“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.”
“Thank you, sir, but …”
“Then you don’t wish shore leave?” Lilycrop teased.
“Not at all, sir! Of course, I want shore leave! It’s another matter, sir. About Shrike. About the admiral, sir.”
“Spout away. Sit you down an’ have some hock, then.”
The cabin cats had sensed that the rant was over, and emerged from their hiding places, tails flicking for attention. Samson and Henrietta and Mopsy and Hodge and the kittens made for Lilycrop, and this show of affection mollified him most wondrously.
“Who says we’re useless, sir?” Alan began.
“Every poxed mother-son of a gun in the flag, damn their eyes.”
“You once said Shrike could go inshore, where a frigate or sloop of war would fear to go, sir,” Alan schemed on. “Now, I see no ships in harbor capable of that.”
“Small ships … ketches’n cutters’n such … they’re possibly out on patrol,” Lilycrop waved off as Gooch brought another mug to the desk and poured Lewrie some of the wine.
“Could the Spanish have some siege artillery of their own, sir?”
“Oh, aye,” Lilycrop agreed. “Every fuckin’ fort on Cuba’r Hispaniola’s full of heavy guns. Poor local-milled powder, maybe old stone shot, though. Be a bitch to dismount and build field carriages.”
“But they could improvise a siege-train from them, if they were of a mind, sir. And the easiest way to transport them would be by sea, along the coasts, would it not?”
“Aye, they’d kill a thousand bullocks haulin’ ’em on what pass for roads in the islands.” Lilycrop perked up.
“Exactly, sir,” Alan pressed. “But what sort of ships would be available to carry siege guns to Cape Francois or Havana? How many ships of worth do they have in the Indies they’d risk in coastal waters?”
“Not that many, I grant.”
“Too strong to be taken by a small ketch or cutter, sir, but just the presence of a well set up brig of war could run them back into harbor. They’d think themselves safe from a frigate close inshore, but we are pretty fast, sir, and we can go into less than three fathoms to chase them down.”
“Damme, but you’re a nacky little’n, Mister Lewrie,” Lilycrop marveled. “I misjudged your wit, an’ for that I apologize. Aye, Shrike could stir ’em up like the Wrath of God. If,” he cautioned, “if we were allowed. I’m sure this Admiral Rowley has his own favorite corsairs; bought in some shallow-draught vessels as tenders to the flagship to line his pockets with prize-money already. We’ll swing at our anchors ’til next Epiphany waitin’ for the call to glory.”
“A respectful letter to the flag, suggesting suitable employment for us could take the trick, sir.” Alan smiled. “Prize-money for us and the admiral, a reduction in the bottoms available to the Dagoes, some repute for us, and … if there is some grudge between Parker and Rodney, we could mollify it. Rowley needs to be seen doing something to save Jamaica, doesn’t he? Rodney’ll have all the glory at the victory celebrations, and …”
“Now you’re off in fictional speculatin’,” Lilycrop scoffed. “We know no such thing. Still …”
“Beats waiting for employment at the admiral’s pleasure, sir.”
“Hmm.” Lilycrop stroked his chin, now shaved of the usual crop of bristly white for his appearance aboard the flagship—usually he only laid steel to whiskers once a week for Sunday Divisions.
Alan took a sip of wine while Lilycrop pondered the matter. He could see the battle going on between the need for recognition and some small bit of fame before the war ended (and his hopes of future service in the Navy with it) and the desire to safeguard what little he had. The want of prize-money for retirement, and the risk to his ship and the loss of what grudging respect he had won if he failed.
“Too deep for me, Lewrie,” Lilycrop scowled finally. “It smacks too much o’ schemin’ for ‘place,’ to suit me. An’ what sort of fool may I look to go clamorin’ for action when there’s others more senior or deservin’? In the Navy, you’ll learn to take what comes as your portion an’ not go wheedlin’ for a chance to shine, sir.”
“They do wish us to be ambitious, sir,” Alan allowed with a shrug, thinking he had disappointed his captain by being too forward.
“In our actions, yes, once given a charge,” Lilycrop cautioned. “But not in advancin’ our careers ’thout earnin’ the right to do so.”
