The King's Coat

Chapter 12

There was more bustle in English Harbor when Desperate arrived. Admiral Hood and his flagship Barfleur, along with his fleet of larger ships of the line, filled the outer roads, and the port worked alive with rowing boats and supply ships.

Treghues was rowed over to Glatton to report to Admiral Matthews, and then was taken to Barfleur to dine. Forrester accompanied him, to everyone’s disgust, while Lewrie and Avery were handed the cutter and the pinnace and told to start heading for the inner harbor.

It was promising to see that all their prizes had arrived safe, anchored in a huddle of shipping far out of the way. That meant that there should be a share out of prize money soon. Maybe not the whole sum due each man, but enough pounds and shillings to make his life a little interesting, buy him a woman, some liquid refreshment, new slop clothing, tobacco, shares in some fresh meat or imported delicacies, or pay off his outstanding account with the purser, who could loan money against future pay for slop purchases.

Lewrie was also happy to note that at least half of Desperate’s missing people were still ashore waiting her arrival; happy that her most capable mates and inferior petty officers and able seamen were available once more; the ship would not be deprived of their experience any longer.

It was something of an embarrassing shock to see how happy their sojourners were to see him. He had thought they would be glad to be back aboard among their own mates, but here they were, making much of the sight of him. They sounded genuinely pleased to say hello to him and asked him joshing questions about those who had remained behind; how things stood with their acting replacements, was a certain ship’s boy bearing up and behaving, had a piece of gear been overhauled in their absence, had the goat foaled yet, asking him how he kept and had he and Mister Avery been looking after Carey, abusing Forrester … and bragging about what they had done in their free time ashore.

I don’t know these people that well, Lewrie thought, at a loss to explain the seeming affection from people in his subdivision, his watch. I know names and faces, who works and who hangs back. Maybe I’ve gotten some of them a rating and they think I’m due. I haven’t tried to be popular. Don’t tell me they have any real love for me …

He tried to be cynical about it, but it was touching all the same, running another delusion about the Navy squarely on the rocks. He had to admit that, for the most part, they were good men, able and well trained, but not the sort he’d have in for a joint and a bottle and a yarn if he were back home in London. Pressed or volunteer, one could no longer tell. But then he wasn’t back home, was he?

Lewrie soon gave up wondering about it as Desperate restocked. While the dockyard supplied most of the labor, steady men were picked to help out for extra pay in ferrying out fresh food and replacements for their depleted stores of bread, spirits and consumables.

Lewrie took Dr. Dorne and Mr. Cheatham ashore to select several bullocks for fresh meat while Desperate was in port, along with fresh flour, raisins, sugar and fixings for plenty of figgy-dowdys or duffs.

Dorne was also to make sure that Cheatham purchased cases of fresh hard-skinned acid fruit. Commander Treghues was of the opinion that the rob of lemons, limes and oranges had been the best anti-scorbutic the late Captain Cook had found against scurvy on his worldwide voyages. Dr. Dorne clung to the theory that bad air from the bilges caused scurvy. Had the rate of the disease dropped once Hales’ Patent Ventilators had been installed to air the spaces below the waterline? Yes, it had. But Dorne was not about to question a commander’s decision.

Dr. Dorne was an untidy man, though fussy about his appearance, and was one of the few men Lewrie had seen who wore a wig in the tropics as a matter of course. Perhaps because he was vain about going bald, he was never seen without his horsehair appliance. But he was considered a good surgeon, able to take off a limb in seconds, never causing unnecessary pain in the process, though he’d had little call for his skills so far. He could lance a boil, tend to rope burns, fit a truss, provide ointment for saltwater rashes and swore his fifteen-shilling mercury cure for the pox was devilish fine. He was also an easy touch for a late-night drink or a good book to read.

Cheatham, the purser, was a real puzzle. First of all, why should someone leave the Kentish fruit trade for the uncertain life of the sea where the profit margins were so low on issued stores, where any cheating beyond the Victualing Board’s fourteen ounces to the pound would be noticed by the men and complained about right smartly? Even slops at twelve percent profit could not sustain him, and Lewrie had yet to find him listing discharged men as big users of tobacco or sundry other items. Yet Cheatham always smiled, had no more complaints than most, and his books balanced nicely. He had a “lay” somewhere that was paying handsomely, or he had a wish to die poor. Only time would tell the truth.

Lewrie came back aboard littered with chicken feathers after ferrying the last major items on the gun room’s shopping lists, and was told to wash up and muster aft in the captain’s cabins at the beginning of the First Dog Watch. He was welcomed in by the officers and senior warrants. Commander Treghues’ servant was circulating with claret and pouring liberally.

“Gentlemen, I have summoned you aft to announce some good fortune that has come our way,” Treghues began, glass in hand. “Good fortune for every hand, every man-jack.”

Railsford sat nearby, already in on the secret and smiling at his ease for once now that the ship was anchored and nothing could go wrong to upset a first lieutenant’s peace—for a while, at least.

“Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews has informed me that the Admiralty Prize Court has made a determination on some of our recent prizes. In their infinite wisdom they have found time for our tawdry little affairs instead of dealing exclusively with Admiral Rodney and St. Eustatius.”

