The King`s Coat

lower gun deck, a dank and dimly lit and groaning place full of guns, mess tables, stools, thick supporting beams and the columnlike masts. Glims in paper holders shed light on hundreds of men and doxies and quite a few children scampering about. It was more like a debtor's prison than a ship. Rolston led him aft to an area which was screened off from the rest of the gun deck by half-partitions, and filled with chests and tables. ’This is the gun room,' Rolston told him. 'The master gunner Mister Tencher and his mates berth here, along with the junior midshipmen. You can stow your chest along one of the screens and it'll be your seat. And you'll sleep in a hammock, instead of your soft little feather bed. I trust it will be up to milord's usual standards.’

The smell of cooking grease, some foul egestion wafting aloft from the bilges, the fug of damp wool and unwashed bodies was fit to make him gag, but he forbore manfully. 'It is not St. James's,' Alan drawled acidly, turning to look Rolston up and down, 'but good enough for some, I shouldn't wonder.’

’You'll not last long in this ship with your snotty damned City ways, Lewrie. Just you wait 'til-' His tirade was interrupted by the arrival of Fowles with the heavy sea chest. But as the ship groaned and creaked into another roll, Fowles staggered and performed a shaky dance to waddle past them, bump Rolston and crash to the deck atop the chest, almost on Rolston's shoes. ’You clumsy fool!' Rolston slapped the man on the arms and chest in anger. 'You did that on purpose. I'll see you on charge for it. Laying hands on an officer, for starters.’

’Beg pardon, sir,' Fowles yelped. 'Sorry, sir.’

Alan saw real fear in the man, and was amazed that a grown man of nearly fourteen stone could be so bullied by a mere boy in a blue coat. ’It wasn't his fault,' Lewrie said, wishing they would all go away and let him be as ill as he wished. 'The ship rolled heavily.’

’Thankee, sir,' Fowles said, knuckling his forehead gratefully, 'I were clumsy, sir, but meant no harm, sir.’

’That's all, fellow. You may go,' Alan told him.

Fowles ducked out like a shot, leaving Rolston blazing. ’Goddamn you, Lewrie. Don't interfere like that again, or I'll make it hard on you. ’

‘You,' Alan said. 'Buss my blind cheeks, turkey cock. Pigeons could sit on your shoulder and eat seeds out of your arse, hop-o' -my-thumb. Now go push on a rope, or whatever, before I decide to hurt you.’

They faced each other for a moment, one frailer boy whose voice had not broken completely, arms akimbo and chin out like Lieutenant Harm; the other broader shouldered and mansized, coolly amused, yet at the same time threatening.

Rolston was the one to finally give way. With a petulant noise he whirled about and fled the compartment, utterly frustrated. Once he was gone, Lewrie sank down onto the nearest sea chest and began to strip off his wet clothing. He unlocked his own and dug down for dry breeches and stockings, not forgetting to pack away his cocked hat in its japanned box and fetch out the boyish round hat he had hoped not to wear. Once dry and in fresh togs, he succumbed to misery, letting go a moan of despair and sickness. He clapped a hand to his mouth. ’What the hell are you, then?' a drink-graveled voice asked. 'A new midshipman? Should have known…look at yerchest. all on top an' nothin' handy. What's yer name, boy?’

‘Lewrie,' Alan said, ready to spew. 'What are you?’

‘Mister Tencher, Master Gunner. You'll say sir to me, or I'll have you kissin' the gunner's daughter before you're a day older.’

’You want me to kiss your daughter?' Alan wondered aloud. She must be a real dirty-puzzle ifhe meant it as a threat. 'Are you that ignorant? I've a feelin' you and the gunner's daughter will be great friends right soon.’

’Not right now, if you please. I'm feeling a bit ill at the moment, sir. ’

‘You've a sense of humor, anyway. Sick, eh? Had your breakfast. then?’

‘Oh, for God's sake,' Alan mumbled, feeling his bile rise. 'Biscuit n' burgoo'll fix you right up.' Tencher grinned. 'Where might one…oo?’

