The King's Coat

by Dewey Lambdin

  By the end of the Forenoon watch, the crew’s major work was done, and at a signal from Kenyon the pendant for easy discipline was hoisted, which brought the bumboats swarming back.

  Mooney and Leonard stood by the entry port, along with the surgeon’s mate, to witness the exchange of certificates for cash, so that the men were not too badly cheated. They also made sure that drink did not make its way below decks in major quantities, though some smuggling of small bottles was inevitable. Lastly, the surgeon’s mate performed his duty of checking the boarding polls for the more obvious signs of the pox. He rejected several, turning away the oldest and most raddled whores. The crew did a good job of sorting as well, booing down the arrival of some women that Boggs could find no fault with.

  “Wot a monkey-face, throw ’er back, somebody…”

  “Oo shall ’ave this’n, then?” Mooney asked.

  “Nobody,” several men sneered loudly.

  “On yer way, twickle-bum.”

  “Yair, go fook a Marine!” someone laughed.

  Awnings were spread over the deck, and canvas chutes for ventilation, while hammocks were slung below in the crew’s mess area, and crude blanket partitions were hung for some semblance of privacy for their rutting. The women would work hard to earn their few shillings, paired off for a day or night to a lustful seaman who would feed her and ply her with drink out of his earnings like a temporary wife. Her man had duties to attend to, still, but she would be waiting below for him once he was released.

  Once the sun had lost most of its heat, the awnings were taken in and stowed and supper was served along with the second rum ration. Lewrie made a quick tour of the lower deck to see if all was in order, then attended to his own meal.

  He lounged at the mess table in the wardroom, half his uniform removed for comfort and sipping at a very decent hock just brought from shore. Their Creole cook had come up with roast chicken, fresh bread and butter, boiled onions, carrots and peas. There had been some new Stilton, and a small apple apiece, too. Had it not been for the occasional squeal of delight or a husky grunt of transport coming from the crew’s quarters he could have fallen asleep, pleasantly stuffed.

  “A bumper with ya, lad,” Boggs said, happily cup-shot, and his scruffy white bag-wig askew on his head. “Give us heel taps on the last of yer hock and have port with me.”

  He accepted a full measure after draining his glass, and clinked glasses with Boggs.

  “Goddamn me, we’re close to losing British Florida,” Leonard told them as he read a newspaper nearly three months old but new to them.

  “Good riddance,” Claghorne said. “Whole lot of colonies south of the Chesapeake is nothin’ but swamp and bugs and sweat.”

  “But, I mean, the Rebels’ll never hold ’em against the Spanish. They’ll take ’em right back, and then we’re in a pickle,” Leonard went on, waving the paper at them.

  “But if the Spaniards lost their fleet in that storm last year,” Tad Purnell asked, “what have we to worry about?”

  “Hark the younker,” Claghorne said.

  Purnell and Lewrie shared a look between them. If one were a midshipman, every one of your questions was greeted with ridicule, and every one of your answers was usually wrong, according to the older men. Samuel Johnson as a midshipman would have been caned for even opening his mouth.

  “DeGuichen has a Frog fleet back in the Windwards,” Leonard said. “Rodney and Parker tangled with him all summer but couldn’t finish him off. They provide the ships, the Dons provide the troops, we could have trouble somewhere. Then the closest American port open to us would be Charleston, and you know they’d try to take that back. Cornwallis has enough on his plate as it is.”

  “Let the French come out,” Boggs said loudly. “Let them come, I say, and the King’s Navy will square their yards for ’em.”

  “Gentlemen, the Navy,” Claghorne shouted, raising his glass, and they all had to knock their wine back and refill.

  Claghorne dipped a taper into the lamp hung over the mess table to get a light for a long clay pipe, and was soon happy to lean back with a wreath of tobacco fumes about his head. Leonard, crossed in his opinions by the others, withdrew from the fray and put aside the paper to peruse his account books, making clucking sounds now and then as he either found some expense he deplored, or didn’t think he could get the Admiralty to believe. Boggs began to rock and sing, but the exact tune was hard to make out, and the words slurred together, until his wig fell off. As he bent to retrieve it he slipped to the deck and stayed there in a heap, beginning to snore loudly.

