The King's Coat

by Dewey Lambdin

  “At least at sea, we’re too busy to care.”

  “Of all the ships I had to be put on, why this one? Why not one that can shoot and do something exciting?”

  “We’ll do better,” Ashburn promised firmly. “Now we see how bad we did, we’ve been working the gun crews properly.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Alan drawled.

  “Of course I do, I have to.”

  “Is the rest of the Navy like this? Because if it is I’ll be glad to make my fortune as a pimp soon as we’re paid off.”

  “That’s disloyal talk, Alan,” Ashburn told him.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Keith. You’re educated. You’ve been in a couple of ships now. Let’s just say I have a fresher outlook. Tell me if you’ve seen better ships. And don’t go all noble about it.”

  “Alan, you must know that I love the Navy…” Keith began.

  “Believe me, after listening to you for three months, I know.”

  “It … Ariadne is not the best I’ve served in,” Keith muttered. “What’s your concern? You’re the one was dragooned here. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “All your talk about prize money and fame,” Alan said. “What do I have if this war ends? A small rouleau of guineas and that’s it. In peacetime, I’d end up selling my clothes in a year. I can’t go home, and without a full purse I can’t set myself up in any trade. I think I could make a go of this, miserable as it can be at times, if I were on another ship, one that could fight and shoot, and go where the prize money is.”

  “Hark the true sailorman!” Keith was amused at Lewrie’s sudden ambitions, which made him sound like any officer or warrant that Ashburn had ever listened to. “Bravo! We’ll make a post-captain of you yet.”

  “Or kill me first,” Alan said. But the fantasy was tempting. If I were a post-captain, wouldn’t that make all those bastards back home bite on the furniture? Now that would be a pretty crow pie …

  * * *

  Ariadne finally weighed and sailed, and it was back across the Atlantic to England with another convoy. Once home, she swung about her anchor in Plymouth, in Falmouth, in Bristol before shepherding more ships across the Atlantic to Halifax, Louisburg or New York, facing the same winds, the same seas, the same food and hours of gun drill and sail handling with the same work of replenishment and loading at each end, until Ariadne could have done it in her sleep. Some men died, fallen from aloft and vanished astern. Some sickened from the weather and came down with the flux. Some could not stomach the food, though it was more plentiful and regular than what they would have gotten in their country crofts, and more healthful than the dubious offerings of a slum ordinary.

  Some were injured by cargo or gun carriages, and suffered amputation. Men were ruptured by heaving on lines or cables. Men went on a steady parade to the gratings. So many miles were rolled off astern across the ocean in all her moods and weathers. So many pounds of salt-beef, pork, biscuit, peas, and raisins and flour were issued. So many gallons of small beer, red wine and tan water were swallowed. It all blended into seven months of such a limitless, unremarked and pointless existence that hardly anything seemed to relieve it of its sameness.

  There were some small delights, even so. He crossed swords at small arms drill with Lieutenant Harm and thoroughly humiliated him, to the clandestine joy of the other midshipmen (and most of the crew).

  And there were moments of freedom, when the ship was moored so far out that rowing supplies out would have half-killed the hands, and Alan discovered the pleasure of sailing a small boat under a lugsail, racing other cutters to the docks on a day of brisk wind, then a quick quart for all hands before racing back.

  With his new determination to succeed burning in him, he pored over all the books on the ship, and the only books were nautical in nature. It was impossible not to learn something. One can only practice a task so long without gaining the knowledge of how to do it, and more important, when, unless one were like Chapman. Do a bad knot, get a caning or a tongue-lashing, so one learns a world of useful knots. Do a bad splice and be called a booby by people who have your career in their hands, and one learns to do a good splice.

  Execute the steps of gun drill so often, get quizzed on the amount of powder to be used in various circumstances until you’re letter perfect, and you no longer get abused. Go aloft until you know every reef cringle and clewgarnet, block and splinter of spars, and one finally is allowed a grudging competence to be able to fulfill one’s duty, from both the officers, and the senior hands.

  Measure the sun at noon and work out the spherical trigonometry often enough and you soon learn what is right and what is wrong, whether you really like doing it or not, and navigation can become a tedious but useful skill, and not a horror of stupid errors and their price.

