King, Ship, and Sword

French Tricolours idly flapping beneath Union Flags.

Lewrie was being his usual lazy self, stretched out on the transom settee cushions in white slop-trousers and shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, propped up on an upright timber.

'A piddlin' matter, Mister Westcott,' he told his First Officer. 'After the fulsome things he wrote about us to Admiralty.' He shrugged and grinned, pointing to the prizes. 'They'll be goin' home after the hurricane season's done. Months from now, dependin' on the ruling of the Prize Court. A man who commands one for the passage stands a good chance of promotion, once back in England. Interested, sir? Should I put your name forward, or let Rear-Admiral Sir John Duckworth reward one o' his favourites?'

'Not really, sir,' Lt. Westcott replied, shaking his head as he sat in a chair near Lewrie's desk, nursing a tumbler of cool tea. 'I'd prefer to remain in Reliant.'

'Better 'the Devil you know,' Mister Westcott?' Lewrie japed.

'More like… liking the company I keep, sir,' Westcott said, flashing one of his brief, toothy grins.

'Good, then. For my part, I'd hate to lose you,' Lewrie told him, glad of that news. 'Ye never can tell… we might get stuck into some new harum-scarum adventures. Or, like the old sayin' goes, 'His men'd follow him anywhere… just t'see what he'd get into next'?'

Westcott diplomatically said nothing, just laughed, then began to gather up the paperwork they had been going over, preparing to leave. 'By the by, sir, the Purser and the Surgeon have found a source ashore for citronella oils and candles to combat the fevers. They're not at all expensive, in bulk, but they don't know how much to purchase and, ah… it would be an out-of-pocket expense, not covered by the Admiralty Board.'

'I'll speak to them,' Lewrie replied, though he had left things to his former Ship's Surgeon, Mr. Durant, and hadn't a clue how much it would take to fume the ship each day at anchor. He got to his feet to see Westcott to the forrud door of the great-cabins.

'Oh, your mail's on your desk, sir,' Westcott reminded him.

'Thankee, Mister Westcott. Whilst you find some amusement in the town, I'll have that and my new penny- whistle to keep me amused. Good day to you, sir.'

'Good day, sir,' Lt. Westcott said, departing.

Once Westcott had left the great-cabins, Lewrie bade Pettus to pour him another glass of cold tea and sat at his desk to sort through his letters. They had left England in late May, and here it was late September, and this was the first correspondence the ship had gotten.

He looked through the official letters first, dealt with what few required answers or explanations, then turned to the personal mail. There was one from Hugh, aboard Pegasus, and he tore into it.

The lad was prospering nicely, Captain Charlton was very kind to him, and he was learning his trade among a swarm of other Midshipmen, most of whom were friendly; he had not fallen for most of their japes played on 'newlies,' though he had been the victim of a few new ones that Lewrie had never heard of.

Lewrie grimaced as he picked up one from his father and broke the wax seal, sure that he was now a thousand pounds richer, but a lot poorer in land or house.

My son (his father began)

I write to inform you of the most Distressing turn of Events anene your eldest, Sewallis.

'Oh, Christ!' Lewrie groaned, passing a hand over his eyes; had he not suffered enough this last year?

He did not return to his school, though I assure you I saw him into the coach myself. He has run away to Sea, employing his term Tuition, extracurricular Fees, and a sum of Money he evidently had saved up, including, I regret to admit, ten pounds I gave him as a gift for sweets and such.

'Mine arse on a band-box!' Lewrie yelped, jerking to his feet.

After I did not receive any correspondence from him for a fortnight, he sent me a Letter from Sheerness, just before I was going to coach to his School to ask of him and his Health (his father's missive continued)

With more Guile and Perserverance than we may have ever given the lad credit for, he kitted himself out as a Midshipman, and has found himself a captain willing to take him on. He boasted in his Letter that he had employed a rough draft of one you penned when first seeking a place for Hugh, copying it and substituting his own name, forging your Signature as best he was able…

'Holy shit on a biscuit!' Lewrie gawped. 'Forgery does run in the family! Christ, the damned little fool!'

… two, actually, one to Admiralty, and one to give to a Captain Benjamin Rodgers, fitting out his Third Rate, Aeneas, for Channel Fleet. He posted his Letter the very hour of Sailing, so I was unable to retrieve him, and, I must confess, am loath to take the Matter to the attention of Admiralty, or his new Captain, lest our family's good Name, and Sewallis's Repute, be tainted forever by the admission of Forgery. In short, I am at a loss as to what to do which would not redound to our good credit.

'Didn't know we had any!' Lewrie gravelled as he paced about.

For the nonce (his father went on) I have sent the lad a note-of-hand for fifty pounds' spending Money with which to keep himself in his Mess, along with a stern letter of Admonishment, but I do not know what else we may do!

'And neither do I, Goddammit!' Lewrie spat, fetching up near the open transom windows once more, his shock deflating with a long sigh of exasperation. 'What got into him?' he muttered. 'He ain't cut out for this life! He ain't tough enough t'prosper!'

'Bad news, sir?' Pettus asked as he and Jessop tidied up the great-cabins.

'Uh, no, not really,' Lewrie lied. 'S'prised, more-like.' He looked down to the letter once more, reading…

It may be for the best, Alan. Sewallis has need of exposure to Life and its Harshness. In the end his Actions may make a Man of him. He is a Lewrie, and partly a Willoughby, may I so imagine. At any rate, it is his Choice, rash and foolhardy though it may be. He has made his bed; perhaps we must allow him to lie in it, and make his own Way.

But, if he's a miserable failure at it, he's ruined forever, Lewrie thought, sitting down on the transom settee again, the letter drooped from a limp hand, conjuring how crushed the gentle, scholarly, and stiffly withdrawn Sewallis would come out of it; of how jaundiced he would be against himself for his failure, or any other career open to him once sent ashore as a cack-handed, cunny-thumbed 'lubber.'

'Why the Hell did God ever let me be a father?' Lewrie whispered. 'Surely, He knew I'd be so miserable at it… poor, wee chuck.'

Still, Sewallis was scholarly, and learned quickly, retaining facts like a sponge. If he was reticent, he was bookish and good at mathematics, so he might turn out to be a dab-hand navigator. They'd taught him how to shoot and ride and handle a sword. If he was shy, he'd be the butt of all the japes in his mess, perhaps be bullied by the older, crueller lads, but… surely he'd already survived treatment like that at his schools.

It wasn't as if the lad had gone to sea with stars in his eyes, after all, and it hadn't been done on a passing whim; he'd schemed to get ready for it. He was determined.

I never knew he had the pluck! Lewrie realised; I'd've expected it of Hugh, were he the eldest, but… Sewallis?

'So be it,' Lewrie muttered. 'He's on his own bottom. Least he's Benjamin Rodgers for a captain, in a seventy-