The King`s Commission

IV
Chapter 1

Alan woke up in a lot of pain as someone tried to haul him up from his prone position, but damned if he wanted to move! He struck out at whoever it was, and several more hairy paws grabbed onto him to restrain him, and, still lost in a terrifying dream of being taken by savages intent on his scalping and mutilation, he let out a howl of fear and pain.

"Sorry, sir, almost done," Dr. Lewyss told him.

"Ah," Alan said, biting his lips trying to be stoic now that he recognized the good doctor, though his chest still heaved with panic. "Where am I?"

"Aboard Shrike, sir. In my sick-bay below the forepeak," the man said, between snatches of humming some song to himself as he fussed with a fresh dressing on Alan's leg wound. "Most amazing thing, really. Thought sure I'd have to take the leg, but God seems to favor you remaining a biped, sir. Even if there was the foulest poultice applied to it when you were brought aboard. Some pagan muck, egh!"

"When?" Alan groaned as Lewyss finally finished wrapping his thigh and allowed it to be lowered to the bunk, where it ceased screaming and settled down for some long-term throbbing.

"Yesterday, sir," Cony said from Alan's side, where he had been assisting in his restraint. "Got some brandy 'ere, sir, iffen ya feels up ta takin' some."

"God, yes, I'm ready!" Alan said with some heat.

"A drop or two of tincture of laudanum for that first," Lewyss suggested, reaching for his case.

"And then someone please tell me what happened at the river-bank," Alan ordered, now that he was up in a sitting position on the short cot.

"Them Apalachee an' Dons almost done fer us, sir, 'til them Muskogee an' Seminolee showed up," Cony related, offering him a squat pewter mug brimming with harsh ratafia, which Alan sipped from avidly. "Thought the ones in the swamp was acomin' fer us, but they was runnin' instead. God, they don't butcher half-fair, sir! Loppin' off 'eads an' arms an' legs and what-all fer the fun of it, aliftin' scalps an' laughin' like loonies, sir. 'Twas the scariest thing ever I did see, even worse'n the fightin'."

"What about the rest of our party?" Alan demanded.

"Well, Andrews got a cut'r two, sir, an' I got scratched up a piece," Cony went on. "We lost three of the 'ands dead, them sodjers got five killed an' ever'body else down with wounds. 'Nother minute'r two, an' there'd been nobody to save, sir. Near as damnit's a thing as ever I did see. An' we lost that nice Mister Cowell, sir. Apalachee nailed 'im all over with arrers, they did."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Cony," Alan sighed, feeling a wave of sadness. "He had no business getting mixed up in the fighting like us. What a mess. And Captain Cashman?"

"Fine, sir, 'ceptin' a scrape here and there."

"Thank God for that, at least. Wait! Rabbit?"

"Missus Lewrie got away fine, sir," Cony assured him. "Mister McGilliveray took 'er back to 'is people, with your gifts an' all."

"Mrs. Lewrie?" Doctor Lewyss muttered, rolling his eyes. "My, you have been a busy lad!"

"'E said to tell ya, sir, that she'd be took good care of, 'e'd see to that."

"She was a sweet little thing at bottom." Alan nodded. He felt a pang of longing for her, but the idea of being a husband and father made him decide that as Anne Beauman told him, things work out for the best in the long run.

"You do get into the oddest scrapes, sir, if you'll pardon me for saying so," Dr. Lewyss chuckled. "I truly do believe you could turn up a willing tit amidst the agonies of Hell itself. It's not everyone has your success with the ladies, ha ha! Well, that should do you for now, sir. Tomorrow, should you feel up to it, and suppuration has not set in, I shall have you moved to the gun deck where you may get some fresh air and some sun. 'Tis my experience people heal the faster there."

"Thank you, Mister Lewyss, I'd appreciate that," Alan said, and took another deep draught of the brandy. The laudanum was taking effect and the pain was lessening to a manageable level now, and he felt the urge to yawn, perhaps close his eyes for a nap as long as he was flat on his back with no duties to attend to for the first time in years.

