King`s Captain

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Like a presaging omen of his new-found prospects, the coach ride up to London had been a cool but sunny delight. The weather had turned off splendid, the roads dried out, but not so dusty they couldn't lower the sash windows of their coach and savour the aromas and sounds of a marvelous springtime, though travelling with children aboard wasn't a thing Lewrie was quite used to. There were times he envied Andrews-up on the driver's seat with their coachee to make room in-board and free of the nonsense. " London!" Charlotte would scream, whenever a new village or town loomed up before them. "Are we there yet?" Hugh would demand… at about every tenth milepost. Sewallis, thankfully, kept his own counsel for the most part, and his lip buttoned, decrying only the most marvelous sights which flickered by as their coach reeled off a goodly clip, almost as fast as one of the new "balloon coaches" which bore the Royal Mails. No mud-well, not much, anyway-flew up to daub them, no herds of geese, sheep, beeves, or turkeys blocked the road so completely they'd have to come to a complete stop…

No, the delays they suffered were for nourishment, for sweets or fruits hawked by pedlars at the kerbs of the towns they passed. And, of course, the inevitable "… Mummy, I have to, uhm… now.¹" bawled by Charlotte, sometimes by Hugh. "But, darling, you just, uhm… not a mile back." "I know, but Mummy…!" Hugh, at least, could be taken behind a hedge by the side of the road, whilst the horses got a rest; Charlotte, though… well, that required a proper inn, a proper jakes, a proper escort from Caroline or Sophie with the family's travelling "necessary" bundle. Followed by a sweet, perhaps…?

"Commander Lewrie?" the tiler gawked. "Back again, are we, sir? Aye, sir… on th' list, sir. Workin' ya like a dray-horse, ain't they, sir? In an' out, in an' out. Go-on-in, sir, there's-a-horde-o'-others waitin'…"

And again in a promising omen, his heels had barely cooled in the infamous Waiting Room before his name was called and he was abovestairs to see Nepean once more. And it was personally gratifying for Lewrie to have so many contemporaries in the Waiting Room that day, even some of the renowned fighting captains, peer from their corner coteries of admirers and well-wishers to wonder who he was or why he had the gold St. Vincent medal clattering on his chest as he made his way to the stairs.

"Commander Lewrie, aha," Evan Nepean commented, allowing himself a stab at "glad" welcome. "Do take a seat, sir. You've quite enjoyed a few weeks ashore, I take it?"

"Oh quite, Mister Nepean," Lewrie replied, hat in his lap and his legs crossed. Damme, this is goin' main-well, he allowed himself to imagine. "Though I did take a trip down to Portsmouth to visit my old ship… try to talk the hands remaining out of their nonsense. Wasn't to be, sorry to say."

"Aha," Nepean barked, looking cross. " Portsmouth, did you? I see. And whilst there, sir… did you happen to come across any tracts amongst, your former crew, sir? Of a radical, rebellious nature, which might be to blame for this mutiny?" Nepean suddenly demanded.

"None, sir," Lewrie replied, guardedly. "And on that head, sir, I did enquire. But I was assured by my old Bosun that he'd seen none, and that the, uhm, disturbance was spontaneous-within the Fleet-with no prompting from shore. Though with so many Quota Men, these United Irishmen being 'pressed lately, well… there's sure to be radicals in each draught from the receiving ships. Spirit of the times,,more-like, sir. Known him since '81, sir, and he's truthful as the day is…"

"Hmmm… odd." Nepean sighed, looking disappointed. "We were sure… the Duke of Portland… responsible for hunting down utterers of treason and mutinous, rebellious assemblages. He's agents afoot in Portsmouth, looking into the matter. Done a magnificent job of hounding our Republican schemers. Break up every meeting place, drive them from pillar to post. We'd hopes that the plucking… or the arrest and silencing of a few ranters might defuse this… take away their leadership, d'ye see. Can't expect lack-wit, drunken sailors to hold out for long once the instigators are cast into prison, hmm?"

