"Damn yer blood, Gooch, stop stuffin' yer ugly phyz an' feed those cats their rightful share before I come in there an' hurt you," Lilycrop bellowed, turning to wink at Lewrie as though it was a huge joke. "They'll be cracklin's enough for the likes of you later!"
"Aye, sir," Gooch sighed.
There were still cats enough who jumped up on the table to take what they thought was their "rightful share," who refused to stay shooed. And between gentle remonstrances to their gluttony, and his reminiscing about his career, Lilycrop carried the conversation, while Alan guarded his plate with both elbows and nodded or grunted in agreement all during supper.
Then the dishes were removed, the table cloth snatched away and the cheese and port set out. Lilycrop poured himself a liberal measure and passed the decanter down, then patted his thinning hair and looked at Alan carefully, as he poured his own glass.
"Now, young sir," Lilycrop said after they had both lowered the levels in their glasses.
Here it is, Alan sighed, going stone cold inside.
"Tomorrow, we shall alter course. We've been out over two months, an' need to put into port for fresh supplies," Lilycrop said.
"Aye, sir," Alan nodded, nose deep in his glass again.
"Do it at first light, just after standin' down from dawn Quarters-no sense waitin' for sun sights, we know pretty well where we are, an' no hazards this far offshore."
"Aye, sir, I'll see to it," Alan replied, steeling himself for the blow. "Sir, I suppose… well, I have been doing a lot better in the last few weeks. Whatever you decide, I am grateful I had the chance to be a first officer, if only for a little while."
"What's this, you resignin'?"
"If you think that best, sir," Alan whispered. God, he thought, Lilycrop don't just want to chuck me, he wants me out of the Navy altogether!
"Don't know why you'd want to do a thing like that," Lilycrop told him, cocking his head to one side. "Thought you wanted to get on in the Navy. Can't do it if you cash in your chips on your first commission. Is it you're unhappy in Shrike?"
"I thought you wanted me to, sir," Alan stammered.
"Now why would I want a thing like that?"
"Because I'm bloody awful!"
"You are?" Lilycrop gaped. "Couldn't tell it by me."
"But… the way you've treated me the past two months, I never knew how I stood with you, sir, and…" Alan fumbled, feeling relief flush him like a quick rain-shower, and the beginnings of an anger that Lilycrop would string him along in this manner. "Damme, sir, you've had a good laugh at my every effort, and I've been on tenter-hooks all this time, waiting to let my guard slip and make some mistake, and…"
He could not go on, his tongue dangerously close to letting go something that could be construed as insolence or insubordination, as much as he wanted to rant and slap the old bugger silly.
"Want your mammy's teat to cosset you?" Lilycrop scowled as he topped up his glass again. "Want me to pat you on the back an' tell you how marvelous you are? Damme, you're a commission Sea Officer, there's no room for your bloody feelin's. There's the ship, her people, an' the Navy that comes first before makin' you feel good."
"I…" Alan started to say before clamping his mutinous trap shut once more.
"You started on the wrong foot, but that didn't last a day," Lilycrop continued. "I told you I'd say no more about it, and I haven't. 'Sides, 'tisn't my nature to go around praisin' somebody to the skies. You do your duty an' that's all I expect of any man. If you do your duty proper, you know it, an' you can pat yourself on the back if you've a mind. 'Sides, you learned, didn't you?"
"I… I think so, sir," Alan said realizing it was true.
"Found your feet, got a firm grip on the hands, found out how to run Shrike to my satisfaction, what more would you be wantin'?" Lilycrop shrugged. "More port?"
"Aye, sir. But how can you-most people respond to some sign of encouragement, sir. They have to hear that they did something right now and then, just as they need to be told they did something the wrong way if they make a muck of things." Alan floundered.
"Life's an unfair portion, ain't it, Mister Lewrie?" Lilycrop chuckled, slicing himself a morsel of cheese, which he plumped down on a thin slice of the remaining bread in lieu of extra-fine biscuit. "I told you once I don't splice the main-brace without I see the angel Gabriel close abeam. Now what would you a'done if I'd said 'you're doin' splendid, laddie' when you weren't? Gone all smug an' satisfied before you had it down pat. I gave you instruction, let you find your own way, an' you've come around to be a man I'd trust with this ship. Mind you, I had my doubts when you first came aboard. Um, good cheese."
