The King's Coat

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Did he sass you, too?” Bascombe laughed. “Wasn’t gagging with a marlinspike good enough?”

  “I looked up and there he was, and I distinctly heard him say, ‘Bugger all you officer shits,’ quickly followed by ‘aarrgh splat,’” Lewrie went on, giving a shrill sound by way of punctuation, which had them all hooting and tittering.

  “’Ere now, ’ave some respeck fer the dead, young sir,” Turner said. “I’ll not ’ave it.”

  “Sorry, Mister Turner,” Lewrie said, trying to sound contrite.

  “Men die in a King’s ship,” Finnegan said into the awkward silence. “No need to make fun of ’em a-doin’ it. Gibbs was a good hand.”

  “Indeed he was, Mister Finnegan,” Lewrie said. “I never found him a back-talker or a sea lawyer. Very reliable, very steady.”

  “Not steady today,” Shirke said softly, bringing grins back.

  “There was danger enough to reef tops’ls before the wind,” Keith said, shaking his head sadly. “But he fell when all that was over with, on the way down. What happened to him?”

  “Rolston says he jumped from the footrope to the preventer backstay and overbalanced,” Lewrie told them. “I heard him say it.”

  “How cunny-thumbed can you be?” Bascombe said. “How dumb.”

  “And what do you think?” Brail asked, looking up from his letter and speaking to Lewrie. Brail was close to the captain and the affairs aft, but did not trade on his confidences or what he could learn, so he was most reticent in the mess, never initiating conversation.

  “Well…” Alan began, thinking: I have to be careful here. I cannot accuse, but will have to plant seeds instead to take Rolston down a peg. He’s such a bullying little shit, it’ll do everyone a favor to have the captain sit on him with some stiff warning.

  “Hawkes didn’t look too happy about it. I mean, Rolston was riding Gibbs. That might have upset his judgment,” Alan said as calmly as he could, extending his left arm and sleeve, which still sported the torn cuff, as eloquent a sign of his supposed bravery as a ribbon and star of knighthood.

  “What do you mean about Hawkes?” Brail asked, putting on his legal face. Brail held himself aloof from the common herd because he had been a lawyer’s clerk at one time, and fancied himself as a man who could see his way to the kernel of an argument with the discerning logic of the law. Though any clerk who had to give tops’l payment and take sea service was automatically suspect of being a bit less acute than he thought himself to be.

  “Hawkes did agree with Rolston, but I don’t think his heart was in it,” Lewrie said, pouring himself another measure of grog.

  “But you are not suggesting that Rolston actually did anything aloft to make Gibbs fall to his death,” Brail pressed.

  Lewrie knew any scuttlebutt from below decks would reach the captain through Brail. “God, that would be unthinkable. I totally disavow any notion, Mister Brail.”

  “Yet Rolston was … riding him, you say.”

  “Well, shouting at him to get a move on, that sort of thing…”

  “And where were you?”

  “On the weather yardarm. Rolston and Gibbs were on the lee. I was next-to-last down from my side, except for Blunt. And then here came Gibbs, screaming down right at me.”

  “So you did not actually see anything,” Brail concluded.

  “No, I did not, and Mister Brail, the way you’re asking these questions, you seem to think there was something … wrong done. Now I told you, I refuse to place blame on anyone.”

  “But it does seem queer that a steady topman like Gibbs would take such a risk,” Ashburn put in. “Who was left from the lee side?”

  “Oh, Keith, not you too,” Alan said. “Well, Gibbs, Rolston, and Hawkes, who would have been at the lee earring and cringle. At least, I think so. I wasn’t paying much attention to anything but just getting down to the deck myself once I got to the crosstrees. Now look here, you’re pressing me to make some kind of charge against Rolston, and I’m not going to do it. Granted, he’s a little swine and I dislike him more than cold boiled mutton, but it has to be an accident, doesn’t it? Accidents happen all the time, no matter how careful one is.”

  “Maybe Gibbs was stung by something Rolston said that took his mind off safety at the wrong moment,” Shirke said. “Maybe just being on the same yard together was enough, after the way he had been hazing him. We’ll never know.”