"Oh, Cony, did Rabbit receive all her presents when she left?"

"Yessir, she did." Cony nodded, looking as though something was on his mind, but reticent by class or position to mention it.

"Something else you want to tell me, Cony?" Alan prodded, knowing his man's moods by then.

"Well, sir, I didn't want ta mention it much, but…" Cony fumbled, turning red with embarrassment. "I know you was fond o' 'er, sir, but sometimes things work out best."

"Fond of her, yes, Cony, but not about to trot her back to London with me," Alan admitted. "She'd have been unhappy there. Probably been unhappy anywhere close to civilized."

"Well, that's it, sir," Cony said, summoning up his nerve. "When them Muskogee an' Seminolee was adone slaughterin', an' she'd finished puttin' some poultice on yer leg, she an' them other girls went out an'… Lord, sir… ever' man you killed, she took her knife to. Scalped 'em for ya, since you couldn't! Ears an' weddin' tackle an' all, and whoopin' fit ta bust, sir! Never seen the like, an' her a gentle little girl, too, sir, with a baby acomin'! Tried to give 'em ta me in a bag, an' I had ta take it'r shame ya, Mister McGilliveray said, but I put it over the side soon's we were a few mile offshore. Woulda took that poultice off, too, 'cept Mister McGilliveray said they was strong 'erbs in it, that'd draw the poison out, else you'd mortify an' die. Said 'e'd seen it work before, an' it was devilish good medicine."

"Must have worked," Alan agreed after another swig of brandy.

"Aye, sir, that wound wasn't half as angry t'day as it was when I saw ya bandaged there on the beach," Cony agreed heartily.

"Well, let that be a lesson to us, Cony," Alan finally said, smiling. "Never trust a woman with a knife, even the sweetest of 'em. They can be handsome as hell, but they've all got a mean streak when they're crossed. 'Specially after they become wives." He chuckled wearily.

"Yessir, I guess." Cony nodded.

"I think I'll sleep for a while, Cony," Alan said after draining the mug and licking his lips. "You're not harmed? Feeling alright?"

"Aye, sir, right as rain," Cony said, taking the mug from Alan's almost nerveless fingers as he closed his eyes. "You rest up, sir, an' you'll be back on yer feet an' runnin' this ship sooner'n you can say 'Jack-Sauce.'"

"Oh God, do I have to?" Alan murmured just before dropping off.

"Well, I'll say goodbye to you, Alan," Cashman grunted, picking up his weapons kit, now swollen with new items as souvenirs from their adventure. "Heal up and we'll hoist a few for old times soon, I hope."

"Somewhere quiet for a change, Kit," Alan agreed, hobbling to his feet and limping heavily to the rail by the entry-port with his crutch that Mr. Pebble the carpenter had made for him.

"You sound like you don't like excitement anymore. Once you've got two good legs to stand on, there's a world o' fun to be had out there." Cashman laughed.

"Give me a month or so, then I'll be ready for some amusements," Alan prophecied. "Though I'd like my excitement a little less neck-or-nothing than this last little bit. I'll suppose you'll be going back to Florida when we land troops there, since you know so much about the Indians now. Maybe Shrike will be involved in it. We'll see each other then."

"Bless me, Alan, there won't be any landing." Cashman frowned. "With Cowell dead, an' McGilliveray gone native, there's no one to say a good word for the idea, an' I doubt any officer in the West Indies'd spare a corporal's guard in a row-boat on the plan. Mind you, it could have worked, given half a chance."

"Damme, but I'm getting weary of seeing good men die for nothing, Kit," Alan spat, after a long moment to get over his sudden surprise. "Seems I've spent my whole time in the Navy taking part in ventures doomed from the start! Graves in The Chesapeake, Cornwallis at Yorktown, evacuating Wilmington… I could give you chapter and verse from now 'til supper and not repeat myself. Oh, we're good when it comes to the fighting, but witless when it comes to the planning for them."

