The King's Commission

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Weakening the blockade of Cape Francois, Captain King,” the diminuitive “commodore” replied, rejecting the suggestion with an energetic wave of his hands. “Perhaps their expedition had that as a secondary goal. No, we have a chance to confound our King’s enemies here and now. With enough energetic action, enough alacrity, we may still prevail.”

  “I’d like to point out, though, sir,” Captain Dixon said with a heavy look, “that even if we stripped every vessel present, the French can still field more troops, and once ashore, we’ll have no field guns to counter their battery. It was dirt, and they could dig guns in anywhere they wish, once they see where we land. They hold the upper hand when it comes to moving on interior lines, whilst we are forced to sail all around the island to find another beach.”

  While Nelson was digesting this view of things, there was a rap on the door, and Nelson bade whoever it was enter, with an exasperated tone to his voice.

  The officer who entered was Lieutenant Osborne, first officer of Albemarle. “Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but the winds are come more westerly, and still quite fresh. Another hour and we’ll be on a lee shore.”

  “Yes, thank you for telling me, Mister Osborne,” Nelson answered, massaging his brow with long, slim fingers. He used his other hand to spin the map of the island about to stare at it. “There is no good holding ground on the eastern side. Shallow reefs and shoals, and then a steep drop off to truly unfathomable depths. Hawk’s Nest Anchorage is possible, but under the guns of the battery, and too far for useful fire from our pieces.” He gave a heavy sigh, a bitter realization that even the seas and the winds conspired against him, and Alan felt quite sorry for him. The man had rushed in hoping that he would gain a quick victory against light forces, and he had been misled by the intelligence he had received. The French ships taken by Resistance and the other frigate had not carried the expedition, they had escorted other merchantmen or transports, who had equipped the place for a long defense, with heavy guns. Now Nelson would have to admit defeat, and sail back to his admiral with news of his repulse. Better he had done what King suggested in the first place; keep an eye on the island and send word immediately to bring line-of-battle ships that could shoot the battery and works to flinders, land nearly a regiment of Marines and reduce the garrison.

  “Even the sea and winds aid the damned French,” Nelson mused, as if God had turned out to be a Hay-Market tout, and had given him a false report on some horse on which he had bet the family estate. “Gentlemen … let us weigh anchor at once and work off this shore before we start dragging anchors in bad holding ground. No sense losing a ship, or another man, on this miserable island.”

  “And the expedition, sir?” Captain King asked, as if he liked rubbing salt in wounds. Or had the tact of a mastiff.

  “I fear I must concur with Captain Dixon’s estimate of the situation at the last. No, weigh and head back for the squadron off Cape Francois.” Nelson scowled, turning away to look out the transom windows, unable to face them in his moment of failure.

  “How is the captain?” Alan asked, once he was back aboard his ship.

  “Mister Lewyss thinks he’ll live, sir,” Caldwell told him in a soft voice. “Left him a good stump, sir. Didn’t suffer much, nor make a sound.”

  “Thank God for small blessings, anyway. Mister Caldwell, I’d admire if you took over as first officer, acting lieutenant. Your mate to rise to sailing master.”

  “Aye, sir,” Caldwell preened. “Though I hate to prosper at the captain’s sorrow, sir. I must advise you, sir, the wind’s come westerly and …”

  “Yes, get us under way soon as you can. Lay out the sweeps if you think they might be necessary. Easier than being towed out by the boats. Mister Fukes, prepare to get under way!”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  “We still going to try something else against these Frogs, sir?” Caldwell asked as the bosun’s pipes shrilled for all hands on deck.

  “No,” Alan snapped. “They’re too strong. The captain’s going to lose his ship for nothing. Goddamnit, I’m getting tired of this.”

  “You and me too, sir,” Caldwell agreed.

  They veered out to take up their stream anchor, hauled back up to short stays on the bower, and got under way. The wind and waves were too much, and she paid off immediately, rolling her larboard rail almost under, even under bare poles. “Sweeps, Mister Fukes!”