Bloody hell, quit being coy and get on with it! Lewrie had noticed that Treghues loved the sound of his own voice and wit.

“Since April we have taken two brigs, a brigantine, two schooners and two local sloops in these waters. That does not count our latest two prizes.” Treghues went on to enumerate all the various war supplies denied the rebels, all the outward-bound products, until Lewrie was ready to scream.

“My agent informs me,” Treghues said with the slightest glance to his right, which Lewrie spotted. It was Cheatham! He was the prize agent. There was five percent total in it for him. No wonder he smiled all the time. “We have amassed a total of £14,551, 8 shillings 9 pence. And … we shall receive a partial payout tomorrow … in gold!”

The tumult which resulted would have raised the hair of Mohawk Indians, and Lewrie was sure that the full news was already circulating on the lower deck barely before the words had drawled out of Treghues’ mouth.

Sir Onsley would get an eighth. Two-eighths would go to Treghues. The officers—Railsford, Lieutenant Peck, Mr. Monk, Dr. Dorne and Cheatham—split an eighth; the senior warrants, master’s mates and Admiral Matthews’ secretary split an eighth; the midshipmen, petty officers, quartermasters and their mates, the bosun’s mate and a few others took an eighth; and the rest of the crew received the final two-eighths.

Lewrie did some rapid calculations. He would get a little over seventy-two pounds, more than a lieutenant made in a 1st Rate ship of the line for a year’s work! Naturally, he would not see ten pounds of it in real money, but it was welcome.

“Now there’s going to be about three pounds per man paid out in coin and the rest in certificates. I want you all to warn your men in your watches and divisions to watch out for the sharks who’ll try to buy them out for twenty percent in ready money,” Treghues warned. “I believe there’ll be some few who have allotment papers on the books who’ll want it forwarded all, or in part, to their parents or families. We’re anchored far enough out to prevent someone going out a gun port, and Antigua is an island, after all. Each of you pick out the men most likely to run, and let the rest go ashore for a two-day leave. Mister Lewrie, you have a good copperplate hand. See my clerk and begin writing out blank leave-tickets. Mind you, any man who runs, or overstays his leave, ruins it for the rest of his subdivision or watch, and I’ll have him run the gauntlet when he’s fetched back aboard. I want to see liberty lists tomorrow in the forenoon.”

Another idea foundered, Lewrie thought, amazed at what he learned from Treghues, for all his coyness and preachifying. No one had talked to him of leave. He assumed the men stayed aboard from the beginning of the commission ’til the ship paid off, without a chance to go ashore except in a supervised working party. But if the man was owed back pay and prize money, it made sense to let him have his fun ashore, especially on an island. How could he walk away from two years’ wages, and enough in prize-certificates to set him up for life? And the crew had been together for a long while; they were used to each other, less eager to change their situation for something new. How much had poor Harrison sacrificed back there in Portsmouth when he took “leg-bail” and ran inland with his skinny little wife?

“Admiral Matthews also informs me that whatever we lack in manpower shall be made good at his personal selection,” Treghues told them after they had calmed down from the momentous news. “This is quite an honor for us to receive, possibly the last people personally spoken for by our squadron admiral before he hauls down his flag.”

What? Lewrie thought, almost choking on Treghues’ excellent claret. Hauling down his flag? How soon? God, there goes my one source of interest in the West Indies. Now what the hell’s going to happen to me?

He had been in the Fleet long enough to know that petticoat influence in London did not count for that much—civilians could not get into naval affairs. Petticoat influence was only good when the petticoats controlled naval influence.

Officers normally gathered to them in their ships, and in their squadrons and fleets and staffs, men they could count on, from able seamen to post-captains, and were judged by how wisely they chose protégés to sponsor and promote and aid throughout their careers. They also expected others of their close acquaintance to aid their followers, and were prepared to aid followers of others in a fair swap of “interest.”

There was only one requirement that never varied—you could not advance a total fool, for the abiding needs of the Navy came first, last and always. And it took a certain political skill to play the game right. Admiral Rodney did not, had recommended poor choices and promoted unprepared people when in command of foreign stations beyond the immediate reach of Whitehall, abusing the system, angering friends.

“Do you need some water, Mister Lewrie?” Treghues asked.

“No, thankee, sir. I was already spending my share on a very tasty meal.” Lewrie coughed.

“Got carried away, eh? Remember to swallow first, that’s always the way. A midshipman’s stomach controls his brains, and then there’s all hell to pay.” Treghues chuckled.

Lewrie did not in the least feel like smiling, but it was a social occasion and he had to show a civil face, so he grinned sheepishly, which was what midshipmen were good at … was what Treghues expected from his young gentlemen.

“Do you know how soon Sir Onsley will be going home, sir?” Alan had to enquire.

“His replacement, Sir George Sinclair, is purported to be on his way already.”

“Sir Onsley and Lady Maude have been most kind to me, sir. I shall miss him. Came as a shock.” Alan sighed.

