A King's Commander

by Dewey Lambdin

  “No, Mister Buchanon,” Lewrie protested. Or felt that he had to, as a rational man. As some sort of a Christian. “Lir sent the seals—selkies—to take Josephs? That’d be robbing God of that lad’s immortal soul! That’d keep him from Salvation!”

  “Th’ lad’z from Bristol, sir,” Buchanon explained, shaking his head, utterly convinced of his rightness, no matter that he was speaking an ancient pagan heresy. “Little Josephs might o’ been a selkie t’begin with, livin’ at close t’th’ sea, from a seafarin’ fam’ly? I seen, or heard, o’ such before, Cap’um, back home when I’z a lad. A spell as a seal . . . Lir didn’t rob God. Jus’ borrowed Josephs’s soul, for a piece. More like, th’ lad’ll appear in ’is world again, might be a foundlin’, an’ grow up t’be a sailor. Maybe one with a better run o’ luck, th’ next time, an’ a longer life. After he pays off whatever sin he done in his ol’ life afore, sir . . . then he’ll go t’his true reward. B’sides, sir . . . ’ere’s more myst’ries in ’is here world’n we can shake a stick at. An’ we just saw one, sir, and ’at’s a fact! All folk can do sometimes is be left t’wonder.”

  “Amen to that,” Lewrie said automatically, looking astern at their wake, a gray specter, only darkly sunset-tinted upon the foam. Wondering if it would be a wonder—or a sign of a further curse from Lir!—to espy another seal. “Well, then. Ahum! Thankee, Mister Buchanon. That’ll be all for now. Do carry on.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the sailing master replied, doffing his hat in salute as he wandered over to the hands by the wheel, as Seven Bells of the Second Dog were struck up forward.

  Lewrie went below to his cabins for his supper, stowing Bible and prayer book in the shelf above the chart table on the way.

  “Yer rhenish, sir?” Aspinall inquired, cleaning his hands on the fresh white apron he wore. “A glass o’ claret tonight, then?”

  “Brandy, Aspinall,” Lewrie decided grimly. “Big’un!”

  “Aye, sir. Best for what ails ya, says I,” Aspinall rambled on cheerily, as he poured three fingers-worth into a snifter. “Sad it is, sir. That little tyke? But, a stout measure o’ something always bucks a body right up, sir.”

  Toulon came slinking out of hiding, into the cheery light from the overhead lanthorns, wailing a welcoming “Maa-ahh -warr! ” with even more urgency and enthusiasm than he usually showed. And that was not insubstantial, to begin with. Greeting his master (as much as cats may be said to have the concept of master down pat) with a desperate show of affection. Or a desperate need of it, himself.

  Never known to be a particularly doting tribe, except when it suited them, still . . . Toulon seemed to empathize as he climbed Alan’s chest, patted and kneaded furiously, and reclined on his shirtfront finally, little head butting under Alan’s chin, licking and purring in remarkable, commiserating ardor.

  “You feel it, too, Toulon?” Lewrie asked softly. “Scare you, too?”

  “Maiwee?” was the ram-kitten’s shuddery reply, as he turned himself boneless, to flatten his body even closer.

  “Scared the Devil out of me, let me tell you,” Lewrie confided to his creature. He stroked Toulon down from forehead to tail-tip, in thankfulness that there was somebody there to give him comfort at least. “Was it even real, puss? Did it really happen like I think it did? God!”

  Should it ever come my time, Alan thought, cringing at the very idea; that’s one way to escape the Devil and his fires. A back gate for the damned—become a selkie!

  “Wouldn’t do you a bit of good, would it, Toulon?” Lewrie told the ram-cat. “Can’t abide your sponge-down now, much less a swim.”

  “Moi,” the cat sang under his jaw, paws working as he slinked higher toward his collars.

  “Christ, what use is a selkie who can’t swim?” Lewrie snorted, forcing himself to chuckle. Like most good English seamen, he could not swim a single lick. If a ship went down, most of them said that trying to swim only prolonged the inevitable. Or saved one just long enough to be eaten by something, right after one got one’s hopes up, and . . .

  “Damme!” Lewrie sighed, taking another refreshing draught of his brandy, shoving another fey feeling away.

  Poor little Josephs, he pondered, instead; barely got his sea legs, and bam! Maybe it is best, that . . . that Lir took him? Just for a bit, say. Chub might be happy to be a seal, for a while. Happier’n he was ’board this ship, at any rate!

