The King's Coat

Chapter 8

“Stand by, the anchor party,” Claghorne yelled through a brass speaking trumpet from the afterdeck by the tiller.

“Aye aye,” Lewrie replied, raising his fist in the air. Parrot ghosted along in light air inside the harbor, barely raising a ripple under her bows since they had passed the forts on the Palisades. They had handed all but the outer flying jib and mainsail.

“Helm’s alee.” The tiller was put over and Parrot rounded up slowly into the light ocean breeze until her sails shivered, and her forward progress came to a halt.

“Let go!”

Lewrie lowered his arm briskly, and the best bower anchor was cast loose, and cable rumbled out the hawsehole. “Loose the outer jib halyard and lower away handsomely,” he ordered. Parrot coasted on for a piece until, reaching the end of the anchor cable, she veered out. She snubbed, then drifted back slantwise for a way before streaming back from the cable with the light wind straight down her decks.

By the time the sails had been handed and furled, the gig had been brought round from being towed astern, and Purnell and his boat crew had tumbled into it, ready to carry Lieutenant Kenyon ashore with his bags of mail and despatches. They had made good time from English Harbor to Kingston, Jamaica, this passage. The weather had been sparkling clear and mildly sunny, and they had not seen one other sail.

The bumboats began to swarm Parrot almost before Lieutenant Kenyon was away from the side, the island blacks offering up tropical birds, rum, fresh fruits, cheap shirts and hats and neckerchiefs, and women of just about every color. Mooney and his mates were busy trying to fend them off good-naturedly and to stop any furtive trading for rum or other liquors.

“Not yet,” Mooney shouted down to a piratical black entrepreneur. “’N’ keep yer cussed rum fer other ships, ya hear?”

“De boh-sohn, he wan’ no rum, Lord,” the man grinned back. “Dis be de King’s Navy heuh?”

“Sheer off, ya shark. We might be outa Discipline later, but not now.”

“Then I see you later, Mistah Boh-sohn,” the woman in the trader’s boat promised, sliding her dress up to her waist.

“Gawd.” Mooney gawped, staring at what was offered.

Lewrie was standing at his side, and marvelling right along with him.

Mooney licked his lips in anticipation and dug into his slop trousers to see what silver he had to offer the woman if she was let aboard.

Kenyon returned about two hours later after his visit to the flag, looking happy and sated from a good lunch and a bottle of wine. He was in a very good mood, beaming at everyone.

“Mister Lewrie, summon ‘Chips,’” he said. “I shall need him.”

“Aye aye, sir. Pass the word for Mister Bee.”

Within moments the elderly carpenter was there.

“Mister Bee, we shall be carrying passengers to Antiqua, a lord and his lady, and two servants,” Kenyon informed him. “Arrange me some sleeping accommodations in the dining space. We shall shift all the furnishings to the day cabin, and I shall need a larger bed box in the cabin as well. There will be a maid berthing in the chart room, and a servant in the wardroom. Mister Lewrie, since your ears have grown long enough to hear, perhaps you could give up your cabin for the duration of the voyage?”

“Aye, sir,” Lewrie replied sadly. “I shall fetch a hammock from the bosun.”

“Have everything ready by Wednesday sundown, Mister Bee.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Mister Purnell,” Kenyon shouted. “Take the cutter ashore with Mister Leonard to collect fresh supplies. We’ll get a bullock for the men, plus some fresh meat for our passengers. Mister Claghorne?”

“Aye, sir.”

“As soon as stores are aboard, we shall take the ship Out of Discipline for a day. We cannot depart until Thursday.”

The hands standing closest by grinned happily and spread the word through the rest of the crew within seconds. They had all lately been given pay-certificates, and even though they would get cheated badly in transactions for perhaps a quarter of their certificates’ worth, they would have money to spend for their pleasure. So they turned to with a lusty will. The boat fairly flew across the harbor to the stores dock and returned laden in short order. A bawling lean steer was slung aboard and slaughtered on the spot. A coop full of chickens appeared, several tender piglets and lambs, a boar for the hands later in the voyage, fresh cabin stores for Kenyon and the wardroom, and several crates of wine. Hammering sounds could be heard aft as Kenyon’s request was fulfilled. George the servant and several of the West Indian ship’s boys busied themselves polishing and scouring the guest quarters so Parrot could make a favorable impression on whoever their prestigious passengers might be.

By the end of the Forenoon watch, the crew’s major work was done, and at a signal from Kenyon the pendant for easy discipline was hoisted, which brought the bumboats swarming back.

Mooney and Leonard stood by the entry port, along with the surgeon’s mate, to witness the exchange of certificates for cash, so that the men were not too badly cheated. They also made sure that drink did not make its way below decks in major quantities, though some smuggling of small bottles was inevitable. Lastly, the surgeon’s mate performed his duty of checking the boarding polls for the more obvious signs of the pox. He rejected several, turning away the oldest and most raddled whores. The crew did a good job of sorting as well, booing down the arrival of some women that Boggs could find no fault with.

“Wot a monkey-face, throw ’er back, somebody…”

“Oo shall ’ave this’n, then?” Mooney asked.

“Nobody,” several men sneered loudly.

“On yer way, twickle-bum.”

“Yair, go fook a Marine!” someone laughed.

Awnings were spread over the deck, and canvas chutes for ventilation, while hammocks were slung below in the crew’s mess area, and crude blanket partitions were hung for some semblance of privacy for their rutting. The women would work hard to earn their few shillings, paired off for a day or night to a lustful seaman who would feed her and ply her with drink out of his earnings like a temporary wife. Her man had duties to attend to, still, but she would be waiting below for him once he was released.

Once the sun had lost most of its heat, the awnings were taken in and stowed and supper was served along with the second rum ration. Lewrie made a quick tour of the lower deck to see if all was in order, then attended to his own meal.

He lounged at the mess table in the wardroom, half his uniform removed for comfort and sipping at a very decent hock just brought from shore. Their Creole cook had come up with roast chicken, fresh bread and butter, boiled onions, carrots and peas. There had been some new Stilton, and a small apple apiece, too. Had it not been for the occasional squeal of delight or a husky grunt of transport coming from the crew’s quarters he could have fallen asleep, pleasantly stuffed.

“A bumper with ya, lad,” Boggs said, happily cup-shot, and his scruffy white bag-wig askew on his head. “Give us heel taps on the last of yer hock and have port with me.”

He accepted a full measure after draining his glass, and clinked glasses with Boggs.

“Goddamn me, we’re close to losing British Florida,” Leonard told them as he read a newspaper nearly three months old but new to them.

“Good riddance,” Claghorne said. “Whole lot of colonies south of the Chesapeake is nothin’ but swamp and bugs and sweat.”

“But, I mean, the Rebels’ll never hold ’em against the Spanish. They’ll take ’em right back, and then we’re in a pickle,” Leonard went on, waving the paper at them.

“But if the Spaniards lost their fleet in that storm last year,” Tad Purnell asked, “what have we to worry about?”

“Hark the younker,” Claghorne said.

Purnell and Lewrie shared a look between them. If one were a midshipman, every one of your questions was greeted with ridicule, and every one of your answers was usually wrong, according to the older men. Samuel Johnson as a midshipman would have been caned for even opening his mouth.

“DeGuichen has a Frog fleet back in the Windwards,” Leonard said. “Rodney and Parker tangled with him all summer but couldn’t finish him off. They provide the ships, the Dons provide the troops, we could have trouble somewhere. Then the closest American port open to us would be Charleston, and you know they’d try to take that back. Cornwallis has enough on his plate as it is.”

“Let the French come out,” Boggs said loudly. “Let them come, I say, and the King’s Navy will square their yards for ’em.”

“Gentlemen, the Navy,” Claghorne shouted, raising his glass, and they all had to knock their wine back and refill.