Treghues nodded, remembering that Lewrie himself was one of Sir Onsley’s followers. “Then you shall be relieved to know that Sir Onsley shall be appointed to the Admiralty Board upon his return to London,” Treghues said, handing him the tacit reassurance that the admiral could still look out for him even thousands of miles away.

“There is also a scheme that Admiral Rodney wished to put into action regarding these so-called neutral islands,” Treghues informed his gathering. “I cannot reveal any details as of yet, but you can be sure that Desperate shall play a part in it, and it may promise to be a most rewarding part, for the public good, and our private gain.”

* * *

Once Desperate began to let her people ashore in manageable batches for shore leave, Mr. Monk and the bosun discovered a healthy crop of underwater growth on her bottom. She should have put to sea immediately once her people were back inboard, but it was thought a good opportunity to bream her.

This involved everyone in nearly a week of heavy labor, hoisting out all her guns, powder and shot, beef and pork barrels, striking her masts down to maintops and gantlines, and warping her into the inner harbor where she was careened at low tide on a sand bank so the dock workers could burn and scour her bottom clean, then coat her with a mix of sulfur, tallow and pitch to retard future marine growth.

While she was empty, the carpenter and his crew inspected her for rot in her bilges and below-water beams and keel members. She was pronounced healthy for at least another year in the tropics, where any proud ship could be eaten down to hollow kindling once the teredo worms got to her.

With nearly a knot and a half restored to her best speed, they floated her upright and began to reload her. They had just begun to hoist topmasts once she was back at her moorings when the day’s work was interrupted by the sound of a salute being fired.

Lewrie went up the shrouds with a glass, eager for a chance to take a breather, and watched a handsome thirty-two-gun frigate ghosting into harbor, firing a salute to Hood and the forts. At her mizzen truck she flew a broad pendant, the sign of a commodore or rear admiral.

“So that’s our new commodore,” Lewrie said, half to himself. “We won’t sail right away, not if Matthews will be hauling down his flag. We shall all want to get to know the new man.”

* * *

It was a farewell ball for Sir Onsley and Lady Maude, and the introductory social event for Commodore Sir George Sinclair. The harbor gleamed in another of those splendid West Indies sunsets that Alan had come to enjoy so much, though there was not a breath of wind and the summer evening was close, hot and humid. By the time their party from Desperate had climbed the hill road on foot to Admiralty House, their shirts and waistcoats were glued to them by sweat. Fortunately there was, like a tops’l breeze, a cooling breath of the Trades once atop the hill, and servants offered towels so they could mop themselves down.

Admiral Hood was present, standing tall and slim and beaky over the normal-sized guests, surrounded by a set of admirers. Sir Onsley and Lady Maude were off in a corner with less of a coterie; he was now only a half-pay rear admiral of the red, and sycophants no longer had to be quite so attentive. The crowd had transferred their attention to the newest officer by the buffets, eager to get a first look at their new Commodore. That was where the Dockyard Superintendent, the Master Attendant and the Prize Court Agents lurked and simpered.

Admiral Rodney had gone home with his fabulous prize fleet, so Treghues had to settle for lesser lights, and led them first to Sir Onsley. Their former admiral looked even fatter than ever, ever-strangling in a neckcloth too tight for him, and Lady Maude had chosen a bilious purple-and-grey satin sackgown, a poor comparison to her complexion. If it weren’t for Sir Onsley’s uniform they would have looked like servants.

“Sir Onsley … Lady Maude. Your servant, sir…”

“Oh, Alan Lewrie,” Lady Maude said. “My, they feed you well in Desperate. You must have grown another inch since we saw you last.”

“We have been living quite well for a cruiser, Lady Maude.”

“Mister Lewrie,” Sir Onsley said, offering his hand. “You are looking ‘Bristol Fashion,’ I must say.”

“Thank you, Sir Onsley. I … I was most distressed to hear you and Lady Maude would be going back to England,” Lewrie began, trying to make his prepared speech sound natural. “May I say that I shall always be grateful for your and Lady Maude’s many kindnesses and considerations. I hope your voyage is tranquil, and your next post rewarding.”

“Thankee, Mister Lewrie. Most kind,” Sir Onsley said. “I’ll miss the islands, damme if I won’t. But, you have to make way for younger men.”

“I am certain the islands shall miss you, too, Sir Onsley. I’m sure I speak for many who served under you.” He smiled. Yes, they’ll miss the sight of Glatton sitting out there like the Pharos, Lewrie thought.

“Be odd not to have a sea command after all these years,” Sir Onsley maundered on, now well into his wine cups.

“Sir George Sinclair would have to be a most impressive officer to replace you, sir. Or match our record of success in reducing the number of privateers and all,” Lewrie said, wondering if he really knew when to stop toadying before even Sir Onsley noticed.

“We have stuck a dry bone in Brother Jonathan’s throat, have we not?” Sir Onsley chuckled. Dead-lazy or not, Sir Onsley was going home rich as Croesus from prize money reaped by his squadron.

“Only thing I regret is I’m going to miss the last act out here,” Sir Onsley said. “Here, walk with me and we’ll have some wine, boy. Do you know anything about DeGrasse?”

