Epilogue
“You’ll take care of my ship, now, Mister Lewrie,” Lilycrop said as he was hoisted up to the bulwarks before being lowered into a rowing boat. It was hard on the man, to know that his career was over, to know that he was losing the only command he had ever been entrusted with. Still, in as much physical pain as Lilycrop found himself, Alan knew that the mental pain was the greater at that moment. Lilycrop had insisted he would not go in his night-shirt and had Gooch and his cox’n dress him in his best lieutenant’s uniform. Strapped to a carrying board or not, he would leave his ship with the proper dignity due a master and commander.
The Marines had turned out in their best, instead of purser’s slops, and the crew had taken as much care with their own appearance as they would have for Sunday Divisions—faces shaved, clean slop trousers and shirts, shoes and stockings on their feet instead of the usual horny bare toes. Those that had decent tarred hats and short blue frock-coats had dug them out of their chests.
“I shall, sir, until they send a man over to take command,” Alan promised somberly. “Though I don’t know how they’ll fill your shoes, sir. Uh …” He reddened.
“Well, that can’t be too hard, Mister Lewrie, they only need to fill one these days, don’t they?” Lilycrop asked, the sarcasm dripping.
“Sorry, sir,” Alan murmured, knowing what a gaffe he had made even as he said it. “What I meant was … well, sir, there’s no replacing you, sir, and even I’m capable of realizing it.”
“Well, thankee, Mister Lewrie,” Lilycrop relented. “Stand me up, there, men.”
They stood his carrying board on end, so that Lilycrop could look about his decks once more. Tears leaked from his eyes, try as he did to control them manfully.
“Happens to the best of us!” Lilycrop barked in his old manner to his crew. “Shrike’s a good little ship, and you’ve been a good crew. You do your duty same’s you done for me, an’ no captain in the Fleet could ask for better.”
He dug a kerchief from his pockets and wiped his nose. “Now, let’s get it over with. No sense keepin’ the flag waitin’ fetched-to. Write me if you’ve a mind, Mister Lewrie. Same goes for the rest of ye. Let me know how you keep, now an’ again.”
“Aye, I shall, sir,” Alan promised again.
“Enjoy the kitty. You’ll find they’re a comfort. Let’s go, Gooch, damn your eyes.”
The bosun’s pipes squealed a long salute. The Marines and officers brought up their swords and muskets, and Lilycrop’s carrying board was hoisted up with a yard-tackle. With his own sword strapped to his side, the captain doffed the cocked hat he could not wear to his men one last time, and Svensen started a cheer for him. The hands took off their hats and waved them over their heads, yelling their “hip-hip-hoorays,” then roaring a cacophony of approval, which lasted until Lilycrop’s gig had reached Barfleur’s side, and he was hoisted to the deck of the flagship. He waved his hat at them one last time, and then was lost to view among the side-party that paid him his due.
“Get a way on her, sir?” Caldwell asked once the hands had quieted and shuffled into small knots of sad mutters.
“No, we’re about to be visited, it seems,” Alan pointed out. An officer was coming down Barfleur’s battens to enter the gig, and a stay-tackle rigged to a main course yard was already hoisting out a sea chest. “Our new commander, looks like.”
“Hope he likes cats, sir,” Caldwell quipped.
Lilycrop had taken Henrietta, Samson, Hodge and a few others with him, along with his furnishings and chests, but the bulk of the kittens and yearlings had been parceled out among the warrants and senior hands. Even Edgar and Rossyngton now shared the midshipmen’s mess with a brace of lean tabbies.
As a parting benison, Alan had been forced to accept a kitten, one of Henrietta’s latest brood, a mostly black female of about four months age. To his chagrin, she was of pretty much the same disposition as her parent, a little pest who showed the same partiality for his stockings and lap and deposited her fur with the same liberality on every stitch of bedding and clothing he possessed. Since she was, like Henrietta, a starving whore for attention and petting, he had named her Belinda, after his hellishly licentious half-sister who had been instrumental in forcing him into the Navy. The captain had been touched that he had named her after blood-kin, and it was all that he could do not to strangle with secret, ironic humor, as he had tried to explain to Lilycrop just who Belinda was.
