The King's Coat

Chapter 10

There were many strange and awful dreams that bothered him as he swam in the delirium of a raging fever. He and Mrs. Hillwood romped in the maintop while Marines threw buckets of seawater on them by the numbers and Captain Osmonde called the pace with a fugleman’s cane. Tad toasted cheese on burning sails for him and asked if he wanted his shoes blacked. Keith Ashburn and Shirke bought him a half-dozen bottles of claret, but he couldn’t drink with them, for their heads were skulls with clacking jaws and the wine ran down their chests like black ink.

Lieutenant Harm and Mr. Pilchard and Margaret Haymer danced together, comparing wounds. His sister Belinda was a figurehead on a ship of the line, and the sailors fondled her bare breasts as they sat on the beakhead rails to relieve themselves. Chapman hopped one-legged down the Strand with a beautiful young girl in a blue gown in search of a bookseller’s, and he could not catch them no matter how hard he ran. Sir Hugo and Sir Richard Slade chased him down an endless work gangway, waving their pricks at him.

He found himself flying low across sparkling wavetops with a crowd of pelicans who knew how to do spherical trigonometry in their heads, and he jeered with them at the seagulls, who had to use slates. Captain Bales was served at dinner by a nude Lady Cantner with an apple in her mouth. Alan was made post, but his ship was a hundred fathoms down off Nevis, and the wind kept shifting all about the compass. Kenyon and some admiral stood together in full uniform but no breeches and told him what a brute he was to harm the French, who were only two inches tall and crawled all over him. He was in a cart on his way to Tyburn to be hanged, and with his jeering friends telling him to die game, there was an elfin face framed in honey gold ringlets staring up at him and telling him to keep his wig on straight, while a fiddler did a bad rendition of “Portsmouth Lass” and Claghorne and seaman Crouch shoved on the capstan bars, and some very ugly old woman sold poking sticks to the gentry who wished to have at him.

He dreamed he had Yellow Jack and had turned the color of a Quarantine flag, all his hair falling out in his eyes, and a beautiful young girl tenderly bathed his face, softly saying “you sonofabitching bastard” over and over, and he had an erection because her eyes were the color of the ocean in a shallow island harbor, and Cassius rang a tiny silver bell so everyone could come and marvel.

Then there was a dream of a cool room, dim and quiet and still, with some kind of bars slanting one wall, and that one lasted for a while. The walls looked like plaster instead of the lathed partitions of a ship, and there might have been pictures on the walls but they were hard to make out because there seemed to be some kind of fog about him.

I’m in a house, he told himself dreamily, after pondering it a long time. I’m in bed in a house. So what happens after that? Slow sort of dream, compared to the others …

He could not move but he could blink and shift his vision to discover what seemed to be two sets of louvered doors on one wall at the foot of the bed he occupied. The light from outside was what was making the bar patterns on the wall.

They are not prison bars, he decided, shifting his eyes to a closer vantage of his body. He could see his arms on the sheets, so Boggs had not cut anything off. He tried to raise his arm but it would not move, and he sighed as he realized he had little control over this dream. He tried to shift a leg, and felt cool linen pressing down lightly all over him. I am in bed, in a house, nude, and not in jail. Lots of possibilities to this … hmm.

It was such a pleasant prospect that he dreamed he went right back to sleep to mull things over. When he dreamed that he awoke, it was much lighter. Then he saw that the fog about him was an insect net of very fine gauze around his bed, that the louvered doors led to some sort of veranda or patio. This time, he could move a hand and reach down to feel his groin. Yep, still got my wedding tackle. Nice room. Nice furnishings. Too good for a debtors’ prison, and it’s too quiet for a hospital. It was cool, and a hint of breeze came through those louvered doors, bringing the sound of surging waves on a beach, and he didn’t think it was Brighton. There was a decided salt-and-iodine tang to that breeze, and it was so bright beyond the louvers that he thought he might be somewhere in the tropics, maybe the West Indies.

His mouth fell open and a foetid odor rushed out. He tried to make words but all that came out was “gracck.” But he thought, with a joy that was almost sexual, My God! I’m alive!

He looked at his hands and his arms against the cool white linen sheet, and saw that he was a lot more yellow than he remembered.

I survived Yellow Jack, he crowed silently, almost weeping in happiness. I’m as yellow as a quince but I’m alive!

He listened to his heart beat, took deep breaths and rejoiced to the sound of air rushing in and out. The taste in his mouth was positively vile, but he thought it nice to be able to taste anything.

There was a sound to his right. A door was being opened, a swish of clothing could be heard. He caught a flash of white cloth and thought it might be some sort of mop-squeezer. But he saw that elfin face that was so incredibly young and lovely, those bright blue eyes and the honey gold hair set in ringlets, and he was afraid that he had seen her somewhere before … being hanged or something? If she were here, was he really alive? Was she some tantalizing angel or devil? Did he have his wig on straight?

She crossed to the double doors and threw the first set open. A flood of painfully brilliant sunlight exploded into the room. The second set opened, and he blinked in pain, until he could make out a bar of cerulean blue framed by intensely green bushes, bright green grass and the hint of dune-grass and sandy soil beyond the green. Was that a ship out there, a three-masted Indiaman? The girl took a moment to stand in the second door, arms still holding the doors apart like a figure on a crucifix in some Romish church.

Once his eyes had adjusted and been blinked clean of tears he could surmise that it was early morning, for there was a hint of sun just at the top of the door, and the girl was silhouetted against the bright light. She must have been wearing a morning gown instead of a more formal sack-gown, and without stays or corset, because he could see how slim her back was through the fabric, how tiny her waist, how slim her hips, almost like a boy’s but for the gentle continuation to the curve of her behind.

With the doors open the breeze hit him with a gentle rush, and it was cool and clean, heavy with tropical flowers, the astringent tang of deep ocean that came to him as lustily as the steam from a smoking joint of meat. He could hear birds singing, birds he did not recognize.

The girl still stood against the light, and he could see that her shoulders were not too broad. She had long legs, slim thighs that left a gap between them at her cleft, shapely calves and trim ankles. She turned and did something in the shadows on tiptoe, and he could see how full and high her young breasts were above a flat belly, how snug and trim her buttocks were. Then she stepped out of the light into the shadows, and a bird was singing quite loudly.

There was another rustle of cloth in the room, and he shifted his eyes to that direction. He saw an incredibly ugly woman in a mobcap and morning gown. She bore something with her. Where had he seen her before, selling something at Tyburn or Bedlam? She brought something forward; long, thin, made of wood and … Poking stick! I’M DEAD!

“Hanggankk,” he said, eyes wide in fright, and the woman gave out a harpy’s shriek and disappeared in a twinkling.

“Mister Lewrie,” the woman said, reappearing with a glass of something in her hand. “You spoke! Lucy, he spoke!”

“I heard him, yes, thank God, oh thank God,” a young voice cried.

“Agghk,” he went on, his heart pounding hard enough to shake the bed. The woman’s shriek, and the sight of that broom handle he had thought was a poking stick had nearly frightened him out of what few wits he still possessed. And he had not made much inventory yet as to that.

Hands were there to lift him up in bed and pile pillows behind him until he was almost sitting up. A black maid appeared to help out. A glass was thrust under his nose and he opened his sticky lips to accept whatever was offered. It was water: not stale ship’s water, but fresh and sparkling clear water, and he gulped it down greedily, hoping to sluice away the vile taste in his mouth. He wasn’t much for water if one could get beer or ale or wine, but at the moment he thought the water a marvelous discovery.

“Thank you. Thank you,” he rasped, licking his dry lips.

“We feared the fever had curdled your brains, Mister Lewrie.”

“Thought I was dead. Dreaming. Where?”

“Antigua,” the soft young voice said, and he looked into that elfin face, at those high cheekbones, that narrow chin and high forehead and still felt like he was dreaming.

“You are on the Atlantic side, Mister Lewrie,” the old woman told him. “We brought you here when the surgeons had despaired of your recovery in hospital in English Harbor. After the brave thing you did, it was the least we could do for you.”

“God bless you, ma’am,” he breathed in her direction. Here, did she say I’d done something brave? That sounds promising …

“This is the shore residence of Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews. I am Lady Maude and this is the admiral’s niece, Miss Lucy Beauman, from Jamaica.”

“God bless,” he said, gazing at the girl. “She was there.”

“Lucy?” Lady Maude snorted. “Where?”

“Tyburn. The Strand. I saw her. I think I did.”

“Just dreams, Mister Lewrie,” Lady Maude said. “Fevers do that to you.”

“Followed her,” he insisted weakly, “couldn’t catch up.”

“Auntie, he’s still so weak,” the girl whispered, concerned.

“Aye, and will be for some time longer. Mister Lewrie, could you take a portion of a nourishing broth?”

He nodded slowly.

“Andromeda, go tell Cook to prepare a thin meat broth and be quick about it,” Lady Maude told the mop-squeezer, “and put some red wine in it for stoutness.”

“Yassum.”

“Parrot,” Lewrie asked, wondering what he had done that was so brave and wonderful, and concerned about his ship … “Is she safe?”