Something to eat? Lewrie thought. “No, sir.”

“Damn crafty Frog admiral. Left Brest back in the spring and he got down to Martinique with a huge convoy and a fleet of line-of-battle ships. Sam Hood’s crossed swords with him once so far, pretty much of a draw. But he’s here for a purpose, and it won’t be good when it comes. Met Sam Hood yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Then come with me.”

And before Lewrie knew it, he was bowing to that worthy, who looked down that long nose at him. Sir Onsley bubbled on about Lewrie’s record and what ship he was in at present.

“Yes, Mister Lewrie,” Hood said with a meager smile. “Believe I read something about Ariadne. Knew Bales long ago, you know. And it was Parrot, I believe, before Desperate?”

“Aye, sir,” Lewrie said, almost quivering with excitement. The admiral had indeed actually heard something of him.

“Damn glad to meet you, Mister Lewrie. You keep up that sort of work,” Hood told him, before shifting his eyes away.

“I shall, sir,” Lewrie promised, allowing himself to be led off by Sir Onsley.

“Put in a word for you. Never hurts for him to remember what you look like,” Sir Onsley said, now firmly playing naval politics. “He must have a thousand midshipmen, but he’ll know you.”

And you’ll be on the Board at the Admiralty, giving advice and support to Hood, so he’s amenable to a good relationship with you, but at what price? Lewrie speculated, sipping his wine, noticing for the first time that it was champagne and as cold as mortal sin.

“Ah, I see Treghues has already found our new commodore,” Sir Onsley noted, jutting his chin across the room to point at Alan’s captain and a thin, reedy stick of a man in a coat a bit too faded to be fashionable at a ball. Still, it was laced as a captain’s coat, but for the buttons set in threes. Sir George Sinclair wore a tight periwig with close side curls, emphasizing the skin as dark as any foredeck hand, making those sharp eyes and down-turned hook of a nose appear even more daunting.

“A real taut hand, is Sinclair,” Sir Onsley continued. “Put up his first broad pendant when the French came in in ’78, and was a real terror off Bordeaux, I’m told. Got knighted at Quiberon Bay in the last war and earned it three times over. We are not close, but I did have a chance to mention a few people by way of recommendation. I do not think you would mind if Sir George knew of my regard for you.”

“Not at all, sir. Your thoughtfulness at a time like this is … I cannot find the words, Sir Onsley.”

It was heady stuff to be endorsed as able by a man who now had distant control over the officers he would be answering to in future. Lewrie had not thought to wonder how well regarded Sir Onsley was when it came to choosing followers. But he had yet to hear that he was as inept as Admiral Rodney, so it might be alright for his career.

He felt success falling like a laurel wreath in some fever dream, slow and catchable, right into his outstretched hands. He had won over Captain Bales, had convinced Kenyon of his ability—even if Kenyon was a Molly, Alan still respected his skills. He had caught Sir Onsley’s eye as a comer, was well recommended to Admiral Hood (another comer), and now was most likely going to cap the evening by winning the same notice from his new admiral of the squadron!

Why had he not joined the Navy years ago, so that he then could have been entered on ships’ books for six years? There was a commission in the offing, and he knew, from asking questions of other midshipmen passed for lieutenant, that he could make a fair showing at the exam.

Sir Hugo may have done me the greatest favor of my life by making me go to sea, he realized.

But standing slightly behind and to one side of Sir George Sinclair was his flag captain, someone Lewrie had known under less auspicious circumstances, and the laurel wreath of success was snatched out of his fingers.

He almost snapped the stem of his wineglass. Not now, not him! Lewrie shivered. Good Christ!

It was Captain Bevan, the very officer who had dragged him from his father’s house. Captain Bevan, who knew enough of his background and the alleged reason for his banishment to ruin him forever. Captain Bevan, the man who had been his jailer in that damned post-chaise to Portsmouth and had shoved him into Ariadne!

“That would not be Captain Bevan with him, Sir Onsley?” Alan said, ready to run or throw up or both.

“Aye, his flag captain. Know him?” Sir Onsley asked.

“We’ve met,” Lewrie mumbled, sinking in a bleak despair.

Lewrie could not escape being led across the salon to Commodore Sinclair’s circle. Up close, the man had that predatory look that Mrs. Hillwood possessed, but Lewrie felt he was not going to get the same sort of gentle treatment.

“Sir George.”

“Sir Onsley.” It was the sound of talons rustling.

“Here’s another of your band, off Desperate. Midshipman Alan Lewrie,” Sir Onsley said proudly. “Commodore Sir George Sinclair, Mr. Lewrie.”

“Your servant, Sir George,” Alan said, summoning up what was left of his nerves, and trying to look plucky and direct.

“Ah yes, Lewrie.” Sir George smiled thinly, which smile was as quickly gone. “I’ve heard of you.”

“Another one of my promising lads, Sir George, like your nephew,” Treghues said. “When he puts his mind to it, of course, ha ha.”

“January of last year, was it not, Mister Lewrie?” Sir George asked with a sniff.

