THE GUN KETCH

Chapter 3

"Damme, Mister Keyhoe, there must be some correspondence!" he barked at his round little purser.

"Only pay vouchers, I fear, Captain," Keyhoe sighed, shrinking into his dark blue coat to escape Lewrie's wrath. "The paperwork that comes with Admiralty stores shipped down from Nassau in the packet."

"Did they at least send money for the hands, then?" Alan asked.

"Uh… nossir. The usual certificates, and those six months in arrears, as usual," Keyhoe had to confess.

"So the jobbers ashore'll buy 'em up, and the hands'll have a quarter to a half their true pay, aye," Lewrie almost kicked furniture in his anger.

"Hardly any pay, sir, once they settle their previous debts," Keyhoe muttered on. "Half of it pledged to me for slop-goods, tobacco and sundries. The rest with brothels and taverns ashore on every island hereabouts."

"Damme, this goes beyond punishment," Alan fussed. "This now begins to sound very much like vindictiveness! Bosun's stores?"

"None, sir," Keyhoe confessed.

"Powder and shot?"

"Again, none, sir. Just rum, wine, small beer, biscuit and salt-meat, Captain. Enough for another two months at full rations."

"And what about officers' pay, Mister Keyhoe?" Lieutenant Ballard inquired. "Certificates, too?"

"Aye, sir," Keyhoe huffed. "Had I a way to communicate with my agent in Nassau, I could offer two-thirds value on the certificates, so those vultures ashore don't skin 'em so bad, but I've no coin."

So you're the king-vulture and pocket it all when the ship pays off in 1789, Lewrie thought sourly. There was only one ship's purser he'd ever liked, Mr. Cheatham aboard the Desperate frigate during the war. And he'd kept a chary eye on him, too!

"Well, there'll be drink enough to keep our ship's people easy and groggy," Lewrie stated with a sadly bemused snort. "They'll not starve, but it's issue rations, and nothing fresh, 'less we continue to purchase for 'em when we buy wardroom stores. Damn Garvey!"

"Aye, sir," Ballard said. "But none of us…"

"I know, Mister Ballard, we're 'skint,' too!" Lewrie nodded in total frustration. "Very well. Working party, Mister Ballard. Warp the packet brig alongside and transfer cargo."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"And call away my gig. I'm going ashore," Lewrie decided of a sudden, feeling imprisoned on his own decks.

Alacrity had been in her new patrol area for six months. Long Island, Rum Cay, Conception and Watling's were sparsely settled, if at all, and the principal settlements were on Cat Island. In that remote corner of the southeast Bahamas, packet ships cameirregularly, most often quarterly. For Alacrity, they brought provisions and vouchers, but no mail, and no replies to Lewrie's letters to the Bahamas Squadron. As indolent and hand-to-mouth as life was in these islands, it sometimes felt as if the rest of the world had somehow ceased to be since they had attained them, as if all civilization had fallen. And hadn't bothered to tell them about it. There had been no summons to a Court of Inquiry into Walker's Cay. There had been no notice of a civil trial for damages laid by John Finney. And no answer to Lewrie's urgent requests for powder and shot, sailcloth, rope, tar, paint and nails with which to keep Alacrity in fighting trim and able to keep the sea. Live-firings to maintain the gunners' accuracy were a thing of the past, as was drill at small arms beyond swords and pikes, since dry-firing shattered the flints in their muskets and firelocks on the carriage guns.

There didn't seem to be much point in patrolling the area, either. There was very little sea traffic except for fishing boats and the rare inter-island packet. There was no foe to fight, no trade worth the name to protect, and hence, no piracy to defend against. It was rare to see a deep-draught seagoing ship pass by, since most of the trade headed for Nassau, Eleuthera or the Exumas up north, or down south to the salt isles of the Turks and Caicos in season. Alacrity made a nuisance of herself by stopping every ship she could catch to inspect cargoes and manifests to enforce the Navigation Acts. And plead for their personal letters to be forwarded to Nassau, should a ship be going there.