"Beg pardon, Mister Nepean," Lewrie countered. "But it was my impression that the sailors did their own scheming… crosspatch or no. I'll grant you, the petitions my old hands showed me were written rather well, which might seem suspiciously like someone wrote 'em for them, but… our tars ain't that child-like, the bulk of 'em. Oh, the total lubbers, the failed 'prentices, and clerks with grudges…"

"You do not side with the sailors' demands, do you, sir?" the secretary posed. "Surely," he purred, come over all suspicious.

Shit! Lewrie sighed; and it was goin' so bloody well.¹ I'll be hauled out o' here in chains, next!

"Of course not, sir!" he barked back, laying a thick scowl 'pon his phyz. "And I was most distressed to find my counsel wasted, even with men I'd sailed with for years. Trusted…!"

He almost thought of throwing in a petulant "ungrateful curs!" which seemed to be the common coin lately, but forebade.

"I am gratified to hear that, Commander Lewrie," Nepean said, seeming to relent. He got that quirky "I know something you don't" smirk on his face, thumbed a folder to his right, and drew out a sheet of paper. He held it up to the light to read over just once more, to prolong the suspense. He let out a satisfied wee sniff.

Bastard! Lewrie thought in heat, though posing "just waiting."

"It is my honour to tell you, Commander Lewrie, that our Lords Commissioners have seen fit to offer you the Proteus Frigate."

"And it is my honour to accept, sir… gladly!" Lewrie breathed in relief. "Where is she, sir?"

"At Chatham Dockyard, Lewrie." Nepean deigned to grin, holding out that precious document 'twixt thumb and forefinger. Florid scrollwork in the penmanship, yet legible as block-printing and suitable to the solemnity of the occasion; a square stamp in the upper left-hand corner bearing the seal of Admiralty embossed into the thick paper… and a tax stamp halfway down the left side.

By the Commifsioners for executing the Office of Lord. High. Admiral of Great Britain, and. Ireland c and all of his Majesty's Plantations c.

To Captain Alan Lewrie, hereby appointed Captain of his Majesty's

Ship the Proteus.

"Dear Lord." Alan grinned in awe. "What is she, sir?"

Nepean chuckled with amusement at his surprise, "A 32-gun of the 5th Rate… which requires a Post-Captain into her."

God, they've been building those for years, Alan thought quickly; lying at Chatham… sure to be a total refit and old as the hills, but no matter! He was now to make Ј15 8s. per lunar month, have an honest-to-God frigate to command! And he'd made the long leap to "post" at last! There it was in black-and-white, down in the left-hand bottom corner-his date of seniority. Newest of the new-again it was no matter! Junior-most captain in the Fleet that morning to be certain. Yet… who in Hell gave a tinker's damn for that?

"Proteus," he muttered, savouring her name. "The divine oracle of Greek myth, as I recall… the so-called 'Shepherd of the Sea'?"

"Uhm, more like the Roman, Captain Lewrie," Nepean corrected, pulling at his nose. "B'lieve Nereus was the Greek. Fathered all the Naiads…?"

Are we there yet? Lewrie wondered, hiding his smile; wonder if old Nereus, or Proteus, got asked that? Well, I was close, key?

"… one could assume so many shapes when he was cornered, before revealing the truth of the matter, a proper oracle." Nepean smirked.

Damn useful social skill, Lewrie thought; sounds like me… and sounds like we 'II get on together.

"Well, then…" Nepean drawled.

"I'll take my leave then, sir"-Lewrie cried, leaping to his feet and knowing an exit cue when he heard one-"and coach down to Chatham instanter."

"Just left the graving dock, I believe she has, sir," Mr. Nepean informed him, already digging at a pile of more pressing letters. "A partial crew aboard. Time enough, though, for a slight celebration… and for you to go well stocked in cabin stores, hmm?"

"Aye, sir, I s'pose," Lewrie allowed, wishing he could shift his epaulet to his right shoulder that instant, so he could descend to the Waiting Room and put a nose or two out of joint. "My thanks, sir… my undying thanks. Good morning to you, Mister Nepean."

