The Gun Ketch

by Dewey Lambdin

  And damme if I don't mean every word of it, he realized; she's become as dear to me as... Christ, who'd have thought!

  "I stand just as much chance losing you in the islands, Alan," she fretted, squeezing him tight. "What life do you think I'd care to live, with you gone in a shipwreck, or carried off by some fever! And I'd never have been a real wife to you but this single fortnight! Oh, Alan, take me with you, do! At least, when Alacrity puts into Nassau, we could have a week or two here and there together, in a snug little home of our own! Is Nassau such a terrible place, then?"

  "Pirates, footpads, cut-purses," he described to her. "There're drunken sailors and their whores, reprobates and discourteous rabble; carousing and caterwauling 'til all hours..."

  "Like Portsmouth, is it?" she asked, and even in the dark, Alan could almost espy her puckish grin. "Yet you entrust me to this town, half the world away from you. What would be worse about Nassau?"

  "Caroline, it's so..." he sighed, his desire for her, and the lust for unknown adventures crossing swords with each other, just as they had before he'd become so quickly engaged.

  "I know, I'm being so foolish and missish, Alan," she weakened. "Do but consider it, though, darling? Please, love?"

  Her kisses stopped any further objections he could muster.

  "Let's sleep on it," she urged sweetly, fluffing up his pillows and guiding him to recline again, so they could snuggle even closer to each other. "I do love you more than life itself, Alan. Goodnight, my dearest love. Goodnight, my darling."

  Chapter 3

  "We're making good progress, even so, sir," Lt. Arthur Ballard told him a few days later as they sat in Alan's now-furnished cabins, sharing their morning tea.

  "Still four hands short, even with the West Indians, the debtor landsmen, and the volunteers," Alan sighed over the rim of his mug. "I s'pose it can't be helped. And damme if I'll make the Impress Service any richer than I already have. How are the Marine Society lads?"

  "Quite pleasing, considering, sir," Ballard smiled. "They taught them knots, boat-handling, mast drills... they'll work out, sir," he said. "They're eager to please. More than one may say about the men from the debtors' prisons."

  Lewrie was pleased with Ballard as well. Arthur Ballard was an inch shorter than he, just a few months younger, but had joined as a cabin servant at nine. He'd served as an Ordinary Seaman and a topman since his fourteenth year, had made midshipman at sixteen, so he was thoroughly seasoned. He'd been third officer in a frigate, rising to second officer before she paid off in late 1785.

  He was a neat little fellow, though of a more serious bent than Alan was used to in officers so close to his own age. Ballard was regular and square; squarish head and regular features. His hair was wiry and wavy, set close to his head. His brows were a trifle heavy, thick and dark, shading intelligent brown eyes which regarded the world so soberly and adjudging. His nose was short, straight, and a bit broad. His face ended in a square chin, with a pronounced cleft.

  But even at his young age, his mouth bore frown lines to either corner. Betraying his sobriety, though, evincing a passionate nature he wished to contain, were lips full and sensual in a broad mouth, the lower lip quite plump and slightly protruding.

  Ballard dressed neatly, but in slightly worn uniforms, like an officer who actually lived on his pay and little else, pulling it off with his sobriety and great care for his person. Those uniforms draped a body neither very broad nor very slim, which gave him stolid solidity without true bulk. Yet within that body was a powerful set of lungs, a deep baritone voice which could carry forward without the use of a speaking trumpet, and a surprise to the unsuspecting person who might meet him and at first dismiss him.

  Caged, Alan thought of his first lieutenant. He's like a beast in a cage. Not the pacing kind. He's the sort who sits and waits for his keeper to drop his caution someday before he flees.

  "Sail drill in the forenoon," Alan announced at last. "Working parties after the midday meal. Livestock for the manger. And household goods for the Townsleys to be stowed."

  "Their goods first, then, sir. No shite on their furniture."

  "Aha, very good, Mister Ballard," Alan laughed. "Once loaded, one more day in port for last-minute items and then ..." He sobered.

  "Off for the Bahamas, sir," Ballard said with a trace of glee.