Yet, most mysufyingly, there had not been one article of mail from the outside world received in the entire six months. And with the lack of personal correspondence, the hands had gone sullen and slack, as had the warrants and officers. Try as they might to keep the men active with hydrographic work, with the erection of night-beacons and day-marks to aid navigation, it was a halfhearted endeavor as weeks wore by with little pay, few amusements and dulling drudgery to face, with no hope of novelty, or relief.

With no Admiralty funds with which to purchase fresh meat and vegetables, Lewrie had resorted to many refreshing shore expeditions. They would land and hunt wild goats, pigs or iguanas. They would lay at anchor for a day or two and let the hands fish, or gather conch from the shallows, then stage "maroons" with music, singing, dancing and drink enough to at least mellow the men as their food cooked by nighttime beach campfires. By day, they'd extemporize the means to play village games like football or cricket, endless "best-of-seven" tournaments of watch against watch. Even that had palled, lately.

Turtle races, cockroach races, rat-catching… they'd tried it all on. They'd allowed the hands to keep parrots they caught ashore, wild kittens and puppies. They tried to capture wild pigs and temper them to abide being penned in the manger forward by the break of the forecastle for later consumption. Lately, only William Pitt was fond of the menagerie, licking his chops in drooling expectation over the fractious shoats, and attempting to creep up on unsuspecting parrots.

On almost uninhabited Rum Cay, Lewrie had rented a small piece of white land, and had hired an older man to watch it for them, with hopes of fresh vegetables and melons, buying the seeds out of his own pocket, as he had several other small lots of supplies. But now, he was down to his last thirty pounds, and was practically living on the ship's rations himself most of the time, with no replies from Nassau requesting funds from his personal accounts. Every officer or warrant with a shore agent was similarly cut off!

And, he had no idea if he was now a father.

Or a widower.

There had been no letters from Caroline; not one!

Childbearing, the ordeal of childbirth, was the scourge of women, no matter how healthy. "Childbed Fever" they called it and even back home in civilized London, the annual bills of mortality bore thousands and thousands of victims. What could be expected in such a rude climate as the Bahamas, with so few skilled physicians he could not force himself to contemplate any longer.

And half of those hopeless drunkards, he thought miserably!

He threw himself into anything, if only so he could cease his frantic brooding for a few hours. Swordplay until he frothed with sweat. Practice upon the flageolet until he could carry a tune from start to finish at a regular meter. Hunting and fishing. Amusing William Pitt with a cork on a piece of string for hours.

And sulking. And morose imaginings of Caroline dead, until his lack of news for good or ill, his hours of staring raptly at her portrait, his fretful sleep and vivid, nightmarish dreams, had sunk him into a deep despondency, a surreal resignation.

Clarence Town on Long Island was a dreadfully boresome place, worse than Anglesgreen on Sunday, and this was a market day. He took a table in the shade of a veranda at the one inn the settlementcould boast and ordered rum, lime juice, sugar and water for a cold punch. He put his feet up in a rickety chair, removed his hat, undid his neck-stock, and settled in for an afternoon of drinking, an activity which was beginning to figure more prominently in his life lately.

There was a London paper nine months old to read, what was left of it, after being pawed over by countless other patrons, so he was in for the day, if he read all eight pages slowly.

"Ho dere, Navy mon," a fetching black girl said from the railing overlooking the sandy street. "Got no-thin' bettah t'do on ya run asho', now, an' you a hon'some young feller, Lord."

Did I bring my condom with me, he asked himself? No, I'll not! There's Caroline, now. Well, would it hurt to sit and at least talk with a woman? Six months, it's been.

"Cat got ya tongue, fine sah?" she teased. She wasn't as dark as most, tarted up in a decent sack gown she'd altered so it fell low off her shoulders, and bared a darkly shadowed cleft between heavy breasts that swelled her bodice far beyond the original owner's design. She sported a wide-brimmed straw hat, tied beneath her chin with a yellow ribbon, and to keep off the August sun, a small parasol which she twirled fetchingly.