Claghorne dipped a taper into the lamp hung over the mess table to get a light for a long clay pipe, and was soon happy to lean back with a wreath of tobacco fumes about his head. Leonard, crossed in his opinions by the others, withdrew from the fray and put aside the paper to peruse his account books, making clucking sounds now and then as he either found some expense he deplored, or didn’t think he could get the Admiralty to believe. Boggs began to rock and sing, but the exact tune was hard to make out, and the words slurred together, until his wig fell off. As he bent to retrieve it he slipped to the deck and stayed there in a heap, beginning to snore loudly.

“Thank God,” Purnell said. When most men considered it a gentlemanly accomplishment to be a three-bottle man, Boggs was more like a half-dozen man, and that on top of his rum or Black Strap issue. The suspicion was strong that drink had run him to sea, and God help the hand who really needed a surgeon if only Boggs was available …

Claghorne got to his feet and dragged their surgeon’s mate to bed, and Alan and Tad slipped out on deck for some fresh air. There was none to be had. The harbor was as smooth as a millpond and not a capful of wind stirred. Parrot could almost roll on her beam-ends under bare poles in a stiff breeze, but she now lay as calm as a stone bridge.

“Damned hot for December,” Purnell said quietly beside him, studying the many riding lights in the harbor.

“We’ll have some weather. Maybe a late storm. It’s unreal for it to be so still and airless,” Alan replied.

“My, how salty we’ve become, for one dipped in brine so little time,” Purnell softly jeered him.

“I still say we’ll get a shift of wind out of this,” Alan insisted. “You mark my words.”

“Think enough to put up half a crown on it?” Tad pressed.

“Done. But you should know better. Pity to take your money so easy. Your brothers would know.”

Purnell’s family were from Bristol, shipowners, traders, importers, and his older brothers were already merchant captains. Their clan was so absolutely stiff with the chink that Purnell clanked when he did a turn about the decks, but for all his money, he was all right as a mate. He did not compete with Lewrie for favor, and each had their own specialty. For Purnell, it was sail-handling and navigation—Lewrie was capable, but more at home with artillery and small arms. Tad Purnell was also a good fellow to know, fairly upright and honest in their dealings but still possessed of a sense of humor and a streak of deviltry that his family, and now the Navy, sat upon to keep from running riot.

Claghorne emerged from the hatchway, his pipe still fuming, and a newspaper clutched in his hand for a long, contemplative visit to the heads. “Damn still,” he said to them. “We’ll get half a gale out of this right soon, I swear.”

“Sorry about your half a crown,” Lewrie whispered, delighted to hear his opinion confirmed by an old tarpaulin man.

“And I’ll bet our ‘live-lumber’ will be casting up their accounts as soon as we get beyond the breakwater,” Tad said happily.

“Just who is this Lord Cantner?” Lewrie asked Purnell after hearing Lieutenant Kenyon drop the name to his clerk Leonard earlier that afternoon.

“Rum old squint-a-pipes, tries to see six directions at once. He used to be a very big planter and trader out here before the war started. As big a cutthroat as a Mohawk. I heard he’d become one of Lord North’s creatures, come to see if the war is still winnable. But most-like to collect what he can from his old estates.”

“Thing that amazes me is that he’d bring his wife out here to this place,” Alan said. “It’s a sickly climate for a woman.”

“Well, I hear she’s much younger, and her dowry was worth a duke’s ransom. Probably couldn’t stand the thought of her being left back home with time on her hands.”

“Or someone else’s hands on her.” Alan leered.

“Look, Lewrie,” Tad began, suddenly unsure of himself, “if we get ashore this time I was wondering … you seem to know a bit about the fairer sex, and I…”

God help me but I really should become a pimp, Alan told himself; everyone seems to think I’m so topping good at it …

“And the sound of our crew slaking their lust is driving you mad, is that it, Purnell?”

“Well, I am fifteen now, almost sixteen, and I’ve spent the last three years of my life afloat. This ship seems my best chance,” Purnell confessed.

“Probably cost you one guinea for a good bareback rider,” Alan warned him with a grin, “and you have to be careful that you don’t get a poxy one.”

“I don’t know how to tell,” Tad said, turning red at his own words, “but if you sort of gave me a fair wind, and a course to steer…”

“And you don’t want to just hop on and hop off.”

“I don’t know…”

“Whores can be right nice, if they know it’s your first time,” Alan said. “Kind of like the press-gang. If I had to go, why not you, too? Best way is to spend some time with her, have a stoup or two, get rigged properly, bear down and board her, and not have to run for the door after. Take a Dog Watch to enjoy watching her move.”

“God almighty,” Tad breathed heavily, “that would be marvelous.”

“Bloody right it is,” Alan heartily agreed, getting the itch himself.

“Could you do it?”

“I promise I shall.”

They went below for more wine, the only thing that seemed to cool the night. Boggs was snoring, and Leonard had retired to his cabin to do some writing. Claghorne came back down through the hatch and poured himself a drink, preparatory to turning in.

“Shit,” he said, pawing the air.

“Sir?” Lewrie asked. Was it an order, or a comment?

“Bloodsuckers have found us,” Claghorne said, waving off a mosquito. Lewrie heard a whine and looked down to see one ready to perch on his wrist. He brought his other hand down and smashed it, leaving a tiny smear of blood.

“Well-fed little bastard.”

“I’ve seen ’em down on the Spanish Main, thicker’n a Channel fog, and each one hungry as a rolled leech,” Claghorne said groggily. “Seen ’em suck a man white…”

“Aye, Mister Claghorne,” Tad said with an angelic expression that almost made Lewrie snort port up his nose as he tried to stifle a laugh.

“Shows how much you know,” Claghorne said. “But I’m sleepin’ with a net tonight to keep ’em off me. You should, too, if ya had any sense, but I ’spect midshipmen could do with a rash of welts an’ all the itchin’, so we’ll see who caulks down quiet an’ who tosses all night.” So saying, Claghorne took his mug of port and went off to his cabin to slam the insubstantial door.

“Seen ’em suck a man white down on the Spanish Main,” Tad said in a soft whisper, and a fairly accurate imitation of Claghorne.

Eight bells chimed from the belfry, and the ship’s corporal began to make his rounds to make sure that the galley fire was out, and all glims extinguished below decks. The wardroom could keep their pewter lamps burning for another hour, but after more port neither one wanted to stay up and read. Tad Purnell had the deck watch, so he dressed properly and left, and Lewrie turned in, making sure his door was shut tight and that no flying pests lived in his space to disturb his rest.

* * *

It was the next morning while the crew were at Divisions that a boat came out to Parrot, bumping against the hull. A mulatto man in livery stood waiting patiently until the men had been inspected and released back to their morning duties, and their pleasures.

After all the wine, and a night on deck, Lewrie felt that his eyes were ready to glaze over and wished he had had more time in his bed box.

“Mister Lewrie,” Lieutenant Kenyon called. “Could you join me?”

Lewrie crossed to the hatchway to the after cabins, where Kenyon stood with a piece of paper in his hand that had just been handed to him by the mulatto servant.

“I have just been given an invitation to a dinner party this evening at the home of … an old acquaintance of mine, now Sir Richard Slade. He requests that I bring some of my officers as well. Do you think you could be presentable enough to represent Parrot properly?”

“Aye, sir!” Alan assured him most eagerly.

“Good. Purnell as well. Mister Claghorne might be a bit too rough for that sort of company so I shall leave him in charge.”

“I should be delighted, sir.”

“I thought you would be. See to making the gig presentable. We shall go ashore at the end of the First Dog. This could be quite important. Our passengers will be there, as well as the lieutenant-governor and other luminaries from these parts. I hope that you and Purnell are on your absolute best behavior, mind.”

“We shall endeavor to please, sir,” Lewrie said earnestly, but thinking that it would be a splendid opportunity to please himself, and possibly initiate Thaddeus to the pleasures of strumming a bawd.

