The King's Coat

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “He was a carpenter’s mate, not a sailor,” Ashburn said. “Now listen to me … grab hold of that yard, use the harbor gaskets to hold on to. Put your feet on the footrope. Now lean into the yard and hook your elbows over it. Whatever you do, don’t lean back. Now come out here.”

  Alan was panting now. There was not enough air in the whole wide world to fill his lungs. But he did as he was told, and slowly, painfully, trembling like a whipped puppy, he crabbed his way out to the end of the yard, until it was no longer the ship he would strike if he fell, but the harbor. He was one hundred and twenty feet up, with nothing but ocean below his feet.

  There he stayed for long minutes. The footrope was not all that bad, if he hooked the heels of his shoes along it, and if he kept leaning forward.

  “How do you work up here?” he asked with only one eye open, and that directed at Ashburn, not down. Anywhere but down!

  “One hand for yourself and one for the ship,” Ashburn singsonged. “The trick is to reach over the yard, keep your arms or elbows across it. Even with a full crew, work aloft is like church work, it goes slow. No one but a fool would rush things if it’s blowing hard.”

  “Can we go down now?”

  “Take a look around,” Ashburn suggested.

  “Jesus!”

  “Have to climb higher for that. Look around. You can see down-Channel fairly well today. And there’s a lovely frigate beating down past us.”

  There was the Isle of Wight, the grey waters of the Solent, the harbor mole and the old forts, and the Channel beyond. There was a frigate, taking advantage of a favorable slant of wind to make her way west down-Channel, her sails laid as close to the wind as she could bear and well heeled over.

  “Are you well?”

  “Just thumping wonderful, thank you very much for asking…” Alan sneered.

  “That’s my bully buck. We’ll make a sailor of you yet.”

  “Mine arse on a band-box!”

  “Got to set your mind to it or you won’t get on in the Navy. Not just reading about it, but doing it, like this. Turning into a real tarpaulin man.”

  “Like Chapman?” Lewrie asked sarcastically.

  “Well, Chapman,” Ashburn said. “There’s a blank page for you. He’s failed the exam twice now. A good sailor but sharp as an anvil. I expect he’ll always be a midshipman.”

  “Can one do that? I mean, that would be awful—”

  “You’re an educated type, Lewrie. You’re miles ahead of most of us, you know. Social skills, good tutors. Can’t expect eight-year-olds to come aboard as a captain’s servant and learn much more than the sea. Think how you and I shall stand out when we become officers.”

  “What about Rolston?” Lewrie asked. He had been plagued by the little bastard, showing off his skills and knowledge, finding subtle ways when they were working together to belittle Alan’s small contributions, or toady to the officers and warrants and shine at Lewrie’s expense.

  “Now that’s a real Welsh mile, he is! I feel sorry for whatever crew gets him as a post-captain. Well, let’s go down.”

  “Thank God…”

  “Make your way back to the mast without killing yourself, and we’ll go down one of the backstays.”

  “Why can’t we just climb back down the way we came up?”

  “Not seamanly. You’ll have to cross your legs over the stay and let yourself down hand over hand.”

  “You keep finding new ways to scare hell out of me.”

  “If I beat you down to the deck I’ll make you climb back up here and do it all over again.”

  Lewrie was closest to the mast, so he reached a backstay first, but took a moment to decide how to proceed. With a death grip, he had seized the stay, levered himself out into the open air, flipped a leg around the rope and cocked it behind his knee. It was then that he discovered that standing rigging is coated with tar, which can be slippery. He could not hang on, and he could not remain in one place. Even with both legs about the stay, he was sliding slowly down, gaining speed as he went! There was nothing to do but try to go down hand over hand, but in a moment he was moving too fast to brake his descent with his hands, which were burning on the hemp rope. With some heartfelt (and very English) words of pain and terror, he screeched his way down to crash feet first onto the quarterdeck and tumble in a heap, his hands on fire.

  “On your feet there, young sir,” Captain Bales said angrily. “I will teach you that I will have no blaspheming in my ship. Bosun’s Mate? Half dozen of your best for Mister Lewrie. At once, sir!”

