The King`s Commission l-3

by Dewey Lambdin

  It would be a bloody disaster! Biggs probably had not paid three shillings a gallon for the stuff, though the ship's books would show a larger sum, of that Alan was sure after being Mister Cheatham's pupil in Desperate long enough to learn how many "fiddles" an unscrupulous "pusser" could work. Biggs would make no money on this exchange.

  "Cony, would you be so good as to go into my personal stores?" Alan bade his servant. "I took the precaution of providing myself with a small five-gallon keg of captured Bordeaux, and in place of this lot, I would be happy to offer it to assuage our thirsts, this evening at least. It's not a really fine vintage, but more palatable than this."

  Biggs was the only one who did not cheer Alan's munificence, but he did put away a fair share of it when it arrived for decanting. Among eleven of them, it went fast, but there was opportunity to send ashore on the morrow for replacement, so Alan didn't think it a bad trade at all. He had stuck a baulk in Biggs's spokes, put him on guard that he would be closely scrutinized from then on, and in so doing to one of their number most despised (as most pursers were), had won a slight bit of grudging respect from the other members of his mess for such sagacity in one so young.

  After supper, though, after he had stifled Lewyss and his infernal harp, and Walsham's bloody flute, there were still ship's books to study. He was the only one to keep a lamp burning after the 8 p.m. lights out, listening to the others fart in their sleep, belch, groan and snore prodigiously, listening to the ship as she creaked now and then, and the sound of the harbor watch on the deck over his head, the chime of the bells as time progressed-and several slanging matches between cats who had decided on animosity during their nocturnal turns of the deck.

  There wasn't much in the Punishment Book, the log of defaulters and how many strokes they had received for their sins, at least not in the last few months. Ships' crews usually settled down after a while, even the worst collections of cut-throats, cut-purses and foot-pads, once they got used to a master and his ways. There were no entries for less than two dozen lashes, except in the case of boy-servants and the midshipmen, who got caned bent over a gun with a more gentle rope starter. But there were also several entries for three dozen, four dozen, mostly for fighting or drunkenness or sleeping on watch, and some rare insubordination. A captain could not impose more than two dozen lashes with the cat by Admiralty regulations, but Alan had also learned long before that no one at the Admiralty would even open one eye from a long snooze to hear of a captain assigning more; captains were much like God once at sea on their own, and their judgement was mostly trusted unless they were patently proven to be one of God's own lunaticks.

  Likewise the log; it was boring in the extreme, capable of being read by flipping through the pages almost without looking, for the ship had seemed to cruise on her own without seeing a damned thing or taking part in any action since her commissioning. There was a convoy or two, some messages run north to the Bahamas or west to Jamaica, and suspicious sail seen but never followed up aggressively, and once they disappeared below the horizon, lost to mind.

  Not a penny of prize-money, Alan sighed, thinking of how much he had made (legally and illegally) in Desperate and even in Parrot. Lilycrop must be the most contented man with Naval pay in the whole world. How long's he been in the Navy, anyway, fifty years did he say, man and boy? Joined at-eight, say, and probably thirty, thirty-five years a lieutenant? With the war almost lost in the Americas, this is the only command he'll ever hope to have, most like. But then, why not be ambitious and make the most of it? If he stayed in the Navy all those years in hopes of advancement, why not parley this little brig into a twenty-gun sloop of war, commander's rank, even a jump to post-rank? All it takes is one bloody, victorious action, God knows. Look at that idiot Treghues! Is he afraid of getting her rigging cut up and untidy? God help us, would it scare his precious cats? More like it, is he afraid of losing her?

  That must be it, he decided, congratulating himself on what a sly-boots he was to figure this out so early. At the end of this commission in two years, or the end of the war, which might come at any time, Lilycrop would go onto the beach with a small pension, carried on Admiralty records still as a half-pay lieutenant unless he did something to blot his copy book; a commission was for life unless one resigned it or was caught in some terrible error in judgement. A man close to even so little financial security would not err either in commission or omission; he would not jump either way, and end his days snug as houses.

  But if the war ends soon, there's only so much time left for me to do something, Alan fretted to himself. Damme, it's happening, I am taking me seriously. But I'm first lieutenant of a brig o'war, and if we come across a foe, I could goad him into action. Now that I am commissioned, why not make the most of it while there's still a war on?

