The King's Coat

by Dewey Lambdin

  “I said nothing, Mister Lewri … Now, I expect you to make sure to inspect the mess tables and report which mess has not scrubbed up properly. And check the bread barges, too.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  * * *

  For the next couple of weeks of their passage the world seemed incredibly sweet to Alan. The weather was fresh and clean, with deep blue skies and high-piled clouds with no threat in them. From the usual disturbed grey green color, the ocean changed to a spectacular shade of blue that glittered and folded and rose again under a balmy sun, so that it was as painful to look upon as a gem under a strong light. In the steady trade winds, Ariadne shook out the reefs in her tops’ls and hoisted her t’gallants for the first time in months, even setting studding-sails on the main course yard, and except for sail drill each day, there was less cause to reef and furl. Free of convoys and sluggish merchantmen, she proved that she could fly.

  With better weather and steadier foot- and handholds, Alan practically lived aloft in the rigging as they traded their heavy storm sails for a lighter set, lowering tons of strained and patched flaxen sails to be aired and folded away, the new being bent onto the yards and stays.

  Clearer skies also allowed better classes in navigation and the measuring of the noon sun’s height with their quadrants, or the newfangled sextant that was Mr. Ellison’s pride and joy. Alan found himself becoming pleasingly accurate at plotting their position.

  Dry decks and a following wind also gave better footing for small arms drill—musketry firing at towed kegs, pistol practice, pike training, tomahawks or boarding axes, and Lewrie’s favorite, sword work. Kenyon let him borrow a slightly curved hunting sword, or hanger, and he became adept with it, for it was much lighter than a naval cutlass to handle, but was meant to be used partially in the same way, stamp and slash.

  Ashburn’s tutor had been Spanish, so he knew the two-bladed fighting style of rapier and main gauche, while Alan knew the fighting style of the London streets; smallsword and cloak, lantern or walking stick for a mobile shield. They delighted in practicing on each other. It was good exercise, and taught raw landsmen how to survive at close quarters; though once in action it was pretty much expected that they would forget most of what they had been taught and fall back on their instincts, which were to flail away madly and batter someone to death rather than apply any science to the task.

  The master-at-arms was not a swordsman, and as Lewrie had proved months before, neither was the lieutenant-at-arms, Lieutenant Harm, so Marine captain Osmonde had been summoned from his life of ease in the wardroom to instruct at swordplay.

  Lewrie was not exactly sure that a Marine officer had any duties to perform, except for looking elegant and lending a measure of tone to what was a minor squirearchy gathering aft. His sergeants did all the work, and he supposedly served as some sort of catering officer to the other officers, which might have taken an hour a week. Yet Osmonde was lean to the point of gauntness, always immaculately turned out in snow-white breeches, waistcoat and shirt, his neckcloth perfect, his silk stockings looking brand new, his red tunic and scarlet sash without a speck of tar (or even dust) and his gold and brass and silver fit to blind the unwary. Lewrie was quite taken with Osmonde, for his skill with a sword, his gorgeous uniform, his egalitarian way of talking to the petty officers and midshipmen at drill (he did not talk to his own Marines, ever) and mostly with the fact that the man did not appear to ever have to do a lick of work and got paid right-well for it, even getting to sleep in every night with no interruptions.

  “I see you still sport Mister Kenyon’s hanger,” Osmonde said to him one sweaty day on the larboard gangway at drill.

  “Aye, sir. And short enough to get under guard.”

  “You would benefit with hefting a regulation cutlass. Put that away and do so,” Osmonde said, carefully phrasing each word.

  “Aye, sir.” Lewrie sheathed the wonderful little sword and dug a heavy cutlass from a tub of weapons. He looked around for an opponent and found everyone already engaged.

  “Here, we shall face-off each the other,” Osmonde said. “This shall be good for you. I notice you are a wrist player. Do you good to learn to hack and slash, to strengthen your whole arm.”

  “Seems such a … clumsy way, sir. And inelegant,” Lewrie said, taking up a middle guard.