  Alan Lewrie finally met the gunner’s daughter, bent over a quarterdeck nine-pounder and slashed on the buttocks by a Bosun’s Mate with a stiffened rope “starter.” Once chastised, Bales ordered him aloft again, to climb each mast in succession and lay out on each topsail yard in turn until Bales was satisfied with his progress. And Bales had a great deal of patience in watching him.

  * * *

  “Mister Lewrie,” Turner, one of the master’s mates, called to him as he paced along the starboard gangway above the waist, one damp and dreary afternoon.

  “Aye, Mister Turner.”

  “Captain Osmonde ’ere wants a boat ter go ashore an’ fetch out cabin stores fer the wardroom. Yer it,” Turner told him, standing rat-scruffy next to the elegantly uniformed Marine officer.

  “Me, sir?” They hadn’t allowed him outboard since he had joined, and he knew nothing about boats.

  “O’ course, yew, sir, now git wif it.”

  “Here is the list, Mister Lewrie,” Osmonde said, handing him a sheet of paper. “The particular chandler’s name is on this bill, and his place of business. Be sure and get a receipt.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Now, how do I do this? he wondered, turning away. The duty bosun’s mate has charge of the boats. I’ll try him …

  Lewrie hustled up Ream, a husky young man, explained what was needed, and a boat’s crew was there in a twinkling, scrambling down the side to an eight-oared cutter tied below the main chains. Alan went through the gate and lowered himself down the ladder to stumble into the boat and make his way aft to the tiller. The crew sat waiting for him to say something, but for the life of him, he could not think of what the proper order was.

  Well, we can’t go on staring at each other like this.

  “Let’s … shove off, then,” he said, and the bowman undid the painter and fended them off from the ship’s side with his boat hook.

  So far, so good, he told himself shakily; now we need these oars in the water. “Out oars,” he said with a confidence he did not feel.

  Eight men lowered their blades into the water and shipped them to the rowlocks, then sat looking dumbly obedient for the next command.

  “Give way … er … starboard.”

  Sounds as good as any, he thought.

  The oarsmen paused for a short moment, took the opportunity to look at each other, and then the four starboard oarsmen dug in for a stroke. Naturally, under their thrust, the boat swung back alongside Ariadne and nuzzled her timbers with a series of bumps, much like a piglet would prod her sow for a teat.

  “God strike me blind, but you’re hopeless,” came a strangled wail from the quarterdeck.

  “Oh, stop that,” Alan said, waving at the starboard oarsmen. “Shove off again. Give way … over here!”

  Someone in the boat began to snigger, choking on a laugh that could cost him a dozen lashes if he was not careful. The boat made it away from Ariadne’s side this time. She also continued to circle to the right until she was pointing back at the ship.

  “Today, you clown!” came a shout from above.

  “Just what does he expect, Jason and the bloody Argonauts?” Lewrie muttered under his breath. Two more oarsmen began to laugh. I couldn’t look any more stupid if I sank the damned thing. “I’m open to suggestions,” he said with a sheepish grin.

  “Easy all, sor,” the closest oarsman whispered.

  “Eas
y all,” Lewrie parroted aloud.

  “Tiller, sor,” the other closest man muttered. “Center it up.” He took hold of the heavy tiller bar and laid his arm along it, lining it up in the direction of the bows.

  “Ah, yes. Now … give way all,” Lewrie said, remembering those instructions that Rolston had used weeks before.

  The two closest hands winked at him and began to set the pace for the stroke. The boat began to pick up speed, lifting and rising through a slight chop, with a pleasing sort of surge forward each time they dug in with the oars.

  He was headed in the general direction of the shore, but there was one slight problem; from water level, he hadn’t a clue where he was going, and nothing looked remotely familiar. He was lost.

  “Anyone from Portsmouth here?” he asked.

  “I am … sir,” one of the forward men said between strokes.

  “I am looking for a certain chandler’s named Kenner & Sons. Do we have to land at the fleet landing and walk, or is there an easier way?”

