The King`s Coat l-1

by Dewey Lambdin

  Days passed as Ariadne made her westing, running down a line of latitude that would take them direct to Antigua as resolutely as a dray would stay within the banks of a country lane. There were two schools of thought about that; it made navigation easier to perform, and could almost be done by dead reckoning with a quick peek at the traverse board to determine distance run from one noon to the next, but it was a lazy, civilian way of doing things. Or, it was quite clever, since lazy civilian merchant captains would do it, and that put Ariadne in a position to intercept enemy Indiamen, or conversely, those privateers who might be lying in wait to prey upon British ships. But since the ship had not distinguished herself in the past as a great fighting ship, the latter was a minority opinion. Gun drill and some live firings were practiced, but it was undertaken with the tacit assumption that Ariadne would never fire those guns in angerspite or pique, perhaps, but not battle-and it showed.

  What a happy ship we are, Alan thought, stripping off his coat and waistcoat as he sat down for dinner following one of those morning gun drills in the Forenoon watch. Lieutenant Harm had yelled himself hoarse with threats and curses to the gun crews on the lower deck, and the mechanical way they had gone through the motions. And when Lewrie had told some of them to remember to swab out so they would do it for real in action, Harm had screeched something like "a midshipman giving advice, by the nailed Christ?" and for him to shut the hell up, if he knew what was good for him.

  There may have been a war raging in the Colonies, all round the world as France, Spain, perhaps soon even Holland joined to support the rebels and rehash the Seven Years' War, and ships may have fought in these very waters; somewhere over the horizon British vessels could be up to close-pistol-shot with the broadsides howling, but the general idea was that Ariadne was not part of that same fleet, and never would be, so drilling on the great guns was make-work, sullenly accepted.

  The pork joint in their mess was half bone and gristle, and the real meat was a piece of work to chew. Their peas were lost in fatty grease; the biscuit was crumbling with age and the depredation of the weevils. Lewrie watched his companions chew, heard the rapping of the biscuits on the table like a monotonous tatoo. He was sick to death of them all, even Ashburn. Shirke was telling Bascombe the same joke for the umpteenth time, and Bascombe was braying like an ass as he always did. Chapman chewed and blinked and swallowed as though he was concentrating hard on remembering how, and in which order, such actions of dining occurred. The master's mates smacked like pigs at a trough, and the surgeon's mates whispered dry rustlings of dog-Latin and medical terms like a foreign language that set them apart from the rest. Brail fed bim…elf with a daintiness he imagined a gentleman should, and maintained a silence that was in itself maddening.

  I'd love to put a pistol ball into this damned joint, just to have something new to talk about, Lewrie decided. It might wake old Chapman up, at least. No, probably ricochet off the pork and kill one of them… ’And was our young prodigy all proficient at gun drill today?" Shirke asked him. "What?" Lewrie said, realizing he had been asked a question. "Were you a comfort to Lieutenant Harm?" from Bascombe. ’I'm sure the foretopmen heard it," Ashburn teased. " 'By the nailed Christ,' I think the expression was.’

  ’Did big bad bogtwotter hurt baby's feewings?’

  ‘I see you have reverted to your proper age and intellect, Harv," Lewrie said. "How refreshing. For a while there, I thought counting higher than ten at navigation was going to derange you.’

  Bascombe was not exactly a mental wizard when it came to the intricacy of working navigation problems, and had spent many hours at the masthead as punishment. The insult went home like a hot poker up the arse. ’You're a right smart little man, ain't you, Lewrie?’

  ‘Smarter than some I know. At least I can make change. ’

  ‘You bastard-’

  ‘That's educated bastard, to you.’

  ’For twopence I'd call you out." Bascombe leaped to his feet with fists clenched. "You want me to pay you," Lewrie said calmly, looking up at him with a bland expression. "Funny way to make a living. I didn't know you were that needy.’

  ’Goddamn you-’

  ‘And a parson's son, at that!" Lewrie was enjoying himself hugely. This is the best lunch we've had in days. " 'Ere, now," Finnegan said, waving a fork at them. "There's a midshipman awready wot's been rooned this voyage. Now shut yer traps.".