  And with each slowly gained bit of knowledge, with each more seamanly performed chore, with each more day full of danger and challenge that was experienced, Lewrie noticed a change in the way he was treated. From the captain, from Kenyon certainly, old Ellison the sailing master, the mates, the bosun, the Marine captain, even from Mr. Swift, he found less harsh shouting or exasperated invective, fewer occasions to be bent over a gun “for his own good.” There was a gruff acceptance of him and his abilities, as though he and the blue coat were one, and he could do anything that any other blue coat on a blustery night-deck could do in their seagoing pony show, and his new anonymity was blissful.

  And when he performed something so particularly well that even he knew it, there was now and then a firm nod, or a bleak smile, or even a grunt of approval that was as much a treat to his spirits as an hour with a wench with the keys to her master’s wine cabinet.

  There were, too, the reactions of his fellow midshipmen to go by.

  There was Ashburn’s bemused acceptance, Shirke and Bascombe’s sullen scowls of disdain at his progress. There were Chapman’s heavy sighs as he realized that he was being surpassed by yet one more contender for commission, and that his own chances were flying farther from his poor grasp every day. And there was the unspoken deference of the younger boys like Beckett and Striplin, who were already cowed by his size and seeming maturity, and now by his knowledge which had accrued faster than theirs.

  Most especially, there was the hot glow of dislike that Lewrie felt whenever he was around Rolston that was so warming that he thought he could easily toast cheese on it. Ashburn had been the top dog in a blue coat, then Rolston, in the officers’ estimations. It was only natural that an older boy such as Lewrie, once he had attained Rolston’s level in skill and sea-lore, would be thought of as more competent by those worthies, which would automatically force their opinion of young Rolston down to third place, perhaps lower.

  Much as it galled him, Lewrie realized his life had become more tolerable since he had, in the parlance, taken a round turn and two half hitches.

  But that is not to say that he did not secretly loathe every bloody minute of it.

  Chapter 5

  By the Grace of God, and the pleasure of the Admiralty, Ariadne was saved from her ennui by new orders. Lewrie could have kissed them in delight. He still shivered with cold as the ship was driven hard to the west-sou’west by a stiff trade wind. It was a grey, miserable afternoon with an overcast as dull as a cheap pewter bowl, and the sea pale green and white, humping high as hills on either beam. The ship held her starboard gangway near the water as she forged her way across the Atlantic to their new duty station in the West Indies. Somewhere over the larboard beam was Portugal, and she was beginning to pick up the Trades that sweep clockwise about the huge basin that is the Atlantic and blow due west for the islands. Soon she would turn the corner and run with a landsman’s breeze right up her stern for an entire, and exotic, new world, and Alan wondered what it would be like to be warm all the time, to get soaking wet and not consider it a disaster, to see new sights and smells and delight in the fabled pleasures of those far harbors. Like having a woman again—any woman.

  Four
bells chimed from the forecastle belfry—6:00 P.M. and the end of the First Dog Watch. Soon, unless sail had to be reduced for the night, they would stand to evening Quarters at the great guns. Then he could go below out of the harsh winds for more of the smell and the damp and the evil motion of the ship.

  Lewrie sighed in frustration … about the women, or the lack of them, about the irritating sameness of shipboard life and the need to see an unfamiliar face, hear a new voice telling new jokes; about the bland and boiled mediocrity of the food; and most especially about the eternity of life in the Navy. It had been eight months now. With an educated eye he could see that Ariadne was broad-reaching on the larboard tack, with the wind large on her quarter, utilizing jibs, fore and main stays’ls, two reefs in the tops’ls, and three reefs in the courses. The glass was rising and the seas were calming after a day of bashing through half a gale.

  Captain Bales strode the quarterdeck deep in thought, and the sailing master Mr. Ellison leaned on the waist-high bulwarks about the wheel and binnacle, squinting at the sails. Lieutenant Swift loafed by the mizzen shrouds on the lee side with the watch officer, Lieutenant Church. Bales would peer aloft, at the seas astern, and sniff the air heavily. Alan grimaced as he knew what was coming; they would have to take in the courses and take a third reef in the tops’ls for the night. He was halfway to the weather shrouds before Captain Bales shared a silent eye conference with the sailing master and made his decision.

