He realized he was seated on the deck, shivering allover. Why are they looking at me like that? he wondered. Haven't the bastards ever seen a hero? But there was no answer.
Chapter 10
There were many strange and awful dreams that bothered him as he swam in the delirium of a raging fever. He and Mrs. Hillwood romped in the maintop while Marines threw buckets of seawater on them by the numbers and Captain Osmonde called the pace with a fugleman's cane. Tad toasted cheese on burning sails for him and asked if he wanted his shoes blacked. Keith Ashburn and Shirke bought him a half-dozen bottles of claret, but he couldn't drink with them, for their heads were skulls with dacking jaws and the wine ran down their chests like black ink.
Lieutenant Harm and Mr. Pilchard and Margaret Haymer danced together, comparing wounds. His sister Belinda was a figurehead on a ship ofthe line, and the sailors fondled her bare breasts as they sat on the beakhead rails to relieve themselves. Chapman hopped one-legged down the Strand with a beautiful young girl in a blue gown in search of a bookseller's, and he could not catch them no matter how hard he ran. Sir Hugo and Sir Richard Slade chased him down an endless work gangway, waving their pricks at him.
He found himself flying low across sparkling wavetops with a crowd of pelicans who knew how to do spherical trigonometry in their heads, and he jeered with them at the seagulls, who had to use slates. Captain Bales was served at dinner by a nude Lady Cantner with an apple in her mouth. Alan was made post, but his ship was a hundred fathoms down off Nevis, and the wind kept shifting all about the compass. Kenyon and some admiral stood together in full uniform but no breeches and told him what a brute he wa«; to harm the French, who were only two inches tall and crawled allover him. He was in a cart on his way to Tyburn to be hanged, and with his jeering friends telling him to die game, there was an elfin face framed in honey gold ringlets staring up at him and telling him to keep his wig on straight, while a fiddler did a bad rendition of "Portsmouth Lass" and Claghorne and seaman Crouch shoved on the capstan bars, and some very ugly old woman sold poking sticks to the gentry who wished to have at him.
He dreamed he had Yellow Jack and had turned the color of a Quarantine flag, all his hair falling out in his eyes, and a beautiful young girl tenderly bathed his face, softly saying "you sonofabitching bastard" over and over, and he had an erection because her eyes were the color of the ocean in a shallow island harbor, and Cassius rang a tiny silver bell so everyone could come and marvel.
Then there was a dream of a cool room, dim and quiet and still, with some kind of bars slanting one wall, and that one lasted for a while. The walls looked like plaster instead of the lathed partitions of a ship, and there might have been pictures on the walls but they were hard to make out because there seemed to be some kind of fog about him.
I'm in a house, he told himself dreamily, after pondering it a long time. I'm in bed in a house. So what happens after that? Slow sort of dream, compared to the others…
He could not move but he could blink and shift his vision to discover what seemed to be two sets of louvered doors on one wall at the foot of the bed he occupied. The light from outside was what was making the bar patterns on the wall.
They are not prison bars, he decided, shifting his eyes to a closer vantage of his body. He could see his arms on the sheets, so Boggs had not cut anything off. He tried to raise his arm but it would not move, and he sighed as he realized he had little control over this dream. He tried to shift a leg, and felt cool linen pressing down lightly allover him. I am in bed, in a house, nude, and lWt in jail. Lots of possibilities to this… hmm. It was such a pleasant prospect that he dreamed he went right back to sleep to mull things over. When he dreamed that he awoke, it was much lighter. Then he saw that the fog about him was an insect net of very fine gauze around his bed, that the louvered doors led to some sort of veranda or patio. This time, he could move a hand and reach down to feel his groin. Yep, still got my wedding tackle. Nice room. Nice furnishings. Too good for a debtors' prison, and it's too quiet for a hospital. It was cool, and a hint of breeze came through those louvered doors, bringing the sound of surging waves on a beach, and he didn't think it was Brighton. There was a decided salt-andiodine tang to that breeze, and it was so bright beyond the louvers that he thought he might be somewhere in the tropics, maybe the West Indies.
His mouth fell open and a foetid odor rushed out. He tried to make words but all that came out was "gracck." But he thought, with ajoy that was almost sexuaL My God! I'm alive! He looked at his hands and his arms against the cool white linen sheet, and saw that he was a lot more yellow than he remembered.
