The King`s Commission

Lewrie in warning.

That carried them through soup and salad. Commander Railsford in his turn related his own entry into the Navy after that, and through most of the main course, unbending from the stiffness, aloofness and anonymity expected of a captain who held the lives and careers of his dining companions in his hands for good or ill.

At least, Alan noted, Kenyon dropped his dirge about Alan being so unready for the attempt at a commission, and watched him with a chary eye for the rest of the dinner, never knowing at what moment he might pop up with another question, or a veiled comment that would expose him.

The man sipped from the same glass of wine all through dinner, and sweated as though he had been forced to stoke the fires of Hell, which gave Alan a great deal of pleasure to witness.

Chapter 5

Feeling nervous as a kit-fox who has just heard the hunter's horn, Alan Lewrie climbed through the entry port into Barfleur on the morning appointed for his ordeal. The waters in English Harbor had been swarming with boats trying to ply oars as midshipmen from all the vessels currently present had assembled to the summoning flag pendants, bearing their hopeful occupants.

He clutched his canvas-wrapped documents to his breast after he had saluted the side-party and the quarterdeck, feeling an urge to read through them once more to assure his twanging nerves that they were still all there, and that they still sang his praises as nicely as they had when he had first received them.

Treghues had penned a fulsome letter from his new command in Capricieuse. His aptly named capriciousness of mood had indeed turned full circle, and now Midshipman Lewrie had been one of his best junior warrants right from the start, more mature and quicker of mind than any young man he had ever met, etc.

Railsford had penned a neat little recommendation, not so laudatory as to stir disbelief; taut and nautical like the man himself. And, Alan still marveled, Kenyon had added recommendations of his own, with no mention of nagging worries that Lewrie might be a little wet behind the ears. Beyond the bare recitation of the deeds in which Alan had taken part and distinguished himself by his conduct and bravery, or his developing knowledge of sea lore, there was little real praise, but it did leave the impression that he was at least somewhat worthy of examination.

Lukewarm Kenyon's approval might be, but at least he did not disapprove, and Alan thought that Railsford had something to do with that. He might have had to press Kenyon for a favorable letter, but what could Kenyon do, Alan asked himself in a moment of smugness, refuse to recommend his new captain's favorite? Show displeasure with such a well thought of young fellow with so much promise?

There was also the possibility that Kenyon was hedging his bets, laying groundwork of his own so that when Alan failed the board and came back aboard with his tail between his legs, he could tell Railsford that he had told him so. And if Alan failed, would he lose enough of Railsford's approval that Kenyon could then begin to lay a stink upon him, carp at failures and bring him down until he caught him out and then proceeded to break him?

'There must be an hundred of us, I swear to God,' a gangly midshipman commented at Alan's elbow. 'And more coming all the time. Every fool with white collar tabs must think he has a chance, this board.'

The speaker was in his twenties, and while all the others that Alan had seen were turned out in their best kit, this one was wearing a somewhat shabby coat, and his waist-coat and breeches were dingy. Was he poor as a traveling tinker, or did he just not care? Alan wondered.

'Let us hope most of them are abominably stupid,' Alan said to be pleasant, still praying, as most of them did, that he would pass.

'This is my third board,' the older midshipman confided with a breezy air. 'But I'll pass this time. Think you I look salty enough?'

'Aye, salty's the word for you,' Alan said with a raised eyebrow.

'They'll have a host of little angels in there today, all alike as two peas in a pod, scrubbed up so their own mothers wouldn't know 'em,' the older lad reasoned. 'But when they see a real tarry-handed younker, they'll just assume they've a prime candidate on their hands and go easy on me.'

Alan wished the fellow would go away. He was trembling with anxiety, and all the guidance, set questions and trick posers he had been coached in had flown out of his head. He was sure if he did not have space to think for a while before they started examining people, his brains would leave him utterly. But he had to respond.

'I should think they would dig down for the most arcane stuff if you show too knowledgeable as soon as you enter the room,' Alan said.

'God, don't say that,' the young man snapped, losing a little of his swagger. 'Besides, I know my stuff, you see if I don't.'

'Then the best of luck to you.' Alan bowed, wanting to be alone. The quarterdeck was swarming with midshipmen, all furrowing their brows as they re-read their texts once more, casting their hopeful faces skyward, reciting silently the hard questions they had drilled on as though at heartfelt prayer.

'Right, you lot,' an officer shouted above the low din. 'Now, who'll be first below?'

Not a soul moved, shocked by the suggestion of being the first sacrificial lamb to the slaughter.

'What a pack of cod's-heads,' the officer grunted with a sour expression. 'You lads to starboard, then. Lead off. You, the ginger-haired one, you're the bell-wether, whether you like it or not. They've had their breakfasts already, so they might be pleasant.'

That started a parade toward the ladders into the captain's quarters on the upper gun deck, where clerks met them and took down their names and ships. All the furnishings from the outer cabins had been cleared, so they were forced to stand. Alan was about twentieth on the list; he had reasoned that the closer the examining board got to their mid-day meal, the less time they would want to spend asking damn-fool questions of damn-fool midshipmen, and might throw him two or three posers and then make up their minds quickly, allowing him a better chance to show well without being grilled like a steak.

Like a patient waiting for the surgeon to attend him, he took a place against an interior partition and forced himself to think of something pleasant. It was already too crowded and warm in the cabins, and there was almost no elbow room to dig into his snowy-white breeches for a pocket handkerchief to mop the slight sheen of sweat from his face.

'Git off my fuckin' shoes, damn yer blood.'

'Who's on the board, then?'

'Captain of the Fleet, Napier off Resolution, Captain Cornwallis of Canada...'

'Oh, fuck me, he's a Tartar!'

'Box-hauling? What the hell do I know about box-hauling?'

Hands flurried to open texts at that strangled wail of despair.

Alan had considered bringing his own books with him, but after two days of cramming in every spare moment, he realized that he would either know the answers or he would not, and anything he read at the last second would melt away before he could recall it. So he did not have the diversion of reading to pass the time as the others did.

The first young aspirant, the ginger-haired boy of about seventeen who had been first below, went into the examining room, and everyone hushed and leaned closer to see if they could hear the proceedings through the deal partitions. Close as he was, Alan could only hear a dull rumble now and then. The boy was out in five minutes, shaking like a whipped puppy and soaked in sweat.

'It's box-hauling,' he stammered, tearing at his stock as though he was strangling. 'Fourteen steps of gun-drill, d… d… dis-masting in a whole gale… Lord, I don't know what else! They love lee shores!'

The next hopeful was in there for ten minutes, and he came out fanning himself with his hat, but wearing a smug expression, as though he had been informed that he had been passed. To their eager