  "All for now, Mister Ballard," Lewrie said, rising carefully so he did not smash his skull on the low overhead, which allowed him only three inches more than his full height, and only between the deck beams. "Oh, there's goods of mine as well to be stowed. Make them first in, last out. And I'll see the ship's carpenter, Mister Stock."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Ballard said, mystified.

  Alan put his hands in the small of his back and paced aft, ducking each threatening rosy-painted beam, to the sash windows for a view of the harbor as he pondered his most recent decision.

  He had put this one off quite late; how to make room for both himself, the Townsleys and their servants, in his great-cabins, which would not make a decent set of rooms at the George.

  Great, hah! He mused. Only to a mate in a dogbox below!

  And make room for Caroline.

  She hadn't nagged or harped upon it; yet she had kept the idea of going with him ever in his mind. Daily, she'd worn a little more of his resolve down. First with affection and passion, then with her clear-eyed discussions of Bahamian weather, living conditions, which winds blew all feverish miasmas to leeward to the real Fever Isles...

  She'd marshaled support from other senior naval officers and wives staying at the George or other establishments nearby, never at all giving them the slightest hint that she was more than curious as to what her dear husband might face in that particular clime. Slowly, she'd changed his mind. As she had excited his tenderest affections for her that were only half-formed and ill conceived weeks before back in Anglesgreen. Had made herself dearer to him than he had ever hoped to imagine, until he could not picture himself without her for three whole years.

  There were, too, his rising fears.

  Being loved at all was, to put it mildly, just a tad outside his past experiences. And to be loved and adored so openly, so deeply and enthusiastically was such a blossoming wonder that he found himself waking in the middle of the nights to marvel at the stunning creature who shared his bed, and slept so trustingly and vulnerably in his arms. To watch her dress, brush her hair, enter the public rooms when he sat waiting for her, was a heart-lurching joy. And their converse over a weighty matter or a jest was an absolute delight.

  What had he known as love before? Pretty much a spectral semblance—flattery and entendres which passed for wit and talk, followed by ogling, grappling, and frantic coupling on whatever fell to hand.

  Never regard, never esteem, fellowship, never... some affection, of course, but nothing of a lasting nature.

  On, off, and where the devil'd I drop me shoes, he scoffed!

  Granted, it would be bad for his career. But had he not already blighted that by marrying at all so junior an officer? And, once this commission was ended in 1789, would he really shed a tear to spend his life ashore on half pay, no matter how much pride he had at last derived from his growing skill as a Sea Officer?

  He could spend that life with Caroline, with enough money to buy land, to live off interest with Coutts & Co., some investments in funds.

  "Two weeks ago, the idea scared me witless, and now ..." Lewrie puzzled, bemused by his eagerness to admit that he was married, and married most damnably well, too, to an absolute gem of a young woman!

  Even if it had come about like an unintentional dismasting.

  Yet...

  Lewrie knew people; admittedly some thoroughly despicable ones. He knew the enthusiasms of "grass widows," and the sort of men who went baying like a pack of hounds in pursuit of abandoned and lonely women; God knows he 'd prospered on them. He could see how other officers and Portsmouth gentlemen regarded her so hungrily when he and Caroline were out an
d about the town already. Might she... even Caroline ... succumb at last, missing lovemaking so much after a brief, glorious introduction, with him away for three years, might she... ?

  "Christ, I've rattled too many wives and widows," he muttered in gloom. "Ironic justice, that'd be. Maybe innocence and ignorance would be a blessing! God, surely not her!"

  So when, the night preceding, Caroline had shyly confessed that she had not actively sought decent lodgings, and begged his forgiveness for scheming to go with him, he had been more than relieved of all his worries, and had surrendered to her will most ecstatically.

  There was a rap on the cabin hatchway.

  "Ship's carpenter Mister Stock, sir!" the lone seaman on guard called out, filling in for the Marine sentry Alacrity did not have.

  "Enter!" Lewrie replied.

  "Yew wanted t'see me, Captain, sir?" the youngish Mr. Stock said as he ducked his head to enter and removed his stocking cap.

  "Aye, Mister Stock," Lewrie brightened. "I need your expertise to rearrange my cabins to accommodate our passengers. I'd thought you might be able to turn the starboard quarter-gallery into a second 'necessary closet,'I give our passengers some canvas and deal partitions to provide privacy... oh, about here, say. And their maid needs sleeping space. The manservant will berth below in the stores room."