  A lad about Sewallis’s age and size, Lewrie mourned with infinite regret; dreams shattered, terrified—started!—heartbroken, then dead, long ’fore his time!

  There came the faint sound of a fiddle tune from the gun deck. Slow, lugubrious, and atonal, like what Captain Ayscough aboard Telesto had delightedly told him was the “great music” played on bagpipes.

  But this was one he recognized—the funeral song played for Stuart hopes, and the dead of Culloden, after the ’45: “The Flowers of the Forest.” His eyes pricked with remorseful tears. He thought, for an instant, of ordering the fiddler to cease, but . . .

  Toulon climbed to his shoulder, to snuffle at his ear. Lewrie felt him stiffen, heard him chitter, as he did at the sight of a seabird. Claws dug into his shoulder, and the little ram-kitten’s tail, which lashed before his nose, bottled up to double-size. He made his chatter again! A seabird, this late in the evening? he wondered.

  Or a selkie in their wake!

  “I’ll not look!” he whispered, keeping his gaze firmly ahead, and taking another deep draught of brandy. “I don’t want to know!”

  And he didn’t, though Toulon continued to knead and shiver his little chops, quavering, and would not get down. And lashing his tiny tail, thick as a pistol swab brush, in a frenzy. Lewrie did turn his head just enough to see Toulon’s neck, his whole body, straining aft, intent as only a cat may be intent, upon something astern, almost as if in yearning . . . or silent, beastly communion.

  “Rot!” Lewrie muttered harshly. “Rot, I say! Has to be!”

  “Muwuhh ? ” Toulon said at last, sounding disappointed, as his body lost its lock-spring tension. Then, he was amenable to a rub on his flank, to turn (clumsily) and drop down to Alan’s lap to knead a new nest. And rasp his rough little tongue on Alan’s hand.

  Purring like anything.

  B O O K I I

  Anceps aestus incertiam rapit;

  ut saeva rapidi bella cum venti gerunt

  utrimque fluctus maria discordes agunt

  dubiumque fervet pelagus haut aliter meum

  cor fluctuator.

  A double tide tosses me, uncertain of my course; as

  when a rushing tide wages mad warfare, and from

  both sides conflicting floods lash the seas and the

  fluctuating waters boil, even so is my heart tossed.

  Medea

  Book II, 939–944

  LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA

  C H A P T E R 1

  A quick inventory, a circular course for his jittery right hand along his uniform. Cuffs shot, waistcoat tugged straight, hat set on just so. Wash-leather purse full of guineas still safe, and, a blank note-of-hand snugly ensconced in a coat pocket . . . well, then.

  A deep, spine-straightening breath before he rapped on the door. As he waited for someone within to answer, Lewrie experimented with a range of expressions on his face. Smile? No. Frown? That wouldn’t do, either. Something in-between, perhaps? Though he suspected that “something in-between” would resemble a gas attack, or a pair of too-tight shoes. He was striving hellish hard for Ambivalent!

  And why the Devil’d she remove herself to this set o’ rooms? he asked himself with a quick, fleeting scowl; her old’uns were nice enough, and not that dear. She have a comedown, ’spite of the money I left her? Waste it all on fripperies, or gamblin’ . . . ?

  “Yessir?” A mob-capped oldish maidservant inquired of him as the door opened with a rusty creak, at last.

  “Commander Alan Lewrie . . .” he flummoxed out, not sure exactly what sort of expression his phyz wore, then. “Come to
call upon Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino. Is she in?”

  “God be praised, sir!” The square old crone cried in delight, clapping her hands together, and raising enough noise to wake the entire neighborhood. “You’re her Navy fella, come back at last! Come you in, sir! Come you in! Let me take your hat, Commander Lewrie . . . have a cane, an’ . . . no? Mistress! ”

  She bawled that with the door standing wide open. Cartmen and vendors were stopped dead in their tracks in the narrow, steep little street that straggled uphill from the Old Moles. A curate and his wife out for an invigorating uphill stroll, both clad in old rusty-black dominee ditto, were frowning heavily as Lewrie sought some way short of strangulation to stifle the old mort’s bellows.

  “Mistress Phoebe!” the woman halloed upstairs. “’Tis Commander Lewrie! He’s come, ma’am! Hurry!”