  “So shall your opponent be, should we ever be called upon to board a foe. Some common seaman,” Osmonde said, clashing blades with him. He began to backpedal Lewrie across the gangway with crashing blows, while continuing to speak as if he were seated in a club chair. “You shall advance so gallantly and with such grace as to make your old pushing school proud, and some hulking brute like Fowles there will chop you to chutney before you can shout ‘en garde.’”

  Lewrie fetched up at the quarterdeck netting, backed into it by the fury of the attack and the weight of the opposing blade.

  “The damned thing has no point worth mentioning, so quit trying to frighten me with it,” Osmonde said. “Try a two-handed swing if it helps.”

  They went back down the gangway toward the bows, Lewrie still retreating, and his arms growing heavier by the minute.

  “The idea is to hack your opponent down, not dance a quadrille with him,” Osmonde said, his swings remorseless and the flat of the blade he wielded bringing stinging slaps on Lewrie’s arms.

  Lewrie tried to respond with some wittiness, but could not find his voice which was lost in a bale of raw cotton, so dry was he. He was nearing the foredeck, and planted his feet and began to swing back with both arms, clanging his blade against Osmonde’s.

  His arms were so tired they felt nerveless, though engorged with blood and heavy. Each meeting of the blades made his hands sting, and he found it more difficult to keep a grip on the wooden handle. With an air of desperation, he thrust the curved hilt into Osmonde’s shoulder and shoved him back, then aimed a horizontal swipe at him with all his remaining strength that should have removed a month’s worth of the officer’s hair. But Osmonde’s blade was just suddenly there, and his own recoiled away with a mighty clang, almost torn from his grasp. And then Osmonde thrust at him, which he barely countered off to the right. Then Osmonde brought a reverse stroke back at him and when their blades met this time, Lewrie’s spun away from his exhausted grip. Osmonde laughed and tapped him lightly on the head with the flat of the sword.

  “Not elegant, was it?”

  “No … sir,” Alan replied between racking gulps of air.

  “Humiliating experience?”

  “Bloody right … sir.”

  “Such language from a young gentleman, but better being humiliated than killed by someone with bad breath and no forehead. Fetch your cutlass and we’ll get some water.”

  In warmer climes a butt of water was kept on deck with a square cut, or scuttled, into the upper staves so that a small cup could be dipped inside without spillage. It was too long in-cask, that water, and tan with oak and animalcules, but in Lewrie’s parched condition it was sparkling wine.

  “Most men are afraid of blades, Lewrie,” Osmonde told him as he sipped at his water, making a face at the color and taste. “That’s why people were so glad that gunpowder and muskets and cannon were invented. You don’t have to get within reach of a blade or a point to get rid of the other bastard. I am glad to see you are not one of them.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Lewrie replied. “I think.”

  “Most men these days wear swords the way they wear hats.” Osmonde sighed, handing the cup back to Lewrie. “Or to give them a longer reach at the buffet table. Yet society, and the Navy, require us to face up to the enemy with steel in our hands. Fortunately for us, the Frogs and the Dons are a bunch of capering poltroons for all their supposed skills as swordsmen and swordsmiths. But there are a few men who are truly dangerous with a sword.”

  “Like you, sir?” Alan grinned, hoping to flatter.

  “Do not toady to me, Lewrie.”

  “I was merely asking if you thought
yourself dangerous, sir.”

  “Yes, yes, I am. I am because I like cold steel,” Osmonde said with a casualness that sent a chill down Lewrie’s sweaty back. “I can shoot, I can fence prettily but I can also hack with the best of ’em. Axe, cutlass, boarding pike, take your pick. Ever duel?”

  “Once, sir. Back home.”

  “Ever blaze?”

  “No, sir. Smallsword only. I pinked him.”

  “Huzzah for you. How did you feel?”

  “Well—”

  “Was he skilled?”

  “No, sir. He was easy to pink.”

  “And you were properly brave.” Osmonde sniffed.

  “Well…”

  “You were both frightened. Hands damp, throat dry, trembling all over. Probably pale as death but you stood up game as a little lion, did you not?”

  “Yes, I did, sir,” Alan said, getting a little tired of being humiliated.