"All the more reason for fellas like us to live long enough to be generals and admirals," Cashman barked, giving out with a short, bitter laugh. "We couldn't possibly be worse than the pack o' fools we have now. Too used to winnin' in the Seven Years' War, I guess, an' forgot all we learned from that one. McGilliveray was a hopeless stuffy bastard, but he had the right idea, I'll give him that. Least he's enough muskets to keep the Rebels from eatin' his people alive for a time, an' traders'll sell 'em anythin' they want, long's they come up with enough pelts an' hides to swap. Well, I'm off. Back to Lieutenant Colonel Peacock an' his shitten ways. All the best to you. Do write and let me know when you get 'married' again, and I'll be there to stand up for you one more time."

"Aye, I'll keep in touch, but I seriously doubt the marrying part." Alan smiled, taking Cashman's hand and feeling his sour depression lift for a while. He knew that half of it was being so incapacitated, that and the continuing pain of his wound. He truly liked Cashman, odd a bird as he was, and wished to give him a hearty send off. "Keep out of trouble. And should I get another girl in the family way, you'll have to stand up with me, else I'd run for the hills. Farewell, Kit."

"Hoist a Black Drink for me!" Cashman yelled from the boat after he had gotten himself and his dunnage settled, and then he was gone.

Alan waved once more and steeled himself to limp with the crutch aft to the steps to the quarterdeck, wincing with each pace. It would have been so easy to let the surgeons declare him unfit for duty, and he could be put ashore until he was fully healed. But Shrike was his world and he could not bear to leave her for another ship after settling in so comfortably. Better the devil he knew than to be relegated to some new pack of strangers and begin the process of mixing in once more, probably in a larger ship where he would have less authority as a second or third lieutenant. After gaining mastery of his duties well enough to serve as a first officer, he would be damned if he would give it up unless made to do so. So he had risen from his cot the day they had anchored in Kingston harbor, and sweated and suffered to appear fit enough to stay.

The first step, balancing on the crutch with a death-grip on the man-rope, fancy-served with turk's heads, that served for a banister. A second step. And William Pitt, lashing his tail lazily at the top.

"Get out of my way, you mangy bastard," Alan whispered. "Oh for Christ's sake, don't do that!"

The ram-cat daintily hopped down to the step he was on and wound about his bad leg, making himself a moving obstacle to any further attempt to take a step. William Pitt was purring.

"Happy I'm crippled, are you?" Alan snarled. "Getting our own back, are we, damn your eyes? Give way, you sorry shit-sack."

The cat leaped up to the next step, letting him advance, but repeated the performance, rubbing its chin and head on his good leg this time, and twining about him with tail and side like a snake.

"Need some help there, Mister Lewrie?" Lieutenant Lilycrop asked him.

"Somebody kill this filthy beast, sir, that'd suit," Alan said, sweating like a slavey for fear he'd go arse over tit any second.

"Stap me, but one'd almost think he's startin' to like you, sir," Lilycrop marveled. He came down the ladder and helped Alan up to the quarterdeck. "If you think you can manage it, I'd admire if you joined me in my cabins. You may lean on me, if you've a mind. No shame in acceptin' help now and again when ya need it, sir."

"Thankee, sir, I'd be much obliged."

Once ensconced in a padded chair, with a glass of rhenish in his hands, he felt much better, though the appraising way Lilycrop was looking at him was a bit disconcerting. Was he being sent ashore, try as he had to appear hale?

"I've given orders you're to shift your quarters for a while, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop finally said. "You'll be comfortable enough in the chart-space yonder, and all the closer to the quarterdeck, with only the short ladder to manage 'til you're fully healed."