The Navy, the rape, the Gordon Riots, what? Lewrie fumbled at such a surprising question. “Aye, sir. January of ’80.”

“Is that your recollection, Bevan?” Sir George asked his aide.

“I remember it most distinctly, Sir George,” Captain Bevan said, bestowing upon his chief a benign look, then turning to face Lewrie.

“Yes,” Sir George intoned dryly. “Poor old Bales.”

Sir Onsley and Cmdr. Treghues were mystified by this exchange, and Lewrie rushed to sort things out for them.

“Captain Bevan was the officer who obtained me my first berth in Ariadne. He was also kind enough to see me safely to Portsmouth and helped me stock my kit. I wish to extend to you my hearty thanks for doing so, Captain Bevan. I have learned so much in the Navy, first under Captain Bales in poor Ariadne, from Sir Onsley, and now Commander Treghues. I feel so grateful for your assistance in discovering my new career. Having had a bit of success, and gaining so much knowledge has been an … an inspiring experience. Not to mention, uplifting.”

They know I’m raving, he told himself. They’ll get the leg irons first, and then the poking sticks. Lewrie, you can lie like a butcher’s dog. Oh, you arse-kissing, vile wretch … Please God they eat this shit up like plum duff …

“Really,” Sir George drawled, drawing the word out like a rapier.

“He is keen, and a fast learner,” Treghues said offhandedly, not wanting to praise Lewrie publicly now that Sir George was reacting to him much as he would regard a drunken hand at the gratings.

“Well, I shall keep my eye on him, then,” Sir George said with just the hint of a thaw, but it wasn’t the sort of smile that would give a man much cheer. It reminded Alan of a judge finding a new way to pronounce “transportation for life” after a full docket.

The interview died after that as Lewrie stumbled off, trying to find a graceful way to say goodbye to such an equivocal dismissal. He chased down a servant and loaded up on wine, fast.

The first went down in a rush and he began on the second.

“Merciful God in heaven,” he most miserably croaked. “I am so well and truly fucked—”

“’Ere, you watch yer mouth around a lady, ya dirty little Navy guttersnipe,” a gentleman standing close enough to hear said as he shook his fist at him. His wife stood by, face pruned in pious outrage.

“I am so sorry for disturbing your good lady, sir,” Lewrie said in surprise, but thinking fast. “I have just had the most shocking news from home. Do forgive me but I was beyond all temperance.”

“Oh, sorry, then…”

“Funny way of showing grief,” the woman said.

Grief’s the fucking word for it, he told himself.

He began to wander the salon, nodding to everyone whether he knew them or not, asking himself what he had done to bring down such a fate on himself. He had studied hard, he had worked hard, he had almost-but-not-quite come to tolerate the Navy, he was not even a three-bottle man, and hadn’t had any mutton for months, and could not understand why God could bring him so close to the edge of triumph and then dash him into the mud.

“Saving yourself for dinner, Lewrie?” Treghues asked him on his third aimless circuit of the salon.

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“This isn’t a drum,” Treghues told him. “There’s a sit-down meal coming. Are you half-seas over?” He scowled.

“Oh no, sir, I’m fine, really.”

“Slow down on the wine and go have a bite from the buffet, or I shall send you back aboard ship, and blast your supper and your dancing,” Treghues told him, not understanding what Sir George had against Lewrie, but determined to find out.

“Aye aye, sir, I … I shall join Avery and Forrester at the buffet, sir. They look to be having a fine time at the moment.”

The buffet was groaning under a load of wonderful-looking and -smelling food for snacking. Avery and Forrester were tucking it in like famished dogs, standing side by side and amiable for once in their greed, slowly grazing down the tables. If his nerves had not already suffered such a shock as to be terminal to his appetite, the sight of Forrester at trough would have done it anyway.

Feeling that Treghues was still watching him, he joined them and took a plate and utensils, spooning up the first thing handy with no regard for what it was.

“Do try some of this, Alan,” Avery said. “Some local kickshaw with honey and nuts on it. Could be rabbit. Forrester swears it’s partridge.”

“Um, yes,” Alan said after chewing a bite. “Maybe duck?”

“What a palate,” Forrester sneered. “Salt-pork is more to your style.”

“Spreading yourself a bit broader than usual tonight, Francis?” he shot back. “You’ll be needing new breeches if you keep on loading cargo like that.”

“You are so unbelievably common, Lewrie.”

“David, did you ever notice, right after eating you can’t understand a word he says?”

“Keeping his cheeks full, for later,” Avery surmised.

“Sucks it right up like a washdeck pump,” Alan said, studying Forrester closely. “But whatever does he do with the little bones?”

“Not sure, but it explains those low crunching noises in the middle of the night.”

“Have your little laughs,” Forrester said, “and then I shall have mine. You’ll be all-amort…”

“Whatever did he mean by that?” Lewrie wondered as Forrester moved away from them.

“I suppose he thinks he’ll be going into the flagship.”

“Could we be so lucky?” Lewrie asked, feeling a ray of sunshine penetrating his gloom. “Treghues and Sinclair are as thick as thieves, are they?”