There was a possibility that Shrike might soon make her way back to Antigua. Perhaps Dolly Fenton would still be there. During that terrible last parting, she had said she’d wait for him, no matter how long he was away, and maybe she had meant it. Dolly had liked cats, would have been delighted to have one in their set of rooms while he was out at sea, but at the time, the last thing Alan had wanted was to put up with a cat on land, after being cooped up aboard a ship infested with platoons of them. She’d like Belinda, and would be delighted with such a reunion present. If she was still there, and still cared. He found it suddenly very important that she still be on Antigua, unattached.
“By God, I hate him already, whoever he is,” Alan whispered, irked that Lilycrop would be losing out and going home a discarded cripple, while this new officer, from the admiral’s wardroom, naturally, would take his place.
He had surprised himself that, when asking of Captain Nelson, or when later writing to Admiral Hood himself, he had not asked for the command of Shrike. He had only entertained that pleasing fantasy long after doing everything in his power for his former captain. For once he had done something for someone else whole-heartedly, with no thought of his own personal gain. Maybe it was his sense of guilt, he thought; maybe it was because Lilycrop had been so kind and fair with him, when anyone else would have chucked him for his incompetence. Whatever the reason, Lilycrop was the first captain in his experience that he would genuinely miss.
The side-party formed up once more as the gig attained the ship’s side. “Ship’s company, muster by the entry-port!” Alan ordered. “Off hats and salute!”
A cocked hat appeared over the lip of the entry-port. A stern face emerged as the bosun’s pipes began to trill. The visage was not the old salt that Alan expected. This was a young man, perhaps only a few years older than he, a favorite blessed with membership in the flagship’s officers roster. La Coquette needed officers, so officers with “interest” had gone into her. The prize sloop that Resistance and Dugay Trouin had taken needed officers. And now, like a gift from the gods, another command slot had opened up for Hood to fill with one of his protégés.
He did not look, though, like someone Alan would prefer to serve, even if he could have looked at him impartially. There was a set to the mouth, a squint to the eyes, that bespoke a “taut hand,” a hard disciplinarian, one of those fellows with a harsh manner for all under him. Alan drew a heavy sigh, then drew his sword to give the man his salute. However, the cat William Pitt delivered his own version of salute first.
The cat, drawn by the commotion, had, in answer to the curiosity of his tribe, crossed the deck and wormed his way between the legs of the gathered Marines, pausing to “mark” a likely set of half-gaiters in passing. But at the sight of a stranger, he greeted him as Lewrie had been greeted when he had signed aboard.
There was a challenging yowl of displeasure, a slash of claws that caught the officer across the nose, and a startled squawk of alarm from their new commander. Then, losing his grip on the loose-hung man-ropes, and still vertical along the ship’s side instead of leaning slightly into a larger ship’s tumble-home (Shrike had none), the new captain dropped from sight as if he had never been there. A second later, there was a rather loud thud in the gig, and a chorus of shouts.
“Oh, shit, Pitt’s killed him!” Alan groaned, sheathing his sword and dashing to the entry-port. “How is he?”
“Er, ’e’s knocked ’isself h’out cold, sir,” the temporary cox’n of the gig shouted back up. “’E don’ look sa good ta me, sir.
”
“Mister Lewyss to the gangway, on the double!” Alan shouted. Lewyss turned up a moment later with a small medical bag and descended to the gig.
“I’ll kill that cat!” Caldwell vowed. “Who was the new captain, sir?”
“How the hell should I know, Mister Caldwell?” Alan complained. “He never got a chance to tell us. Somebody pass up his orders. They should be in his pockets. At least,” he said in a softer voice to the temporary first lieutenant, “we can determine whom we’ve murdered.”
“Nasty, sir,” Mr. Lewyss informed them, regaining the deck with the documents requested. “Nasty cut on the back of his skull, and sure to be concussed. He’s out like a light. And I don’t like the look of his right arm, either, sir. I am certain he broke it. I’d be happier with him in Barfleur, sir. They have an excellent surgeon aboard, I’m told, d’ye see.”
