The Gun Ketch

by Dewey Lambdin

  "Wot a bastard," Woods grunted. "Namin' this lugger o' his after your good lady, sir, an' now this! Take it to the boat, sir?"

  "Aye, Mister Woods. I'll not have her go down with him, or give him any comfort to look upon. Thankee, Mister Woods."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Finney, you miserable shit!" Lewrie shouted, wheeling about to walk back to the man, flexing his hand on his sword's hilt, pondering hard on whether to kill him that instant, or let him groan in agony and drown as the best, and most painful, death for him.

  "Many's the nights I wuz inspired t'gaze upon her, Lewrie," Finney boasted. "Rattlin' a whore, an' lookin' at her, an' wishin'. Almost had her, damme'f I didn't, though."

  "Don't, sir!" Cony said, stepping between to block Lewrie from drawing his sword." 'E's agoadin' ya, sir, so 'e kin die quick. God o' mercy, sir, let 'im drown! 'E's aspittin' up blood arready. Drown in gore'r sea-water, sir. Ev'ry rock o' this wreck's apainin' 'im good as the fires o' Hell, sir. 'Tis best 'e suffers so, Mister Lewrie!"

  Lewrie panted hard, affronted to be held in check.

  "And lookee this, sir," Cony whispered, pointing with his chin to a cylindrical traveling bag on the deck. From beneath a pile of hastily crammed in silk shirts and neck-stocks, peeked a stack of old ledgers. "Lookee this 'un, sir. In 'is own 'and, sir."

  Lewrie fought down his rage and opened the ledger Cony offered him. It was in Finney's near-illegible scrawl; not so much an account of debits and credits, but a log such as a mate would keep, more like a diary. There were entries of ships taken, by whom, how many shares the crew got, who had died and would require settlements for wives or girls, expenditures of powder and shot, values of goods taken, of how much pirated ships sold for in Havana or Cartagena. Along with such dry accountings of mayhem and murder, Finney made his comments about his illegal business, wrote his screeds about the high cost of bribing government officials, listed...!"Oh, my God!" Lewrie smiled suddenly. "Bless you, Will Cony!"

  "Thankee, sir," Cony grinned shyly.

  "Ah, 'twas a lovely brandy," Finney groaned blissfully, tossing the empty bottle aside. "Given enough warnin', 'tis right a man gets a chance t'die dead drunk."

  Lewrie took the ledger with him as he walked down the deck to Finney for the last time.

  "Me curses 'pon ye, Lewrie," Finney beamed, coughing on blood in his mouth, trying to spit some at Lewrie, who stood just a little too far away to hit. "Bad cess t'ye, yer handsome bitch, yer brat, an' all yer kin! Bad cess fer the rest o' yer lives!"

  Lewrie held up the book. Opened it so Finney could see; and recognize his own hand, and know it for what it was.

  "Ah, no!" Finney groaned, screwing up his ruggedly handsome face like a petulant child. Caroline was swept by a breaking wave, making her thump and pound on the Bar harder than before, and shift with the sound of sliding sands. Wood croaked and screamed.

  "I'd tell you to go to the devil, 'Calico Jack,' but then, we both know that's where you're bound, don't we?" Lewrie chuckled as he put the ledger under his arm. "How did it go? 'Calico, calico, who will buy my calico? Tis Jack, Jack, the Calico Man'?"

  "Oh, ye brute! Oh, ya bastard!" Finney raved, as water began to seep into the cabins, to froth in through loosened plankings.

  "Know how to swim, 'Calico Jack'?" Lewrie taunted. "That might keep you alive a minute longer. It'll hurt like Hell, of course."

  "Youuu!" Finney screamed.

  "Let's go, Cony. We have what we came for."

  Epilogue

  "Any nation that wont support a navy to protect its interests can't have much objection to make, now, can they?" Captain Childs said with a guffaw as he dined Rodgers and Lewrie in, in the great-cabins of his frigate Guardian.

  "The point was made, sir," Rodgers snickered back. "Diplomatic, though. Not quite so pointed as you couch it. An' after they learned Finney was a British master, in a British-flagged ship, that shut them up."

  "Well, 'tis all settled now," Childs went on happily. "Finney's dead, his enterprises foundered, and his pirates all scattered Hell to Huttersfield. Bank funds recovered, all of Finney's ill-gotten gains property of the Crown. A neat bit o' business, in the end."

  "What about his commercial interests, sir?" Lewrie was forced to ask. "His legitimate interests, that is? And surely, sir, I found many names in his ledgers of civilians who turned a blind eye, or did his bidding, for a price. Government officials..."

  "Ahem," Childs sobered. "The, uhm... our Royal Governor is now in possession of those ledgers, Lieutenant Lewrie. I would imagine that some investigation is proceeding. And that someday, they will be brought to book. Civilian doings. No matter to the Fleet."

  "Finney's stores're already taken over by the other Bay Street merchants, lock, stock, and barrel," Commander Rodgers added, reaching for the wine bottle on the sideboard. "Stock bought up at pence to a pound at auction. Though devil a hope we have o' lower prices in our lifetimes."

