Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

"Uhm, of course, he may," Garvey replied, taken aback by Alan's reaction. "You may." He'd thought to punish this upstart for treating his kin so badly, to be the whipping boy for the Admiralty's callous unconcern for their comforts. To put this "newly" in his place, right from the start!

"And may I be allowed to inquire, sir, as to whether I may give leave tickets to my hands, too, sir?" Lewrie fairly oozed unctuous oils of sociability, sounding as though butter would not melt in his mouth. "Once Alacrity is reprovisioned and suitable luggers found, before we begin our surveying, sir?"

"I might allow it," Garvey almost sulked, put out that Alan was not "put out."

"Within reason, mind."

"Further, sir, might I inquire as to your Standing Orders for the Bahamas Squadron?" Lewrie pressed, bestowing blissful smiles upon his station commander. "Do you require captains to sleep aboard, as I do believe the Channel Squadron is wont to do in wartime? Or may I consider shore lodgings for myself between voyages, sir?"

"Like to stretch your legs on solid ground, do you?" Garvey asked, lifting an eyebrow, which evident suspicion as to his motives almost made Lewrie cringe with worry it might be disallowed.

"A run ashore now and again would be welcome, sir," Lewrie replied with bright-eyed innocence. "Within limits, of course, sir."

"I do not begrudge my officers their pleasures, Lewrie," Garvey informed him. "What's good for Jack is good for his betters aft. So long as you conduct yourself with the proper decorum expected of a Sea Officer, a Christian, and an English gentleman."

And just when did you last see decorous Sea Officers, Lewrie asked himself in wonder at such a ludicrous statement? Leaping rantipole and playing balum-rancum in church? Hymn-singing in brothels?

"So I would have time to seek out an establishment, sir?" Alan said, cocking a brow of his own to nail the agreement shut without having to mention the necessity of such lodgings, or the fact that he had brought Caroline with him. He didn't think Garvey would care for that.

"I suppose," Garvey sighed. "Yes, you may."

"Thank you, sir. Quite grateful. Quite."

"Before you sail, I will send specific orders aboard, Lewrie," Garvey went on, pulling the packet of official documents to him for an excuse to dismiss him. "As to the survey, what needs doing against our piracy problem, the enforcement of the Navigation Acts, and how I expect ships of the Bahamas Station to conduct themselves. Use your hydrographic work to familiarize yourself with what perils our waters hold. And remember, I warn you now, to handle your vessel with due care and sober rectitude, or I'll dismiss you from her command and replace you with an officer who does things my way. Hear me?"

"I understand you completely, sir," Lewrie told him with sucha sober and abashed countenance that even Garvey thought he'd gotten his message rammed home sufficiently.

"What with all this correspondence, and the cares of this squadron, I have no more time for you, Lewrie. You may dismiss."

"Thank you for receiving me so promptly, sir."

Chapter 2

"Fubsy, crusty dilberry," Lewne seethed at supper ashore that evening, "combed like a louse from the hairy, dirty black fundament of all Creation!"

Caroline put her napkin to her mouth to hide her snickering.

"Pompous, posturing, pus-gutted, hymn-singing… barnacle!" He ranted on, though in a low voice, as he wrangled knife and fork over a stringy cut of beef tougher than old anchor cables which would end up costing him half a crown when the reckoning was fetched.

"Alan, dearest," Caroline suggested once she trusted herself to lower the napkin and not cackle out loud at his frustrated antics, "I am so sorry this Garvey was so uncharitable towards you, truly. But he is your superior, after all. Do compose yourself. Or, at the least, wait until we're in our set of rooms. Who knows who might be listening?" She waved one hand at the many officers at table nearby.

"Sorry, Caroline, but the man rowed me beyond all temperance," Alan sighed, giving up on the "choice cut of English beefsteak" and leaning back in his chair. At least the wine was more than palatable, and he topped up their glasses. Bloody shilling the bottle, he noted chalked on the neck. Nassau had grown no less expensive than it had been during the war. "I don't believe anything could please the man."

"Out of sight, out of mind, then," she replied. "On this survey of yours. Which I am certain you shall complete most successfully, if I know the slightest bit about you. And when you return, he may by then have more regard for your abilities."

Alan reached across the table to take her hand and give her a thankful squeeze. "You're right, of course." He canned, and rewarded her with a fond smile. "Thank you for having good sense enough for both of us, darling. And for your regard for my abilities. Truly, I am coming to realize that I am the most blessed of men."

"When you go on a rant, you are so almighty amusing, though," she confided with a quiet laugh. "Thank you, Alan."

"For what, my dear?"

"For taking me into your confidence," she said. "For sharing with me your worries, and your hopes. For listening to my thoughts."

"Always, my dearest," he vowed happily.

"Ahem." The black waiter coughed as he came to the table.

"You may clear mine," Alan said. "The dogs may now break their teeth on it."

"Uhm, yassuh. Uhm, dese notes be fo' you, sah. Dot gen'mun in de cornah, Cap'um Finney, like ya an' de missus t'join him ot his table. Un' dot Navy officah ovah dere, sah, he does, too, sah. De missus done with her groupah, mo'om? He's a sweet fish, mo'om. He kin eat good, sweet as de lobstah, any day." Alan opened the first note to find an almost illegible scrawl, and looked up to gaze upon the man who had sent it Captain Finney was a civilian in overdone finery, handsome, blond and darkly tanned. He peered at Alan with an almost hopelessly naive expression of longing, and ducked him a smile. He was surrounded by a brace of shoddy types, though, with a trio of obvious trulls for companions. Alan wanted no part of them. He opened the second note.

