Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

"Passin' the word fer the first l'ten't!" came a call from the upper deck, and Alan uttered a soft curse at the interruption of his planned pleasures. He tossed his fresh-washed sheepgut condom back into his sea chest and slammed the lid in frustration. Damme, it's been two months! he sulked on his way topside.

"Cap'n warnts ya aft, sir," the messenger told him.

"Thank you." Alan shrugged. He was turned out in his best uniform, and was grateful for the awnings rigged over the quarterdeck so he would not sweat his best clothes clammy, but it would be hot and close in Lilycrop's great cabin.

"You wished to see me, sir?" Alan asked once he had been admitted.

"Yes, Mister Lewrie. Sit ye down. You know where the wine is, by now. Fetch yourself a glass."

Alan poured himself some hock which Gooch had been cooling in the bilges, shoved a cat out of his usual chair, and glared at the rest, as if daring them to climb up on him and leave a quarter-pound of hair on his fresh breeches.

"You had plans to go ashore this evenin'. I see," Lilycrop said, noting how well he was turned out.

"Aye, I did, sir. But if there's any service I may do you…?"

"Oh God, but you look such a choir-boy when you do that," Lilycrop chuckled. "You'd rather be stuffed into some willin' wench than do me a service, an' well you know it. More to the point, so do I, by now."

"Aye, sir," Alan admitted, allowing himself a small smile.

"Can't say as you didn't earn your fun. Mister Lewrie," the captain went on, leaning back in his chair with both feet on his desk and a cat crouching on either leg. "Fact is, though, you may have to delay any hopes of fuckin' yourself half-blind, at least for this night. I've been bade dine aboard the flag, along with my first officer."

"With Admiral Rowley, sir?" Alan asked, perking up at the news.

"One may assume so. Seems we've been active little bodies, all but winnin' the war single-handed or such," Lilycrop hooted in glee. "And it don't hurt our cause we've lined the admiral's purse with prize-money, neither. Six month ago, he didn't know who the bloody hell we were, and I expect he'd like to show a little appreciation to us. Now, you can pass up a crack at the whores for a night for that, can't you, Lewrie."

"Oh, aye, sir!" Alan preened, excited at being known personally to the flag. "Lead me to it. And I'm told he sets a good table, too."

"You have my word on that," Lilycrop replied, for he had dined aboard the flag once before. "Fine things can happen yet, even if this war of ours seems to be peterin' out."

"Time enough for a lieutenant master and commander to be made post, perhaps, sir?" Alan hinted.

"I'll not hold my breath on that, mind." Lilycrop shrugged, but Alan knew the hope was there nevertheless. "Just wanted to catch you before you went ashore. Have my gig ready at seven bells of the first-dog. And since you're dressed to kill already, I'll not have to tell you to do so. That'll be all, Mister Lewrie."

"Aye, sir."

Chapter 2

Amazing how quiet we are, Alan thought to himself as he sipped his soup in the admiral's cabins aboard the flagship. It was a small supper party, and not one prone to much conversation. Lieutenant Lilycrop was head down and almost grim with determination not to make an ass of himself, and as long as he was silent, his first lieutenant should keep his own mouth shut, if he knew what was good for him.

Adml. Sir Joshua Rowley presided at the head of the table, a man of some girth and seniority. Next to him on his right was a Lieutenant Colonel Peacock, commanding one of the regiments that garrisoned the island of Jamaica, resplendent in polished metal gorget, scarlet waist sash and red regimentals. To the admiral's left sat a civilian in a bottle-green silk suiting, a Mr. Cowell.

The next pair of diners were, on the right, a Captain Eccles of Lieutenant Colonel Peacock's regiment; at least, to Lewrie's eyes, their regimental button-hole trim matched. Across the table from Eccles was another civilian named to them as a Mr. McGilliveray, a young man in his mid-twenties or so. From the poor quality of his snuff-colored suiting of "ditto"-matching coat, waist-coat and breeches-Alan assumed that he was Cowell's secretary, or something menial.

Then came Lewrie on the admiral's left, and Lieutenant Lilycrop across from him on the right. There had been a place laid for the admiral's flag-captain at the foot of the table, but he had not been able to attend at the last moment.

There had been some conversation, of the dullest and blandest sort, when they arrived, and the admiral traded gossip at the head of the table with his more distinguished guests, which did not extend to the people below the salt. From Cowell's comments, Alan gathered that he was not long from London. Turning to McGilliveray, his dining companion on his right, Alan said, "I take it you're out from Home recently?"

"Not in about a year, sorry," the man replied with almost a guttural slurring of his words, which led Alan to wonder if he was drunk as a lord already.

"Ah. I'm from London, you see," Alan went on. "Thought you might know something entertaining about things there."

"Oh, London." McGilliveray brightened slightly (but only slightly). "Yes, six months ago. About the same sort of thing as usual. Crowded, prices too high, much too noisy."

"My dear fellow, that's exactly what I like about London!" Alan said with a small laugh. "No, I meant some new scandal or something."

"I don't follow Society," McGilliveray sniffed, prim as any Scottish deacon, which put paid to any more hopes of conversation from that source.