  “Pale … brick place … sir. There’s a … red n’ white gig by it right now … sir,” the man said. Lewrie found the distinctive gig and gingerly turned the tiller, first the wrong way, then back to the other side of a few degrees, which brought them in a gently curving path towards the particular landing where they needed to go.

  Here, that’s not so tricky, after all! he marveled. Now when we get there, we don’t want to go this fast, so I should tell them to … ease the stroke, I guess. Easy all stops ’em. Now what do you say to get ’em sticking up? God, I can’t remember and I don’t think my Falconer’s mentioned it. You’re just supposed to know …

  As they approached, he told them to ease the stroke, and the speed fell off. The bowman stood up with his boat hook ready. They had to come alongside the stone wharf sideways, Lewrie knew, but how he was going to do it was beyond him. He steered directly for the dock until the bowman began to cough alarmingly, and he took it as a cue to throw the tiller over.

  “Toss yer oars,” the bowman called, and all eight oars were unshipped and raised aloft as one, Lewrie realized he was sitting on the stern mooring line, and he raised up and dug it out from under his bottom, but neglected the tiller, and the boat swung away from the dock, and the bowman almost went overboard trying in vain to hook onto something solid. On the second try, he caught a ringbolt and pulled the cutter’s bow in close enough so that Lewrie could grab hold of another ringbolt and pass the line through it. He made a hash of his knot, but he had arrived.

  “Boat yer oars,” the bowman ordered softly, and down went the blades, to be stored alongside the gunwales.

  “Thalt never make a sailor-man,” a toothless oldster on the dock said with a tubercular cackle.

  “Go to the devil, why don’t you? Is this Kenner & Sons?”

  “Aye, so it be, young ’un.”

  “You come with me,” Lewrie said, indicating his starboard stroke oar. “Who is senior man? Keep an eye on ’em, bowman.” He scrambled to the dock and entered the chandler’s shop.

  He found a clerk, presented the list, and began the task of having his men carry the cabin stores to the waiting cutter, noticing he was mostly ferrying wine for the officers to drink. It gave him a thirst for something himself. The only drinks available in Ariadne were rum, Miss Taylor, a thin and acrid white wine, Black Strap, a thin and acrid red, and small beer, which at least stayed fresh longer than the water. What he wanted was a good ale, a stout English ale foaming in a pint mug. There was a keg behind the counter of the chandler’s, and a row of wooden mugs. Why not?

  “Here, let me have a pint of ale. How much?”

  “Penny a pint, sir,” the counterman said and Lewrie flipped a coin out to jingle on the counter. He got his mug and started to lift it to his lips when he saw stroke oar staring at him with a short look of disgust.

  Hell, they did get me here, he thought; and they’ve been at hard work loading those cases.

  “Here, man. A pint for every hand,” Lewrie said, slapping down a shilling.

  “Thankee, sir, thankee right kindly,” the bowman said for all of them as they began to guzzle and sigh with pleasure. “Nothin’ like a good wet afore rowin’ back to the ship, sir.”

  They were halfway into the boat after finishing their drinks before Alan realized that they were a man short.

  “Who’s missing?”

  “Uh … Harrison, sir,” the bowman said sheepishly. “’E must be takin’ a piss, sir. Not run.”

  “Hell he is,” Alan decided in a panic, “you stay here and keep your eye on the rest of the hands. You, come with me, and we’ll search for him.”

  Lewrie and his stroke oar began to dart about the dock and the storage areas. There were a million places to hide among all the barrels and crates, a thousand ways out of the dock area into the town. How could he have let him slip away? And how much hell would he catch if he went back a man short? They had warned him; the men were signed on for at least three years of commission with only rare spells of freedom, and it was common for men to pay off one ship and go right into another with no chance to see wives and families. When in port, it was safer to let wives and children come out to the ship and live on the man’s rations and pay until the ship was placed back in full discipline. Let them go ashore and it was good odds they’d run inland as fast as their legs would carry them. Once into “long clothing” beyond the immediate reach of the watch and Impress Service, and they were lost to the Fleet. Most desertions came from new crews in home ports; they had told him to be vigilant.