"So you'll not ask for a replacement, sir?"
"Oh, Hell no. You'll do." Lilycrop grinned through a mouthful of cheese and bread.
"Well I'm damned!" Alan exhaled heavily, leaning back in his chair.
"No, you've turned more competent, an' you've gotten the ship smartened up right clever. I'm satisfied," Lilycrop sniffed.
"Even if every hand hates my guts, sir," Alan said, smiling, feeling he was ready to burst into hysterical laughter at his redemption.
"Oh, give 'em no mind, they always hate the first officer, an' don't you go tryin' to be their bosom friend, either," Lilycrop told him, wagging a finger down the length of the table at him. "They despise you, they tolerate me, and beside you an' your fault-findin' an' carpin' I'm a fuckin' saint in comparison. You didn't come aboard to be popular. You came aboard to be efficient in runnin' my ship for me. You're not a heavy flogger, nor are you a hand-wringin' hedge-priest. Firm but fair, you said your motto was, remember, young sir?"
"Aye, sir, I do."
"You're not half-seas-over are you, Mister Lewrie?"
"No, sir," Alan assured him of his relative sobriety.
"Then wipe that lunatick smile off your face and tip up your glass. Gooch, trot out another bottle of this poor excuse for port!"
I'm safe! Alan rejoiced inside as the servant puttered about and drew the cork from a fresh bottle. I'm safe in my place. He'll not chuck me. I'll do, he says? That must mean I'm not at all bad, even if he did half-kill me. Now, can I keep this pace up? Don't I ever get a chance to relax?
Ruefully, he decided that he probably would not. That was Lilycrop's sort of Navy, where one labored long and hard with not one whit of praise or encouragement, ready at all times to care for the ship first, last and always, with little chance for letting one's guard down.
"Now, sir," Lilycrop sighed after he had sampled the new bottle and sent Gooch off for his own supper. "I get the feelin' you may disagree with me 'bout how to train men. Maybe were we talkin' of raw landsmen, I might soften my methods, but 'tis the way I was brought up, you see. When you've a ship of your own to run, you may employ your own methods, and I give you joy of 'em. But I've never seen a sailor yet who was worth a cold-mutton fart for bein' cossetted like he was still in leadin' strings. You just have to make 'em get on with the work, trust your mates and warrants to pound 'em into line, and see they don't get brutalized, nor pushed too fast. Nor do you want 'em dandled on daddy's knee and told what good lads they are when they ain't."
"It varies with the man, some say, sir. What's sauce for the goose isn't sauce for gander all the time, sir," Alan replied, laid back at complete ease for the first time in two months, his breeches tight about his middle after a splendid repast, and his head light with wine fumes.
"But you never have time to train 'em, one man at a time. Some never'll do, no matter what you do with 'em." Lilycrop frowned. Samson leaped up on the table and arched his hindquarters into the air as Lilycrop stroked his back. "I've seen boys come aboard so starry-eyed for bein' at sea you'd have thought they'd seen Jesus in the riggin'. Some made it, some didn't. Raw landsmen, midshipmen, pressed men, we make sailors of 'em all if we can, or kill some of 'em in the process. When the shot starts to fly, you don't have time to make allowances for a weaklin', you got to have men you can count on. Take yourself."
&n
bsp; "Me, sir?" Alan asked, back on his guard again.
"You have brains, Mister Lewrie. You can learn, even if you have to get hurt in the process. Now young Mister Edgar, he's been in the Fleet four years, and God help the poor young ass, he'll never make a Sea Officer 'thout somebody on high parts the waters to let him cross over. I had to depend on you right from the start. No way you can have a first officer you have to spoon-feed. So you got your feelin's hurt, an' had yourself a weep now an' again. Well, this is a hard Service, an' I'm damned if I'll go to my grave seein' the ones that come after me have it easy an' soft, a mewlin' pack of children too weak an' whiny to serve our Navy, when it needs tarry-handed men!"
"This has been the absolute worst two months I have ever spent in the Navy, sir," Alan confessed as the wine crept up on him.
