The King's Coat

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Not a bloody thing, damn yer eyes,” Lewrie muttered. “Tell him nothing yet.”

  Lewrie went up higher, onto the t’gallant yard to sit astride the narrow spar. “Now, that’s more like it.”

  In his glass, he could see a tiny sliver of a tops’l, with just the hint of a triangular sail right behind it. That might be a schooner or a brigantine. He scanned farther west behind that ship and found a pair of tops’ls, and then, bringing up the rear, three tops’ls close together; possibly a brig, and a full-rigged ship, their sails painted rose red as spring flowers by the dawn.

  “Deck there!” he bawled. “Three strange sail to the south!”

  “What?” Lieutenant Swift shouted back through a speaking trumpet.

  Lewrie left the glass with the lookout and descended rapidly to the quarterdeck by way of a backstay.

  “Three ships to the south and southwest, sir,” Lewrie said. “Due south a topsail and what looks to be a gaffsail together.”

  “A brigantine or schooner.” Swift nodded impatiently. “Aye.”

  “Aft of her two topsails … a brig most-like, sir. And three topsails to the southwest, perhaps a full-rigged ship.”

  “Mister Swift, signal again to those damned merchantmen to close up,” Captain Bales said. “Then have Dauntless move to the southern corner.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Mister Rolston, bring your signals, sir.”

  Six bells of the watch chimed from the forecastle belfry—seven in the morning. The sound of the signal gun had brought everyone up from below out of curiosity. The other officers now congregated on the quarterdeck.

  “Mister Lewrie,” said Kenyon, “where is your glass, sir?”

  “I left it with the lookout at the crosstrees, sir, for him to see the better.”

  “Good. You’d better take your portion of the watch below now. I doubt if you’d have much chance for breakfast if you waited ’til the end of the watch.”

  “Aye, sir. Thank you.” But Alan only got as far as the wide companionway to the lower gun deck before the first lieutenant called for all hands to hoist more sail and shake out their night reefs to make more speed. With a sigh, he dashed back to the ratlines.

  Ariadne turned due south away from the easternmost end of the convoy, which by now had seen the possibly hostile sails for themselves and were fleeing northwest away from them. Alan presumed that they would pose a threat, well up to windward and ready to dash down on the raiders as they tried to close. He was much too busy for many minutes to pay attention, as Ariadne also set her t’gallants for more speed.

  But by the end of the watch, they were faced with a new alignment. The schooner furthest east was now behind the convoy, and had crossed Ariadne’s stern; while a fast privateer brig was dashing dead north for the convoy with the wind on her quarter; while the frigate-sized ship was challenging Dauntless for passage to the west of the convoy. Alan turned from the bulwarks and the hammock nettings, now full of tightly rolled and numbered hammocks which would act as a barrier for the Marines when action was joined within musket-shot. He saw some ship’s boys gathering with their drums and fifes and trumpets. The Ariadne was beating to Quarters, really stripping herself for a battle! He could see the captain on the quarterdeck, pacing back and forth by the foremost netting rail overlooking the waist of the ship, looking like a fat duck on his thin legs.

  Alan took himself down to the waist, then down to the lower gun deck, which was his station at Quarters. The deck was rapidly being transformed, as mess tables were slung from the overheads, the hammocks already removed, as were the screens and partitions from the Marine and midshipmen’s berths. Chests and furniture were being carried below to the holds for safekeeping, and to lessen the danger of being shattered and turned into deadly clouds of wooden splinters.

  The Ariadne was a 3rd Rate ship of the line, mounting a total of sixty-four guns, twenty-eight of them on her lower gun deck, massive thirty-two-pounder pieces that weighed over 5,300 pounds, fourteen to each beam. The ideal crew would be thirteen men to each gun, but since there was little likelihood of fighting on both sides at once, there were only three men on the disengaged side to starboard, while the bulk of the men slaved to prepare the larboard guns for action.

