The King`s Coat

standing in a knot arguing and waving their arms in broad gestures. Hands were going aloft to lower yard and stay- tackles or clew jiggers for boat tackles to hoist out a launch so they could stand off and investigate. The privateers did not want to give up a prize so easily gotten, but neither did they want any fever in their own crew. ’Stand ready, lads,' Lewrie told the uneasy hands. 'Easy, now, get ready for it, don't blow the gaff on me, now.’

The brig was now twenty-five yards off, a very long pistol shot, and men were laying down their weapons to bear a hand on the boat tackles, while others were lifting out long sweeps to fend Parrot off from the hull so they would not become infected. ’Now!' Alan ordered. 'Fire as you bear!’

‘Damn you, Lewrie,' Claghorne bowled as though stabbed in his guts. 'Our word of honor! We struck!' The rest of his ranting was lost in the din as the gun ports were flung open and the guns were run out the last few feet. The swivels were already banging away. Fire arrows sizzled into life and flew in short arcs for the brig's yards and sails. The first four-pounder fired, flinging a double load of star-shot at the brig's masts, bringing down braces, sheets and blocks, shattering her for'tops'l yard.

The packed mass of jeering boarders, the teams of men ready to walk away with the stay-tackles, or snub the yard tackles, the men aloft taking in sail, and the men in the rigging for a better view, they were all seemingly scythed away as the four-pounders spewed their wicked loads oflangridge and canister, rough bags of scrap iron bits, nails, broken plates and ironmongery, or light tin cases that contained hundreds of small musket-caliber balls. ’Kill them,' Lewrie raved. 'Kill them now!' The swivels were barking again. Even Crouch was loading, ramming and aiming as rapidly and accurately as he could. Fire arrows darted out, flaming dots trailing greasy black smoke. They jammed point-first into masts, bulwarks and the hoisted boat. The spring-loaded bars snapped open as they struck sails, jamming into them so their flames could feed hungrily. ’We gave our word of honor!' Claghome ranted from aft, but no one paid him much attention in their fighting frenzy. After days of terror of the invisible, their fear came out in an orgy of hatred and destruction against a real foe they could fight, maybe even conquer. ’Larboard men, fores'l halyard!' Mooney cried like a bull. 'Off heads'l sheets 'n' run 'em ta larboard. Smartly, now, laddies.’

Sails made of flax, tanned and dried by tropic sun, shivered and thrashed until powdery with broken fiber particles… Masts and spars, brushed with linseed oil, to keep out rot. Tarred standing rigging holding the masts erect… Running rigging coated with slush; beef and pork fat and rancid butter, the skimming of the galley boiling pots (that the cook didn't sell to the hands on the sly) so that the lines stayed supple and didn't swell in the rain and would run true through all the blocks aloft that controlled the jears, halyards, lifts, clew lines, buntlines, braces, jiggers and tackles… And ships are made of wood; painted, tarred, oiled wood-baked as tinder dry as galley pine shavings-given a chance, all of it would bum.

Now the French crew saw the small points of fire aloft that quickly were fanned into large fires. Her sails flashed into sheets of flame that flagged in the wind, lighting the rigging, carrying flame to her spars and her topmasts. The lower masts began to work and groan. ’Sheet home!' Claghome cried as he saw what was happening. The fire could blow down on Parrot if she did not get away quickly. 'Helm up, you farmer. Mains'l haul. Now belay on heads'l sheets. Now belay on the foresheet. Thus!' he ordered, indicating a course.

Parrot began to move, creeping away to the east from the burning French privateer brig, whose masts were now well alight. As Parrot got a way on her the brig suffered a shower of flaming debris raining down on her decks. Her fore-topmast came down like a blazing log.

