She then took on another load of Blue Ruin and proceeded to make up for lost opportunities on Alan, who was wearing out. Once he was spent, she dandled him and kissed him into performing once more, just once more… ’Don't flag on me, Alan dear," she pleaded, half-drunk now and her hair hanging slattern-loose about her face. "I need a real man to spit me and split me, oh God, I need your hard prick deep inside me so hard and strong.’
He lay on his back on the piled-up pillows, almost hoping that it was time to leave. She lay between his outflung legs, idly trying to get his interest up once more, clutching his member with one hand and her eternal glass of gin in the other. She now reminded him of a one-shilling whore, eyes red and rheumy with drink, face flushed and mottled, and the marks of age more prominent. He sneaked a look at his watch on the nightstand-God, only nine-thirty… ’I'm hungry, Betty love. Let me go to the jakes and have some food," he said softly. As long as she's got hold of my prick, damme if I want to get her mad. ’Then will you love me?" She pouted. ’Absolutely/' he said. "But even cannon have to reload.’
He rolled out of the bed and went to the necessary closet, then came back and wrapped a sheet about him. He picked through the supper dishes to find some cold beef, cheese and bread. He fed her dainty bites while he wolfed most of it down. She stood up and walked nude to the nearest bottle of gin, which was empty. ’Oh, damn," she said, flinging it into a comer. With a noticeable list, she tacked her way out of the bedroom, made some alarming clinking noises in the parlor and returned with a fresh bottle. ’I must tell you, Alan my sweetling, that you are the most impressive man I have played balum rancum with in ages," she slurred as she crawled up his body to lay her head on his chest. "And you, Betty, are a tigress," he said, which seemed to please her. "Also, your husband is a fool.’
’Aye, he's that and more." She laughed, spilling gin on his ribs, which felt cool. She licked at his side and he squirmed. "Ticklish, my chuck?’
‘Felt good," he admitted with a husky chuckle. ’Then I must do more of it," she said, tipping her glass and making a small pool of gin in his belly button, which she proceeded to lap like a tabby, running her tongue allover his stomach and chest. ’Yes, my husband is a fool, and a backgammon player, always looking for a new black boy to play with. If I'd known that I'd have never mamed him and moved to this disgusting island," she said between applications. "Were it possible to divorce him I would and go back to London where I belong, where the right sort of people don't begrudge a woman her needs. There're so many of them, you know.’
’I know," Lewrie sighed as she treated his nipples with gin and tender care. ’So many Mollys out there," she muttered. ’My half brother. Disgusting little shit.’
’But not you, sweetling," she smiled, reaching down to dandle his penis, which was showing signs of life. "You know, at first I thought you might be, being houseguests. of Sir Richard's.. ‘. ’Me? Keep doing that and I warrant I'll show you…
again… that I'm not…" Alan vowed with heat. "Sir Richard tries to be discreet but he's most infamous for it," she said, sliding down toward his groin and parting the sheet. "Are you sure?" he asked, sitting up. "I mean, I wondered about him. Such a coxcomb. ’
‘Of course, I'm sure. And I'd watch out for my captain, too, were I you, dearest Alan. Shall I tell you a secret?’
‘Yes," he replied, unsure. "I s'pose.. ‘. ’Last night, on my way upstllirs with your eager little friend… God, I felt like a matron leading her youngest son… I saw Sir Richard and your captain." She simpered. ’Upstllirs? ‘
‘Entering a room together. It was quite late. Isn't that just delicious?" She leeringly rejoiced. "Good God, woman, it can't be! He's a real taut hand, a real sailor man. There's nothing Molly about him-’
‘Remember, there's an Article of War against it," she said. ’Now let me improve your taste a little." Betty proceeded to dribble gin over his member, which stung after all the exertions he had demanded of it over the last two days. Then before he could complain, she slipped her warm mouth down over it, her tongue sliding and flicking. Without conscious will, he became erect deep between her lips as she raised and lowered her head over him, making him as rigid as a marlinspike, as tumescent as a belaying pin.
