"Could the Spanish have some siege artillery of their own, sir?"
"Oh, aye," Lilycrop agreed. "Every fuckin' fort on Cuba'r Hispaniola's full of heavy guns. Poor local-milled powder, maybe old stone shot, though. Be a bitch to dismount and build field carriages."
"But they could improvise a siege-train from them, if they were of a mind, sir. And the easiest way to transport them would be by sea, along the coasts, would it not?"
"Aye, they'd kill a thousand bullocks haulin' 'em on what pass for roads in the islands." Lilycrop perked up.
"Exactly, sir," Alan pressed. "But what sort of ships would be available to carry siege guns to Cape Francois or Havana? How many ships of worth do they have in the Indies they'd risk in coastal waters?"
"Not that many, I grant."
"Too strong to be taken by a small ketch or cutter, sir, but just the presence of a well set up brig of war could run them back into harbor. They'd think themselves safe from a frigate close inshore, but we are pretty fast, sir, and we can go into less than three fathoms to chase them down."
"Damme, but you're a nacky little'n, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop marveled. "I misjudged your wit, an' for that I apologize. Aye, Shrike could stir 'em up like the Wrath of God. If," he cautioned, "if we were allowed. I'm sure this Admiral Rowley has his own favorite corsairs; bought in some shallow-draught vessels as tenders to the flagship to line his pockets with prize-money already. We'll swing at our anchors 'til next Epiphany waitin' for the call to glory."
"A respectful letter to the flag, suggesting suitable employment for us could take the trick, sir." Alan smiled. "Prize-money for us and the admiral, a reduction in the bottoms available to the Dagoes, some repute for us, and… if there is some grudge between Parker and Rodney, we could mollify it. Rowley needs to be seen doing something to save Jamaica, doesn't he? Rodney'll have all the glory at the victory celebrations, and…"
"Now you're off in fictional speculatin'," Lilycrop scoffed. "We know no such thing. Still…"
"Beats waiting for employment at the admiral's pleasure, sir."
"Hmm." Lilycrop stroked his chin, now shaved of the usual crop of bristly white for his appearance aboard the flagship-usually he only laid steel to whiskers once a week for Sunday Divisions.
Alan took a sip of wine while Lilycrop pondered the matter. He could see the battle going on between the need for recognition and some small bit of fame before the war ended (and his hopes of future service in the Navy with it) and the desire to safeguard what little he had. The want of prize-money for retirement, and the risk to his ship and the loss of what grudging respect he had won if he failed.
"Too deep for me, Lewrie," Lilycrop scowled finally. "It smacks too much o' schemin' for 'place,' to suit me. An' what sort of fool may I look to go clamorin' for action when there's others more senior or deservin'? In the Navy, you'll learn to take what comes as your portion an' not go wheedlin' for a chance to shine, sir."
"They do wish us to be ambitious, sir," Alan allowed with a shrug, thinking he had disappointed his captain by being too forward.
"In our actions, yes, once given a charge," Lilycrop cautioned. "But not in advancin' our careers 'thout earnin' the right to do so."
"Well, it was just a thought, sir," Alan sighed. "But it would gall me terribly to think we had to sit out the rest of the war with no opportunity to do something useful."
Did I mean that? Alan wondered even as he uttered it. It was the proper sentiment a fire-eating young officer was expected to display, and he thought he had said it rather well, so well, in fact, that Alan felt a hard kernel of truth in it. He sometimes thought it was his curse that he could sit outside himself and judge his performance on the stage of Life like a disgruntled theater-goer waiting for a chance to get rid of the rotten fruit carried in with him, ready to jeer and heckle a poor reading, or cheer when a scene was carried off well.
It would make little difference if Shrike did spend the rest of the war at her moorings, or off on boresomely empty patrols. He had fulfilled his present ambitions; a small measure of fame for cool bravery, a commission, some prize-money, and now his post as a first officer, even in a small ship. He had seen the razor-edge of terror often enough to know how mortal he was, and like any sensible person could give war a great big miss the next time, to save his own skin.
