The King`s Commission

Chapter 3

Shrike thumped away bravely as she fired her salute to Adml. Sir Joshua Rowley's flag, ran down her Red Ensign, and trotted out the White, rounded up under tops'ls and spanker, and let the anchor go in as polished a performance as any ship of the line three years in active commission, which brought a grunt of satisfaction from Lieutenant Lilycrop and a large whoosh of relief from Lt. Alan Lewrie. Almost before the hook was on the bottom inside the Palisades of Kingston Harbor, the gig was alongside the entry port, the coxswain and his oarsmen turned out in the best uniforms they possessed (or could borrow from the purser's stores), and Lilycrop was safely into his boat and on his way to the flagship.

"Harbor gaskets on the yards, Mister Fukes," Alan ordered.

"Aye, sir," Fukes rumbled. "'N, could I be a'borryin' a boat ta row about n'see to squarin' away the yards, sir, while we set kedges?"

"My pleasure, Mister Fukes."

It would be a long row to get ashore, Alan noted, but Lilycrop had insisted that they anchor far out from the main anchorage, far off shore so the night miasmas that brought fever could not reach them, so they could still have a sea-breeze at night to keep the number of insects down. It would also reduce the thoughts of desertion among the hands, none of whom were strong enough swimmers to reach that tantalizing shore.

"Rig the awnings now," Alan said. "It'll get a lot hotter this afternoon."

There was still work to do, rowing out kedge anchors to hold the ship without swinging all about the compass on her bower rode and fouling another ship, tidying up aloft, coiling the miles of sheets and halyards, clews and buntlines down into neatly flaked piles or hung on the bitts and pin-rails. Then boats would have to go ashore for fresh water and firewood, and every department had needs which the purser would have to refer to the captain, hoping to keep the expense down in some cases, and seeking a way to make extra money in others. Biggs was already rubbing his dry hands together, expense ledgers under his arms, and eyeing the shore with an expression that could only be described as avidly expectant.

But for now, Alan could relax. The ship was at anchor, and nothing short of fire or hurricane could disturb her, which meant he could lower his guard from active trepidation to wary ease. The life of a first officer was onerous when one considered all the things that could go wrong, but, tentatively, he was beginning to admit to himself that he could cope, most of the time, at least. Tedious, some matters were, but no longer a reason for a dry mouth. Exacting, some chores might be, but no longer a cause for shaky limbs. When Alan had time to think of this change (and those times were damned rare) he supposed it had come about after the supper with Lieutenant Lilycrop. Being told that he was passably acceptable had removed the greatest part of the fears he had suffered, allowing him enough personal breathing room to grow into the job instead of staggering from one possible disaster to the next with the feeling that he was about five steps behind the acceptable pace. Witness their last passage from Antigua to Kingston, which had gone past in six days of (mostly) tranquility, giving Alan time to savor sunrises and sunsets, the joy of sailing over an inspiritingly benign ocean with winds enough for a glutton under a sky of Wedgewood blue. He had even begun to enjoy the banter in the wardroom, though he could not join in as joyously as was his usual wont when japes, liquor and high spirits were aflying.

Lilycrop was not fussy about uniform dress when Shrike was out of sight of the fleet, so Alan had served his watches and supervised the unending drills in old breeches and a shirt loose to the waist, minus stock, coat or stockings, and a woven sennet hat to ward off the sun. Lilycrop believed a large towel was clothing enough on some days for his own august personage, wrapped about his rotund body like some Roman senator's toga, and a pair of native sandals. The crew had gone about in rolled up slop trousers, belt and head-scarves like so many bloody buccaneers, except for Divisions and the rare turn-to to witness punishment in the forenoons. Now they were all chafing in full clothing, and the flesh that had been exposed to the sun was itching under the requisite layers of uniform, no matter how Red Indian-copper they had become with long service in tropic waters.

"Bum-boats comin' alongside, sir."

"Tell 'em to sheer off until the captain returns," Alan snarled. "And tell… no, the master-at-arms knows to keep drink from being passed inboard," Alan said, grinning at himself. "At least, he'd better."

William Pitt came sauntering aft along the larboard bulwarks to take a perch by the main chains and sharpen his claws on a shroud dead-eye. The cat ignored Alan until he strolled to the railing to peer down into the bum-boats which were offering their usual gew-gaws; small bottles of rum, flowers, cheap shirts, parrots and caged birds, pocket watches and shoe buckles (most likely stolen) and the women who helped scull the boats. When Alan got close enough, William Pitt had no more patience. He bottled up once more, spat and hissed, then took off forward in a ginger streak, uttering a low trilling growl.

"I hate that damned cat," Alan growled.

"Ah, he hates you, too, sir," Caldwell, the sailing master, told him with a wry grin, polishing his square little spectacles. "But then, there's not a soul aboard I've ever seen him warm up to, not even the captain. If he weren't such a deuced clever mouser, he'd have been over the side a year ago, and good riddance to bad rubbish."

"Not a half-bad idea, to trade the little bastard for a bird or something." Alan laughed.

Their captain returned about an hour later, and by the expression on Lilycrop's face as he heaved his bulk through the entry port, and the way he took his salute so testily, he obviously had not had a good time aboard the flagship.

"Mister Lewrie, attend me, sir!" Lilycrop snarled.

"Aye aye, sir," Alan replied, wondering what he had done to earn this new enmity. Had the more dubious parts of his repute made their way as far west as Jamaica? Once aft, though, he was pleased to discover he was not the reason (this time, at least) for Lilycrop's ill humor.