“His uncle will take care of him,” Avery hinted.

“No,” Lewrie said with a sudden chill. “Forrester…”

“And Sinclair.” Avery was relentless. “I damn near cried.”

“Sweet suffering God, this is hellish,” Lewrie whispered. “I am ruined…”

“You?” Avery scoffed. “Think he has any more love for me? I was the one played so many pranks on him. But he stands a good chance of being out of our lives. He’ll be passed for lieutenant a lot quicker than us, but then he’s gone. Thank the good Lord.”

Lewrie set his plate down and rubbed his forehead, lost in a viselike agony trying to puzzle things out so they made sense.

“Desperate could be the post of honor,” he told David. “He might stay with us until a suitable big prize needed a master, and he would go into her. Immediate promotion, bought in, at least a lieutenant’s command below the Rates.”

“That makes me ill to contemplate.”

Or Forrester could stay in Desperate, and I go to the flag, where Sir George hounds me to ruin because of Forrester’s lies, and what happened in London, he thought gloomily. But plenty of men go to sea under a cloud, and as long as you’re good at your job no one gives a groat what you’ve done before. Alright, so Sir George doesn’t like me—that’s no reason he would harm me. What would it profit him? Oh, God, what else can go wrong?

“Alan!”

He turned to see Lucy Beauman dressed in a new gown of pale pink satin with an undergown of white lace, lots of ruched material on sleeves and bodice, her own hair in ringlets instead of a wig, all done up with flowers and maroon ribbons.

“Lucy … how truly magnificent and beautiful you look.”

“Oh, Alan,” she said, taking his hands. David coughed to break the spell.

“Excuse my manners … David Avery, Miss Lucy Beauman, Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews’ niece. Lucy, this is my shipmate, Midshipman David Avery.”

“Your servant, ma’am,” David said, making a graceful leg, and dribbling food from his unattended plate behind him.

Thank God for one good thing that has happened to me this evening, Alan thought happily, flushing with pleasure at seeing her once more, and aching with sudden longing as well. Every time he was reunited with her he found her more womanly, more desirable, more lovely, if such a thing was possible.

“Alan, Mister Avery, I should like you to meet my father.”

Right, thankee, God, Alan almost said aloud.

“Your servant, Mister Beauman, sir.”

Pére Beauman was squat as a toad, crammed into a bright green velvet coat, a longer-skirted old-style waistcoat awash in silver brocade, buff breeches and hose, with calves as thick as tillerheads. And the high-roached, elaborately curled bag wig he wore fairly screamed “Country”—of the worst huntin’, shootin’, ridin’, drinkin’, tenant-tramplin’, dog-lovin’ View Halloo variety.

This lovely girl is daughter to … that? Alan couldn’t accept it.

“You’re Lewrie, hey?” said Mister Beauman once they had both been bowed to. “Heard a lot about you.”

He has much in common with Sir George, Alan thought unhappily; he has heard of me. I cannot imagine a more ghastly evening …

“Like a lad with gumption. Chopped that fella, hey? With good reason, o’ course.”

“I could not in good conscience let his remarks pass, sir,” Lewrie told him, happy to hear that Lucy’s father sounded approving of his duel. Nothing like defending a daughter to placate a daddy. “The less said about his scurrilous remarks, the better, though, with the ladies present.”

“Onsley sez yer a comer. That so?”

“I am very grateful for Sir Onsley’s and Lady Maude’s good opinion, Mister Beauman. They are wonderful people.”

“Aye, that’s so. That’s so,” Mr. Beauman agreed, snaking himself a glass of wine from the buffet.

“And you come on business to Antigua, sir?”

“Hell, the Matthewses are sailing for home, lad. The slave revolt’s been put down, and Portland Bight’s healthier than Antigua in the summer. I’ve come to fetch Lucy home.”

“I had not thought that far ahead about the consequences, sir,” he said, sharing a heartbreaking look of confirmation from Lucy. “I am sure you’re pleased to be able to receive her back into your family in safety and peace—”

“Aye, true,” Beauman nodded heavily, changing glasses for a full one. “Bubbly Frog trash. Got your juju bag?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Sambo nonsense,” Beauman Sr. chuckled. “Still, any luck’s better than none, hey?”

Does this man ever speak in complete sentences? Alan wondered.

They were interrupted by the dinner gong, and the most important people began to pair off to file into the long dining rooms.

“Mister Beauman, if you are to fetch Lucy home, and I shall be sailing north in a few days, this ball may be our last chance to converse for some time. With your permission, of course, I should like to dance with your daughter.”

“Me, too,” Avery said in a barely audible mutter behind him.

“Aye, if she’s willin’,” Beauman agreed.

There were farewell speeches about Sir Onsley, welcoming speeches about Sir George, a word or two from Admiral Hood, many toasts and much food. With her father beside her, Lucy could not indulge in one of those long-distance romances of eyes and shrugs, so Lewrie had to content himself with his table companions, and a damned dull lot they were. The food he could barely taste, and did little more than mangle what little he allowed on his plate. His appetite was quite gone.

