The King's Coat

by Dewey Lambdin

“That’s from Lord and Lady Cantner. Reward for your bravery, and your nacky ruse to sink or cripple that privateer. Mind you, not my idea of a truly honorable ruse de guerre, but to save the life of a high government official and his lady, it was the only thing you could do to fight a stronger ship and get away with a whole skin,” Sir Onsley told him. “If there are no Frogs to complain about it, then I’ll not. Old colt’s-tooth puts a high price on his skin, it seems.”

  “Aye, sir, indeed,” Lewrie said, unable to feature it.

  There was a second small package from Lady Cantner. It was a gold locket that when opened sported a miniature of her countenance on one side, and under a wafer of glass on the other, a lock of her dark hair. Lewrie snapped it shut, and met the admiral’s raised eyebrows.

  “Lord Cantner asked me to review the report your mate Claghorne wrote on the action, to see that you got proper credit at Whitehall,” the admiral went on. “And I submitted my own as well. Your family will be proud to read about you in the London papers. Won’t do your career any harm, either, to be an eight-day wonder. Though if the Lord North government is turned out, Cantner will no longer be much help to you.”

  “This is heady stuff, all the same, Sir Onsley,” Lewrie said with a shyness he did not exactly feel. “I am quite overcome.”

  “This is from your Lieutenant Kenyon,” Sir Onsley said, handing him a cloth-wrapped bundle. Lewrie unfolded it to reveal a sword, a hunting sword, or hanger. It was bright steel, chased minimally with nautical detailing on the blade, slightly curved, flat on top but razor-sharp from narrow tip to within an inch of the hilt. And the hilt was a double seashell pattern with a tapering hand-guard that ran back to a lion’s-head pommel, all gleaming silver. The grip was silver wire, wound over blue sharkskin for a firm, dry grip. The scabbard was a dark blue leather with a silver drag and upper fitting, and the belt hook was a smaller replica of the seashells of the hilt.

  Not only was it utterly lovely, but it was a Gill’s, reputed to be the strongest blades in all of Europe, harder to break than a Bilboa or Toledo or Solingen blade, even when struck with great force on the flat of the blade. It was a handsome gift, nearly a hundred guineas in its own right, and he actually felt guilty to feel such animosity toward Lieutenant Kenyon for being a miserable Molly, after he had given him such a magnificent present.

  “God, it’s beautiful…”

  “He believes that you earned it, saving his ship for him, even if he lost her due to his illness,” Sir Onsley said, rising to pace the room. He glared at the chirping bird in the cage by the louvered doors, a black and brightly banded local bird called a bananaquit, that doted on jams and fruit. “Damn silly creature. You can let dogs in, but never birds. Trouble has a way of following you about like one of those hounds of Hades or something, know that, Mister Lewrie?”

  “Aye, Sir Onsley,” Alan said, scarcely able to tear his eyes from the beautiful bright sword.

  “First Ariadne, now Parrot, and you have the devil’s own luck not only to survive, but come out covered in credit.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Sir Onsley,” he said with a shrug of nonunderstanding. Was he being criticized?

  “Resourceful,” Sir Onsley mused aloud. “Courageous. Crafty. Not much of a tarpaulin man yet, but that’ll come. That’ll come.”

  Lewrie studied him intently, waiting for the bad shoe to drop.

  “I’m off for supper and bed. You rest up and recover, and we’ll see what comes open after that. Delighted to have met you at last, my boy.”

  “And I you, Sir Onsley,” trying to bow from a sitting position as the admiral stomped from the room.

  Damn, am I famous for what I did? he asked himself after the admiral had left the room. One thing is for certain, I’m rich. A pair of ponies for saving Lord Cantner, and it’s gold, not certificates. If he’s that grateful, maybe I should make a career out of saving lords, and I’d be rolling in chink!

  He stood the sword and its scabbard by the bed and opened his mail. There was a letter from Lord Cantner, full of fulsome praises and charming compliments, expressing his gratitude for his life and freedom, and a promise to keep an eye on his career once he was back in London. Alan vowed to write him as soon as he was able, to keep in touch with someone who could turn out to be a benefactor, knowing that the Navy admired nautical skills, but the officer who succeeded was often the recipient of exactly such favor and unofficial maneuverings at Whitehall.

