The King's Commission

by Dewey Lambdin

  Chapter 2

  Shrike saw nothing of interest for the next two months other than islands, and those only in passing. After a trip to New Providence, they patrolled the extreme edge of the hunting grounds split between the Leeward Islands Squadron and the Bahamas Squadron, north of the Mona Passage, beating to windward far out to sea above the Danish Virgins, snooping north of Puerto Rico. Given the reputed volume of smuggling going on, the number of privateers on the prowl, and the threat of Spanish or French warships, they should have seen something, but the sea remained achingly empty from one distant landfall to the next, and they never went close enough inshore to see anything more, using islands only as convenient proofs of the accuracy of their navigation.

  During this time, Alan couldn’t have cared less if a Spanish treasure galleon had come right aboard and begged to be looted, and that galleon replete with a traveling Viceroy’s brothel. The initial shame and humiliation still gnawed at him, try as he did to put it behind him and concentrate on the job at hand, and the job often threatened to swamp him.

  After those two months, he was sure that he was the most despised man aboard the brig of war. He had run his drills and gotten his breath back, and riled the gunner and his mates in the process, even if he knew artillery as well as they. Cox and his minions didn’t like being drilled so often, with so many live-firings at floating kegs or empty coops. It fouled the guns, it made work to clean, to sew up new cartridge bags, to shift powder kegs out of the hold. He had forced them to sway out the swivels and drill with them, which created more work. Shrike had been loafing along for months with no real effort put to her warlike nature, much like Alan’s first ship Ariadne had been, and the gunnery department resisted his wishes to spruce up.

  Fukes the bosun glared daggers at him, worrying if he was going to order stuns’ls rigged out, top-masts struck, or merely work the ship from one point of sail to the other at a moment’s notice.

  But, he reassured himself, Lilycrop had told him to smarten the people up, and showed no signs that he disagreed with Alan’s timing or choice of drills.

  During those two months, they went through several half or full gales, nothing like the terror of autumnal hurricanes, but scary enough to pucker Alan’s fundaments as he stood on deck watch after watch with no chance to go below, frightened that each helm command or action on his part would put them under in the twinkling of an eye. Shrike did not help, for she truly was a bitch, pitching about like a wood-chip in the heavy seas, rolling on her beam ends since she was so light and had so little below the waterline, unlike his previous ships. And Lilycrop had been accurate in his description of how she would almost run away with them in brisk winds unless they watched her helm, or kept too much sail up too long.

  God help him, even the weather seemed to conspire against him. Order masts struck too soon, and the threatening squall lines of early afternoon would blow out and the sky would be painted with lovely and pacific sunsets. Trust that it would do so again the next time the horizon gloomed up and they would be ankle deep in rain and foam breaking over her rails as they fought to reef down until it blew over.

  And through it all, there was Lilycrop, damn his blood, eyeing Alan’s efforts with that maddening little smile, his eyes atwinkle and another kitten being strolled about the decks; sometimes that tiny “hee hee” could be heard from the skylight or the companionway. Lilycrop didn’t spend much time talking to him, and when he did, it was the same sort of needling he had gotten after his disaster in leaving English Harbor. Oh, there was some pithy bits slung in now and again as admonitions to not do something like this or that (depending on which exercise or evolution they had been forced into), but nary a word of praise, even the faintest sort, even when Alan had the time to realize that he had done something close to right, and frankly, he was getting damned tired of Lilycrop’s attitude. It got to the point that when the captain was on the deck watching Lewrie perform, Alan tensed up so much he could barely keep his victuals down, and his mind would go blank under that amused stare. To utter the right commands was a daily victory over his unsteady nerves.

  They were over halfway through their supplies. Another two weeks of patrol and they would have to go back to Antigua to resupply, and Alan had absolutely no idea if he would be retained, or chucked out for incompetence. Alan was sure Lilycrop would wait until the last moment after they dropped anchor to tell him he was out, and the uncertainty was enough to make him want to scream.

  Finally, on a fine day while the hands were enjoying their rum ration, he stirred up his courage and accosted Lilycrop on the quarterdeck, perversely wanting to know his fate, though dreading it.

  “Dine with me tonight, then,” Lilycrop said, ending his stroll about the deck and going below, still wearing that enigmatic twinkle.