"And twenty years from now, you'll know you learned somethin'." Lilycrop nodded in agreement, all good humor gone from his face as he spoke with absolute conviction. "By God, sir, you'll be grateful someday you had it this hard, 'cause the worst times later'll feel like a stroll in Vauxhall Gardens. Not that I'm through with you, sir."
"Oh?"
"I said you'll do, but you've still a way to go. Everybody does. Don't go smug and satisfied on me. Well, you've the evenin' watch?" Lilycrop snorted, busying himself with Samson up on his chest.
"I exchanged with Webster, sir, so I'll have the morning."
"Heel-taps, then, and I'll let you go to your rest," Lilycrop said, lifting his glass and draining it.
"Goodnight, sir. Thank you for supper. And for… everything."
"Goodnight to you as well, Mister Lewrie."
Alan left the cabin and went out on the quarterdeck, where the night winds soughed and sang in the rigging, bringing a touch of cool dampness to what had been a warm day. Shrike loafed along, speared by the trough of a waxing moon, and the tropic skies were a blue as deep as his officer's coat, littered with stars that burned clear and cold.
He stopped at the wheel long enough to check the binnacle for a peek at the course and the dead reckoning of the day's run on the traverse board, scanned aloft at the set of the sails to see if they needed adjusting, and exchanged a few words with the watch. Then he took himself forward along the larboard gangway, until he was up on the fo'c'sle, where the spray sluiced and showered now and again as the ship's bow rose and fell so gently.
I'll do! he thought, smiling in the darkness. By God, that old bastard! All the worry and fear I've suffered, all the humiliation, and all he says is, you'll do! Well, maybe I shall, at that!
The Leeward Islands Fleet was in when Shrike sailed into English Harbor, and so Shrike had to take a mooring in the outer roads, for the inner harbor was full, for which Alan sincerely thanked God. He got the ship up into the wind and anchored without having to short-tack up that narrow channel through a city of warships. There were a few ships he had not seen before, including a huge three-decked 1st Rate, and he was so intent on them that he realized he had gotten Shrike safely in without his usual qualms. After that supper with Lilycrop, and his grudging acceptance, Lewrie was amazed at how much easier things had gone for him, how much more assured of his abilities he felt.
"A three-decker, sir," Alan said. "Do you think Admiral Rodney has come back? Maybe they're ready to try another pass with this de Grasse."
"Look more closely," Lilycrop suggested, passing him the telescope and uttering one of his semi-stifled titters of amusement.
"My God!" Alan exclaimed as the name on the stern placque leapt into focus. "Ville de Paris!"
"Think they have met," Lilycrop barked, rubbing his round nose in delight. "Now, would you be so good as to have my boat brought round to the entry port so I may go aboard the flag and report?"
"Aye, sir, immediately. Fukes?"
They had met indeed, on April 12, and the French fleet had been scattered to the four winds, some running back to Martinique, some for Cape Francois or Havana. Five line-of-battle ships had been taken at the Battle of The Saintes, including Ville de Paris, and de Grasse was now a British prisoner. Admiral Rodney had returned shortly after Shrike had left on her patrol, had taken Hood and his ships down to St. Lucia, and had dogged the French bases until they sailed. Much like Mr. Clerk's tactics treatise had suggested, Rodney had broken the order of the French line when a God-sent shift of wind had taken the French aback and forced them to luff up helpless while the British squadron still had wind to spare.
From de Grasse and his captured officers, it was learned that the French and Spanish from Havana were to have linked up and invaded the island of Jamaica in a joint expedition. Now that was foiled, for all the siege artillery had been taken at The Saintes in the ships now lying in English Harbor as prizes. Never before had a 1st Rate ship of the line of any nation been taken in battle; never had an admiral other than Rodney taken a French, a Dutch and a Spanish admiral prisoner in his last three actions. There was some carping that breaking the French line was an accident, not planned. There were rumblings that Rodney could have taken a dozen, two dozen prizes if he had released his line in General Chase. Still, it was a magnificent victory, strengthening England's hand after such a long drought.
And for Lewrie, the parties ashore were heaven. Dolly Fenton was still there in his lodgings, having sold her late husband's commission to another officer for twelve hundred pounds, and she had waited for him instead of going home. She did live frugally, as his shore agent could attest, and she was so full of love and passion for him it was all he could do to crawl to the boat landing each morning when Lilycrop allowed him to sleep out of the ship.
