A King's Commander (2 page)

“Alan, should the wind not serve . . .” she hinted desperately.

“Beat down to Saint Helen's Road, my dear, a few miles, and layto, till one comes fair,” he said, a touch of severity in his voice. “Admiral Howe was lucky he had a favorable slant, t'other day. And then, off for Gibraltar, quick as dammit.”

Out of long habit, he cast his eyes aloft to the impossibly long and curling coach whip of a commissioning pendant atop the mainmast truck. Then aft, to the Red Ensign that flew over the taffrail on the flagstaff. Red, for an independent ship, one sailing free of fleet or squadron, under Admiralty Orders. A few days before, Portsmouth Harbor had teemed with warships; stately 1st-Rate one hundred-gunners, 2nd Rates, 3rd-Rate seventy-fours, and frigates, from the mouth of Southampton Water down into Spithead, west into the Solent as far as Buckler's Hard. Now, it yawned vast and empty. The French were out. And so was the Channel Fleet, under elderly Admiral Howe.

“But, if . . .”

“Admiralty Orders, dearest.” He sighed. “With dispatches aboard. ‘Make the best of my way, with all dispatch' . . . Should the wind come useful, we'd cut cables, instanter, and scud out under jibs and spanker, and no one'd mind us losing our anchors, long as the dispatches were on their way. I'm sorry. I truly am.”

Didn't mean t'sound harsh, he told himself; mean ev'ry word of it, swear I do. But, there it is.

“I'm sorry, Alan,” Caroline replied weakly, her lips atremble. “'Tis just that I'm selfish for one more hour, half a day . . .”

“'Tis just as hard for me, Caroline,” he said with some heat. Meaning that, too. “God help women who marry sailors. Even in time o' peace, we're an undependable lot.”

God help sailors six months from home, too, Lewrie told himself ruefully; them that can't keep their breeches' flap buttoned! Or their hearts content with what waits for 'em at home.

He'd played up bluff, hearty and cheerful, from his first sight of her, praying he wouldn't give the game away some night in his 
sleep. By muttering the wrong name in a moment of ecstasy, or those first few muzzy moments 'pon waking. Why, a man'd be a
fool,
who . . . !

Right, then, I'm a fool, he thought; always have been, probably always will be! A proper wife, the mother of three fine children (and thank God for small mercies that little Charlotte was left ashore today at their lodgings—the squally, squawly chub!).

He took Caroline's hands in his, looked deep into her beautiful hazel eyes; those merry loving eyes with the riant laugh-folds beneath which reflected her warmth, her caring, giving cheerfulness. In a face as slim and patrician as anyone at Court. For a year over the dreaded thirty, Caroline was as graceful, as lithe and lovely as a swan, sweet as swan's-down to touch. No, this was no frumpy matron he'd married; not one to surrender easily to hearty country cooking and stoutness.

Caroline ran the farm better than most men, presented him with a clean, orderly, well-run household as gracious, as stylish, as any great-house in England. Though there had not been time to see it, she swore that the gardens, the new furnishings, the finally finished salon and bedchambers for guests, were marvels. Everything Caroline turned her hand to was marvelous;
everyone
said so! Since their first tumbledown gatehouse home on New Providence, she'd been a wonder when it came to housewifery, at hosting—a spectacular blend of practical frugality when called for, a commonsensical North Carolina plantation domesticity, allied with a rich planter's, a rich squire's, easy and noble airs.

A sensible woman, well-read and so easy to talk to, about silly things, about matters of import beyond the stillroom, nursery, and bloody fashion! Tongue-in-cheek waggish, she could be, too; a grown woman's wry and witty waggishness, not the prattlings of some girlish chit fresh in her first Season in Society, still redolent of milk-pap and primer-level humor.

Light brown, sandy-blond hair, still distressed into stylish witches' ringlets, for
“à la victime”
was still all the “go”; a style that bared a graceful but strong neck and shoulders.

And I've cheated on
her?
he wondered; to himself, of course! Why, a man'd be a
total . . . !

“It's time, I fear, beloved.” He sighed heavily. “Else we'd never, and . . .”