Damned handsome wench, Lewrie appraised silently. More coffee-milk than black. Huge brown eyes, that pouty mouth, and… Christ!

"Just taking my ease for the day," he said at last.

"Dot rum punch be bettah wit' de pineopple in it, sah. Ya let me show ya how, sah, an' do I get a glass, I be obliged," she teased. "De son, he be hot t'day, Cap'um sah."

Oh, Christ, I'd best…! He squirmed inside.

"Take a seat with me," he said instead. "Indeed, it is a hot day. I'd not see a lady suffer. And it's a very old paper. And who might you be?"

"M'name's Wyannie, sah. Wyannie Slocum," she smiled in victory.

Hot, sweaty couplings they had, in a rented room of the tavern. Bodies sheened with perspiration as they plunged away at each other in total, wanton abandon. Her legs were strong and muscular, and Wyannie bucked and thrust back at him with equal vigor, enfolding him with all her limbs, writhing and shoving to meet him hard enough to lift him in the air off the crackling straw mattress and creaking bedropes. She squalled and grunted, panted and lowed like a cow, cursed and groaned and shuddered, then ended each time in hissing screams.

There was more rum punch between bouts, mutual sponge-downs with a pitcher of water and a mildewed handcloth, which renewed their heat. She'd roll a firm thigh across him to ride St. George as he squeezed those heavy breasts, or teased large, dark rock-hard nipples with his thumbs. Once she romped atop him facing away toward his feet, which led to her bent forward, kneeling on the side of the rickety, low cot and him standing behind her with a death grip on her madly rocking hips as he thrust deep into her as frantic as a hound, sweat rolling off his chest and belly, off her solidly firm buttocks, to mingle with their juices. They'd bellowed like bulls and had fallen almost senseless in an exhausted swoon after that one, Alan's mind areel with her cheap perfume, a woman's odors, and her exotic, musky aroma.

"You come t'Clarence Town agin, Alan?" she breathed lazy as a cat as she lolled open and idle beside him. She picked up a top-silver palmetto-frond fan and began to cool him. "Got me a nice shack down t'the beach. We c'n go dere nex' time, luvah-mon. Save ya money an' not need t'rent a room heah."

"We never did discuss your fee," Alan sighed. "We were a touch too… eager, for tawdry business talk."

"Ah ain't no who'," she chuckled as she rolled over to kiss and fondle him. "Jus' walk inta town t'market, an' sell m'melons an' veg'tables. Jus' comin' heah t'buy m'rum, an' dere ya wuz, a'lookin' finel Had me a mon, but he drown las' year fishin', an' nobody else since. Nobody 'roun' heah wort' messin' wit'!" she snorted in contempt. "Some as tried. An' I ain't sayin' de lonely don' pester me s'hard I didn' sport wit a mon a time'r two. I be a who', Lord, I en' up payin' you, darlin'! No, I got me a patch o' white Ian', I got de nets, an' goats an' chick'ns, so I c'n keep m'self right good most de time. Ya don' owe me nottin', luv."

"Well, stap me!" Alan purred, pleased as punch at the news.

"I know ya ship come heah once de mont'," she said, sitting up on one elbow and leaning over so her breasts spilled over his chest. "Ya come t'me, hey? I be yer wo-m'n when yer ashore. Ya sport wit' me good's ya do t'day, Wyannie don' need dese no-'count Clarence Town bo-eys. None o' 'urn's ram-goat as you, Cap'um Alan!"

"You make a tempting offer, Wyannie," he told her. "A damned handsome offer!"