  Like an ancient oared galley, Shrike extended her sweeps, too few to Alan’s eyes, but they needed strength to finish hauling up the anchor by the capstan, fish it in and ring it up on the cat-heads. More hands were already aloft, loosing the spanker and jibs, leaving only twenty or so hands to pull at the long oars. It was enough to hold her head up to the fresh breeze until the rudder could bite, and the fore and aft sails could give her forward motion.

  Not trusting to square-sails until they were out beyond the reefs, they short-tacked away from the lee shore, employing the sweeps to get her head around on each tack and keep her driving forward no matter how slowly, until the sails could fill and impart drive. The leadsmen in the forechains swung their shorter sounding lines continually, until they reported no bottom. Then, when even the deep-sea lead could find no bottom, they hauled their wind to the south and loosed topsails and courses, now out over the abyssal depths of Turk’s Island Passage.

  Some of the other ships had had to use their row-boats to tow them out against the wind until they had room to pay off when loosing sails. Shrike had to stand off and on the coast until all vessels were safely at sea and in company together.

  “Neatly done, sir,” Caldwell told him once the off-duty watch had been allowed to go below and the ship was out in her proper element.

  “Yes, we hadn’t worked with sweeps before, but they did well,” Alan replied. “We did a lot better than the others.”

  “Aye, sir. Um, I’ll expect we should have someone strike for master’s mate.”

  “How would Mister Rossyngton do, would you think?”

  “Well, sir, he’s a bit flighty for me.” Caldwell frowned. “Long enough in the Navy, I expect, but my word, sir, he’s a terror.”

  “It did me a world of good to get some little responsibility as acting master’s mate. And it is only temporary. Let’s give him a try.”

  “Aye, sir. Um, something else, sir. What about the captain?”

  “Well, we can’t sail for harbor for one wounded man, and I’m sure the captain would not let us, once he comes around,” Alan replied. “We’ll rejoin the squadron and see what they say. If Mister Lewyss thinks he will recover, he’d probably prefer to do it aboard his own ship. If we can be fitted with a false leg below the knee, he should do alright.”

  “No, sir,” Caldwell said, throwing water on the tiny flickering embers of Alan’s hopes. “They’ll pack him off home, whether he heals or no. New commander for us, looks like.”

  “Poor old bastard,” Alan muttered, feeling guilty all over once more about staying aboard during the landing. “Should be me in there less a foot.”

  “I think he would have gone, even if you’d been whole, sir,” the sailing master told him, taking off his glasses and pulling out a large pocket kerchief to polish them clean of salt spray. “Something grand to do before the war ends, to make a name for himself. It was his last chance.”

  “Just like this Nelson fellow.” Alan nodded. “Like my old captain in Desperate. To make amends for an earlier failure.”

  “Aye, sir. Like that thing up in Florida. Clear his name.”

  “But damnit, Mister Caldwell, we didn’t fail in Florida!” Alan protested.

  “Somebody thinks we did, sir, and that’s the same thing.” The older man shrugged. “Wonder what Captain Nelson failed at before, to make him so eager to tackle the French here?”

  “Who knows?” Alan replied.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, with Sand Cay, the last speck of land of the Turk’s and Caicos Islands just under the horizon, Albemarle signa
led Shrike to close her, and once close alongside, ordered her to back her tops’ls and heave to. As they wondered what the matter was, a boat set out from the flagship’s side, bearing little Captain Nelson. He scrambled up the side and took the salute from the side-party, then advanced to where Lewrie and Caldwell were standing.

  “Good morning, sir,” Alan said. “What is the matter?”

  “I have come to see your gallant captain Lilycrop, Mister Lewrie,” Nelson told him. “I trust he is well enough to see visitors?”

  “Aye, sir, he is,” Alan replied. “If you will allow me to lead you to his quarters? Mister Caldwell, would you take the deck?”

  “Admiral Barrington took the highest number of casualties,” Nelson said as they walked aft. “It is my intention to go there later, to see to their needs. Your captain is recovering?”

  “Still in much pain, sir, as I’m sure you’ll understand,” Alan replied, mystified that Nelson was making the effort. Was he salving a guilty conscience that people had been hurt at his orders in a doomed adventure? “I saw him this morning, and he was awake, mostly.”

  “Your surgeon holds hopes for his recovery, then, sir?” Nelson pressed.

