even some of the renowned fighting captains, peer from their corner coteries of admirers and well-wishers to wonder who he was or why he had the gold St. Vincent medal clattering on his chest as he made his way to the stairs.

  “Commander Lewrie, aha,” Evan Nepean commented, allowing himself a stab at “glad” welcome. “Do take a seat, sir. You’ve quite enjoyed a few weeks ashore, I take it?”

  “Oh quite, Mister Nepean,” Lewrie replied, hat in his lap and his legs crossed. Damme, this is goin’ main-well, he allowed himself to imagine. “Though I did take a trip down to Portsmouth to visit my old ship … try to talk the hands remaining out of their nonsense. Wasn’t to be, sorry to say.”

  “Aha,” Nepean barked, looking cross. “Portsmouth, did you? I see. And whilst there, sir … did you happen to come across any tracts amongst your former crew, sir? Of a radical, rebellious nature, which might be to blame for this mutiny?” Nepean suddenly demanded.

  “None, sir,” Lewrie replied, guardedly. “And on that head, sir, I did enquire. But I was assured by my old Bosun that he’d seen none, and that the, uhm, disturbance was spontaneous—within the Fleet—with no prompting from shore. Though with so many Quota Men, these United Irishmen being ‘pressed lately, well … there’s sure to be radicals in each draught from the receiving ships. Spirit of the times, more-like, sir. Known him since ’81, sir, and he’s truthful as the day is …”

  “Hmmm … odd.” Nepean sighed, looking disappointed. “We were sure … the Duke of Portland … responsible for hunting down utterers of treason and mutinous, rebellious assemblages. He’s agents afoot in Portsmouth, looking into the matter. Done a magnificent job of hounding our Republican schemers. Break up every meeting place, drive them from pillar to post. We’d hopes that the plucking … or the arrest and silencing of a few ranters might de-fuse this … take away their leadership, d’ye see. Can’t expect lack-wit, drunken sailors to hold out for long once the instigators are cast into prison, hmm?”

  “Beg pardon, Mister Nepean,” Lewrie countered. “But it was my impression that the sailors did their own scheming … crosspatch or no. I’ll grant you, the petitions my old hands showed me were written rather well, which might seem suspiciously like someone wrote ’em for them, but … our tars ain’t that child-like, the bulk of ’em. Oh, the total lubbers, the failed ’prentices, and clerks with grudges …”

  “You do not side with the sailors’ demands, do you, sir?” the secretary posed. “Surely,” he purred, come over all suspicious.

  Shit! Lewrie sighed; and it was goin’ so bloody well! I’ll be hauled out o’ here in chains, next!

  “Of course not, sir!” he barked back, laying a thick scowl ’pon his phyz. “And I was most distressed to find my counsel wasted, even with men I’d sailed with for years. Trusted … !”

  He almost thought of throwing in a petulant “ungrateful curs!” which seemed to be the common coin lately, but forebade.

  “I am gratified to hear that, Commander Lewrie,” Nepean said, seeming to relent. He got that quirky “I know something you don’t” smirk on his face, thumbed a folder to his right, and drew out a sheet of paper. He held it up to the light to read over just once more, to prolong the suspense. He let out a satisfied wee sniff.

  Bastard! Lewrie thought in heat, though posing “just waiting.”

  “It is my honour to tell you, Commander Lewrie, that our Lords Commissioners have seen fit to offer you the Proteus Frigate.”

  “And it is my honour to accept, sir … gladly!” Lewrie breathed in relief. “Where is she, sir?”

  “At Chatham Dockyard, Lewrie.” Nepean deigned to grin, holding out that precious document ’twixt thumb and forefinger. Florid scrollwork in the penmanship, yet legible as block-printing and suitable to the solemnity of the occasion; a square stamp in the upper left-hand corner bearing the seal of Admiralty embossed into the thick paper … and a tax stamp halfway down the left side.

  By the Commifsioners for executing the Office of Lord. High.

  Admiral of Great Britain, and. Ireland &c and all of his Majesty’s Plantations &c.

  To Captain Alan Lewrie, hereby appointed Captain of his Majesty’s Ship the Proteus.

  “Dear Lord.” Alan grinned in awe. “What is she, sir?”

  Nepean chuckled with amusement at his surprise, “A 32-gun of the 5th Rate … which requires a Post-Captain into her.”

  God, they’ve been building those for years, Alan thought quickly; lying at Chatham … sure to be a total refit and old as the hills, but no matter! He was now to make £15 8s. per lunar month, have an honest-to-God frigate to command! And he’d made the long leap to “post” at last! There it was in black-and-white, down in the left-hand bottom corner—his date of seniority. Newest of the new—again it was no matter! Junior-most captain in the Fleet that morning to be certain. Yet … who in Hell gave a tinker’s damn for that?

  “Proteus,” he muttered, savouring her name. “The divine oracle of Greek myth, as I recall … the so-called ‘Shepherd of the Sea’?”