"Poxy, woman-handed little bastard!" Lilycrop barked, slinging his hat toward the hanging bed-box. Cats scattered to the four winds. "Insufferable arse-licker!" The shoes followed, caroming off bulkheads and decorating the sickly paint with streaks of blacking. The shirt stock nearly made it out the transom sash-windows. "Gooch!"

"Sir?" Alan asked, standing well back from this barrage of attire.

"Not a morsel of welcome, sir, not a morsel," Lilycrop gloomed. "Oh, aye, I've grown accustomed to small portions of hospitality in my years, but… Gooch, come open this damned bottle before I crack it over your empty head!"

"Aye, sir!" the servant bobbled.

"I'd not expect to be dined in, sir," Lilycrop went on, almost tearing the buttons from his waist-coat as he removed it and slung it in the general direction of the pegs. "That's for post-captains an' the titled fools, but nary a drop of comfort was I offered, sir, not one drop for a newly arrived master an' commander."

"Most inhospitable, sir," Alan commented as Gooch got the hock open and deftly stripped Lilycrop of his heavy old sword as he raved about the cabins, drinking from the neck.

"D'ye know, Mister Lewrie, we're the first vessel in with word of The Saintes, and their salvation from the Frogs and the Dons," Lilycrop raved on. "While they couldn't stir their arses up an' put half a dozen sail o' the line to sea to save their souls. A battle ye say? Truly, sir? Defeated de Grasse, did they? Capital doin's, but more important, who d'ye like in the Governor's Cup Races? Pahh!"

"Perhaps the flag-captain was drunk, sir."

"An' maybe he's an addle-pated, light-footed, silk-kerchiefed sodomite fool!" Lilycrop roared. He flung himself down on the transom settee, but calmed enough to accept a mug from Gooch, who had been weaving a circumspect course to avoid his captain's wrath. "Then this dandy-prat had the gall to look down his nose an' wonder what Rodney was thinkin' of to transfer little Shrike to Sir Joshua Bloody Rowley an' Billy Graves' fuckin' damn flag! 'My dear sir,' he says to me, 'I know not to what avail a brig o' so little worth shall answer, but given enough time, we shall discover her uses, perhaps in the guarding of the harbor entrance, or the coast an' revenues'! Goddamn them!"

"Graves, sir?" Alan started. "From The Chesapeake?"

"The same. A vice-admiral servin' under Rowley, if you can imagine what a come-down that is for him." Lilycrop wheezed humor.

Alan shrugged philosophically, approaching to within throwing distance as Lilycrop poured half the bottle of hock into his mug and began to sip. "Perhaps they still perceive a danger, and thought themselves more in need of ships of the line, or a brace of larger frigates to add to their strength."

"What bloody danger? Rodney'n Hood put paid to those Frogs off The Saintes. Scattered their fleet Hell to Huttersfield, took the ships loaded with the siege artillery. Jamaica's safe as houses now."

"Yes, sir, but where did those other ships escape to, the ones we didn't take?" Alan pondered. "Up to Cape Francois, or Havana? There are still ten Spanish sail of the line in the Indies. And the Dagoes were to provide troops for the expedition. Who's to say they might try yet, sir, strictly a Spanish adventure, with help from one of de Grasse's junior admirals and what ships he's collected after The Saintes? When you consider that, they might look upon Rodney offering them one small brig of war as an affront. Perhaps there's bad blood between Sir Joshua and Sir George, and you the intermediary between their animosity."

"Goddamme, but you're a political animal, Lewrie," Lilycrop spat.

"Aye, sir, but it's a learned habit. Society runs on rumors and grudges." Alan grinned, now on solid ground. For all his seafaring skill and his tarry-handed knowledge, Lilycrop was a child when it came to the ways of English "Society"; childishly proud of his lack of familiarity with the back-alley routes to success, money and "place." In contrast, Alan had cut his milk-teeth on the practice, raised as he was in the shadow of the mighty, the titled and the wealthy. Lilycrop wanted his Navy to be immune to what he thought was unfair and scheming, but the Navy was a microcosm of the society which it protected, and its officers came from families who had to play "The Game" to get ahead. Until the society changed, the Navy would reward those who knew how to grease the wheels with unctuous words. In a sudden flash of insight, Alan saw the reason why Lilycrop had named the ginger cat William Pitt. He had been a champion from the commoners, but on retirement he had accepted the King's gift of title as Lord Chatham, and all the perquisites of the wealthy Tories against whom Pitt had dueled, betraying Lilycrop's simple faith in ordinary men rising by their own abilities. No bloody wonder he was a lieutenant all this time, Alan thought a bit sadly. The wheel that squeals the loudest never gets the grease. He rubs everyone the wrong way-God help him, he's even proud of it.

"Damn Society," Lilycrop groaned, lifting his beak from the mug, but he had calmed himself. "Think you, though… we were too small an offerin'?"

"I'm sure of it, sir. Perhaps Admiral Rodney offered larger ships, or Drake's small division of line-of-battle ships for later in the despatches we carried, but we don't know that."

"Nor should we have," Lilycrop nodded firmly. "So I was the bearer of bad tidin's, the one the Roman emperors used to kill. Uriah smugly bearin' his death warrant from David to place him in the thickest fightin' so Uriah's wife would be a widow for David's pleasure."

"Um… something like that, sir," he shrugged, at a loss.