Am I going to be ruined? And if I am, then what am I to do for a living? I could stay in the Navy, but if this war ends I’ll have no chance of being retained. And they don’t give half-pay to midshipmen. Hell, without Sir Onsley’s help there’s no way I can make my lieutenancy. Even as a Commission Sea Officer, I’d be turned out on the beach, and half-pay is more like quarter-pay, it’s a joke. But, if I married Lucy Beauman I’d be a led-captain, a poor relation, but that’s worth more than half-pay, even worth more than a post-captain’s command. Either way, bless her, she’s the key to prosperity after the war …

After the ladies had retired, but before the port got going, he left the dining rooms to hunt up Lucy. He also badly needed coffee or tea. He had eaten little and had taken on a bit too much drink.

He got his coffee, dark and sweet the way he enjoyed it, drank one cup scanning the salon for Lucy, then got another cup and went out on the veranda. There she was, taking the air with some other younger girls. She left them quickly and came to him. They went around the corner for privacy, and once alone she buried her face in his shoulder and embraced him hungrily.

“Oh, Alan, I’ve been so miserable, and foolish … I never thought I’d have to go back to Jamaica and not see you again—”

“I’ve missed you, too, Lucy, and when I was told the admiral was hauling down his flag…”

“I wrote you so many letters. Did you get them?”

“We spoke no friendly ships the last two months,” Alan explained. “Did you get mine?”

“Oh, yes. There was always some sailor showing up with a letter saying he had just come in with news from you. I don’t know how you managed it.” Lucy beamed.

“They were our crew that came in with a prize,” he explained, finding it hard to believe that she had thought he could arrange his mail to be delivered whenever he wanted it. Maybe there’s a good reason she can’t spell, maybe she’s feebler than most women …

“And now I shall never see you again.” She pouted.

“I may sail to Kingston again, Lucy, we can still write each other, and I intend to ask your father if I may have his leave to call upon you when we put into port.”

“Oh, Alan…” She looked at him as if he had just invented gravity. “Do you love me, Alan? Do you truly love me that much?”

“Aye, I do.” Hold on here, do I? Yes, I must. But maybe I don’t. How do you tell? I’ve only been in lust. She’s such a beauty, and what I know of her body is enough to make anyone mad with passion. So, she may not be bright as a man. Who expects her to be …

“I love you, Alan,” she said, squeezing him tight. “I have been in love with you since I first saw you, all weak and ill, when they brought you into Auntie’s house. Oh, I think I shall die with happiness tonight…”

We’re not going that far just yet, he thought.

“Your father has to allow me to call upon you—”

“Oh, Father cannot deny us. No one could be that cruel. Alan, why must we wait? I had thought we would wait until the war was over, until you had become an officer, but if we feel so strongly, why do we not marry now?”

Her father will never go for that. Damn, she’ll blow the gaff on me with her impatience, and then goodbye security …

“I cannot, Lucy … there’s my duty to the Navy, my oath to the Crown. And I doubt if your father will agree after just meeting me. Perhaps we should let him get used to the idea?”

“But, Alan, many people marry in time of war…”

“But they don’t look kindly on midshipmen doing it. Lieutenants, perhaps. Right now the Navy is the only life I have, Lucy.” And a right dirty one it is, too, he added to himself.

“You shall have a life with me,” she said, pouting in the darkness of the veranda. Somehow Alan knew she was pouting. “Once the war is over, you owe the Navy nothing. If you wish a seafaring life, my father owns many ships. Their captains take their wives on trading voyages to so many exciting places … Or we could have a fine plantation of our own, thousands of acres to ourselves.”

I have discovered the keys to heaven itself, Alan rejoiced as he held her close to him. God, to be a planter, a trader, with ships of my own and regiments of slaves. And dear Lucy to rattle every night of the week. We could go back to London in triumph. And then to hell with the Navy, with my family and anyone else!

“I shall speak to your father but I beg you, Lucy, don’t be hasty. Let him consider me. He has no reason to dislike me as of yet, and Sir Onsley and Lady Maude can speak for me. And at home you can bring him round. How could he refuse his lovely daughter anything she desires once he has gotten used to the idea of me as a son-in-law?” Alan cooed.

“You are such a slyboots, Alan,” she said, kissing him. “I am so proud of you. So smart and clever. I love you so much.”

“And I love you, Lucy,” he echoed … did he mean it, a little? … kissing her back. “Now, we must go back in before someone comments on us being alone together. I would not give anyone the slightest reason to doubt your honor.”

“Yes,” she said, giving him one last hug. “I shall join Auntie and try to compose myself. And you will speak to Father tonight.”

“I promise.”

They kissed once more, a lingering kiss full of promised passion to come, before parting and making tiny adjustments to their dress. He offered her his arm and they reentered the salon just as the men began to leave the dining rooms to join the ladies for coffee.

Mr. Beauman spotted her right off and came across the room to join them, a frown on his face.

Lucy evidently knew that look from many years’ experience of his temper, and chattered with him briefly before hurrying to her aunt.