‘Need to shit through your teeth? Try it in this bucket.' Once empty, Tencher had prescribed his own version of nost:rum. a hot rom toddy and a turn about the decks in the frigid January air. Lewrie choked down the rom and staggered topside. He had to admit it worked; after an hour, no one gaped at his pallor any longer. He was ice-cold down to his bones, but the cold had a reviving effect. as did the occasional splash of salt spray that plumed off the wave tops and smacked him in the face. Once free of immediate distress, he began to take note of his surroundings, and it was awe-inspiring to see all the miles of rope that made up the maze of rigging coiled on the decks, on rails, all leading upward to the masts that swayed back and forth over his head; all the blocks and all the ordered clutter of the guns and their own ropes and blocks and tackles. It was all so overwhelming, so confusing, that he didn't think he could ever even begin to discover what each did, much less become competent in the use of such a spider web. His physical unease became lost in his anxiety over how he had been received so far, and his nagging fear that not only was he stuck in the Navy for the duration of the war, but possibly for life. What career could he undertake after this? And if it was to be his career, he had a sneaking suspicion that most likely he would be a total, miserable failure at it! What a terrible, shitten life this is going to be, he brooded. And I've made such a terrible start on my first day.

Suddenly he jerked to a halt in his perambulations about the deck. Had not Kenyon told him to come back right after he was dressed, to see the ship's first lieutenant? And was that perhaps a whole hour or better ago? Oh, damn me, they'll beat me crippled.

He turned to dash aft toward the quarterdeck, where he had seen officers, but before he could, shrill whistles began to blow some sort of complicated warbling call, and the ship became alive with running men.

That's it, they're going to hang me as soon as they catch me. He felt a tugging on his sleeve and looked down to behold a very young midshipman, a mere babe of about twelve. ’You must be our newly,' the tiny apparition said. 'I'm Beckett. Better get in line with us. Captain's coming off-shore. ’

‘So then what happens?' Alan asked, wondering for his safety, eager for a place to hide. ’Get in line here with the rest of us, I told you.’

’Down here, you. By height. Between me and Ashburn,' a very old-looking midshipman told him. He had to be twenty if he was a day. Alan shouldered between him and a very elegantly turned out midshipman, if such a thing was possible in their plain uniforms. The other boy was about eighteen, handsome, with grey eyes and a noble face. ’I'm Keith Ashburn,' the youth whispered. 'That's Chapman, our senior.’

’Alan Lewrie,' he said Then there was no time for more talk, as all the officers turned up in their blue and gold and white, their swords glistening. There were Marines in red coats and white crossbelts, slapping their muskets about, their sergeants holding halfpikes, and two officers; one very young lieutenant with a baby face, and one very lean and dashing-looking captain of Marines who resembled a sheathed razor. Such members of the crew also appeared, that were not below out of discipline. ’Boat ahoy,' someone called down to the gig, and the answering shout came back 'Ariadne,' meaning that the captain was in the boat. After a few moments, the Marines presented their muskets and the officers presented swords while the bosun's pipes shrilled some complicated lieder that Lewrie found most annoying.

A bulky man in the uniform of a post-captain came slowly through the entry port and briefly doffed his hat to ship's company.

God, what a face, Alan thought; looks like a pit bull-dog I once lost money on.

The captain of Ariadne was in his late forties, a gotchbellied man with very thin and short legs. He wore his own hair, clubbed back into a massive grey queue, and his eyebrows seemed to have a life of their own and danced like bat's wings in the breeze. ’Dismiss the hands, Mister Swift,' the captain said. ’Aye aye, sir. Ship's company… on hats. Dismiss. ’

‘You, there, the new midshipman. Come here,' Bales thundered. ’Yes, sir?’

‘You are Lewrie?’

‘I am, sir. Come aboard to join, sir.’

’Then why have you not reported to me and you've already been inboard half the morning?' the first lieutenant, Swift, said. He was a reedy, thoroughly sour-looking man with a permanent scowl on his dark face. ’I shall see you in my cabin directly, Mister Lewrie, after I have conferred with Mister Swift. Following that, you will not tarry about signing on board in a proper fashion.’

’Yes, sir,' Alan replied crisply as he could, but secretly terrified that he was about to catch pluperfect hell. 'And for God's sake, Lewrie, the proper form is 'aye aye, sir,''' Captain Bales said petulantly. 'Try it, will you? Even the Marines do so!’

‘Aye aye, sir,' Alan said, turning red.