“Indeed she is, Mister Lewrie!” Lady Maude beamed down at him. “Lord and Lady Cantner have sailed to Tortola to meet the winter convoy, and Parrot still swims proudly. And you can be proud of doing such a brave duty for the Crown, young man. Very resourceful indeed…”

“The privateer brig,” Lewrie said as the memory of what he had done came back in a rush. And a dread, too.

“As Sir Onsley said, ‘burnt to the waterline and Frogs’ legs in a flambé,’” Lady Maude tittered.

“Serve ’em right,” Lewrie muttered, ready to fall asleep once more.

“Still thirsty, Mister Lewrie?” Lucy asked.

“Yes,” he replied, realizing that he was.

“Lucy, fetch a bottle of brandy from the wine cabinet,” Lady Maude instructed. “A pinch of that in his water will put color in his cheeks.”

“Any color but quince,” he said with a happy sigh, and they began to laugh heartily, a giddy sound of relief, and Lewrie drifted off to the sound of it.

* * *

When he was adjudged strong enough to hear the news, Rear Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews stopped by to visit him. Lewrie had been sitting up in bed, bemoaning the loss of his hair and eyebrows to the fever when the man entered. Sir Onsley was corpulent, big all over, balding and looking strangled in his neckcloth.

“Sir Onsley.” He nodded in lieu of a bow.

“You look like death’s head on a mopstick, but I hear you’re going to recover, lad,” Sir Onsley began, sitting down on the edge of the table by the bed, which fortunately was square and heavy enough to support his considerable bulk.

“I am feeling much better, Sir Onsley. Still weak as a kitten, but better.”

“Damn close thing, you and the Yellow Jack. Not many survive, but if you do, you stand a good chance of being acclimated to it and won’t come down with it again.” Sir Onsley crossed his arms on his chest. “Have some news for you.”

“Aye, sir?”

“Your captain recovered as well, and about a third of your sick.”

“I am gratified to hear that, Sir Onsley,” Lewrie said automatically, but thinking that he wasn’t so sure, after discovering that Lieutenant Kenyon preferred “the windward passage.”

“Parrot is under another officer and has departed for Nassau. We needed her badly. Had to appoint two new midshipmen to her, so I’m afraid you’re without a berth for a while.”

“Oh,” Lewrie said, feeling a sadness that he would not have expected six months before at such news. What would become of him? What sort of berth would he get once he recovered, fit to stand duties? Would he have to go back to the sullen abuse of the regular Fleet once more? “I understand, Sir Onsley.”

“I understand, too, lad,” the admiral said, clearing his throat. “Happened to me once, my first time in the Indies, for the same reason. Now look here, you’re not to worry about anything but getting well for now. You shall be my wife and Lucy’s project until you’re well enough to get around, and I’ll find something for you to do.”

“You are too kind to me, Sir Onsley.”

“Until then, you have the hospitality of my house.”

“I am most grateful to you, Sir Onsley. But I am probably well enough to go back to hospital to recover,” Lewrie offered, hoping that it was pro forma for him to say that and be denied. He liked it there, and the girl was gorgeous …

“Nonsense. Healthier over here on the windward side, anyway. If a ship could tack out of what passes for a harbor here, I’d move the entire dockyard. That’s your chest over there, by the way. And I have some of your things, pay-certificates and such. There’re some letters for you, when you feel up to reading them. And a present or two.”

“Presents?” Lewrie perked up, finding it hard to believe.

“Andromeda,” Sir Onsley bellowed in his best quarterdeck voice. “Fetch those packages for Mister Lewrie.”

The girl entered the room with them and placed them on the bed. There was a small ivory box, the sort used in gambling houses like White’s or the Cocoa Tree to hold guineas in set amounts. Lewrie opened it and beheld a double row of glittering guineas. He dug one out and discovered that it was real. A hundred guineas, at the very least!

“That’s from Lord and Lady Cantner. Reward for your bravery, and your nacky ruse to sink or cripple that privateer. Mind you, not my idea of a truly honorable ruse de guerre, but to save the life of a high government official and his lady, it was the only thing you could do to fight a stronger ship and get away with a whole skin,” Sir Onsley told him. “If there are no Frogs to complain about it, then I’ll not. Old colt’s-tooth puts a high price on his skin, it seems.”

“Aye, sir, indeed,” Lewrie said, unable to feature it.

There was a second small package from Lady Cantner. It was a gold locket that when opened sported a miniature of her countenance on one side, and under a wafer of glass on the other, a lock of her dark hair. Lewrie snapped it shut, and met the admiral’s raised eyebrows.

“Lord Cantner asked me to review the report your mate Claghorne wrote on the action, to see that you got proper credit at Whitehall,” the admiral went on. “And I submitted my own as well. Your family will be proud to read about you in the London papers. Won’t do your career any harm, either, to be an eight-day wonder. Though if the Lord North government is turned out, Cantner will no longer be much help to you.”

“This is heady stuff, all the same, Sir Onsley,” Lewrie said with a shyness he did not exactly feel. “I am quite overcome.”

“This is from your Lieutenant Kenyon,” Sir Onsley said, handing him a cloth-wrapped bundle. Lewrie unfolded it to reveal a sword, a hunting sword, or hanger. It was bright steel, chased minimally with nautical detailing on the blade, slightly curved, flat on top but razor-sharp from narrow tip to within an inch of the hilt. And the hilt was a double seashell pattern with a tapering hand-guard that ran back to a lion’s-head pommel, all gleaming silver. The grip was silver wire, wound over blue sharkskin for a firm, dry grip. The scabbard was a dark blue leather with a silver drag and upper fitting, and the belt hook was a smaller replica of the seashells of the hilt.

Not only was it utterly lovely, but it was a Gill’s, reputed to be the strongest blades in all of Europe, harder to break than a Bilboa or Toledo or Solingen blade, even when struck with great force on the flat of the blade. It was a handsome gift, nearly a hundred guineas in its own right, and he actually felt guilty to feel such animosity toward Lieutenant Kenyon for being a miserable Molly, after he had given him such a magnificent present.

“God, it’s beautiful…”

“He believes that you earned it, saving his ship for him, even if he lost her due to his illness,” Sir Onsley said, rising to pace the room. He glared at the chirping bird in the cage by the louvered doors, a black and brightly banded local bird called a bananaquit, that doted on jams and fruit. “Damn silly creature. You can let dogs in, but never birds. Trouble has a way of following you about like one of those hounds of Hades or something, know that, Mister Lewrie?”

“Aye, Sir Onsley,” Alan said, scarcely able to tear his eyes from the beautiful bright sword.

“First Ariadne, now Parrot, and you have the devil’s own luck not only to survive, but come out covered in credit.”

“I don’t know what to say, Sir Onsley,” he said with a shrug of nonunderstanding. Was he being criticized?

“Resourceful,” Sir Onsley mused aloud. “Courageous. Crafty. Not much of a tarpaulin man yet, but that’ll come. That’ll come.”

Lewrie studied him intently, waiting for the bad shoe to drop.

“I’m off for supper and bed. You rest up and recover, and we’ll see what comes open after that. Delighted to have met you at last, my boy.”

“And I you, Sir Onsley,” trying to bow from a sitting position as the admiral stomped from the room.

Damn, am I famous for what I did? he asked himself after the admiral had left the room. One thing is for certain, I’m rich. A pair of ponies for saving Lord Cantner, and it’s gold, not certificates. If he’s that grateful, maybe I should make a career out of saving lords, and I’d be rolling in chink!

He stood the sword and its scabbard by the bed and opened his mail. There was a letter from Lord Cantner, full of fulsome praises and charming compliments, expressing his gratitude for his life and freedom, and a promise to keep an eye on his career once he was back in London. Alan vowed to write him as soon as he was able, to keep in touch with someone who could turn out to be a benefactor, knowing that the Navy admired nautical skills, but the officer who succeeded was often the recipient of exactly such favor and unofficial maneuverings at Whitehall.

If the first letter had pleased him, the second had him ready to tear at his hair (had he any remaining). It was from Kenyon. While he had given him the sword, it was in the nature of a parting gift, and they could not consider themselves as associates in future. Kenyon was shocked and saddened that Alan had disobeyed Claghorne, even more outraged that he would have violated the time-honored usage of striking the colors as a subterfuge against an honorable foe, even a ship full of privateers. Scum or not, they were blessed with a letter of marque giving them quasi status as a naval vessel.

Kenyon went on to inform him that Claghorne had been promoted to lieutenant, and given Parrot, not as a due reward for his skills and knowledge, but more as a peace offering to keep him quiet.

Kenyon, and Claghorne, were deeply saddened that a man who should have found joy in an earned promotion found only shame, due to the reprehensible behavior of someone they’d once thought full of promise.

“Oh so-holy bastard,” Lewrie muttered angrily, crumpling up the letter. “Raving on about honor when he’d bare his own backside to any of his kind who’d ride him. Gifting me with a sword—what does he think I should do, fall on it like a Roman senator? ‘Be prepared for when your lack of honor is called to question, so you’ll have something to duel with, as you cannot escape that fate if you continue as you are,’” he quoted to himself from the letter. “Well, the admiral didn’t think what I did was evil or reprehensible. Sneaky, perhaps, but he didn’t want to hang me for it. Deep down, under all his manly talk and bluster, Kenyon’s an old woman. Should have been a vicar, so he could preach about honor and all that, instead of a sailor. He doesn’t like the Navy any more than I, maybe less … so what’s he so exercised about?”