  At least he could use his foot to slam that heavy old door, to keep their reunion somewhat private, as a delighted shriek came from above, quickly followed by the patter of petite feet on the carpet and floorboards and stairs. Lewrie’s lips twitched as he attempted to regain the composure of his face anew. And trying to recall just exactly which demeanor he’d thought most suitable.

  “Alain!” Phoebe cried breathlessly—almost brokenly, as she appeared on the tiny middle landing of the narrow pair of stairs. Her brown eyes were fawn-huge and lambent, as if suddenly aswim with tears of joy, and her cheeks flush with emotion.

  Oh, damme, Lewrie thought with a shudder, a definite lurching in his chest, and an instant, tumbledy flood of warmth; why the Devil she have to look that handsome! That young and . . . !

  He went to raise his right hand, as if to doff the hat he didn’t wear to her in genteel salute, but it got no higher than his midchest, appearing to her as an invitation, before she dashed down the stairs to fling herself upon him with such a fierce ardor that he was almost driven backward, off his heels, to the floor.

  He rocked one heel backward to balance, put his arms about her to hold her up, savoring all over again just how tiny, how petite and perfectly formed Phoebe Aretino was. With her arms about his neck and most happily dangling, with her heels far off the floor, showering his face, his neck, his eyes, with a positive deluge of kisses, whispering betwixt each some French, some English endearments, and declarations of how much she had ached for the sight of him.

  To support her, of course . . . doin’ the gentlemanly thing, Lewrie swore to himself! . . . he was forced to place his hands under her bottom. Touch her small, spare, incredibly soft . . . !

  “Phoebe . . .” he whimpered. He’d meant to growl, to caution her about the maid, whose presence Phoebe was blissfully ignoring. Meant to greet her pleasantly, in point of fact. Merely pleasantly, but . . . Their lips met, open and inviting, coffee-hot and musky, already, as she, still oblivious to the cronish maidservant, lifted her ever so slim thighs and wrapped them around his waist!

  “Phoebe . . . ?” he essayed again.

  Well damme, he thought, in a hopeless muddle! Meant that’un to be japing . . . cajole her down! But it had come out throaty, caressing.

  He evidently had called upon her just about the time she’d arisen from bed, or just after her morning ablutions. Phoebe hadn’t taken time to throw on a morning gown in which visitors could be decently received—only a spiderweb-thin silk dressing robe. No corsets, stays, or underpinnings, no chemise, nothing even a bit cumbrous came between his hands, which were now beginning to rove her back and bottom fondly, and her tender young flesh, but that dressing robe.

  Damp ringlets of lustrous dark brown hair toyed about his face and collars—rich, sultrily Italian, Mediterranean, exotic and dark-as-coffee hair.

  “So long, Alain, mon cerf formidable! she crooned in his ear, a tiny, breathless huskiness to her usually small voice. “Mont’ an’ mont’, you be away, an’ on’y ze une lettre! Mon coeur, ah mees you si très beaucoup!”

  “Phoebe!” He sighed, chuckling with uncontrollable, undeniable delight, by then, as he dipped his head to kiss her throat, the soft flesh under her chin, her slim neck below her ears.

  Knew this’d happen, he chid himself; knew it! But not anywhere near as harshly as he might. God help me, but . . . !

  Nature had her way with him, by then. Unbidden, in spite of a whole host of good intentions, the fork of his breeches felt nigh to bursting with a raging tumescence which he swore could serve as taffrail flagstaff in a full gale! He took a clumsy step toward those first set of stairs, felt her shift against him, meaning to keep his balance under such a tempting, alluring, top-heavy cargo . . . and he was lost. Again.

  “Ma cherie,” he muttered, “ ma petit biche. Ma chou! ”

  “Oh, Alain, ’urry!” she teased, glancing upward. “Mon amour!”

  Well, he thought, not a touch rueful; s’pose we have to get reacquainted first. In for the penny, in for the pound, an’ all that!

  They’d not quite attained real privacy, not that first reunion. A trail of his shoes, sword and belt, neck-stock and coat littered up the second flight attested to that. Waistcoat gone, long-tail shirt and breeches open, he’d played horsey to her hunter, and trotted her to the tiny upper landing, into her bedchambers, and all about the room. Laughing all the while, crying “Yoicks, Tallyho!” and making bugle calls through his nostrils. “Trot! Canter! Draw sabers and . . . sound the Charge!” As he recalled from seeing the local Yeoman Cavalry practice their drill back in Anglesgreen. Spitted upon him, Phoebe had shrieked aloud, open windows to the street bedamned . . . and more than once, too, he smugly congratulated himself . . . before they’d collapsed exhausted across her high bedstead, in shuddery giggles of delight, tears of ecstasy, and much-needful pantings.

