The King's Coat

by Dewey Lambdin

  Poor Bales is fucked, Alan thought. And I’ve put one of the nails in his coffin. The least I can do is soften the blow for him … God, where did I get so noble suddenly? Then Alan also realized that anything he said in Bales’ defense would look good for him as well before the members of the court. After all, he too was soon to be unemployed. Oh, you wretch …

  “If I may say something about Captain Bales, sir?” Lewrie said, and received a nod. “If I have learned anything in my short time in the Navy it’s that Captain Bales is a good officer, and a fine captain. When we were on convoy duty he was the one we all looked to when it was blowing a full gale. No matter what happened when that Spaniard tried to ambush us, and we did do him more damage than he did to us, I was glad to have Captain Bales as our commanding officer. I’d sail with him again, sirs.”

  “Ah, well, I think that’s all. You are dismissed, Mister Lewrie,” the president said, all but piping his eyes.

  “Aye aye, sir,” Lewrie said crisply, rising from his seat. God, you are such a toadying little shit, Lewrie, he told himself, turning red with embarrassment. Did I lay it on a trifle thick? Maybe it will even help the old bastard a little bit in the end. But if I’d been on the listening side I’d have spewed and then kicked my young arse out …

  “God bless you, Mister Lewrie,” Captain Bales whispered to him as he passed him on the way out. “I’ll not forget that.”

  “I meant it, sir,” Lewrie said, knowing that he hadn’t meant a bloody word of it and eager to get away.

  * * *

  Ariadne was condemned. Her topmasts were struck for the last time, and she was warped alongside a stone dock, there to be a receiving ship. Most of her hands were dispersed to the hungry vessels that still had a job to do. Without them, she felt eerily empty.

  Captain Bales, found guilty by the court of Article Ten, and Lieutenant Swift being found guilty of the same charge, were dismissed from the service, to be sent home to England. Lieutenant Church was found guilty of Article Twelve, Cowardice and Neglect of Duty; he was liable to the death penalty, but also dismissed from the Navy.

  Lewrie thought that if they all went back home in the same ship it would make a cozy little gathering in the passenger’s mess—Bales, Swift, Church, Chapman now minus his leg and doomed to a life of poverty and being chased by children in the street calling him Mr. Hop-kin’s, and young Beckett, minus a foot at twelve years of age, all ruing the day they had joined the Fleet, and Ariadne, for she had been bad luck for everybody.

  Lewrie was moved into the old officers’ wardroom but still had to sling a hammock. Some form of ship’s routine still went on; rising to scrub decks, stow hammocks, sail drill with the courses, anything to keep the newly arrived hands busy before they were assigned ships. He also supervised a lot of working parties at the dockyard and stores warehouses. All his friends left. Osmonde went to an eighty-gun ship of the line whose Marine Captain had been cashiered; Ashburn attended the flagship and passed his examination for lieutenancy, and took his place as sixth officer in Glatton, which was easy duty since it had been months since that ship had seen the seaward view of Cape Shirley and was rumored to be resting on a reef of beef bones. Shirke was on the mend in hospital while Bascombe went into a fine frigate. All the senior warrants and mates disappeared, except for the oldest and slowest. He languished for weeks in limbo, waiting for his call.

  A very old lieutenant had charge of Ariadne, a man so old that he made Bales look like a spry young topman. When Lieutenant Cork drank, Alan drank. In fact, everybody drank. Cork knew he wasn’t going anywhere important for the rest of the century, so he drank a lot, which meant that Lewrie had to sit and drink with him almost every night.

  On those nights when Lieutenant Cork had started early, or simply forgot that he had a ready-made audience for his maunderings, Lewrie had the chance to slip ashore and caterwaul. He checked out the whores, he ate the spiciest foods he could find which were such a change from the Navy’s idea of what to do with rock-hard salt-meat.

  But it was an expensive island, and wartime wasn’t helping to hold down prices, and he found himself in the miserable position of having to go ashore to get away from the drudgery, but not being able to afford doing it more than once a week. His hundred guineas were going fast, and there was no guarantee that his father ever intended to honor their agreement, now that he was thousands of miles away. He had sent Pilchard a letter so his new guineas would catch up with him, but he wasn’t holding his breath waiting for them.