"Nothin' more'n I'd expect after fifty years in the Navy, man and boy, watchin'…" Lilycrop squirmed as he realized he could not expose himself or his life-long grudges to anyone, much less to an officer from that very background that seemed to spawn the successful, while he soldiered on without seeming rewards. "Stores complete, sir?"

"Ah, aye, sir," Alan replied, caught off guard by the sudden shift of topic. "Or, that is, they soon shall be, sir. The purser is ashore, and should be returning soon."

"Once we're replenished, be so good as to hoist 'Easy Discipline' so the doxies can come aboard, then," Lilycrop directed wearily. "The hands've shaped up main-well, the last two months. They've earned a few rewards. Mister Lewyss to check for pox'n fleas, mind."

"Aye, sir."

"Far's I know, we could tup'n sup out here 'til we sink at our moorin's, for all this admiral cares. Shore leave tickets for the senior warrants first, junior warrants second. Leave tickets for those hands deservin' afterward."

"Aye, sir. Um…"

"Aye, I mind you've calls to make," Lilycrop said, frowning. "I'll take a turn ashore myself, but my needs're simple. You've earned your chance for a wench and a bottle as well, young sir."

"Thank you, sir, but…"

"Then you don't wish shore leave?" Lilycrop teased.

"Not at all, sir! Of course, I want shore leave! It's another matter, sir. About Shrike. About the admiral, sir."

"Spout away. Sit you down an' have some hock, then."

The cabin cats had sensed that the rant was over, and emerged from their hiding places, tails flicking for attention. Samson and Henrietta and Mopsy and Hodge and the kittens made for Lilycrop, and this show of affection mollified him most won-drously.

"Who says we're useless, sir?" Alan began.

"Every poxed mother-son of a gun in the flag, damn their eyes."

"You once said Shrike could go inshore, where a frigate or sloop of war would fear to go, sir," Alan schemed on. "Now, I see no ships in harbor capable of that."

"Small ships… ketches'n cutters'n such… they're possibly out on patrol," Lilycrop waved off as Gooch brought another mug to the desk and poured Lewrie some of the wine.

"Could the Spanish have some siege artillery of their own, sir?"

"Oh, aye," Lilycrop agreed. "Every fuckin' fort on Cuba'r Hispaniola's full of heavy guns. Poor local-milled powder, maybe old stone shot, though. Be a bitch to dismount and build field carriages."

"But they could improvise a siege-train from them, if they were of a mind, sir. And the easiest way to transport them would be by sea, along the coasts, would it not?"

"Aye, they'd kill a thousand bullocks haulin' 'em on what pass for roads in the islands." Lilycrop perked up.

"Exactly, sir," Alan pressed. "But what sort of ships would be available to carry siege guns to Cape Francois or Havana? How many ships of worth do they have in the Indies they'd risk in coastal waters?"

"Not that many, I grant."

"Too strong to be taken by a small ketch or cutter, sir, but just the presence of a well set up brig of war could run them back into harbor. They'd think themselves safe from a frigate close inshore, but we are pretty fast, sir, and we can go into less than three fathoms to chase them down."

"Damme, but you're a nacky little'n, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop marveled. "I misjudged your wit, an' for that I apologize. Aye, Shrike could stir 'em up like the Wrath of God. If," he cautioned, "if we were allowed. I'm sure this Admiral Rowley has his own favorite corsairs; bought in some shallow-draught vessels as tenders to the flagship to line his pockets with prize-money already. We'll swing at our anchors 'til next Epiphany waitin' for the call to glory."

"A respectful letter to the flag, suggesting suitable employment for us could take the trick, sir." Alan smiled. "Prize-money for us and the admiral, a reduction in the bottoms available to the Dagoes, some repute for us, and… if there is some grudge between Parker and Rodney, we could mollify it. Rowley needs to be seen doing something to save Jamaica, doesn't he? Rodney'll have all the glory at the victory celebrations, and…"

"Now you're off in fictional speculatin'," Lilycrop scoffed. "We know no such thing. Still…"

"Beats waiting for employment at the admiral's pleasure, sir."

"Hmm." Lilycrop stroked his chin, now shaved of the usual crop of bristly white for his appearance aboard the flagship-usually he only laid steel to whiskers once a week for Sunday Divisions.

Alan took a sip of wine while Lilycrop pondered the matter. He could see the battle going on between the need for recognition and some small bit of fame before the war ended (and his hopes of future service in the Navy with it) and the desire to safeguard what little he had. The want of prize-money for retirement, and the risk to his ship and the loss of what grudging respect he had won if he failed.

"Too deep for me, Lewrie," Lilycrop scowled finally. "It smacks too much o' schemin' for 'place,' to suit me. An' what sort of fool may I look to go clamorin' for action when there's others more senior or deservin'? In the Navy, you'll learn to take what comes as your portion an' not go wheedlin' for a chance to shine, sir."

"They do wish us to be ambitious, sir," Alan allowed with a shrug, thinking he had disappointed his captain by being too forward.

"In our actions, yes, once given a charge," Lilycrop cautioned. "But not in advancin' our careers 'thout earnin' the right to do so."

"Well, it was just a thought, sir," Alan sighed. "But it would gall me terribly to think we had to sit out the rest of the war with no opportunity to do something useful."