An extremely handsome coach had met them at the boat landing, and they rode in comfort through the streets of Kingston as night fell. The coach ascended a hill overlooking the army camp north of the town, then spiralled down to a pleasant valley at the foot of the hills that rose to the east into the Blue Mountains.

The house they came to on a shell drive was huge, island-built imitation Palladian but with a veranda all about it. Light gleamed from the front rooms and over thirty carriages already stood in the shadows of the trees.

Once in the foyer Lewrie began to almost purr in delight. There was a large salon aglow in candlelight as large as any he had seen in London. Perhaps the trim work was not as fine, but the drapes and the furnishings were top quality and in impeccable taste. And the salon was crowded with people; civilians in their finery, naval officers in blue and white, army and Marine officers in red, planters in velvet and silk and broadcloth. And women. Women of every imaginable type, done up in silk, lace, velvet, satin and damask, their bell-shaped gowns all trimmed with flowers and embroidered panels, their bosoms hitched up in tight-fitting bodices, lace sleeves and fine wigs. Jewels shone in flattering candlelight, and eyes were already flashing.

The butler introduced them to no special notice from the crowd, which was intent on their own conversations, or the delights of the groaning buffets or wine tables.

“James. How good to see you after all these years,” their host said upon spotting Kenyon.

“Richard,” Kenyon replied. “Rather, Sir Richard, now!”

“Pox on that, it’s still Dick to you,” Sir Richard Slade said. “And who are these two scamps? Yours?” He winked.

“My midshipmen, Dick,” Kenyon said. “Thaddeus Purnell.”

“Not Alexander Purnell’s boy?”

“Aye, sir,” Tad said, surprised.

“Knew your father well, used to do a lot of trading through Bristol.” Sir Richard beamed.

“Midshipman Alan Lewrie.” Kenyon continued.

“Your servant, Sir Richard,” Alan said, making a leg. What a Macaroni, he thought; must be fifty guineas for his duds but he’s too old for them by half …

Sir Richard Slade sported heavy dark blue breeches made of velvet, and an extremely flared coat of powder blue satin, sprigged with fanciful gilt braids and button trim, gilt buttons everywhere, tight sleeves and huge pockets. His waistcoat was gold silk with elaborate floral embroidery. In spite of the heat he wore a huge floured wig. His shoes were even high-heeled in the French style, and his buckles seemed paved with brilliants. Altogether, the image of a man with too much money and not enough clothes sense.

His handshake was also as limp as a dead halibut. Lewrie felt an instant revulsion and wondered where Kenyon had made friends with such a coxcomb. Reminds me of Gerald and all his Molly friends.

“The pleasures of my house are yours, gentlemen,” Sir Richard told them. “James, come, let us catch up on things. It has been too long since we’ve talked.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” Kenyon told them. “Within reason.”

“If you are allowed, why do you not all stay over tonight and accept the hospitality of my home?” Sir Richard asked. “I’ll have Cassius arrange some rooms for you.”

“Aye, but let me send a message to my mate,” Kenyon said. A servant was there in a moment, and another younger boy in livery to steer Kenyon to a study, where he could pen some orders for Claghorne. This left Lewrie and Purnell alone, so they wandered off toward the buffets and the wine tables.

“Odd sort,” Lewrie said. “Knows your family, does he?”

“I suppose. But there are so many traders out here we deal with. I’ll have to write Father about him.”

“Well, let’s get some wine aboard, and see what the buffet has to offer. Oh, Lord, look at the ‘cat-heads’ on that woman!”

Purnell stared openmouthed at a slim woman in her thirties who sported a pair of breasts that looked as large and firm as apples, half her globes swelling above her gown and thrust forward proudly. They almost could make out a hint of her rosy aureoles.

“My, yes,” Tad breathed, close to fingering his crotch.

“Don’t do that, they’ll all want some,” Lewrie warned him, seeing his strangled expression.

“Do you … think tonight has possibilities?”

“Definitely.” Lewrie smirked, worldly-wise.

“I see no young ladies my age.” Tad frowned.

“And damned lucky you are, at that. Last thing you want is a young girl. Hold hands, giggle, and that’s all.”

“Oh?”

“Half these ladies are escorted by officers or husbands who could have you flogged to death if you even breathed on ’em. Now that leaves about half to choose from. Older ladies have a great fascination with younger men, Tad,” Lewrie said, piling tasty morsels onto a plate. “And should one of those take a fancy to you, while her husband is off doing something grand for King and Country, and discover that it’s your first time, I swear you may not survive her kindness.”

“Oh, I didn’t consider a married lady, Alan. That would be a sin. I thought we’d find a young whore. I mean, doing it with a married lady would be a mortal sin.” Tad fidgeted.

“Would it be a sin with a widow?” Lewrie asked, nibbling on some shrimp as they grazed their way down the long food-laden table.

“Well … I’m not sure.” Tad fidgeted some more.

“There are all kinds of widows, Purnell. This hock is iced, by God. Marvelous.”

“You were talking about widows,” Tad said, taking a glass of wine without caring what it was.

“Well, some have lost their mates to the Grim Reaper, naturally,” Lewrie said, leading him to a quiet corner where they could munch and drink without being trampled by the crowd, “but there are some widows who have lost their husbands … some become enamored of someone prettier, or younger, or they have chased after their careers or money or a peerage to the total exclusion of their wives’ happiness. They have committed the greatest sin you can inflict on a woman still ripe and comely, Tad. They have shunned them, ignored them, denied them.”

“Well, I suppose, if the husband was really tired of her…”

“Consider a woman who enjoys a romp, and affection and loving, all the folderol … being cast aside like an orange that has been sucked dry. There is a woman who is as much a widow as the natural kind, mourning the loss of everything she staked her life on, and some of them are just aching to get their own back. Somewhere here, tonight, Tad, there are women exactly like that, just waiting to find a strapping little chub like you,” Lewrie beguiled, nigh mystically.

Purnell’s eyes cut about the room. He finished his wine in two sips. “But what if she doesn’t find me attractive, or I don’t like her, or something?”

“We shall do our best for you, Tad. Now go slow on the wine. You need oysters and some of those spicy kickshaws to raise the heat of your blood. And we can chat up a few now, ’cause we’re going to get seated far below the salt at this party.”

* * *

Their end of the long table was definitely below the salt. The rich, the high-ranking and the glittering were near the head of the dining room on either side of Sir Richard and Lord Cantner in plum satin, and his wife, who was a raven beauty with an adventurous look to her eyes. No wonder the old monkey brought her, Lewrie thought; were she my wife I wouldn’t let her out of the room by herself …

Their closest dinner companions were less impressive socially, an older couple from the Customs, a magistrate and his wife, a matron named Gordon with her daughter, both of whom would serve, if one didn’t mind “country-puts.”

Purnell was seated next to a sleepy old gentleman said to be some sort of banker—it didn’t matter much because he could barely open an eye to survey his plate. But on Purnell’s other side was a lean older woman named Mrs. Hillwood who at one time must have been a great blond beauty. During the course of conversation they learned that her “lawful blanket” was off in the wilds inland doing plantation-type things, and had been for some months. To Alan’s left was a woman named Haymer, a short, plump and fetching woman in her late thirties, Lewrie guessed, done up nicely in white taffeta with burgundy ribbons and flounces. It seemed her husband was also off on business in the Americas. Hmm … possibles? Alan thought.

Halfway through dinner Lewrie had to nudge Purnell to open his mouth and speak to Mrs. Hillwood instead of feeding like a beast. He felt a kick back under the table, and looked up to glare at Tad, but instead met the steady gaze of Mrs. Hillwood.

“That appears such succulent pork before you, Mister Lewrie,” Mrs. Haymer said to his left. “Do be a dear and carve me a small slice.”

“Delighted, Mrs. Haymer. In fact, I may assay a bit myself.” As she offered her plate to him, she leaned toward him, pressing her bosom against his arm. We’re aboard! he exulted.