If Shrike did stay in Kingston Harbor for some time, he could get ashore to court Lucy Beauman and make a firm pact with her about their future together. And from the tone of her latest letters, that would be best, before her circle of swains and admirers monopolized her to his detriment.
So why am I urging the captain to get us active employment? he asked himself, when anyone with any sense would want to stay out of danger and go courting one of the most beautiful young women of the age. It's daft, but this Navy stuff must be getting to me.
It made him squirm to face it, but he was indeed, through no fault or wish of his own, a Sea Officer of the King. He was getting rather good at it. And it was an honorable profession, not just the Guinea Stamp admitting him to the society of other gentlemen, but now a small yet burgeoning source of pride in his abilities. God knew he had had few reasons for pride before. It was demanding, dangerous, but it was his. There was no reward on earth for meekness, so why should he be content to stand on the sidelines crying "well played, sir" to some other ambitious young bugger with better connections, when there was a chance for advancement? There were prizes to take, money to be made, further fame to be won which would ease his passage to-to what?
Post-captain? He scoffed at his speculations. Admiral's rank? A bloody knight-hood? The peerage? Why not make the most of it while I may. Lewrie, what a hopeful little fool you are! But then again, why the hell not? We could sweep the seas so clean we could come back like that Dutchman Tromp with a broom at his mast truck. Just goes to show why one shouldn't encourage people like me. Once they got a taste of something, damme if they don't aspire to the whole thing.
"Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, of the Shrike brig!" the major-domo announced over the sound of the lawn party, to which announcement very few people took notice, being too intent on their pleasures. The sun was low in the sky and the tropical day had lost most of its heat to a sea breeze that swayed the paper lanterns in the trees, toyed with the wigs of the revelers and ruffled the intricate flounces of the women's gowns. String music (something by Purcell, Alan decided after cocking an educated ear) waxed and ebbed, depending on the wind or the thickness of the throng in front of the musicians in the gazebo to his right.
He stood at the base of the brick steps that led down from the tiled and sheltered back terrace of the house, surveying the crowd and searching for Lucy Beauman. Her parents' town house, which was no town house at all but a second mansion large enough for a titled lord, was aflutter with bunting and Naval ensigns in celebration for Admiral Rodney's victory at the Battle of The Saintes. There was enough red, white and blue material to make commissioning pendants and ensigns for every ship in the active inventory of the Fleet. As he had come through the central hall, Alan had seen a dining table decorated with a line of pastry and confection 3rd Rates, candied sails abillow and marzipan guns belching angel-hair powder smoke, a card table as a center-piece amid the buffet items with Winged Victory bearing a trident and flag, roaring lions at her feet, with a gilt helmet overlaid with the laurel wreath corona of triumph.
"Damme, but the Beaumans know how to spend their money, don't they?" he muttered, happy they had the pelf with which to entertain their burst of patriotic emotions. "Wonder they didn't just gild the whole damned house?"
There must have been over two hundred guests, the luminaries of Jamaica: prominent officials or high-ranking Navy and Army officers, and leading citizens with the government, title, place or sufficient money and lands to be included. Men strolled languidly in silk and satin suitings, women glided and tittered and fanned themselves, showing off their most stunning gowns and jewels.
Somewhere in that mob, Lucy cou
ld be found, and Alan felt his pulse quicken at the thought of seeing her again. He looked for the densest clutch of young men; Lucy would be sure to be in the center of them, flirting madly, if Alan knew his average young tit.
The wind picked up briefly, and a gust played with the tail of his long uniform coat. A black servant in cloth-of-silver and silk livery offered him a tray that bore delicate flutes of champagne, trying to balance the tray and keep his fresh-powdered white tie-wig from scudding somewhere off to leeward at the same time.
It would rain soon, Alan knew, a heavy tropical downpour fit to run all these revelers indoors, but not a threatening storm. If there had been any ominous signs to the weather, Lilycrop would have pulled his pug-nose and not allowed him ashore, invitation or not. But Lilycrop had had his own run ashore, and had come back aboard in the "early-earlies," breeches half buttoned, with what appeared to be rouge or paste on the fly, and most cordially "in the barrel," so he could not deny his first lieutenant his chance.