“Missed you over the port, lad,” Mr. Beauman said. “Wanted to get you alone for a while and have a chat. Veranda good for you?”

“Aye, sir…” The older man led him back out to the veranda. Alan retrieved his half-empty cup of coffee and sipped at it.

“Been gettin’ letters from Lucy, from her aunt ’bout you. Turned the lass’s head good n’ proper.”

“I have become fond of your daughter, Mister Beauman. At first I was grateful for all her concern and care when I was ill. But once I was well enough to get around and hold a real conversation with her, well…”

“An’ you want to talk about somethin’ more than dancin’ with the lass,” Beauman said.

“I would be most honored if I could come calling on her, sir, in the event that I get to Kingston.”

“The shit you say!” Beauman barked.

“Aye, sir.” Lewrie winced.

“She’s barely turned seventeen!”

“I am aware of that, sir.”

“What are you, eighteen? Boy with a Cambridge fortune, just a midshipman, an’ those’re two-a-penny.”

“Your brother-in-law, Sir Onsley, must have told you I have prospects, Mister Beauman. It’s true, I’m only a midshipman now, but that is now, not what I hope to accomplish.”

“Got lands back home? Rents o’ yer own?” Beauman carried on. “You in line to inherit? Parents substantial people?”

“No, sir.”

“Onsley sez there’s gossip ya had to join the Navy to make somethin’ of yerself. That true?”

Good God, I really am fucked … He nodded yes to that question, not trusting himself to speak.

“Don’t rightly hold that against ya, lad.” Beauman smiled. “Had to come out to the Indies to make a man of meself, make my own way. Woulda gone to hell on my own back home. But, see this my way, yer a pretty fella, pretty enough to turn the girl’s poor head, but yer not the solid type o’ match I’d trust to keep her proper. There’s nothin’ goin’ to come of this. Sorry, lad. Nothin’ personal.”

“I may not be ideal now, sir. But I’m not asking permission to marry tomorrow. I mean to gain my commission first, and there is the war still to be fought. Allow me to write her, and to call. If she finds someone more pleasing in the meantime, then that is Providence. I would not press any sort of suit until I felt I could meet your standards as a suitor, or doom her to a shabby life to suit my pleasure,” he lied, desperately glib.

“How often you think you might get to Jamaica?”

“Perhaps once a year, sir, at best.”

“Hmm. Tell ya what, you make somethin’ of yerself. I’ll allow you to write. And if you get to Jamaica, you can come callin’. But you’ll not be doin’ anythin’ to disturb the peace o’ my family ’til I say I’m satisfied with yer prospects.”

“I give you my solemn word on that, sir.”

I know what he’s thinking, Lewrie thought. Creampot love I or Lucy will grow out of. Out of sight, out of mind, while he throws his sort of bachelor up to her. He may not know it, but we’re as good as engaged right now …

“Good enough,” Beauman told him. “Old Onsley’s right, you’ve got bottom, boy. My advice to ya.”

“Aye, sir?”

“Whoever ya end up married to, never have daughters.”

“I’ll take that to heart, Mister Beauman.” Alan smiled in relief. “May I go tell Lucy the news?”

“Aye, run along.”

Lucy was glowing with delight at his report, and Lady Maude was cooing and fanning herself in joy. Sir Onsley frowned a lot, said a bit how married officers were lost to the Navy, which got him a withering glare from Lady Maude, which he had to splutter his way free of by reminding her that he was a post-captain when they’d wed.

The rest of the evening was a glimpse of Paradise itself, for Lucy told all her girl acquaintances, they told all the young men at the ball, and everyone assumed it was a much more formal arrangement than it really was. Older couples beamed at them foolishly and remarked on what a splendid couple they would be.

On his part Alan completely forgot about his fears concerning Captain Bevan and Sir George Sinclair. With Lucy at his side they were no more than fleabites from a traveler’s bed; nothing to get exercised about. His future was assured once the war was over, and the Navy was little more than a slight aggravation to be borne until then.

Once her father and Lucy left, Alan had no more reason to stay at the ball, so he visited the kitchens for a bundle of food to sate his now-roaring appetite. The cooks and stewards remembered him from his previous stint of duty, so he left with a substantial basket of goodies and two bottles of champagne. This he and young Carey, who had stayed behind aboard, devoured happily in the quiet darkness of their mess.

Once in bed, he was so busy thinking on his prospects that he was still awake two hours later when Avery and Forrester staggered to their hammocks, tipsy and trying to shush each other like a pair of lamebrained housebreakers trying to smash through a wall without waking the house’s owner.

They dropped their shoes, dropped their chest lids, clanked their dirks trying to find spare pegs, giggled, belched, farted, thumped into each other and apologized profusely, hummed their favorite tunes, slung their hammocks and tumbled out at least once with loud crashes and began to curse everything roundly. Carey found it so entertaining that he ended up shrieking with laughter at their bungling.

And once the mess area was filled by nothing but drunken snores, Alan still lay awake, closer to contentment than he had been in two full years, listening to the ship breathe around him, and the watch bell up forward chiming the half-hour, until he too drowsed off, quite pleased with himself.