  “Thank God,” Purnell said. When most men considered it a gentlemanly accomplishment to be a three-bottle man, Boggs was more like a half-dozen man, and that on top of his rum or Black Strap issue. The suspicion was strong that drink had run him to sea, and God help the hand who really needed a surgeon if only Boggs was available …

  Claghorne got to his feet and dragged their surgeon’s mate to bed, and Alan and Tad slipped out on deck for some fresh air. There was none to be had. The harbor was as smooth as a millpond and not a capful of wind stirred. Parrot could almost roll on her beam-ends under bare poles in a stiff breeze, but she now lay as calm as a stone bridge.

  “Damned hot for December,” Purnell said quietly beside him, studying the many riding lights in the harbor.

  “We’ll have some weather. Maybe a late storm. It’s unreal for it to be so still and airless,” Alan replied.

  “My, how salty we’ve become, for one dipped in brine so little time,” Purnell softly jeered him.

  “I still say we’ll get a shift of wind out of this,” Alan insisted. “You mark my words.”

  “Think enough to put up half a crown on it?” Tad pressed.

  “Done. But you should know better. Pity to take your money so easy. Your brothers would know.”

  Purnell’s family were from Bristol, shipowners, traders, importers, and his older brothers were already merchant captains. Their clan was so absolutely stiff with the chink that Purnell clanked when he did a turn about the decks, but for all his money, he was all right as a mate. He did not compete with Lewrie for favor, and each had their own specialty. For Purnell, it was sail-handling and navigation—Lewrie was capable, but more at home with artillery and small arms. Tad Purnell was also a good fellow to know, fairly upright and honest in their dealings but still possessed of a sense of humor and a streak of deviltry that his family, and now the Navy, sat upon to keep from running riot.

  Claghorne emerged from the hatchway, his pipe still fuming, and a newspaper clutched in his hand for a long, contemplative visit to the heads. “Damn still,” he said to them. “We’ll get half a gale out of this right soon, I swear.”

  “Sorry about your half a crown,” Lewrie whispered, delighted to hear his opinion confirmed by an old tarpaulin man.

  “And I’ll bet our ‘live-lumber’ will be casting up their accounts as soon as we get beyond the breakwater,” Tad said happily.

  “Just who is this Lord Cantner?” Lewrie asked Purnell after hearing Lieutenant Kenyon drop the name to his clerk Leonard earlier that afternoon.

  “Rum old squint-a-pipes, tries to see six directions at once. He used to be a very big planter and trader out here before the war started. As big a cutthroat as a Mohawk. I heard he’d become one of Lord North’s creatures, come to see if the war is still winnable. But most-like to collect what he can from his old estates.”

  “Thing that amazes me is that he’d bring his wife out here to this place,” Alan said. “It’s a sickly climate for a woman.”

  “Well, I hear she’s much younger, and her dowry was worth a duke’s ransom. Probably couldn’t stand the thought of her being left back home with time on her hands.”

  “Or someone else’s hands on her.” Alan leered.

  “Look, Lewrie,” Tad began, suddenly unsure of himself, “if we get ashore this time I was wondering … you seem to know a bit about the fairer sex, and I…”

  God
help me but I really should become a pimp, Alan told himself; everyone seems to think I’m so topping good at it …

  “And the sound of our crew slaking their lust is driving you mad, is that it, Purnell?”

  “Well, I am fifteen now, almost sixteen, and I’ve spent the last three years of my life afloat. This ship seems my best chance,” Purnell confessed.

  “Probably cost you one guinea for a good bareback rider,” Alan warned him with a grin, “and you have to be careful that you don’t get a poxy one.”