  “It was only natural. And until you are really skillful with steel you will always feel that way, trusting to luck and hoping the foe is clumsy. Like going aloft, which I sincerely thank God I do not have to do, one learns caution, but goes when called, by facing one’s fear and conquering it.”

  “I think I see, sir.”

  “Most likely you do not, but you shall someday. You do not know how many young fools have rushed blindly into danger and died for their supposed honor, or for glory. Those two have buried more idiots than the plague. Heroism cannot conquer all. You’ll run into someone better someday. Better to be truly dangerous and let them come like sheep to the slaughter. Let the other fool die for his honor. Your job is to kill him, not with grace and style, but with anything that comes to hand.”

  “I suppose I’d live longer if I were that sort of man, sir?” Lewrie asked, not above placing his valuable skin at a high premium.

  “Exactly. So I suggest you find the oldest and heaviest cutlass aboard and practice with that, until a smallsword or hanger becomes like a feather in your hand. Keep fitter than the other fellow. Not only will you tire less easily, but the ladies prefer a fit man.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lewrie replied, now on familiar ground.

  “Practice with all this ironmongery until they each become an instinctive part of you. I will let you know if you are slacking.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lewrie said, not looking forward to it. It was a lot of work, and he had to admit that the sight of a pike head coming for his eyes was most unnerving. “I shall try, though the ship’s routine does take time from it. It must be easier to devote oneself to steel if one were a Marine officer, sir.”

  “Tempted to be a ‘bullock,’ Mister Lewrie?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind, sir.”

  “Prohibitively expensive to purchase a commission, d’you know,” Osmonde said by way of dismissal. “Certain appearances to maintain in the mess, as well.”

  “Well,” Alan said, turning to go as seven bells of the Forenoon watch rang out, and the bosun’s pipes sounded clear-decks-and-up-spirits for the daily rum ration. Osmonde’s Marine orderly was there with a small towel and Osmonde’s smallsword and tunic, as the Marine sniffed the air from the galley funnel.

  “Bugger the snooty bastards, anyway,” Alan muttered, going below to his own mess, soaking wet from the exertion. He dropped off Lieutenant Kenyon’s hanger and vowed that before the voyage was over, Captain Osmonde would rate him as a dangerous man.

  * * *

  Days passed as Ariadne made her westing, running down a line of latitude that would take them direct to Antigua as resolutely as a dray would stay within the banks of a country lane. There were two schools of thought about that; it made navigation easier to perform, and could almost be done by dead reckoning with a quick peek at the traverse board to determine distance run from one noon to the next, but it was a lazy, civilian way of doing things. Or, it was quite clever, since lazy civilian merchant captains would do it, and that put Ariadne in a position to intercept enemy Indiamen, or conversely, those privateers who might be lying in wait to prey upon British ships. But since the ship had not distinguished herself in the past as a great fighting ship, the latter was a minority opinion. Gun drill and some live firings were practiced, but it was undertaken with the tacit assumption that Ariadne would never fire those guns in anger—spite or pique, perhaps, but not battle—and it showed.

  What a happy ship we are, Alan thought, stripping off his coat and waistcoat as he sat down for dinner following one of those morning gun drills in the Forenoon watch. Lieutenant Harm had yelled himself hoarse with threats and curses to the gun crews on the lower deck, and the mechanical way they had gone through the motions. And when Lewrie had told some of them to remember to swab out so they would do it for real in action, Harm had screeched something like “a midshipman giving advice, by the nailed Christ?” and for him to shut the hell up, if he knew what was good for him.

  There may have been a war raging in the Colonies, all round the world as France, Spain, perhaps soon even Holland joined to support the rebels and rehash the Seven Years’ War, and ships may have fought in these very waters; somewhere over the horizon British vessels could be up to close-pistol-shot with the broadsides howling, but the general idea was that Ariadne was not part of that same fleet, and never would be, so drilling on the great guns was make-work, sullenly accepted.