They continued to fire at the French ship until their gun:; would no longer bear. They passed her bows, out of danger of burning, or of being fired upon except with bow chasers, gaining speed and headway. The brig had an inner forestays'l still standing that pulled her head downwind to the north, and turning her broadside to the wind so the fire could rage her fulllength unchecked. Thick coils of dark smoke plumed from her up forward where her foremast had collapsed on the deck. Her boat-tier was also well ablaze, shooting flames as high as her main course yard, now bare of canvas. There were some dull explosions lost in the rush and roar of flames, as guns cooked off from the heat, or scattered powder bags burst like grenades on her decks. ’Cease fire, cease fire,' Lewrie shouted to his jubilant men, having to knock gun tools from their hands. 'Crouch, leave off. Drop it, dead 'un, Crouch,' he shouted, using the terms of the rat pit. ’Aye, sir,' Crouch breathed, his dumb face flowing with pleasure. 'But jus' looka the fuckers bum, sir. God almighty!' He was leaping up and down in thick-witted victory. ’Ya done 'em proper, sir!' someone shouted to him as he made his way aft through them, telling them to secure from Quarters. They were cheering themselves, slapping each other on the back in glory at what they had done. Claghorne was waiting for him on the quarterdeck, face red and sword drawn. 'Damn yer black soul ta the hottest fires a hell, Lewrie! You disobeyed me, you motherless bastard. You fired after we had struck like a lowdown lying Barbary pirate. I'll see you face a court for it, I swear I'll see you hang!' Alan had not considered their chances of success so great as to have reckoned fully on the consequences of victory. The reality of Claghorne's threat hit him like a bucket of cold water. They had won, hadn't they? He realized that he had disobeyed a direct order, even if it was wrong; had violated a major article of gentlemanly conduct at sea. But weren't they free? What Claghorne was really mad about was that he had been shamed before the men, and that was what could get Lewrie scragged. ’Dammit, Mister Claghorne, we're alive and free, and they'll not be telling anybody about it,' Alan said. 'I'll know, you little bastard. I've a mind ta strike you down right now fer what you did-’

‘You shall do no such thing,' Lord Canmer said, coming on deck with his wife. 'God stap me, just look at that, Delia. You look on it, Mister Claghorne. It's salvation, and victory. Honor be damned!' He was transfixed by the burning brig, and a hush fell over the deck as the men turned to see the end, silencing Claghorne as he, too, turned to stare.

It was a terrifying and heartbreaking sight for sailors to see a ship burn, even an enemy. The brig had been especially pretty, long and lean and fast, golden oak hull with a jaunty red stripe, black wale and bold figurehead, picked out with gold leaf on her rails and entry port and transom carvings. Now she was a smutty lamp-bowl of a hull that served as the vessel of a raging conflagration.

Men could be seen tossing over kegs and hammocks, coops and hatch gratings, anything that would float… their boats had burned. Crewmen were splashing into the sea and calling out as the heat became unbearable, and a hot glow could be seen through her open gun ports. Over the loud whooshing roar of the fire they could hear thin screams as men were roasted to death, or pleaded for mercy on their souls as they hung on for just a moment more of life before going into the sea-few sailors of any nation could really swim, and Parrot could not approach that raging furnace to save them without risking her own safety.

The fight drained out of Lewrie, sucked dry now by all the terror and the tension, and Claghome's heart- stopping prediction of a court-martial. He had been wild with passion, leaping and screaming obscenities at the French, raving with all his strength in a berserk release. His headache was back with a vengeance, after all the waiting and hoping that the French would come close enough to be hurt, staring hard over the glittering ocean and hurting his eyes trying to see everything at once. His limbs seemed to have turned to water.

Just like after that fight in Ariadne, he reminded himself, so tired he could barely stay erect. Is it always going to be like this? 'Well done, my boy,' Lord Cantner said, his voice cracking with emotion as he pumped Lewrie's hand. 'Goddamn wonderful job.’

’Thank you, milord, thank you.’

’God bless you, Mister Lewrie,' Lady Cantner added, looking at him with open adoration, that roving look back in her dark eyes. Her chest heaved magnificently.

Once they were ashore on Anguilla, and her lord asleep some night before they sailed, her eyes told him it could be arranged, but at the moment it didn't seem to matter much to him.

He also knew, or felt, or hoped that Lord Cantner's influence would stop any court-martial. After all, he was alive and still free to sail for England. The less said about Claghome's lack of wit at finding a way to avoid or defeat the privateer the better. A court -martial would be as much a condemnation of his striking the colors as Alan's disobedience, and striking before doing your utmost to fight was also a hanging offense. Had he not learned, even in his short career in the Navy, that victory had a hundred parents, but failure none? A rich and influential peer could have things done his own way, as they usually ended up doing. If Claghome was possessed of any wit at all he would write his report taking credit for the idea, excusing the breach of honor as necessary to save the lord and his lady and all the secrets in his head, giving Lewrie grudging allowance for being a brave little fellow who followed orders well. ’Mister Lewrie?' Lord Cantner asked in a faraway whisper. Alan could not hear him through the ringing