  If the first letter had pleased him, the second had him ready to tear at his hair (had he any remaining). It was from Kenyon. While he had given him the sword, it was in the nature of a parting gift, and they could not consider themselves as associates in future. Kenyon was shocked and saddened that Alan had disobeyed Claghorne, even more outraged that he would have violated the time-honored usage of striking the colors as a subterfuge against an honorable foe, even a ship full of privateers. Scum or not, they were blessed with a letter of marque giving them quasi status as a naval vessel.

  Kenyon went on to inform him that Claghorne had been promoted to lieutenant, and given Parrot, not as a due reward for his skills and knowledge, but more as a peace offering to keep him quiet.

  Kenyon, and Claghorne, were deeply saddened that a man who should have found joy in an earned promotion found only shame, due to the reprehensible behavior of someone they’d once thought full of promise.

  “Oh so-holy bastard,” Lewrie muttered angrily, crumpling up the letter. “Raving on about honor when he’d bare his own backside to any of his kind who’d ride him. Gifting me with a sword—what does he think I should do, fall on it like a Roman senator? ‘Be prepared for when your lack of honor is called to question, so you’ll have something to duel with, as you cannot escape that fate if you continue as you are,’” he quoted to himself from the letter. “Well, the admiral didn’t think what I did was evil or reprehensible. Sneaky, perhaps, but he didn’t want to hang me for it. Deep down, under all his manly talk and bluster, Kenyon’s an old woman. Should have been a vicar, so he could preach about honor and all that, instead of a sailor. He doesn’t like the Navy any more than I, maybe less … so what’s he so exercised about?”

  Once he had composed himself (and hidden that accusatory epistle safely away from prying eyes), he helped himself to Lady Maude’s special decoction, cold tea, with the rob of lemons, and a pinch of sugar, and opened the third letter.

  “Now this is more like it!” It was from Keith Ashburn, still sixth lieutenant to Sir Onsley on Glatton. It was chatty and newsy about previous messmates, and an open invitation to spend some time roving English Harbor’s pleasurable pursuits once he had gotten stronger. It was also full of a teasing, but basically envious, accounting of how his heroism had been received in the flagship, and in port, which was most gratifying to peruse.

  Without knowing all the intimate details of the fight with that privateer, it was assumed by one and all that some hard and plucky bottom was shown by Claghorne and Lewrie as the only two officers still well enough to not only face up to a better-armed brig, but to burn her to the waterline and win the day. All honor and glory to Claghorne, now a commission officer with an independent command, the recognizable mark of favor usually shown a first lieutenant after a spectacular victory! And all honor and glory to a plucky, courageous midshipman named Lewrie that any captain would be damned glad to have in his gun room.

  Aye, give even a cur like me a good name, and it’ll be harder to get rid of than cowshit on riding boots, Alan agreed to himself, secretly and totally delighted. Kenyon can stick his nose up at the smell, but I’ll bet most of ’em would still think I was heroic, even if they knew the whole truth.

  His jubilation was disturbed as the maidservant entered with a supper tray, followed by Lucy Beauman, eyes glowing with the admiration she clearly felt for him.

  “We must not allow news from the wide world to upset you, Mister Lewrie,” she said. “Your main concern is recovery. Now here’s your supper. A nourishing soup,” she said
brightly, indicating various dishes on the tray, lifting the lid of his supper. “Old Isaac caught this lobster this afternoon, and there’s drawn butter, carrots and peas. And Auntie … Lady Maude believes a small amount of hock will strengthen your blood. Do you need another pillow? May I fluff up that one? There you are, more comfortable.”

  “You are too kind to me, Miss Beauman.”

  She tucked a large white napkin into the top of his bed gown and spread it over his chest. Andromeda placed the tray across his lap and began to pour him some white wine.

  “There’s enough for two glasses tonight,” Lucy informed him, taking a seat in a chair by the bed that left her seated below him, from where she looked up at him like a prepubescent elder sister would regard the arrival of a new offspring. “I know how you Navy men enjoy your wine. And if you’re very good, and gain your strength, Lady Maude shall allow you more.”

  “I shall try,” Alan promised her, taking a welcome sip.