Alan took a sip of champagne-it was a suspiciously good vintage from France, a nation with which they were at war, and he smiled wryly as he imagined what under-handed practice had brought the wine to this occasion. He stepped out into the crowd, bowing slightly to people now and again if he caught their eyes, or they took notice of him, a cordial smile plastered on his phyz.
Aha, he thought, hearing a small shriek of laughter from the left, near a span of side-tables loaded down with delicacies and drink.
"Young Lewrie!" a voice boomed, interrupting his progress in that direction. Alan turned to see Mister Beauman. If anything, his host (and hopefully, prospective father-in-law) had gotten even stouter, and his taste in clothing had not improved much. It had been a sweltering spring day, and still felt clammy despite the cooling breeze from so much rain due soon, but he was tricked out in a massive older wig awash in side-curls down past his ears, which gave off puffs of flour every time the wind came up. His coat and breeches were white satin, and he wore a sleeved, older style waist-coat of pale yellow silk heavily embroidered with vines and flowers. How he kept from melting away, Alan could not ascertain.
"Mister Beauman, sir," Alan replied, as though he was the very person for whom he had been searching. "How grand to see you once more. May I express my heartfelt thanks for your kind invitation!"
"Don't ye look a sight, sir!" Beauman whooped. "Bless my eyes, a commission officer! Give ye joy, me lad."
"And to you, sir."
"Heard ye'd made lieutenant. Hard service in Virginia? Damn all Frogs." Beauman rumbled on, snatching another glass of claret from a passing tray. "Still, skinned the bastards, hey?"
"Indeed we did, sir," Alan agreed.
"Saved Jamaica," Beauman pronounced between slurps. "Took part in it, did ye? Grand sight, and all that?"
"No, sir. Shrike was up north patrolling between the Bahamas and the Virgins when…"
"Oh, too bad," Beauman interrupted. "Not your fault, I expect."
Alan wondered once more if the man had ever completed a full sentence instead of lopping them down to the pith. The Beaumans, except for their dear Lucy, were "country" types, shootin', huntin', dog-lovin', tenant tramplin', slave-bashin' Squires with more money than ton, and Alan felt a twinge at the thought of having to spend more than a day in their presence if he were fortunate enough to wed their daughter. He vowed he'd live in London and let them pursue their own amusements, preferably as far away as possible, as long as possible. Had it not been for their money, he'd have sneered at them for being such a pack of "Country-Harrys" and "Chaw-Bacons."
"Come meet the missus, Lewrie," Beauman ordered, turning his back and leading off through his guests, and Alan had no choice but to take station on Beauman's ample stern-quarters and follow.
"So this is young Mister Lewrie of which we've heard so much," Mrs. Beauman exclaimed after they had exchanged greetings.
Mrs. Beauman was the source of Lucy's beauty, Alan saw, fair and petite, a bit gone to plumpness, but still a fine figure of a woman in spite of her age. Her choice of attire was much better than her husband's, as well, though a bit old-fashioned. Hugh, the eldest son, was a younger replica of the father, hard-handed and hard-eyed as he finally met the upstart suitor for his sister's hand; the welcome from him was a chary one. The younger son resembled Lucy in his short stature and fair complexion, a bit of a dandy-prat in grey and maroon shot-silk coat and breeches, exaggerated sleeve cuffs and coat tails, and blue leather shoes with red heels trimmed in gold.
"Alan Lewrie, haw haw," he offered. "Ain't you the fortunate buck! Escapin' Yorktown and all, what?"
"Cut his way out!" Beauman, Sr., boasted. "Through fire and steel! My youngest boy, Ledyard, Lewrie."
"Delighted," Alan replied, offering his hand.
"Y're servant, sir, haw haw!" Ledyard rejoined inanely.
There was a middle daughter named Floss, bearer of the worst traits from the father's side of the union, ill-favored and swarthy; but her husband seemed happy enough, perhaps mollified by her father's gold. Master Hugh Beauman was married as well, to a rather good-looking young piece who evidently had realized it was impossible to get a word in edgewise in such a family, and had stopped trying. Anne gave him a sympathetic shrug, and a bit of a wink that in other circumstances would have had Alan scheming for a space of time alone with her.