"I'm grateful for your concern, sir," Alan told him with a grin as his worries disappeared. "Doctor Lewyss says another couple of weeks more and I'll be fit enough for light duties. I thought you might be considering packing me off ashore, sir."

"Oh, not a bit of it," Lilycrop assured him with one of his round smiles. "We're used to each other's ways now, and I'd not like to break in another first officer. Not that one'd be forth-comin' from Sir Joshua Bloody Rowley for the likes of us."

"We didn't exactly fail, sir," Alan pointed out. "If he won't reinforce the overtures we made, it's his fault if he lets the chance slip away."

"He's nothin' to reinforce with," Lilycrop told him with a sour look. "Admiral Hood's off Cape Francois, blockadin' the rest of the French West Indies fleet, and Admiral Pigot…"

"Who the hell is he, sir?" Alan asked.

"Goddamn, but you still haven't learned to keep your ear to the ground, boy." Lilycrop frowned. "Pigot come out to take over from Rodney last year, just after The Saintes, an' after we got transferred. Anyway, one of de Grasse's junior admirals, de Vaudreuil or something, has most of his squadron penned up at Cape Francois, and at Porto Cavallo, on the Spanish Main. That's why there's to be no ships for any expedition to Florida. All the admirals want a last sea battle, a last crack at the Frogs."

"So everything we did was a waste," Alan spat.

"We weren't to know that, not at the time. Admirals change, plans change." Lilycrop shrugged. "Maybe after the war's over, we can run traders or agents in there, anyway, and still achieve somethin'."

"So we're just a little foot-note, sir," Alan went on, getting angry. "Maybe not even that."

"That's the way of it." Lilycrop nodded, reaching over to tap him on the shoulder. "Don't take it so hard, Mister Lewrie. You did all anyone could expect of you, and more, from what I heard. Sometimes all you can do is your duty, and your best just ain't good enough if they go and change the plan on you. Don't you think even admirals get their best efforts rejected now and again? 'Course, those never turn up in their memoirs, or the naval chronologies. Rest assured, Rowley give us a good report. And a nice pat on the arse on the way out."

"Out, sir?"

"Transfer back to Admiral Hood's flag, off Hispaniola. We're to be part of Commodore Affleck's group workin' close inshore to keep an eye on the Frogs at Cape Francois. Be good to get back to sea and have somethin' straight-forward to do, for a change. Maybe get a crack at a merchantman tryin' to supply the damned place."

"I still think we'd have done better going back to Florida," Alan said, shaking his head. "The French will never come out, sir. We waste our efforts blockading them. And if they're blockaded, then we have a clear shot at landing the expedition."

"But if they learned we were doin' it, and took ships off-station, they would come out, and then where'd we be?" Lilycrop countered.

"Then we keep the fleet at sea, waiting for the second chance to defeat them, sir," Alan schemed. "What better lure to draw them out at all! Look here, sir, I'll wager you any odds that Admiral Hood had no idea this expedition was being considered. What if we could write him and let him know of it? He's senior to Rowley, is he not? If he could thin his blockade, provide enough ships to escort the expedition, the French would learn of it. We land our forces at Apalachee Bay, or closer to Pensacola. This de Vaudreuil comes out of Porto Cavallo and Cape Francois, maybe the Dons come out of Havana. Pigot could come west from Antigua or St. Lucie, and Rowley could sortie the Jamaica Squadron. We assemble off the Florida coast, threatening Havana, and meet them in that last glorious battle the admirals want so much!"

"Damme, you don't think small when you take the effort." Lilycrop laughed, then sobered. "But, one thing I've learned in this Navy in my time is, most people wouldn't stir their arses up if you set fire to 'em, Lewrie. They're happier layin' back, lettin' somebody else make the decisions. It's too much of a risk. It'd expose Jamaica again, an' this time, the Frogs an' the Dons might succeed in takin' it. The watchword is, 'when in doubt, don't.' Good for careers, but hell on the country. Been guilty of it meself at times, God help me. No, this time we'd best let our superiors make the decisions. They don't look kindly on lieutenants givin' em advice."