Did I mean that? Alan wondered even as he uttered it. It was the proper sentiment a fire-eating young officer was expected to display, and he thought he had said it rather well, so well, in fact, that Alan felt a hard kernel of truth in it. He sometimes thought it was his curse that he could sit outside himself and judge his performance on the stage of Life like a disgruntled theater-goer waiting for a chance to get rid of the rotten fruit carried in with him, ready to jeer and heckle a poor reading, or cheer when a scene was carried off well.

It would make little difference if Shrike did spend the rest of the war at her moorings, or off on boresomely empty patrols. He had fulfilled his present ambitions; a small measure of fame for cool bravery, a commission, some prize-money, and now his post as a first officer, even in a small ship. He had seen the razor-edge of terror often enough to know how mortal he was, and like any sensible person could give war a great big miss the next time, to save his own skin.

If Shrike did stay in Kingston Harbor for some time, he could get ashore to court Lucy Beauman and make a firm pact with her about their future together. And from the tone of her latest letters, that would be best, before her circle of swains and admirers monopolized her to his detriment.

So why am I urging the captain to get us active employment? he asked himself, when anyone with any sense would want to stay out of danger and go courting one of the most beautiful young women of the age. It's daft, but this Navy stuff must be getting to me.

It made him squirm to face it, but he was indeed, through no fault or wish of his own, a Sea Officer of the King. He was getting rather good at it. And it was an honorable profession, not just the Guinea Stamp admitting him to the society of other gentlemen, but now a small yet burgeoning source of pride in his abilities. God knew he had had few reasons for pride before. It was demanding, dangerous, but it was his. There was no reward on earth for meekness, so why should he be content to stand on the sidelines crying "well played, sir" to some other ambitious young bugger with better connections, when there was a chance for advancement? There were prizes to take, money to be made, further fame to be won which would ease his passage to-to what?

Post-captain? He scoffed at his speculations. Admiral's rank? A bloody knight-hood? The peerage? Why not make the most of it while I may. Lewrie, what a hopeful little fool you are! But then again, why the hell not? We could sweep the seas so clean we could come back like that Dutchman Tromp with a broom at his mast truck. Just goes to show why one shouldn't encourage people like me. Once they got a taste of something, damme if they don't aspire to the whole thing.

"Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, of the Shrike brig!" the major-domo announced over the sound of the lawn party, to which announcement very few people took notice, being too intent on their pleasures. The sun was low in the sky and the tropical day had lost most of its heat to a sea breeze that swayed the paper lanterns in the trees, toyed with the wigs of the revelers and ruffled the intricate flounces of the women's gowns. String music (something by Purcell, Alan decided after cocking an educated ear) waxed and ebbed, depending on the wind or the thickness of the throng in front of the musicians in the gazebo to his right.

He stood at the base of the brick steps that led down from the tiled and sheltered back terrace of the house, surveying the crowd and searching for Lucy Beauman. Her parents' town house, which was no town house at all but a second mansion large enough for a titled lord, was aflutter with bunting and Naval ensigns in celebration for Admiral Rodney's victory at the Battle of The Saintes. There was enough red, white and blue material to make commissioning pendants and ensigns for every ship in the active inventory of the Fleet. As he had come through the central hall, Alan had seen a dining table decorated with a line of pastry and confection 3rd Rates, candied sails abillow and marzipan guns belching angel-hair powder smoke, a card table as a center-piece amid the buffet items with Winged Victory bearing a trident and flag, roaring lions at her feet, with a gilt helmet overlaid with the laurel wreath corona of triumph.

"Damme, but the Beaumans know how to spend their money, don't they?" he muttered, happy they had the pelf with which to entertain their burst of patriotic emotions. "Wonder they didn't just gild the whole damned house?"

There must have been over two hundred guests, the luminaries of Jamaica: prominent officials or high-ranking Navy and Army officers, and leading citizens with the government, title, place or sufficient money and lands to be included. Men strolled languidly in silk and satin suitings, women glided and tittered and fanned themselves, showing off their most stunning gowns and jewels.

Somewhere in that mob, Lucy could be found, and Alan felt his pulse quicken at the thought of seeing her again. He looked for the densest clutch of young men; Lucy would be sure to be in the center of them, flirting madly, if Alan knew his average young tit.

The wind picked up briefly, and a gust played with the tail of his long uniform coat. A black servant in cloth-of-silver and silk livery offered him a tray that bore delicate flutes of champagne, trying to balance the tray and keep his fresh-powdered white tie-wig from scudding somewhere off to leeward at the same time.

It would rain soon, Alan knew, a heavy tropical downpour fit to run all these revelers indoors, but not a threatening storm. If there had been any ominous signs to the weather, Lilycrop would have pulled his pug-nose and not allowed him ashore, invitation or not. But Lilycrop had had his own run ashore, and had come back aboard in the "early-earlies," breeches half buttoned, with what appeared to be rouge or paste on the fly, and most cordially "in the barrel," so he could not deny his first lieutenant his chance.

Alan took a sip of champagne-it was a suspiciously good vintage from France, a nation with which they were at war, and he smiled wryly as he imagined what under-handed practice had brought the wine to this occasion. He stepped out into the crowd, bowing slightly to people now and again if he caught their eyes, or they took notice of him, a cordial smile plastered on his phyz.

Aha, he thought, hearing a small shriek of laughter from the left, near a span of side-tables loaded down with delicacies and drink.

