The King`s Commission

'Wet the bugger down, somebody!' Jemmy Shirke, a former shipmate aboard Ariadne, Alan's first ship, suggested. Shirke was still a midshipman, now about eighteen or nineteen by Alan's recollections. Only the fact that he was a passed midshipman who had yet to find a suitable opening allowed him to be away from his ship.

Wine was sloshed in his general direction, soaking his shirt and fine new coat-thankfully Alan had had the money from his hidden cache of guineas to purchase four. A glass was shoved into his hand and quickly filled with champagne.

The only other officer present was Lt. William Mayhew who Alan had worked for briefly when that poor young fellow had served Adm. Sir Onsley Matthews as flag-lieutenant. Mayhew had come ashore with Ashburn.

'Get down from that chair, Keith, you're making me dizzy,' Alan jested, stepping up to shake hands with him after nearly a year of separation.

'Never did have a head for heights. Same's the day I ran you up the mast for the first time,' Keith hooted, jumping down with easy grace. 'Goddamn my eyes, you of all people, a commission officer!'

'I thought pretty much the same of you at the time,' Alan replied. 'Mister Mayhew, is he worth a tinker's damn yet?'

'Oh, for God's sake, call me Billy, will you, Alan?' the ginger-haired, permanently sunburned young man snapped impatiently. 'No, he's no more use than the duck-fucker. Never will be. Good to lay eyes on you again, that it is, Alan. And congratulations on passing the board. I'm told not one in five passed, and not one in ten got an immediate commission. Lucky bastard, you are, I'll tell you.'

'And we had to be at sea when it happened, more's my luck,' Jemmy Shirke complained. He had passed the previous board, but wasn't in port when the blessings were handed out this time.

'You know all good things come from the flag,' Ashburn stated, and that was pretty much true. Promotion came more rapidly for those fortunate officers in a commodore's or an admiral's wardroom than it did for two-a- penny lieutenants in lesser ships, no matter how good their records. And the same could be said for lieutenants' vacancies dropping from heaven to midshipmen who were more favorably placed and endowed with the proper connections; those who had, got.

'Aye, damnit, I do,' Jemmy Shirke grumbled, and Alan wondered why Ashburn had suggested inviting him, if he was still the same surly, practical-joking lout he had been in Ariadne. They had been mess-mates, but never true friends, not like he and Keith had been. Time had not seemed to have changed him much, either.

'Last I saw of you, dear Jemmy,' Alan said, hauling a chair out from the table to take a pew, 'you were still lashed up like a fished course yard, pumping away like a stoat on some dark-haired wench. God, must have been July of '81? What did they assign you once you healed, after Ariadne was condemned?'

He meant to be pleasant to the fellow-after all, he was paying part of the reckoning for this party.

'And the broken arm didn't slow you down much, as I remember,' Keith stuck in.

'Told you to get me a gentle one and I'd take my fences same as anybody,' Jemmy mellowed. 'No, once my flipper was healed, I went into the Admiral Rooke. She's a hired brig o' war, duration only, but she's not bad. They've made me an acting master's mate. No Marines, just the captain, first officer, master and two midshipmen. Only eighty or so in the whole crew.'

'That's grand for you, Jemmy,' Alan enthused for him. 'You're learning scads more than most. Like I did when I went into Parrot with Mister Kenyon. And I was an acting master's mate not too long ago, too.'

'Promotion may come faster in the bigger ships,' Shirke said with returning pride after his brief sulk, 'but you can't beat service in a small ship for making a real seaman of you. Only thing is, some of us rise faster than others.'

'It'll come,' Alan assured him, not sure who Shirke was needling; him, or Ashburn and Mayhew.

'So, what ship are you getting?' Mayhew asked.

'Shrike,' Alan said grinning. 'Twelve-gunned brig o' war.'

'My stars, you're to be a first officer right out of the starting gates!' Mayhew goggled.

That was news to Alan. He had believed a brig o' war would be big enough for a first and second lieutenant. Jesus, he said to himself, I hadn't thought about that! They're going to find out what a total fraud I really am!

Still, Railsford must have known what it meant, as did the admiral's secretary who made the appointment. Railsford had said that he'd prosper and told him to his face that this new captain would be getting a good officer.

'Not all good things come from the flag, I'm thinking,' Alan told them with a lazy drawl and a grin that he didn't quite feel. He looked at Shirke, who appeared to have been kicked in the guts by the news, and at Ashburn, who was not exactly overjoyed, either. His appointment had come from Barfleur, Admiral Hood's flagship, while Keith Ashburn, for all his connections, his family's money, and 'interest'-lifeblood of a successful career-left him a junior officer in a 4th Rate ship, no matter that he had been commissioned a year-and-a-half longer. It hinted at high-flown connections back home with Admiralty, with Hood; else why did not a more senior and deserving man not get the appointment, even if it was in a small brig below the Rate?

'Now, what had we planned for this celebration?' Alan asked in the dumbstruck silence. 'I must own I'm famished.'

'A page taken from your favorite book, Alan,' Keith said, regaining his composure. 'That's why we are having it here at the Lamb in Falmouth Harbor, 'stead of over the ridge in English Harbor. Less chance that a naval watch will break things up. And a better run of whore over here.'

'God bless you, Keith, you read my mind. I haven't had a good ride since Charleston last August, and damn-all blood and thunder in between. Rake's Progress for us, tonight, eh?'

There was a knock at the door. 'That must be the mutton,' Billy Mayhew hoped aloud as he rose to answer it. Sure enough, the bare-back riders had arrived. More glasses were called for, and more wine, while they were introduced. There was Hespera (most Mother Abbesses ran to the same classical bent as Ashburn when it came to naming their stock-in-trade with Greco-Roman sobriquets), a slim and lanky young blonde of about seventeen, with straight hair. There was an older woman of about thirty, rather hard-faced but blessed with a promising body-she went by Pandora-who appeared to be the bosun's mate in charge of the distaff party. There was a girl with hair so red it had to be hennaed, short and talkative as soon as she got through the door-Electra, she insisted she be called. And there was Dolly.

Alan took a sudden like for Dolly, if only because she probably was using her own name for variety's sake. She appeared to be about twenty-five, just a few years older than Alan. And she was beautiful, rather than merely pretty, and stood out from the rest like a peacock in a barnyard. A high, clear brow, high cheekbones and a sum, almost thin face that tapered to a firm little chin; a slim straight nose cleverly shaped, and a Cupid's Bow of a mouth that showed her upper teeth in repose, and widened in a hesitant smile to show pure, healthy white. And she had the most peculiar dark green eyes and hair the hue of polished mahogany, and just as lustrous and full. She was also much better dressed than the others; not just in splendor-any whore could buy splendor from a rag- picker's barrow or a used dress shop, and these had-she wore a dress less gaudy than the others, almost respectable enough to take out on the town, with fewer flounces and fripperies. One, at first glance, might take her for a proper young woman, or a wife.

'You done us proud tonight, Keith,' Mayhew commented.

'Yes, Keith usually has the taste of a Philistine,' Alan said.

'Gentlemen, choose your partners,' Ashburn ordained loftily. 'As our guest of honor, let Alan have first pick.'

'Oo shall 'ave this 'un, then,' Alan chuckled, mimicking the 'love call' of the lower deck when they paired off with their temporary 'wives' whenever a ship was put out of discipline and the doxies came aboard. The blonde looked promising, but her straight hair reminded him too much of Caroline Chiswick from Wilmington; the others were the usual run-of-the-mill whores one could have any day of the week-he had only one clear choice.

'Mistress Dolly, if you would be so kind as to grace my side during supper?' Alan asked, bowing in conge deep