  Bascombe plumped back down on his chest, his hands still fisted in his lap. He stared at his plate for a long moment. "Who ruined Rolston?" he asked softly. "Lewrie was the one that ran on about him, and swearing so innocent he meant nothing by it." I didn't know he was that sharp, Lewrie thought; have to watch young Harvey in future. "Rolston ruined himself, and we all know it," Keith said, as if he was the only one to lay down the law. "And I think his case is example enough for all of us. We are here to learn to get along with each other. Alan, I think you owe Harvey an apology. And you owe one to Alan as well.’

  Mine arse on a band-box, Lewrie thought, but saw that the others were waiting on him to start. "Well, perhaps Lieutenant Harm made me raw, and being teased about it didn't do my temper any good. Sorry I took it out on you, Bascombe. What with this morning, I lashed out without thinking.’

  ’For my part, I'm sorry for what I said as well," Bascombe said after taking a long moment to decide if Lewrie had actually apologized to him. ’Now shake hands and let's finish eating," Ashburn said. They shook hands perfunctorily, Lewrie glaring daggers, and Bascombe thinking that he would find a way to put Lewrie in the deepest, hottest hell. ’Better." Ashburn smiled and picked up his knife and fork. "Did I hear right? Did Mister Harm really intend to put Snow up on a charge and see him flogged?’

  ‘Mister Harm got hellish angry when two men slipped, and when Snow told him they couldn't help it because of the water on the deck from the slow-match tubs, Harm thought it was back-talk and went barking mad.’

  ’Mister Harm, mind ye," Turner said. ’Aye, sir," Lewrie corrected, waiting for Turner to tell him that commission lieutenants don't go barking mad, either, but evidently they sometimes do, for Turner went back to his meal. "Snow's a good quartergunner, been in forever, I'm told.’

  ’Won't stand," Ashburn said, smearing mustard on his meat and hoping the flavor was improved. "Captain Bales will take it into account Come to think of it, I cannot remember Snow ever being charged.’

  ’Ten years in the Fleet and never a lash? My last captain would have had him dancing," Shirke said. "Taut hand, was he?" Chapman asked, now that he remembered what came after chewing. "Best days were Thursday Forenoon," Shirke told them. "Looked like the Egyptians building the pyramids… whack, whack, whack. ’

  ‘I fear the cat is a poor way to keep order," Brail said "I should think grog or tobacco stoppage would be more effective. ’

  ‘Nonsense," Finnegan said, digging for gristle with a horny claw. "Wot's better, d'ye think, hangin' fer stealin' half a crown, er takin' a dozen lashes fer drunk on duty?’

  ‘Well.. ‘. ’I'd take the floggin'. It's done, it's over, yer back hurts like hell, but yer still breathin'. Ashore, they hang fer every thin '. ’

  ‘Flogging is a brutal way to discipline," Brail maintained. "Bein' on a King's Ship ain't brutal enough awready?’

  ‘Exactly my point," Brail said. "The hands would do anything for tobacco or grog. Deprive them of it for a few days and they'll learn their lessons.’

  ’Aw, Able Seaman Breezy lays Ordinary Seaman Joke open from 'is gullet ta 'is weddin' tackle, an' you'd stop somebody's grog?" Turner gaped at this dangerous notion. "Somebody says 'no' ta me when I tells 'im ta do somthin', an' you'd take his baccy from 'im?’

  ‘Nothing like the cat ta make 'em walk small about ya," Finnegan said firmly. ’I had a captain who had a hand who could not stop pissing on the deck. Learned it in his alley, I've no doubt," Ashburn told them. "Grog, tobacco, nothing helped. Had him flogged, a dozen to start. Nothing worked. Finally tied him up in baby swaddles, itchy
old canvas. Had to see the bosun whenever he had to pump his bilges and be unlocked. That cured him.’

  ’Shamed 'im afore 'is mates, too," Finnegan said. "Felt more like a man iffen 'e' d got two-dozen an' they learned him the right way.’

  ’Flogging is not always the best answer," Ashburn said with a saintly expression. "Some intelligence must playa part.’

  In the middle of their discussion, they heard the call of the bosun's pipes. Then came the drumming of the Marine to call them to Quarters, bringing a groan. "Damme, not another drill," Lewrie said. "I know we were terrible this morning, but do we have to go through it all afternoon?" He raced up to the lower gun deck, where the crew had been having their meal. It was a mass of confusion as hands slung food into their buckets and bread barges, stowing everything away out of sight and slamming their chests shut. Tables had to be hoisted up to the deckheads out of the way so they could fetch down the rammers, crows and handspikes to serve the guns, grumbling at their lost meal.

