The Gun Ketch

by Dewey Lambdin

  "They did learn sea skills on passage, sir."

  "A plow horse leaping two stacked boards ain't a blooded hunter, Lewrie, nor never will be."

  "They are indeed a scurvy pair of Tom-Noddys, sir," Lewrie agreed, assaying a small witticism to ease the tension of this vitally important first interview with the man who could make or break him in the next three years, which had so far been tantamount to a disaster. "At present, they're no better than fresh-caught landsmen. Confused they may be, but neither of them is backward. They learn fast, sir."

  "What is your armament, sir?" Garvey inquired suddenly, changing tack abruptly. "Your draught?"

  "Alacrity mounts ten six-pounders, four dismountable two-pounder boat-guns, and the usual swivels, sir," Lewrie answered crisply, glad to be back on safe professional matters. "Properly laden and ballasted, she draws just shy of nine feet. Say a half less than nine, sir."

  "Hmmmm," Garvey mused, idly toying with the lid of his silver inkwell, opening it and closing it again and again, as if something other than ink would magically appear for once. "Anything needful?"

  "Firewood and water, the usual plaint, sir," Lewrie smiled in reply. "Restock our biscuit and salt-meats from the dockyard... she is in all other respects ready for sea, sir."

  "A touch too weak for deep-water patrolling," Garvey surmised. "We've more than our fair share of pirates and buccaneers, still, and ships voyage past the Bahamas at their peril. Too many privateersmen from the late-lamented war, spoiled by easy pickings. You're not well armed enough to cow merchantmen violating the Navigation Acts, either."

  "Aye, sir," Lewrie responded automatically whenever some senior officer paused to gather his thoughts, as he did in this case.

  "Shoal-depth enough, though, to be useful inshore, in most instances, where the opposition would be even smaller and weaker-armed than your ketch. This fellow Gatacre, d'you say... I was to supply him with a suitable vessel?"

  "I could not presume to know his complete orders, sir," Lewrie wavered, "nor the contents of whatsoever directives from the Admiralty accompany him. I may only suppose. He did, however, express a desire for two local-built luggers, in addition to ship's boats from the vessel supporting him, sir."

  "And what do you possess for ship's boats, sir?" Garvey smiled.

  "A twenty-foot launch, a cutter of similar size, and my gig, sir."

  "Since he is already aboard your vessel, Lewrie, and you have room enough aboard, after all, I do believe I'll let him stay there," Garvey smirked. "The other cutters and such of this squadron would cramp him unmercifully. But Alacrity, now used to extra 'lumber' aft, will cope, I am certain. And those two Naval Academy midshipmen?"

  "Aye, sir?" Lewrie felt his buttocks puckering in dread. He'd been charitable at best as to their prospects and abilities, but would be glad to see the back of them. He'd not have them if they came with a post-captain's rank!

  "Good at mathematics, to the exclusion of all else useful," Garvey said, leaning back in his cool leather chair. "And who could be more helpful to the exacting work of hydrography than superior students of mathematics and surveying, hmm?"

  "What a splendid idea, sir!" Lewrie beamed, pissing down his back as if the bastard had done him a signal honor, though he seethed at the very idea! "What eminent good sense it is, sir. I should be delighted! May I suggest to Mr. Gatacre that he may feel free to call upon you to discuss his other requirements, then, sir? Once you have had time to peruse what the Admiralty wrote you concerning his duties, that is. A day, perhaps, at your convenience, sir."

  "Uhm, of course, he may," Garvey replied, taken aback by Alan's reaction. "You may." He'd thought to punish this upstart for treating his kin so badly, to be the whipping boy for the Admiralty's callous unconcern for their comforts. To put this "newly" in his place, right from the start!

  "And may I be allowed to inquire, sir, as to whether I may give leave tickets to my hands, too, sir?" Lewrie fairly oozed unctuous oils of sociability, sounding as though butter would not melt in his mouth. "Once Alacrity is reprovisioned and suitable luggers found, before we begin our surveying, sir?"

  "I might allow it," Garvey almost sulked, put out that Alan was not "put out."

  "Within reason, mind."

  "Further, sir, might I inquire as to your Standing Orders for the Bahamas Squadron?" Lewrie pressed, bestowing blissful smiles upon his station commander. "Do you require captains to sleep aboard, as I do believe the Channel Squadron is wont to do in wartime? Or may I consider shore lodgings for myself between voyages, sir?"