He gripped her head between his hands and lay back on the pillows, half his mind on what she had implied about Lieutenant Kenyon. Never mind, he decided, giving himself over to the intense pleasure she was giving him. I'll think about that some other time. Even Drake had time for a game of bowls, didn't he? Alan let himself out into a dark and nearly empty street at eleven that night. Betty Hillwood had demanded, and he had risen to the call of duty, until she had cuddled up to him, reeking of gin and her sweat and the aroma of their lovemaking. He had sponged off, gotten dressed properly and had tucked her in for the night. He had also left a note in her hand that expressed his joy at their coupling and a promise that next time he was in Kingston he would be sure to spend three days sunk deep into every part of her. After her conversation of the evening he was sure that she would be aroused and titillated by his choice of language. The woman has a Billingsgate streak to her, he assured himself happily. She may play the great lady but she's a damned great, cracking tuppenny tart, with a mouth like a fishwife.
He strolled loose-hipped down the hill to the Grapes, feeling peckish once more, and in need of sustenance and a pot of coffee if he was to pass Kenyon's sharp eye. Most of the stores were closed, but he found a small chandlery open at that late hour and their light drew him in. They had a used copy of a SmoHett novel, Peregrine Pickle, and he remembered that it was a good long read, so he parted with three shillings for it. They did not have sextants, and if they did they were twentyfive guineas-"They's a war on, sor, an' everythin's short, they is "-so he loafed his way into the Grapes and took a table by the window overlooking the boat landing. ’Yer servant, sir, this fine evenin'," the publican said. "Still got your ordinary?’
‘All gone, sor, but if yer partial to pork I can still slice ya some. Got some nice figgy-dowdy fer yer sweet tooth, too," the moonfaced man said, wiping his hands on his blue apron. ’That and bread, and coffee.’
’Right-ho," the man replied smartly, fetching a candle from a vacant table so he could see better. The Grapes was haIfempty, the crowd made up of naval officers for the most part, none too senior to put a damper on things. The few civilians seemed there on sufferance.
Alan got his coffee and began to sip at it, enjoying it black and rolling the bitterness about his mouth to kill the odor of all the claret he had downed. He was about to crack his book in the ample glow of the candle, when he heard a coach rattling up outside. He glanced out the window with idle curiosity. The coach looked familiar, as did the mulatto man in Ii very who got down from the boot.
The coach occluded the lamps at the boat landing and threw a deep shadow toward the inn, but the torches by the door of the Grapes relieved that opaqueness enough for him to see that it was Sir Richard Slade's coach and that the coachee and the footman were the same ones who had driven them out to the house party. He twisted in his chair the better to see, and to lean back against the homey brick wall above the wainscoting… so that he himself would not be seen framed in the window.
There were people in the coach, two hats and a flash of some sheened material; one hat was trimmed with feathers and white lace.
The other showed only a gold loop and the flash of a button. Very like a naval officer's cockade. Very like a lieutenant's plain black cocked hat, with only a dog's vane of ribbon held in place by the gold loop of braid and a gilt fouled-anchor button.
The hats leaned close together and stayed that way for a long moment, then the mulatto opened the coach door and flipped down the steps. One passenger prepared to depart, but before he did so he leaned back in and Alan could clearly see two men pressing their lips together, not in the fond farewell kiss that childhood friends might bestow upon each other at parting but in the writhing, practiced kiss of two men who were both of the same
inclination. Was it his imagination, or had he given Betty HiIlwood such a fond farewell just minutes before, with the same sweet-sad spark of remembered passion? He felt sick at his stomach. ’Pray God, it's someone else," he whispered, clenching his fists hard and ignoring the arrival of his cold supper. ’Holy shit on a biscuit," he said bitterly. The man in the coach was the effeminate Sir Richard Slade, down to the very suit. The man departing the coach was Lt. James Kenyon, master and commander of HMS Parrot! "If yer not wantin' anythin' else right away, sor, that'll be two shillin's," the publican repeated. ’Yes," Lewrie said, fumbling out coins blindly. "Here. ’
‘Righty-ho, then.’
Lewrie spun away from the window and propped the book up with fumbling hands in front of him. He took a scalding sip of coffee, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He dug into his cold pork and pease pudding, as though he had been at for some time, though each bite threatened to gag him on the way down, and sat queasy as a lump of coal once in his stomach.