Once he had composed himself (and hidden that accusatory epistle safely away from prying eyes), he helped himself to Lady Maude’s special decoction, cold tea, with the rob of lemons, and a pinch of sugar, and opened the third letter.

“Now this is more like it!” It was from Keith Ashburn, still sixth lieutenant to Sir Onsley on Glatton. It was chatty and newsy about previous messmates, and an open invitation to spend some time roving English Harbor’s pleasurable pursuits once he had gotten stronger. It was also full of a teasing, but basically envious, accounting of how his heroism had been received in the flagship, and in port, which was most gratifying to peruse.

Without knowing all the intimate details of the fight with that privateer, it was assumed by one and all that some hard and plucky bottom was shown by Claghorne and Lewrie as the only two officers still well enough to not only face up to a better-armed brig, but to burn her to the waterline and win the day. All honor and glory to Claghorne, now a commission officer with an independent command, the recognizable mark of favor usually shown a first lieutenant after a spectacular victory! And all honor and glory to a plucky, courageous midshipman named Lewrie that any captain would be damned glad to have in his gun room.

Aye, give even a cur like me a good name, and it’ll be harder to get rid of than cowshit on riding boots, Alan agreed to himself, secretly and totally delighted. Kenyon can stick his nose up at the smell, but I’ll bet most of ’em would still think I was heroic, even if they knew the whole truth.

His jubilation was disturbed as the maidservant entered with a supper tray, followed by Lucy Beauman, eyes glowing with the admiration she clearly felt for him.

“We must not allow news from the wide world to upset you, Mister Lewrie,” she said. “Your main concern is recovery. Now here’s your supper. A nourishing soup,” she said brightly, indicating various dishes on the tray, lifting the lid of his supper. “Old Isaac caught this lobster this afternoon, and there’s drawn butter, carrots and peas. And Auntie … Lady Maude believes a small amount of hock will strengthen your blood. Do you need another pillow? May I fluff up that one? There you are, more comfortable.”

“You are too kind to me, Miss Beauman.”

She tucked a large white napkin into the top of his bed gown and spread it over his chest. Andromeda placed the tray across his lap and began to pour him some white wine.

“There’s enough for two glasses tonight,” Lucy informed him, taking a seat in a chair by the bed that left her seated below him, from where she looked up at him like a prepubescent elder sister would regard the arrival of a new offspring. “I know how you Navy men enjoy your wine. And if you’re very good, and gain your strength, Lady Maude shall allow you more.”

“I shall try,” Alan promised her, taking a welcome sip.

“Is this your sword?” Lucy asked, touching it but not attempting to pick it up. “How marvelous. Did your captain give it you?”

“Yes, he did. Sir Onsley just presented it to me.”

“So he should reward someone who saved his command as he lay ill.” Lucy nodded firmly, shifting her adoring gaze back to him. “That will be all for now, Andromeda.”

“Youah suppah be ready soon, missy,” the black girl said on the way out.

“You really look much better, Mister Lewrie,” Lucy said as he cracked a claw open, spurting hot juices across the napkin. “May I assist you?”

“I believe I may manage, but thankee just the same, Miss Beauman.” He cut a portion and dunked the meat in the hot butter, brought it to his mouth and chewed, thinking how regal a good fresh lobster could be. And how messy. But the girl was there with another napkin to help daub at him.

“Is there anything else you would require, Mister Lewrie?” she asked, eager to fetch for him. “Perhaps a nice heel of bread?”

“This shall be sufficient,” he told her, spooning up some of the soup. It was hot and spicy, loaded with chunks of some local fish and various pot vegetables. “I fear I am making a mess.”

“Then allow me to assist. Really, I don’t mind at all,” she assured him. “Give me your spoon and rest easy.”

“How much longer shall I be confined to bed, Miss Beauman?”

“I believe a naval surgeon visits tomorrow. He would know better, Mister Lewrie.” Delicately she brought the spoon to his lips. “I love island soups and stews, don’t you?”

“I feel so useless lying here,” he said, “and I must get back aboard a ship.”

“Not until you are perfectly recovered, I pray!” she said quickly, then blushed at her sentiment. “I mean—”

“Well, if I am to recover fully I can think of no better place in which to do it, and no better company, Miss Beauman,” which brought another stronger flush to her cheeks and shoulders. “My Christian name is Alan.”

“Alan,” she repeated, tasting the strength of it. “I am Lucy.”

“May I call you that?”

“I am sure that Lady Maude would not mind. Nor would I.”

“Wonderful.” He smiled. “Then I shall, with all respect, and all gratitude.”

“I did nothing,” she said shyly. “It was all Lady Maude’s idea. But I must say you have richly earned her hospitality and concern.”

“Words cannot express my thanks, Lucy,” he said softly, glad the tray covered a hopeful stirring at the sight of how fresh and adoring she was, and how beautiful.

“Your return to duty in full health shall be our reward, Alan,” she said right back, showing a tremulous boldness for a second.

If I had died, heaven could not have been half this grand, he told himself as she cut him another bite of lobster.

* * *

A week later, he still lingered at Lady Maude’s house, able to rise from bed and get about without assistance. With Lucy as his companion, and Old Isaac as a chaperone, he was encouraged to take exercise to rebuild his shattered strength. Mostly they walked the beaches, going down the gentlest inclines to the sea.

Alan was painfully thin after his ordeal, a trace of quince still remained in his complexion, but he was content to puff and blow as he climbed up or down the slopes to the sandy beaches where he could stroll for hours, with many a rest stop under the trees and flowering bushes that fringed the strand.

To protect his bald pate from the sun he wore a floppy sennit hat that was much cooler than using a tightly curled white wig to disguise his bare scalp. There was a down coming back in now, a sign that he would recover, and within a week more would have a head of hair no shorter than most people had it cut generally under their own fashionable wigs for coolness and the easy detection of pests.

Once out of sight of the house he would peel off his stockings and shoes and undo the knee buckles and buttons of his oldest, tarriest breeches. He would open his shirt and roll up the sleeves, then revel in the warm winds that blew steadily off the Atlantic, would wade in the surf sometimes up to his waist, in the crystal-clear inrush from the ocean. When he got too hot and sweaty he would plunge into the shallows, or squat and duck himself, to come up snorting and refreshed.

There were plenty of crabs to watch and chase after at a slow walk. There were shells to discover and wash clean in the shallows. There were seabirds to admire, the little sandpipers that dug in the wet sand as the waves hissed to nothing and the hiding places of small morsels plopped and bubbled before the waves rolled back in, and the sandpipers ran away from a soaking on a blur of spindly legs. There were seagulls that hung motionless against the steady breeze and cried for bits of bread.

And when they wished to rest there was always a bottle of ale or beer in Old Isaac’s bottomless leather sack, a stone jug of Lady Maude’s cold tea, fruit to peel and eat, a rusk or a slice of something sweet and special that Lucy had packed as a tiny gift to him, which he always insisted they share.

Old Isaac kept a wary eye on him. He was, after all, a slave that Lucy’s father had sent along with her from Jamaica when the latest slave revolt had broken out, an old family retainer with specific instructions to protect her from just such a potential danger as Lewrie. Alan speculated on how big was the knife Old Isaac might have in the bottom of that sack of his, should he make a move on his lovely young charge.

Old Isaac swore he was part Caribe, the ancient Indians of the West Indies, but he looked as blue-black as any import from Dahomey—even his gums were blue. But he did know a lot about the shells they found, the birds, the fish, the sea urchins to avoid, what trees were unsafe to take shade under, such as the manchineel, which continually misted a sap like acid. He had been a fisherman for the Beauman family for years at their plantation on Portland Bight on Jamaica, until too old to work so hard at the oars and deep nets.

Lucy said that Old Isaac was making him a juju bag that would keep him safe from the dangers of the sea, but he was never to inspect the inside of the bag, and wear it forever. It would save him from drowning, Old Isaac assured him. Lewrie told him of the belief that a tatoo of a certain cross would do the same, but Old Isaac had only laughed at how gullible white people could be. He could not say anything such as that, but from the way he had tittered openmouthed and walked off, muttering to himself and laughing, he said volumes.

* * *

Two weeks later, one bright and sunny and pleasantly cool morning on the beach, basking bare-chested under a mild sun, Lewrie began to realize that his idyll might come to an end. He looked up the beach at Lucy, walking barefoot in the surf, a fashionable sunshade in one hand to retain her paleness, the other holding up the skirt of her gown. She wore no stays and no petticoats, like a poor country wench, and the gown was old and shabby enough to allow her to wade if she wished. The bottom two feet of hem was soaking wet and clinging to her bare legs, and he felt his groin stir pleasantly at the sight.

If he felt well enough to think about bedding a wench, and Lucy was the only dell in sight, then he was well enough to go back to the harbor and resume his duties. In a way it would be a relief, for she was openly fond of him. But she was only sixteen years old, coltish and lovely, but not his sort of pigeon, and being the recipient of so much open adoration, without being able to take advantage of it, was driving him to distraction.