  “Is this your sword?” Lucy asked, touching it but not attempting to pick it up. “How marvelous. Did your captain give it you?”

  “Yes, he did. Sir Onsley just presented it to me.”

  “So he should reward someone who saved his command as he lay ill.” Lucy nodded firmly, shifting her adoring gaze back to him. “That will be all for now, Andromeda.”

  “Youah suppah be ready soon, missy,” the black girl said on the way out.

  “You really look much better, Mister Lewrie,” Lucy said as he cracked a claw open, spurting hot juices across the napkin. “May I assist you?”

  “I believe I may manage, but thankee just the same, Miss Beauman.” He cut a portion and dunked the meat in the hot butter, brought it to his mouth and chewed, thinking how regal a good fresh lobster could be. And how messy. But the girl was there with another napkin to help daub at him.

  “Is there anything else you would require, Mister Lewrie?” she asked, eager to fetch for him. “Perhaps a nice heel of bread?”

  “This shall be sufficient,” he told her, spooning up some of the soup. It was hot and spicy, loaded with chunks of some local fish and various pot vegetables. “I fear I am making a mess.”

  “Then allow me to assist. Really, I don’t mind at all,” she assured him. “Give me your spoon and rest easy.”

  “How much longer shall I be confined to bed, Miss Beauman?”

  “I believe a naval surgeon visits tomorrow. He would know better, Mister Lewrie.” Delicately she brought the spoon to his lips. “I love island soups and stews, don’t you?”

  “I feel so useless lying here,” he said, “and I must get back aboard a ship.”

  “Not until you are perfectly recovered, I pray!” she said quickly, then blushed at her sentiment. “I mean—”

  “Well, if I am to recover fully I can think of no better place in which to do it, and no better company, Miss Beauman,” which brought another stronger flush to her cheeks and shoulders. “My Christian name is Alan.”

  “Alan,” she repeated, tasting the strength of it. “I am Lucy.”

  “May I call you that?”

  “I am sure that Lady Maude would not mind. Nor would I.”

  “Wonderful.” He smiled. “Then I shall, with all respect, and all gratitude.”

  “I did nothing,” she said shyly. “It was all Lady Maude’s idea. But I must say you have richly earned her hospitality and concern.”

  “Words cannot express my thanks, Lucy,” he said softly, glad the tray covered a hopeful stirring at the sight of how fresh and adoring she was, and how beautiful.

  “Your return to duty in full health shall be our reward, Alan,” she said right back, showing a tremulous boldness for a second.

  If I had died, heaven could not have been half this grand, he told himself as she cut him another bite of lobster.

  * * *

  A week later, he still lingered at Lady Maude’s house, able to rise from bed and get about without assistance. With Lucy as his companion, and Old Isaac as a chaperone, he was encouraged to take exercise to rebuild his shattered strength. Mostly they walked the beaches, going down the gentlest inclines to the sea.

  Alan was painfully thin after his ordeal, a trace of quince still remained in his complexion, but he was content to puff and blow as he climbed up or down the slopes to the sandy beaches where he could stroll for hours, with many a rest stop under the trees and flowering bushes that fringed the strand.

  To protect his bald pate from the sun he wore a floppy sennit hat that was much cooler than using a tightly curled white wig to disguise his bare scalp. There was a down coming back in now, a sign that he would recover, and within a week more would have a head of hair no shorter than most people had it cut generally under their own fashionable wigs for coolness and the easy detection of pests.

  Once out of sight of the house he would peel off his stockings and shoes and undo the knee buckles and buttons of his oldest, tarriest breeches. He would open his shirt and roll up the sleeves, then revel in the warm winds that blew steadily off the Atlantic, would wade in the surf sometimes up to his waist, in the crystal-clear inrush from the ocean. When he got too hot and sweaty he would plunge into the shallows, or squat and duck himself, to come up snorting and refreshed.

  There were plenty of crabs to watch and chase after at a slow walk. There were shells to discover and wash clean in the shallows. There were seabirds to admire, the little sandpipers that dug in the wet sand as the waves hissed to nothing and the hiding places of small morsels plopped and bubbled before the waves rolled back in, and the sandpipers ran away from a soaking on a blur of spindly legs. There were seagulls that hung motionless against the steady breeze and cried for bits of bread.