"Young Lewrie!" a voice boomed, interrupting his progress in that direction. Alan turned to see Mister Beauman. If anything, his host (and hopefully, prospective father-in-law) had gotten even stouter, and his taste in clothing had not improved much. It had been a sweltering spring day, and still felt clammy despite the cooling breeze from so much rain due soon, but he was tricked out in a massive older wig awash in side-curls down past his ears, which gave off puffs of flour every time the wind came up. His coat and breeches were white satin, and he wore a sleeved, older style waist-coat of pale yellow silk heavily embroidered with vines and flowers. How he kept from melting away, Alan could not ascertain.

"Mister Beauman, sir," Alan replied, as though he was the very person for whom he had been searching. "How grand to see you once more. May I express my heartfelt thanks for your kind invitation!"

"Don't ye look a sight, sir!" Beauman whooped. "Bless my eyes, a commission officer! Give ye joy, me lad."

"And to you, sir."

"Heard ye'd made lieutenant. Hard service in Virginia? Damn all Frogs." Beauman rumbled on, snatching another glass of claret from a passing tray. "Still, skinned the bastards, hey?"

"Indeed we did, sir," Alan agreed.

"Saved Jamaica," Beauman pronounced between slurps. "Took part in it, did ye? Grand sight, and all that?"

"No, sir. Shrike was up north patrolling between the Bahamas and the Virgins when…"

"Oh, too bad," Beauman interrupted. "Not your fault, I expect."

Alan wondered once more if the man had ever completed a full sentence instead of lopping them down to the pith. The Beaumans, except for their dear Lucy, were "country" types, shootin', huntin', dog-lovin', tenant tramplin', slave-bashin' Squires with more money than ton, and Alan felt a twinge at the thought of having to spend more than a day in their presence if he were fortunate enough to wed their daughter. He vowed he'd live in London and let them pursue their own amusements, preferably as far away as possible, as long as possible. Had it not been for their money, he'd have sneered at them for being such a pack of "Country-Harrys" and "Chaw-Bacons."

"Come meet the missus, Lewrie," Beauman ordered, turning his back and leading off through his guests, and Alan had no choice but to take station on Beauman's ample stern-quarters and follow.

"So this is young Mister Lewrie of which we've heard so much," Mrs. Beauman exclaimed after they had exchanged greetings.

Mrs. Beauman was the source of Lucy's beauty, Alan saw, fair and petite, a bit gone to plumpness, but still a fine figure of a woman in spite of her age. Her choice of attire was much better than her husband's, as well, though a bit old-fashioned. Hugh, the eldest son, was a younger replica of the father, hard-handed and hard-eyed as he finally met the upstart suitor for his sister's hand; the welcome from him was a chary one. The younger son resembled Lucy in his short stature and fair complexion, a bit of a dandy-prat in grey and maroon shot-silk coat and breeches, exaggerated sleeve cuffs and coat tails, and blue leather shoes with red heels trimmed in gold.

"Alan Lewrie, haw haw," he offered. "Ain't you the fortunate buck! Escapin' Yorktown and all, what?"

"Cut his way out!" Beauman, Sr., boasted. "Through fire and steel! My youngest boy, Ledyard, Lewrie."

"Delighted," Alan replied, offering his hand.

"Y're servant, sir, haw haw!" Ledyard rejoined inanely.

There was a middle daughter named Floss, bearer of the worst traits from the father's side of the union, ill-favored and swarthy; but her husband seemed happy enough, perhaps mollified by her father's gold. Master Hugh Beauman was married as well, to a rather good-looking young piece who evidently had realized it was impossible to get a word in edgewise in such a family, and had stopped trying. Anne gave him a sympathetic shrug, and a bit of a wink that in other circumstances would have had Alan scheming for a space of time alone with her.

There followed some rather uncomfortable minutes of chitchat, with Alan the unwitting victim for not knowing any of the people or events they referred to, a common fault in people full of themselves. And Alan should have known about that, from monopolizing past conversations, but it was a wrench to be on the receiving end. There was no chance to break away and go searching for Lucy, the prime object of his trip ashore.

"Think it'll rain?" Mistress Anne asked him as the tops of the trees began to sway, and the sky turned gloomier.

"I would not doubt it at all, ma'am," Alan replied.

"Then we must see to getting the side-boards indoors before it begins. And I see you are out of wine, sir," she offered.

"Ah, yes I am," Alan noted. "May I escort you, ma'am?"

"I would be deeply obliged, sir."

Alan bowed his way out of the family circle and offered his arm to walk the fetching Anne Beauman towards the buffets.

"Daunting, ain't they?" she smirked once they were out of earshot.

"Daunting is a good description, ma'am," Alan smiled back.

"And I doubt you'd care to spend the rest of the evening with them, when Mistress Lucy is the reason for your visit?" Anne rejoined.

"I had hoped," Alan agreed, waving the servant with the askew wig over to service them with a tray of wine. He traded their glasses in for two fresh flutes of champagne and offered her one.

"We have heard much of you, Mister Lewrie," Anne continued. "From Lucy's description, and from your letters-those portions which Lucy thought relevant to relate to us-I would have expected someone much older. More… weathered."

"As my captain says, ma'am, I've only been in the Navy little more than a dog-watch."

"Dueling for Lucy's honor, saving a ship and her distinguished passengers, escaping Yorktown…" Anne raised an eyebrow in appreciation. "You have led an active life. And now you wish to enamor yourself to the Beaumans?"

Damn the bitch, Alan thought. I didn't come here to be mocked by some parvenu.