I’m just a toy to her, anyway, he thought. Young girls like to play with dolls to feed and nurse, and all I am to her is a doll that can talk back. And if I did get into her mutton, Admiral Matthews would have me flogged round the Fleet …

He stood up and walked into the gentle surf at low tide, wading out until he was waist-deep, then ducked under and splashed up and down several times to take his mind off how virginal she was, and how much he’d enjoy ending that condition. Damme, she’s built for sport, though …

“Sah,” he heard Old Isaac yell as though in command.

Lewrie took time to see three pelicans rise from the water, and a boil of fingerling fish break the surface perhaps a musket shot away farther out, and began to wade back ashore immediately. He had seen sharks on this beach, rolling openmouthed and hungry in the face of a wave, black eyes seemingly aiming at him. Perhaps it was nothing, but it was better to be safe than sorry, and supposedly Old Isaac thought so as well.

“You must be careful, Alan,” Lucy told him as he gained the dry sand. “It might have been a shark out there!”

“Thank you, Isaac,” he said as the old man settled back to rest.

“Except for the sharks, this would be ideal,” Lucy said, angling her parasol against the morning sun. Old Isaac had resumed his reclining position at the top of the beach in the shade of a tree, and Lucy led him down the beach by her very presence.

“Would it not be idyllic, Alan, to stay here like this forever,” she went on. “It would be just like the tale of the lotus-eaters from the Odyssey.”

“Sand and sun. Fish to eat…”

“Wine … goats and cheese, and all the fresh fruit and nectar one could want forever. Never too cold, never too hot, time never passing,” she enthused on her theme, swinging her skirt more boldly as they left Old Isaac farther behind.

“Now that would be boring,” Alan scoffed. While in his delirium, he had turned eighteen, and Lucy was sixteen. While such a fantasy was nice, that meant she would remain a feckless child forever, and instead of a good romp in the bushes she would most likely want to stroll hand in hand and get orange juice on her bodice from all that damned fruit!

“It would not,” she said. “There would be music and books, and interesting people to talk to. Perhaps even someone such as your Mrs. Hillwood?”

“What?” He spun to face her, feeling faintish.

“One raves during a fever … just imagine what I heard you say,” Lucy coyly teased.

He followed her up the beach as she twirled and skipped ahead of him, teasing him on. “So what did I say?”

“Lots of silly things,” she replied, seeming cross. “Hateful things. I believe you really must be a very bad person inside, to have done so many sinful acts so young.”

God, I hate perceptive women, he thought. “Where did you hear all this, Lucy?”

“You were raving, I told you. I heard you when we washed you.”

“Andromeda told you, didn’t she?” he scoffed.

“She did not!”

“Your good aunt wouldn’t let a little girl like you see me naked. They keep people like you under toadstools until they’re grown—”

“I am not a little girl, Alan Lewrie…”

“I doubt if they let you even come to balls, yet,” he went on. “Most likely you listen from the top of the stairs, with your nurse.”

She dropped the parasol to her side and stepped up to him. She flung her arms around him and kissed him most expertly, raising the sunshade to screen their activities from Old Isaac up the beach.

Damme, they train ’em right in the Indies, Alan told himself, taking her into a close embrace that brushed his groin against the front of her thin gown. There were no underpinnings or petticoats to soften the impact of a trembling young body against his, and his newly restored power to be excited made him positively ache with sudden want.

“Did Mrs. Hillwood kiss you like that?” she whispered, stepping back from him. Her bright blue eyes were twinkling.

“Often,” he said honestly, rattled badly.

She flung herself on him again for another long and passionate kiss, arms twined about his neck possessively.

“Did she kiss you like that?” Once more she broke away as he dropped a hand to a firm buttock.

“No, not exactly,” he said, feeling weak.

“And no one else ever shall.” She squeezed his hand and began to stride back up the beach toward Old Isaac, leaving him standing as though he had just been struck with a quarterstaff.

“Holy Christ,” he whispered, watching her walk away, so fully pleased with herself. With a groan he turned to the surf and flung himself into it once more, his clothes barely dry from his last immersion. He bobbed and ducked until he could walk erect without getting the old man suspicious, then made his way down the beach.

Old Isaac had a cloth spread in the shade. His shirt was there, and a towel that he used to dry himself and remove some of the sand that had stuck to his feet and legs. Isaac reached into his leather bag and pulled out an orange, which he bit like a horse with strong yellow teeth. He spat out the plug and began to suck. Lewrie helped himself to a pewter mug of cold tea, watching Lucy prowl the sand farther up the beach in search of shells.

“You gettin’ bettah, sah,” Old Isaac said softly.

“What’s that to you?”

“Maybe ’bout time you go back to sea, sah,” Old Isaac said, turning to look at him.

“And that is what you shall tell Sir Onsley and Lady Maude?”

“Ah doan tell nobody nothin, sah. But it be time.”

He’s right, Lewrie nodded in silent agreement; if I lay a hand on her, there goes all that good influence, and my good name hereabouts. Only way I could have her is to marry her. God, what a thought!

“If I stay any longer, I hurt her, right?”

“Not for me tah say, sah.”

“I hope it will not please you too much if I agree with you, you ugly old fart.” Lewrie smiled as he said it.

Old Isaac gave him a toothy grin, nodded and went back to eating his fruit.

* * *

Admiral Matthews dined with them that evening, free for once of his flagship and her responsibilities, though Alan wondered what he did that was so important that would not require Glatton to be at sea. Once the cloth had been removed, and the ladies had withdrawn, Sir Onsley waved Lewrie down to join him by the port bottle.

“As I remarked earlier, you have recovered well, Mister Lewrie.”

“Thank you, Sir Onsley. I feel very able to join a ship. And I cannot with good conscience prevail on Lady Maude’s hospitality any longer,” Lewrie declared.

“Yes,” Sir Onsley said, eyeing him. “One can only stand to be mothered and fussed over so long before one begins to feel like a lapdog. The surgeon suggests light duties for a spell. How would you like to serve ashore for a while?”

“While I would dearly love a sea berth, Sir Onsley, I would of course be happy to serve in any capacity, and be grateful to be alive to do so,” Alan toadied—right well, he thought.

“Hmm, yes, I expect you would be. I could take you into Glatton … but I see that you do not wish to idle in a harbor when you could be more use at sea, perhaps.”

“I am good with small arms, and artillery, Sir Onsley.”

“That is very true,” Sir Onsley said, reaching for the port. He poured himself a full bumper, and topped Alan’s glass as well. “I shall be going back to English Harbor before dawn. Have your chest packed and ready and we’ll find you something to keep you busy.”

“Thank you, Sir Onsley. I am pleased you would find me useful.”

“You can handle a boat? Ride? Know something about stores?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Excellent,” Sir Onsley said with a firm nod. “Well, heel taps, and then I’m for bed. I shall leave word for you to be wakened.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

* * *

For the next month, Alan was busy, up at dawn and out on the roads on a strong little mare, carrying messages and orders from the flag to the dockyard, to the batteries and the other military encampments on the island. And when not in the saddle he was given charge of a finely trimmed and manned rowing boat.

His launch visited each ship in harbor as it arrived, went aboard just before departure with last-minute orders, plied between flag and the dock. He was seconded to the dockyard superintendent as well, and got ink stains on his hands from inventories, from supervising working parties, from visiting warships due supplies to see that they got what was authorized and no more.

Frankly, he looked on it as loathsome quill-pushing, but he did what he was told since it gave him a certain freedom. He berthed on old Ariadne once more, now full of arriving or transient officers and men, and since he knew the island better than the arrivals he turned into an evening guide to the better entertainments, confirming once more his belief that he would make a topping pimp. It continually amazed him how little Warrant and Commission Officers much older than he did not know about women, and how to get them.

There was also a certain delight to be taken in being the Voice of Authority. He was one of Admiral Matthews’ bearers of bad tidings and glad tidings. Even if it was proxy power, it was power. Lordly post, captains tensed up when he was piped through the entry port, especially if they had been remiss in their duties. Lieutenants tried to milk him for information almost from the moment he headed aft, and he enjoyed dropping the most obtuse hints for them to ponder while withholding the true import of the messages he carried in enigmatic silence, going about his duties in a splendid new uniform with the supercilious air of a flag lieutenant.

But after about a month it all began to pale. There was no chance for him to make any profits from the lucrative trade in naval stores such as the dockyard people reaped in bribes and graft. He could not visit the deck of some seedily maintained and poorly run warship with her round-shot rusty and her rigging hanging in untidy bights, without wishing to jump in and start kicking a bosun’s mate’s arse, or giving the quartergunners hell for neglecting their guns. He could not go aboard a smartly run ship just in with prizes, full of tales of derring-do, without envying the shabby but competent demeanor of her midshipmen, who looked upon him as a toy grenadier painted up like a tart.

There was no future ashore for an ambitious, somewhat competent and resourceful fellow such as he, and he was being rubbed up against the fact like a puppy in his piddle.

He went for long rides, until the little mare would breathe as hard as one of those steam machines he had heard about, and his legs ached and grumbled. He continued to practice swordsmanship every time he had free until an old naval cutlass could be swung about like a toy sword and his new hanger did indeed feel light as a feather.

He taught the intricacies of gambling at cards to other midshipmen with a steady income from home, increased his purse. He found himself a doxy in town and paid for her room and his frequent visits, warning her that if he got the pox from her he would have her nose off before the disease did, and was about three-quarters sure that she did not entertain others when he was gone, which was about as good as could be expected from a bawd.