  “I know I’d hate to be on the same yard with Rolston,” Bascombe said, expressing everyone’s general opinion.

  Brail left it at that, agreeing to take a bumper with Ashburn, but Lewrie knew that he was still puzzling about it inside, and that his suspicions would get back to the captain. Rolston would be called aft and given a roasting, maybe even caned over a gun for not keeping proper concerns for safety uppermost. It would be a tidy comedown for him in every officer’s mind. That would make the little bastard seethe, Lewrie thought, and make him a little less eager to bully and bluster. And his own reputation would shine in comparison, which was the primary goal. Lewrie rolled into his hammock and blankets quite pleased with himself that night, and happily fuzzled by too much hot grog, slept peacefully as Ariadne rocked along in the night.

  Gibbs’ funeral was held the next morning after dawn Quarters and deck cleaning. Bales read from the prayer book as the men swayed in even lines, since Ariadne did not carry a clergyman. As the sun rose in strength on what promised to be a bright day of sparkling waves and blue skies, the body was slipped over the side, sewn up in scrap canvas, with a final stitch through the nose to make sure that Gibbs really was a corpse to satisfy the superstition of the hands, rusty round-shot at his feet to speed his passage to the unknown depths below.

  Immediately after the hands were dismissed, ship’s routine reasserted itself. Hammocks were piped up from below, and the hands were released for breakfast. Hundreds of bare feet thundered on oak decks as the men took themselves off for a hearty meal. And Captain Bales crooked a finger at Rolston, summoning him aft to his cabins, which sight delighted Lewrie.

  Breakfast was also delightful, porridge and scraps of salt-pork and crumbled biscuit in a salmon-gundy, with “Scotch coffee” and small beer for drink. Lewrie was taking a second helping when Rolston appeared in their mess.

  His face was as white as his coat facings, except for two dots of red on his cheeks. Before anyone could say anything to him, the angry young midshipman leaped for Alan. “I’ll see you in hell, you vicious bastard—”

  He cleared the table, scattering bowls and plates and mugs in a shower of food, then dove at Lewrie as he attempted to rise from his seat on his chest. Lewrie fell to the deck with both of Rolston’s hands on his throat and his weight on top of him.

  Damme, I didn’t expect him to try to kill me! Lewrie thought in shock as he struggled and flailed to free his throat. There were other hands there in a moment, however, prying Rolston loose and hauling them both to their feet.

  “You miserable, lying bastard! You said I killed Gibbs! I’ll kill you for it!” Rolston cried, wriggling to break free.

  “The hell I did!” Alan shot back. I didn’t say it, actually. Just hinted round it, he qualified to himself. “In the privacy of this mess I said it was a shame you were riding him, and that’s all! Nobody is going to make me make a false report, not even against you.”

  “It was an accident,” Rolston said. “But it’s all over the ship I pushed him or something, and it’s your fault. I want you dead!”

  As he said it, he shoved hard to his left, breaking Bascombe loose from him and dragging free of Keith’s grip. Before anyone could restrain him, he drew his dirk and dove at Lewrie with the point held forward. Alan ducked across the compartment as Finnegan and Turner and the surgeon’s mates seized Rolston again, this time disarming him and forcing him to kneel on the deck.

  “Stand to attention, the lot of you!” Lieutenant Swift ordered from the doorway. He had the master-at-arms and two ship’s corporals with him. He stepped inside
, taking in the dirk in Finnegan’s fist, Rolston held down and raging, Lewrie looking as pale as a spook, and the mess littered with overturned utensils and bowls. “Now what’s all this about? Did I hear you threaten a man’s life, Mister Rolston? Explain yourself damned fast, boy.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Did you accuse Rolston of causing Gibbs’ death, Mister Lewrie?”

  “No, sir, I did not,” Alan vowed—with crossed fingers.

  “Did he give anyone reason to think Rolston did it?” Swift asked the general mess. He was quickly informed that he had not; though the common opinion was against Rolston and his temper, Lewrie had refused to countenance such a thought.

  “He’s a clever liar, sir. Don’t believe him!” from Rolston.