There followed some rather uncomfortable minutes of chitchat, with Alan the unwitting victim for not knowing any of the people or events they referred to, a common fault in people full of themselves. And Alan should have known about that, from monopolizing past conversations, but it was a wrench to be on the receiving end. There was no chance to break away and go searching for Lucy, the prime object of his trip ashore.
"Think it'll rain?" Mistress Anne asked him as the tops of the trees began to sway, and the sky turned gloomier.
"I would not doubt it at all, ma'am," Alan replied.
"Then we must see to getting the side-boards indoors before it begins. And I see you are out of wine, sir," she offered.
"Ah, yes I am," Alan noted. "May I escort you, ma'am?"
"I would be deeply obliged, sir."
Alan bowed his way out of the family circle and offered his arm to walk the fetching Anne Beauman towards the buffets.
"Daunting, ain't they?" she smirked once they were out of earshot.
"Daunting is a good description, ma'am," Alan smiled back.
"And I doubt you'd care to spend the rest of the evening with them, when Mistress Lucy is the reason for your visit?" Anne rejoined.
"I had hoped," Alan agreed, waving the servant with the askew wig over to service them with a tray of wine. He traded their glasses in for two fresh flutes of champagne and offered her one.
"We have heard much of you, Mister Lewrie," Anne continued. "From Lucy's description, and from your letters-those portions which Lucy thought relevant to relate to us-I would have expected someone much older. More… weathered."
"As my captain says, ma'am, I've only been in the Navy little more than a dog-watch."
"Dueling for Lucy's honor, saving a ship and her distinguished passengers, escaping Yorktown…" Anne raised an eyebrow in appreciation. "You have led an active life. And now you wish to enamor yourself to the Beaumans?"
Damn the bitch, Alan thought. I didn't come here to be mocked by some parvenu.
"Lucy and I developed a great fondness for each other last year on Antigua, ma'am. Her father allows me to call, but as for…"
"Don't call me ma'am, Mister Lewrie," Anne assured him with a touch of her hand on his sleeve. "I am Anne, and you are Alan. With luck, we shall be related, so why not start out on your best foot? A bit of advice?"
"Thank you."
"Don't take them seriously. If you do they will infuriate you beyond all reason." Anne frowned. "Hugh is a good enough man, the best of the lot in many ways, but in better circles they can appear a bit crude. A little too rustic and earthy."
"It is hardly my place to judge
yet, Anne. I'm sure Lucy has many admirers, and as for my hopes-well, we shall see."
"How romantic!" Anne gushed, with just a tinge of sarcasm. "To hang the larger issues and let love dictate your desires. You are a paragon, Alan. Always pay attention to the family. Daughters turn out remarkably like their mothers, and sons become their fathers, in most instances."
"You sound disappointed," Alan said, cocking his head to one side to study her more closely. Yes, there was definitely a come-hither glint to her beauty; long dark hair and dark eyes, skin more olive or tinted by the sun than was fashionable. A wide mouth, high cheeks and a face that tapered to perfection, spoiled only by a few small-pox scars, but altogether a damned handsome woman near his age.
"Walk with me," she insisted. "I shall lead you to your Lucy."
"My pleasure."
"Island society, as you may know, is not what one would choose if given the choice of a Paris salon or a London drum," Anne told him, her hand resting maddeningly on his left sleeve, her fingers prying at the broadcloth gently. "There is a difference between hiring servants, and owning them outright. It makes for a callousness. Wield the whip often enough and flayed flesh becomes commonplace. The same goes for emotions, for souls. And the civilizing influence of literature, of music and manners is only a thin veneer. Thinner here in the islands than at home."
"I stand warned that they are all brutes and ogres," Alan quipped.
"They have their charms, even so," Anne replied with a small shrug. "And they are hardly that bad. I apologize for being gloomy."
"And you are not from the islands originally, I take it?"
"No. My father was secretary to the Governor-General, and we came out here in '72, before the war," she told him. "The lure of sugar planting got him, and we stayed. Hugh and I have been married for four years now. We have two fine children. I am quite content."
The hell you are! Alan thought. That's about as broad a hint as I've heard in six months. She's bored beyond tears.
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