  He found himself in the miserable position one night of really wishing he were at sea, if just to cut his expenses, and he knew that he was going mad even to consider it! Once Lieutenant Cork went face-down in a puddle of claret (Lewrie had to give the man credit for supplying a good vintage, and free to boot) he went on deck to think out the fumes in his head with fresh air, and leaned on the railing, wondering what was going on aboard all the other ships in harbor.

  “Mister Lewrie?” a familiar voice called from the darkness.

  “Aye?”

  “Lewrie, you’re cup-shot!”

  Lewrie could not make out who it was and stepped closer before he made the wrong answer to someone more senior. “Mister Kenyon?” he gasped, once he could make out the uniform and a hint of the face.

  “It’s me, right enough. How do you keep?”

  “Like a ghost, sir. I think I’m the only soul left from the old crew,” he said, happy to see his favorite officer and hoping that it wasn’t just a social call.

  “Too much idle time on your young hands, if you ask me, Mister Lewrie.”

  “Too true, sir.”

  “Then how would you like something that would keep you out of mischief?”

  “I like mischief, sir, frankly. But this is getting boresome.”

  “So you wouldn’t turn down a chance to be a midshipman in an independent command.”

  “Mischief be damned, sir, where do I go?” he whooped.

  “Admiral Matthews has just given me command of HMS Parrot. She is a big fore n’ aft schooner, American built and English took. I’m allowed two midshipmen and I was delighted to find that you were available. Matter of fact, Matthews was quite taken with the report about you and was saving you for something good.”

  “Lead me to her, sir.”

  “We’ll be doing some interesting things, running fleet mails and orders all up and down the Leewards, over to Jamaica now and then, maybe as far as the Bahamas or the Colonies.”

  “I’ll go pack, sir,” Lewrie told him, aware that he was much happier than the last time he had uttered those words.

  “We’re lying off the far side of the dockyard. Report aboard by the end of the Forenoon watch. Sober and clear-eyed, if you know what’s good for you.” Kenyon said it good-naturedly.

  They spent some time catching up on old times, then Kenyon had to leave for his lodgings before taking command in the morning, and he wanted to pack. Lewrie knew that his chest was ready to go, except for a few loose ends and laundry. His head was as clear as a bell now, and he quivered with excitement at the thought of being not only employed once more, but having been held in reserve for a choice assignment such as Parrot by Rear Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews.

  There had to be twenty, thirty midshipmen who were more senior and deserving, just dying for a berth such as Parrot. He thought of Keith Ashburn as a new lieutenant, pacing back and forth and aching for sea time on the flag, and he knew he had the better berth, after all.

  This calls for a celebration, he told himself. There was going to be a lot of work in the days ahead, if his new ship was fitting out, and no more chance to go ashore with the ease which he enjoyed presently. Perhaps he did not have to drink himself blind to celebrate, but that did not mean he could not strum a doxy one last time.

  Chapter 7

  Parrot was big as schooners go, not like the smaller island-built types. She was over sixty-five feet on the range of the deck, American-built of pine and fast as the very wind. Exc
ept for a small raised area aft to improve the headroom of the master’s cabins, she was a flushdeck, and carried eight small four-pounder cannon, four on each beam, and with lighter swivels fore and aft as chase guns. She could fly three foresails, or jibs, two huge gaffed fore-and-aft sails on her fore and mainmasts, and when at any point of sail from a close reach to running before the wind could also add two smaller topsails on crossed yards. Since she would be running despatches, it was not meant for her to carry the usual four months of food and water required of rated ships, so the crew had much more room in which to stretch out. But she still had a large crew of fifty men, including officers, warrants and stewards. Enough to make sail, and enough to fight her, if pressed into a corner. But her principal defense was to be her greater speed—she could do nearly twelve knots.

  She could also point up much higher to windward than most ships such as brigs, which was a final form of salvation against being taken.