"And a good morning to you, Captain Lewrie," Nepean had grace enough to say. "Do you remember to see my under-clerk on your way, sir. There is the slight matter of the tax…?"

"Ah, yes," Lewrie soured a bit, taking a look at the stamp upon that precious document. They were dunning him for another two shillings and six pence! "Right, then…"

"How did you put it last time, Captain Lewrie?" Nepean drawled, tweaking him a trifle sardonically. " 'Damme, had I known it was this cheap, I'd have done it long before'?"

"Uhm… aye, sir," Lewrie cringed. "Quite."

He turned to go, then stopped himself, reminded of a vital point which had not been mentioned, but should have been.

"Uhm, Mister Nepean, sir…"

"Uhmm?" Nepean replied, looking up from his papers with a brow cocked in the beginnings of petulant impatience, though not stretched quite so thin as to bark or bare his teeth… yet.

"The matter of my retinue, so to speak, sir. Usually a captain is allowed some of his old hands to accompany him into a new ship."

"Ah, yes." Nepean sighed, abandoning his work, faced with what amounted to a real problem and not a time-waster. He steepled fingers below the vane of his nose, brow creased in thought.

"I've my Cox'n, my clerk, and cabin-steward with me, sir, that's the

lot. Perhaps some hands off Jester could be called away to Chatham? There's my old Bosun, a damned good gunner named Rahl… Yeoman of The Powder now, but a keen-eyed shot as Quarter-Gunner should he take the re-rating. There are some Able Seamen been with me since Toulon…"

"But, Captain Lewrie," Nepean frowned, opening his hands and closing one to a fist, so he could shake an admonitory finger at him, "your last ship now lies at Portsmouth and is reputed to be actively supportive of the sailors' cause. We simply cannot have men such as those spread throughout the rest of the Navy, which is so far free of the taint of mutiny. I know it is the custom and usage that captains have reliable, personally spoken-for men from their last ships, but… given the fragile nature of these current circumstances, I do not see how we may oblige you. 'Pon: my life, I can't."

"I see, sir," Lewrie sighed, crestfallen, and pondering how he would fare, recruiting at Chatham, in a strange town, without a single old hand ashore at any "rondy" to vouch for him. Did he not gather a proper crew in a set period of time, his precious commission document would be so much bum-fodder-they'd assign another new Post-Captain to take his place, and he'd revert to being a Commander, waiting his turn at another sloop of war, if he was lucky. Or stuck at home back in Anglesgreen with all its distasteful, civilian, and domestic doings, fretting crops and Sophie and Harry Embleton, were he not!

"Once aboard at Chatham, you may forward to me a list of names you might recall from previous commissions, Captain Lewrie," Nepean suggested-tossed out like a sop he didn't have to spend much on. "Then, are they still in the Navy, and are they presently aboard ship in an untainted port, we may be able to accommodate you, but…" Mr. Nepean lifted his hands palms up and gave him one of those hopeless and powerless shrugs more commonly seen on rug merchants who'd failed to strike a compromise on price.

"I see, sir," Lewrie sighed, much abashed.

"Ah, but you're such a knacky and resourceful fellow, Lewrie," Nepean said with a purr, which meant he wouldn't lift a finger more to help him in this regard, "and you've taken command of vessels before, where you were too junior a lieutenant to fetch aboard your favourites. I'm sure, once you explain your plight to the Regulating Captain of the Impress Service at Chatham, he will send you such trustworthy hands and petty officers as he has. I will write him at once, and send a copy on to Vice-Admiral Charles Buckner, flag officer commanding at the Nore. 'Twixt the two of them, I am certain you will find proper redress."

"That's satisfactory, sir… thankee," Lewrie told him, though it wasn't in the least satisfactory-in normal times.

"Well then, Captain Lewrie," Nepean said, "allow me to wish success to His Majesty's Ship Proteus… and to her new captain then. May all good fortune attend you, and her, sir."

'Long as I just go! Lewrie snickered to himself.

"I'll see what I can 'bout success, sir. Good day."