  “Are you going to tell me that this is not your dirk, Rolston? Are you going to deny drawing it and attacking Mister Lewrie?”

  “I…”

  “Ashburn, was there a physical attack in these quarters with a weapon?” Swift turned to his trustworthy senior midshipman.

  “Aye, sir, there was,” Ashburn said reluctantly, knowing he was sealing Rolston’s fate. He described the events, gave Lewrie a fair report, and quoted Rolston’s avowed purpose of murder.

  “Master-at-arms, I shall have Mister Rolston taken aft to the captain at once. Charge of striking a fellow junior warrant and fighting with steel,” Swift said, specifying a charge less than murder, or the attempt at it, which would automatically qualify for hanging.

  “Mister Swift, sir,” Rolston gasped, realizing what was to fall on him. “Please, sir, no.”

  “Now get this place put to rights,” Swift said. “This mess looks like a pigsty. I shall expect all of you to be ready to go aft when the captain summons you.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” they mumbled in a rough chorus as Swift took the evidence from Finnegan and strode out.

  “Sufferin’ Jesus,” Chapman breathed after Swift was safely gone. “That’s all for that little boss-cock.”

  “Rolston be damned,” Shirke said. “Just look at my breeches. Idiot.”

  “What?” Chapman asked.

  “I meant Rolston,” Shirke replied quickly, trying to wipe food from his clothing with the tablecloth.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” Lewrie asked. The whole joke had gotten way out of hand. He had not expected Rolston to come for him like that, and was badly shaken.

  “You notice the first lieutenant didn’t say attempted murder, so I doubt they’ll scrag him for it,” Bascombe said. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “Dis-rating, most-like,” Chapman said. “Flog him raw and pack him off home, soon as we get to Antigua.”

  “For losing his temper?” Lewrie asked. “I mean … we go after each other all the time down here. We all have bruises to prove it.”

  “When’s the last time I drew a blade on you and said I’d kill you?” Keith asked him.

  “At least a week ago.”

  “Be serious for once, Alan. That man tried to kill you. Not just wave a dirk about and shout at you,” Ashburn said sternly. “He’s for it, now. Just as well, before he got control over people. A man who can’t control his passions is obviously not a gentleman.”

  “At least that passion.” Shirke picked up some bowls. “Though a passion for the ladies is allowed by the Navy.”

  “If that’s so, I haven’t seen much sign of it,” Lewrie sighed.

  * * *

  The next day in the Forenoon watch Rolston was paraded on deck. There had been a swift inquiry, with all involved hands testifying. It also included details of what had happened with Gibbs, with Hawkes giving the impression that while it may have been accidental, it pleased Rolston greatly. While Captain Bales could not hold a court-martial (that took a panel of five captains), he could assign a punishment for fighting and assaulting a fellow midshipman with a weapon. Sea Officers had the power of life and death in their hands, for though the Admiralty might limit the number of lashes a man might receive, written reports exceeding those limits never brought even a peep of displeasure from Whitehall. Out of reach of land and senior authority, a captain could do pretty much as he pleased.

  So, while the Marines were formed up with their muskets on the quarterdeck, the officers below the rail on the upper gun deck and the midshipmen to one side, Rolston was called to punishment. A hatch grating was stood up and lashed to the gangway, and the bosun and his mates stood by with a red baize bag which contained a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  Bales read out the charges against Rolston and asked him if he had anything to say. Rolston bit his lip and did not have any words. Bales referred to his slim book containing the Articles of War, and read the specific passages aloud, to drum into the hands the folly of fighting or laying hands on one another, much less a senior.

  “The Twenty-Third Article,” Bales intoned in a loud voice. “‘If any Person in the Fleet shall quarrel or fight with any other Person in the Fleet, or use reproachful or provoking Speeches or Gestures, tending to make any Quarrel or Disturbance, he shall upon being convicted thereof, suffer such Punishment as the Offence shall deserve, and a Court-martial shall impose.’” Bales also made reference to the Thirty-Sixth Article, the “Captain’s Cloak,” headed “All Other Crimes Not Capital…”

  Snapping the book shut, he ordered, “Seize him up!”