  Too weary to read any longer, he blew out his lantern, a new pewter one with muscovy glass panels he had purchased the day before, and stretched out to sleep until Cony came to call him at the end of the middle watch at 4 a.m. so he could supervise the morning cleaning.

  It took him a while to drop off, though. William Pitt had run across another ram-cat in his night-time perambulations and they had a protracted melee that went from the taffrail to the fo'c'sle and back, and damned if he didn't think the harborwatch wasn't betting on them and egging them on!

  "We shall be gettin' underway tomorrow on the ebbin' tide," the captain had told him, and Alan had sweated blood trying to determine if Shrike was in all respects ready for sea. The duties of a first officer were galling in the extreme, taking nothing for granted, forcing the warrants to swear to his face that they had all they needed, and if not, then why didn't they say something earlier? Which had prompted another flurry of activity to complete stores until he could go aft and inform Lilycrop (and Samson and Henrietta and Mopsy and Hodge and the so far un-named kittens et al) that yes, Shrike was indeed ready to go to sea.

  Then there had been another utter frenzy for Lieutenant Lewrie to see to everything that could be seen to. Were the braces, lifts, tops'l halyards, tacks, sheets coiled down and ready for running? Were there enough belays? Were the lower booms swung in and crutched? The log-line, hour-glasses and heaving lines had to be brought up. The yards had to be got up for the t'gallants and royals, and the stun'sl's ready for deployment. Chafing gear had to be renewed on yard slings and quarters, on anything that could rub and chafe aloft. Had old Mister Pebble sounded the pump-wells, checked the scupper flaps, hawse bucklers, fitted the gunports with splash-boards, etc.? Were the boats secured and the yards squared, and all the safety equipment laid out for the hands? Were the guns securely bowsed down, with tompions in? Had the quartermaster put the helm hard-over a couple of times to see if the tiller-rope ran freely? Were the catting and fish-tackles rove, and the main capstan and jeer capstan over-hauled? If one little thing went awry, it was the first lieutenant's fault; if everything went well, then it was the captain's credit. Alan was trembling like an aspen in a high wind by the time he had finished his last-minute checks, and his hands were best off in his pockets where they would not betray his nervousness.

  "Ready for sea, Mister Lewrie?" Lilycrop asked lazily as he came on the quarterdeck. He had one of the kittens in his hands.

  "Aye aye, sir, ready for sea," Alan stammered, already reduced to a shuddering wreck.

  "Shouldn't be too bad at slack water, just afore the ebb," Lieutenant Lilycrop surmised, sniffing the slight breeze. "Very well, then, you may proceed, sir."

  "Me!?" Alan gaped, staring at him slack-jawed and trying to think of the proper commands.

  "Yes, you, sir."

  "Bosun, pipe 'all hands,' stations for getting under way."

  God, it was a mad-house on that single deck crowded already with guns and their assorted tackle, with all the running rigging in flaked heaps, the tops'l halyard men already snarling at the fo'c'sle captain and his crew for walking space, the hands around the capstans and the nippermen ready with the messenger.

  "Ca
pstan's ready!" some kind soul shouted back, or Alan would have never thought of it.

  "B… bring to, the messenger!" Three and a half turns of the lighter line were wound about the capstan and the nippermen seized the lighter messenger line to the thicker cable.

  Thank bloody Christ somebody knows what they're doing, for it sure ain't me! he thought as he saw men manning the bars, dropping them into the pigeon-holes, securing the drop-pins and breasting to the bars.

  "Fleet the messenger!" And two men on each capstan plied their middle-mallets to force the turns of the messenger up the drum of the capstan to make room for the turns to come as they heaved in. Bloody hell, makes me wish I'd paid more attention to these things before! thought Alan.

  "Heave around!" he shouted, trying to keep his voice from breaking. The pawls clanked slowly as the men walked about the drums of the capstans, chests pressing against the bars with their hands gripping the wood from below, thumbs turned outward to avoid injury.

  "At long stays!" came a wail from the fo'c'sle.