  The deck was gloomy, for the gun ports were not yet opened, though the guns had been rolled back to the extent of their breeching ropes for tompions to be removed and to be loaded with cartridges and balls. Gun captains stood ready with powder horns, portfires with a burning length of a slow-match on one end and a pricker on the other to clear the vent of their gun and pierce the cartridge bag. Bundles of firing quills were ready to hand, goose quills filled with a fast-burning and fine-grained powder that had been soaked in wine (and supposedly a bit of gunner’s urine) that would be stuck down into the cartridge bags and lit off to transfer the spark that would fire the gun. Loaders rolled cannonballs from the thick rope shot-garlands or the shot racks around the hatches to find the roundest, most perfect iron balls, which would fly straight for long-range work. Rammer men plied their tools to tamp the cartridges down snug against the vents, then a hairy disc-shaped wad, a ball, and another wad. Other men stood by with crows and handspikes to shift the guns from left to right with brute force once they were drawn up to the sills and run out. Most of the gunnery crew stood by at the side-tackles and overhauled the train-tackles to haul those guns up to firing position. Lieutenants Roth and Harm had charge of the lower gun deck, though should they close to pistol or boarding range, Harm, as the fifth lieutenant, or lieutenant-at-arms, would go on deck to oversee the boarding parties which he had trained at musketry and the use of the pike and cutlass.

  “Bout time, you,” Harm fairly spat at Lewrie.

  “I was at the masthead, sir.”

  “Take station to starboard and stay out of the way. You might be good enough to run messages, if you’ve wit to remember them.”

  Ariadne was allotted a complement of sixteen midshipmen, and it was galling to see the youngest and smallest boys getting assigned to the engaged side while Lewrie was rated more useless than even Striplin, an eleven-year-old who was not half the height of an average sailor. Harm and Roth, and their quarter-gunners in charge of four guns, had to put tools in the hands of some men, shove others out of the way of possible recoil, while Alan, who had found that gunnery exercise was one of his least hated duties, had to stand aside, silent and useless.

  Once the lower gun deck was arranged to Roth’s satisfaction, the deck became fairly silent, and long minutes passed as Ariadne drew up to their foe.

  Alan amused himself reciting the fourteen steps of gun drill he had memorized. He daydreamed about delivering brave messages to the quarterdeck, or having both officers shot dead before him … Please God, most especially Lieutenant Harm … and himself taking charge and performing some feat that would go down in glory. When that grew dull, and he realized that an immediate commission to lieutenant might not be in the cards, he worked on other remembrances and fantasies.

  There was what he would have liked to have done with Harrison’s slim little West Country wife, her with her burring accent from Zedland. There was that last glorious night with the little chambermaid to be relished, or the lady at Vauxhall Gardens who had found him so pretty she had taken him home to her lodgings and half-killed him with kindness. Then there was a ball in the country, where he and his hostess had struck an arrangement after the host had drunk himself into a stupor. The crotch of his slop trousers became uncomfortably tight just remembering what a rogering buck he had used to be. If I don’t get ashore for some mutton in New York this trip, I don’t know what I’ll do …

  After what seemed an age, little Beckett dashed down and spoke with Roth, who ordered the gun ports opened. As they hinged up out of the way, the deck became a painfully loud cavern as the heavy guns were run out to stick their black muzzles from the ports. Alan made his way to midships and knelt down to spy their target. It was the rebel privateer brig, tacking heavily to make a das
h past Ariadne’s bows to get at her prey in the convoy!

  “Stand by,” Roth called. There was a loud bang from the upper deck. “As you bear … fire!”

  One by one, each piece discharged with a monumental blast that had Alan’s ears ringing most painfully, but it was glorious! So much noise, so much power, so much smoke and recoil and the great guns all rolling back to snub at the end of their groaning breeching ropes! He had not taken part in a live firing yet, merely drills, yet he knew at once that if he could play with cannon, he could make a career in the Navy and not half mind all the rest of the stupidity.

  It did not appear, however, that Ariadne’s bite was quite as impressive as her bark. In point of fact, Alan could see quite a few tall splashes as heavy balls impacted with the sea. Some were far beyond the brig, having passed over her harmlessly, perhaps twitching a sail with the wind of their passage; some struck short, incredibly short, so close to Ariadne that he at first thought it was the enemy that had fired at them and missed! There were a few (frankly, more than merely a few) splashes far in front and far astern of the privateer brig where they may have killed an injudicious fish or two, but had no effect on their foe.