He was not exactly bored. But he was not exactly happy, either.

The crowning humiliation of being a shore sailor, no greater than a whip jack, was when Lady Maude decided to sponsor a ball and dinner.

Alan was loaned by Sir Onsley to be her clerk and had to suffer the twittering idiocy of Lady Maude and the other naval wives as he did up their shopping lists, their dinner plans, their music choices, and then issue the invitations, copying the same words over and over again in his best round hand. No midshipmen could be spared from the flagship or the dockyard for that duty—it was all his, since he was no loss to the demands of the Navy.

Lucy was there in the background, ignoring him for departing like a thief in the night without so much as a farewell note. Which made it much more pleasant to get away once the invitations were finished and go galloping or rowing to deliver them. The only sop to his feelings was that he was at least invited to attend.

* * *

He was tricked out perfectly in his best new blue coat, snow white shirt and waistcoat and breeches that had never known tar or slush, fine silk stockings and new gold-plated buckles on his well-blacked shoes. He might be a low addition to the ball but he thought he glittered properly. Very few other midshipmen had been invited, except for those that could sport “The Honourable” before their names. In the mob of lieutenants, commanders, captains and a commodore or two, civilians took him for some sort of staff person, which was good for his ego; or a servant, which was not.

Admiralty House atop the hill was a sea of candlelight, a rich amber aura most flattering to all, especially the women. The men in their floured wigs looked bronzed as golden oak from the sun, even if half of them spent their lives in counting-houses.

Alan strolled about, sipping at a cold hock. There was still plenty of Greenland ice down in the storm-cellars packed in chaff and straw to last the summer. His hosts had even been so profligate with it as to float large blocks in the punchbowls.

He could see Lucy, the center of attention from a host of young admirers, and some not so young. There was even a pop-eyed commander with the face of a frog off a Sloop of War courting her. Lewrie had to admit that she looked luscious. Instead of her own hair she wore a high-piled white wig, a reddish gold satin gown faced with a pale yellow filigreed and embroidered silk undergown, making her seem older.

“Devilish-fine looking young thing,” Keith Ashburn said at his side. Lewrie turned to him. “Hallo, Alan, how do you keep?”

“Main well, considering … yes, yes, she is.”

“Must have been a trial to be around her, knowing you, even if you did have the Yellow Jack.”

“That’s why they ran me off. Thought I was looking a tad too robust to be near such a sweet young tit.”

“Ever try to get into her mutton? Sorry.”

“No, I didn’t,” Alan glowered, irked that he, of all people, would speak of her so casually.

“My apologies. But you wouldn’t mind if I danced with her?”

“Not at all.” Alan shrugged as though it made no difference to him, but was suddenly queasy with jealousy at the thought of someone else paying court to her, or discussing her like cheap merchandise.

He knew there was no future in it for his career, and knew that her sort of affection would involve marriage. What’s more, he knew she was being ravishing to her circle of courtiers to get back at him, just as she had snubbed him earlier, and that his best course of action was to ignore her and spark someone else for the evening so he would not appear to her to be a foolish cully over a chit of a girl. But he found himself drifting nearer, as though drawn into a maelstrom.

“I throw myself on your mercy, Miss Beauman,” Ashburn was pleading in mock seriousness. “Allow me just the one dance this evening.”

“For such gallantry, Mister Ashburn, I shall make it two.” She laughed lightly. “Have you met Lieutenant Warner of the Dido frigate? Commander Ozzard of Vixen? Lieutenant Wyndham of the 12th Foot? Lieutenant Ashburn of Glatton … and Midshipman Lewrie of my uncle’s staff?” she concluded, dismissively.

He was drawn into the conversational circle against his will, having stood close enough to Keith to look as if he was with him, and had to suffer the looks of the Commission Officers at his affrontery to poach on their private preserve. But when she needed a fresh cup of punch it was Alan that she drew to her and linked arms with to escort her to the buffets, leaving the others fuming.

“Is it not a beautiful evening for a party, Alan?” she asked as he fetched a fresh cup for her. “It’s so exciting…”

“Indeed. Everything is lovely,” he agreed with a smile.

“And does my new gown please you?”

“I believe that you are the most beautiful young lady present. The gown is magnificent, as you are.”

“Why, thank you indeed, Alan,” she said, seeming really pleased. “I should not expect such a pretty compliment from someone who would toss me aside so easily.”

“Your uncle, and the Service, required me to leave.”

“But without a word, not a note, not even a hint…”

“As I said—”

“You can dissemble so well, Alan,” she told him sweetly. “Was I not desirable enough to tempt you to stay?”

“How tempting you were was the prime reason I had to leave. Do you think Sir Onsley and Lady Maude, Old Isaac, or those other servants who came from Jamaica with you would allow me to pay court to you without your family’s approval? I have more respect for you than to do anything to harm your good name,” he most courtly lied.

“While Mrs. Hillwood, and that gorgeous Lady Cantner have no good name to lose?” the coy minx posed.

“What do you think I should have done, sneak into your room to bid you goodbye?” he asked, half in jest.

“Not at all!” But he had half an idea that she might have entertained just such a fantasy. “You could, however, have considered my feelings at your lack of manners.”

“I shall in future. I should also wish to ask for a dance or two, if you are not too promised already.”

“Ah, Alan…” she said with a wistful adoring smile. “You are so … of course I shall dance with you. In fact, I would be most cross with you if we did not. I might remind you that I shall soon be seventeen, not such a little girl to you.”

“Believe me, I have noticed your maturing.”

“I shall not always be a gawky girl, and you shall not always be interested in trivial…” She turned away from him to avoid him seeing her distress.

“I am very fond of you as well, Lucy.”

“You shall be a post-captain,” she said proudly. “Perhaps even knighted for some act of great bravery.” She turned to him and smoothed a lapel for him. “But perhaps when you become a lieutenant…”

“And the war is over,” he added, almost piss-proud at what he was hearing from her.

“Pray God it is soon,” she agreed hotly. He took her gloved hand and brushed her fingers with his lips.

My God, she loves me! he thought wildly. Now there’s a new thing. There’ve been trulls enough glad to see my shillings, but here’s an admiral’s niece as good as saying she wants to marry me!

Not that he was that anxious to marry, but she had the best prospects he had seen since leaving London. Nor was he anxious for the war to end, for how else could he earn prize money, make more of a name for himself, gain that commission that would assure his future? And there were a hundred obstacles in the way; she was a girl, therefore fickle in her affections. Her father could go barking mad at the thought, and most likely had a better-suited young man of her own set in mind already, and it was never up to the girl to choose.

Oh, fond daddys might indulge the whims of a favorite daughter, but if a better match was in the offing in land, entitlements, opportunity for mutual profit or (fond parents’ hope of hopes) a link to the peerage, then a salty young swain could go sing for his supper.

I’m being led by my prick, he realized, but also noted that love had to start somewhere, and she did seem genuinely fond of him. She was sweet and gentle, well-spoken—so much more so than most of the squirearchy chaw-bacons in the Indies—and would make a good wife for him, dowry or no. I really am fond of her, too. But Pray God I get a ship soon. She can wait, as I shall have to …

They browsed the buffets, nibbling at the rich and spicy tit-bits proferred. He could not monopolize her and did not try. She was young and delighted with all the attention she was receiving from even the oldest male guests.

She was seated about midway down the long table at dinner with the middle-ranking folk while Alan was once more down far below. He shared table with a silly blond, chicken-breasted noddy whose sole social skill seemed to be stuttering “how fascinating” whenever anyone else paused for comment. There was a dark girl named Aemilia, daughter of a pair of Country Harrys who peered about the available men with the eyes of hungry ferrets for a suitable match. Had she been by herself, and was he not almost-but-not-quite pledged to Lucy, Alan would have been fascinated by her, for Aemilia was a sleepy young brunette with a chest like a pouter pigeon that put him in mind of a younger edition of Lady Delia Cantner. She was a bit crude for his taste, though, a hearty Midlands girl with a Mumbletonian accent.

He tried to let an infantry ensign take the lead, but he was more interested in the blond noddy, whose parents owned a whacking chunk of Hampshire, it seemed; so while trying to maintain a silent dinner conversation with Lucy uptable by eye and shrug and smile, he also found himself down for three dances with Aemilia Country-Get without knowing just how he had managed it. Her buttock-brokering parents looked most pleased.

Lewrie always enjoyed dancing. His French hopmaster had convinced him that women dearly loved a man who could dance well and carry himself gracefully, and would eventually show their gratitude. Most naval officers, having been ’prenticed at age ten or twelve, could not dance a courtly step and only rumble about like a loose cannon in the country dances, so he had a leg up on most of them.

He and Lucy always came back together, after she had been amused by Lieutenant Wyndham, by Ashburn, by Warner and Ozzard and a platoon of panting admirers. Her hand lingered on his arm longer, their fingers held their touch longer, their smiles were shyer and more pleasing. But it was her night, and the most ardent finally got her to go to the card room to wager pennies at Loo or Hazard, and Lucy gave him a backward glance of mock despair and he was left alone.

As he fortified himself with a cup of claret punch Ashburn came across the room to join him.