“Well, it was just a thought, sir,” Alan sighed. “But it would gall me terribly to think we had to sit out the rest of the war with no opportunity to do something useful.”
Did I mean that? Alan wondered even as he uttered it. It was the proper sentiment a fire-eating young officer was expected to display, and he thought he had said it rather well, so well, in fact, that Alan felt a hard kernel of truth in it. He sometimes thought it was his curse that he could sit outside himself and judge his performance on the stage of Life like a disgruntled theater-goer waiting for a chance to get rid of the rotten fruit carried in with him, ready to jeer and heckle a poor reading, or cheer when a scene was carried off well.
It would make little difference if Shrike did spend the rest of the war at her moorings, or off on boresomely empty patrols. He had fulfilled his present ambitions; a small measure of fame for cool bravery, a commission, some prize-money, and now his post as a first officer, even in a small ship. He had seen the razor-edge of terror often enough to know how mortal he was, and like any sensible person could give war a great big miss the next time, to save his own skin.
If Shrike did stay in Kingston Harbor for some time, he could get ashore to court Lucy Beauman and make a firm pact with her about their future together. And from the tone of her latest letters, that would be best, before her circle of swains and admirers monopolized her to his detriment.
So why am I urging the captain to get us active employment? he asked himself, when anyone with any sense would want to stay out of danger and go courting one of the most beautiful young women of the age. It’s daft, but this Navy stuff must be getting to me.
It made him squirm to face it, but he was indeed, through no fault or wish of his own, a Sea Officer of the King. He was getting rather good at it. And it was an honorable profession, not just the Guinea Stamp admitting him to the society of other gentlemen, but now a small yet burgeoning source of pride in his abilities. God knew he had had few reasons for pride before. It was demanding, dangerous, but it was his. There was no reward on earth for meekness, so why should he be content to stand on the sidelines crying “well played, sir” to some other ambitious young bugger with better connections, when there was a chance for advancement? There were prizes to take, money to be made, further fame to be won which would ease his passage to—to what?
Post-captain? He scoffed at his speculations. Admiral’s rank? A bloody knight-hood? The peerage? Why not make the most of it while I may. Lewrie, what a hopeful little fool you are! But then again, why the hell not? We could sweep the seas so clean we could come back like that Dutchman Tromp with a broom at his mast truck. Just goes to show why one shouldn’t encourage people like me. Once they got a taste of something, damme if they don’t aspire to the whole thing.
“Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, of the Shrike brig!” the major-domo ann
ounced over the sound of the lawn party, to which announcement very few people took notice, being too intent on their pleasures. The sun was low in the sky and the tropical day had lost most of its heat to a sea breeze that swayed the paper lanterns in the trees, toyed with the wigs of the revelers and ruffled the intricate flounces of the women’s gowns. String music (something by Purcell, Alan decided after cocking an educated ear) waxed and ebbed, depending on the wind or the thickness of the throng in front of the musicians in the gazebo to his right.
He stood at the base of the brick steps that led down from the tiled and sheltered back terrace of the house, surveying the crowd and searching for Lucy Beauman. Her parents’ town house, which was no town house at all but a second mansion large enough for a titled lord, was aflutter with bunting and Naval ensigns in celebration for Admiral Rodney’s victory at the Battle of The Saintes. There was enough red, white and blue material to make commissioning pendants and ensigns for every ship in the active inventory of the Fleet. As he had come through the central hall, Alan had seen a dining table decorated with a line of pastry and confection 3rd Rates, candied sails abillow and marzipan guns belching angel-hair powder smoke, a card table as a center-piece amid the buffet items with Winged Victory bearing a trident and flag, roaring lions at her feet, with a gilt helmet overlaid with the laurel wreath corona of triumph.
“Damme, but the Beaumans know how to spend their money, don’t they?” he muttered, happy they had the pelf with which to entertain their burst of patriotic emotions. “Wonder they didn’t just gild the whole damned house?”
There must have been over two hundred guests, the luminaries of Jamaica: prominent officials or high-ranking Navy and Army officers, and leading citizens with the government, title, place or sufficient money and lands to be included. Men strolled languidly in silk and satin suitings, women glided and tittered and fanned themselves, showing off their most stunning gowns and jewels.
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