  “Aye, sir,” Alan replied, trying to sound cheerful for the invitation, the first of its kind since he had come aboard. Probably tell me with the port, so I can weep in private, he quailed sadly.

  But he showed up halfway through the second dog-watch, turned out in his best kit, and let the Marine sentry announce him and pass him aft into the great cabin to hear his fate.

  “Ah, right on time, I see.” Lilycrop beamed at him, waving him to a chair. “Gooch, get the first lieutenant a glass of whatever strikes his fancy.” Lilycrop had tricked himself out in his best uniform as well, and the white coat lapels, shirt, waist-coat and breeches gleamed in the candle and lantern light.

  Dressed for my execution, Alan cringed to himself.

  Alan got a glass of poor Black Strap—Lilycrop’s purse did not run to claret or Bordeaux—Lilycrop was already slurping away at a mug of brandy, and from the harsh reek of the fumes that Alan could smell all the way across the cabin, it was no better than captured French ratafia, the raw stuff they issued their wretched sailors.

  “We’re havin’ a joint of pork tonight, Mister Lewrie,” Lilycrop told him genially. “One of the shoats escaped the manger and took his death dive down the forrud hatchway. Thought pigs’d survive a fall such as that. ’Tis kitties that land on their feet, ain’t it, Samson? But I don’t tell you nothin’ you don’t already know, do I, Mister Lewrie?”

  “No, sir,” Alan agreed, having seen the accident, and having heard the uproarious cheer from the hands when it was known that the pig had succumbed and would be fresh supper for all. There was a rumor on the rounds that the pig had been “pushed,” and how he had escaped the foredeck manger was still a mystery. “Perhaps it was Pitt killed him, sir,” Lewrie japed, hoping he could cajole Lilycrop into leniency.

  “Wouldn’t put it past the young bugger, indeed I would not.” Lilycrop laughed heartily at Alan’s small attempt at humor. “A clever little paw on the latch peg, a scratch on the arse, some judicious herdin’ … he’ll get his share, same as the others. I do believe that cats are smarter than most people give ’em credit. Gooch, how long now?”

  “Not half a glass, sir,” Gooch answered from the pantry by the small dining alcove. The table had already been set with a somewhat clean cloth, wide-bottomed bottles to anchor it down after it had been dampened to cling to the wood, and plates and utensils already laid out. Shrike was on an easy point under reduced sail, so they would not have to fight the table for each morsel that reached their mouths; she wasn’t heeled over ten degrees from upright and her motion was easy tonight. Cooling sunset breezes blew down the open skylight and through the quarter-gallery windows.

  They chatted ship’s business for a few minutes, interrupted often by the antics of the various cats or kittens that shared the captain’s quarters, until Gooch announced that supper was ready.

  There was a soup of indeterminate ancestry, most likely “portable soup” reconstituted from its boiled-dry essence. The biscuits were the usual weevily lumber that took much rapping to startle out the occupants and some soaking in the soup so they could be chewed. But the leg of young pork arrived to save the day, crackling with fat and running with juices their bodies craved aft
er weeks of salt-meat boiled to ruin in the steep-tubs. There was pease pudding, too, and a small loaf of fresh bread they sliced thin as toast so it would last, something the cook had whipped up for the captain alone.

  “The sweetlin’s gettin’ theirs, too, Gooch?” Lilycrop demanded.

  “Um, aye, sir,” Gooch tried to say through a mouthful of pork from the pantry, taking his pleasure with some slices that had been intended for the platoon of felines, who were crowding around his feet and yowling for their tucker.

  “Damn yer blood, Gooch, stop stuffin’ yer ugly phyz an’ feed those cats their rightful share before I come in there an’ hurt you,” Lilycrop bellowed, turning to wink at Lewrie as though it was a huge joke. “They’ll be cracklin’s enough for the likes of you later!”

  “Aye, sir,” Gooch sighed.

  There were still cats enough who jumped up on the table to take what they thought was their “rightful share,” who refused to stay shooed. And between gentle remonstrances to their gluttony, and his reminiscing about his career, Lilycrop carried the conversation, while Alan guarded his plate with both elbows and nodded or grunted in agreement all during supper.