“I see we have been both outranked and outmarched by those bastards from the Army,” Keith said, mopping his sweaty brow.

“There’s an ocean of mutton here tonight, Keith. Why complain?”

“Do you and Miss Beauman have some sort of an agreement?” Keith asked, finishing off one cold cup of punch and dipping another. “The sighing and peeking have been making Commander Ozzard’s teeth grind most wondrous hard.”

“We have established that we are fond of each other,” Alan admitted. “And there is hope for after the war, perhaps. But in this life you may bank on little.”

“God stap me, but you have the best shitten luck,” Keith said. “Prize money, some fame, and now Miss Beauman.”

“I was envious of you when you gained your commission.”

“Want to trade?” Keith said sourly. “We shall never stir up the anchors unless the French sail past Cape Shirley, please God they do!”

“Sir Onsley’s a friend to you. You’ve already moved up to fifth officer from sixth,” Alan reminded him.

“But we’re not at sea!” Keith groused.

“Aye, I could use a berth myself. Oh, God, Aemilia Chaw-Bacon,” Alan muttered, spying the dark girl approaching him from the other side of the salon. “Like to meet a very obliging girl, Keith?”

“Oh, nice poonts,” Keith said. Alan tried to introduce Keith but it was no go, not the fact that he was a Commission Officer, not the fact that his family was rich as the Crown, nor that he was related to just about everyone who mattered. She had Alan down to dance with her at the country dances, and that was that. She was civil, but never took her gaze off Lewrie. He had to take her out onto the floor as the band struck up more lively airs, though he would have much preferred going to the card room to see how Lucy fared.

After half an hour he pushed another claret punch into her and set out to deposit her in the paws of her family, but they could not be spotted.

“Oh, they retired,” Aemilia said matter-of-factly. “There was a nice old captain was to see me home but he’s had too much to drink. Perhaps you could…”

“Well, perhaps. Where do your folks live?”

“On the other side of the island.” She beamed.

“I would admire that, Miss Aemilia, but I am on the admiral’s staff and have strict orders to stay close should he need me,” Alan lied quickly, listening to the happy cries from the card room as Lucy won a small pot. Unfortunately, Aemilia had laid her plans too well. Sir Onsley was nearby and saw no reason why Mister Lewrie could not safely escort a young lady home, once Aemilia had wiggled against him pleasantly. One look at her straining bosom, and it was a close thing as to whether he would have traded his flagship for a chance to fondle her bouncers.

“If I could presume upon you to pay my respects to your niece, Sir Onsley,” Alan said, almost strangling in his neckcloth at the thought of having to leave, “and to your good lady for a most enjoyable evening.”

Sir Onsley assured him that he would, and there was nothing for it but to escort Aemilia out onto the veranda. The family coach was already gone, but a hired coach was whistled up, Aemilia insisting on a closed one to avoid the cool night air on her daringly bared shoulders.

Damn the Navy, damn, damn, damn, he thought miserably as he handed the girl in and took a seat on the front bench facing her. The coachee whipped up, but was obviously a cautious man on the steep hill road with his team. And once at the bottom he would not force the horses faster than a brisk walk. It would be two hours to get the girl home, and most likely the same returning.

“Come sit by me so we may talk,” Aemilia ordered, patting the upholstery by her side. “The coach will sway on these roads so, we’ll be safer … wedged in together.”

He slid over to lump beside her as the coach left the cobbled town streets for a country lane with an uneven surface. There was only a hint of the moon, and the interior of the coach was dark as a boot.

“I know about you midshipmen…”

“Oh?” he archly queried.

“Won’t do nothing to hurt their chances.”

“Um. I suppose so…” he had to allow.

“My parents’re pushing for a good match.”

“I believe I had noticed that at dinner.” He sighed.

“So if I wanted me a good match, I’d be having a young captain see me home, wouldn’t I have?” she said, turning to press against him.

“Most-like,” he said in the dark, trying to slide away.

“Nobody wants a midshipman with no prospects.”

“I hardly rate myself as one with no prospects,” he fumed, in a pet that he had to be there in the first place, and for being told he was a nobody in the second by a colonial … nobody!

“Being a good little girl is such a bore. Ever do it in a carriage?” she whispered, leaning close and laying a kiss on his cheek, all but bouncing with excitement.

“Now look here, that’s all fine for you, but if you turn up with a Jack-In-The-Box, where am I?”

Damned if I haven’t had my fill of these island women. Leading you into promises or pushing you into the bunk like you have no say about things.

“Well, don’t you know that the blacks know how to stop babies?” she said, stroking his cheeks. “There’s half a dozen men with better prospects I could blame it on, anyway.”

Well, if that’s so, the whole evening won’t be a waste, he told himself.

“I’ll have to marry one of ’em sooner or later, but for now, why can’t we have some fun?” she said into his ear. She took hold of one of his hands, and forced him to seize a breast. It promised to be as full and heavy and round as he had imagined. “I like doing it in a coach. Ever so nice. So dark and cozy, and the coachee not knowing what’s going on, or if he does, he can’t do a thing about it, can he? And the people by the side of the road who can’t see in while we’re having our fun?”

Lord, You will remember I was ordered, he sighed. He tossed his hat on the opposite seat and turned to her. Within a minute he had his waistcoat and coat off, and his breeches down. He unbuttoned her gown and played with her truly magnificent breasts as she hauled up her gown and petticoats.

She spread herself open for him and propped her feet on the opposite seat while he half-knelt before her, his knees precariously perched on the seat between her legs, and gripped her buttocks.

“Oh, God, yes!” she whispered happily as he slid into her deeply. His knees slipped off the upholstery, but his feet were firmly planted against the front of the opposite bench, giving him purchase so he could thrust into her. Once engaged, he became excited and drove hard, partly for the enjoyment, partly to take his anger out on her for press-ganging him into leaving Lucy at the ball. Aemilia didn’t care if he was performing with a knife at his throat, lost in her own joy and delighting in crying out just loud enough to tantalize their black coachman on top of the box. That also excited him, and he forced her to turn and present to him after her first pleasuring, still iron-hard and eager to gain revenge. He exploded into her, hoping that she was impregnated and forced into an unhappy marriage with one of her “better prospects.” Wants servicing, does she? I’ll give the bitch service!

She was nimble and eager for more after some cooing and sighing, and he bulled her all over the coach for the rest of the trip, slamming into her hard, and ending with her head down into his groin as he sat on the seat and watched the suggestion of a planter’s house loom up from the darkness. He ordered the coachee to stop for a while as he filled her once more, even though she was beginning to protest by then. She was shaken by the time he handed her down, and scurried into her home without looking at him. He shut the coach door and climbed up by the coachee, snapping the whip to speed their passage back to English Harbor.

* * *

“The things one is forced to do for one’s admiral,” Alan said as he entered a dockside inn and found Ashburn still up, dozing over a pipe and a glass of wine.

“With that little country-put?” Keith asked, jealously.

“Just got back. Damn trull like to have had the skin off my back,” Alan said, motioning for the waiter. He was dehydrated by his exertions, and badly in need of ale. “How was the rest of the ball?”

“Wonderful,” Keith said. “Ozzard got stinking drunk and had to be carried home. Lucy stayed ’til about one and then went home with her aunt. Far as I know, Sir Onsley is still tippling port with the dockyard captain and that ugly old general.”

The door slammed open and a roistering party of Army officers staggered in, hooting loudly, calling for drink, service and spare women. Lieutenant Wyndham was with them, as well as the little Ensign Ames who had been at-table with Lewrie at dinner, plus two more lieutenants and a captain of some years named O’Boyle.

“We want your best, not common swill,” O’Boyle said as he swayed over a table. “Not the usual stuff you trot out for sailors an’ whores.”

“And we’ll only pay for what we like,” Wyndham added to the cheers of his mates. “Here, I don’t like this glass!” It went into the fireplace, raising another cheer. Several naval officers began to look for their hats.

“Sufferin’ Jesus,” Ashburn said. “There goes a fairly nice public house. Behold our Army, the Drury Lane Fencibles!”

“Wonder what got them out of Hyde Park?” Alan speculated. “Gambling debts?”

“That was good enough for Admiral Rodney.”

“This will do, barely,” the ensign told the publican. “Though it’s piss compared to the cases we brought with us.”

“I don’t need no trouble with the watch, now, sirs,” the publican told them, grovelling and trying to watch all of them at the same time. “Maybe ya might be findin’ yer own better ta drink at this late hour.”

“There’s a cod’s-head I know,” Wyndham shouted, pointing at Keith and Alan. “Ashburn, and little Cap’n Queernabs … Lewrie or something, ain’t it?”

“Your servant, sirs,” Keith said, raising his glass to them.

“Come have a drink on the 12th Foot,” Wyndham said, which set the officers off on a regimental ditty that made no sense at all, set to a nonsensical tune that resembled “The World Turned Upside Down.”

“They look like they can pay,” Keith said. “Want to?”

“Free wine. Never refuse a treat.”

It seemed that they were all from London, or close thereabouts, so they spent a lively half hour reviewing plays, raree shows, gossip, and comparing mutton they had bulled. The 12th Foot had given up a half-battalion, a grenadier company and two line companies, which were to transship to St. Kitts to upgrade the defenses. The rest were still enjoying the pleasures of London, and this batch was mortally offended that they had been thought dispensable. The captain was Irish, which meant that he felt disposed of by the more fashionable officers, and was morose as a Paddy could be after having been sent to fight a war, while his English compatriots still rogered and swaggered through the towns back home.