“Well, until he read himself in, he’s not one of ours yet.” Alan nodded in agreement. “And since he’s in the boat and ready for transport, that’d be best. Mister Rossyngton?”
“Aye, sir?” the midshipman asked.
“Be so good as join the doctor in accompanying the captain back aboard Barfleur,” Alan directed, handing Rossyngton the injured officer’s orders. “My compliments to the flag-captain, and return these to him.”
Alan felt his face tightening with a grin he fought to suppress. “Please extend our apologies to that worthy, and inform him we require another master and commander for Shrike. We … um … we seem to have broken this one.”
“Um, ah …” Rossyngton replied crisply, trying to keep his own visage free of the humors that tickled him. “Aye aye, sir.”
“Christ, I hope this … whoever he was, wasn’t a particular favorite of the admiral’s,” Alan prayed aloud once the boat was under way. “I’d hoped to get out of the Navy with a whole skin. They’ll probably hang me in tar and chains after this.”
“Wasn’t your fault, sir,” Caldwell assured him. “Don’t see as how they can go blaming you for his clumsiness. Or Pitt. It was probably for the best. Maybe Shrike didn’t like the cut of his jib, or something. You know, sir, ships get souls after a while. Looked like a hard man, to me. Maybe the ship knew he wouldn’t do right by her, or the people.” “Pitt surely didn’t like the cut of his jib,” Alan agreed.
“Might have done it for all the cats aboard, sir,” Caldwell went on. “Some officers don’t like pets of any kind, and would have ’em over the side to drown. Maybe things work out for the best, sir, after all.”
“Signal, sir,” Edgar called. “Get under way!”
“Thankee, Mister Edgar! Bosun, hands to the braces! Get the way back on her! Mister Caldwell, keep us on the larboard tack, near the flag, for now.”
For the next hour, Shrike paced alongside the flagship as she caught up the squadron, like a calf will plod alongside her mother. And then came a signal for them to fetch-to once more, and the gig came back, the doctor and midshipman Rossyngton aboard, but no sign of a new officer to command the ship. Evidently, after the last wave of promotions, suitably senior lieutenants in favor were thin on the ground.
“This is for you, sir,” Rossyngton said, presenting Alan with a canvas-bound sheaf of papers once he had gained the deck and come aft. “We are instructed to close with Commodore Affleck’s flag, sir, the Bedford. Admiral Hood has deferred to him to choose another officer for us.”
Alan took the bundle, a little irked at the smile that tugged at the corners of Rossyngton’s mouth. “Mister Caldwell, alter course to close with Bedford,” Alan directed, while turning away to break the still-warm wax seal on the packet.
“Sufferin’ shit!” he muttered as he began to read.
My dear Lt. Lewrie;
The vagaries of Fate, and the fickleness of Dame Fortune conspire to alter my Intents, good sir. I had hoped to reward Lt. Ishaell Sharpe for his long and meritorious Service as my 4th officer, with Command, but it seems it is not to be.
In response to your generous, heart-felt, and commendable concerns anent your former captain, Lt. Lilycrop’s, Future, and, having had converse with Capt. Nelson, a young man whom I hold in the highest Affection and Admiration, regarding both your cares and his view of the matter, allow me to bid you allay your worries.
While my surgeons are not sanguine about his ability to hold a further Sea Commission, they assure me he shall heal well enough that future Service is not out of the question, perhaps as a Dockyard Superintendent, or officer of the Impress Service, should he desire active Employment. I shall take Lt. Lilycrop under my aegis, and make the strongest Advertment in my power to Our Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to that effect.
“Well, thank God for small favors,” Alan smiled in relief. He turned the letter over to read the rest of it.
Regarding the vacancy in command of Shrike, basing my Decision upon the favorable notice you have elicited in past by your gallant, resourceful and honourable past Service; having myself formed an admiration of your Abilities during the affair in The Chesapeake, and your plucky conduct during your escape; and, having had further converse with the gallant Captain Nelson, and receiving from him an whole-hearted approbation of your Character; I did most recently consider taking you into Barfleur as 6th officer, from which post of favour you might find an opening for Advancement. But, after greeting your Lt. Lilycrop, and soliciting his own recommendations after Lt. Sharpe’s recent Misfortune, I trust that command of a small brig of war shall suffice. Be assured that in future you should not be in any way hesitant in considering me your admiring Patron, or in availing yourself of any kindness I may be able to extend to you.