  "Uhm ..." Stock pondered. "Foldup pilot-berth here, sir, over the sideboard in the dinin' coach fr the maid. Double berth fr the married folks." Here Stock actually blushed! "We've partitions enough, sir. And yon double hanging-cot a'ready. Not a day's work, sir."

  "Best build a double hanging-cot for them," Lewrie said. "Leave me equidistant room down the starboard side, and a passageway t'other side. I'm ... ahumphh ... partial to the existing double."

  "Oh, aye, aye, sir," Stock agreed with a sad expression.

  Chapter 4

  "God, what a bloody pot-mess," Alan fumed on sailing day as he beheld his little command turn from a trig gun ketch to a bloody Ark, from a sane and rational construct to a barking shambles!

  "Heave, and in sight!" Parham, one of his fourteen-year-old midshipmen, howled from up forward.

  "Jib halyards, gaff halyards, peak halyards, Mister Ballard!" Alan snapped. The inexperienced landsmen and volunteers were being trampled by the ordinary and able seamen; the draft of midshipmen flitted about trying to appear useful, or to avoid a mob of hands who suddenly stampeded in their general direction. A yearling steer gave out a mournful bellow of annoyance, the pigs and sheep squealed or baaed in sudden terror, and ducks and geese in the fo'c's'le manger squawked and fluttered, so that Alacrity's foredecks were nigh awash in feathers. There was a deal of cursing from professionals, too.

  The ship's boys served as nippermen, seizing the lighter line to the heavier anchor hawser, whilst inexperienced landsmen under the direction of the bosun's mate, a Portuguese named Odrado, tried to deal the stinking coils of salt-stiffened cable into manageable heaps, then down to the cable tiers to drape over the bitts to dry. And it was a truism that had Alacrity been a 1st Rate 100-gunned flagship, they would still not have had enough deck space for the nippers, the men on the cable, the hands heaving on the capstan, the sailhandlers or the sheetmen on the gangways ready to brace the jibs and gaff sails.

  Blocks squealed, lignum vitae sheaves hummed, and gaffs cried as the sails were hoisted aloft.

  "Payin' off t'larboard, no helm, sir," Neill said from the long tiller sweep with his fellow Burke standing by, ready to lend strength for when the wind gave enough way through the water to make the rudder function.

  "Forrud!" Lewrie bawled. "Walk your jib sheets to larboard and haul away! Brace up the after course, there, lads! A luff, no more, foredeck!"

  Alan spun to walk to larboard to peer over the side to see if there was even the slightest hint of a wake, and to gauge distances to other anchored ships. He almost collided with the Reverend Townsley and his wife who were gawking about like farts in a trance, cackling with amusement and treating the spectacle like a rare show.

  "Your pardons," he said, not sounding much like he meant it as he brushed past them. He had advised Caroline to stay below and out of the way until he sent Cony for her, once the ship had gotten under way and things were a bit less disorganized.

  "Brace on the capstan, well the cable!" Ballard called, tending to his chores. "Ready on the cat!"

  Thank God for a first lieutenant, Lewrie thought. And thank God for a competent one. There, a wake, he exulted! He tossed a chip of scrap wood over and watched it bob astern, foot at a time.

  "Bite t'the helm, sir," Neill cried.

  "Larboard your helm, Mister Neill. Bring her up to weather on a soldier's wind for now. Forrud!" Alan called, once more stumbling over the Townsleys, who had moved to the forward left corner of the quarter-deck nettings. "Haul away on your larboard sheets!"

  "Silly bugger!" Burke yelped as his way with the tiller sweep was impeded. Alan didn't have to turn around to see who it was that had gotten in the way.

  "You might do better all the way aft by the taffrails, Reverend," Alan said, then shouted," 'Vast hauling! Luff enough! Now belay!"

  Alacrity was free of the land, free of the bottom, and moving faster. The wind was from the west, with a touch of northing, giving them a clear shot down the western passage past the Isle of Wight, with enough strength to it to let them harden up to weather to keep off the coast to their lee, to go close-hauled if they had to without a tack. With luck and no traffic, they could get to sea in the Channel on one long board.