  "Like to stretch your legs on solid ground, do you?" Garvey asked, lifting an eyebrow, which evident suspicion as to his motives almost made Lewrie cringe with worry it might be disallowed.

  "A run ashore now and again would be welcome, sir," Lewrie replied with bright-eyed innocence. "Within limits, of course, sir."

  "I do not begrudge my officers their pleasures, Lewrie," Garvey informed him. "What's good for Jack is good for his betters aft. So long as you conduct yourself with the proper decorum expected of a Sea Officer, a Christian, and an English gentleman."

  And just when did you last see decorous Sea Officers, Lewrie asked himself in wonder at such a ludicrous statement? Leaping rantipole and playing balum-rancum in church? Hymn-singing in brothels?

  "So I would have time to seek out an establishment, sir?" Alan said, cocking a brow of his own to nail the agreement shut without having to mention the necessity of such lodgings, or the fact that he had brought Caroline with him. He didn't think Garvey would care for that.

  "I suppose," Garvey sighed. "Yes, you may."

  "Thank you, sir. Quite grateful. Quite."

  "Before you sail, I will send specific orders aboard, Lewrie," Garvey went on, pulling the packet of official documents to him for an excuse to dismiss him. "As to the survey, what needs doing against our piracy problem, the enforcement of the Navigation Acts, and how I expect ships of the Bahamas Station to conduct themselves. Use your hydrographic work to familiarize yourself with what perils our waters hold. And remember, I warn you now, to handle your vessel with due care and sober rectitude, or I'll dismiss you from her command and replace you with an officer who does things my way. Hear me?"

  "I understand you completely, sir," Lewrie told him with sucha sober and abashed countenance that even Garvey thought he'd gotten his message rammed home sufficiently.

  "What with all this correspondence, and the cares of this squadron, I have no more time for you, Lewrie. You may dismiss."

  "Thank you for receiving me so promptly, sir."

  Chapter 2

  "Fubsy, crusty dilberry," Lewne seethed at supper ashore that evening, "combed like a louse from the hairy, dirty black fundament of all Creation!"

  Caroline put her napkin to her mouth to hide her snickering.

  "Pompous, posturing, pus-gutted, hymn-singing ... barnacle!" He ranted on, though in a low voice, as he wrangled knife and fork over a stringy cut of beef tougher than old anchor cables which would end up costing him half a crown when the reckoning was fetched.

  "Alan, dearest," Caroline suggested once she trusted herself to lower the napkin and not cackle out loud at his frustrated antics, "I am so sorry this Garvey was so uncharitable towards you, truly. But he is your superior, after all. Do compose yourself. Or, at the least, wait until we're in our set of rooms. Who knows who might be listening?" She waved one hand at the many officers at table nearby.

  "Sorry, Caroline, but the man rowed me beyond all temperance," Alan sighed, giving up on the "choice cut of English beefsteak" and leaning back in his chair. At least the wine was more than palatable, and he topped up their glasses. Bloody shilling the bottle, he noted chalked on the neck. Nassau had grown no less expensive than it had been during the war. "I don't believe anything could please the man."

  "Out of sight, out of mind, then," she replied. "On this survey of yours. Which I am certain you shall complete most successfully, if I know the slightest bit about you. And when you
return, he may by then have more regard for your abilities."

  Alan reached across the table to take her hand and give her a thankful squeeze. "You're right, of course." He canned, and rewarded her with a fond smile. "Thank you for having good sense enough for both of us, darling. And for your regard for my abilities. Truly, I am coming to realize that I am the most blessed of men."

  "When you go on a rant, you are so almighty amusing, though," she confided with a quiet laugh. "Thank you, Alan."

  "For what, my dear?"

  "For taking me into your confidence," she said. "For sharing with me your worries, and your hopes. For listening to my thoughts."

  "Always, my dearest," he vowed happily.

  "Ahem." The black waiter coughed as he came to the table.

  "You may clear mine," Alan said. "The dogs may now break their teeth on it."

  "Uhm, yassuh. Uhm, dese notes be fo' you, sah. Dot gen'mun in de cornah, Cap'um Finney, like ya an' de missus t'join him ot his table. Un' dot Navy officah ovah dere, sah, he does, too, sah. De missus done with her groupah, mo'om? He's a sweet fish, mo'om. He kin eat good, sweet as de lobstah, any day." Alan opened the first note to find an almost illegible scrawl, and looked up to gaze upon the man who had sent it Captain Finney was a civilian in overdone finery, handsome, blond and darkly tanned. He peered at Alan with an almost hopelessly naive expression of longing, and ducked him a smile. He was surrounded by a brace of shoddy types, though, with a trio of obvious trulls for companions. Alan wanted no part of them. He opened the second note.