  “There, sir,” stroke oar said, pointing to an area behind the chandlery. Lewrie saw his quarry, a youngish man in a brass buttoned short jacket, hugging a thin and poorly clad young woman. One dirt child clung to her skirts, and she held another still in swaddling clothes.

  “Harrison,” Lewrie snapped.

  “Comin’, zurr,” the man replied sadly, letting go his woman.

  “Coming? So is Christmas!” Alan scoffed.

  “’E weren’t run, zurr,” the woman said, fearful for her man. “Juss wanted ta see ’is babbies, zurr.”

  “Why didn’t you come out to the ship, then?”

  “Ah didn’t have no money, zurr,” Harrison told him. “Ah had no way ta have ’em come out ta the ship.”

  “It been a year they been wi’out their daddy, zurr. Just a few minute more?” Harrison’s wife pleaded.

  “We have to go. Harrison, go back to the boat with this man.”

  “Aye aye, zurr,” Harrison said, giving his wife one last quick kiss and patting the dirty little boy on the head. The oldest child was wailing, and Lewrie wanted to get away from the damned noise. He turned to follow his men, but the girl took him by the arm.

  “’Tis a hard service what never pays a man but in scrip, zurr, an’ that two years behind, if ’e’s lucky. Bum boat men an’ jobbers give ’alf what the scrip’s worth. Don’t ’ave ’im flogged, please, zurr.”

  “Well…” Lewrie managed, embarrassed by her tears.

  “Anythin’ ta keep ’im from bein’ flogged, zurr.”

  By God, she’s a pretty thing under all that dirt.

  “If ya don’t tell on ’im, I’d … I’d…” She shuddered, pointed to a building across the alley that was obviously cheap lodgings.

  God, even I’m not that low, he told himself. Well, maybe I am, I’m a Willoughby. No, I have to go back to the ship now.

  “I’ll not make a habit of this,” Lewrie said, digging into his breeches and fetching out coins. He gave her two half-crown pieces and watched her eyes go wide in astonishment. “You get some food for these children and pretty yourself up, and come out to the Ariadne. And I won’t say anything to anyone, if you won’t. Can’t have the hands thinking I’m a soft touch, can I?”

  “God bless ye forever, zurr, ye’re a true Christian!”

  “Er … right,” he said, and trotted away from her.

  Once in the boat he glared at Harrison. “Just ’cause I sp
orted you a pint is no reason to think you can take a piss on my time behind a crate, Harrison, or I’ll have you up on a charge.”

  “Aye, zurr,” Harrison said, nodding his relief.

  “Out and toss your oars. Shove off, bowman. Ship your oars. Give way starboard … backwater, larboard. Easy all. Now give way all. Row, damn your eyes!”

  He arrived back at Ariadne in much better fashion than when he had left, coming alongside gently and issuing the correct commands at the right time, so that they hooked on and tied up properly. He arrived on deck very proud of himself, but no one took the slightest note of his improved performance. He organized a party to hoist the stores up from the boat on his own initiative, and saw them delivered below to the wardroom, just in time to meet Mister Swift.

  “Lewrie, where the hell have you been?”

  “Mister Turner had me take a boat ashore and fetch wardroom stores, sir,” he said, proud of his accomplishment.

  “And what took you so damned long?”

  “Well, after the boat was loaded we had a pint of ale, sir.”

  “You stopped and had a pint of ale? You let the hands purchase drink, sir?”

  “I … uh … treated, sir.”

  “And what if Ariadne were ordered to sea and we had to wait for you and nine hands to finish your little drink? Have you no sense?”

  “I am sorry, sir.” … Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. I’m out money and not a speck of credit for getting there and back without drowning ’em all! If he’s mad about me being late, I should have gone ahead and bulled that skinny wench while I had the chance …

  “My word, you’re a brainless booby,” Swift said. “Your only concern is what the Navy wants, not what you want. You’ll have to do better than this in future if you wish to be a Sea Officer.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Now go below. No, stay a moment. From now on you’re on rowing duties. Good practice for you. And I’ll time you from the moment you shove off until the second you return, and God help you if I see you skylarking ashore, got that?”