More wine was called for, and the empties went smash into the fireplace. Gradually, the noise drove most of the other naval sort of customers away into the night.

“Lewrie,” Lieutenant Wyndham said suddenly. “Now I remember you. You were at the ball this evening.”

“Aye, I was.”

“With that tasty little dish Lucy Beauman. Gentlemen, you remember the blond tit I taught cards to?” Wyndham asked, and received their drunken and heartfelt assent. “A lovely piece, was she not?”

“Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews’ niece, yes,” Alan said, looking at Keith, who was beginning to sense trouble as well.

“I’m told you’ve been dashing, Lewrie,” Wyndham said. “Particularly dashing, I believe was the lady’s term for it. Burned a privateer all up with your own little hands. Saved a ship of the line, too.”

“Alan has been busy since coming to the Indies,” Keith interposed quickly. “I was in Ariadne with him, both midshipmen at the time. Let me tell you—”

“In fact, that was all I heard from that bitch,” Wyndham broke in. “And I don’t want to hear any more of it.”

“Here, now,” Alan said evenly.

“I shall make it a point to taste her pleasures, even if she is a lowbred island trull. Gentlemen, charge your glasses. Let’s drink to my next mutton!”

“Warren,” the Irish captain warned. His mates had gone silent at the provocation.

“No, I want us all to drink to Lucy Beauman,” Wyndham insisted, swaying to his feet. “I’ll play the upright man and break that little dell, though she wouldn’t be fit company at home without half a crown for socket-money. Unless Mister Lewrie here has already strummed with her, then I won’t go over a shilling.”

Alan tipped his wineglass and spilled it on the table. Keith did the same and they both rose together. “I shall speak for both of us, sir,” Keith said, almost grinding his teeth. “Such billingsgate about a fine young lady we would never drink to, even if she were unknown to us. That you slander a lady of our acquaintance is a shameful example of your lack of wit and manners. I trust your regiment is not known for it.” Keith kept a firm hand on Lewrie’s wrist as he spoke after seeing the flush of anger on his face.

“Good night, sirs,” Keith finished, almost dragging Lewrie off for the door. “Come on, damn you! I am ordering you, lieutenant to midshipman, not as your friend, you little idiot!” he whispered.

“I should have known the Navy would go all pious on us,” Wyndham sneered, flinging his wineglass at them. “Tawdry lot of Bartholomew Babies! Aye, drag his cowardly cooler out of this place before he might have to blaze with me. What he says he did, and what he really did, are two different things. Just like the Navy—” Wyndham guffawed.

“Warren, I am ordering you to sit down and shut up!” the captain said, grabbing Wyndham’s arm while the other lieutenants and ensigns looked on.

“Are you calling me a coward, sir?” Alan turned abruptly and shook off Ashburn’s hand.

“Talk of the wine table is no reason for meeting,” the little ensign said. “I am sure Warren does not really mean—”

“Don’t tell me anything, Ames!” Wyndham snarled.

“Being ill-received by the young lady in question is no reason to provoke a duel, either,” Ashburn said. “Perhaps his pride is pinching him. Let’s allow him to sleep it off, shall we?”

“Fuck you, you cod’s-head!” Wyndham said. “Yes, I think that Mister Lewrie is a coward! A coward and a liar and a man-fucking Molly, just like everybody else in the Navy is a bugger in disguise—”

“Warren!” from the ensign named Ames.

“And I think his precious Lucy Beauman is a poxy whore…”

“We need to meet, sir,” Alan replied icily in the shocked silence that followed Wyndham’s accusations. The onlookers gave a groan, whether of pain or delight it was hard to tell.

“Alan!” Ashburn barked in his best quarterdeck voice.

“No, Keith. There’s been enough,” Alan said, stepping back up to the table. “I, sir, consider you a piss-proud cully. You’re a butcher’s dog with no nutmegs for a real fighting regiment. You’re a bastardly gullion with a Cambridge fortune, and a great damme-boy with your fellow bucks, but you’re the pig-ignorant git of a threepenny upright…”

Alan had always been able to wound with the choice word, and he must have stung something in Wyndham’s background. The young man blazed up and, without thinking, slapped him hard across the face.

“Excellent,” Lewrie said. “A slur on my character, a slur on the innocence of a young lady, and striking a gentleman. The sooner the better, as far as I am concerned, sirs.”

“You will witness that he scoured me beyond all temperance,” Lieutenant Wyndham declared. “Captain O’Boyle, I request that you arrange this for me.”

“I must talk to the major, Warren,” O’Boyle muttered. “But I’ll tell you you’re a God-cursed fool for doing this.”

“Lieutenant Ashburn, would you negotiate for me?” Alan said.

“Aye, and what weapons would you prefer, Mister Lewrie?”

“Naval cutlasses,” Lewrie decided after a long moment.

“That’s no weapon for a gentleman to use. Why don’t we blaze?” Wyndham sneered.

“A man who would strike another can have no objections, can he?” Ashburn said. “Captain O’Boyle, your party has issued a mortal and grievous series of slanders, sir. The choice of weapons, and the place, is ours, is it not?”

“Aye, even by the Irish Code,” O’Boyle admitted.

“I shall communicate with you further, sir, after my principal and I have informed our commanding officers,” Ashburn promised.

“I shall await you, sir,” O’Boyle said with a bow.

* * *

There are 365 beaches on Antigua, one for every day of the year for a sybarite intent on enjoying the gifts of sun and wind and water. Lewrie’s coach rolled up to the low overlook at one of them on the north end of the island two days later, just at low tide, when the sand would be firm underfoot. He had with him Keith Ashburn, a naval surgeon, and Captain Osmonde of the Marines, formerly of Ariadne and now captain of Marines in the eighty-gun Telemachus. Osmonde had drilled Lewrie hard for those two days to get him in shape.

Wyndham and his party were already waiting; O’Boyle his second, a regimental surgeon and his friend Ames. There was also an Army officer from the garrison, a Major Overstreet, who would referee. There was a small fire burning, and the regimental surgeon’s tools and instruments were already boiling to lessen the shock of cold steel to the flesh of the loser.

“Admiral Matthews gave me a message, Mister Lewrie,” Osmonde said as he flicked some invisible dirt from his uniform after they had stepped down.

“Aye?” Alan asked, ice-cold and already very thirsty.

“While he deplores the idea of dueling, he deplores the insult to his niece even more. I doubt if your feelings matter to him … but he told me to tell you that his hopes are with you.”

“That was kind of him, sir,” Alan said, disappointed. “For a while I thought he would not allow us to meet.”

“I think their commander tipped the scales, smug little bastard. Thought Miss Beauman was a common dell, no matter who her uncle was.” Osmonde laughed without humor. “The lad’s built like a young bull.”

He indicated the enemy below on the beach—Lieutenant Wyndham was a thick and stocky fellow, bluff and hard-looking.

“Somewhat of a duellist. Fought two with pistols, killed his man both times. Only once with a blade, won it but no fatality.”

“You do little to reassure me, sir,” Alan said. A servant offered him a mug of small beer, which he drank at greedily.

“Keep nothing on your stomach,” Osmonde advised. “It will sour on you soon enough and turn heavy as lead.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Wet your lips and tongue but don’t swallow much. I know that thirst, boy, but you can have all you want to drink once this is over,” Osmonde cautioned. “Hopefully…”

“Aye, sir,” nodding, hoping and praying that was so.

“One thing in your favor I have learned,” Osmonde said as they descended the overlook to the beach. “Your foe is very fond of the bottle. Puts it down like small beer, and he’s spent the last five weeks aboard ship doing nothing but getting cup-shot and lying about. He’s been ashore less than a week, and the heat is affecting him. Now you’re recovered from the Yellow Jack, you’ve been riding hard, fencing hard, kept yourself fitter than him. I’d wear him down. Fend him off, ’til he begins to drag. Were you fencing with the usual choice of weapon, he might still have the stronger and quicker wrist, but a navy cutlass will wear him down fast enough.”

“Yes,” Alan intoned, barely hearing Osmonde for the rush of blood in his head and the sound of his breath rushing in and out so full of life. Why did I want to defend the silly mort, he thought queasily. I’ve no honor, and everybody seems to know it.

“I trust that you have become a dangerous man, Mister Lewrie,” Captain Osmonde said, pumping his hand. “And my best wishes to you.”

Lewrie shed his uniform and undid his neckcloth, tossing it aside. He took a deep breath and enjoyed the sight of the gulls wheeling over their cove-sheltered beach, the play of sun on the bright green water. He shook himself all over to loosen his tenseness. This is what comes of getting involved with a chick-a-biddy young girl. I should stick to whores.

“Gentlemen,” Major Overstreet called them together. “That a blow was struck, and grievous insults exchanged notwithstanding, they were brought about by strong drink, and can be excusable. I charge both of you now, is there no way to settle this quarrel without recourse to steel?”

“Only if Lieutenant Wyndham publicly recants his slurs on the lady in question, his slurs on me, and apologizes for striking me, sir,” Alan stated as calmly as he could, feeling trapped and knowing in his heart that it was not going to be that way. He could see the swaggering, superior way Wyndham glared at him.

