The King's Commission

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Oh?”

  “I said you’ll do, but you’ve still a way to go. Everybody does. Don’t go smug and satisfied on me. Well, you’ve the evenin’ watch?” Lilycrop snorted, busying himself with Samson up on his chest.

  “I exchanged with Webster, sir, so I’ll have the morning.”

  “Heel-taps, then, and I’ll let you go to your rest,” Lilycrop said, lifting his glass and draining it.

  “Goodnight, sir. Thank you for supper. And for … everything.”

  “Goodnight to you as well, Mister Lewrie.”

  Alan left the cabin and went out on the quarterdeck, where the night winds soughed and sang in the rigging, bringing a touch of cool dampness to what had been a warm day. Shrike loafed along, speared by the trough of a waxing moon, and the tropic skies were a blue as deep as his officer’s coat, littered with stars that burned clear and cold.

  He stopped at the wheel long enough to check the binnacle for a peek at the course and the dead reckoning of the day’s run on the traverse board, scanned aloft at the set of the sails to see if they needed adjusting, and exchanged a few words with the watch. Then he took himself forward along the larboard gangway, until he was up on the fo’c’sle, where the spray sluiced and showered now and again as the ship’s bow rose and fell so gently.

  I’ll do! he thought, smiling in the darkness. By God, that old bastard! All the worry and fear I’ve suffered, all the humiliation, and all he says is, you’ll do! Well, maybe I shall, at that!

  The Leeward Islands Fleet was in when Shrike sailed into English Harbor, and so Shrike had to take a mooring in the outer roads, for the inner harbor was full, for which Alan sincerely thanked God. He got the ship up into the wind and anchored without having to short-tack up that narrow channel through a city of warships. There were a few ships he had not seen before, including a huge three-decked 1st Rate, and he was so intent on them that he realized he had gotten Shrike safely in without his usual qualms. After that supper with Lilycrop, and his grudging acceptance, Lewrie was amazed at how much easier things had gone for him, how much more assured of his abilities he felt.

  “A three-decker, sir,” Alan said. “Do you think Admiral Rodney has come back? Maybe they’re ready to try another pass with this de Grasse.”

  “Look more closely,” Lilycrop suggested, passing him the telescope and uttering one of his semi-stifled titters of amusement.

  “My God!” Alan exclaimed as the name on the stern placque leapt into focus. “Ville de Paris!”

  “Think they have met,” Lilycrop barked, rubbing his round nose in delight. “Now, would you be so good as to have my boat brought round to the entry port so I may go aboard the flag and report?”

  “Aye, sir, immediately. Fukes?”

  They had met indeed, on April 12, and the French fleet had been scattered to the four winds, some running back to Martinique, some for Cape Francois or Havana. Five line-of-battle ships had been taken at the Battle of The Saintes, including Ville de Paris, and de Grasse was now a British prisoner. Admiral Rodney had returned shortly after Shrike had left on her patrol, had taken Hood and his ships down to St. Lucia, and had dogged the French bases until they sailed. Much like Mr. Clerk’s tactics treatise had suggested, Rodney had broken the order of the French line when a God-sent shift of wind had taken the French aback and forced them to luff up helpless while the British squadron still had wind to spare.

  From de Grasse and his captured officers, it was learned that the French and Spanish from Havana were to have linked up and invaded the island of Jamaica in a joint expedition. Now that was foiled, for all the siege artillery had been taken at The Saintes in the ships now lying in English Harbor as prizes. Never before had a 1st Rate ship of the line of any nation been taken in battle; never had an admiral other than Rodney taken a French, a Dutch and a Spanish admiral prisoner in his last three actions. There was some carping that breaking the French line was an accident, not planned. There were rumblings that Rodney could have taken a dozen, two dozen prizes if he had released his line in General Chase. Still, it was a magnificent victory, strengthening England’s hand after such a long drought.

  And for Lewrie, the parties ashore were heaven. Dolly Fenton was still there in his lodgings, having sold her late husband’s commission to another officer for twelve hundred pounds, and she had waited for him instead of going home. She did live frugally, as his shore agent could attest, and she was so full of love and passion for him it was all he could do to crawl to the boat landing each morning when Lilycrop allowed him to sleep out of the ship.

  And damned if she didn’t make a snug and pleasant little home for him, such a nice little abode that he invited Lieutenant Lilycrop to dine with them one night, and Dolly captivated the man from the first sight of her. They dined her aboard Shrike in the captain’s quarters, asking the senior people from the wardroom in as guests, and she felt so honored she almost wept in the boat back to shore.

  The best night was Sir Admiral Hood’s levee for Vice Admiral Paul-Joseph, Comte de Grasse, and Alan squired her to that in a new gown and his gift of a gold necklace and earrings he had made her that day. She floated on air, she laughed shyly, and she trembled with joy to be on his arm, and to be ogled by all the other officers and their wives at the levee. She even captivated Admiral de Grasse in the receiving line.

  It was a fairly quick trot down the receiving line among officers more senior to him, but it was worth it. The Frog was huge, well over six feet tall (it was reputed he had lifted the tall Rebel General Washington off his feet and hugged him, calling him “mon petit general”) round as a beef cask, and weighed over twenty stone, with a round chubby face and tiny, pursed, almost porcine lips.

  “Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, of the Shrike brig. And Miss Dolly Fenton,” the officer to his side said as he passed them on. “Lewrie was at Yorktown, and the Battle of The Chesapeake. He escaped after the surrender.”

  “Milord,” Alan said. “Nice to meet you at long last.”

  “Dolly, vot a pretty name, ma cher!” de Grasse said, kissing Dolly’s hand and showing no signs of letting go. “Vee dance later, hein? Vee sing songs of eternal joy! Most beautiful of English beauties!”

  “Lewrie, of the … oh, the hell with it,” Alan sighed.

  “Might as well bugger off, Lewrie,” the officer who had introduced them said. “Be sure to get her hand back when you leave.”

  And Dolly was so entranced by meeting such a celebrity, by the music and wine and dancing, and the interest shown in her, that by the time they got back to his lodgings, it was all Alan could do to keep a shirt on before they got out of the hired coach.

  Damme for a fool, he thought, late that night as she lay by his side, exhausted at last by their frenzied lovemaking, if I ain’t coming to enjoy this maybe a bit too much. Damme if I’d ever marry her, not with Lucy Beauman out there, but this could be pleasant enough for the meantime. Only problem is, Dolly needs a man to cling to, and the way she wants to cling is the permanent anchorage. I’m way too young for that. Ain’t I? Yes, yes, I am, I’m sure of it.

  And not a week later, they were sent orders to prepare for sea once more. Lieutenant Lilycrop came back aboard from Barfleur with a thick packet of orders under his arm, canvas-wrapped and bound up with official ribbons and sealed, and from the way he carried them, they had been weighted with grape shot to speed their descent into the nether-depths if Shrike were accosted by a foe.

  “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.

  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 lif
e 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.