  Lewrie heaved a slight sigh of relief. Comical as they might have looked to ships longer in commission and practice, Alacrity was on her way. He walked back up to starboard, along the narrow space inside the quarter-deck railings and the after capstan-head to starboard, the windward side, which was his by right as captain.

  "Anchor's fished, catted and rung up, sir," Ballard told him, touching his hat with a finger. Those studious brown eyes held the slightest hint of glee. "Cable's below, hawse-bucklers fitted."

  "Thank you, Mister Ballard," Lewrie smiled. "Not too awful, considering. Two rehearsals seemed to have turned the trick. Thank you again, for your suggestion."

  "My pleasure, Captain," Ballard said, inclining his head, his long upper lip curving just a trifle.

  "I'd admire should you attend to the gun salute to the flag," Lewrie instructed. "The experienced hands, mind."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Ballard said, turning away.

  Lewrie looked down on his gun deck and gangways. What had been total disorder was now flaked down and lashed, hung on the pintails in neat loops; halyards and sheets, braces and lifts, were stowed for instant use.

  Senior seamen were explaining things to their rawer compatriots, beginning to play the role of "sea daddies."

  William Pitt sprang up atop the quarter-deck railings, his tail lashing with excitement. Alan reached out and ruffled the fur behind his ears. "How does it feel to have a ship of your own to terrorize again, hey, Pitt? Good?" Pitt tucked his paws in and lay still.

  For an English day, it was remarkably lovely. There was some bite to the breeze, of course, but the sun was out, peeking between thin scud, making the waters of the Solent gleam, giving them color for once beyond steely gray, brightening the vista of ships and sea.

  "Cony?" Alan called, flinching as he remembered Caroline.

  "Aye, sir."

  "My respects to Mistress Lewrie, and inform her the deck is quiet enough for her to come up," he told him, unable to control a blush at using the unfamiliar title "Mistress Lewrie."

  "There's the pretty!" Caroline said, stroking Pitt as she came to the quarter-deck by one of the short ladders from the gun deck, and Pitt stood to get his petting. "Oh, how marvelous!" she exclaimed in delight, coming to his side to link arms with him. "A perfectly gorgeous morning. Good morning, Mister Ballard."

  "Good morning to you, ma'am," Ballard replied, doffing his hat to her. "Your pardons, ma'am, but 'twill be a little noisy in a few momen
ts. Aft, there! Prepare to dip the colours! Mister Fowles, be ready!"

  "Aye, aye, sir!"

  Abeam of the principal fort, Alacrity began to thunder out a gun salute. She dipped her colours briefly as the equally-spaced shots rang out, with Fowles pacing aft from one gun to the next, muttering the ancient litany of timing, "... if I weren't a gunner, I wouldn't be here. Number three gun.... fire! I've left my wife, my home, and all that's dear. Number four gun... fire!"

  "Thank you, Alan dearest," Caroline whispered to him between shots. "I'll never give you cause to regret your decision. I love you so completely!"

  "And I love you, Caroline," he whispered back, bending from his rigid pose of lord and master for a second, grinning foolishly.

  BOOM!

  "At least on passage, I shall learn what sort of life you lead aboard your ships," Caroline went on. "So I may understand you better and picture you more clearly when you're away."

  BOOM!

  "Oh, Alan, we're setting out on a grand adventure!" She laughed. "Such a honeymoon, no one has ever had!"

  "There, there, my dear," Lewrie comforted, almost gagging himself as his bride "cast her accounts." She knelt in the starboard quarter-gallery, the "necessary" converted from a wardrobe little larger than a small closet.

  "It passes. It will."

  She looked up at him, dull-eyed and wan, her livery face now devoid of expression. "Dear Jesus, could I but... Harrackkk!'"

  Back her face went over the hole as her body rebelled at such infernal motion, at the stomach-churning odors of ship and food. He knelt with her to hold her head, to apply a towel below her chin as solicitously as he could, for one whose cast-iron craw had withstood the fiercest gales since his first hours in the Navy. But he had to dwell on the smells of fresh-sawn wood and new paint most closely!

  There was a rap on the flimsy louvred door to their share of the great-cabins. "Mister Ballard's respects, sir, and I am to tell you he is desirous of tacking ship," a thin voice called out.