  “All hands!” Swift bellowed as the bosun’s pipes shrilled.

  “Hands aloft to shorten sail.”

  To ease the wind aloft, Ariadne came more southerly to take the wind abeam. Waisters hauled in the braces to larboard. With the third reef came the need for preventer braces and backstays, parrels aloft to keep the yards from swinging and flogging sails, not so much with an eye to sail or yard damage, but to keep the topmen from being flung out and down by a heavy smack by the flying canvas.

  Lewrie left his hat on deck, not wanting it to disappear in the harsh wind. Going aloft had not gotten any easier for him. It still brought his scrotum up to his navel each time.

  “Go, lads, go,” Captain Bales shouted from below as they passed onto the futtock shrouds. “Crack on, Mister Lewrie, speed ’em on.”

  Fine day to get singled out by the old fart, he thought miserably; now I’ll have to be all keen with him watching.

  The wind was a brutal live force aloft, buffeting him and setting his clothing rattling, and the higher he went, the harder it was to breathe as the wind made his cheeks flutter. They assembled in the main crosstrees. Once the yards were braced to satisfaction, and the preventers and parrels rigged, it was time to lay out on the yard. The top captain went out to the weather side first, Lewrie following. Rolston went to the lee side after the number two man. The yard had been lowered slightly and was drumming like a pigeon’s wing as the top captain prepared to pass the weather earring to the third reef line.

  “Haul to weather!”

  Facing inboard on the yard and footrope, they hauled with all their might to shift the weight of the sail as it was clewed up.

  Once hauled up, it was Lewrie’s “honor” to duck below the yard and pass the earring through the reef cringle to the third man seated astride the yardarm. Once secured, and hugging the spar for dear life, it was the lee arm’s turn to perform that dangerous duty. Then it was nail-breaking, herniating exertion to reach forward and haul in the flogging sail, tucking the folds under one’s chest, until the third reef was gathered snug.

  Then came another dangerous chore, no less so now that the sail was under control and the reef-tackles had tautened. One had to squat down on the footrope, one arm from the elbow down the only secure hold from a nasty death, and reach under the yard once again, one’s shoulder below the yard to grab the dancing reef points and bring them back up so they could be tied off. Lewrie could hear Rolston giving someone absolute hell on the lee yardarm for not seizing his on the first try.

  The first and second top captains surveyed their handiwork and found it good. Below them, other men were still tidying up, taking in the main course. The forecourse would be left at three reefs, since it was a lifting effect on the bows.

  “Lay in from the yard!”

  Thank Christ, Lewrie thought, glad to have survived once more.

  They gathered in the top and began making their way down to the deck. Lewrie took hold of the preventer backstay that was already twanging with the weight of the men who had preceded him and began to descend, after glancing over to sting Rolston with a smug look. He lowered himself away quickly and neatly, hand over hand, smearing his clothing with tar and tallow. Then there was a shrill scream …

  He took a death grip on the preventer backstay and locked his legs about it tighter than a virgin, without a further bit of thought. It definitely saved his life. He glanced up, and the whole world was filled by a dirty blue-and-white-checked shirt and a man’s mouth open in a toothy rictus of terror. Horny fingers raked like talons on the sleeve of his jacket, ripping one hand from his grip, and unconsciously he clenched his hand, as though to grab back, though it would have been his own death to have tried. The desperate hand caught on the white turnback cuff of his left sleeve and ripped it loose. Then the man fell past him, and Lewrie watched him with dumb amazement as he performed a lazy spin face-upwards and limbs flailing, to smack spine first onto the inner edge of the starboard gangway. Lewrie could hear the man’s spine snap over the harsh, final thump of the impact. And then Gibbs, late maintopman in the starboard watch, dribbled off the edge of the gangway and fell to the upper gun deck like a limp sack of grain.