"Lucy and I developed a great fondness for each other last year on Antigua, ma'am. Her father allows me to call, but as for…"

"Don't call me ma'am, Mister Lewrie," Anne assured him with a touch of her hand on his sleeve. "I am Anne, and you are Alan. With luck, we shall be related, so why not start out on your best foot? A bit of advice?"

"Thank you."

"Don't take them seriously. If you do they will infuriate you beyond all reason." Anne frowned. "Hugh is a good enough man, the best of the lot in many ways, but in better circles they can appear a bit crude. A little too rustic and earthy."

"It is hardly my place to judge yet, Anne. I'm sure Lucy has many admirers, and as for my hopes-well, we shall see."

"How romantic!" Anne gushed, with just a tinge of sarcasm. "To hang the larger issues and let love dictate your desires. You are a paragon, Alan. Always pay attention to the family. Daughters turn out remarkably like their mothers, and sons become their fathers, in most instances."

"You sound disappointed," Alan said, cocking his head to one side to study her more closely. Yes, there was definitely a come-hither glint to her beauty; long dark hair and dark eyes, skin more olive or tinted by the sun than was fashionable. A wide mouth, high cheeks and a face that tapered to perfection, spoiled only by a few small-pox scars, but altogether a damned handsome woman near his age.

"Walk with me," she insisted. "I shall lead you to your Lucy."

"My pleasure."

"Island society, as you may know, is not what one would choose if given the choice of a Paris salon or a London drum," Anne told him, her hand resting maddeningly on his left sleeve, her fingers prying at the broadcloth gently. "There is a difference between hiring servants, and owning them outright. It makes for a callousness. Wield the whip often enough and flayed flesh becomes commonplace. The same goes for emotions, for souls. And the civilizing influence of literature, of music and manners is only a thin veneer. Thinner here in the islands than at home."

"I stand warned that they are all brutes and ogres," Alan quipped.

"They have their charms, even so," Anne replied with a small shrug. "And they are hardly that bad. I apologize for being gloomy."

"And you are not from the islands originally, I take it?"

"No. My father was secretary to the Governor-General, and we came out here in '72, before the war," she told him. "The lure of sugar planting got him, and we stayed. Hugh and I have been married for four years now. We have two fine children. I am quite content."

The hell you are! Alan thought. That's about as broad a hint as I've heard in six months. She's bored beyond tears.

"As I hope to be, Anne," Alan told her.

"Ah, here's your Lucy," Anne said, pointing out a group of young men in high finery almost eclipsing the figure of a young girl with blonde hair. "Such a darling girl."

"Amen to that," Alan agreed heartily.

"Lucy?" Anne called. "Look who's here."

Lucy peeked from the crowd, gave a small gasp, fanned herself, and stepped through to rush to his side.

God Almighty! he thought as he took her in. How could she have gotten prettier?

Lucy Beauman's bright aquamarine eyes lit up, her lips parted in a fond smile, showing her perfect little white teeth. Gloved hands touched his arms, there was a whiff of some maddening scent as they stood gazing at each other. He noted her high-piled hair, so delectably honey-blonde, the perfection of her neck, her shoulders, the white and pink and maroon gown she wore daringly off the shoulders (the proud swell of her breasts against the gown even more bountiful than formerly); he took in how petite and lovely her figure was, how round and inviting her arms were.

"Lucy," he breathed, all other sights gone from his ken.

"Oh, you are here!" she sighed, like to faint, her lips trembling. "I shall die of happiness, surely."

Much as he wanted to crush her to him, he had to stand back and hold hands with her, his own hands trembling with emotion. Money be damned, she was so beautiful, so much more beautiful than he even remembered, that he would have carried her off that moment if she didn't have two ha'pennies to rub together.

"You look so grand as a lieutenant," she admired. "The uniform suits you so well!"

"And your gown is delightful," Alan complimented in return. "But no gown could hold a candle to your beauty, Lucy."

"You are such a rogue, Alan," she gushed, blushing prettily but mightily pleased that he took the time to notice. "Oh, I have missed you so much!"

"And I you."

"You must come and meet father," she told him.

"I already have. I would have been at your side long before, but I was intercepted. Father, mother, Hugh, Ledyard, Floss…"

"Oh, good then. And you have met Anne as well?"

"Yes."

"She is such a dear. Oh, I fear I am neglecting the other guests, the gentlemen who…"

"Damn their blood, I say," Alan growled.

"Alan!" she whispered, pretending to be shocked, with a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of her miffed admirers.

"I haven't seen you in almost a year," Alan insisted, leading her further away from the disgruntled pack of suitors towards the back of the garden, where there looked to be a bit more privacy. "Why would I wish to make acquaintance of your other worshipers?"

"You are so forward!" she protested, but not very much.

"Forgive my eagerness, but it has been a long time."

"Of course, I forgive you, Alan. And you would never do anything to cause undue comment." She acquiesced, matching him stride for stride. "Oh, do tell me everything. Your last letter said you had left that ship Desperate, and had made lieutenant. And you were in a new vessel, the name escapes me?"

"Shrike, a brig o'war. I am first officer."

"You captain your own ship?" she gaped. "Already?"

"Uh, no" he had to admit. "The captain is a Lieutenant Lilycrop, but I am next in command, his first officer, you see."

"Oh, but that is marvelous for you." She beamed. "Now you are no longer a midshipman. And you have an annuity. And your grandmother's inheritance. Oh, Alan, I could never have dreamed things would turn out this way. Dad can have no objections now. And do they pay you?"