  The pork joint in their mess was half bone and gristle, and the real meat was a piece of work to chew. Their peas were lost in fatty grease; the biscuit was crumbling with age and the depredation of the weevils. Lewrie watched his companions chew, heard the rapping of the biscuits on the table like a monotonous tatoo. He was sick to death of them all, even Ashburn. Shirke was telling Bascombe the same joke for the umpteenth time, and Bascombe was braying like an ass as he always did. Chapman chewed and blinked and swallowed as though he was concentrating hard on remembering how, and in which order, such actions of dining occurred. The master’s mates smacked like pigs at a trough, and the surgeon’s mates whispered dry rustlings of dog-Latin and medical terms like a foreign language that set them apart from the rest. Brail fed himself with a daintiness he imagined a gentleman should, and maintained a silence that was in itself maddening.

  I’d love to put a pistol ball into this damned joint, just to have something new to talk about, Lewrie decided. It might wake old Chapman up, at least. No, probably ricochet off the pork and kill one of them …

  “And was our young prodigy all proficient at gun drill today?” Shirke asked him.

  “What?” Lewrie said, realizing he had been asked a question.

  “Were you a comfort to Lieutenant Harm?” from Bascombe.

  “I’m sure the foretopmen heard it,” Ashburn teased. “‘By the nailed Christ,’ I think the expression was.”

  “Did big bad bogtwotter hurt baby’s feewings?”

  “I see you have reverted to your proper age and intellect, Harv,” Lewrie said. “How refreshing. For a while there, I thought counting higher than ten at navigation was going to derange you.”

  Bascombe was not exactly a mental wizard when it came to the intricacy of working navigation problems, and had spent many hours at the masthead as punishment. The insult went home like a hot poker up the arse.

  “You’re a right smart little man, ain’t you, Lewrie?”

  “Smarter than some I know. At least I can make change.”

  “You bastard—”

  “That’s educated bastard, to you.”

  “For twopence I’d call you out.” Bascombe leaped to his feet with fists clenched.

  “You want me to pay you,” Lewrie said calmly, looking up at him with a bland expression. “Funny way to make a living. I didn’t know you were that needy.”

  “Goddamn you—”

  “And a parson’s son, at that!” Lewrie was enjoying himself hugely. This is the best lunch we’ve had in days.

  “’Ere, now,” Finnegan said, waving a fork at them. “There’s a midshipman awready wot’s been rooned this voya
ge. Now shut yer traps.”

  Bascombe plumped back down on his chest, his hands still fisted in his lap. He stared at his plate for a long moment.

  “Who ruined Rolston?” he asked softly. “Lewrie was the one that ran on about him, and swearing so innocent he meant nothing by it.”

  I didn’t know he was that sharp, Lewrie thought; have to watch young Harvey in future.

  “Rolston ruined himself, and we all know it,” Keith said, as if he was the only one to lay down the law. “And I think his case is example enough for all of us. We are here to learn to get along with each other. Alan, I think you owe Harvey an apology. And you owe one to Alan as well.”

  Mine arse on a band-box, Lewrie thought, but saw that the others were waiting on him to start. “Well, perhaps Lieutenant Harm made me raw, and being teased about it didn’t do my temper any good. Sorry I took it out on you, Bascombe. What with this morning, I lashed out without thinking.”

  “For my part, I’m sorry for what I said as well,” Bascombe said after taking a long moment to decide if Lewrie had actually apologized to him.

  “Now shake hands and let’s finish eating,” Ashburn said.

  They shook hands perfunctorily, Lewrie glaring daggers, and Bascombe thinking that he would find a way to put Lewrie in the deepest, hottest hell.

  “Better.” Ashburn smiled and picked up his knife and fork. “Did I hear right? Did Mister Harm really intend to put Snow up on a charge and see him flogged?”

  “Mister Harm got hellish angry when two men slipped, and when Snow told him they couldn’t help it because of the water on the deck from the slow-match tubs, Harm thought it was back-talk and went barking mad.”

  “Mister Harm, mind ye,” Turner said.

  “Aye, sir,” Lewrie corrected, waiting for Turner to tell him that commission lieutenants don’t go barking mad, either, but evidently they sometimes do, for Turner went back to his meal. “Snow’s a good quartergunner, been in forever, I’m told.”

  “Won’t stand,” Ashburn said, smearing mustard on his meat and hoping the flavor was improved. “Captain Bales will take it into account. Come to think of it, I cannot remember Snow ever being charged.”