“I know,” Caroline whispered, patting the broad dark blue lapels of his new uniform coat. One last stroke of her gloved hand on his cheek. One last proper, public, buss . . . soft and fleeting on the lips, at a proper distance at the entry-port gate. An incline of her head for a departing bow. A doff of his new gold-laced hat with the wide gold tape about the brim so new it hadn't gone verdigris in salt air yet.

She accepted his help into the bosun's chair. One last squeeze of adoring fingers, as they had together once before, so long ago, at Charleston, after he'd evacuated her family from the impending Rebel takeover of Wilmington . . . twelve bloody years ago, and a bit, Alan marveled in reverie! Winter o' '81, and Fated t'be husband an' wife e'en then? Damned if we didn't both
know
it, too! Straightaway!

Then, up and away, to a falsetto squeal of the stay-tackle's blocks, the creak of the main-course yard as it swung her outboard of
Jester
's
hull to dangle over the buoy-tender that was below the mainmast chain platform.

Down there, Hugh was squirming against Mrs. Cony to crane and see everything about a ship getting underway. Sewallis . . .

Poor,
sad
Sewallis, Lewrie thought, still doffing his hat to them all, finding something new to be rueful about as he attempted to recall how much attention he'd really given the lad.

Prim as a parson, face reddened by wind and emotion, and about as screwed up as a hanged spaniel's—looking just about that happy, too! Slim little scholar's hands clasped tight below his waistcoat as if in supplication.

Sophie de Maubeuge, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, too tearful (thank bloody Christ!) to recall her earthly savior's— ahem—Fall from Grace! And pray God it don't suddenly come to her, either, Lewrie asked his Maker most earnestly! Poor chit; not a 
relative left alive, either guillotined—or killed in that last sea battle that got me this ship as prize. Fate's been slamming her doors on Sophie's fingers everywhere she turns. Titled aristocrat—
slam.
Marryin' Charles de Crillart? Slam, he was killed when we took
Jester.
Now she's off the ship for a strange house in a strange new country. Catholic convent girl. Slam, slam, slam. Have to pretend to be—or
learn
to pretend to be—the same as any country-raised English girl. Go for Church of England in a year'r two . . . if she has
any
sense at all.

God save her; in my house? Part o' my family? He shuddered suddenly. Poor little mort! Nigh a daughter, to the likes o'
me?

“Good-bye!” he called down, once Caroline was safely settled on a thwart amidships of the sturdy buoy-tender. “Write often, as will I! All of you! You mind what I say, Sewallis?” he cried, meaning to offer the lad a crumb at the last, to atone. “I wish to hear all about your progress.
And
your puppies! They should be good hunters, by the time I'm back, hey?”

“Uhm, excuse me, sir, but . . .” Lieutenant Knolles interrupted with a sorrowful cough into his fist. “There's a veer to the wind, and . . .”

“I saw, Mister Knolles,” Lewrie replied from the corner of his mouth, still posed at the bulwarks with a gay grin plastered on his phyz for his family. “Hands to stations, then. Heave us in to short stays.”

A Marine drummer began a roll. A fiddle screeched as one of the idlers tried his tuning and sought the proper key. Spithead nightingales began to peep, as newly warranted Boatswain Porter and his Bosun's Mate Will Cony, both off that ill-starred
Cockerel
frigate, piped the commands for stations for leaving harbor, and up-anchor.

A precious, breathless moment more, as the buoy-tender's oars-men stroked the boat away, clear of
Jester
's
side. “Give way, together!” her midshipman called from the stern sheets and tiller-bar. One moment more to lift his cocked hat in salute to kith and kin, then put it firmly back upon his head and turn, dismissing them, as he 
must,
and stride purposefully to the center of the quarterdeck.

His
quarterdeck!

He let out a heavy, lip-puffing sigh that bespoke both his impatience, and his relief. Swung his arms and clapped his hands before him unconsciously, to release a scintilla of how tautly he'd forced himself to pose, this last day in harbor.

Relief, that he'd not blown the gaff. Relief, that, no matter how dear he cherished them all, he was off to sea, and they were no longer the center of his universe. Not when a greater, wider world awaited.