Kenyon entered the inn's public rooms a moment later, sharing a cheery greeting with the other officers of his rank at the other tables. He spotted Lewrie by the window and came over to join him. ’And what are you having, Mister Lewrie?" he asked jovially. ’Spot of cold supper… sir.’
’And a whacking thick book," Kenyon said, picking it up to read the title. "Peregrine Pickle, is it? Just the thing for you, a roguish adventure, and long as a Welsh mile. Mind if I join you?’
‘Not at all, sir," Alan replied, taking back the book and marking his place at random. as though he had read part of it. "No sextant, I see?’
‘Twenty-five guineas. If they had one, sir.’
’Will you be havin' anythin', sor?" the publican asked. "Brandy for me," Kenyon said briskly, "and a pint of stingo to wash it down… Other than that, did you enjoy your time ashore?" Kenyon asked casually, flinging a leg over the arm of his chair. ’A cat-lapping party with a lady I made acquaintance of at Sir Richard's, sir," Lewrie said, forced to smile at the unintended double-entendre of a tea party and what Mrs. Hillwood had done with her gin and her tongue. "Devilish boring, though. Went aU over town looking in the stores, then paid down 'socket-money' for an obliging wench.’
He stared at Kenyon directly, not as adoring midshipman to older brother or superior officer, as if daring him with an account of some manly endeavor. ’No, I think Smollett has no lessons to teach you, Mister Lewrie." But it was a bit more forced than before, his grin. ’And you, sir?" Lewrie asked, getting intent on his meal. ’A gentleman never tells, me lad," Kenyon said as his brandy and strong beer arrived, and he took time to wet his tongue. "Frankly, there's a willing enough tit I have been seeing. Just got back from seeing her home. Parents are chawbacons made it rich out here and she'd be a good enough rattle, but she's such a country-put, and her family is so eager for a good match they're hotter than a false justice with suggestions of marriage.’
’I didn't think marriage and the Navy went well together, sir," Lewrie said. "What with the long separations, and all.’
’You're right there," Kenyon said, still not tumbling to the fact that Lewrie knew more than he should. "Why tie yourself down to a termagant little mort when you can have a wife in every port for half the cost, eh?’
‘Or just take it to sea with you," Lewrie said, knowing that many ships allowed women aboard all the time, and that there were many captains who traveled with their wives or mistresses. "Now that's something I don't hold with, women at sea," Kenyon said firmly, thumping down his pint of stingo to exchange it for the glass of brandy. "And there's many a captain I've known that will tell you that it's bad for morale and discipline.’
I'll bet you have, Lewrie thought. Here was the man he wished to emulate, the only officer who had been in any way kind to him since he had been forced into the Navy, acting bluff and hearty as the biggest rogering buck, and secretly a sodomite! Was that why he asked for me to join Parrot, because he thought he'd have a go at my backside someday? By God, if he ever lays a finger on me I'll kill him! Just being around him makes me sick… Sir Richard's sly wink, Lewrie recalled; did he think I was already Kenyon's…! That did not stop him, however, from eating every bite of his rich, sweet figgy-dowdy, knowing there would be nothing like that once they had sailed.
Friday noon found Parrot due south of Morant Point, beating her way offshore for Antigua. The wind had backed to the sou' east, and with her jibs and gaff sails laid close to the centerline, she clawed for every yard to windward, bowling along with her lee rail slanted close to the bright blue sea, and leaving a creaming wake bone white behind her.
Their passengers were no trouble. Lord Cantner was a minikin of a man, not above five feet tall, but obviously much taller when he sat on his purse. His wife, Lady Cantner, was indeed the raven beauty Alan had seen sneaking down the dark hallway at Sir Richard Slade's, and she recognized him as well, and blushed prettily when introduced. She was not quite thirty, while Cantner was a stringy sort pushing sixty, and a colt's tooth for marrying such a younger woman who had such a roving eye. Lewrie was irked that the manservant had his berth space, and was reduced to swaying in a hammock over the wardroom table again. But so far, they had been no bother.
For all the first day, Parrot labored hard to make her easting without losing ground to leeward, but she was putting up a steady eleven knots, and sometimes striking twelve, and it was such a joy to be on deck in the mild winter sunshine, with the wind howling and the rigging humming and crying and spray and foam flying about her like dust from a thundering coach, that Lewrie could find solace from his disappointment in Lieutenant Kenyon. Still, he found it hard to be properly civil to him, so he reduced himself to duty and did not seek out the sort of friendly chats they had enjoyed before.
