The King's Commission

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Git off my fuckin’ shoes, damn yer blood.”

  “Who’s on the board, then?”

  “Captain of the Fleet, Napier off Resolution, Captain Cornwallis of Canada …”

  “Oh, fuck me, he’s a Tartar!”

  “Box-hauling? What the hell do I know about box-hauling?”

  Hands flurried to open texts at that strangled wail of despair.

  Alan had considered bringing his own books with him, but after two days of cramming in every spare moment, he realized that he would either know the answers or he would not, and anything he read at the last second would melt away before he could recall it. So he did not have the diversion of reading to pass the time as the others did.

  The first young aspirant, the ginger-haired boy of about seventeen who had been first below, went into the examining room, and everyone hushed and leaned closer to see if they could hear the proceedings through the deal partitions. Close as he was, Alan could only hear a dull rumble now and then. The boy was out in five minutes, shaking like a whipped puppy and soaked in sweat.

  “It’s box-hauling,” he stammered, tearing at his stock as though he was strangling. “Fourteen steps of gun-drill, d … d … dis-masting in a whole gale … Lord, I don’t know what else! They love lee shores!”

  The next hopeful was in there for ten minutes, and he came out fanning himself with his hat, but wearing a smug expression, as though he had been informed that he had been passed. To their eager questions as to what had been required of him, he had another terrifying list of stumpers, which made all of them dive back into their texts, and Alan suddenly didn’t feel so very confident any longer. He could cheerfully have killed one of the others for a book to review.

  The board also upset his hopes; they went through a dozen young men in the first hour-and-a-quarter, and not two of them looked at all sanguine about their prospects when they emerged. Most were told they had failed, and to try again in another six months or so.

  The older midshipman in the shabby coat went in, and he was out in three minutes, his eyes moist with humiliation at the quick drubbing he had received. Please God! Alan thought as a litany, Please!

  “Midshipman Lewrie?” the clerk called from the open door at last. “Midshipman Alan Lewrie.”

  “Here,” Alan heard himself manage to say through a suddenly dry throat.

  “Then get in … here,” the clerk simpered at his own jest.

  Alan tugged down his waist-coat and shot his cuffs, played with his neck-stock and then strode to the open door as if he were walking on pillows in some fever-dream. He stepped through the door and past the partitions, and the door was closed behind him. He beheld a long dining table set athwartships, behind which were seated at least a dozen post-captains in their gold-laced coats, and every one of them looked grumpy as ill-fed badgers. There was a single chair before the table as though it was a court-martial, and Alan almost stumbled over it as he took a stance before it.

  “Well?” one of the captains snapped.

  “Midshipman Alan Lewrie, sir, of the Desperate frigate,” he managed to say, clutching his packet of letters to his side and almost crushing his cocked hat into a furball under the other arm.

  “Desperate, hey?” one of the others said, beaming almost pleasantly. “Saw your fight with Capricieuse. Damned fine stuff. Your Captain Treghues has a lot of bottom, what?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Well, don’t stand there like death’s head on a mop-stick, give me your packet.”

  Alan handed over his letters and bona fides, and the flag-captain in the center of the board looked over them, reading aloud salient points to the other members.

  “Joined January of ’80, Ariadne, 3rd Rate of sixty-four guns. Only the two years of service?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Mentioned honorably. Took charge of the lower gun deck after both officers were killed, credited with getting the guns back in action and thus saving the ship. My, my, we have been busy, have we not?” The flag-captain chuckled. “I remember you, I believe. You were the lad escaped Yorktown with some soldiers. Turned a brace of river barges into sailing craft. Fought your way out too, as I remember.”

  This ain’t so bad after all! Alan thought with relief. Was there some “interest” on his behalf of which he was unaware working in his favor—was it from Admiral Hood, or his flag-captain here? “Aye, sir, we did. But as for the boats,” he informed them, “I had two fine petty-officers who did most of the creative work. Mister Feather and Mister Queener. Both dead now, unfortunately.”