I survived Yellow Jack, he crowed silently, almost weeping in happiness. I'm as yellow as a quince but I'm alive! He listened to his heart beat, took deep breaths and rejoiced to the sound of air rushing in and out. The taste in his mouth was positively vile, but be thought it nice to be able to taste anything.
There was a sound to his right. A door was being opened, a swish of clothing could be heard. He caught a flash of white cloth and thought it might be some sort of mop-squeezer. But he saw that elfin face that was so incredibly young and lovely, those bright blue eyes and the honey gold hair set in ringlets, and he was afraid that he had seen her somewhere before… being hanged or something? If she were here, was he really alive? Was she some tantalizing angel or devil? Did he have his wig on straight? She crossed to the double doors and threw the first set open. A flood of painfully brilliant sunlight exploded into the room. The second set opened, and he blinked in pain, until he could make out a bar of cerulean blue framed by intensely green bushes, bright green grass and the hint of dune-grass and sandy soil beyond the green. Was that a ship out there, a three-masted Indiaman? The girl took a moment to stand in the second door, arms still holding the doors apart like a figure on a crucifix in some Romish church.
Once his eyes had adjusted and been blinked clean of tears he could surmise that it was early morning, for there was a hint of sun just at the top of the door, and the girl was silhouetted against the bright light. She must have been wearing a morning gown instead of a more formal sack-gown, and without stays or corset, because he could see how slim her back was through the fabric, how tiny her waist, how slim her hips, almost like a boy's but for the gentle continuation to the curve of her behind. With the doors open the breeze hit him with a gentle rush, and it was cool and clean, heavy with tropical flowers, the astringent tang of deep ocean that came to him as lustily as the steam from a smoking joint of meat. He could hear birds singing, birds he did not recognize.
The girl still stood against the light, and he could see that her shoulders were not too broad. She had long legs, slim thighs that left a gap between them at her cleft, shapely calves and trim ankles. She turned and did something in the shadows on tiptoe, and he could see how full and high her young breasts were above a flat belly, how snug and trim her buttocks were. Then she stepped out of the light into the shadows, and a bird was singing quite loudly.
There was another rustle of cloth in the room, and he shifted his eyes to that direction. He saw an incredibly ugly woman in a mobcap and morning gown. She bore something with her. Where had he seen her before, selling something at Tyburn or Bedlam? She brought something forward; long, thin, made of wood and… Poking stick! I'M DEAD! "Hanggankk," he said, eyes wide in fright, and the woman gave out a harpy's shriek and disappeared in a twinkling. "Mister Lewrie," the woman said, reappearing with a glass of something in her hand. "You spoke! Lucy, he spoke!’
‘I heard him, yes, thank God, oh thank God," a young voice cried. "Agghk," he went on, his heart pounding hard enough to shake the bed. The woman's shriek, and the sight of that broom handle he had thought was a poking stick had nearly frightened him out of what few wits he still possessed. And he had not made much inventory yet as to that.
Hands were there to lift him up in bed and pile pillows behind him until he was almost sitting up. A black maid appeared to help out. A glass was thrust under his nose a
nd he opened his sticky lips to accept whatever was offered. It was water: not stale ship's water, but fresh and sparkling clear water, and he gulped it down greedily, hoping to sluice away the vile taste in his mouth. He wasn't much for water if one could get beer or ale or wine, but at the moment he thought the water a marvelous discovery. ’Thank you. Thank you," he rasped, licking his dry lips. "We feared the fever had curdled your brains, Mister Lewrie.’
’Thought I was dead. Dreaming. Where?’
‘ Antigua," the soft young voice said, and he looked into that elfin face, at those high cheekbones, that narrow chin and high forehead and still felt like he was dreaming. ’You are on the Atlantic side, Mister Lewrie," the old woman told him. "We brought you here when the surgeons had despaired of your recovery in hospital in English Harbor. After the brave thing you did, it was the least we could do for you. ’
‘God bless you, ma'am," he breathed in her direction. Here, did she say I'd done something brave? That sounds promising… ’This is the shore residence of Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews. I am Lady Maude and this is the admiral's niece, Miss Lucy Beauman, from Jamaica.’
’God bless," he said, gazing at the girl. "She was there. ’
‘Lucy?" Lady Maude snorted. "Where?’