Damned odd sort, Alan thought, trying to find a niche for the man in his mind. He was dressed almost poor (and had an excruciatingly bad tailor) but carried himself without deference to Cowell. With a name like McGilliveray, Alan expected him to be a Scot, but if he was, he was a Scot/Dago, for the man was almost coppery red in complexion, with the blackest hair Alan ever did see, parted in the center and drawn back into a long, almost seamanly queue that reached down to the middle of his back. His face was broad, and his nose was hooked as a hawk, broad as it was to match those high cheekbones.

Alan turned away as the soup was removed and a smoking joint of mutton made its appearance on the table. Liveried servants passed behind the diners with small boiled potatoes and peas.

Lilycrop rose and hacked at the joint to carve the diners their choice. As a meal, Alan could not fault it; the mutton was followed by boiled lobsters and fresh-dredged crabs, with the Bordeaux replaced with bottles of cooled hock. Before the hock was removed, it went well with the small game birds, and claret replaced the hock to be served with the roast beef without which an English meal would not be complete. To sweeten the palate, slices of tropical fruit were served, then the cheese and biscuit.

The water glasses were removed, and servants topped up their glasses with claret. Admiral Rowley cocked a weather eye at Lewrie.

As the most junior officer at table, Alan knew his duty. He rose to his feet and raised his glass.

"My lord, gentlemen, the King," he said as they rose.

"The King," they chorused, Lieutenant Colonel Peacock almost smashing his skull open on an overhead deck beam, and whispering "God Bless Him." Obviously Peacock was from one of those regiments that were allowed that nicety by their sovereign in times past.

They sat back down and the tablecloth was whisked away and the last of the claret drunk while the port was set out for them, along with a large silver bowl of nuts to join the cheese and biscuit.

"Should nature have her way with your digestion, I urge you to attend to your needs now, gentlemen, so we shall have no interruptions," Admiral Rowley said, more in the way of an order. It took about ten minutes before everyone had voided whatever irked them and were back at table. Rowley sent the servants away rather pointedly.

"Gentlemen, I trust you have enjoyed what bounty I was able to offer?" Rowley began once their odd assemblage were the only people in the huge dining alcove of the great cabins. "Now, let us turn our heads to business. Lieutenant Lilycrop, Lewrie; Mister Cowell is a representative of His Majesty's government. Sorry you were kept in the dark, and the dinner conversation did not sparkle, but certain precautions had to be taken so that word of our meeting did not get round to the wrong people. Mister Cowell, sir. If you would be so kind as to explain your purpose."

Cowell was one of those people who thought better on his feet, or felt he had to pace when he orated, like a Member of Parliament.

"Gentlemen, I am sure you are aware as I this war is lost," he began rather dramatically. "Not the one against our classic enemies, the French, Spanish or Dutch, but the war in the Colonies. Our last armies gone except for the New York and Charleston garrisons, Lord Shelbume in charge now that Lord Rockingham has died, and our ambassadors treating at Versailles. The official end could come soon, perhaps on the next packet from England."

Just what I needed, Alan thought glumly, wondering if he could crack a nut to snack on during Cowell's harangue. A bloody sermon. He settled for a sip of port.

"This is not to say that England shall curl up like a worm in hot ashes and shrivel away, sirs," Cowell said, giving them a slight grin of encouragement, to which everyone grunted their "here, here's," much like a back-bencher Vicar of Bray in the Commons.

"Reports from India suggest we hold the upper hand against the French fleet at long last, have subdued the rebellious sultans, and look to evict the French from Pondichery once and for all," Cowell went on.

"Should never have given it back after the last war," Lilycrop growled, slicing himself a morsel of a rather fresh Stilton.

"I quite agree, Lieutenant," Cowell said, looking anything but pleased to be interrupted. "And here in the West Indies, the Sugar Islands are safe since de Grasse's fleet has been scattered. We hold the old French Canadian colonies and the maritime approaches to the Americas. St. Kitts shall come back at the treaty table, I assure you. No, the government's biggest worry right now is what the Rebels mean to do with their new lands, and how France or Spain may profit thereby."

"The Frogs might try buying territory, you mean," Alan said, almost without thinking, or more like thinking aloud. Cowell swiveled a glance in his direction, obviously unused to being interrupted so often by people below his station in life, and Alan was glad he had spoken. "We took a French ship last year loaded with artillery and draft horses and what-not. She also carried more than seventy thousand pounds, to be used for bribes or gifts to influential members of the Rebels' Congress or whatever they call it," Alan went on.

"I refer more to awards of territory to recompense the French and Spanish for their assistance and material support, sir," Cowell huffed, and the others looked at Alan as though he had broken wind at table-such was simply not done! Lieutenant Colonel Peacock glared as though Alan were one of his junior officers, he'd be in irons that instant.

"We shall not give them one acre, sir, but what the Rebels may do is open to question, and a formal military expedition to express our displeasure at any reward of territory is simply not in the cards. What we may do informally, though, is another matter entirely," Cowell said with a sly grin. "And there are methods by which the French and Spanish, who are already out untold riches, and in financial difficulty by their support of this unlawful Rebellion, may be discomfited and confounded in those territories they already possess, souring their appetites for more."