"Bad for the career, sir," Alan said evenly.

"There you are," Lilycrop agreed. "I'd forget about writin' any letters, if I were you. 'Sides, the war's so close to over, it wouldn't make much difference anyway. Now, why don't you see to as much as you feel up to, so we can sail tomorrow. Let Mister Caldwell help you. Him an' Midshipman Rossyngton can do your leg-work for you. Do the lad good to get a little authority. Park yourself in a comfortable chair on the quarterdeck, if you're of a mind."

"Aye, sir, I shall," Alan relented, half of a mind to write his letter anyway. He groped to his feet, got his crutch going, and went to the chart-space, where Cony had begun to lay out his kit and his chest. A small fixed bed-box had been cobbled together and fitted to the partition aft of the chart-table, much like a settee. Athwartship as it was, it would be more comfortable to sleep in, and it was high enough to allow him easy entry and exit, even with his game leg, if the seas got up once they were on-station.

"What career do I have to worry about preserving, anyway?" he muttered to himself once he was ensconced on the mattress, sitting so he could draw out a large-scale chart and study the Caribbean area. "Maybe I should write that letter after all. Not that it'd do much good, I suppose."

Alan thought that even if he did write it, and Hood was receptive, perhaps Pigot would turn out to be chary, or Rowley would be too cautious. It would take weeks to draw a consensus locally, and then they would most likely wish to send off to London for directions, and that would take months more. To act and fail on their own would hurt their careers. No one back home in the Shelburne government would care to strand a British army in the marshes where they would die like flies to alien fevers and agues, not this close to the end of the war, while they were negotiating a peace. It would risk Jamaica, or Antigua.

Yet what was war but a series of calculated risks? It was not an exact science, subject to mathematics, so that odds could be drawn from tables. It was an art, he had been told. How often had he seen success or failure balance on the fine-honed edge of a sword? And how many officers would see only hazard and fail to dare, while some other fire-brand would see slight advantage, and would go forth to sow confusion to England's foes.

What forces formed a Hawke, a Rodney, a general like Clive, he wondered? There was no chap-book like Clerk's little book of tactics to guide a run-of-the-mill officer, to turn him into the sort who could achieve a magnificent victory. Most came aboard as cabin-servants at eight years old, or at twelve as midshipmen, blessed with only rudiments of decent educations, and all they learned from school-masters and mates was how to curse, tie knots, drink, and be practical seamen. No one tried to teach them to think. And with material security tied up in first gaining one's lieutenancy, then gaining a commission aboard ship on active service, how much of one's very source of bread would someone be prepared to put at risk, if thinking too much led to half-pay idleness and penury?

He was free of that, thank God. Between his prize-money, his hoard of gold, his grandmother's bequest and his later inheritance, he did not have to depend on the Navy to put food on his table, if he was careful with his money. How much worse an officer would he make than most of the ones he had met, who could only stump about a deck screaming "Luff!" He was from a deeper well of knowledge, and he could think, when he was forced to. Did he really have more promise than most? And was the Navy a place to shine, because of that?

God help me, I think I shall, Alan decided. I'll write that letter, and the devil with the consequences. If the Navy won't have me after that, then that's their loss, isn't it? I'll have said my piece.

Fate, however, did not allow the letter to be delivered. Shrike sailed, and for days, it was as much like yachting, that watery sport of the aristocracy and the idle rich, as any cruise he had ever seen. Trie winds were bracing and fresh, quartering mostly from the nor'east to the sou'east. Once leaving Port Royal and Kingston, Lieutenant Lilycrop was in no hurry to rejoin Hood's squadron off Hispaniola, and the ship loafed along like every day was a "rope-yarn Sunday."