‘Tyburn. The Strand. I saw her. I think I did.’
’Just dreams, Mister Lewrie," Lady Maude said. "Fevers do that to you.’
’Followed her," he insisted weakly, "couldn't catch up. ’
‘Auntie, he's still so weak," the girl whispered, concerned. "Aye, and will be for some time longer. Mister Lewrie, could you take a portion of a nourishing broth?" He nodded slowly. ’Andromeda, go tell Cook to prepare a thin meat broth and be quick about it," Lady Maude told the mop-squeezer, "and put some red wine in it for stoutness.’
’Yassum.’
’Parrot," Lewrie asked, wondering what he had done that was so brave and wonderful, and concerned about his ship… "Is she safe?’
‘Indeed she is, Mister Lewrie!" Lady Maude beamed down at him. "Lord and Lady Cantner have sailed to Tortola to meet the winter convoy, and Parrot still swims proudly. And you can be proud of doing such a brave duty for the Crown, young man. Very resourceful indeed.. ‘. ’The privateer brig," Lewrie said as the memory of what he had done came back in a rush. And a dread, too. "As Sir Onsley said, 'burnt to the waterline and Frogs' legs in a flambe,' " Lady Maude tittered. "Serve 'em right," Lewrie muttered, ready to fall asleep once more. ’Still thirsty, Mister Lewrie?" Lucy asked "Yes," he replied, realizing that he was. ’Lucy, fetch a bottle of brandy from the wine cabinet," Lady Maude instructed. "A pinch of that in his water will put color in his cheeks.’
’Any color but quince," he said with a happy sigh, and they began to laugh heartily, a giddy sound of relief, and Lewrie drifted off to the sound of it.
When he was adjudged strong enough to hear the news, Rear Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews stopped by to visit him. Lewrie had been sitting up in bed, bemoaning the loss of his hair and eyebrows to the fever when the man entered. Sir Onsley was corpulent, big allover, balding and looking strangled in his neckcloth. ’Sir Onsley." He nodded in lieu of a bow. ’You look like death's head on amopstick, but I hear you're going to recover, lad," Sir Onsley began, sitting down on the edge of the table by the bed, which fortunately was square and heavy enough to support his body better…’
’Damn close thing. you and the Yellow Jack. Not many survive. but if you do, you stand a good chance of being acclimated to it and won't come down with it again." Sir Onsley crossed his arms on his chest. "Have some news for you.’
’Aye. sir?’
‘Your captain recovered as well. and about a third of your sick. ’
‘I am gratified to hear that, Sir Onsley." Lewrie said automatically. but thinking that he wasn't so sure. after discovering that Lieutenant Kenyon preferred "the windward passage. ’
‘Parrot is under another officer and has departed for Nassau. We needed her badly. Had to appoint two new midshipmen to her. so I'm afraid you're without a berth for a while. ’
‘Oh." Lewrie said. feeling a sadness that he would not have expected six months before at such news. What would become of him? What sort of berth would he get once he recovered. fit to stand duties? Would he have to go back to the sullen abuse of the regular Fleet once more? "I understand. Sir Onsley.’
’I understand. too. lad." the admiral said. clearing his throat. "Happened to me once. my first time in the Indies. for the same reason. Now look here. you're not to wony about anything but getting well for now. You shall be my wife and Lucy's project until you're well enough to get around, and I'll find something for you to do.’
’You are too kind to me. Sir Onsley.’
’Until then. you have the hospitality of my house.’
’I am most grateful to you. Sir Onsley. But I am probably well enough to go back to hospital to recover." Lewrie offered, hoping that it was pro Jonna for him to say that and be denied. He liked it there. and the girl was gorgeous… ’Nonsense. Healthier over here on the windward side. anyway. If a ship could tack out of what passes for a harbor here. I'd move the entire dockyard. That's your chest over there. by the way. And I have some of your things. pay-certificates and such. There're some letters for you, when you feel up to reading them. And a present or two.’
’Presents?" Lewrie perked up, finding it hard to believe. "Andromeda," Sir Onsley bellowed in his best quarterdeck voice. "Fetch those packages for Mister Lewrie.’