  Rolston was clad in shirt and breeches. The shirt was ripped off his back and a leather apron tied over his kidneys and buttocks. They pressed him against the grating and tied him spread-eagled with spun yarn.

  “Give him a dozen!”

  Bosun’s Mate Ream took off his coat and took the cat out of the bag. The lengths were not knotted, since it was not mutiny, theft or desertion, but that was cold comfort. Ream settled himself and drew back. He delivered the first stroke.

  Rolston was a boy, after all, a vicious, bullying sixteen-year-old boy, not made to take a man’s punishment. The lash made his whole body leap against the gratings with a thud, and he gasped audibly. Regular as a slow metronome, the lashes struck home. By the end of the first dozen, Rolston’s back was crisscrossed by angry weals and already turning blue and mottled yellow from the savage pounding. He was weeping silently and had bit his lip trying to be game about it.

  “Another bosun,” Bales ordered at the end of the first dozen.

  Jesus God, I started this, Lewrie told himself sadly. They’re half-killing the little shit and it’s my fault. I truly do hate him but was it worth this…?

  The second bosun laid on his first stroke, and this time, Rolston screamed. Not a yell, not a plea for mercy, but a womanish scream of agony! The next stroke knocked the air from his lungs. His back was now streaming blood where further lashes had broken open the inflamed weals. The youngest midshipmen that Lewrie saw were either weeping openly, or staring as though the flogging had happened not a moment too soon to please them. Rolston would have been the oldest in the gun room, and would have made their little lives hell.

  Lewrie looked at the lines of men, and he saw furtive gleams of pleasure. There was none of the swaying or shuffling they normally showed when they thought a punishment had found the wrong person. Perhaps it was an accident about Gibbs, but to the ship’s people, the punishment fit the crime, or answered their sense of a final justice.

  The punishment ended after two dozen. It was doubtful if Rolston would have survived a third, and he was so lost in agony already that one more stroke would not have affected him, or served a useful purpose.

  He was cut down and hauled off to the sick-bay. The deck was washed down and the grating put back in place. The men were dismissed and chivvied off to prepare for morning gun drill and cleaning.

  Rolston was officially dis-rated, deprived of gun room privilege and dressed in slop clothing like a common seaman. He was also confined in the brig as soon as the surgeon was through with him, there to languish until they docked.

  * * *

  “Lewrie, quit mooning,” Lieutenant Kenyon snapp
ed as he saw him lounging by the bulwarks.

  “Sorry, sir. I was thinking about Rolston just now.”

  “Don’t waste your time,” Kenyon told him. Lewrie gave it a long thought, then decided to come clean about his scheme to ruin his rival, but Kenyon forestalled him.

  “I still do not think he caused Gibbs to fall, but the captain had enough suspicion to reprimand him. And the way he went after you was the end of him.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So you crowed about it in the mess. Believe me, I know what it’s like to see a rival confounded, and Rolston was not the most popular man aboard, either. How often have I seen him having men up on charge to satisfy his petty grudges, or just to see a flogging? No, he is no loss to us. He was a brutal little monster, and would have been a real terror as an officer, God help us, as a captain. That kind, we don’t need in the Navy.”

  “I feel as if I precipitated the attack, sir.”

  “So what?” Kenyon shrugged. “So might any of the others who had a reason to wonder what happened aloft. Let Hawkes and Blunt stew on it long enough and it might have been Rolston who came down from the rigging next, and then we’d have had to hang two good topmen for the sake of one bad midshipman.”

  I doubt if he’d let me admit rape of his only sister, Alan told himself. Maybe I did do something right, after all?

  “You’re shaping devilish-well as a midshipman, Lewrie.”

  “Er … thank you, sir.”

  “Even though you thoroughly detest the Navy, we’re better off with your kind than his. And don’t tell me you love the Navy like Ashburn does, ’cause I’ve seen you when no one was looking. I was not exactly enamored of going to sea when I was a boy, either, but there were reasons why it was necessary. I still do not love it, but I have a future in it. You’ll make your way.”

  “Thank you for telling me that, sir.”