"I'd hardly do it for fun, now, would I?" Alan teased. They reached a wall of lush tropical plantings, heavy with flowers and thick with bouquet. There was a narrow path that led under and through the thicket, and Alan grinned at her as he cocked his head in that direction. Lucy met his eyes and grinned mischievously in reply. They were just about to step through for some real seclusion, when the rain that had been threatening began to spatter on the lawn and the leaves.

"Oh, my gown!" Lucy wailed. She stood up on tiptoe to kiss him briefly on the lips, then tugged him into a dash for the house as the rest of the guests ran for cover as well, and the servants gathered up what they could before the storm ruined furniture and tablecloths.

They made it to the porch, where Lucy bewailed the state of her dress and her hair, sure she had been disfigured by the raindrops; and from the sound of it, was sure the condition was permanent.

"I must go change," she told him as he mopped his hair and face with a pocket kerchief. "I hope my maid may be able to salvage it."

"Hardly spotted," Alan pointed out as the rain gusted and blew in on the porch, swirling in the late afternoon light on the yard and the steps and railings. "It'll be fine."

"Just like a man to think so!" she snorted back, tossing her head as though her hair was still down in a more casual style. "Now you entertain yourself for a few minutes while I go change into something dry. But do not be too entertained. There are quite a few other young women here, and I should not like to see you being too charming."

"You have nothing to fear, Lucy, I swear." He told her with all innocence. She smiled once more, looked about to see if anyone was watching, and pecked him on the cheek. He kissed her hand, and she blushed again, before darting off, calling for her maid-servant.

Damme, what a lovely little minx! he crowed in silent congratulation at his good fortune just to know her, and to know that she was so fond of him. Ain't she fine, just! Lord, she's so perfect, so beddable, and admirers be damned, she's as good as mine. This time there'll be nothing to tear us apart. And if she don't fetch five thousand pounds for her portion, I'm a Turk in a turban!

There was a lot of fetching of towels, a lot of shaking of powdered wigs that left a slurry of wet flour on the terrace tiles as the other guests tended to their ruined finery, though no one looked particularly wet to Alan's viewpoint. Let 'em stand on a quarterdeck with me in a gale of wind, and I'll give 'em "wet"! he thought with a touch of contempt for lubberly civilians.

Lucy Beauman's conception of "a few minutes" was obviously not everyone's; the time passed slowly, forcing him to check his pocket watch to see how long she was taking to change. Alan occupied himself with a couple more glasses of champagne.

"Mister Lewrie?" A familiar, throaty voice spun him about.

"Ah," Alan managed to say, "Mrs. Hillwood?"

"I am so gratified you recall me," the older woman said. She was still lovely, in her lanky fashion, a bit less smooth-complexioned than he remembered from nearly two years before, when they had met at a supper-dance at Sir Richard Slade's. He had gone to her house the next day, after debauching himself to the wee hours with… whatever the little chick-a-biddy's name had been (it had been that sort of a party)… and Mrs. Hillwood had damned near killed him with kindness. If it hadn't been for her penchant for neat gin, which had put out her lights and let him dress and escape, she might have put him under for good.

"How delighted to see you once more, Mrs. Hillwood," he told her. "You are looking marvelous, as always."

"You are too kind, young sir. But what is this? You have made lieutenant. Still in that despatch boat?"

"No, ma'am. I left Parrot soon after docking at Antigua."

"And how is that young scamp we knew," she simpered, laying heavy stress on "knew," since she had "known" both Thad Purnell and Alan Lewrie, in successive evenings. "Thomas? No, Thaddeus."

"I regret that I must inform you that Thad Puraell passed over to the Yellow Jack on that same voyage, ma'am."

"Oh, how terrible." She frowned, dropping her teasing air. "He was a dear friend of yours. So young, too."

"That seems to be the way of the world, ma'am," Alan agreed somberly.

"Once you sailed, I never heard from you again," Mrs. Hillwood went on. "I am sure so much of note has happened to you. You must let me entertain you, perhaps come for tea, and tell me all about what you have been doing since last we had the pleasure of each other's company."

Damned if she hadn't been one hell of a bare-back rider, bony about the hips or not, chicken-chested or not, Alan remembered. It had been two months since he had even gotten a whiff of womankind, and he would not be doing much more with Lucy than holding hands and sighing a lot, he realized. Memories sprang up, like how predatory she looked with her face beaming a wicked smile up from his groin as they lay in bed and she coaxed him into just one more bout; the noises she made as she rode St. George on his member and stirred her hips and belly like an island woman grinding corn.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he told her, and she grinned in delight, curving up those talented lips. In repose, her face, with an unfortunately hawkish nose her only mar, could appear fierce, but a smile restored the great beauty she had once possessed.

"I am certain it would, Mister Lewrie," she cooed softly, as she toyed with her fan, using it to touch him on the cheek by his faint scar. "And you must tell me all about that. Your address?"

"The Shrike brig."

"You mind where I live?" she asked. "Not quite? How forgetful of you. I trust I shall not have to write it down more than this once."

"I am certain you shan't." Alan grinned at the meaning of that threat, and his groin got tight just thinking about it. "And Mister Hillwood is still inland, I trust, being-agricultural?"

"As far as I know," she sighed. "His particular passions require greater secrecy than mine."

"Ah, Alan," Lucy said as she re-emerged from the house in a new gown of creamy pale yellow satin with gold bows and trim. Her hair had been let down and brushed dry as well.