“How clumsy of me,” she said, dropping her napkin.

“I’ll fetch it. Allow me,” he offered, bending over and wondering if he should attempt a small squeeze right away. But in reaching for it, Mrs. Haymer’s hand brushed his thigh, and stayed to linger.

“Such a wonderful texture,” she sighed, after chewing a bite of her pork. “I think it is dreadful that poor young sailors such as you never get any fresh food.”

“It is a great trial, ma’am,” he sighed right back. “And then there are Banyan Days, when not even a morsel of meat is served, no matter how long in-cask.”

“Scandalous,” she replied, locking her gaze firmly on his eyes. “How relieved you must be to dine well when ashore.”

“Indeed, ma’am,” he told her softly, shifting his gaze to her ample bosom, “the mere sight of all this bounty has raised quite a passion in me to eat my fill without inhibition.”

That bosom heaved deeply at his words, and a fine sheen of sweat broke out on her upper lip. She hoisted her glass and drank deep.

“We were happy that our captain received Sir Richard’s invitation,” Lewrie went on. “Poor sailors are dependent on the generosity of others for such a feast.”

Lewrie glanced about the table to see if his wooing was making any comment, but the sleepy old gentleman had succumbed to wine fumes, and sat snoring with a hand clawed about the stem of his empty glass. The Gordons did appear mildly shocked and were busy looking elsewhere, as though Mrs. Haymer was “no better than she ought to be” and had tried this on before. Mrs. Hillwood across the table gave him a barely noticeable shrug, then turned her attentions to Tad. Her left hand went below the table, and young Tad suddenly looked as though he was about to strangle.

“You must rejoin your ship tonight, Mister Lewrie?” Mrs. Haymer asked in a very soft voice.

“Sir Richard and my captain are old friends, ma’am. He has offered us the hospitality of his house for the night.”

“How generous of our host. I am told that he is scandalously rich and has the most blessed luck at getting ships across the ocean without loss. I admire generosity.”

“In the giving or in the receiving, ma’am?”

“Both,” she said, dimpling prettily and blushing. “The gardens here are most beautiful. Too bad you could not see them in daylight.”

“A cool stroll in a fresh garden would be delightful, no matter the hour, ma’am…” Lewrie purred.

* * *

With dinner over, the ladies retired for first shot at the jakes, then coffee and cards, while the men shuffled down to the head of the table to talk and drink and smoke. Waiters produced an ocean of port, and opened the sideboards to place chamber pots below the table within range of those gentlemen who felt the call.

Lewrie and Purnell stayed long enough for a glass of port, then sneaked out. Being nobodies, none of the company would miss them. Alan was almost reeling with the bounty they had been offered—he had not seen a dinner like that in a year: spicy soup, fresh green salads, beef, chicken, pork, two kinds of fish, rabbit, veal, geese, hot bread, native yams, local kickshaws and made dishes for removes, corn, potatoes, beans and peas, a wine with each course, lovely fresh cheese, and extra-fine biscuits and nuts. Even limiting himself to a mere sliver of everything, following Captain Osmonde’s advice, he felt uncomfortably tight around the middle.

Thankfully, once they joined the ladies, there was strong coffee or tea with fresh milk and sugar.

Mrs. Haymer was happy to join him on the veranda with a cup of coffee as the older couples made their goodbyes and clattered off in their carriages. The younger bucks and their girls were also going, but many people were staying on for the music and cards, and the chance of a cold supper later, with more wine.

“You said something about the gardens, I believe, ma’am,” Lewrie prodded, and Mrs. Haymer allowed him to offer his arm and lead her off the veranda into the fragrant night air. It was really much cooler in the gardens, once past the glow of the house lights in the darkness of flowering shrubs and bushes and planters.

“I do believe there is a maze hereabouts, with some stone benches where we may rest, Mister Lewrie. If you would allow me to lead?”

They eventually discovered a cul-de-sac surrounded by flowers, and a small grove hidden by the turn in the path. In the center of the grove was a large round stone table, surrounded by curved stone benches. They seated themselves in the companionable darkness, Lewrie offering his coat to protect her dress from the bench. He put an arm behind her on the table and leaned toward her, able to smell her. Their thighs were touching through the vastness of her skirts; their shoulders were touching. She turned toward him slightly.

“Is it not a beautiful night, Mister Lewrie? The stars in these climes are so clear and lovely.” She began their “play.”

“I see enough stars at sea. I’d much rather gaze on your beauty,” he smarmily responded.

“Mister Lewrie, I cannot imagine what you can be thinking of!” she ventured to giddily protest.

“Of the glory that is you, Mrs. Haymer,” he said, leaning closer, which she did not object to.

“I must protest, young sir,” she said, but not too loudly. “I am a married woman, and you are such a boy—”

“Call me Alan,” he whispered.

“All right … Alan. But had I known that you intended to woo me when we set out from the house I would not have allowed you. Why, what must people think of my good name? And my husband is a most jealous man. He would most likely kill you, did he discover you had even gotten me alone.”

“I shall risk your husband’s temper, Mrs. Haymer. And we are quite alone and private here. What is your name, my dear?” he said, putting his arm along her shoulders.

“Margaret, if you must know, but—”

“Margaret, so womanly, so lovely, soft…”

“Alan, I fear you have misjudged me,” she said, making no move to break away. “I could not hazard your young life, and we must not tempt each other like this … my husband would shoot you dead—”

“I must taste your lips, and hang the danger,” he said. He brushed her mouth with his, kissed her eyes, cheeks, then took possession of her lips and felt her tremble a little. She raised her face to him, a hand came up to hold the back of his head. She began to moan and make cooing sounds. He brought up his free hand and caressed a restrained breast.

“God, we must not do this,” she said weakly against his neck as he bent to kiss her shoulders. “I forbid you!”

And so saying, her arms encircled him, and she leaned back against the edge of the table as he slid and squirmed to press more of her against him. A leg came up to caress him as he slid his free hand down to her buttocks.

I’m going to snap my spine or hers like this, he thought, getting to his feet and pulling her with him so they could fit together for their full length. She stood on tiptoe to match him, and ground her belly into him as he squeezed down through all the material of her gown, trying to find flesh to press on her backside.

“Alan, I demand that you cease now.” She shuddered. “We must not persist in this, I … I shall resist you, with force, if necessary—”

His reply was to free her breasts and bend down to press his face into her apple-dumpling shop, noting that her nipples were rock-hard and her bosom all warm and soft.

He seated her on the table and knelt on a bench before her, and she parted her thighs for him. His fingers were busy with the back of her sack gown while hers opened his waistcoat, and their lips ground against each other, bringing a salty taste. She gasped as he lifted her gown and all her petticoats and stepped closer, struggling with the buttons of his straining breeches.

“You will witness that I was forced!” she said in a soft voice as he slid her forward toward him and found her wet and slick and open for him. She gasped and squealed as he entered her deep, and clung to him fierce as a new bride as he began slowly pumping away. After a while she began to sob and gnaw on his shoulder, and lifted her legs about his waist to hold him closer to her.

“Oh God, my husband shall surely kill you for this, oh God, yes he shall, oh … Alan,” and much more in the same vein. A moment later she squealed in delicious transport and melted to him as he stood between her thighs until his own release exploded into her.

She insisted he was a heartless ravisher, but helped as they explored the cool surface of the table, knelt on a bench before him as he stood behind her ahold of her hips; she cried softly for mercy as she drew him down on the grass in only corset and stockings, to ride Saint George above him, her heavy breasts dangling in his palms while she galloped as frenzied as a huntsman riding hell-for-leather for a distant steeple while he looked up at the stars and her crumpled face. Between bouts she fought him without strength, swore he was sure to be killed for ravishing her, that he had tempted her weak and vulnerable nature …

It was midnight before they felt sated enough to dress and head back to the veranda. The dinner and card party was still going strong as people got drunker and louder. Music played and some danced.