  “I don’t know how to tell,” Tad said, turning red at his own words, “but if you sort of gave me a fair wind, and a course to steer…”

  “And you don’t want to just hop on and hop off.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Whores can be right nice, if they know it’s your first time,” Alan said. “Kind of like the press-gang. If I had to go, why not you, too? Best way is to spend some time with her, have a stoup or two, get rigged properly, bear down and board her, and not have to run for the door after. Take a Dog Watch to enjoy watching her move.”

  “God almighty,” Tad breathed heavily, “that would be marvelous.”

  “Bloody right it is,” Alan heartily agreed, getting the itch himself.

  “Could you do it?”

  “I promise I shall.”

  They went below for more wine, the only thing that seemed to cool the night. Boggs was snoring, and Leonard had retired to his cabin to do some writing. Claghorne came back down through the hatch and poured himself a drink, preparatory to turning in.

  “Shit,” he said, pawing the air.

  “Sir?” Lewrie asked. Was it an order, or a comment?

  “Bloodsuckers have found us,” Claghorne said, waving off a mosquito. Lewrie heard a whine and looked down to see one ready to perch on his wrist. He brought his other hand down and smashed it, leaving a tiny smear of blood.

  “Well-fed little bastard.”

  “I’ve seen ’em down on the Spanish Main, thicker’n a Channel fog, and each one hungry as a rolled leech,” Claghorne said groggily. “Seen ’em suck a man white…”

  “Aye, Mister Claghorne,” Tad said with an angelic expression that almost made Lewrie snort port up his nose as he tried to stifle a laugh.

  “Shows how much you know,” Claghorne said. “But I’m sleepin’ with a net tonight to keep ’em off me. You should, too, if ya had any sense, but I ’spect midshipmen could do with a rash of welts an’ all the itchin’, so we’ll see who caulks down quiet an’ who tosses all night.” So saying, Claghorne took his mug of port and went off to his cabin to slam the insubstantial door.

  “Seen ’em suck a man white down on the Spanish Main,” Tad said in a soft whisper, and a fairly accurate imitation of Claghorne.

  Eight bells chimed from the belfry, and the ship’s corporal began to make his rounds to make sure that the galley fire was out, and all glims extinguished below decks. The wardroom could keep their pewter lamps burning for another hour, but after more port neither one wanted to stay up and read. Tad Purnell had the deck watch, so he dressed properly and left, and Lewrie turned in, making sure his door was shut tight and that no flying pests lived in his space to disturb his rest.

  * * *

  It was the next morning while the crew were at Divisions that a boat came out to Parrot, bumping against the hull. A mulatto man in livery stood waiting patiently until the men had been inspected and released back to their morning duties, and their pleasures.

  After all the wine, and a night on deck, Lewrie felt that his eyes were ready to glaze over and wished he had had more time in his bed box.

  “Mister Lewrie,” Lieutenant Kenyon called. “Could you join me?”

  Lewrie crossed to the hatchway to the after cabins, where Kenyon stood with a piece of paper in his hand that had just been handed to him by the mulatto servant.

  “I have just been given an invitation to a dinner party this evening at the home of … an old acquaintance of mine, now Sir Richard Slade. He requests that I bring some of my officers as well. Do you think you could be presentable enough to represent Parrot properly?”

  “Aye, sir!” Alan assured him most eagerly.

  “Good. Purnell as well. Mister Claghorne might be a bit too rough for that sort of company so I shall leave him in charge.”

  “I should be delighted, sir.”

  “I thought you would be. See to making the gig presentable. We shall go ashore at the end of the First Dog. This could be quite important. Our passengers will be there, as well as the lieutenant-governor and other luminaries from these parts. I hope that you and Purnell are on your absolute best behavior, mind.”

  “We shall endeavor to please, sir,” Lewrie said earnestly, but thinking that it would be a splendid opportunity to please himself, and possibly initiate Thaddeus to the pleasures of strumming a bawd.

  An extremely handsome coach had met them at the boat landing, and they rode in comfort through the streets of Kingston as night fell. The coach ascended a hill overlooking the army camp north of the town, then spiralled down to a pleasant valley at the foot of the hills that rose to the east into the Blue Mountains.