But, while they had good weather, a storm had blown Admiral Hood off-station at Cape Francois, and with a gust-front of wind and gloomy skies from the east, the fleet was blown down onto them the first week of February, on its way to Port Royal. All Shrike could do was to announce her presence, change flags to Hood's Blue Ensign once more, and beat her way east past the squadron of line-of-battle ships to make the best of her way to join the ships remaining on blockade. There was no contact close enough to allow Alan's epistle to be delivered.

Once past the fleet, Shrike took one last lingering look at the southern coast of Cuba, their old hunting grounds, and then a favorable slant of wind took them up the Windward Passage.

Alan finally discarded his crutch. Though the wound still pained him, he could make his way about the decks with more ease. He had to admit that the wood and canvas deck chair was comfortable, an admirable invention that should be standard equipment for the aspiring (but lazy) Sea Officer such as he. He was close to the wheel and the quartermasters, could see the work at the guns or the gangways, and could "stand" his watches in sublime ease for once. And noon sights could be performed just as well from a sitting position as they could be standing by the sunward rail and gritting his teeth with each pitch and heave of the deck.

When called to walk forward, or do his tours below decks, he could wince manfully, with Edgar or Rossyngton or Cony to aid him, and limp about, searching for a convenient handhold for which he could lunge the last few feet and utter a loud whoosh of relief from the titanic effort of performing his duties.

Secretly, the wound was no longer that troubling, but after a little over three years of hard service, he was not going to admit to any more agility than was absolutely necessary, certain he was due some ease. And it was fun to portray the wounded hero, stoically going about his rounds as though he were secretly suffering the agonies of the damned, and making a great show of shrugging off any offers of assistance or sympathy.

He had finished his morning watch and had turned the deck over to Caldwell and Rossyngton, but lingered in his deck chair with a mug of sweet tea, half-dozing with the "injured" limb stuck out stiffly in front of him. His chin rested on his breast and his cocked hat was far forward over his forehead to counter the early morning sun on this their third week of patrolling several leagues to seaward of Monte Cristi off the coast of Hispaniola. He took a sip of tea, then wrote up his lieutenant's journal. He had gotten past the usual bumf: "Fri., Mar 7th, 1783: Winds NW, Course NNE, Lat. 20.05N, bearing at dawn Isabella Pt. Monte Cristi SE by E off shore 5-6 leagues. Fresh breezes Cloudy," and was wondering what else he should write down (and attempting to stifle a rather huge yawn) when the lookout interrupted him.

"Sail ho! Deck thar! Three sail, four points awrf't' starb'd bow!"

That brought him up with a start, almost making him spill his tea and the inkwell all over his journal. There was nothing to their suth'ard, or the east but French or Spanish vessels. Little Shrike would be no match for a squadron of foes that had escaped the blockade.

"Mister Rossyngton, go aft an' inform the captain," Caldwell directed. "You hear, Mister Lewrie, sir?"

"Aye, thankee, Mister Caldwell," Alan said, forgetting how "lame" he was supposed to act as he levered himself out of his chair and got to his feet to hobble (only slightly) to the bulwarks. "I have the deck now, Mister Caldwell."

"Deck thar!" the lookout called again. "Four… no, five sail to starb'd, now! 'Ard on t'wind onna starb'd tack!"

"On passage for the Bahamas, perhaps," Alan said as Caldwell joined him at the rail. With his telescope, Alan could just barely make out three tiny slivers of whitish-tan that could have been clouds on the horizon. The lookouts aloft would have a better view, at least one hundred feet higher above the decks.

"One sail's 'auled 'is wind, sir!"

"Falling down on us, sir," Caldwell said primly, sounding more annoyed than anything else. "To smoke us."

"I have the deck, sirs," Lilycrop said as he emerged from his quarters and strode to join them. "Hands to Quarters, put out the galley fires, an' stand ready to rig out stuns'ls an' haul our own wind to loo'ard."

"Bosun, beat to Quarters!" Alan shouted with the aid of his brass speaking trumpet.