“I must go now,” she said, attempting to adjust her wig and hat. “Don’t see me in. I would die of shame, I must look ravaged.”

“Use my room to rearrange yourself, dear,” Alan said, still eager to use her more, “we can send down for cold wine, perhaps a bite of supper. You can’t go home like this, or face the company so mussed.”

“You must swear that you shall not abuse me further. What you have done is mortal sin enough. Oh, I must make myself presentable … only to save my honor, will I go upstairs. Promise me—” Mrs. Haymer dithered.

“I promise.” He looked about for Kenyon, Tad, or their host, but they were not present. The servant Cassius approached.

“I shall be retiring shortly, Cassius,” Lewrie said. “I’d admire some cold hock and something from the supper. Before that, light us up. This lady tripped and fell while taking the air in the gardens and she would like to freshen up before going home.”

“Yas, sah,” Cassius said with a knowing expression. He summoned a tiny linkboy with a candelabra who led them toward the side stairs as Margaret went on. “I thank you for the kind offer of your room so I may rearrange myself, Mister Lewrie. I promise I shan’t delay your retiring any more than I can help…”

The room was small but pleasant, fitted with a washhand stand and mirror, chest, armoire and a table and two chairs by the veranda doors. The bed was high, curtained with thin cloth to keep insects off during the night. The linkboy lit two candles and stepped out into the hall, Lewrie following to complete the sham as Margaret began to attend to her makeup and dress.

The boy went down the stairs with the candelabra, leaving Lewrie alone in the dark hall, listening to the sounds of the house. Within few minutes the boy was back, as Cassius ascended the stairs with a tray bearing a chilled bottle of hock, glistening and dripping dew, a covered server redolent of tongue, ham and roast chicken, two plates and two glasses. Cassius knocked on the door and was admitted. Margaret blushed even further when she saw the tray and its contents, and glared at Lewrie in the doorway.

“I shall not discommode you further, Mister Lewrie,” she said.

“Take your time, madam. I am quite happy to wait in the hall until you have completed your toilet,” he offered to her dignity.

“I wait ’n’ light the lady down, sah?” Cassius asked.

“I shall do that, no bother,” Lewrie told him, and the servant gave him a slight nod on his way out. Lewrie stepped out into the dark hall to protect her reputation, at least until the servants had made their way down the stairs. Once they were out of sight, Alan started to reenter the room but was taken by the sight of a dark lady at the end of the hall, clad in a thin gown, making her way surreptitiously from one room to another, and from the stealthy way she handled the doorknobs and avoided creaks, she was most practiced at country-house games. In the shadows he was unseen, and grinned with delight as he saw that the lady bore a striking resemblance to Lady Cantner!

He scratched at his own door, and not hearing any answer, turned the knob and entered. Mrs. Haymer had seated herself in front of a small minor redoing her makeup, and still wore her wig and hat.

“I really am going to go, Alan,” she said. “I am not a guest in this house. We must end this charade. You have done enough…”

He stepped up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders and began to massage her neck. She relaxed and leaned back against him. He bent down and kissed her shoulders. “Like hell I have.”

“No, Alan … do not tempt me further, please.”

He raised his hands and lifted her wig off, hat and all. She had cut her hair short for the heat of the tropics, little longer than his. He pulled her to her feet and linked his arms around her from behind, massaging her breasts through her corset and gown.

“I mean to have you in a real bed, so I can look at all of you, so I can get at all of you—”

“No, there isn’t time, I must go—”

He hoisted her gown and pressed his aching groin against the pillow-softness of her buttocks, fitting between the mounds.

Take your time, spoon ’em up with kisses and cream and they’ll sit on it like it was the crown jewels. Give ’em half a choice an’ you can whistle before they’d let you. But tell ’em, and they melt. Some of ’em, anyway …

One hand held a breast, one hand pressed at the base of her belly, twining in the mossy growth still damp with their passion. It was a matter of moments to have her out of her gown, to shuck his own rags, to peel her stockings off, unlace her corset and tumble into bed on top of her. As though mesmerized, she allowed herself to be opened, to be molded and kissed and stroked into panting ruin once more, and then again, and again …

The candles guttered down in puddles of tallow before he allowed her to insist, and win, that she must depart. By his watch it was nearly three in the morning, and the house was dead quiet as he lit her down the stairs with a stub of a candle. She pressed a note with her address into his hand, told him that her only servant had the day off on Thursdays, which was soon, that he must not even consider ever seeing her again, and that there was a garden gate entrance to her lodgings on a quiet side street, but that he must desist in his passion before her husband shot him dead! She slunk into her coach, practically the last one still on the grounds, and plodded away at a pace that would not draw undue attention as birds began to twitter in the trees.

“Now maybe I can eat that bird,” Lewrie said aloud.

He found another candle by a cardtable as his own guttered out, then trod softly back up the stairs in his stockinged feet. Once in his room he slid out of his clothes and went to the tray. The wine was enough for a full bumper and still cool. And the cold meat and crusty bread went down pleasantly. He was sitting at the small table stark naked and chewing lustily when he heard a tiny noise in the hall. It brought a grin. Somebody sneaking back to their “lawful blanket,” I’ll warrant …

A shadow stopped outside his door. A moment later a folded note was pushed with some force under the gap of the door, sliding three or four feet into the room across the polished boards.

“She’s surely not come back for more,” he scoffed, rising to pick it up and read it. He almost spilled his wine when he realized what he held. Evidently Mrs. Hillwood, the faded blond lady, had not been pleased by his choice of Mrs. Haymer. If she herself had slipped the note under the door, then she had stayed as someone’s guest for the night—he hoped it was Tad Purnell. But she was inviting him to attend her if the Navy did not require him.

Damme, I love the Navy, he thought happily. Where else can I get into so much mischief, so quickly?

* * *

“I trust you both enjoyed Sir Richard’s dinner party,” Kenyon said as they rode back through town in the coach.

It was much too early for Alan. He had barely gotten to sleep when a servant had arrived with hot coffee and sweetened rolls and practically pushed him into his clothing. He had scarcely had time to shave, not that that was yet a daily necessity.

“Oh, aye, sir,” he said, worn down to a nubbin. He could not have felt much worse if he had emptied the punchbowl down his own gullet and retired a puking corpse.

Purnell, on the other hand, glowed in silence with a mystified expression, all youthful innocence. Evidently he had had a restful sleep after his introduction to the Alpha and Omega of pleasure. But his beatific pose was betrayed by the lace-trimmed handkerchief that peeked from a waistcoat pocket. As soon as they had gotten into the coach, Purnell had grinned so hugely that Lewrie was sure that Mrs. Hillwood had been most generous with her favors. Now, Alan’s main concern was if he wished to avail himself of those same favors, and just how he would go about it if he did.

The somber heat and stillness of the day before had gone with the approach of clouds from the east, and a cooling wind blew dead foul for Antigua, perhaps delaying their sailing. It was only Wednesday, and their distinguished passengers would not board until evening, with a dawn departure planned on the land breeze Thursday, but if the Trades did not back to the nor’east it would be a hard beat just to clear Morant Point, clawing off a lee shore. They would not risk their passengers to that, surely.

“I don’t think we’re going to get a fair wind by morning,” Lieutenant Kenyon said, surveying the harbor and the wind indicators.

“Too much easterly for a storm, isn’t it, sir?” Lewrie said. “And too late in the year for a hurricane, I’d have thought.”

“Perhaps, oh nautical one.” Kenyon laughed. “I shall send Mister Purnell to the flag with a message concerning this wind shift. I doubt if they wish to hazard our lord and lady. We may be delayed.”

“Oh, good,” Alan said without thinking.

“Have you some ulterior motive for wishing to stay in Kingston, Mister Lewrie?”