  “Uhm, more like the Roman, Captain Lewrie,” Nepean corrected, pulling at his nose. “B’lieve Nereus was the Greek. Fathered all the Naiads … ?”

  Are we there yet? Lewrie wondered, hiding his smile; wonder if old Nereus, or Proteus, got asked that? Well, I was close, hey?

  “ … one could assume so many shapes when he was cornered, before revealing the truth of the matter, a proper oracle.” Nepean smirked.

  Damn useful social skill, Lewri
e thought; sounds like me … and sounds like we’ll get on together.

  “Well, then …” Nepean drawled.

  “I’ll take my leave then, sir”—Lewrie cried, leaping to his feet and knowing an exit cue when he heard one—“and coach down to Chatham instanter.”

  “Just left the graving dock, I believe she has, sir,” Mr. Nepean informed him, already digging at a pile of more pressing letters. “A partial crew aboard. Time enough, though, for a slight celebration … and for you to go well stocked in cabin stores, hmm?”

  “Aye, sir, I s’pose,” Lewrie allowed, wishing he could shift his epaulet to his right shoulder that instant, so he could descend to the Waiting Room and put a nose or two out of joint. “My thanks, sir … my undying thanks. Good morning to you, Mister Nepean.”

  “And a good morning to you, Captain Lewrie,” Nepean had grace enough to say. “Do you remember to see my under-clerk on your way, sir. There is the slight matter of the tax … ?”

  “Ah, yes,” Lewrie soured a bit, taking a look at the stamp upon that precious document. They were dunning him for another two shillings and six pence! “Right, then …”

  “How did you put it last time, Captain Lewrie?” Nepean drawled, tweaking him a trifle sardonically. “‘Damme, had I known it was this cheap, I’d have done it long before’?”

  “Uhm … aye, sir,” Lewrie cringed. “Quite.”

  He turned to go, then stopped himself, reminded of a vital point which had not been mentioned, but should have been.

  “Uhm, Mister Nepean, sir …”

  “Uhmm?” Nepean replied, looking up from his papers with a brow cocked in the beginnings of petulant impatience, though not stretched quite so thin as to bark or bare his teeth … yet.

  “The matter of my retinue, so to speak, sir. Usually a captain is allowed some of his old hands to accompany him into a new ship.”

  “Ah, yes.” Nepean sighed, abandoning his work, faced with what amounted to a real problem and not a time-waster. He steepled fingers below the vane of his nose, brow creased in thought.

  “I’ve my Cox’n, my clerk, and cabin-steward with me, sir, that’s the lot. Perhaps some hands off Jester could be called away to Chatham? There’s my old Bosun, a damned good gunner named Rahl … Yeoman of The Powder now, but a keen-eyed shot as Quarter-Gunner should he take the re-rating. There are some Able Seamen been with me since Toulon …”

  “But, Captain Lewrie,” Nepean frowned, opening his hands and closing one to a fist, so he could shake an admonitory finger at him, “your last ship now lies at Portsmouth and is reputed to be actively supportive of the sailors’ cause. We simply cannot have men such as those spread throughout the rest of the Navy, which is so far free of the taint of mutiny. I know it is the custom and usage that captains have reliable, personally spoken-for men from their last ships, but … given the fragile nature of these current circumstances, I do not see how we may oblige you. ’Pon my life, I can’t.”

  “I see, sir,” Lewrie sighed, crestfallen, and pondering how he would fare, recruiting at Chatham, in a strange town, without a single old hand ashore at any “rondy” to vouch for him. Did he not gather a proper crew in a set period of time, his precious commission document would be so much burn-fodder—they’d assign another new Post-Captain to take his place, and he’d revert to being a Commander, waiting his turn at another sloop of war, if he was lucky. Or stuck at home back in Anglesgreen with all its distasteful, civilian, and domestic doings, fretting crops and Sophie and Harry Embleton, were he not!

  “Once aboard at Chatham, you may forward to me a list of names you might recall from previous commissions, Captain Lewrie,” Nepean suggested—tossed out like a sop he didn’t have to spend much on. “Then, are they still in the Navy, and are they presently aboard ship in an untainted port, we may be able to accommodate you, but …” Mr. Nepean lifted his hands palms up and gave him one of those hopeless and powerless shrugs more commonly seen on rug merchants who’d failed to strike a compromise on price.

  “I see, sir,” Lewrie sighed, much abashed.

  “Ah, but you’re such a knacky and resourceful fellow, Lewrie,” Nepean said with a purr, which meant he wouldn’t lift a finger more to help him in this regard, “and you’ve taken command of vessels before, where you were too junior a lieutenant to fetch aboard your favourites. I’m sure, once you explain your plight to the Regulating Captain of the Impress Service at Chatham, he will send you such trustworthy hands and petty officers as he has. I will write him at once, and send a copy on to Vice-Admiral Charles Buckner, flag officer commanding at the Nore. ’Twixt the two of them, I am certain you will find proper redress.”