  "Got de Stilton un' ex'ra fine biscuit, got de fine port, got de key-lime puddin', un' got de Brazil cawfy, black un' hot," the waiter enticed. "Sah, mo'om? Raisin duff? Sherry trifle? Key-time puddin?"

  "Let's have the key-lime pudding!" Caroline suggested eagerly. "It sounds marvelous, and I've never had it before!"

  "Let's do," Alan agreed. "For two, with coffee. And please give Captain Finney our regrets, but I do not know him, nor wish to join him. Do, however, deliver my compliments to Commander Rodgers and we will be delighted to join him and his companion. We will take our dessert and coffee with them."

  "Ah tell'em, sah."

  Lewrie smiled at the Navy officer, then turned and gave the man Finney a short, dismissive shake of his head. He turned back to look at Caroline, and winced as he saw her single arched eyebrow.

  "If that suits you, Caroline?" He grimaced. "Forgive me, dear, for not asking your preference, but I'm so new at being married, I..."

  "Oh, Alan, we both are!" she whispered, forgiving him instantly, and tilting her head to one side fondly. "Two invitations?"

  "One from the Navy officer yonder. A Commander Rodgers. And one from the thatch-haired fellow and his crew. Some fellow named Finney."

  "Heavens," Caroline muttered as she eyed the other party. "Too seedy a lot for me. Alan, I could swear those women with them... Dear Lord, darling. So that's what prostitutes look like?" She grinned.

  She shivered and turned her gaze back to Alan.

  "Finney is the one in the center, dear?" she asked. "The man just leered at me! Of course, we'll accept Commander Rodgers' kind request. He's senior to you? And kindly disposed to you, there's a wonder, after your horrid morning. Let us, do."

  Thank bloody Christ, Lewrie thought, relieved to have escaped a thoughtless deed; damme, but this marriage business is a terror!

  He knew himself well enough as a selfish rogue, and he was used to giving orders and having them obeyed, so having to take counsel with someone else, not having his wishes treated as Holy Writ, was a wrench.

  They crossed to the other table and the introductions were made. Commander Benjamin Rodgers was about thirty, a trifle stocky, and dark as a Welshman. His companion was a young lady in her middle twenties named Elizabeth Mustin, a saucy brown-haired piece with sparkling blue eyes, and a most impressive, toplofty figure.

  "Off that ketch-rig come in this morning?" Commander Rodgers asked, then answered his own question. " 'Course you are, ya had to be, a new officer I never clapped top-lights on before. Knew it! Welcome to the Bahamas Station, Captain Lewrie. Take joy o' your posting!"

  "Thank you, sir. And your ship is ... ?"

  "Whippet, twenty guns. 6th Rate Sloop o' War," Rodgers answered.

  Lord, yes, he was senior! Sloop was a loose catchall term for any vessel larger than a bomb, revenue cutter or armed yacht below the standardized Rates; Alacrity was technically a sloop, no matter how she was rigged aloft. But a sloop of war was a miniature frigate, smallest of the three-masted, ship-rigged vessels in the Fleet, and her captain was Post-Captain in all but name, sure to be "made post" soon.

  Rodgers already wore a post-captain's "iron-bound" coat, but for three cuff buttons instead of four, and profuse with gold lace. The mark of a man rising to the top of the seniority list like a signal rocket.

  "Are there many on station, sir?" Alan asked.

  "Only one more, Ariel," Rodgers informed him. "You know how reduced the Fleet is, as I'm certain our lord and master told you when you reported to him this morning. Saw you being rowed ashore like Hell's Fire was licking your gig's transom, hey?"

  "Aye, sir," Lewrie grinned as their coffee and pudding arrived.

  "We're a sorry lot these days," Rodgers babbled on happily. "A single 4th Rate fifty-gunner, Royal Arthur, our flag. We possess but one frigate, Captain Quids' Guardian, and she's only a twenty-eight. We've half a dozen others, from revenue cutter-sized, two-masted luggers or schooners, or brig-rigged or ketch-rigged sloops, like yours. Too few, too slow, too weak, and too bloody lost from where troubles occur. Oh, pardons Mistress Lewrie, for my language."

  "I have heard worse, from my husband, Commander Rodgers," Caroline informed him with a chuckle, "and that, recently."