"Shack needs t'fix up some. An' I may need a few t'ings, so Ic'n look pritty fo' ya," she allowed. "Ya know wot dey say, shillin' he be good's de poun', in Clarence Town. Mebbe ya gimme two, t'ree shillin' t'tide me ovah 'til ya get bock t'me an' I c'n luv ya agin, hey, darlin' mon? Den I be ya wo-m'n, an' ya have me all t'y'self."

Right, and I'm Prince Henry the Navigator, Alan thought wryly; I thought it sounded a little too good to be true! Still…

"Wot ya say, luv?" she cooed, drawing him over to her, lifting a breast to his face to be suckled and licked, trailing her lips over his neck and shoulders. She reached down to dandle his waking member.

There came a sudden rapping on the flimsy door.

"Damn my eyes," he muttered under his breath. "Who is it?"

"Lieutenant Ballard, sir."

"Oh, shit," Alan started. "Uhm. A moment! Get dressed, girl."

He got to his feet, fuddled with rum punch and weak-kneed from past exertions, and staggered into stockings, breeches and shirt, gave up a search for his shoes, and went to open the door. He tried to step out into the rude hall and close the door behind him so Ballard would not see his companion, but Wyannie had walked into plain sight to bend over and retrieve her shift, and stood there, splendidly, provocatively nude.

Arthur Ballard's brows lifted, his wary eyes flew open, and for a fleeting moment of shock, he lost his usual calm composure. His jaw sagged, until he swallowed and shut his mouth into a prim set, his lower lip even more pouted than usual.

"What is it, Mister Ballard? Something amiss aboard?"

"Ah, no, sir," Ballard replied, still flustered, and blushing like a schoolboy. "But there's a note come aboard, sir, from the local magistrate. Said there's a letter in his possession for us from Cat Island. Been held by him for a month or more, sir."

"Hallelujah!" Alan whooped with joy. After six months of silence, any missive at all was nothing short of miraculous! "Give me a moment to dress, and I'll be right with you."

"Aye, sir. I'D wait on the veranda," Ballard blushed again.

"Do me buttons up, luvah-mon?" she asked him, dressed but for the back of her gown.

"Sorry we were interrupted. I have to go back aboard."

"Dot's fine," she smiled as she turned around to face him. "I gotta be gettin' back t'my place, anyways. Lef m'chillun wit' m'ma t'watch. Don' ya worry 'bout de kids nex' time ya come, Cap'um Alan. I shoo 'um off fo' de night ovah t'momma's."

"Of course," he said, cringing inside.

Christ on a crutch, she has children, he thought! Here I've been bulling her all over the shop, and Caroline… what of my child? Damme, but I can be such a bloody fooll

"Here, Wyannie," he said, pressing a crown into her palm.

"Lord o' mercy, Alan, ya don' need t'gimme dot much!" Wyannie protested. "I tol' ya, I ain't a who'! Two shillin keep me fine 'til ya get back. An' ya don' need t'gimme ev'n dot, luv."

"Five shillings keeps you better," he said gallantly, smiling in spite of his sudden chagrin, and knowing he'd never see her again in this life, if he had any willpower left. "Dresses you prettier, and takes care of those sprouts of yours the better, hey? Widowhood is hard any place you are. And you're much too young and pretty to be a widow in need."

"Ya sweet," she warmed to him, and accepted the coin. She gave him one last fervid embrace, one last series of open-mouthed and moist kisses. "Walk me t'de road, like a gen'mun, hey, Cap'um?"

He saw her down the hall, onto the veranda, where she retrieved her straw baskets and produce bags, doffed his hat and gave her a bow which made her smile so widely that she dimpled as she curtsied to him, and watched her stroll away loose-hipped and proud with a profound sense of relief, yet a smile of pleasant reverie on his face. Even if Arthur Ballard was watching his antics.

"Well, shall we stroll over to the magistrate's, Arthur?"

"Aye, sir."

They set off down the single street Clarence Town could boast, the afternoon swelter of a late August day only slightly tempered by the sea's breeze, kicking up small clouds of sandy dust with each step.