  A quarter-hour of kisses, caresses, strokes of dearly remembered skin. A quarter-hour of endearments, of pledges of heartbreak over the long separation, many sighs and shudders, and rolling about, twine and countertwine, stoking the coals with kisses becoming more and more intimate and giving . . .

  Looking up at her, rough sailor’s hands on her slim, swans-down hips as she bestrode him, rocking and riding bold as a plumed lancer . . . riding Saint George with her head thrown back and her carefully coiffed hair come down in sweaty “ à la victime ” ringlets. Incredibly slim arms, her waif-slim waist, and taut little belly . . . Phoebe’s small breasts in his eyes, large dark areoli and pouty little nipples mesmerizing him all over again, bedewed with perspiration as she flung herself, thrusted to meet him. So tiny, she was, so gamin and light, so completely engrasping and enfolding about him! So utterly kittenish, yet minxlike and enthralling! And so strong, her slim little fingers, on his shoulders as she leaned forward, face crumpled, tears flowing, breath rasping harsh and insistent between her moans and cries.

  He slid his hands up to surround her breasts and she leaned in to support herself, eyes flying wide open as she began to smile, expectantly, speared to the utter depths of her heart, of her soul, in one more of a series of “the little deaths.” As his own release built to more than he could stand without bellowing like a steer, not a moment more could he wait, withhold himself, delay his pleasuring in hopes it might help her attain hers! Hard and greedy now, nice-ties bedamned, and Phoebe took his hands in hers, crushed sword-bruted, rope-bruted palms into her tenderest flesh. Twined fingers and keened aloud, a victory paean that went on and on, rising falsetto in time to their every shift and judder, until at last . . .

  She screamed a weak, thin scream, twined fingers tighter, and leaned back, trusting him to keep her from falling, as his own head exploded, as he departed his life for a maelstrom of colored stars, tumbling down a cannon’s barrel into the swirling sparks and flame points of eruption. Exploding upward, delirious and aswim, reeling and rolling in a fever-dream, feeling her grip him, grip him, grip him and spasm, as their senses tumbled around the cosmos.

  Utterly ruined, when he came back to his life, a few moments later, chest heaving for air. Utterly spent, as she sat back erect, then dropped, shuddering and gaspin
g, atop him. Her soft, gentle breath gusting now, across his shoulder. Damp ringlets clinging to both their faces. Surprisingly strong little hands and arms about his neck. Yet such an utterly soft, sweet, and spent kiss did she give him in reward, her full, sweet lips brushing his so lightly, and curling upward in a smile.

  He put his arms about her slim back, stroked her damp flesh from shoulders to buttocks, then encircled her and squeezed possessively, inhaling deep for his wind, and taking in every subtle nuance of cologne, scented soap, perspiration, sweet hair, and lovemaking, as if to fill his lungs with her forever.

  “Je t’adore, Alain,” she told him, her voice tiny, and barely audible, even with her lips near his ear. “Afterr aw’ zees time . . . you are ’ere, encore! Je t’adore, mon coeur. Mon chou fantastique.”

  “Missed you, too.” Alan sighed, giving her another squeezing hug and feeling a shoulder-rolling shudder go right down to his toes as he did so. “You, I adore, aussi, ma chou. Je t’adore . . . très beaucoup!

  Damme to hell, but . . . he sighed to himself, biting his lip but with his hands gently caressing her in spite of all; I said it, both ways—Frog and English. Damme to hell, but it’s true!

  “Je t’adore, ma belle amour. Je t’adore,” he whispered. In for the penny, in for the pound, indeed. But it felt so good to be back!

  C H A P T E R 2

  Aoy, the boat!” Midshipman Spendlove called to the heavy hired cutter, as it neared them, oars dipping in liquid gold water in an amber-tinted Mediterranean twilight.

  “Jester!” came the return hail, from their captain himself. “Must be in a hurry, not to’ve sent off for his gig,” Hyde opined by his side, on the starboard gangway.