  He congratulated himself as he saw the tacit approval of his comments on the captains’ faces; it never hurt to share out the credit and sound a little modest, while still implying you were a genius anyway.

  So they went through his records from Parrot, his staff work for Rear Adm. Sir Onsley Matthews, with Alan dropping the blandest sort of hint that he and that worthy, who was now in London controlling these captains, were still in affectionate correspondence. Then his service in Desperate and all her heroic exploits in which he had taken part, including being a prize-master; the raid on the Danish Virgin Islands, Battle of The Chesapeake, Yorktown, his promotion to master’s mate, the fight with Capricieuse and his service as acting lieutenant. By the time they reached the present, he was damned near swaggering. It was going splendidly, and he could see by one board member’s large watch that they had spent over ten minutes just being pleasant and approving.

  I could walk out of here without one question, if they have that herd out there to examine today, he speculated. And most of those sluggards haven’t done a tenth of my service.

  “Sit or stand, Mister Lewrie?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do you prefer to sit or stand for the examination?”

  “Um, I’ll stand, sir,” he replied, all the cock-swagger knocked out of him, knowing he would not get off scot-free.

  “Think better on your feet, hey?” Captain Cornwallis chuckled. “Mister Lewrie, you’re first officer into a seventy-four-gunned 3rd Rate at present laid up in-ordinary. Your captain orders you to prepare her to be put back into commission. What steps are necessary, and what orders would you give?”

  That’s one of the questions Treghues sent me, to the letter, Alan realized, striving to dredge up the proper answer, or even get his brain to function. But he took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and launched into the long, involved reply. He was only half-way through it, though, when he was interrupted by one of the captains.

  “Good on that. Now, this same seventy-four is on a lee shore under plain sail, wind out of the west and you are on the larboard tack as close-hauled as may be. Shoals under your lee, eight cables off, almost embayed by a peninsula to the north’rd, extending nor’west. Do you have that in mind so far?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “The wind veers ahead suddenly by six points, and freshens to half a gale. What action would you take, sir?”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Alan asked, stalling for thinking time. “How far off is that peninsula you mentioned?”

  “Makes no difference,” one grumbled impatiently. “Half a league?” Another shrugged, and the rest seemed it as good a predicament as any.

  “I would endeavor to tack immediately, sirs,” Alan began. “I would shift the head sheets and the spanker with the duty watch, at the same time summoning all-hands, as I would be laid aback and in irons. Get her head about, even if the square-sails would be flung aback. I would lose all headway until I could free the braces and shiver the yards, but I would be on a safer tack.”

  Do you want more? he wondered, as they sat there staring at him. He no longer felt any confidence at all.

  “Ah, hmm, your cooks were preparing dinner during this emergency, and the galley fire has been scattered by your sudden evolution,” Captain Cornwallis demanded. “What do you do to combat this fire below decks, and how many hands may you spare, as you are still attempting to tack your ship and square away your yards?”
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  Jesus, are these buggers serious? he quailed. Barely had he gotten a fire party together, rigged out a foredeck wash-deck pump as a fire engine, than another captain added the complication of jammed brace-blocks aloft on the main yards, and a sprung main top-mast that threatened to come crashing down from the wind pressure on those laid aback tops’ls. Alan decided to send two men aloft and cut the upper weather brace so the yard could swing a’cock-bill to save the mast.

  One hypothesis came at him after another, mercilessly swift and demanding, and his answers showed no signs of mollifying anyone. They all frowned and leaned forward, savoring his roasting, much like Grand Inquisitors from Spain watching a particularly enjoyable auto-da-fé and wanting to hear the bleats of the torched victim better.

  His shirt was clinging to him, his breeches felt clammy, as if he had just been dunked over the side into the sea, and his face streamed so much perspiration it was all he could do not to reach up and try to mop himself dry, before it all ran down into his eyes and made him blink and squint. He had the distinct impression that he had begun to babble like a two-year-old, instead of sounding like a young man with the prospects to be made a lieutenant!

  Am I making any sense anymore? he wondered. Jesus, just a little good fortune here, please!