The girl entered the room with them and placed them on the bed. There was a small ivory box, the sort used in gambling houses like White's or the Cocoa Tree to hold guineas in set amounts. Lewrie opened it and beheld a double row of glittering guineas. He dug one out and discovered that it was real. A hundred guineas, at the very least! "That's from Lord and Lady Cantner. Reward for your bravery, and your nacky ruse to sink or cripple that privateer. Mind you, not my idea of a truly honorable ruse de guerre, but to save the life of a high government official and his lady, it was the only thing you could do to fight a stronger ship and get away with a whole skin," Sir Onsley told him. "If there are no Frogs to complain about it, then I'll not. Old co It's-tooth puts a high price on his skin, it seems.’
’Aye, sir, indeed," Lewrie said, unable to feature it.
There was a second small package from Lady Cantner. It was a gold locket that when opened sported a miniature of her countenance on one side, and under a wafer of glass on the other, a lock of her dark hair. Lewrie snapped it shut, and met the admiral's raised eyebrows. ’Lord Cantner asked me to review the report your mate Claghorne wrote on the action, to see that you got proper credit at Whitehall," the admiral went on. "And I submitted my own as well. Your family will be proud to read about you in the London papers. Won't do your career any harm, either, to be an eight-day wonder. Though if the Lord North government is turned out, Cantner will no longer be much help to you.’
’This is heady stuff, all the same, Sir Onsley," Lewrie said with a shyness he did not exactly feel. "I am quite overcome. ’
‘This is from your Lieutenant Kenyon," Sir Onsley said, handing him a cloth-wrapped bundle. Lewrie unfolded it to reveal a sword, a hunting sword, or hanger. It was bright steel, chased minimally with nautical detailing on the blade, slightly curved, flat on top but razor-sharp from narrow tip to within an inch of the hilt. And the hilt was a double seashell pattern with a tapering hand-guard that ran back to a lion's-head pommel, all gleaming silver. The grip was silver wire, wound over blue sharkskin for a finn, dry grip. The scabbard was a dark blue leather with a silver drag and upper fitting, and the belt hook was a smaller replica of the seashells of the hilt.
Not only was it utterly lovely, but it was a Gill's, reputed to be the strongest blades in all of Europe, harder to break than a Bilboa or Toledo or Solingen blade, even when struck with great force on the flat of the blade. It was a handsome gift, nearly a hundred guineas in its own right, and he actually felt guilty to feel such animosity
toward Lieutenant Kenyon for being a miserable Molly, after he had given him such a magnificent present. ’God, it's beautiful.. ‘. ’He believes that you earned it, saving his ship for him, even if he lost her due to his illness," Sir Onsley said, rising to pace the room. He glared at the chirping bird in the cage by the louvered doors, a black and brightly banded local bird called a bananaquit,that doted on jams and fruit. "Damn silly creature. You can let dogs in, but never birds. Trouble has a way of following you about like one of those hounds of Hades or something, know that, Mister Lewrie?’
‘Aye, Sir Onsley," Alan said, scarcely able to tear his eyes from the beautiful bright sword. "First Ariadne, now Parrot, and you have the devil's own luck not only to survive, but come out covered in credit. ’
‘I don't know what to say, Sir Onsley," he said with a shrug of nonunderstanding. Was he being criticized? "Resourceful," Sir Ousley mused aloud. "Courageous. Crafty. Not much of a tarpaulin man yet, but that'll come. That'll come." Lewrie studied him intently, waiting for the bad shoe to drop. ’I'm off for supper and bed. You rest up and recover, and we'll see what comes open after that. Delighted to have met you at last, my boy.’
’And I you, Sir Onsley," trying to bow from a sitting position as the admiral stomped from the room.
Damn, am I famous for what I did? he asked himself after the admiral had left the room. One thing is for certain, I'm rich. A pair of ponies for saving Lord Canmer, and it's gold, not certificates. If he's that grateful, maybe I should make a career out of saving lords, and I'd be rolling in chink! He stood the sword and its scabbard by the bed and opened his mail. There was a letter from Lord Canmer, full of fulsome praises and charming compliments, expressing his gratitude for his life and freedom, and a promise to keep an eye on his career once he was back in London. Alan vowed to write him as soon as he was able, to keep in touch with someone who could turn out to be a benefactor, knowing that the Navy admired nautical skills, but the officer who succeeded was often the recipient of exactly such favor and unofficial maneuverings at Whitehall.
The King`s Coat l-1 Page 24