  As soon as Lewrie saw her he was in heaven, since she did not rate a sailing master, chaplain, schoolmaster, no Marines and only one master’s mate, a stocky individual with thinning hair named Claghorne.

  Kenyon was master and commander, and was given the deferential title of Captain, and was responsible for her navigation and safety, with only Claghorne to help him. There was a bosun and only one mate, and though she rated a surgeon, she did not have one, but only a surgeon’s mate to serve in lieu of a more experienced man. But since they never would be far from some port, it was thought that he would suffice until they could drop anchor where there was medical help.

  Kenyon had a tidy aftercabin which had a private quarter-gallery privy, and a hanging locker to the other side, a day cabin which held his settee by the stern windows, a desk, a sleeping cabin with a hanging bed box, small chart cabin and a dining space. And the furnishings the former owners had been deprived of were of good quality. Mr. Claghorne the master’s mate, Boggs the surgeon’s mate, Lewrie and the other midshipman, a fifteen-year-old named Thaddeus Purnell, berthed in the wardroom forward of Kenyon’s quarters. Parrot had been meant to be a privateer, so she had carried prize officers, who had been given small private cabins. They weren’t much; canvas and lath screens for partitions, stationary bunks, and a washhand stand and bookshelf, with room for a chest (barely) and a row of pegs for a locker, but it had a door, and it was more privacy than he had seen in months, even if every noise penetrated the insubstantial walls.

  They also had a good-quality dining table, and trestle seats down each side instead of using their chests. After the cockpit in Ariadne it was approaching luxury.

  There were some familiar faces from Ariadne in the crew. The rest were those “volunteers” who had hoped to escape a bad officer or a bosun in their previous ship, or those men that any captain would offer up first to the needs of the Fleet, and would gladly get rid of at the first opportunity. There were also a great many hands fresh-arrived in Antigua who were barely seamen at all. Ten of the men, and all the boy servants, were West Indians, cheeky runts who spoke a dialect that Alan had a great difficulty understanding as the King’s English.

  The first item of business was stocking the ship. A man was chosen to be a cook, another West Indian who swore he knew how, and supplies began to arrive aboard, ferried by Lewrie and Purnell in their eternal role of water taxi men. Since there was no purser or assistant, the Jack in The Bread Room, Kenyon’s clerk and Lewrie had to take over the role, but since Leonard wished to eventually save enough to purchase a place as a purser, it was much easier than Lewrie thought. And Parrot was already armed and stocked well with good French powder and small arms, though the guns were English, as was the shot. Their task was to bring firewood, coal, rum, livestock, flour, fruit, paint, extra slop clothing and naval stores for the bosun, Mr. Mooney.

  After two days of stocking, Kenyon summoned his mates and petty officers to the aftercabin, which crowded that space severely. Kenyon sat behind his desk while Mooney, Claghorne and Leonard had the settee by the open stern windows. Also on hand were Lewrie, Purnell, Docken the gunner, Bright the gunner’s mate. Kenyon had had the cook squeeze some fresh lemons and limes to make a cooling drink for the meeting. Lewrie’s first duty was to help the captain’s servant, a West Indian named George, fill everyone’s mugs.

  “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Kenyon said. “Now, normally with only me and Mister Claghorne, and only Mister Mooney and his mate to tend to things, we should be watch-and-watch in rotation. But I propose that we go to three watches and take advantage of our midshipmen. Mister Purnell has a good report from his last captain, and has served on prizes with a bosun’s mate, which is why we got him. And I know Mister Lewrie’s qualities from our last ship, Ariadne.”

  Purnell sneaked a look at Lewrie to size him up, and Lewrie gave him equal treatment. Obviously Purnell had money; he was very well turned out and obviously someone’s favorite for him to be here. He was a gawky fifteen-year-old with red hair and freckles. Hardly looked harmful. Yet.

  “Mooney tells me that Bond, one of the quartermasters, wants to strike for bosun’s mate, and we shall let him do so, and appoint one hand to serve as his replacement. Mister Mooney, you might have some name to suggest?”

  “Aye, sir,” Mooney rumbled deep in his barrel chest.