  His bowels turned to water and his own limbs began to so tremble, he was himself lucky to reach the deck without accident. But he had to satisfy his morbid curiosity, so he made his way forward until he had a good view, after the bosun’s mates had shooed away the hands. Captain Bales was standing over the man sadly while the surgeon tried to discover some sign of life. The surgeon stood up to signify that it was hopeless. Gibbs would be commented upon in the log and the ship’s books with a very final “DD,” “Discharged, Dead,” washed by the surgeon’s mates and sewn up for burial in the morning by the sail-maker and his crew.

  “A brave attempt, sir,” Bales said to Lewrie, showing the scrap of white cuff he held in his hand.

  “Sir?” Lewrie asked in shock. Does he actually think I tried to save the poor bastard? Alan gawped to himself.

  “Hawkes,” Bales said to the second top captain who had been on the lee yardarm, and who was now weeping openly for his dead friend. “You must keep a better control of your people aloft. I’ll not have them skylarking in the rigging.”

  “Aye, sir,” Hawkes said, cutting a black glance at Rolston, who, Lewrie observed, was standing near and eyeing the corpse with a bright fascination, and licking his lips as if in satisfaction.

  “What happened, Mister Rolston?” Bales demanded.

  “Gibbs overbalanced on the footrope, sir, reaching for a stay before he was on the crosstrees,” Rolston answered quickly, unable to tear his gaze from the bloody body bent at so unnatural an angle, or unable to face Bales’ hard stare. “It was too far to reach.”

  Did he indeed? Lewrie wondered. You had it in for him for back-talking, everybody knows that, had him gagged with a marlinspike half the Day Watch yesterday. Nobody’s so stupid as to leap that far for a stay! There’s something going on here, and I don’t think you’re the innocent Bartholomew Baby you appear to be. I could square your yards right-proper with this, if I handle it right.

  “Was that what happened, Hawkes?” Bales asked.

  “I … I suppose it was, sir.” He wanted to say something else, but not knowing how to in front of his betters, he sounded more resigned than anything else.

  * * *

  Once they were below after evening Quarters, Lewrie searched for a way to begin. Supper was over, the dingy mess cloth removed, and hot rum-punch circulating in lieu of decent port. The surgeon�
�s mates were absent, still preparing the body. Finnegan and Turner were munching on hard cheese and biscuit at the head of the table. The captain’s clerk, Brail, was writing a letter.

  “Lord, what trash,” Keith said softly, wincing at the bite of the rum. “I’d give anything for a run ashore, and a real port for an after-dinner treat.”

  “At least we’ll be able to buy fresh stores at Antigua,” Shirke said. “The ship’s even running low on well-fed rats to cook.”

  “Two-a-penny now, not three,” Bascombe said, rubbing his eyes in weariness. “It’s amazing what an English sailor can eat.”

  “If he can catch it,” Finnegan said boozily. “Now me, I’d admire me a quart of strong ale. Ya can have yer Black Strap n’ yer claret n’ yer port. Ale’s a good … Christian drink.” The pause had been to release a spectacular belch. Turner nodded agreeably, making a gobbling noise through a cheekful of cheese.

  “And for you, Chapman?” Shirke asked, nudging Bascombe so he could appreciate his wit. Chapman, ponderous and dim, was always good for a laugh.

  “Oh.” Chapman pondered long, knowing he was being made fun of once more and determined to respond in kind but not quite sure how. “Country beer was always nice back home. Cool stoup on a hot day.”

  “After bringing in the sheaves,” Shirke said with a straight and innocent face.

  “I like wine, too,” Chapman said, his face flushing with the effort of erudition and repartee. “A nice white now and again.”

  “Miss Taylor, I’ll wager,” Bascombe said, naming the thin acrid white issued by the purser.

  “I’m partial to ale.” Chapman’s fists clenched. It was dangerous to goad him further, for he was a big and powerful lout who could explode if pushed too far. Lewrie had made that mistake once and had been bashed silly for it, before he learned to recognize the warning signs.

  “Did you really murder that topman today, Lewrie?” Shirke asked, turning to safer game.

  “No, but I nicked him with my dirk as he went by,” Lewrie said with a grin. A hand’s spectacular death plunge had to be a topic of conversation in so closed a world sooner or later, and Alan was more than ready for it. It would have been remarkable if no one had thought or said a word about it.