The King`s Coat

The punishment ended after two dozen. It was doubtful if Rolston would have survived a third, and he was so lost in agony already that one more stroke would not have affected him, or served a useful purpose.

He was cut down and hauled off to the sick-bay. The deck was washed down and the grating put back in place. The men were dismissed and chivvied off to prepare for morning gun drill and cleaning.

Rolston was officially dis-rated, deprived of gun room privilege and dressed in slop clothing like a common seaman. He was also confined in the brig as soon as the surgeon was through with him, there to languish until they docked.

'Lewrie, quit mooning,' Lieutenant Kenyon snapped as he saw him lounging by the bulwarks. ’Sorry, sir. I was thinking about Rolston just now. ’

‘Don't waste your time,' Kenyon told him. Lewrie gave it a long thought, then decided to come clean about his scheme to ruin his rival, but Kenyon forestalled him. ’I still do not think he caused Gibbs to fall, but the captain had enough suspicion to reprimand him. And the way he went after you was the end of him.’

’Yes, but-’

‘So you crowed about it in the mess. Believe me, I know what it's like to see a rival confounded, and Rolston was not the most popular man aboard, either. How often have I seen him having men up on charge to satisfy his petty grudges, or just to see a flogging? No, he is no loss to us. He was a brutal little monster, and would have been a real terror as an officer, God help us, as a captain. That kind, we don't need in the Navy.’

’I feel as if I precipitated the attack, sir.’

’So what?' Kenyon shrugged. 'So might any of the others who had a reason to wonder what happened aloft. Let Hawkes and Blunt stew on it long enough and it might have been Rolston who came down from the rigging next, and then we'd have had to hang two good topmen for the sake of one bad midshipman.’

I doubt if he'd let me admit rape of his only sister, Alan told himself. Maybe I did do something right, after all? 'You're shaping devilish-well as a midshipman, Lewrie. ’

‘Er… thank you, sir.’

’Even though you thoroughly detest the Navy, we're better off with your kind than his. And don't tell me you love the Navy like Ashburn does, 'cause I've seen you when no one was looking. I was not exactly enamored of going to sea when I was a boy, either, but there were reasons why it was necessary. I still do not love it, but I have a future in it. You'll make your way.’

’Thank you for telling me that, sir.’

’I said nothing, Mister Lewri… Now, I expect you to make sure to inspect the mess tables and report which mess has not scrubbed up properly. And check the bread barges, too. ’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

For the next couple of weeks of their passage the world seemed incredibly sweet to Alan. The weather was fresh and clean, with deep blue skies and high-piled clouds with no threat in them. From the usual disturbed grey green color, the ocean changed to a spectacular shade of blue that glittered and folded and rose again under a balmy sun, so that it was as painful to look upon as a gem under a strong light. In the steady trade winds, Ariadne shook out the reefs in her tops'ls and hoisted her t' gallants for the first time in months, even setting studding-sails on the main course yard, and except for sail drill each day, there was less cause to reef and furl. Free of convoys and sluggish merchantmen, she proved that she could fly.

With better weather and steadier footand handholds, Alan practically lived aloft in the rigging as they traded their heavy stonn sails for a lighter set, lowering tons of strained and patched flaxen sails to be aired and folded away, the new being bent onto the yards and stays.

Clearer skies also allowed better classes in navigation and the measuring of the noon sun's height with their quadrants, or the newfangled sextant that was Mr. Ellison's pride and joy. Alan found himself becoming pleasingly accurate at plotting their position.

Dry decks and a following wind also gave better footing for small arms drill-musketry firing at towed kegs, pistol practice, pike training, tomahawks or boarding axes, and Lewrie's favorite, sword work Kenyon let him borrow a slightly curved hunting sword, or hanger, and he became adept with it, for it was much lighter than a naval cutlass to handle, but was meant to be used partially in the same way, stamp and slash.