  “Aye, sir. He’s very strong for his advanced age. Spent a lifetime at sea, you know,” Alan told him, feeling the urge to put the needle in at Nelson’s expense. “This was his first command. And now he’ll likely lose it.”

  “I see.” Nelson frowned, pulling at his long nose. Lieutenant Lilycrop swung in his hanging bed-box to the gentle motion of his ship. His usually dark-tanned face was pale, and he sweated a good deal, but the surgeon had said that it was good for him, to sweat out the poisons from the wound. The offending limb was propped up on a pile of pillows, wrapped in bast and gauze, looking no more harmful than a peer suffering a bout of the gout. There was a mug of rum near at hand, and every cat he had ever owned had gathered in some silent sense of commiseration, near the bed-box, or curled up in his lap or on the pillows.

  The captain had his eyes closed, and they could hear him make soft groaning noises, wincing a bit as a wave of pain intruded on his senses. But he opened his eyes brightly when they were announced.

  “Captain Nelson has come to pay his respects, sir,” Alan said, and did the duty of introducing them.

  “Are you in much pain, sir?” Nelson asked, taking a seat that Gooch offered him.

  “Well, sir, you get your foot shot damn near off, then let a drunken Welsh sheep-coper saw the damn thing off, an’ see how it makes you feel,” Lilycrop said uncharitably.

  “I am sorry, Captain Lilycrop,” Nelson replied in a soft voice, totally abashed, and evidently wishing he were anywhere else in the wide world at that moment. “Since you suffer on my behalf, I was wondering if there was anything I could do for you, to make you more comfortable.”

  “Ah, don’t mind me, Captain Nelson,” Lilycrop said, laying his head back on the pillows. “Gooch, come prop me up a bit. That’s it. I went for the fun of it. Can’t let Lewrie have all the glory, and he’s half laid up himself with a nasty leg wound. No one to blame but meself, see. One takes one’s chances. Thankee for comin’, though. ’Tis more’n I’d expect from most.” Samson jumped up onto the bed, ruler of the cabins, and sniffed around for a place to lay close to his master, making a couple of more fearful others jump down. “Ah, we smell all medicinal, don’t we, sweetlin’? Like some rum, Captain?”

  “Thank you, no, Captain Lilycrop. I’ve never been much on rum, or spirits,” Nelson answered.

  Oh, God, please don’t let Lilycrop call him a hedge-priest! Alan thought.

  “If you’re sure there is nothing I could do for you, sir?” Nelson said, beginning to rise.

  “Oh, sit ye down, sir. We tried to do somethin’ right, an’ if I didn’t get hit when I did, it’d a been later, tryin’ to take the battery. Had a funny feelin’ about the place, soon’s I stepped ashore. Not your fault. No sense lookin’ like a hanged spaniel on my account. I’ve had fifty years in the Fleet, man an’ boy. Had to happen sometime. In the last war, with Pocock, thought I was a goner half a dozen times.”

  “In the East Indies?” Nelson brightened. “Where were you?”

  There was a knock on the door, and midshipman Edgar relayed a message from Mr. Caldwell. “Excuse me, sir, I’m wanted on deck,” Alan said and excused himself.

  By the time he had discovered the reason for his summons, had tended to the matter of discipline, and placed a seaman on report for fighting, he fully expected Nelson to come out of the cabins, too, but Nelson did not. A full half-hour passed before he emerged.

  “A gallant man, sir,” Nelson said, his eyes a little moist as he came up to Lewrie. “He has served long and honorably, with little recognition or reward. And now this.”

  “Aye, sir,” Alan agreed.

  “If only we had been successful, I would not feel so badly at his loss,” Nelson went on. “Though he would be losing the ship soon, in any event when the war ends. But there would have been a chance for further employment.”

  “The ship lacks a year till the end of her original commission, sir,” Alan pointed out. “She’s a prize, bought in out here.”

  “He has a family?” Nelson asked.

  “None that I’m aware of, sir. Never married, either, to my knowledge. I get the impression that there was a lady once, but it didn’t work out.”