And damned if she didn't make a snug and pleasant little home for him, such a nice little abode that he invited Lieutenant Lilycrop to dine with them one night, and Dolly captivated the man from the first sight of her. They dined her aboard Shrike in the captain's quarters, asking the senior people from the wardroom in as guests, and she felt so honored she almost wept in the boat back to shore.
The best night was Sir Admiral Hood's levee for Vice Admiral Paul-Joseph, Comte de Grasse, and Alan squired her to that in a new gown and his gift of a gold necklace and earrings he had made her that day. She floated on air, she laughed shyly, and she trembled with joy to be on his arm, and to be ogled by all the other officers and their wives at the levee. She even captivated Admiral de Grasse in the receiving line.
It was a fairly quick trot down the receiving line among officers more senior to him, but it was worth it. The Frog was huge, well over six feet tall (it was reputed he had lifted the tall Rebel General Washington off his feet and hugged him, calling him "mon petit general") round as a beef cask, and weighed over twenty stone, with a round chubby face and tiny, pursed, almost porcine lips.
"Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, of the Shrike brig. And Miss Dolly Fenton," the officer to his side said as he passed them on. "Lewrie was at Yorktown, and the Battle of The Chesapeake. He escaped after the surrender."
"Milord," Alan said. "Nice to meet you at long last."
"Dolly, vot a pretty name, ma cher!" de Grasse said, kissing Dolly's hand and showing no signs of letting go. "Vee dance later, hein? Vee sing songs of eternal joy! Most beautiful of English beauties!"
"Lewrie, of the… oh, the hell with it," Alan sighed.
"Might as well bugger off, Lewrie," the officer who had introduced them said. "Be sure to get her hand back when you leave."
And Dolly was so entranced by meeting such a celebrity, by the music and wine and dancing, and the interest shown in her, that by the time they got back to his lodgings, it was all Alan could do to keep a shirt on before they got out of the hired coach.
Damme for a fool, he thought, late that night as she lay by his side, exhausted at last by their frenzied lovemaking, if I ain't coming to enjoy this maybe a bit too much. Damme if I'd ever marry her, not with Lucy Beauman out there, but this could be pleasant enough for the meantime. Only problem is, Dolly needs a man to cling to, and the way she wants to cling is the permanent anchorage. I'm way
too young for that. Ain't I? Yes, yes, I am, I'm sure of it.
And not a week later, they were sent orders to prepare for sea once more. Lieutenant Lilycrop came back aboard from Barfleur with a thick packet of orders under his arm, canvas-wrapped and bound up with official ribbons and sealed, and from the way he carried them, they had been weighted with grape shot to speed their descent into the nether-depths if Shrike were accosted by a foe.
"Despatches for Kingston," Lilycrop told Lewrie after he had stowed them away in a locker in his transom settee. "Hood and Rodney'll be on their way west after us, just in case the Dons and what Frogs escaped still have plans for Jamaica. We'll crack on all the sail she can fly, and I'll be wantin' to warn you again 'bout how Shrike can get away from you in a stiff blow to loo'rd."
"Aye, sir," Alan replied. "Sail on the next tide?"
"Yes. Are we ready to put to sea?"
"Aye, sir," Alan said, proud that he had the ship ready in all respects, in between the riotous celebrations ashore.
"By the way, the flag-captain informs me a terrible mistake was made two month ago, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop went on, tossing off his heavy coat, kicking off his tight shoes, and picking up a cat to stroke. "Seems a midshipman assistin' a flag-lieutenant-which is like a blind man helpin' a cripple cross a busy road-sent a Lieutenant Lyles, a man of no little experience, into the Amphion frigate, and sent you here as my first. Upset their little wardroom order with no end of shit."
"I see, sir. So I am to exchange with this Lieutenant Lyles?"
"Not a bit of it. Told 'em I preferred you, now we were used to each other's ways," Lilycrop growled, busying himself with a bottle of wine. "If they got their books wrong, it's no fault of mine, I told 'em. If Lyles got the wet end of the stick, it's their problem."
"Thank you, sir." Alan beamed, puffing up at the compliment.
"Didn't think an ambitious young fella like yourself would care to be third officer in a thirty-six, when you could be first, even in a little brig like Shrike."
The King`s Commission l-3 Page 17