  "Heave chearly!" Alan encouraged them as the cable came in at a much steeper angle from the bottom.

  "Short stays!"

  "I'd not forget the dry nippers for the heavy heave," Lilycrop said at his elbow suddenly as he held up the kitten to observe so much activity. "Ain't it a show, littl'un?"

  "Do you wish to set sail at short stays, sir?" Alan asked.

  "I leave it to you, Mister Lewrie. Proceed."

  God rot and damn the man! Alan thought, ready to weep.

  "Dry nippers, ready for the heavy heave! Surge ho!"

  "Up an' down, sir!"

  "Heave and pawl!"

  Suddenly, the men at the capstan bars leaned forward and the pawls began to clank faster and faster. The anchor had broken free of the bottom and was on its way up, and the ship was under way under bare poles in the light wind in English Harbor. And just as suddenly, Alan Lewrie realized that it was an incredibly crowded English Harbor. There was an armed transport big as a bloody island astern, not one cable off, toward which they were slowly drifting, an anchored line of seventy-fours to starboard, and a line of warping posts to larboard, upon which some newly repaired 3rd Rate line-of-battle ship was making her way toward the outer roads, and Shrike was in the way of her towing boats.

  "Hee hee!" Lilycrop laughed softly as he read the angry hoist from the post-captain whose way had been interposed. "He's not happy with us, I can tell you, Mister Lewrie!"

  "Anchor's awash!"

  "Heave and awash, then."

  "Cat's two-blocked, well the cat!"

  "'Vast heaving," Alan ordered. "Bosun, make sail, topmen aloft!"

  It was really comfortable being a midshipman, even being a master's mate, Alan thought in despair as that armed transport loomed even larger as they made a slow stern-board down onto her.

  "You'll not fuck up my transom paint, will you, Mister Lewrie?" Lilycrop asked as if he were out strolling Piccadilly or St. James's Park.

  "I'll try not to, by God, sir. Loose foresails! Head sheets to starboard! Lead out tops'l sheets and halyards! Ready aloft? Lay out and loose!" Shrike obstinately refused to turn, still making her slow stern-board, and the loosed fore tops'l went flat aback, giving her even more impetus to ram that damned armed transport.

  "Spare hands to starboard," Lilycrop whispered sagely. "Run out number-one gun to starboard."

  Having no better idea in mind, Alan repeated the command, and he was amazed that the bows slowly inclined right as men and Marines and an artillery piece canted her deck slightly in the same direction.

  "Let fall aloft! Hands to the braces!"

  "Don't forget the bloody anchor, mind," Lilycrop whispered once more, allowing the kitten to climb on his shoulder and tenuously balance.

  "Man the cat and haul taut!"

  "They've done that," Lilycrop advised.

  "Rig the fish! Quartermaster, how's her helm?"

  "'Ard up ta larboard zurr, no bite. Nah, 'ere she coom, zurr."

  "Sheet home and hoist away tops'ls, lay aft to the braces, port head, starboard main, port cro'jack!"

  "The anchor?" Lilycrop prompted. "And we don't have a cro'jack."

  "Man the fish, haul taut!"

  Alan had a chance to glance around and his heart leaped into his mouth and he chilled all over. They had succeeded in getting her stern-board stopped, the bows around, but she was close enough to the transport to make out features of the people on her rails as Shrike began to go ahead slowly.

  "Walk away with the fish! Brace up the head sheets! Ease the helm, quartermaster. Lay us to windward of those anchored seventy-fours."

  "Aye, zurr."

  "Well the fish, sir!"

  "Belay, ring up the anchor, unrig the fish!"

  Thank God, Alan could only gasp, and that to himself as he dug out a handkerchief to mop himself down. The ship was now under way, clear of that transport, away from that frustrated post-captain, well up to windward from the anchored ships of the line. The mess on the deck was being flaked down, the yards were braced up, the head sheets and spanker were trimmed up, and the bower was secured forward. But the ordeal was only beginning, for the exit from English Harbor to the outer roads and the open sea was a tortuous dog-legged channel framed by high hills and that meant capricious winds that could veer from one beam to another at a second's notice.

  "I'd not like to get a nasty letter from his excellency Admiral Hood 'cause you forgot passin' honors to the flag, Mister Lewrie," the captain said.