  Then the dishes were removed, the table cloth snatched away and the cheese and port set out. Lilycrop poured himself a liberal measure and passed the decanter down, then patted his thinning hair and looked at Alan carefully, as he poured his own glass.

  “Now, young sir,” Lilycrop said after they had both lowered the levels in their glasses.

  Here it is, Alan sighed, going stone cold inside.

  “Tomorrow, we shall alter course. We’ve been out over two months, an’ need to put into port for fresh supplies,” Lilycrop said.

  “Aye, sir,” Alan nodded, nose deep in his glass again.

  “Do it at first light, just after standin’ down from dawn Quarters—no sense waitin’ for sun sights, we know pretty well where we are, an’ no hazards this far offshore.”

  “Aye, sir, I’ll see to it,” Alan replied, steeling himself for the blow. “Sir, I suppose … well, I have been doing a lot better in the last few weeks. Whatever you decide, I am grateful I had the chance to be a first officer, if only for a little while.”

  “What’s this, you resignin’?”

  “If you think that best, sir,” Alan whispered. God, he thought, Lilycrop don’t just want to chuck me, he wants me out of the Navy altogether!

  “Don’t know why you’d want to do a thing like that,” Lilycrop told him, cocking his head to one side. “Thought you wanted to get on in the Navy. Can’t do it if you cash in your chips on your first commission. Is it you’re unhappy in Shrike?”

  “I thought you wanted me to, sir,” Alan stammered.

  “Now why would I want a thing like that?”

  “Because I’m bloody awful!”

  “You are?” Lilycrop gaped. “Couldn’t tell it by me.”

  “But … the way you’ve treated me the past two months, I never knew how I stood with you, sir, and …” Alan fumbled, feeling relief flush him like a quick rain-shower, and the beginnings of an anger that Lilycrop would string him along in this manner. “Damme, sir, you’ve had a good laugh at my every effort, and I’ve been on tenter-hooks all this time, waiting to let my guard slip and make some mistake, and …”

  He could not go on, his tongue dangerously close to letting go something that could be construed as insolence or insubordination, as much as he wanted to rant and slap the old bugger silly.

  “Want your mammy’s teat to cosset you?” Lilycrop scowled as he topped up his glass again. “Want me to pat you on the back an’ tell you how marvelous you are? Damme, you’re a commission Sea Officer, there’s no room for your bloody feelin’s. There’s the ship, her people, an’ the Navy that comes first before makin’ you feel good.”

  “I …” Alan started to say before clamping his mutinous trap shut once more.

  “You started on the wrong foot, but that didn’t last a day,” Lilycrop continued. “I told you I’d say no more about it, and I haven’t. ’Sides, ’tisn’t my nature to go around praisin’ somebody to the skies. You do your duty an’ that’s all I expect of any man. If you do your duty proper, you know it, an’ you can pat yourself on the back if you’ve a mind. ’Sides, you learned, didn’t you?”

  “I … I think so, sir,” Alan said realizing it was true.

  “Found your feet, got a firm grip on the hands, found out how to run Shrike to my satisfaction, what more would you be wantin’?” Lilycrop shrugged. “More port?”

  “Aye, sir. But how can you—most people respond to some sign of encouragement, sir. They have to hear that they did something right now and then, just as they need to be told they did something the wrong way if they make a muck of things.” Alan floundered.

  “Life’s an unfair portion, ain’t it, Mister Lewrie?” Lilycrop chuckled, slicing himself a morsel of cheese, which he plumped down on a thin slice of the remaining bread in lieu of extra-fine biscuit. “I told you once I don’t splice the main-brace without I see the angel Gabriel close abeam. Now what would you a’done if I’d said ’you’re doin’ splendid, laddie’ when you weren’t? Gone all smug an’ satisfied before you had it down pat. I gave you instruction, let you find your own way, an’ you’ve come around to be a man I’d trust with this ship. Mind you, I had my doubts when you first came aboard. Um, good cheese.”

  “So you’ll not ask for a replacement, sir?”

  “Oh, Hell no. You’ll do.” Lilycrop grinned through a mouthful of cheese and bread.

  “Well I’m damned!” Alan exhaled heavily, leaning back in his chair.

  “No, you’ve turned more competent, an’ you’ve gotten the ship smartened up right clever. I’m satisfied,” Lilycrop sniffed.