  "Mean to say you two really are married?" Rodgers marveled. "I thought ... pardons again, but my experience o' Navy marriages is that most of 'em're but a convenient sham, and for a man frisk his future 'fore makin' post... ouch!"

  "Pay him no mind, Ben's a conceited arse," Elizabeth Mustin said after poking her innamorato in the ribs, but with no real sign of anger. "Yes, dear... some officers do wed those they love."

  "You set a hellish-bad example for all of us, Captain Lewrie," Rodgers admitted, not the slightest bit abashed. "Once the word gets out, every girl in poit'll be having your good lady over, to fathom how she got you to go for the high jump! My dear Mistress Lewrie, this is the sort o' fame you could dine out on for years, don't ya know. What say ye to a toast to the happy couple? Champagne, hey?"

  "Yes!" Elizabeth enthused. "Champagne. His favorite tipple!"

  "A brace o' bottles, hang the cost, and my treat, sir!"

  "Most gallant, sir," Caroline said before Lewrie could answer. "We would be delighted, thank you."

  "Waiter?" Rodgers hallooed. "Bloody love the stuff, dearer'n a baby craves his mother's milk. Might a'been nursed on goodvintages, far's I know, an' bawled fit t'bust t'be weaned, hey? Thank God we've peace with France just long enough to stock up for our next set-to, or pray our smugglers're bold enough to dodge the King's Customs. So, I s'pose Commodore Garvey gave you your marchin' orders already, sir?"

  "Hydrographic surveying, sir," Alan replied, sketching in what Garvey's interview had been like. "God knows where, though."

  "Best thing," Rodgers announced. "Outa sight, outa mind. And this Trinity House fellow Gatacre'll be just the thing. Bahamas are bad-charted, if charted at all below the populous islands."

  "Caroline thought it a blessing, too, sir," Alan agreed.

  "And what did you think of our lord and master, sir?" Rodgers asked, sounding offhand, but looking cutty-eyed at him.

  "Ah, sir," Lewrie opined, on his guard. But he didn't believe Rodgers's ebullient personality would sit well with Garvey, either, so he could not be a favorite. "Hmm, sir!" he added, rolling his eyes.

  "Did he offer drink, Captain Lewrie? And, did you accept?"

  "He did, sir, but I did not. I didn't get my
requested coffee."

  "Then thank your lucky stars ya didn't!" Rodgers muttered as he leaned a little closer. "It all has to do with his son. Shipped out as a midshipman in Royal Arthur, and soon's they dropped the hook, he was commissioned, and a good man turned out to make room for him. He's fourth lieutenant into her now. If Garvey had a budget that'd purchase more patrol craft, he'd be on his own bottom, even as we speak! Garvey rewards his favorites, and chastises those that cross him. What he is lookin' for is any excuse to promote people up an' outa Royal Arthur, so the squadron is captained by his proteges, and young Virgil Garvey prospers. Any slip on your part'd give him an excuse for Virgil t'be third lieutenant. Oh, we all walk small about our Horace, we do!"

  "God, sir," Alan chilled, "my passengers, they'll tell him I'm married, that I brought Caroline here. He's already criticized me for my shiphandling!"

  "Ah, rot! Ya brought her in sweet as pie. He tried that on me, first I sailed in. Let's just say you're never t'be one o' his 'elect,' sir. As if he's Noah himself!" Rodgers sneered, warming to his screed. "Royal Arthur doesn't stir from her moorin's but once every six weeks, and that for a short run to Harbour Island or Spanish Wells over on Eleuthera and back. He's wedded t'his palacio ashore. I would be, too; 'tis a damned impressive pile. No, 'tis best you're far away for now. There's other unfortunates not among the 'saved' for him t'cull through so his sycophants can advance. More'n a few as need replacin', had I my way, sir!"

  "Sounds positively Manichaean, sir," Lewrie quipped. "All of this talk of the saved, the elect."

  "Well, stap me!" Rodgers hooted in surprise. "What the devil are you doin', wearin' our good King's Coat, an' makin' noises like a man's read a real book! Don't ya know English tarpaulins're supposed t' sound so simple-minded, even the others notice, sir? Stump about the quarter-deck yellin' 'Luff!' and cursin' 'damn my eyes,'ha ha!"

  "Damn ... my ... eyes," Lewrie pronounced tongue in cheek, slowly as if trying it on for the first time. "And is that best uttered with one hand on the hip, sir? Perhaps ... gazing aloft and wondering why the devil all that laundry's drying up there, sir?"