A King`s Trade

Commodore, due a Flag-Captain to run her.

Better yet, HMS Proteus had received orders assigning her, and her suddenly moderately-wealthy captain, to be part of that squadron of two frigates, a sloop of war, and two armed brigs, which would soon sail off on a new expedition to prowl the coasts of French Guiana and the Dutch isles off the shoulder of South America and the Spanish Main.

And, as captain of the only other frigate in the squadron, was not Lewrie second-in-command to Nicely, no matter that he had not yet attained the right to wear a second epaulet on his shoulders, and was still a Post- Captain of Less than Three Years' Seniority?

Given Capt. Nicely's knacky wits, and his bellicosity when it came to trouncing the King's enemies, it had promised to be a fruitful cruise… so long as Nicely didn't order Lewrie to sneak ashore as a Spanish grandee or mule-skinner and play spy one more time, that is.

Little wonder, then, that Lewrie had cocked his head over that invitation, had muttered something akin to 'Hmmpf, well o' course,' and had tossed it into the scrap drawer, and didn't give the matter a second thought, except for what he should serve for a working dinner, and for how many. And, given how badly Capt. Nicely had fared aboard Proteus with Toulon and Chalky whilst Lewrie was away in New Orleans, what he should do with his cats.

It did strike Lewrie as odd that Capt. Nicely came aboard alone, with nary a one of the squadron's other captains in tow, not even his own First Officer, which had prompted two thoughts in Lewrie's head: first, Oh, good… more leftovers for tonight's supper, followed by Oh, shit, he's got some harum-scarum plan in his head, again! A plan which might, indeed, require Lewrie to swot up on his Spanish, Dutch, or French, and quickly master plausible skills at donkey-tending!

Capt. Nicely had proved to be popular with the crew, his recent exploits earning every Man Jack a pretty penny, so it was with happy smiles and waving hats that Proteus' s hands had turned out to welcome Nicely aboard, beyond the formality of the side-party, the shrilling bosuns' calls, and the stamping of Marines in full kit.

'Hallo, lads!' Capt. Nicely had joyfully cried, waving his own hat back at them. 'Spent your prize-money, yet, you rogues, ha ha? Or, did you owe your Purser too much for tobacco, what?'

That had gotten him a laugh, and a jeer or two at their 'Nip-Cheese,' Mr.

Coote, as all Pursers were termed.

'Seeing as how 'tis just before Seven Bells of the Forenoon,' Nicely had further said, 'and Proteus is well-anchored, with none but the harbour watch to stand, with your captain's permission…?' he had looked over at Lewrie, cocking a brow 'til Lewrie nodded his agreement, 'I propose that you 'Splice the Main Brace'!' Nicely had cried down to the waist, giving leave for every man and boy to have a full rum issue, with no sips or gulps owed among them to lower the brimming measure.

'And, do you come this way, sir,' Lewrie had offered, gesturing aft, 'we'll 'splice' our own. I've a case of fine French claret.'

'Delighted!' Nicely had cried; though his eyes had been shifty. Once below, with Aspinall and Andrews, Lewrie's long-time Black Cox'n, to take charge of hats, swords, and such, Capt. Nicely shied a bit, peering about intently, though managing to hide most of his nervousness deuced well. 'It, ahh… you've re- painted lately, have ye, Lewrie?' 'Nossir, not in some time, why?' Lewrie said as he did honours with the first ready-opened and breathing bottle with his own hands.

'It smells… fresher than I recall,' Nicely tentatively allowed, accepting a semi-conical, low-stemmed, and footed glass from him.

'Oh, the cats, d'ye mean, sir,' Lewrie replied with a well-hid simper. 'Don't know quite what got into 'em, when you were aboard. A tribe that don't brook 'change' all that well, I've discovered. A new person where their master usually is… pining for me, as well, sir? My apologies, again, for what harm they did

your things.'