  “Might pick another man for acting quartermaster for the tiller as well, so we have a chance to train as many people as possible,” Lieutenant Kenyon went on, sipping at his lemon water.

  “That will do for the men aft, at any rate. The hands will stay in their familiar starboard and larboard watches. I doubt if their conservatism would allow else.”

  “Aye, sir,” Claghorne said, thinking on the superstitious and habitual nature of their seamen, who would balk at anything that smacked of newfangled notions.

  “We shall place an experienced bosun’s mate with the lads, and the acting bosun’s mate with either me or Mister Claghorne. I expect we could put Purnell and Lewrie on the Middle Watch and First or Second Dog Watches, where they could not get into much trouble, and give us a chance to sleep somewhat peacefully. They could nap in the Forenoon, subject to the requirements of the ship, of course.”

  Lewrie grinned over the edge of his mug. It was tantamount to being appointed an acting lieutenant, and would look good in his record to be so honored, perhaps shortening the time he would have to be a midshipman. And there was also the prospect that Parrot just might take a prize and he be appointed to command of it …

  “I also want to take advantage of Mister Purnell’s experience to assist the bosun and his mates in the general condition of the ship, and I wish Mister Lewrie to be seconded to the gunner and his mate, as he has a great fondness for artillery. Sail tending in the Forenoon watches, exercise the guns during the day. We have a stout little vessel in Parrot, well built and clean of rot. We have guns sufficient to protect us against any light vessel that could catch us, and enough turn of speed to outrun or outpoint anything heavier. We have some people who need training, and some that need reminding that they are still in the King’s Navy, so we have hard work ahead of us. Use your starters as you will for now, but try to avoid flogging incidents until we have shaken down into a crew, unless totally unavoidable.”

  Soon after that they were dismissed. Lewrie went below to the magazine to check up on things and do an inventory. Bright, the gunner’s mate, went with him.

  They counted their linstocks, lengths of slow match, sand, powder horns, firing quills and their condition, gun tools and the general condition of the four-pounders.

  “Spankin’ new, they are, Mister Lewrie,” Bright told him, unsure how much authority Kenyon had given him. “Took off one of ours, I guess. Not a year old by the proof marks, an’ hardly fired.”

  “How accurate is a four-pounder?” Lewrie asked.

  “Random shot at a mile, good chance of a hit at six cables. Not as accurate as a nine-pounder. Might wanta get rid a this junk.”

  “What is it?”

 
“She’s fulla Frog tricks, Mister Lewrie. Canister—cases a musket balls ta clear a deck or a fightin’ top. That’s star-shot,” Bright said, picking up a round. “Comes apart inta four pieces held tagether like this. Good for takin’ down riggin’ and cripple a prize first. No stomach for a close fight.”

  “I see we have more swivels.”

  “Aye, eight more. I guess they were gonna mount ’em on each beam.”

  “We shall have to get the hands used to them. You might make up some cartridges, and some canister for the swivels. We might get some target practice at kegs or something with them,” Lewrie suggested.

  “Aye, we could.” Bright frowned, thinking how much work it was.

  “What are these?” Lewrie asked, picking up an unusual rod of some kind from an entire case of them. It resembled a large iron dart but was wrapped with a tarred cap of cloth and seemed to have small spring-loaded arms attached, neatly folded up behind the head along the shaft.

  “Easy with that, them’s fire arrers,” Bright cautioned.

  “What do you do with them, Bright?” Lewrie asked, turning to look him square in the eye and establish that he was on at least an equal footing with the gunner’s mate. Being rated a watch-officer didn’t hurt, either.

  “They’s nasty stuff, Mister Lewrie. Ya shoots ’em outa the swivels. That sets ’em afire, an’ when they hits, they snap open so’s they can’t go no farther. Sticks in the sails and burns ’em up. I’d feel a lot safer without ’em. They’re touchy as hell. ’Sides, it ain’t Christian to do that, even to an enemy. It’s a damn pirate’s weapon, not fit for a King’s ship.”

  “But they have been found to be most effective?”

  “Sir?” Bright asked, not understanding the word and taking the deferential air of an inferior by force of habit.