  “Goddamn my eyes!” Roth called as loud as the broadside after the last thunder had died away. “What a pack of duck-fuckers. Try to keep your eyes open and aim at something this time. Swab out yer guns!”

  Ariadne began a ponderous turn to starboard to keep the enemy on her beam and within the arc of her guns. Alan could see a gay flag on the privateer, a red-and-white-striped banner with a blue canton to the upper mast. They were almost close enough to discern a circle of tiny white stars on the flag as the guns were run out again.

  “Point yer guns! Handspikes and crows, there!” Harm ordered, “Aim the goddamn things, now!”

  They let loose a second broadside. It was about as effective as the first. Jesus, how can we miss at this range? Alan thought miserably. He spans two gun ports, so he must be no farther than three or four cables away from us. It’s impossible to miss!

  And then the privateer brig sailed out of their gun ports to the north, outreaching the much heavier and slower Ariadne.

  The hands labored at swabbing out their hot barrels, slipping in fresh cartridge bags, ramming home wads and fresh shot, then straining to roll the guns, squealing on their ungreased wooden trucks, back up to the sills.

  Beckett appeared once more at Lieutenant Roth’s side. “The captain’s respects, Mister Roth, and you are to prepare to engage to starboard.”

  “Lewrie, supervise the larboard guns and see they’re secure,” Roth told him, leading all but three of the numbers from each hot gun over to starboard. Alan made sure that no cartridge bags had been pricked, that all vents were covered from sparks, and that the ports were securely closed, and the heavy guns were snubbed in place by the train and side-tackles with no chance to roll about and crush someone.

  By the time he and the excess numbers had finished that chore, the starboard guns were speaking, rattling the fabric of the ship. He bent down to see out, and could not detect any improvement in their aim as they fired at a much smaller target, the privateer schooner, which was in the process of cutting out a slow merchantman. And by the time the most experienced gun captains and quartergunners had found their enemy’s range and had begun to slap balls close about her, she had danced out of reach and gun-arcs to rush down on another prize. Ariadne now turned about and chased after their earlier target, the brig. The men stood behind the guns in long swaying lines for what seemed like an hour. There were sounds of gunfire far off, light six- and nine-pounders, occasionally the deeper boom of a twelve-pounder. And then it was over; they were to secure from Quarters. Charges and balls were drawn, and the guns were securely bowsed down.

  By the time the mess tables were being lowered between the guns, and all the other officers had left, Lewrie shrugged and went up on the upperdeck gangways. Down south to windward, or off to the southeast astern, stood the three raiders, safe as houses with Ariadne and Dauntless now far down to leeward to the north in pursuit of a panicky flock of merchantmen. The privateer ship had a fore-topmast missing and showed a few scars, but was still afloat. More to the point, five tubby merchant vessels that had lately been part of the convoy were also down to windward, prizes of the privateers.

  Seven bells chimed from the belfry, and bosun’s pipes began to shrill. “D’ye hear there? Clear decks an’ up spirits!” the bosun shouted as loud as a gunshot. Eleven-thirty in the morning; as if to confirm it, Lewrie drew out his gold-damascened silver pocket watch and opened it.

  So that was a battle, he thought. I can’t see anything we accomplished. If this is the glory of naval life, you can have this nautical humbug! How do you make all that prize money, or make a name for yourself, when you’re down below getting bored to death?

  Lewrie took himself off to the cockpit for their issue of rum, then came back up to perform noon sights, which he got wrong, as usual, resulting in an hour of racing up and down the mainmast.

  Later, at dinner, he noticed the many long faces around their mess table. Finnegan and Turner, Mr. Brail, the captain’s clerk, a couple of surgeon’s mates, Shirke, Chapman, Ashburn and himself. Bascombe was in the Day Watch. Except for the sound of cutlery, it was dead quiet.

  Well, perhaps not too quiet; there was the sound of the master’s mates, Finnegan and Turner, as they chomped and chewed and gargled and hawked—both of them were what were termed “rough feeders.”

  “Um … this morning,” Alan said, clearing his throat, which raised an involuntary groan from everyone as they thought of their poor performance. “What happened … exactly?”