Yrs;
Sir Saml Hood
R. Adml. of the Blue Squadron
“Jesus Christ,” Alan breathed with a shudder partly of delight, partly of dumb-struck consternation. “I’m going to have to start taking all this nautical shit a lot more seriously!”
He had always thought Admiral Hood a poltroon, for his inexplicable behavior in hanging back at the Battle of The Chesapeake. Even the empty defensive victory at St. Kitts had not changed his opinion much—they lost the island anyway, hadn’t they? And now this!
The man must be more of an addle-pate than I thought, Alan told himself, his hands trembling as he scanned the second sheet of paper in the packet and saw what it represented. Anybody that’d give me command of a King’s ship has to have his buttocks where his ears ought to be. Mind you, I ain’t arguin’ much.
He looked up at the people on the quarterdeck; Rossyngton with his slight smile because he knew the secret first; Caldwell on tenter-hooks to find out what it was all about, and sweating that it perhaps might represent a chance for him to keep his acting lieutenancy.
I’d better do this before they change their bloody minds, he thought, feeling an urgency to read himself in before that new officer from Bedford came aboard. They still had at least a mile to go before they were close enough to hail her, and a cutter from Barfleur had not even reached her yet.
“Mister Caldwell, assemble the ship’s people if you would be so kind,” he ordered.
“Aye aye, sir. Ship’s company!” Caldwell boomed. “Muster aft and face the quarterdeck!”
Once they were gathered, wondering what this new summons was about, Alan folded out the sheet of vellum and scanned it so the words would not be unfamiliar and trip him up at this unbelievably fortunate moment.
“Issued aboard HMS Barfleur, flagship to the Leeward Islands Squadron, this 20th day of March, in the year of our Lord, 1783. From Sir Samuel Hood, Rear Admiral of the Blue. To Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy. Sir; it is my wish and direction that you take upon yourself the charge and command of his Majesty’s 12-gunned brig of war, Shrike …”
He paused and looked up, feeling as if someone would shout over to them that they were “just kidding!” But there were no signs of laughter from the hands—no pulled faces or sidelong glances of alarm. They stared back at him, nodding as though his superseding to co
mmand in place of a real sailorman was his due.
So he savored every syllable, every nuance as he finished reading the document aloud. Shrike wasn’t much, too small, and below the Rate, for a more senior officer, he realized. And she had been brought in as prize on a foreign station, so the dream could end the day after the war ended, and that blessed event could occur at any moment. Even if she stayed in service, there was only a year left of her original three years’ commission. But for now, she was his.
What else should I say? he wondered, once he had rolled up the precious document. “A new captain,” he finally began slowly, “brings to his next command his own way of doing things. But since Shrike is my first command, and since I have learned the most in how to exercise command in her, from an officer we all revere as a real tarry-handed sailor, I can think of no finer way to begin than to continue as if Lieutenant Lilycrop was still with us in spirit. His order book, his discipline, and his strictures stay in effect. They were sensible and fair, and I see no reason to depart from them, or any way to improve on them at present”
Not trusting himself to utter one more word, he turned to Mr. Caldwell and nodded, and Caldwell dismissed the hands to their duties.
There was no whole-hearted cheer such as Lilycrop had gotten. But no one was cursing and skulking, either, and no one was throwing loose objects at him, so Alan could be satisfied with his reception, if only slightly disappointed that he did not receive the same affection Lilycrop had evinced from them. Several hands were smiling broadly, and they went off to their work at least somewhat cheerful.
“Ah, Mister Caldwell,” Alan said, noticing Caldwell’s hangdog expression at last. “I believe that Commodore Affleck is to be allowed to appoint a lieutenant into us, to take my place. Sorry you could not keep your acting status. I did mention you to the admiral when I wrote concerning the captain.”
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