The King`s Commission l-3

by Dewey Lambdin

  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 protйgйs.

  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… urn… 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 aiarm. They stared back at him, nodding as though his superseding to command 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."

  "That's alright, sir," Caldwell said, though it didn't look alright. It would have been his best, and perhaps last, opportunity to attain to a commission instead of a warrant, and he was already approaching fifty. "Who would you like for cabin-servant, sir? And your cox'n?"

  "Cony," Alan said without a second's hesitation, and then gave the matter of cox'n some thought. A third of the hands were Island Blacks, and Andrews was at least listed as a free-bom volunteer. He was deserving of some notice after Florida. "Andrews for my cox'n."

  "Aye, I'll make it so, Captain," Caldwell replied.

  That has a nice ring to it-Captainl Alan thought happily.

  "I'll be aft for a moment," Alan said. "Summon me when we near Bedford."

  He made his way aft of the wheel and the main-mast trunk, to the low poop and the coach-top built into it to allow standing headroom for entry to the hanging cabin. There was now a Marine sentry on duty, who banged his musket on the deck and brought it up to salute as Alan opened the door that offered the short flight of steps below.

  His cabins! Though they seemed more spacious with all of Lieutenant Lilycrop's poor furniture gone, they didn't look all that grand. The black-and-white checkered canvas on the deck was frayed, and the wall paint had not improved with age. He could see that this unlooked-for promotion was going to cost him, to equip himself with dining space table and chairs, a sideboard, a wine cabinet, desk and chairs, and paint. Not to mention more lamps, and silver and plates. Still, he was now in receipt of five shillings per day instead of his earlier two shillings six pence; eighty-four pounds a year, for as long as it lasted, figured at the miserly twenty-eight days per lunar month of the parsimonious Admiralty.

  "Thought I'd shift yer dunnage, sir," Cony said, entering the cabins with loose bedding and linen under his aims. Alan could hear a couple of seamen struggling with his heavy sea chest.

  "Oh, there 'e be, sir. That damn cat," Cony snapped.

  "Hmm?" Alan replied, coming out of his inventory of expenses. "Oh, him."

  "Over the side with 'im, sir?" Cony asked.

  William Pitt was stretched out on his side on the bare, straw-filled mattress of the hanging bed-box, tail curling lazily and supremely at ease, washing himself, as if he had won the space for himself with his claws. The kitten Belinda was huddled as far away as she could get on the sill of the transom windows, bottled up and sitting ready to pounce in flight. Between hisses, she licked her lips and chops nervously, for fear of what the bigger male cat would do.

  "You mangy young bastard," Alan said, walking up to the bed. "Think you earned the right to stay aft just 'cause you did for that Lieutenant Sharpe, hey? Think I'm grateful to you or something?"

  Pitt did not bristle up as he usually did when Alan got anywhere near him, but rolled to his stomach with his front paws stretched out, looking up with his yellow eyes. Alan put out a tentative hand, half expecting to get his fingers ripped off, but was surprised that William Pitt allowed him to actually touch the top of his wide, battle-scarred head and gently rub him between the ears.

  "Well, I'm damned, sir," Cony whispered.

  It didn't last long, of course; after a few too many rubs, Pitt had claws out and ready to swat, shaking his head vigorously.

  Alan realized that it was probably not going to be one of those affectionate relationships between man and animal, such as the young cat Belinda offered; more like adopting a wild beast with whom one could maintain a wary but grudging regard.

  "Well, maybe I should be grateful," Alan relented. "Sweetling."

  William Pitt made his disgust plain by laying back his ears and assuming a most pained expression.

  "Chuck 'im out an' over the side, sir?" Cony asked.

  "No, let him be for now, Cony. There's room to spare."

  CRASH! went the Marine's musket on the deck. "Sailin' master, SAH!" he bellowed.

  "Enter."

  "We're about two cables off Bedford now, sir, ready to fetch-to to receive her boat," Caldwell reported.

  "Very good, Mister Caldwell, I shall be on deck directly."

  He followed Caldwell out onto the quarterdeck-his quarterdeck, where the warrants and others allowed the use of the deck headed down to leeward to leave him the captain's prerogative of the windward side.

  I su
ppose I can pull this off, Alan told himself. I had a good set of teachers-Railsford and Lilycrop. Even Kenyon, God rot the sodomite. If it's peace soon, how bad can it be? And then I can go home with honor. Who knows, they might even be daft enough to give me another commission, or another command? If I'm careful, this could be all cruising and claret!

  But a second after boastful musing, he felt a tiny shiver of presentiment. Things had gone too well lately, and from hard experience he knew that every time he felt the slightest bit smug and satisfied, something always went disastrously wrong in his life. The ancient gods had always taken umbrage with satisfied mortals, had they not?

  Afterword

  "Turne, quod optanti divum promittere nemo,

  auderet, volvenda dies en attulit ultro."

  "Turnus, what none of the gods would have

  dared promise to your prayers, see what rolling

  time has brought unasked."

  Aeneid IX 6-7

  – Virgil

  On April 6, 1783, Admiral Hood, whilst cruising off Cape Francois, received intelligence that a preliminary peace had been signed at Versailles in January. M. de Bellecombe, French governor of the Cape, sent a ship to his squadron, inviting Admiral Hood and His Royal Highness Prince William Henry, then serving as a midshipman aboard Barfleur, to enter the port and receive the honors due them.

  Hood declined, though he did despatch the Bloodhound sloop into harbor to take the salute of the French. Schomberg's Naval Chronology does not tell us what thrilling deed, or, given-the feeling against the French at the time, what egregious screw-up Bloodhound had committed to give her this dubious honor.

  British agents were quite active among the Creek, or Muskogean, Indians, and their relatives the Seminoles, as well as with the Cherokee, trying to inflame all the Southeastern tribes to side with the Crown in the Rebellion to take pressure off Charleston, their last remaining port south of New York. What the members of the expedition feared would happen to the Indians did indeed occur; they became more "civilized" after the Revolution until they dressed, lived and acted much like white settlers, with wagons, farms, carriages, plantations and mansions for some, and even black slaves of their own. And they were still dispossessed, kicked off the land by armed bands, and resettled in the Oklahoma Territory by the Andrew Jackson administration in one of the great, un-mentioned shames of American history.