  “That’s satisfactory, sir … thankee,” Lewrie told him, though it wasn’t in the least satisfactory—in normal times.

  “Well then, Captain Lewrie,” Nepean said, “allow me to wish success to His Majesty’s Ship Proteus … and to her new captain then. May all good fortune attend you, and her, sir.”

  ’Long as I just go! Lewrie snickered to himself.

  “I’ll see what I can ’bout success, sir. Good day.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They’d stayed in London that whole day and the next, for there was so much to see to: visit his solicitor Mr. Matthew Mountjoy to arrange funds and inform him of his new situation; hunt up Aspinall and Padgett; shop for cabin-stores as Nepean had suggested; attend to getting his epaulets shifted. New stockings in both cotton and silk, a new stock or two, a new dress shirt or two; cases and small kegs of wine, brandy, and such, and other foodstuffs specially prepared for a Sea Officer’s life at Fortnum & Mason’s, shopping at Frybourg And Treyer’s in the Haymarket. And shopping with the children, shopping with Caroline and Sophie … it was a hellish sudden outlay. But fun. Mountjoy had been happy to inform him that another £900 had come in from the Mediterranean prize-courts, less taxes and deductions, less prize-court fees, and his own; a tidy sum to be sure, and half of it gone in a twinkling, but the rest enough to keep his family with real style for at least another five years!

  They’d taken in a military parade in Hyde Park, listened to the bands and cheered, attended the theatres in Covent Garden and in Drury Lane, eaten out both evenings, gotten a spell of decent weather on the first night and strolled Covent Gardens, and danced. The second night there’d been a subscription ball to celebrate the up-coming nuptials of King George’s daughter Charlotte, the Princess-Royal, to the German Prince of Wurttemburg. Caroline had been glowing in a spanking new gown, with some of Grannie Lewrie’s jewelry and some of that loot which Alan had brought back from the Far East in ’86; some of it they loaned to Sophie for the two evenings. Both were as be-gemmed as any royal, and Lewrie had nigh worn out his shoes in dancing almost every dance with them.

  Though after her second turn ’round the chalked floors of that huge salon, Sophie had had all the male company she might have wished, all eager to make the acquaintance of the intriguing young woman who had danced with the naval officer with the medal on his breast. She’d been coyly ecstatic, hiding her eye-rolling and her little chirps of glee behind her fan when on the sidelines, yet archly imperious and seemingly uncaring for even the handsomest partner upon the floor.

  There’d not been much sleep that evening to be sure, what with dancing ’til nearly one, a cold collation with champagne after, then a coach-ride back to Willis’s, and Sophie simply had to laugh out loud, purr, or titter (and damn’ near shriek! at times) over her success with Society, with her and Caroline chortling over the night ’til all hours.

  Lewrie awoke after a brief four hours of sleep a tad dry-mouthed from all the champagne and wines he’d taken aboard, woke to a bustling as loud (it seemed) as a 12-pounder being hauled ’cross the deck to run-out position, as their household went about packing up for the coach trip to Chatham. Everything in a rush, a search for mis-placed shoes, hats, and last night’s fineries which had been flung “will-he, nill-he,” the slamming of chest lids and the patter of children’s feet at
a scamper, too excited to be shoved into proper clothing. Andrews was there with the sea-going stores stowed away aboard a hired cart, and Padgett was there, shyly avoiding being trampled. Aspinall was back and eager to re-prove his worth, whetting Lewrie’s razor on a strop, frothing up shaving soap, proffering a towel, a bowl, and pitcher of hot water on the wash-hand stand … babbling away a mile-a-minute as he got out that fresh shirt and stock, blacked Lewrie’s best shore-going boots, and stood ready to shove him into order once he’d sluiced his admittedly thick head, face, and neck, shaved himself half-raw, and slugged down a single cup of chocolate.

  Then down to a boisterous breakfast in the common rooms, everyone chattering and nattering, and the place filled with commercial travelers and chapmen, all eager to chew up something and swallow it, then be out and doing. Pay the establishment the final reckoning. “Mummy, I have to, uhm … !” Into the coach, and they were off by half-past nine. Down to the Thames and across to the south bank. “Mummy, I have to … !” for another stop by the semaphore telegraph station at New Cross and Deptford Dockyards. “Are we there, already?” from Hugh, who’d prefer to take a walking tour to look at all the ships under construction.

  Greenwich Naval Hospital went flying by, then the Royal Arsenal at Woolwich, and the testing of an artillery piece—a rather heavy-caliber and loud piece—set them to howling with delight. Putting Lewrie’s teeth on edge, it should be noted. He really did need a nap about as bad as any man born by then, but the excitement of the day kept him alert, to point out Gallons Reach and Barking Reach in the Thames to their left-hand side. Halfway Reach and Purfleet, the Long Reach—“Why do they call ’em reaches, Daddy?”—“What ship is that, Daddy?”—“Why do they call it Fiddler’s Road, when it’s not a road at all?”—“Is that your new ship then?”—“Uhm, Mummy, I have to … !”