  Ariadne turned slightly north of their westerly course as the gun captains came up from the hanging magazines with their tools of the trade. By then, chests and stools and eating utensils had been stacked on the centerline out of the way of the guns, and the tompions were being removed. Ship's boys arrived with the first powder cartridges borne in flashproof leather or wood cases. ’Another drill, sir?" Lewrie asked Lieutenant Harm. "No, you fool. We've sighted a strange sail.’

  ’Oh, I see, sir…" This could be a real fight, a chance to do something grand… maybe even make some prize money. No, what am I saying? This is Ariadne. We'll lose her or she'll turn out to be one of our packets…

  Little Beckett came scuttling down from the upper deck and went to Lieutenant Roth. "The captain's respects, Mister Roth, and would you be so good as to attend to the lowering of a cutter for an armed party to go aboard the chase once we have fetched her," he singsonged. ’My compliments to the captain, and I shall be on deck directly. Wish me luck, Horace," he said to Harm. "If she's a prize, I may be the one to take her into port. What an opportunity!" Roth fled the deck as though devils were chasing him. Horace Harm? Lewrie thought, stifling a grin with difficulty. No wonder he's such a surly Irish beau-nasty. ’Arrah now, fuck you, Jemmy Roth," Harm muttered under his breath. His associate could parley the strange ship into an independent command, first crack at fresh cabin stores, and a good chance at a promotion into another ship, while Harm languished aboard Ariadne, moving up to fourth officer, but still stuck in her until old age. ’Lewrie," Harm said, spinning on him and following the old adage that when in doubt, shout at someone. "Check to see that sand is spread for traction. And look to the firebuckets. Can you stretch your little mind to handle all of that, Lewrie?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir," Lewrie replied sweetly, which he knew galled the officer. Horace! By the time Lewrie had finished his inspection, had ordered more sand, told some crews to clear away their raftle and gone back to report, the guns had been loaded with quarter-weight powder cartridges, eight pounds of powder to propel a thirtytwo-pound iron ball. An increase in powder charge would not impel the shot any farther or faster, since all the powder did not take flame at once. It was good enough for random shot at long range, about a mile. As they closed with the chase, they might reduce the charge for short range, especially if they doubleshotted the guns. Then, a normal charge would likely burst the piece. ’Should we not clear for action, Mister Harm?" Lewrie asked, seeing all the mess deck gear stowed on the centerline, and the partitions still standing for the midshipmen's mess. ’Should the captain require it, we shall," Harm said. "And if he does not, then we shan't. Now shut your trap and quit interfering with your betters, Lewrie, or I'll see you bent over a gun before this day is out.’

  ’Aye aye, sir," Lewrie chirped again, full of sham eagerness to serve, and wondering why he had expected a sensible and polite answer from such a man. It must be one of ours, he decided. There are recognition signals. We'll most likely stand around down here until we're bored silly and then be released. Once more, there was nothing to do for a long time as the day wore on and Ariadne bore down on the chase, plunging along with the wind on her starboard quarter and her shoulder to the sea. But it was still an hour before Beckett came below and told the crews to stand easy. They dragged out their stools and sat down. Lewrie took a seat on a chest. In his heart, he knew it was wrong not to strike all the assorted junk below into the holds, take down those partitions and get rid of the chests and stools, but what could a midshipman do about it? And even if he got Harm to send a message with a respectful suggestion on the matter, what shrift would a lieutenant's advice receive from a post-captain intent on the whiff of prize money? Some of the older hands had tied their neckerchiefs about their ears, making them look decidedly piratical… When he asked a quartergunner, old Snow in fact, he was told that it would keep him from going deaf from the sound of the guns.

  By four in the afternoon, the order came down to open the gun ports, and blessed sunlight flooded in, along with sweet fresh air.

  The hands were called back to attention by their guns but they still ducked to peer out the ports at their possible prize. "Full-rigged, boys!" a cammer man whispered to a sidetackle mate. "Maybe a French blockade runner full 0' gold. ’

  ‘Have ta be a rum 'un ta get took by us!" a handspike man said. "Silence, the ~ot of you," Lieutenant Harm shouted. "Watch your fronts!" And it was another half hour by Lewrie's watch before the strange ship was near enough to hail, about two cables off their starboard bows. A chase gun barked from the upper deck and a feather of spray leaped up right under the other ship's bowsprit. A flag broke from the chase's gaff-it was Dutch.