  “Hmm, alright, Mister Lewrie,” the flag-captain said finally, which brought a pent-up sigh of relief to Alan’s lips before he could control himself. “You’d probably have lost that top-mast eventually, but the ship might have been spared being wrecked on a lee shore. As for that fire, you forgot about it, but I’m sure someone would have come and told you if it got out of control. Gentlemen?”

  “Fair enough,” Captain Cornwallis said, shrugging affably.

  “Agreed, then?” The flag-captain peered down the table for a consensus. “Passed for lieutenancy, then. That’ll be all.”

  “God!” Alan blurted in total stupefaction.

  “Well, if you’d rather not be …” a post-captain laughed.

  “Oh, nossir, thank you, sirs. I mean, yes sirs!”

  “Hush. Take your records and go before we change our minds!”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Alan agreed, stumbling over the chair again on his way out. He stepped into the breathless hush of the cabin full of nervous aspirants who still had to endure their own ordeals.

  “My God, you were in there near twenty minutes!” one gawped.

  “What did they ask?” another demanded.

  “It was …” Alan began, and then began to cackle in hysterical relief. “I can’t bloody remember! Dis-masting, and a fire … I think.”

  “Fire,” someone said, opening his Falconer’s to see if there was an approved fire-drill.

  “On a lee shore, mind you.” Alan grinned, unable to stop shaking with laughter and relief such as a felon must feel pardoned at the foot of the gibbet. “Bloody daft on ’em, they are!”

  “Well, did you pass?”

  “Passed!” Alan beamed at them, drawing a deep breath. “Yes!”

  “Bloody Christ, not one in five,” came a sorrowful moan.

  “Best of luck to you all,” Alan said, meaning every word of it. He pulled out his watch and consulted it, trying to calm down. “Ah, what good timing. I shall be back aboard just in time for dinner.”

  “Bastard,” someone whispered loud enough to hear, but Lewrie was too used to hearing it spoken of him to care, and too proud and pleased, for the world was suddenly a much sunnier place.

  “That’s passed bastard!” he chirped on his way to the upper deck. “And I’ll thank you to remember it!”

  Chapter 6

  The letter came aboard the morning before Desperate was to put to sea. After returning to his ship, Alan had time to reflect that passing the examination had not improved his chances much. There was no extra pay with the honor, since no one paid midshipmen anyway, and it gave him no more perquisites that he didn’t already have as a master’s mate. And after the glow of achievement had cooled, there was still Lieutenant Kenyon to deal with; once at sea the first officer could slowly crucify him, one spike at a time, destroying whatever good he had gained from his incredible fortune before that dour captains’ board.

  Last-minute stores were being stowed, so Alan was busy in the holds supervising so that the fore and aft balance was preserved, and nothing would shift to either beam once they were under way.

  Cony, his new hammockman who had been ashore with him at Yorktown, came below to fetch him.

  “They’s a boat come, Mister Lewrie, an’ they brung a letter for ya, from the flag, I thinks,” he said quickly, eyeing him with almost a religious reverence all of a sudden.

  “Pray God,” Alan said. Of one hundred and fifty midshipmen that had faced the board, thirty had been passed, but rumor had only promoted ten into immediate commissions. Part of that was based on favoritism, whose son needed a place, who had the better connections or more experience. Was it possible, though? Could he have shown well enough to be one of the lucky ones? God knows the Navy was full of passed midshipmen who didn’t have the luck or the “interest” to be lifted out of their penury, and he had almost thought himself ready to join their embittered ranks. With Desperate out at sea on her own once more, there would be no access to places that came open unless they took a suitably big prize. Was he one of the suddenly anointed ones, and was he about to find his escape from the certain, implacable wrath of Lieutenant Kenyon?

  He charged up the ladders from the holds to the upper deck and the starboard gangway, where an impeccably dressed midshipman of about fourteen was waiting with a sealed letter.

  “I’m Lewrie,” he said, wiping his damp palms on his working rig slop trousers as though the folded and waxed parchment was a holy relic.