"Got de Stilton un' ex'ra fine biscuit, got de fine port, got de key-lime puddin', un' got de Brazil cawfy, black un' hot," the waiter enticed. "Sah, mo'om? Raisin duff? Sherry trifle? Key-time puddin?"

"Let's have the key-lime pudding!" Caroline suggested eagerly. "It sounds marvelous, and I've never had it before!"

"Let's do," Alan agreed. "For two, with coffee. And please give Captain Finney our regrets, but I do not know him, nor wish to join him. Do, however, deliver my compliments to Commander Rodgers and we will be delighted to join him and his companion. We will take our dessert and coffee with them."

"Ah tell'em, sah."

Lewrie smiled at the Navy officer, then turned and gave the man Finney a short, dismissive shake of his head. He turned back to look at Caroline, and winced as he saw her single arched eyebrow.

"If that suits you, Caroline?" He grimaced. "Forgive me, dear, for not asking your preference, but I'm so new at being married, I…"

"Oh, Alan, we both are!" she whispered, forgiving him instantly, and tilting her head to one side fondly. "Two invitations?"

"One from the Navy officer yonder. A Commander Rodgers. And one from the thatch-haired fellow and his crew. Some fellow named Finney."

"Heavens," Caroline muttered as she eyed the other party. "Too seedy a lot for me. Alan, I could swear those women with them… Dear Lord, darling. So that's what prostitutes look like?" She grinned.

She shivered and turned her gaze back to Alan.

"Finney is the one in the center, dear?" she asked. "The man just leered at me! Of course, we'll accept Commander Rodgers' kind request. He's senior to you? And kindly disposed to you, there's a wonder, after your horrid morning. Let us, do."

Thank bloody Christ, Lewrie thought, relieved to have escaped a thoughtless deed; damme, but this marriage business is a terror!

He knew himself well enough as a selfish rogue, and he was used to giving orders and having them obeyed, so having to take counsel with someone else, not having his wishes treated as Holy Writ, was a wrench.

They crossed to the other table and the introductions were made. Commander Benjamin Rodgers was about thirty, a trifle stocky, and dark as a Welshman. His companion was a young lady in her middle twenties named Elizabeth Mustin, a saucy brown-haired piece with sparkling blue eyes, and a most impressive, toplofty figure.

"Off that ketch-rig come in this morning?" Commander Rodgers asked, then answered his own question. " 'Course you are, ya had to be, a new officer I never clapped top-lights on before. Knew it! Welcome to the Bahamas Station, Captain Lewrie. Take joy o' your posting!"

"Thank you, sir. And your ship is…?"

"Whippet, twenty guns. 6th Rate Sloop o' War," Rodgers answered.

Lord, yes, he was senior! Sloop was a loose catchall term for any vessel larger than a bomb, revenue cutter or armed yacht below the standardized Rates; Alacrity was technically a sloop, no matter how she was rigged aloft. But a sloop of war was a miniature frigate, smallest of the three-masted, ship-rigged vessels in the Fleet, and her captain was Post-Captain in all but name, sure to be "made post" soon.

Rodgers already wore a post-captain's "iron-bound" coat, but for three cuff buttons instead of four, and profuse with gold lace. The mark of a man rising to the top of the seniority list like a signal rocket.

"Are there many on station, sir?" Alan asked.

"Only one more, Ariel," Rodgers informed him. "You know how reduced the Fleet is, as I'm certain our lord and master told you when you reported to him this morning. Saw you being rowed ashore like Hell's Fire was licking your gig's transom, hey?"

"Aye, sir," Lewrie grinned as their coffee and pudding arrived.

"We're a sorry lot these days," Rodgers babbled on happily. "A single 4th Rate fifty-gunner, Royal Arthur, our flag. We possess but one frigate, Captain Quids' Guardian, and she's only a twenty-eight. We've half a dozen others, from revenue cutter-sized, two-masted luggers or schooners, or brig-rigged or ketch-rigged sloops, like yours. Too few, too slow, too weak, and too bloody lost from where troubles occur. Oh, pardons Mistress Lewrie, for my language."

"I have heard worse, from my husband, Commander Rodgers," Caroline informed him with a chuckle, "and that, recently."

"Mean to say you two really are married?" Rodgers marveled. "I thought… pardons again, but my experience o' Navy marriages is that most of 'em're but a convenient sham, and for a man frisk his future 'fore makin' post… ouch!"

"Pay him no mind, Ben's a conceited arse," Elizabeth Mustin said after poking her innamorato in the ribs, but with no real sign of anger. "Yes, dear… some officers do wed those they love."

"You set a hellish-bad example for all of us, Captain Lewrie," Rodgers admitted, not the slightest bit abashed. "Once the word gets out, every girl in poit'll be having your good lady over, to fathom how she got you to go for the high jump! My dear Mistress Lewrie, this is the sort o' fame you could dine out on for years, don't ya know. What say ye to a toast to the happy couple? Champagne, hey?"