  Everyone sighed with a hiss of disappointment. They weren't at war with Holland yet. They had wasted their whole afternoon. ’Damme," a hand cursed, rubbing his hands together with a dry rustle. "Thort she were a beamy one, woulda been a good prize.’

  There goes the start of my fortune, Alan thought, easing his aching back from long standing by the guns. He could have almost felt and heard those "yellowboys" clinking together… good golden guineas.

  Beckett appeared on the companionway. "Mister Harm, the captain wishes you to run out, sir.’

  ’Right," Harm crackled. "Run out yer guns." And fourteen black muzzles trundled up to the port sills with a sound resembling a stampede of hogs. "Point yer guns, handspikes there, number six!" Harm had drawn his smallsword and stood with it cocked over his shoulder, and Alan wondered just exactly what good the officer thought a blade was going to do to a ship more than four hundred yards away. ’But she's neutral, is she not?" Alan asked. ’Might be smuggling," Harm said. "I'd have thought ya'd have brains enough to realize we'll board her and check her papers anyway. Might pick up a few hands to flesh us out. Damn Dutchies always have a few English sailors aboard hiding out from the press-gang under a foreign flag.’

  The Dutch ship took a look at that menacing broadside pointing at her and took the path of sanity. Her flag slowly fluttered down the gaff.

  Alan hoped that she was indeed a smuggler, loaded with contraband goods destined for some American port, or had papers that would make her liable to seizure. If so they could take her into Antigua and sell her, cargo, hull and fittings. "Um, how much do you think she might be worth, if she is a smuggler, Mister Harm?’

  ‘ Hull and rigging'll fetch near ten thousand pounds," Harm told him, a gleam coming to his own eye. "Now, if she's carrying contraband, it'll be military stores and such-like, and that may double her value.’

  Davit blocks squealed as the large cutter was lowered over the side directly in front of their midships guns, the main course yard being employed as a boat boom. Their prize had let fly all instead of bringing to into the wind, and her canvas fluttered like a line of shirts on wash day. ’Dutchies can carry right rich cargoes," Harm went on half to himself, almost pleasant for once in his greed. "Maybe fifty thous-" The late afternoon was tom apart with red-hot stabs of flame and the lung-flattening booming of h
eavy guns. The side of the Dutch ship lit up and was wreathed in a sudden cloud of smoke as she fired a broadside right into Ariadne, two full gun decks of twenty-fourand eighteen-pounders. The air seemed to tremble and moan with the weight of iron headed their way, and another flag was shooting up the naked gaff. But this time it was the white and gold of Bourbon Spain! "Bastard Dons," Harm shouted. "Prime yer-" Once more Lieutenant Harm was intelTUpted as the lower gundeck exploded. Heavy balls slammed into the ship's side at nearly 1,200 feet per second, and Lewrie could hear the shrieking of her massive oaken scantlings as they bulged and splintered.

  The cutter that was dangling before their gun ports was demolished, and a cloud of splinters raved through the open ports, striking down men. One ball struck a gun and upended it, hurling it free of sidetackles, breeching ropes and train tackles and sending it slewing to the larboard side. Another loaded gun was hit right on the muzzle, which set off its charge, and it burst asunder with a great roar! A little powder monkey standing terrified by the hatch to the orlop had his cartridge case explode in his arms, and was flung away like a broken doll, his clothes burned off and his arms missing! There were screams of pain and surprise as though a pack of women were being ravaged. There were howls of agony as oak and iron splinters ripped into flesh, and guns turned on their servers and crushed them like sausages.

  Lewrie had been blown off his feet by the explosion of the powder cartridge, and lay on the deck. still buffeted by the noise and the harsh thump of each cannonball striking deep into Ariadne's hull. He saw and heard throaty gobbling and sobbing all about him as men clawed at their hurts and burns. In a split second, the ordered world of the lower gun deck had become a colored illustration from a very original sort of hell. He got to his feet, unsure what to do or where to go, but certain he wanted to go anywhere else, fast. A hand touched him on the shoulder and he jumped with a yelp of fear. He turned to see who it was.