Ashburn's tutor had been Spanish, so he knew the twobladed fighting style of rapier and main gauche, while Alan knew the fighting style of the London streets; smalls word and cloak, lantern or walking stick for a mobile shield. They delighted in practicing on each other. It was good exercise, and taught raw landsmen how to survive at close quarters; though once in action it was pretty much expected that they would forget most of what they had been taught and fall back on their instincts, which were to flail away madly and batter someone to death rather than apply any science to the task.

The master-at-anns was not a swordsman, and as Lewrie had proved months before, neither was the lieutenant-at-anns, Lieutenant Harm, so Marine captain Osmonde had been summoned from his life of ease in the wardroom to instruct at swordplay.

Lewrie was not exactly sure that a Marine officer had any duties to perform, except for looking elegant and lending a measure of tone to what was a minor squirearchy gathering aft. His sergeants did all the work, and he supposedly served as some sort of catering officer to the other officers, which might have taken an hour a week. Yet Osmonde was lean to the point of gauntness, always immaculately turned out in snow-white breeches, waistcoat and shirt, his neckcloth perfect, his silk stockings looking brand new, his red tunic and scarlet sash without a speck of tar (or even dust) and his gold and brass and silver fit to blind the unwary. Lewrie was quite taken with Osmonde, for his skill with a sword, his gorgeous uniform, his egalitarian way of talking to the petty officers and midshipmen at drill (he did not talk to his own Marines, ever) and mostly with the fact that the man did not appear to ever have to do a lick of work and got paid right -well for it, even getting to sleep in every night with no interruptions. ’I see you still sport Mister Kenyon's hanger,' Osmonde said to him one sweaty day on the larboard gangway at drill. ’Aye, sir. And short enough to get under guard.’

’You would benefit with hefting a regulation cutlass. Put that away and do so,' Osmonde said, carefully phrasing each word. 'Aye, sir.' Lewrie sheathed the wonderful little sword and dug a heavy cutlass from a tub of weapons. He looked around for an opponent and found everyone already engaged. ’Here, we shall face-off each the other,' Osmonde said. 'This shall be good for you. I notice you are a wrist player. Do you good to learn to hack and slash, to strengthen your whole arm.’

’Seems such a… clumsy way, sir. And inelegant,' Lewrie said, taking up a middle guard.. ’So shall your opponent be, should we ever be called upon to board a foe. Some common seaman,' Osmonde said, clashing blades with him. He began to backpedal Lewrie across the gangway with crashing blows, while continuing to speak as if he were seated in a club chair. 'You shall advance so gallantly and with such grace as to make your old pushing school proud, and some hulking brute like Fowles there will chop you to chutney before you can shout 'en garde.' ' Lewrie fetched up at the quarterdeck netting, backed into it by the fury of the attack and the weight of the opposing blade. 'The damned thing has no point worth mentioning, so quit trying to frighten me with it,' Osmonde said. 'Try a twohanded swing if it helps.’

They went back down the gangway toward the bows, Lewrie still retreating, and his arms growing heavier by the minute. ’The idea is to hack your opponent down, not dance a quadrille with him,' Osmonde said, his swings remorseless and the flat of the blade he wielded bringing stinging slaps on Lewrie's arms.

Lewrie tried to respond with some wittiness, but could not find his voice which was lost in a bale of raw cotton, so dry was he. He was nearing the foredeck, and planted his feet and began to swing back with both arms, clanging his blade against Osmonde's.

His arms were so tired they felt nerveless, though engorged with blood and heavy. Each meeting of the blades made his hands sting, and he found it more difficult to keep a grip on the wooden handle. With an air of desperation, he thrust the curved hilt into Osmonde's shoulder and shoved him back, then aimed a horizontal swipe at him with all his remaining strength that should have removed a month's worth of the officer's hair. But Osmonde's blade was just suddenly there, and his own recoiled away with a mighty clang, almost tom from his grasp. And then Osmonde thrust at him, which he barely countered off to the right. Then Osmonde brought a reverse stroke back at him and when their blades met this time, Lewrie's spun away from his exhausted grip. Osmonde laughed and tapped him lightly on the head with the flat of the sword. ’Not elegant, was it?’

‘No… sir,' Alan replied between racking gulps of air. 'Humiliating experience?’

‘Bloody right… sir.’