"Uhm, Alan," Arthur said at last. "Sir, I… uhm."

"Yes, Arthur?" Alan asked, certain that this was not to be an official matter.

"Damme, sir," Ballard cursed for the second time in Alan's recollection. "I know it's not my place. Or concern, how you conduct your personal affairs, sir."

"No, it isn't, Arthur," Alan replied. "Yet…?"

"I mean to say, though, sir. Well, there're… you are married, sir. There're vows and such," Ballard strangled out. "And to such a fine young lady as your dear Caroline, sir. Were the… uhm… had you been with a white woman, sir… dash it all, Alan, it seems such an incomprehensible slip for you to make, sir, with Caroline waiting for you in Nassau. With child! And to lay with a Cuffy slattern…"A handsome young widow, Arthur, with children of her own," Lewrie stated calmly.

Damme, but he's a priggish young swine, he thought!

"Not a year over twenty, she is. Proud, free, and independent. For your information, she did it for free, Arthur. And she was damn' good, let me tell you," Lewrie said, his perverse streak standing up on both hind legs and baying the moon down. "She's a lonely widow, and I am a weak and foolish man. We crossed hawses once, and like as not, we'll never come bulwark-to-bulwark again."

"I understand your loneliness, Alan," Ballard stuttered. "How worried you've been without news from… from Nassau."

"Don't you ever get lonely, Arthur?" Alan inquired. "Doesn't a craving for abandon come over you so powerful of a sudden that any old drab doxy'd do you? Don't you ache to put the leg over?"

"I hope to set my aim a bit higher than mere rutting, sir," Lieutenant Ballard rejoined primly. "I'd wish someday for… well, sir, for some bright and lovely young lady as fine as your wife, sir."

"Yet you turned your nose up at Elizabeth Mustin."

"A bit too frippish and… flibberti-gibbet for my lights, sir. I hope you do not take that the wrong way, seeing as how you and your wife set such store by her company, sir, but…" He shrugged.

"I don't know why I care for you as much as I do, Arthur," Alan chuckled, clapping him on the back. "You're shy as a spanked puppy in women's company. You'd lie like a butcher's dog next to a handsome bit of quim as yon Wyannie, and never sniff the beef! You don't drink but a bottle a day, bad days or good! And you're as stiff-arsed as a parson in a poor parish."

"True, sir," Ballard grimaced, rueful at the truth.

"But you've wit, and you've sense, and damme if you're not right about most things," Alan allowed, laughing out loud. "I,use mine for jollities. And I'd go dashing off on a tear without your advice half the time. Begrudge me my faults, Arthur. Mind you, I'm not asking you for forgiveness, Reverend Ballard. That's between me and Our Lords Commissioners for the Execution of the Office of Lord High Admiral of this world, and the next. Takes all kinds. I am most often one of the sorry kind, and when it comes to Caroline, damned fortunate. Made me feel good, Wyannie did. She and this mysterious note of yours have put me in a fettle such as I've not felt in months, sir! As my old Captain Lilycrop would say, feagued me so well as a lump o' ginger up a prad's rump! Ought to issue girls like her. Good for morale."

"I see, sir."

"No, you don't, you're only making noises like you do," Lewrie cajoled him. "Wish to God you did. Damme, but you take life serious, Arthur! God knows sailors don't mean much by their sins, when they do get the opportunity. Precarious as we get Life, we're a pack o' hymn-singin' castrati compared to landsmen. Try putting a foot wrong, now and again, Arthur. Go on a tear, why don't you?"

"Takes all kinds, as you say, sir," Ballard replied, grinning shyly in spite of himself. "I'll not meddle again, sir. Sorry."

"The devil you won't," Alan chortled. "And I may bark to pin your ears back, but remember I mean nothing by it And if you care enough about me to warn me when I'm about to do something lunatic, then that's what friends are for. As oddly matched as they sometimes are."

"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard nodded. "Now, pray God we've good news at last!"