  “There is always a young lady with whom things did not work out,” Nelson said with such a wistfulness that Alan peered at him more closely. He didn’t look like the sort of swaggering young buck to take love and pleasure wherever he would find it, and Alan got the idea that Nelson had been spurned rather recently, and still suffered.

  “His only family is his cats, sir,” Alan went on. “They’re a great comfort to him.”

  “Yes. There are rather a lot of them, aren’t there?”

  “Would you like one, sir?” Alan grinned.

  “Um, actually, no, thank you.” Nelson essayed a shy grin of his own. “Well, I must be getting on to Admiral Barrington to see their wounded. Did you have any others hurt?”

  “No, sir,” Alan answered. “Um, one thing, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask. Is there any way you could do something for the captain? I’d heard sometimes that senior post-captains are promoted to rear admiral upon their retirement. And I was wondering if there was anything like that could be done for him, to promote a lieutenant to post-captain, even if it means the retired list.”

  “They call them admirals of the ‘yellow squadron,’ Mister Lewrie,” Nelson said with another grin. “Usually because they’re too stupid to trust with a command, and have too much ‘interest’ to just cashier, to make way for a more promising officer. He means a great deal to you, does he not, Mister Lewrie?”

  “Yes, sir, he does. I had no business being made first officer of this ship, but he was patient with me, and taught me everything I know,” Alan confessed. “Fifty years, from powder monkey to captain of his own ship, God knows how long a passed midshipman. He deserves a better retirement than a lieutenant’s half-pay, or a cripple’s pension.”

  “God bless you, sir, that was well said, and kindly meant,” Nelson said, almost fierce with passion, and taking his hand to shake it firmly. “We do seem to treat our sailors in the shabbiest manner, and then depend on them to save the country, when anyone with good sense would run for the hills and tell us to get someone else to do the dirty work!”

  “If you could make any sort of recommendation in his behalf, sir, I’d be forever in your debt,” Alan offered.

  “And I shall, sir,” Nelson promised. “I shall speak for him to Admiral Hood once we rejoin the squadron. He has treated me with great kindness in past, though,” Nelson added with a wry expression, “I do not know why he should continue to do so after this debacle.”

  “We didn’t know how strong they were, sir.”

  “Still,” Nelson said, leading him to the entry port where his boat waited, almost seeming to grow in size a
nd importance as he began to enthuse, “I was always most pleasantly amazed over in Nicaragua how a smaller force could prevail over a greater one, if one went right at them. Conceive a bold plan, carry it out with audacity, bring all one’s strength to bear upon one point, like Rodney did against de Grasse, and you give them pause. They seem to step back, to draw breath at your daring, and once checked, they are beatable!”

  “I see, sir.” Alan nodded, amazed at how energetic the slight little fellow could become.

  “To pause, to question your own chances, is to surrender the initiative to the foe. Fire that challenge to loo’rd, and then go at them!” Nelson insisted. “Lay your ship yard-arm to yard-arm with the enemy, which is all that anyone can ask of a captain, and trust to the pluck of English seamen to win you a victory! Given decent odds, I’ll put my money on our men every time, and then it’s victory, or a place in Westminster Abbey! Either way, you’ve upheld your honor, or found glory.”

  Without a break, Nelson shook Lewrie’s hand once more, and went to the entry port, doffed his hat to the crew in reply to the salute due him, and Alan was amazed that the hands were cheering, perhaps in recognition of his solicitousness in coming to see their captain as most officers would not bother to do. It was either heartfelt on Nelson’s part, or it was the vainest piece of theatrics Alan had seen away from a stage. Yet there was something about the man, he had to admit.

  “Uncanny sort, ain’t he, sir?” Caldwell asked once they had the ship under way again. “That one’ll go places, you mark my words. Wish he’d come aboard and got the hands fired up before we tried to take Turk’s Island. With a little of his enthusiasm, we’d have had the bloody place.”

  “He is inspiriting, I’ll grant you that, Mister Caldwell,” Alan replied. But, he kept to himself, with an attitude like that, the little minnikin’s going to get himself killed for certain if he keeps all that death-or-glory stuff up. And if Turk’s Island is any example of his skills at war, I’d not want to be anywhere near him next time he feels inspired.