  "Amen to that, sir," Childs chimed in, eyeing Rodgers' liberality with his wine. "Might pass that down, once you're done, sir."

  "And the Commodore, sir?" Lewrie presumed to question.

  "Ah, well," Childs scowled. "Hmm. Pity 'bout that tropical ague that took him of a sudden. Didn't look that sick for so long, as they say he was. No, 'tis best he's off home, to recover in milder climes."

  "With nothing but his Navy pay, in the end," Rodgers laughed as he passed the bottle down. "And that in arrears for all his high living."

  "The Admiralty'd probably send someone else out next spring to command the Bahamas Squadron," Childs sighed. "Can't have a mere frigate captain such as myself in charge for long, with so many senior men with impeccable connections sitting around on half-pay."

  "But copies of the allegations did go to the Admiralty, sir?" Lewrie pressed harder. "After all, I would assume Commodore Garvey had impeccable connections that could... well, preserve his career."

  "Aye, I sent 'em, Lewrie, if that's what you're wondering, sir," Childs glowered at him. "All we may do is but hope that Our Lords Commissioners will take them into account for next time."

  "Hope he makes bloody Admiral," Rodgers snorted, well into his cups at their very private supper. "Sir, gentlemen, allow me to propose a toast. To Commodore Horace Garvey... may he attain the rank of rear admiral in His Majesty King George the Third's Royal Navy..."

  "Bloody hell," Lewrie muttered, but forced to raise his glass.

  "... of the permanently retired 'Yellow' Squadron!" Commander Rodgers concluded with a bark of a laugh, and tipped his glass up to drain it right down to "heel-taps."

  * * * *

  "There's the fine little fellow," Lewrie cooed to his son, who had at last warmed to his presence, and didn't bawl when he saw him any longer. Lewrie sat rocking on the dog-run terrace, young Sewallis a tightly swaddled bundle in the crook of one arm, entertaining him as he would William Pitt the cat, with a length of small-stuff tied in a bowline dangled for tiny fingers to grasp. Every time he succeeded in getting hold of the loop in the line, he gurgled his pleasure and lit up his features with a radiant, cockeyed smile. Lewrie rewarded him with a dandle on his knee, which made Seawallis even more ecstatic.

  "Lucky fellow you are, Seawallis," Alan assured him. "First son, bound for the law. Oxford or Cambridge. You'll never have to go to sea like your daddy does. 'Tis a miserable bloody life."

  "Don't teach him bad words, Alan," Caroline said, coming out to sit by him, and deliver two glasses of wine. "He'll learn them soon enough. Yes 'e will, pretty baby! Ooh, li'l man Seawallis, yes! Your daddy I Like to have Daddy play with oo, yes oo do, Mommy knows oo do!"

  "Mommy can speak the King's Engh'sh, Seawallis," Alan snickered. "Daddy knows she can. And someday, oo will, too! Ain't that a bloo... won't that be a wonder?"

  He turned to look at Caroline, she looked at him, and they both laughed at themselves for a fond moment. Until Alan wriggled his nose and looked down at his lap. Young Seawallis had become so delighted he had fouled himself, an
d quickly soaked through his swaddlings to turn Lewrie's breeches both wet and pale brown. "Oh, bugger!"

  "I'll take him, sah," Wyonnie offered, coming out to the dog-run. "Time fo' his nap 'fo suppah, anyhow, sah."

  "Thankee, Wyonnie," Lewrie said. "Thank God it's my worst and oldest breeches."

  "I fetch ya a towel, sah."

  Fatherhood, Lewrie thought; hmmm! It must get better as they become continent! Surely!

  "How long will Alacrity be in dock?" Caroline asked, sipping her wine, putting her feet up on her hassock and enjoying the sunset.

  "About a week to ten days," Alan replied, taking his own wine in hand. "Little more than a year in Bahamian waters, and her bottom is foul as the Forest of Dean, copper or no! Least she wasn't eaten with teredo worms like Whippet was. 'Tis a miracle to me we made the speed we did, catching Finney, with that much growth on the bottom. Or him being foolish enough to break off his flight to fight us, just within sight of safety. Carrying too much sail. Loafing along..."

  "Perhaps a higher power aided you, dear," Caroh'ne said with a secret smile. "A higher power with a strong sense of justice."

  "I would suppose so," Alan allowed.

  "So we have two blessed weeks to look forward to, then," she said. "You at home every evening." She scooted her chair over closer to his so they could lean together and put their arms about each other's shoulders companionably. "Sleep in the same bed each night..."

  "Wake together so close and snug," Alan suggested.

  "Alan," she said, after a meaningful purring noise. He looked for the tiny vertical line between her brows; and found it.

  Oh, shit, he thought with trepidation; what now?

  "When Finney was here that evening ..."

  "The bastard!"