  “Even if every hand hates my guts, sir,” Alan said, smiling, feeling he was ready to burst into hysterical laughter at his redemption.

  “Oh, give ’em no mind, they always hate the first officer, an’ don’t you go tryin’ to be their bosom friend, either,” Lilycrop told him, wagging a finger down the length of the table at him. “They despise you, they tolerate me, and beside you an’ your fault-findin’ an’ carpin’ I’m a fuckin’ saint in comparison. You didn’t come aboard to be popular. You came aboard to be efficient in runnin’ my ship for me. You’re not a heavy flogger, nor are you a hand-wringin’ hedge-priest. Firm but fair, you said your motto was, remember, young sir?”

  “Aye, sir, I do.”

  “You’re not half-seas-over are you, Mister Lewrie?”

  “No, sir,” Alan assured him of his relative sobriety.

  “Then wipe that lunatick smile off your face and tip up your glass. Gooch, trot out another bottle of this poor excuse for port!”

  I’m safe! Alan rejoiced inside as the servant puttered about and drew the cork from a fresh bottle. I’m safe in my place. He’ll not chuck me. I’ll do, he says? That must mean I’m not at all bad, even if he did half-kill me. Now, can I keep this pace up? Don’t I ever get a chance to relax?

  Ruefully, he decided that he probably would not. That was Lilycrop’s sort of Navy, where one labored long and hard with not one whit of praise or encouragement, ready at all times to care for the ship first, last and always, with little chance for letting one’s guard down.

  “Now, sir,” Lilycrop sighed after he had sampled the new bottle and sent Gooch off for his own supper. “I get the feelin’ you may disagree with me ’bout how to train men. Maybe were we talkin’ of raw landsmen, I might soften my methods, but ’tis the way I was brought up, you see. When you’ve a ship of your own to run, you may employ your own methods, and I give you joy of ’em. But I’ve never seen a sailor yet who was worth a cold-mutton fart for bein’ cossetted like he was still in leadin’ strings. You just have to make ’em get on with the work, trust your mates and warrants to pound ’em into line, and see they don’t get brutalized, nor pushed too fast. Nor do you want ’em dandled on daddy’s knee and told what good lads they are when they ain�
��t.”

  “It varies with the man, some say, sir. What’s sauce for the goose isn’t sauce for gander all the time, sir,” Alan replied, laid back at complete ease for the first time in two months, his breeches tight about his middle after a splendid repast, and his head light with wine fumes.

  “But you never have time to train ’em, one man at a time. Some never’ll do, no matter what you do with ’em.” Lilycrop frowned. Samson leaped up on the table and arched his hindquarters into the air as Lilycrop stroked his back. “I’ve seen boys come aboard so starry-eyed for bein’ at sea you’d have thought they’d seen Jesus in the riggin’. Some made it, some didn’t. Raw landsmen, midshipmen, pressed men, we make sailors of ’em all if we can, or kill some of ’em in the process. When the shot starts to fly, you don’t have time to make allowances for a weaklin’, you got to have men you can count on. Take yourself.”

  “Me, sir?” Alan asked, back on his guard again.

  “You have brains, Mister Lewrie. You can learn, even if you have to get hurt in the process. Now young Mister Edgar, he’s been in the Fleet four years, and God help the poor young ass, he’ll never make a Sea Officer ’thout somebody on high parts the waters to let him cross over. I had to depend on you right from the start. No way you can have a first officer you have to spoon-feed. So you got your feelin’s hurt, an’ had yourself a weep now an’ again. Well, this is a hard Service, an’ I’m damned if I’ll go to my grave seein’ the ones that come after me have it easy an’ soft, a mewlin’ pack of children too weak an’ whiny to serve our Navy, when it needs tarry-handed men!”

  “This has been the absolute worst two months I have ever spent in the Navy, sir,” Alan confessed as the wine crept up on him.

  “And twenty years from now, you’ll know you learned somethin’.” Lilycrop nodded in agreement, all good humor gone from his face as he spoke with absolute conviction. “By God, sir, you’ll be grateful someday you had it this hard, ’cause the worst times later’ll feel like a stroll in Vauxhall Gardens. Not that I’m through with you, sir.”