“Well, there are my pay-certificates, sir. Now I have them, I … have wanted a sextant, like Mister Ellison had in Ariadne. They are more accurate than a quadrant, and if we have to thread up the Bahamas again I would feel more secure in my reckoning. I hear they are fifteen guineas but I may find one for less with something to pledge for credit.”

Kenyon only stared at him, and Lewrie dropped back in his seat, suddenly intent on the view, hoping his lie might suit.

But their departure was delayed; the flag did not wish to send a lord to his death on a lee shore, nor did the local admiral desire to have his career end suddenly by losing an important government official. The Cantners would not board Parrot until Thursday evening for a Friday departure. The mail was not a priority, nor were any orders they carried of an urgent nature that would allow no delay of transportation.

Lewrie went below to change into fresh clothing after sweating up what he had worn at dinner and sport. He also had the wardroom servant haul up a bucket of salt-water so that he could sponge himself somewhat clean in the privacy of his tiny cabin.

“Mister Lewrie,” Kenyon called from the hatch to his cabins. “I believe you have some shopping to do?”

“Aye, sir,” he said, halfway into a clean shirt.

“So do I, and Mister Claghorne does not begrudge remaining in charge for a while longer. At the end of the Day Watch I will allow you to go ashore with me. We’ll leave Mister Purnell here to pursue his own endeavors.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

Lewrie scribbled a quick note and passed it to a passing bumboat with a shilling for delivery and the return of an answer, taking care that no one noticed.

Within two hours, a message was returned to him. Mrs. Hillwood would be at home for tea, and would be delighted to have him join her.

“Alan,” Purnell said, once they were aft by the taffrail deep in the flag lockers for inventory. “It was wonderful!”

“I thought you did, you little rogue! How does it feel to be a buck of the first head?” he congratulated.

“Grand, she gave me her handkerchief. It still has her perfume … her…” Tad blushed crimson.

“Next time you’re back in Kingston you’ll have a place to go,” Alan told him, cringing a bit that he was soon to be coupled with the same woman. “Uhm … how was she?”

“Well, she was very slim, as you might have noticed. Not bad, though. I thought she was going to eat me alive for a time there…” Tad answered, with a sly, adult grin.

“How grand for you,” Alan said, smiling at the news that Mrs. Hillwood enjoyed devouring midshipmen.

He was aching with anticipation by the time he and Lieutenant Kenyon were dropped off at the boat landing a little after 4:00 P.M. as the town began to awaken from the hottest part of the day, and cooling shadows lengthened.

“I shall sup at the Grapes, yonder,” Kenyon said, pointing to a modest and homely Georgian-style inn. “I wish you back here before midnight. May I trust you, Mister Lewrie?”

“Aye, sir,” Lewrie said, wondering if Kenyon thought he was going to take “leg-bail” from the Navy.

“Then leave the lady’s address with the doorkeeper at the inn, should I need you before then,” Kenyon said, making Lewrie gape at Kenyon’s powers of observation.

“How did you know it was a lady, sir?” he said, flummoxed.

“That is for masters and commanders to know, and for rutting midshipmen to discover later in their careers. Now off with you, and if you truly do find a sextant for less than fifteen guineas, let me known if they have another.”

“Aye, sir.” Lewrie was continually amazed by Kenyon and his attitude toward him. It was much more lenient than he had come to expect from a Sea Officer toward a lowly midshipman of so little practical experience. He thought that Kenyon truly liked him, and he knew that he had made great progress in gaining nautical skills as a result of it, but the exact reasons why it was so nagged at him. Who else would be a co-conspirator in his designs on a lonely grass-widow? It was almost beyond credence, and there were times that Alan felt that there was a debt building up which might someday have to be repaid. And, being born a leery soul …!

He found Mrs. Hillwood’s building, a great walled enclosure with a central court and front double iron gate that opened off a quiet side street. On the alleys there were discreet servants’ entrances. Normally, he would be scratching at one of those, but this afternoon he was an openly invited guest, so he entered the court and was faced with several apartments. Mrs. Hillwood’s number was on the second floor overlooking the court and its garden and fish pool.

The door was opened by a black maidservant, and he heard the tinny tinkling of a harpsichord and the murmur of several voices. At once his expectant erection became a distinct embarrassment as he realized it truly was a tea, with other guests, and not the sly invitation to strum the damned woman he had thought it was!

“Ah, our other guest,” Mrs. Hillwood said, rising to greet him. “This is Midshipman Alan Lewrie, from Parrot, the despatch boat. Mister Lewrie, allow me to name to you Reverend Robinson.”

“Your servant, sir,” Alan said, adjusting roles and making a graceful leg to the man, a young, chubby, and obviously poor sort of curate.

He met the reverend’s wife, a blubber-booby who had difficulty even bowing from a seated position, a planter and his wife, and an army officer from the local regiment with a young woman of his acquaintance.

The tea’s good, anyway, Alan thought sourly, sipping from his cup and gathering a small plate of baked trifles to pass the time. It was an agonizing hour and a half of small talk of privateers, prices in the Indies, prospects for crushing the rebellion in America, facing up to the French and the Spanish, the state of the Church, the latest poems, and a screed against those damned Wesleys and Methodism.

Lewrie got to put his oar in about life in the Navy and hoped he was amusing about some of his first experiences, but he could not hope to match broadsides with the Reverend Mr. Robinson or an opinionated young army major who was barely two years older than himself and sure that he was the last word on military affairs.

Only reason he’s a major is that he could buy a subaltern’s commission, and then buy his way up as people chucked it, Lewrie told himself. And he wasn’t too sure that he really didn’t know more about small arms and musketry, and most especially artillery, than the young man in the red coat with the scarlet sash, gorget and epaulet.

Mrs. Hillwood finally began to break up the tea party as the others began to stir in mutual boredom. The major gossip had been delivered, their bladders were full and it was getting on for sundown. Lewrie sighed and looked for his hat while Mrs. Hillwood gushed over the reverend and his chick-a-biddy wife at the door.

“You hat, sah,” the maidservant said softly. Lewrie had not had many island women; most of them were sure to be poxed if they dwelled anywhere near a harbor, but this one was tempting. She tapped the brim of his hat, forcing him to look down. There was a folded note in the inside of the crown. Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere. Must be from Mrs. Hillwood. I doubt if the servant can write.

Furtively, he stood to one side, adjusting his neckcloth in a mirror with his hat resting on the small table below it, and opened it to read without the others seeing. He was gratified to see that it was short and to the point: “Return in a quarter-hour.” Alan made his goodbyes publicly with the others and set off at a brisk pace to town.

When he was readmitted to the apartments the second time after a short detour to allay suspicion, the maidservant was now dressed in a hat and lace shawl. She let him in, then slipped out the door herself, leaving him alone in the front parlor. There was no sign of Mrs. Hillwood but there was now a serving tray on the tea table that held several bottles. Alan helped himself to some claret.

“Mister Lewrie,” Mrs. Hillwood said sweetly, entering the room from the back rooms. She had changed her more formal sack dress for a loose morning gown and now sported her own hair instead of a floured wig. She walked up to him and gave him a light kiss on the cheek, as one would greet an old friend, before breezing out of his hungry reach to cross to the array of bottles.

He was amazed to see her pour herself a healthy measure of Blue Ruin. “After the tedium of such guests I have need of gin, Mister Lewrie. I am very happy that you would accept my invitation to return.”

“I would not have missed it, I assure you, Mrs. Hillwood.”

“Come sit with me,” she said, alighting gracefully on a sofa and patting the brocaded fabric next to her. He obeyed. “Those people say the same things time after time but it is my duty as a woman of some consequence here on the island to allow them to pay their respects. Though they cost me my time and my patience.”

“At sea we have no choice of our messmates, either,” Alan said, sipping at his wine. “They can become … predictable.”

“And you dislike tedium, do you not, Mister Lewrie? As I?”