"A few minutes, hey?" Alan teased. "Half a dog-watch, more like. Lucy Beauman, I believe you know Mrs. Hillwood?"

"We have not had the pleasure, though the name is familiar to me," Lucy replied, looking somewhat vexed. "How delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Hillwood."

"And I yours, dear. My, what a lovely gown. You are fortunate not to have gotten it wet in the rain showers," Mrs. Hillwood cooed.

"I had to change." Lucy frowned.

"Would that I could, my dear. Or at least sponge this down."

"I would be happy to offer you the use of my chambers. Did you bring your maid with you?" Lucy suggested.

"You are too kind!"

"Think nothing of it, ma'am. I would be only too happy to give you my every assistance," Lucy purred. She clapped her hands quite briskly. "Tyche?" she called without looking, and her black maid-servant came on the run to attend her. Lucy gave her instructions to allow Mrs. Hillwood the use of her toilet, and for Tyche to help her rearrange her habiliment. Mrs. Hillwood headed off for the stairs, and Lucy glared at him as he said his goodbyes.

"Alan, how could you?" she demanded in a soft voice, but one tinged with a certain menace.

"How could I what, Lucy?" Alan asked, wondering if he looked half as innocent as he was trying to look.

"Mrs. Hillwood is really the most despicable woman," Lucy told him with some heat. "I say woman rather than lady, despite her airs and her pretensions."

"Well, how was I to know that, Lucy?" Alan shot back. "I met her once before, near on two years ago at one of Sir Richard Slade's suppers."

"My God, it gets worse and worse!" Lucy spat. "The most infamous… I cannot find the strength to name the man's sinful predilictions… no proper lady could. And what were you doing in such a place?"

And just where did this termagant mort come from? Alan wondered, amazed at the change from the sweet and gentle and cooing lovely girl he thought he had known and desired.

"My captain in Parrot knew him from school, and I and another midshipman were invited to join him for supper." Alan shrugged it off.

"And were you not scandalized by all the goings-on?"

"I saw none." Alan tried to scoff. "We had a feed the like of which I had not seen since London, and the victuals held more interest. After a year of Navy issue, I'd have dined with the Devil himself if he set a good table." He chuckled.

"If you sup with the Devil, as you say, I trust you used a long spoon." Lucy fumed.

"Now look here, Lucy." Alan attempted to bluff it out when he saw that dumb innocence would not suit. "She came up to me and introduced herself. All I know of her was she was several chairs down from me at table nearly two years ago. I've probably gone into the same chop-house as notorious murderers back in London, but that don't make me guilty of murder. How could you think such a thing? As for this un-named prediliction of Sir Richard's, well, I know nothing of that, either. You use me rather ill, I think."

"Oh, Alan, I'm sorry." She mellowed suddenly, allowing him to offer an arm to lead her toward the buffet tables. "What must you think of me, to accuse you of encouraging such a woman. It is only that I have missed you so much. And I come back down to find you in the clutches of a trull whose reputation is no better than it should be. What a welcome I've given you. Please forgive me, but I was suddenly so jealous I could hardly utter a civil word, to her, or to you."

"Jealous, is it?" he coaxed gently.

"I shall own to it," she whispered, leaning close as they went to a side-board and began to pick at the delicacies to load on their plates. "After months of only letters from you, I could not let anyone steal one precious minute of our time. Perhaps the tales about Mrs. Hillwood aren't whole cloth, but you can understand why I was so uncharitable about her. Come to think of it," she smiled, poking him in the ribs with her fork, "you were not so charitable to those other young fellows I was with. Damn their blood, did you say?"

"And their eyes and kidneys, and anything else they have they can spare," Alan assured her.

"So you were jealous, too. Admit it," she prodded.

"I own to it, too," he muttered so others could not hear. "You don't know half of what I've been through since Antigua, with only your letters for comfort, and those months apart."

As soon as I decyphered 'em, he qualified to himself, for Lucy was what one could charitably describe as an inventive speller, with a quick, darting penmanship that started out in neat round (horribly misspelled) words, and when she got to the exciting bits, went mystifying as the scratches on Stonehenge.

"And you must tell me everything, darling Alan," she begged. "Was it really so terrible?"

"It was pretty rough," he allowed modestly. "There are some things you'd best never know, some of the things that happened during the siege, and during our escape are unsuitable for a lady to hear."

"And I wrote of silly social things while you were being racked by shot and shell." She sighed. "How could I have been so cruel or thoughtless? Yet I wrote you often. You did not get them?"

"Well, the mails never caught up with the fleet before we left New York, and then we were stuck in the Chesapeake," Alan told her. "The Frogs and the Rebels weren't about to trot out the penny post for us. There were dozens of letters to you I never could post myself, some the Rebels captured I suppose."

"You mean those uncouth, quarrelsome people have read my letters?"

Conversations with her take the strangest bloody twists and turns, he sighed to himself, and had to cosset her out of her pet. But for the rest of the evening, during the strolling about in the suffocatingly hot rooms, the dancing and the card games and a brief tour of the side-terrace for some air, where they could indulge their need to hold each other and kiss passionately, he managed to keep her happy and positively glowing. As he paid his respects to the family, they treated him as almost one of the family, though nothing concrete had been settled, but that was sure to come, in time.

All in all, except for walking back to the docks with an erection he could have doubled for a belaying pin, it was a good run ashore. And there was always Betty Hillwood and her invitation to "tea."