By the second day the wind had veered more east, and they turned and tacked so they would not be set upon Hispaniola, angling more to the sou-sou' east half east, which would bring them below Antigua but in position for another tack direct for English Harbor, and the waiting winter convoy for England.
It was on the second day that the acting quartermaster went down sick, complaining of severe headaches, and Boggs was at a loss as to the cause. The man quickly got worse, pouring sweat, retching and vomiting, and running a high fever. Boggs began to look worried when the man cried that he was blind and raved in the fever's delirium.
Bright. the gunner's mate, was the next man to be struck down. He stumbled to the deck in the middle of gun drill, almost insensible. Next was one of the carpenter's crew, then a ship's corporal. After him, it was an older topman, and then the forecastle captain. The acting quartermaster had meanwhile turned the color of a quince pudding, and began. to bring up black bile. ’It's the Yellow Jack," Boggs told them shakily.
There was no more horrifying name that could have been uttered in the tropics, other than Plague. Yellow Jack was the scourge of the West Indies, and all those scrubby coasts of the Spanish Main and up into the Floridas. Whole regiments could go down sick in a week, and the survivors would not make a corporal's guard. The most complex objects of the age, the huge and powerful 1st and 2nd Rate line-of-battle ships, could be turned to dead piles of timber and iron as their crews died by the boatload. ’What can we do?" Leonard asked, plainly scared to death. "There's bad air aboard," Boggs told them. "Some feverish vapor trapped below. Tropic land gives off sickening ethers at night asit cools; you've seen the mists. Ventilate immediately; We must pump our bilges, flush 'em clean, and scour with vinegar below decks.’
They rigged wind scoops. They pumped the sea below through the wash-deck pumps until the chain pumps brought nothing from the bilges but bright seawater. They scoured every surface with vinegar. The acting quartermaster died. Gunner's mate Bright died. Two gunners came down with the fever, moaning and shivering. One of the little West Indian ship's boys went sick, as did Lord Cantner's manservant. ’We must smoke the ship to drive the bad air out," Boggs prescribed. and they took plug and leaf tobacco and burned it in
tubs, waving smouldering faggots of the stuff in every compartment and nook and cranny, like shamans ministering to an aboriginal sufferer. But the old topman, the forecastle captain, and the ship's boy died. and had to be interred to the mercy of the ocean, and one could feel the jittery tension in the air like a palpable force.
By evening Docken the warrant gunner had fallen ill, as had five more hands and the cook's native assistant. ’We must keep all the sick on deck in fiesh air in a patch of shade, and give them all the water and small beer they can drink," Boggs said. "Cut down the grog ration, and stop issuing acid fruits that bring on biliousness. Thin soups and gruels instead of fresh or salt-meat.’
The two gunners died. Lord Cantner's manservant died. During the night, six more hands began to stagger and sweat, complaining of raging, blinding headaches. Those already stricken turned shocking yellow and began to throw up a black bile.
V6mito Negro. the Spaniards called it: Yellow Jack. Boggs and Leonard made a project of inspecting the galley and rations on the chance the native cook's dirty habits might be to blame, but could find nothing they could fault in cleanliness. By dawn Lady Cantner's maid dropped in a swoon and cried in terror as she realized she was afflicted. Everyone began to walk the decks cutty-eyed, wary of being too close to another person, and one could smell a miasma of sweaty fear amid the odors of the sickness.
They threw the island animals overboard on the suspicion that they might have carried the fever aboard, along with their coops and pens, and the manger was hosed out, and scrubbed with vinegar or wine.
The wind veered dead foul, forcing them to face a long board to the suth'rd, which would take them closer to the French island of Martinique. Regretfully they had to tack and stand nor' east as close to the wind as possible for Anguilla, the nearest British settlement.
Boggs was by now half-drunk most of the time in sheer panic at the thought of dying and his inability to do any good for anyone. He made up bags of assafoetida for everyone to wear, and the crew eagerly seized their bags of "Devil' s Dung" like a talismens.
The King`s Coat l-1 Page 21