"Mister Lewrie, sir, once Mister Cox's ready with his batteries, I'd admire we ease her a point free more northerly," Lilycrop ordered.

"Aye, sir."

"Midshipman aloft," Lilycrop snapped, turning to them once more before strolling to the abandoned chair and dropping into it heavily as though he had no real care in the world what was over the horizon.

Gangly Mr. Edgar swarmed his way to the mainmast cross-trees like a spastic spider.

"A flag, sir!" Edgar piped moments later. "Looks British, I think. Yes, sir, Blue Ensign, sir, and a private signal!"

"Might be a ruse," Alan speculated.

"T 'ands is at Quarters, sir," Fukes reported, with Mr. Cox.

"Private signal, sir!" Edgar added in a boyish yelp. "She's the Drake sloop, brig-rigged! Now she's flying 'Attend Me,' sir!"

"Presumptuous bastard." Lilycrop snorted at the audacity of another lieutenant master and commander much like himself, in command of a brig below the rate issuing pre-emptive orders without knowing whom he was addressing. "What're the others doin'?"

"Standing on north, sir!"

"Belay, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop barked out, rubbing his white-stubbled jowls. "Bring her back to the original course. We can spy out this'n, if she's a Frog in disguise, if the others stay up to windward. Lay us close-hauled as may be and close her."

Within half an hour, the small squadron was hull-up over the horizon, and the Drake was within hailing distance. By the private code signals for the month, they could identify the other ships: the Albemarle frigate, a 6th Rate of twenty-eight guns, according to the List under the command of one Horatio Nelson; a 5th Rate frigate, the Resistance, of forty-four guns; another twenty-eight-gunned 6th Rate, the Tartar, under a Commander Fairfax; and Drake, under a man named Dixon. And bringing up the rear was a final 6th Rate twenty-eight-gunned frigate that flew French colors under a British flag, a recent prize.

"Ahoy there!" came a call from Drake as she surged close.

"Ahoy, Drake!" Lilycrop bellowed. "Shrike, twelve-gunned brig o' war! Lilycrop, Lieutenant, master and commander!"

"Captain Nelson in Albemarle is senior, sir!" Dixon shouted back. "His compliments to you, and he directs you to fall in astern of us! We are on passage for Turk's Island! The French have taken it!"

"When?" Lilycrop asked.

"'Middle of last month, sir!" Dixon yelled. "Captain King in Resistance, with the Dugay Trouin frigate, were in Turk's Island Passage four days ago! They spotted two French royal ships at anchor off Turk's Island and gave chase. Took La Coquette here, and a sloop of war! Captain Nelson thinks we can overwhelm them if we act quickly!"

"Let's be at the bastards, then, Captain Dixon!" Lilycrop agreed loudly.

"Aye, aye, Captain Lilycrop!"

"Not the bloody Frogs again, sir," Caldwell groused. "Thought we had 'em bottled up proper once de Grasse was defeated. Don't they know to stay in their kennels when English bull-dogs are out on the prowl?"

"Been a year since The Saintes, almost, Mister Caldwell," the captain said. "Even curs get their courage back sooner'r later. Mr. Lewrie, stand the crew down from Quarters, if you please, and secure. Then proceed with the rum ration and the noon meal. Then I'd admire to have both of you in the chart-space with me."

"Dry as old bones, mostly," Lilycrop mused as they looked at the charts of Turk's Island, or more properly, Grand Turk. "Turk's, South Caicos, and Salt Cay, an' salt tells the story-'bout the only export they got. With this slant o' wind, we'll fetch the Passage sure enough, if it holds."

"Miss the Mouchoir Bank, thank the Good Lord," Caldwell said. "Turn the corner north and east of the Northeast Breaker. There's said to be rocks and coral heads awash south and west of there. I'd prefer to see waves breaking before I'd turn."