“I like adventure.” He grinned, turning in his seat to her.

“A direct young man, how delightful!” Mrs. Hillwood said, waving her empty glass at him in silent request for a refill. She had the look in her eyes of a predator, and Alan noticed that her nose was long and hawklike, the only mar of her still considerable beauty, though she must have been at least in her mid-to-late forties.

He took her glass and went to the table to pour her another dose of gin, and to top up his claret as well.

“Your captain allows you ashore for how long, Mister Lewrie?” she asked, tucking her legs up on the sofa and leaning over one arm.

“If the wind does not shift suddenly I have ’til midnight,” he said, carrying her drink back to her.

“How generous he is,” she said, “and such a good friend of Sir Richard Slade?”

“So he told me, ma’am, though I don’t know the connection.” He handed her the glass. There was now no place to sit next to her so he stood easy, one hand behind his back like a deck officer, and the other at high-port with the glass. She seemed amused.

“So you like adventure,” she said after a healthy slug of her gin. “Were you adventurous last night?”

“A gentleman never tells,” Lewrie said with a tight grin, and took a sip of his own drink.

“Nonsense, gentlemen always tell. Why else do they linger so long over the port while we poor women have to retire to cards and coffee, and talk of tatting lace?”

“You sound like someone who enjoys adventure yourself, ma’am,” he posed. Oh please be! he thought.

“Oh, I do. And I was, I confess, disappointed that you found that tawdry little dumpling more preferable. Your friend was amusing, even so, for all his clumsiness.”

“It was his debut, ma’am. But I trust that your kindness and generosity treated him well,” Lewrie said, feeling somewhat out of his depth. He had never run into a woman of her wealth and position that wasn’t a little sniveller and simperer, always swearing that they had never done anything like that before and that he was the ravisher that broke down their resistance. Yet here was a woman ready to admit to desires of the flesh as strong as his, and from Tad’s description of his night with her, she would be as aggressive as a lioness!

“He was smiling peacefully when I left him,” she said, finishing her drink and waving for him to serve once more.

“That’s good,” he said, going back to the table for more gin. “Poor Tad smiles so seldom.”

“And poor Mister Lewrie?” she purred enticingly.

“I am always seeking amusements to lighten the soul, ma’am,” he told her with mock gravity.

He stood close with her drink, but instead of reaching to take it from him, she put out a hand to his crotch and ran light fingers over his evident excitement through the cloth of his breeches.

“Never send a boy to do a man’s job,” she said. “You look so stifled in that uniform of yours. Take it off and be comfortable.” As he struggled out of his coat and waistcoat she undid his breeches, and as his neckcloth and shirt went flying across the room, she bent down and kissed his manhood.

“So strong, so upright. And you taste of ocean salt.”

“Oh God,” he said, throwing his head back to look at the ceiling as she clasped his buttocks and drew him into her.

“Bring our drinks,” she ordered, breaking off and swaying off to the back rooms, while he tried to shed his shoes and breeches and follow.

Mrs. Betty Hillwood was, as they said, a man-killer. She sobbed and she groaned deep in her throat, flinging her head back and forth and gasping, riding him rantipole with her hands clawed into his shoulders, and when she hit the melting moments, she sounded like someone being flogged at each warm stroke. She was incredibly slim with much smaller breasts than Alan preferred, but her nipples and aureoles were large and dark. Her hipbones dug into him harshly, but her flesh was incredibly fine and soft over her thin frame. The down of her legs was maddening as she stroked his buttocks with her legs and clasped him tight to her, and she loved to have his fingers twine in the sopping wet hair of her underarms as she gripped the headboard and thrust back at him stroke for stroke.

They broke for more drink, for a cold supper that they ate in bed, still tangled in the linen. They stood in a large tub of cool water that had been standing all day, and sponged themselves, then went to the edge of her high bed and made love seated. Followed by more to drink.

Frankly, Betty Hillwood could put gin away like a grenadier, and it only made her more passionate, more animal in her actions, and in her desires, which already seemed insatiable.

She complained about her dried-up stick of a husband, who liked island boys out at the plantations more than her, of how hard it was to find suitable satisfaction for her own desires in so proscribed a society as the islands, where there were so few true aristocrats who had a freer code of conduct than the squirearchy that made up most of the traders and planters of her own association.

She then took on another load of Blue Ruin and proceeded to make up for lost opportunities on Alan, who was wearing out. Once he was spent, she dandled him and kissed him into performing once more, just once more …

“Don’t flag on me, Alan dear,” she pleaded, half-drunk now and her hair hanging slattern-loose about her face. “I need a real man to spit me and split me, oh God, I need your hard prick deep inside me so hard and strong.”

He lay on his back on the piled-up pillows, almost hoping that it was time to leave. She lay between his outflung legs, idly trying to get his interest up once more, clutching his member with one hand and her eternal glass of gin in the other. She now reminded him of a one-shilling whore, eyes red and rheumy with drink, face flushed and mottled, and the marks of age more prominent. He sneaked a look at his watch on the nightstand—God, only nine-thirty …

“I’m hungry, Betty love. Let me go to the jakes and have some food,” he said softly. As long as she’s got hold of my prick, damme if I want to get her mad.

“Then will you love me?” She pouted.

“Absolutely,” he said. “But even cannon have to reload.”

He rolled out of the bed and went to the necessary closet, then came back and wrapped a sheet about him. He picked through the supper dishes to find some cold beef, cheese and bread. He fed her dainty bites while he wolfed most of it down. She stood up and walked nude to the nearest bottle of gin, which was empty.

“Oh, damn,” she said, flinging it into a corner. With a noticeable list, she tacked her way out of the bedroom, made some alarming clinking noises in the parlor and returned with a fresh bottle.

“I must tell you, Alan my sweetling, that you are the most impressive man I have played balum rancum with in ages,” she slurred as she crawled up his body to lay her head on his chest.

“And you, Betty, are a tigress,” he said, which seemed to please her. “Also, your husband is a fool.”

“Aye, he’s that and more.” She laughed, spilling gin on his ribs, which felt cool. She licked at his side and he squirmed. “Ticklish, my chuck?”

“Felt good,” he admitted with a husky chuckle.

“Then I must do more of it,” she said, tipping her glass and making a small pool of gin in his belly button, which she proceeded to lap like a tabby, running her tongue all over his stomach and chest.

“Yes, my husband is a fool, and a backgammon player, always looking for a new black boy to play with. If I’d known that I’d have never married him and moved to this disgusting island,” she said between applications. “Were it possible to divorce him I would and go back to London where I belong, where the right sort of people don’t begrudge a woman her needs. There’re so many of them, you know.”

“I know,” Lewrie sighed as she treated his nipples with gin and tender care.

“So many Mollys out there,” she muttered.

“My half brother. Disgusting little shit.”

“But not you, sweetling,” she smiled, reaching down to dandle his penis, which was showing signs of life. “You know, at first I thought you might be, being houseguests of Sir Richard’s…”

“Me? Keep doing that and I warrant I’ll show you … again … that I’m not…” Alan vowed with heat.

“Sir Richard tries to be discreet but he’s most infamous for it,” she said, sliding down toward his groin and parting the sheet.

“Are you sure?” he asked, sitting up. “I mean, I wondered about him. Such a coxcomb.”

“Of course, I’m sure. And I’d watch out for my captain, too, were I you, dearest Alan. Shall I tell you a secret?”

“Yes,” he replied, unsure. “I s’pose…”

“Last night, on my way upstairs with your eager little friend … God, I felt like a matron leading her youngest son … I saw Sir Richard and your captain.” She simpered.

“Upstairs?”

“Entering a room together. It was quite late. Isn’t that just delicious?” She leeringly rejoiced.

“Good God, woman, it can’t be! He’s a real taut hand, a real sailor man. There’s nothing Molly about him—”

“Remember, there’s an Article of War against it,” she said. “Now let me improve your taste a little.”