Impatience, of a certainty, to be off and doing in that greater world, which was now filled with strife and the stink of gunpowder; in a proper ship, well-armed and able. A ship he'd already proved on the passage home, which could take the worst of the Bay of Biscay gales and swim as proud as any 5th-Rate frigate. Fast, sleek, with a clean entry and forefoot; not so fine as to bury under opposing waves, but cleave them and ride up and over. Deep enough in draught to grip the seas, resist slippage to leeward; long enough on her waterline to tear across the seas like a racehorse. Wide enough in beam to carry her artillery and stores safely, to be sea-kindly as well as fast . . .

And for himself—for the first time in his career, he would command a real warship, not a gun ketch converted from a bomb vessel, nor a hostilities-only, hired armed brig or dispatch schooner. This marvelous Sloop of War was three hundred-eighty tons, eighteen-gunned, a French corvette—a swanlike and lovely three-masted miniature frigate!

And he was a step closer to post-captain's rank, when he could be eligible for command of a true frigate, a rated ship. Crews called the commander appointed over them in any warship their captain. Now, as an Admiralty-confirmed commander, he was uniformed almost like a true post-captain, and
was
a post-captain in all but name.

White breeches and hose, white waistcoat and shirt, legs now encased from the knees down in a spanking-new pair of Hessian boots. He could not resist the temptation of having the London shop sew on tiny gold-fringed tassels. A dark blue coat, with a dark-blue stand-up collar and broad blue lapels, instead of a lieutenant's white ones. There were two bands of gold lace encircling his cuffs, set with three gilt fouled-anchor buttons. The collar, front, top, and bottom, bore a wide band of gold lace; as did the two outside pocket flaps, along with even more set-in-three gilt buttons. The lapels' outer edges, and tops and bottom seams, were gold-laced, and nine gilt buttons to either lapel allowed it to be worn open, or closed in foul weather.

Another thing to rue, he thought suddenly. Going to London to assure his confirmation, and smarm his way through the junior clerks below-stairs, the basement moles who had pored over all his records of service, “tsk-tsk-ing” over every undotted I or slovenly crossed T.

Then off to Coutts's Bank with prize-money certificates, off to see his solicitor, Matthew Mountjoy, who handled his affairs ashore; both the farm and his dealings with the financial side of the Admiralty—and his creditors. Feeling relief, and guilt, that he was called by duty from the bosom of his family after only one night with them in hired lodgings in Portsmouth. And before any trace of his affair with Phoebe showed on his face!

The pleasures of shopping, like a wealthy gentleman, free of a demand upon his time. Of
course,
he needed new hats from Lock's, new full-dress and undress coats, pristine white breeches and waistcoats, shoes and boots—that was required! Pistols, too, from Manton; his had gone down with
Zélé.
A new sea chest in which to store all his new finery . . . and a new sword.

He'd have a Gill's, no other. Wilkinson was all right, he thought, but a Gill's he'd had before, and it had never failed him. Until he'd been forced to surrender it to that puffed up, piss-proud young Frog, Colonel Napoleone Bonaparte. Oh, there was the slim, straight rapierlike smallsword he'd taken from the French captain, when he'd taken
Jester—
back when she was named
Sans Culottes.
But it was much too ornate, a bit
too
slim and elegant a blade, fit for full-dress occasions, not a real bare-knuckle brawl. He wanted a fighting sword, and that was what he'd found.

It
was
a Gill's—at thirty-one, he sensed he had already developed a conservative streak, and some positively rigid prejudices—less elegant than his lost one, but more fit for the melee. His old hanger had been slimmer, a true gentleman's “hunting sword,” slightly curved. His new blade, the cutler had told him, was patterned upon a French grenadier's hanger. The blade was wider along its entire length, a tad thicker in cross-section, and only slightly curved; much less like a Light Cavalry saber than most, with all but the first two inches before the guard honed razor-sharp, and the first eight inches of the top behind the wicked point as well. It fit his hand, felt solid and durable, yet nowhere near as heavy as a humbler cutlass. Like all hunting swords or hangers, it was shorter than a smallsword—only twenty-six inches of blade—but he preferred that in the confusion of a shoulder-to-shoulder, nose-to-nose melee. And it was reassuringly heavy close to the guard, but wickedly light and quick as it tapered to the point.