  "Yes, but..." Caroline agreed, taking a sip of wine and gazing out towards Potter's Cay. "Among his blandishments to win me, he told me ... or he strongly suggested, that is ... that you were known in the Navy by a nickname. That you were awfully young to have gained one, but that in the Fleet, you were known as ... the 'Ram-Cat' He as much as said right out that it alluded to... faithless ... amorous ... Where did he come by that, dear?" she concluded, looking at him closely.

  "Oh, God," Alan smiled, hiding his panic damned well, even if he did say so himself. He threw in a tiny chuckle. "Caroline, love. I suppose it came aboard the Shrike brig, under old Lieutenant Lilycrop. I ended up with William Pitt, and half a dozen other cats. He'd make me a present of one from every litter, and we had so many Utters we were ankle-deep in kittens! Fobbed 'em off on every passing ship we spoke, and it was me that had to make the offers, half the time. And, well... Navy blue coats and cat hair don't mix, don't ya know. Every time I reported somewhere, I was constantly brushing myself down. And having William Pitt in London with me. I believe Admiral Hood named me that in jest, before I went out to the Far East with Burgess. When I reported to him, Pitt had been at my coat. I expect that's where it comes from, darling."

  "You went to Sir Samuel Hood's with cat hair on your coat?" she giggled.

  "And the smell of his 'blessings' on me, too, most like," Alan tried to giggle back.

  "Oh, God, what a picture! No wonder he called you 'Ram-Cat'! He could smell it on you! And see it! Darling, it's a wonder at all he gave you an active commission!" she laughed out loud.

  "Better than herding swine on half-pay, and facing him in straw and pig shit!" Lewrie agreed. "Promise you'll never tell that on me."

  "Oh, I'll not, ever!" she told him, leaning closer to hug and kiss him. "But I can't help thinking about it, just between us."

  "It'll make a fine tele to tell Sewallis when he's older."

  "Yes, it will," Caroline agreed. "And, it's not a bad sobriquet for you to have. You'll always go after your foe like William Pitt, like an angry 'Ram-Cat' "

  "That I will," he said.

  And thank bloody Christ she bought that, he thought gratefully.

  Afterword

  John Murray, Fourth Earl of Dunmore, Royal Governor to the Bahamas from 1787 to 1796, was just about as bad as I portrayed him, and as the estimable William Wylly cited further writes, nor was "the immorality of his private life any less reprehensible than the defects of his public character." Fort Charlotte, familiar to all visitors to Nassau, was started at an estimate of £4,000, and ended up costing the government £32,267. He was more interested in his own mansion, and a magnificent estate and house at Harbour Island, which is officially named Dunmore Town, but never by the long-suffering inhabitants who ever had anything to do with him, or paid his exorbitant rents. His administration was as corrupt as they come, his appointments termed by another writer "bankrupts, beggars, blackguards and the husbands of his whores"; for one his Searcher of Customs, whose wife bore him a child during his tenure. For anyone interested in delving further into the history of the Bahamas, let me recommend A History of the Bahamas by Michael Craton.

  Did Caroline's obeah-man cause Jack Finney's downfall? To get to him at long range after he sailed, she would have needed the power of an expensive witch, far beyond the powers of an average "white-magic" obeah practitioner. An obeah doctor would need a "snake-witch," an animal that could swim long distances to "fix" people far away. Witch in this instance is the curse itself, as in what an oldtimer in the islands would say when he or she threatens "to work witch on ya."

  There's a good chapter on obeah in Insight Guides: Bahamas, 3rd Edition, available in most tour-guide sections in your local bookstore, or Dr. Timothy McCartney's book Ten Ten, The Bible Ten—Obeah In The Bahamas. Should you visit Nassau, take a side-trip to Fox Hill, and ask around—respectfully.

  Lastly, I hope the citizens of the Bahamas will forgive me for making John Canoe, even briefly, a seaman in the Royal Navy. He was reputed to be an escaped slave, a mythic figure of hope to those still in slavery, a strong, proud man who stole a boat and paddled away from chains and whips, still honoured every year in the Bahamas, whether he was a real man, or a hoped-for hero of cleverness and power who could surmount contemporary problems, like Anglo-Saxon "Jack" tales, or the stories about "Brer Rabbit" who always won indirectly by wits.

  Besides, doesn't it make a better story than the Yoruba word of the Egungun cult gensinconnu, meaning "wearers of masks," to name the annual festival Junkanoo... for the man, John Canoe?

  Finally, what further lies in store for Alan Lewrie? The peaceful end of an active commission in the Bahamas, of course, which takes him to 1789. But just a few years later, there was war with France, a naval war which dragged on until 1815, the highest fruition of sailing ships and square-rigger warfare—The Great Age of Sail.

  Would the Admiralty not consider themselves fortunate to have the services of such a splendid (on paper, at least) sea-dog? Or, in this case, ram-cat?

  Will he ever live that sobriquet down? Will Caroline ever suspect its true origin? Will Arthur Ballard influence Alan Lewrie, or, will Lewrie corrupt Ballard, when next they cross each other's hawse?

  As we used to say down in Memphis to tease the 10 p.m. report on "Action News-5" ... stay tuned.