  “For you, sir, from the flag.”

  “Thank you,” Alan said, turning it over. He sucked in his breath in surprise. It was addressed to Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy.

  “Yes, by God!” he shouted, thrusting that missive at the sky in triumph. It was salvation from Kenyon’s wrath, a certain posting into another vessel. It was vindication for all the misery and danger he had faced, willing or not, since being forced most unwillingly into the Navy two years before. It was also, he reflected in his victory, the keys to Lucy Beauman and her father’s money as soon as he could get his young arse back to Kingston and ask for her hand.

  He broke the wax wafer and unfolded the letter. He was instructed to equip himself as a commission officer and report aboard HM Shrike, brig o’ war, twelve guns, Lieutenant Lilycrop master and commander, with all despatch or risk the senior admiral’s displeasure. Failing that, he was to communicate to the flag any inability to comply either in accepting a commission or fulfilling his orders, with the threat of immediate loss of income and dismissal from the Fleet.

  “Yes, by God!” he repeated, reading it through once more and savoring the words. “Cony, go below and start packing my sea chest.”

  “Yer a officer, sir?” Cony goggled.

  “Yes, I am,” Alan replied in exultation.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but you’ll be a’ goin’ into another ship, then? You’ll be a’needin’ a servant, sir, an’ I’d be that proud ta be yer man, sir,” Cony offered.

  “Then you shall be. I must see the captain. Off with you.”

  He went down to the gun deck and aft to the main entrance to the captain’s quarters where a fully uniformed Marine sentry stood to serve as guard and tiler.

  “’E’s wif t’ pusser, Mister Lewrie,” the sentry told him.

  “Even better.” Alan grinned. “Tell him Lieutenant Lewrie is here to see him.”

  “Oh, Lor’, Mister Lewrie, don’ you be japin’ now,” the sentry chided from long familiarity with a young man who was to his lights not much more than a jumped-up younker half his own age.

  “No jest,” Alan said, waving the parchment as proof.

  The sentry shrugged and came to attention, banging his musket butt on the oak decking and shou
ting at the top of his lungs. “Lef’ten’t Lewrie, sah!”

  Freeling opened the cabin door immediately and Alan entered the great cabins, where Railsford and Cheatham had been going over the books and having a glass of wine together.

  “This is not your idea of humor?” Railsford asked, his face somber but his eyes twinkling.

  “No, sir. The flag-captain has promoted me a commission officer into a brig o’ war, the Shrike,” Alan told him proudly.

  “My stars above,” Cheatham said, rising from his seat to take Lewrie’s hand and pump it excitedly. “How marvelous for you!”

  “Freeling, fetch an extra glass,” Railsford instructed. “We’ll take a bumper in celebration. Sit you down, Mister Lewrie. Or should I say, Alan. By God, it is marvelous news.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Sorry that we have to lose you, though,” Cheatham sighed after they had drained their glasses and sent Freeling digging into the wine cabinet for a fresh bottle to toast his good fortune. “But, my word, what fortune you have had in the last year with us.”

  “Yes, I shall miss you both, sirs,” Alan replied. “You’ve done so much for me, both professionally and personally, I’ll feel adrift without you as my mentors.”

  Damme if I won’t miss them, he thought ruefully, realizing at that moment that he would indeed be leaving Desperate. Much as he feared remaining near Kenyon and his wrath, he would be departing the first ship he had (mostly) enjoyed service in, where Railsford had always been there, believing in him and turning away Treghues’ original ill humor toward him, where Cheatham had done so much to clear up his family problems back in London and get him absolved of the false charges that had led to his arrival in the Navy. They’ve been good to me, he thought, and what’ll a new ship be like without ’em?

  “Well, you’ll be on your own bottom,” Railsford said. “But if you continue as you have lately, I’m sure you shall prosper. It’s the Navy’s way of snipping the leading strings. Really, there wasn’t much more you could learn here, and no way the Navy could promote you an officer in the same ship in which you served as a junior warrant.”