  “Nothin’ worth talkin’ about,” Finnegan mumbled.

  “Bloody shambles,” Chapman said with a blank stare. For him to make a comment of any kind was rare.

  “We weren’t handled at all badly,” Ashburn said between bites. “Placed right clever, if you ask me.”

  “But the gunnery…” Alan prompted.

  “Aye, that was awful,” Shirke said. “It’s like Harvey was telling us, we haven’t spent much time at gun drill.”

  “We’ve drilled,” Turner said. “Jus’ never fired the damn things, ’cept fer salutin’ and pissin’ off merchant masters. Good gunners gone stale, new ’uns couldn’t hit a spit kid if it were tied to their mouths.”

  “They were pretty fast, too. I expect that didn’t help,” Alan said.

  “Dauntless did alright,” Keith Ashburn said. “Got hits on her foe, chased her off, and chased off that brig once it got past us. No one could have caught that schooner once she got past us, though. Lost five ships. Not a bad morning’s work for ’em, damn their eyes.”

  “And there’s no way we could get them back?” Alan asked.

  “Beat up to windward against more weatherly ships, and leave the rest o’ the convoy ta get took?” Finnegan shook his head. “Ye’re a young booby, ain’t ya? Wot it’s all about is, we got beat, see, younker? Them damned rebel Jonathans done beat us!”

  * * *

  Alan saw New York again, but only from the anchorage at Sandy Hook. He got to go ashore, but only as far as the fleet landing with a cutter full of demoralized and sullen hands, who had to be watched constantly to keep them from drink or the many brothels. Fresh supplies had to be ferried out, more coal and firewood, fresh water, livestock and wine, and crates of fruit and vegetables. The bumboats were out, offering women, rum and gewgaws, but the ship was not allowed Out of Discipline. Only Bales and the purser actually got to step ashore for pleasure.

  The officers sulked in their wardroom aft, lolling over long pipes and full mugs when there was no drill, exercise, or working party. The midshipmen and mates stood anchor watch in their stead for the humdrum task of waiting, envying the men in the guard boats who rowed about to prevent desertion, or watch against a hostile move. It was an unhappy existence. The ship lay at anchor for days, stewing in the blustery early spring rains and fickle winds, too
wet to stay topside, and too warm and airless to stay below. Ariadne shifted her beakhead to point at the colony, then at England, groaning her way all about the compass. The seeming lack of purpose, and their recent poor showing, began to grate on everyone. People began to put in requests for a change of mess, a sure sign of trouble below decks. There were more floggings for fighting, more back-talking and insubordination, more slow work at tasks assigned. God knew where they got it, but lots of men were turning up drunk and getting their dozen lashes on the gratings every Forenoon watch.

  If he didn’t have to set some sort of example, he wouldn’t have minded getting cup-shot himself, Alan decided. Here I stand, dripping wet, can’t see a cable, the food stinks, the people stink, and I still can’t get ashore for sport. Why can’t I help out on the press-gang or the patrol?

  “What a nautical picture you make,” Keith told him as he climbed to the quarterdeck to join him. “Perhaps a watercolor is appropriate.”

  “Water is the word,” Alan agreed, feeling the wet seeping down his spine under the heavy tarpaulin he wore.

  “Mister Brail and the Jack In The Bread Room said we could buy fresh food from shore on the next trip for cabin stores. Any ideas?”

  “A warm, dry whore for starters,” Lewrie muttered.

  “Seriously,” Keith scoffed.

  “Potatoes,” Lewrie said with some heat. “I’d love some boiled potatoes. And carrots with parsnip. Turkey or goose … coffee, wine.”

  “That’s one meal. How about some onions?”

  “Drag it back aboard and I’ll go shares. God, what a shitten life this is,” Alan mourned.

  “It will get better once we’re back at sea. This idling is bad for us,” Keith said.

  “What’s the bloody difference?” Lewrie eyed a passing barge with the spy glass. “Ahoy there!”

  “Passing,” came the faint reply.

  “Boredom and deprivation in port is pretty much like boredom and deprivation at sea, only not as noisy,” Lewrie griped.