Betty proceeded to dribble gin over his member, which stung after all the exertions he had demanded of it over the last two days. Then before he could complain, she slipped her warm mouth down over it, her tongue sliding and flicking. Without conscious will, he became erect deep between her lips as she raised and lowered her head over him, making him as rigid as a marlinspike, as tumescent as a belaying pin.

He gripped her head between his hands and lay back on the pillows, half his mind on what she had implied about Lieutenant Kenyon. Never mind, he decided, giving himself over to the intense pleasure she was giving him. I’ll think about that some other time. Even Drake had time for a game of bowls, didn’t he?

* * *

Alan let himself out into a dark and nearly empty street at eleven that night. Betty Hillwood had demanded, and he had risen to the call of duty, until she had cuddled up to him, reeking of gin and her sweat and the aroma of their lovemaking. He had sponged off, gotten dressed properly and had tucked her in for the night. He had also left a note in her hand that expressed his joy at their coupling and a promise that next time he was in Kingston he would be sure to spend three days sunk deep into every part of her. After her conversation of the evening he was sure that she would be aroused and titillated by his choice of language. The woman has a Billingsgate streak to her, he assured himself happily. She may play the great lady but she’s a damned great, cracking tuppenny tart, with a mouth like a fishwife.

He strolled loose-hipped down the hill to the Grapes, feeling peckish once more, and in need of sustenance and a pot of coffee if he was to pass Kenyon’s sharp eye. Most of the stores were closed, but he found a small chandlery open at that late hour and their light drew him in. They had a used copy of a Smollett novel, Peregrine Pickle, and he remembered that it was a good long read, so he parted with three shillings for it. They did not have sextants, and if they did they were twenty-five guineas—“They’s a war on, sor, an’ everythin’s short, they is”—so he loafed his way into the Grapes and took a table by the window overlooking the boat landing.

“Yer servant, sir, this fine evenin’,” the publican said.

“Still got your ordinary?”

“All gone, sor, but if yer partial to pork I can still slice ya some. Got some nice figgy-dowdy fer yer sweet tooth, too,” the moonfaced man said, wiping his hands on his blue apron.

“That and bread, and coffee.”

“Right-ho,” the man replied smartly, fetching a candle from a vacant table so he could see better. The Grapes was half-empty, the crowd made up of naval officers for the most part, none too senior to put a damper on things. The few civilians seemed there on sufferance.

Alan got his coffee and began to sip at it, enjoying it black and rolling the bitterness about his mouth to kill the odor of all the claret he had downed. He was about to crack his book in the ample glow of the candle, when he heard a coach rattling up outside. He glanced out the window with idle curiosity. The coach looked familiar, as did the mulatto man in livery who got down from the boot.

The coach occluded the lamps at the boat landing and threw a deep shadow toward the inn, but the torches by the door of the Grapes relieved that opaqueness enough for him to see that it was Sir Richard Slade’s coach and that the coachee and the footman were the same ones who had driven them out to the house party. He twisted in his chair the better to see, and to lean back against the homey brick wall above the wainscoting … so that he himself would not be seen framed in the window.

There were people in the coach, two hats and a flash of some sheened material; one hat was trimmed with feathers and white lace.

The other showed only a gold loop and the flash of a button. Very like a naval officer’s cockade. Very like a lieutenant’s plain black cocked hat, with only a dog’s vane of ribbon held in place by the gold loop of braid and a gilt fouled-anchor button.

The hats leaned close together and stayed that way for a long moment, then the mulatto opened the coach door and flipped down the steps. One passenger prepared to depart, but before he did so he leaned back in and Alan could clearly see two men pressing their lips together, not in the fond farewell kiss that childhood friends might bestow upon each other at parting but in the writhing, practiced kiss of two men who were both of the same inclination. Was it his imagination, or had he given Betty Hillwood such a fond farewell just minutes before, with the same sweet-sad spark of remembered passion? He felt sick at his stomach.

“Pray God, it’s someone else,” he whispered, clenching his fists hard and ignoring the arrival of his cold supper.

“Holy shit on a biscuit,” he said bitterly. The man in the coach was the effeminate Sir Richard Slade, down to the very suit. The man departing the coach was Lt. James Kenyon, master and commander of HMS Parrot!

“If yer not wantin’ anythin’ else right away, sor, that’ll be two shillin’s,” the publican repeated.

“Yes,” Lewrie said, fumbling out coins blindly. “Here.”

“Righty-ho, then.”

Lewrie spun away from the window and propped the book up with fumbling hands in front of him. He took a scalding sip of coffee, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He dug into his cold pork and pease pudding, as though he had been at for some time, though each bite threatened to gag him on the way down, and sat queasy as a lump of coal once in his stomach.

Kenyon entered the inn’s public rooms a moment later, sharing a cheery greeting with the other officers of his rank at the other tables. He spotted Lewrie by the window and came over to join him.

“And what are you having, Mister Lewrie?” he asked jovially.

“Spot of cold supper … sir.”

“And a whacking thick book,” Kenyon said, picking it up to read the title. “Peregrine Pickle, is it? Just the thing for you, a roguish adventure, and long as a Welsh mile. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all, sir,” Alan replied, taking back the book and marking his place at random, as though he had read part of it.

“No sextant, I see?”

“Twenty-five guineas. If they had one, sir.”

“Will you be havin’ anythin’, sor?” the publican asked.

“Brandy for me,” Kenyon said briskly, “and a pint of stingo to wash it down … Other than that, did you enjoy your time ashore?” Kenyon asked casually, flinging a leg over the arm of his chair.

“A cat-lapping party with a lady I made acquaintance of at Sir Richard’s, sir,” Lewrie said, forced to smile at the unintended double-entendre of a tea party and what Mrs. Hillwood had done with her gin and her tongue. “Devilish boring, though. Went all over town looking in the stores, then paid down ‘socket-money’ for an obliging wench.”

He stared at Kenyon directly, not as adoring midshipman to older brother or superior officer, as if daring him with an account of some manly endeavor.

“No, I think Smollett has no lessons to teach you, Mister Lewrie.” But it was a bit more forced than before, his grin.

“And you, sir?” Lewrie asked, getting intent on his meal.

“A gentleman never tells, me lad,” Kenyon said as his brandy and strong beer arrived, and he took time to wet his tongue. “Frankly, there’s a willing enough tit I have been seeing. Just got back from seeing her home. Parents are chaw-bacons made it rich out here and she’d be a good enough rattle, but she’s such a country-put, and her family is so eager for a good match they’re hotter than a false justice with suggestions of marriage.”

“I didn’t think marriage and the Navy went well together, sir,” Lewrie said. “What with the long separations, and all.”

“You’re right there,” Kenyon said, still not tumbling to the fact that Lewrie knew more than he should. “Why tie yourself down to a termagant little mort when you can have a wife in every port for half the cost, eh?”

“Or just take it to sea with you,” Lewrie said, knowing that many ships allowed women aboard all the time, and that there were many captains who traveled with their wives or mistresses.

“Now that’s something I don’t hold with, women at sea,” Kenyon said firmly, thumping down his pint of stingo to exchange it for the glass of brandy. “And there’s many a captain I’ve known that will tell you that it’s bad for morale and discipline.”

I’ll bet you have, Lewrie thought. Here was the man he wished to emulate, the only officer who had been in any way kind to him since he had been forced into the Navy, acting bluff and hearty as the biggest rogering buck, and secretly a sodomite! Was that why he asked for me to join Parrot, because he thought he’d have a go at my backside someday? By God, if he ever lays a finger on me I’ll kill him! Just being around him makes me sick … Sir Richard’s sly wink, Lewrie recalled; did he think I was already Kenyon’s…!

That did not stop him, however, from eating every bite of his rich, sweet figgy-dowdy, knowing there would be nothing like that once they had sailed.