“I stand by my statements, sir,” Wyndham replied.

Overstreet sighed. “Then it is my sad duty to allow you to proceed. The weapons chosen by the aggrieved party are naval cutlasses. You shall both draw a weapon which your second shall offer you. You shall separate to the red pegs, which are five paces apart. You shall salute each other at my command, then take what guard you will and advance to touch blades. On my count you shall begin. I shall say one, and two, and three, begin. The duel shall continue until such time as one party has received his third cut. At that time I shall call you to cease. Should honor be deemed satisfied, the duel will end. Should you not feel that your cause has been redeemed, your seconds shall inform me and the duel shall continue until such time as one or both of you has fallen. A disarm shall be considered a touch. Should either of you advance threateningly before my count, or fail to halt after the third cut at my call, or if one of you attempt to strike the other after disarming the other, the second of the offended party and I shall shoot him down. Do you understand?”

They both nodded, grim and pale.

“Then take your weapons, please.”

Lewrie went to his peg, where Ashburn stood. He offered him a cutlass hilt-first. “Pray God for you, Alan,” Keith whispered. “Now why don’t you cut the swaggering duck-fucker up!”

Lewrie nodded to him and touched him on the shoulder with his free hand, then turned to face Lieutenant Wyndham, who was getting the feel of the heavy cutlass as though he had never handled one before. It was a plain weapon, heavy as sin, a simple chopping weapon with a wide blade and only one edge and a point of sorts at the end of the upward curve, like a caricature of an infantryman’s hanger. The hand-guard was of flat steel with a ring guard and a wooden handle, which had been rubbed with dust to stanch the expected sweat.

“Salute,” Overstreet called, raising a long double-barreled pistol at half-cock.

Wyndham took up a graceful, balanced pose with one hand over his shoulder, perfect as a French sword instructor, his blade in quarte.

Lewrie brought his own blade to octave and he had to smile at the incongruous sight of someone posing with a cutlass as though it was a foil.

“I shall begin the count,” Overstreet intoned. “One … and two … and three … begin.”

They advanced with small steps, blades trembling with anticipation. First beat rang hesitantly as they explored. The army man opened with a thrust, which Lewrie beat aside, and then Wyndham responded with a cut-over. It was obvious that the lieutenant was a point man. They fenced in school style for a while, Lewrie trying Wyndham’s disengage and parry style, eyes on Wyndham’s own, his point, and the set of his feet.

Wyndham exploded with a sudden lunge. Lewrie parried it off high to his left, stepping aside the thrust in quartata, then swung at the unbalanced man and came a toucher of disemboweling Wyndham, who leaped back like a cat, eyes wide with surprise. Lewrie went to the attack with a feint thrust, beating aside the parry and lunged himself. Wyndham gave a grunt of alarm and stumbled backward to fall on the firm sand beach, while Lewrie spun past him and took up guard, waiting for him to regain his feet.

Lewrie understood what Osmonde had meant. What little small beer he had drunk was sloshing around in his belly like a sack of mercury, and his thirst was hellish. The exertion felt debilitating, and they had barely begun! But he found time to whirl his cutlass in mock salute and raise one eyebrow in a cocky grin as Lieutenant Wyndham got to his feet and began to advance once more.

Wyndham began thrusting low with feint thrusts, stamping to distract Lewrie’s attention, or throw off his timing, forcing him back as their blades rang in engagement and light parries. Lewrie gave ground half-step for half-step to maintain distance before shifting to a low guard and point-parrying Wyndham wider and wider. The soldier wanted to step back and regain his advantage, so he ended with his blade at high first, and whirled it suddenly in a killing swing that Lewrie met with a crossover to fourth. The two blades met with a great clang and the shock stunned his arm and hand, but Lewrie cut across, his own blade ringing off Wyndham’s hilt guard, which lowered the army man’s weapon below his waist. Lewrie feinted a cut to the head backhanded, which made him duck back off-balance. Lewrie drew his elbows back and disengaged, then whirled his cutlass under and around to spin Wyndham’s guard over his head. He then struck down the blade, to lay the heavy cutlass on Wyndham’s scalp with a firm tap that cut through hair and skin and thudded off the bone. The infantryman tried to bind, but Lewrie shoved forward with his hilt and pushed hard, jumping back at the same time from the irate killing swing that followed.

There were murmurs of alarm or pleasure from the witnesses as they saw the blood on Wyndham’s head and face running down into his eyes. Humiliated, Wyndham was on the attack at once, taking the hint of their brief practice and using the point less, wielding the cutlass more like one would a hanger to attack edge to edge. Lewrie gave ground, seeing the energy Wyndham was putting into his efforts, and knowing that sooner or later the man would go back to the pointwork he was used to, once he began to flag.

Wyndham began to execute flying cut-overs fairly well, which Alan was parrying off, but he suddenly went back to the point and faked Alan out badly. The straight-armed lunge grazed his left cheek with steel, and he felt a sudden pain in his face. But he responded with a counterthrust under that made Wyndham hop to save his nutmegs, then an upward parry and a rapid double, which forced Wyndham to leap back once more.

Lewrie took a long pace forward to attack, changing tactics to the full naval cutlass drill—stamp, slash, balance and return, slash—right and left, up and down, whirling the heavy blade in a whistling arc that brought grunts of effort from Wyndham each time he parried, the blades smashing together with the hefty clang of a farrier making a new horseshoe. Lewrie added flying cut-overs to break the pace, going from high to low before making a swing with his wrist that almost put his point into the army man’s chest. Wyndham’s parry was weak, and he almost dragged himself backward to escape, his chest heaving.

Lewrie thought it a trick, but was not sure. He himself was tired … God, he was aching, his wrist and his arms heavy as lead, and his legs juddering props that threatened to go slack at any second and drop him to the ground. But Wyndham did look finished. His body was streaming sweat, thinning the blood that ran down his face and coating it with claret. And his eyes that had been so mocking and so sure were now squinted with concern and doubt. He was tempted to leap forward and finish it but remembered Captain Osmonde’s advice to go slow and wear him down.

They met again, blades still ringing, but softer now.

Wyndham thrust low, using the point to come up with a ripping slash at Lewrie’s stomach, but he beat it aside at the last instant, driving Wyndham’s guard low, met the next blow with a two-handed swing that forced Wyndham’s blade wide to the left and almost into the sand. Lewrie stepped forward into his guard sideways and swung back to the right two-handed again with all his flagging might. He felt a thud like sinking an axe into a chopping block, and leaped back, centering his guard against a reply. But it was over.

Wyndham stood before him with his feet together, his face as white as his snowy breeches. They both looked down at the sand to see Lieutenant Wyndham’s right arm lying there, still clutching the cutlass and the nerveless fingers curling and drumming an irregular tatoo on the hilt!

Wyndham looked back to him in surprise, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he pitched forward to the sand, a fountain of blood gushing from what remained of his shoulder with each beat of his heart.

Lewrie stumbled backward, unable to feature it, the tip of his blade dragging a furrow through the sand. Ashburn came up to him and he dropped his cutlass and turned away from him. Wyndham’s party came forward, and both surgeons worked on the infantry officer, cauterizing a great cut in Wyndham’s side, and hands slipped in gore as they tried to seize the spurting arteries and sear them shut, while the seabirds cried and wheeled at the smell of blood steaming on the beach.

Lewrie sat down on the step of his coach, watching the drama below. The naval coachee gave him a large glass of brandy to drink.

“Gawd almighty, sir…”

“Indeed.” Alan nodded in shock. “Another please.”

This brandy he sipped more slowly, becoming aware of how sore he was all over after being so tensed up for God knew how long, how his arms arched and throbbed, and the pain pulsed in his ravaged cheek. His thigh muscles were jumping and his calves and ankles hurt as though he had strolled twenty miles across country.

Captain Osmonde climbed up the sand slope from the beach to him. “I believe you shall make a dangerous man, after all, Mister Lewrie.”

“I meant but to cut him…” Lewrie dazedly protested.

“I believe you should consider that intent most successful,” the Marine officer said most dryly.

“Will he live?”

“Lieutenant Warren Wyndham is now late of His Majesty’s 12th Regiment of Foot,” Osmonde said. “Totally exsanguined of his life’s blood and dead on the field of … honor. Was it worth it?”

“At the moment, aye, sir,” Lewrie said, studying his shoes. “I don’t know about tomorrow.”

“An honest answer, at any rate,” Osmonde said, kneeling down in front of him. “Don’t develop a taste for this, boy. War is gloriously obscene enough, without turning into a man-killer.”

“I want no more of it,” Alan confessed.

“Best have the surgeon sew that up,” Osmonde said, touching his cheek to examine his wound. “Won’t spoil your looks for the ladies, I doubt. Hungry?”

“Yes,” Alan realized.

“Ashburn had the good faith in you to reserve rooms for us for a late breakfast at an inn on the way back. I, for one, am famished.”

“There’s one good that will come out of this,” Lewrie said as he got to his feet at the approach of the surgeon with his bag. “There is no way they’ll keep me as a messenger and errand boy ashore after this. If I’m not at sea within a week, there’s a dozen of good claret for you and Ashburn on it…”