  "Oh God," was the last thing Alan remembered he said. The gun and flag salutes to Hood, to Comdr. Sir George Sinclair, the forts by the outer roads, the trip down the roads and out to sea, getting the courses on her, selecting a passage northabout to Antigua's lee for the Bahamas; it all passed in an unreal fog that he could never recall, even in later years, and every time he thought of it, his skin crawled.

  He turned the watch over to the sailing master Mister Caldwell and went below to sponge himself down with a bucket of seawater and to don dry clothing, his previous garments wringing wet with perspiration.

  "Passin' the word fer the first lieutenant!"

  Oh God, here comes the axe, Alan thought with a heavy sigh. He went aft to the captain's cabins. Lieutenant Lilycrop was looking comfortable in old and patched slop trousers rolled up to the knees, a loose shirt without stock, and at the moment, no stockings or shoes, either.

  "Sit ye down, Mister Lewrie. Sip o' somethirf? Black Strap? Miss Taylor? Got some right nice cider, all fizzy an' tangy."

  "Cider, sir," Alan said, grateful for Lilycrop's obvious show of good cheer. Maybe I won't get a cobbing, he thought hopefully.

  "Ah, good. Gooch? Cider for Lieutenant Lewrie, and small-beer for me. That'll be all, Gooch," he added as the drinks were put out on the desk. They waited while Gooch finished his puttering and departed the cabins. Lilycrop picked up his mug of beer and took a sip; Alan tasted his cider. They sat and sipped and looked at each other for what felt like about a full watchglass.

  Lilycrop belched loudly to break the silence. "Well now, this mornin', gettin' under way," he said softly. "That was-damme-that was entertainin', sir."

  "I'm sorry, sir. I know I must have made a total fool of myself," Alan confessed, burning with sudden shame. "'Twas a shambles."

  "I don't think 'shambles' really does it justice, 'pon my soul, I don't," Lilycrop told him sadly, but with a trace of a wry grin as if he truly did find some cruel amusement in Alan's discomfiture.

  "I thought I had the ship ready to weigh, sir, but I never had a thought you'd trust me to take her out the first time and I wasn't ready," Alan tried by way of explanation.

  "She was ready to weigh, I'll give you that," Lilycrop agreed. "But your choice of timin', and the way you parroted the commands like you'd read 'em out of a book, 'thout understandin' a word you were sayin'…"

  "It was the first time I was ever allowed to weigh anchor and take a ship out, sir," Alan said, trying to defend h
imself.

  "God help me, then, what's the Navy thinkin' of, to send me a newly so unprepared," Lilycrop spat, that wry grin now gone. "As for givin' you the deck, how am I to find out what sort of sailor you are if I don't test your abilities? Why the hell are you wearin' the coat of a commission officer if you have to be warned to be ready for any eventuality? You should know to be prepared."

  "I don't know, sir," Alan said in a hoarse whisper.

  "You come from money?"

  "No, sir, not really."

  "Got relatives to give you interest an' place?"

  "No, sir."

  "But you made master's mate, an' then lieutenant, in a little over two years," Lilycrop carped on petulantly. "Done some brave things, by your record, been in some fights, brought up like a hot-house rose on blood an' thunder and not proper shiphandlin'. I know there's a war on, but even so, I'd not like to think that a panel of hard-nosed post-captains would pass a total fool an' then shove you into such a responsible position 'thout they saw somethin' in you worth promotion."

  "One would hope they knew what they were doing, sir," Alan said, hanging onto that scrap of legitimacy.

  "You're not somebody's favorite protege, are you?"

  "Um, I exchange letters with Sir Onsley Matthews, sir, and Lord and Lady Cantner, but no one of note locally."

  "So if I tossed you back for the fish to play with, nobody'd have my head for it, would they now?" Lilycrop demanded.

  "No, sir," Alan had to admit, his eyes stinging at the thought of being turned out of his first posting as a commission officer within a week as an incompetent. Damme, he thought, I don't love the bloody Navy any more today than I did a month ago, but I'll be damned to hell if I'll suffer that humiliation. At least, God, let me leave this shitten mess with my credit intact, with my pride still attached.