"Or stand on as we are, into the Turk's Island Passage, staying clear of the Apollo Bank, sir," Alan said drawing on the chart with his finger. "Leave Sand Cay and Salt Cay to the starboard."

"Aye, be safer." Lilycrop nodded. "That's up to this feller Nelson. Hope he's a little caution in his bones."

"Know anything of him, sir?" Alan asked.

"Not much," Lilycrop informed him, marching a brass divider over the chart slowly. "Uncle's Sir Maurice Suckling, Comptroller of the whole damn Navy. Never hurts, ey? Funny. Thought Jemmy King in Resistance would serve as commodore to our little squadron. He's got a 5th Rate, Nelson only a 6th. James King was Captain Cook's second lieutenant out in the Pacific in Resolution, you know. Maybe even with a 5th Rate to command, he's a couple names down the seniority list. No, don't go playin' with that, sweetlin','" Lilycrop admonished one of Henrietta's kittens, who had jumped up for attention, and had become entranced with the movement of the brass divider. She was pouncing on it, her short little stub of a tail wiggling in delight.

"Looks like a good anchorage here, sir," Alan said, shoving the kitten's rump out of the way long enough to indicate Hawk's Nest Anchorage sou'east cf the southern end of the island. "Not much to look at from the chart, though."

"Been here before," Lilycrop said, now busy entertaining the cat. "Nothin' much but coral, salt and mud. Only drinkin' water is what they catch from a rain. More reefs around it than a duchess got necklaces, an' pretty steep-to, close under the shores. Hawk's Nest or Britain Bay up here seem best, 'less we just barge our way into this little harbor on the western side. But I expect the Frogs have a battery there. I would."

"What about fortifications, sir? Ours, I mean, that they've taken over."

"Nary a one, sir." Lilycrop shrugged. "Not much reason for 'em before, since it was only the salt trade that anybody'd come for, and that only in the summer months. God pity the poor French possession of the place, I say."

"If they landed back in the middle of February, they wouldn't have much time to build fortifications, sir," Caldwell pointed out. "Sand and log, rubble from the town perhaps. That sort of place would just soak up round-shot."

"Worth taking, though, sir," Alan said after studying the chart. "Look at all these passes. Turk's Island Passage, Silver Bank, Mouchoir Passage, and up north, the Caicos and the Mayaguana Passages. Put some privateers in here, and just about any ship using the Windward Passage from the west would have to run the gauntlet by here to get to the open sea for home."

"Nobody ever said the French were stupid, aye," Lilycrop said. "A little prospectin' for territory before the war ends. It'd be a year before the peace conference hears of it, and even begins to get the place sorted out in our favor. But, Resistance took two ships, and a sloop of war and one 6th Rate frigate can't carry many troops, or land much in the way of artillery. They're cut off on this island for now, without any ships to support 'em-what, not more'n one hundred fifty or two hundred troops? We can outshoot 'em with our three frigates, and muster more men from our Marines an' seamen. Best kick 'em up the arse now an' have done."

"I'll tell Lieutenant Walsham, sir," Alan said grinning. "God, he'll love it, after being stuck aboard during the Florida thing. Full 'bullock' kit and cross-belts for a proper show."

"How's the leg, Mister Lewrie?" the captain inquired.

"Still a mite tender, sir, but I'll cope," Alan offered. "It really is feeling much better."

"No, I've seen you wincin', try as you will to put a good face on it," Lilycrop replied, waving off Alan's enthusiasm for action. "If we land troops from Shrike, I may go myself. Can't let the young'uns have all the fun, now, can we, Mister Caldwell?"

Damnit, it was Alan's place to go as first officer, and he now regretted his earlier theatrics. But, to act too spry on the morrow would reveal what a fine job of malingering he had been doing; and, he considered, he'd done more than his share of desperate adventuring in the last few months-why take another chance of being chopped up like a fillet steak if there was no reason to?

"Well, if you really are intent on the venture, sir," he sighed, trying to give the impression that he was hellishly miffed.