  And when they wished to rest there was always a bottle of ale or beer in Old Isaac’s bottomless leather sack, a stone jug of Lady Maude’s cold tea, fruit to peel and eat, a rusk or a slice of something sweet and special that Lucy had packed as a tiny gift to him, which he always insisted they share.

  Old Isaac kept a wary eye on him. He was, after all, a slave that Lucy’s father had sent along with her from Jamaica when the latest slave revolt had broken out, an old family retainer with specific instructions to protect her from just such a potential danger as Lewrie. Alan speculated on how big was the knife Old Isaac might have in the bottom of that sack of his, should he make a move on his lovely young charge.

  Old Isaac swore he was part Caribe, the ancient Indians of the West Indies, but he looked as blue-black as any import from Dahomey—even his gums were blue. But he did know a lot about the shells they found, the birds, the fish, the sea urchins to avoid, what trees were unsafe to take shade under, such as the manchineel, which continually misted a sap like acid. He had been a fisherman for the Beauman family for years at their plantation on Portland Bight on Jamaica, until too old to work so hard at the oars and deep nets.

  Lucy said that Old Isaac was making him a juju bag that would keep him safe from the dangers of the sea, but he was never to inspect the inside of the bag, and wear it forever. It would save him from drowning, Old Isaac assured him. Lewrie told him of the belief that a tatoo of a certain cross would do the same, but Old Isaac had only laughed at how gullible white people could be. He could not say anything such as that, but from the way he had tittered openmouthed and walked off, muttering to himself and laughing, he said volumes.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, one bright and sunny and pleasantly cool morning on the beach, basking bare-chested under a mild sun, Lewrie began to realize that his idyll might come to an end. He looked up the beach at Lucy, walking barefoot in the surf, a fashionable sunshade in one hand to retain her paleness, the other holding up the skirt of her gown. She wore no stays and no petticoats, like a poor country wench, and the gown was old and shabby enough to allow her to wade if she wished. The bottom two feet of hem was soaking wet and clinging to her bare legs, and he felt his groin stir pleasantly at the sight.

  If he felt well enough to think about be
dding a wench, and Lucy was the only dell in sight, then he was well enough to go back to the harbor and resume his duties. In a way it would be a relief, for she was openly fond of him. But she was only sixteen years old, coltish and lovely, but not his sort of pigeon, and being the recipient of so much open adoration, without being able to take advantage of it, was driving him to distraction.

  I’m just a toy to her, anyway, he thought. Young girls like to play with dolls to feed and nurse, and all I am to her is a doll that can talk back. And if I did get into her mutton, Admiral Matthews would have me flogged round the Fleet …

  He stood up and walked into the gentle surf at low tide, wading out until he was waist-deep, then ducked under and splashed up and down several times to take his mind off how virginal she was, and how much he’d enjoy ending that condition. Damme, she’s built for sport, though …

  “Sah,” he heard Old Isaac yell as though in command.

  Lewrie took time to see three pelicans rise from the water, and a boil of fingerling fish break the surface perhaps a musket shot away farther out, and began to wade back ashore immediately. He had seen sharks on this beach, rolling openmouthed and hungry in the face of a wave, black eyes seemingly aiming at him. Perhaps it was nothing, but it was better to be safe than sorry, and supposedly Old Isaac thought so as well.

  “You must be careful, Alan,” Lucy told him as he gained the dry sand. “It might have been a shark out there!”

  “Thank you, Isaac,” he said as the old man settled back to rest.

  “Except for the sharks, this would be ideal,” Lucy said, angling her parasol against the morning sun. Old Isaac had resumed his reclining position at the top of the beach in the shade of a tree, and Lucy led him down the beach by her very presence.

  “Would it not be idyllic, Alan, to stay here like this forever,” she went on. “It would be just like the tale of the lotus-eaters from the Odyssey.”

  “Sand and sun. Fish to eat…”

  “Wine … goats and cheese, and all the fresh fruit and nectar one could want forever. Never too cold, never too hot, time never passing,” she enthused on her theme, swinging her skirt more boldly as they left Old Isaac farther behind.