  The house they came to on a shell drive was huge, island-built imitation Palladian but with a veranda all about it. Light gleamed from the front rooms and over thirty carriages already stood in the shadows of the trees.

  Once in the foyer Lewrie began to almost purr in delight. There was a large salon aglow in candlelight as large as any he had seen in London. Perhaps the trim work was not as fine, but the drapes and the furnishings were top quality and in impeccable taste. And the salon was crowded with people; civilians in their finery, naval officers in blue and white, army and Marine officers in red, planters in velvet and silk and broadcloth. And women. Women of every imaginable type, done up in silk, lace, velvet, satin and damask, their bell-shaped gowns all trimmed with flowers and embroidered panels, their bosoms hitched up in tight-fitting bodices, lace sleeves and fine wigs. Jewels shone in flattering candlelight, and eyes were already flashing.

  The butler introduced them to no special notice from the crowd, which was intent on their own conversations, or the delights of the groaning buffets or wine tables.

  “James. How good to see you after all these years,” their host said upon spotting Kenyon.

  “Richard,” Kenyon replied. “Rather, Sir Richard, now!”

  “Pox on that, it’s still Dick to you,” Sir Richard Slade said. “And who are these two scamps? Yours?” He winked.

  “My midshipmen, Dick,” Kenyon said. “Thaddeus Purnell.”

  “Not Alexander Purnell’s boy?”

  “Aye, sir,” Tad said, surprised.

  “Knew your father well, used to do a lot of trading through Bristol.” Sir Richard beamed.

  “Midshipman Alan Lewrie.” Kenyon continued.

  “Your servant, Sir Richard,” Alan said, making a leg. What a Macaroni, he thought; must be fifty guineas for his duds but he’s too old for them by half …

  Sir Richard Slade sported heavy dark blue breeches made of velvet, and an extremely flared coat of powder blue satin, sprigged with fanciful gilt braids and button trim, gilt buttons everywhere, tight sleeves and huge pockets. His waistcoat was gold silk with elaborate floral embroidery. In spite of the heat he wore a huge floured wig. His shoes were even high-heeled in the French style, and his buckles seemed paved with brilliants. Altogether, the image of a man with too much money and not enough clothes sense.

  His handshake was also as limp as a dead halibut. Lewrie felt an instant revulsion and wondered where Kenyon had made friends with such a coxcomb. Reminds me of Gerald and all his Molly friends.

  “The pleasures of my house are yours, gentlemen,” Sir Richard told them. “James, come, let us catch up on things. It has been too long since we’ve talked.”

  “Enjoy yourselves,” Kenyon told them. “Within reason.”

  “If you are allowed, why do you not all stay over tonight a
nd accept the hospitality of my home?” Sir Richard asked. “I’ll have Cassius arrange some rooms for you.”

  “Aye, but let me send a message to my mate,” Kenyon said. A servant was there in a moment, and another younger boy in livery to steer Kenyon to a study, where he could pen some orders for Claghorne. This left Lewrie and Purnell alone, so they wandered off toward the buffets and the wine tables.

  “Odd sort,” Lewrie said. “Knows your family, does he?”

  “I suppose. But there are so many traders out here we deal with. I’ll have to write Father about him.”

  “Well, let’s get some wine aboard, and see what the buffet has to offer. Oh, Lord, look at the ‘cat-heads’ on that woman!”

  Purnell stared openmouthed at a slim woman in her thirties who sported a pair of breasts that looked as large and firm as apples, half her globes swelling above her gown and thrust forward proudly. They almost could make out a hint of her rosy aureoles.

  “My, yes,” Tad breathed, close to fingering his crotch.

  “Don’t do that, they’ll all want some,” Lewrie warned him, seeing his strangled expression.

  “Do you … think tonight has possibilities?”

  “Definitely.” Lewrie smirked, worldly-wise.

  “I see no young ladies my age.” Tad frowned.

  “And damned lucky you are, at that. Last thing you want is a young girl. Hold hands, giggle, and that’s all.”