Far aft in the bed-space, Lewrie could espy two pairs of ears, two sets of hard-slit and wary eyes, perhaps even two noses, one with pink nostrils, the other grey, lurking over the top of his extra pillow and the folded-up coverlet, in his wide-enough-for-two hanging bed. Where, he fervently hoped at that moment, they would be content to stay… muttering only the faintest spiteful 'Mrrrs,' scheming nothing.

'Delightful creatures,' Nicely intoned without even attempting to sound convincing.

'And didn't they take to you, just, sir!' Lewrie couldn't help saying as he led Nicely to the dining-coach and a seat at the table.

'Ummm… yayss,' Nicely rejoined, 'and aren't you so fortunate?'

High summer in Jamaica, even with wind scoops erected at every hatchway, the awnings rigged tautly over the quarterdeck against direct sunlight, and all the transom or coach-top windows of the great-cabins opened, mitigated against a heavy repast. They'd begun with a thin but spicy chicken broth, which was followed by freshly- caught red snapper with lemon and clarified butter sauce, and boiled carrots. Green salad with shredded bacon and oil-and-vinegar cleansed the palate for a main course of de-boned pork chops served with fried potato wedges and middling dollops of mushy peas, which repast required the opening of some hock with the fish, soup, and salad, and a second bottle of claret with the chops.

Not a single word was said about their coming mission far to the South'rd, of French and Spanish foes sheltered at Aruba or Curacao, at Caracas or Cartagena, nor what dangers lurked in the port of Cayenne, or the marshy inlets of French Giuana, and Lewrie had begun to squirm a bit, waiting for a particularly ugly, but 'inspired,' shoe to drop.

It was expected, of course, that naval officers never discussed Politics, Religion, Women, or 'Work' in the mess, so… perhaps after?

It was only once the tablecloth had been whisked away, the sweet biscuits and mixed nuts, and the port bottle, had been set out, that a nigh-broody Capt. Nicely had appeared to wince, or steel himself for a secret discussion, requesting that Aspinall make himself scarce.

Secret doings? Lewrie had wondered; Or… look out, here comes another of his brain storms, with me up t'my neck in the quag, again.

'So… what is it to be, sir?' Lewrie had prompted, scooting up closer to the table, expecting to hear Capt. Nicely whisper revelations about secret sailing times, sealed orders for rendezvous out at sea, so the French, who still had informers on Jamaica despite efforts to root them out, would hear nothing of the squadron's destination, or its formation, 'til it was much too late.

That, or another miserable spell of dirty-work for Lewrie.

'These… walnuts?' Nicely had grumpily asked, instead, with his face screwed up like a hanged spaniel as he nibbled on one.

'Uh… no, sir,' Lewrie said, topping off his glass of port and passing it down-table. 'American pecans,' he informed Nicely, saying it the way he'd heard it from Capt. Randolph of the USS Oglethorpe from whom he'd obtained them. 'Pee-cans… Georgia pee-cans.'

'Hmmpf,' Nicely had muttered, clearing his palate with the port, and pouring himself another rather quickly, too, tossing that one back uncharacteristically quickly. He poured himself a third, but let that one sit 'twixt his hoary hands, and gave it a long glare before looking at his host.

'Uhm… bad news, I fear, Lewrie,' Nicely had begun, at last. 'A matter's arisen which, ah… may preclude your participation in my squadron's mission, d'ye see.'

'Some other duty, then, sir?' Lewrie had asked, feeling, in the following order: disappointment to miss a straightforward adventure; some relief that he'd not be handy, did Nicely get a wild hair up his nose, and need some derring-do done; who the Devil had requested him for something else, and how much worse might that be?

'Not, ah… quite,' Nicely had struggled on, obviously loath to bear bad news, but… 'I shall be… we shall be, sorry to lose your inestimable services on the West Indies Station.'

'I'm t'go somewhere else, sir?' Suspicious, indeed, that.