The King`s Commission

this later? I sincerely fucking doubt it!

Chapter 2

Shrike saw nothing of interest for the next two months other than islands, and those only in passing. After a trip to New Providence, they patrolled the extreme edge of the hunting grounds split between the Leeward Islands Squadron and the Bahamas Squadron, north of the Mona Passage, beating to windward far out to sea above the Danish Virgins, snooping north of Puerto Rico. Given the reputed volume of smuggling going on, the number of privateers on the prowl, and the threat of Spanish or French warships, they should have seen something, but the sea remained achingly empty from one distant landfall to the next, and they never went close enough inshore to see anything more, using islands only as convenient proofs of the accuracy of their navigation.

During this time, Alan couldn't have cared less if a Spanish treasure galleon had come right aboard and begged to be looted, and that galleon replete with a traveling Viceroy's brothel. The initial shame and humiliation still gnawed at him, try as he did to put it behind him and concentrate on the job at hand, and the job often threatened to swamp him.

After those two months, he was sure that he was the most despised man aboard the brig of war. He had run his drills and gotten his breath back, and riled the gunner and his mates in the process, even if he knew artillery as well as they. Cox and his minions didn't like being drilled so often, with so many live-firings at floating kegs or empty coops. It fouled the guns, it made work to clean, to sew up new cartridge bags, to shift powder kegs out of the hold. He had forced them to sway out the swivels and drill with them, which created more work. Shrike had been loafing along for months with no real effort put to her warlike nature, much like Alan's first ship Ariadne had been, and the gunnery department resisted his wishes to spruce up.

Fukes the bosun glared daggers at him, worrying if he was going to order stuns'ls rigged out, top-masts struck, or merely work the ship from one point of sail to the other at a moment's notice.

But, he reassured himself, Lilycrop had told him to smarten the people up, and showed no signs that he disagreed with Alan's timing or choice of drills.

During those two months, they went through several half or full gales, nothing like the terror of autumnal hurricanes, but scary enough to pucker Alan's fundaments as he stood on deck watch after watch with no chance to go below, frightened that each helm command or action on his part would put them under in the twinkling of an eye. Shrike did not help, for she truly was a bitch, pitching about like a wood-chip in the heavy seas, rolling on her beam ends since she was so light and had so little below the waterline, unlike his previous ships. And Lilycrop had been accurate in his description of how she would almost run away with them in brisk winds unless they watched her helm, or kept too much sail up too long.

God help him, even the weather seemed to conspire against him. Order masts struck too soon, and the threatening squall lines of early afternoon would blow out and the sky would be painted with lovely and pacific sunsets. Trust that it would do so again the next time the horizon gloomed up and they would be ankle deep in rain and foam breaking over her rails as they fought to reef down until it blew over.

And through it all, there was Lilycrop, damn his blood, eyeing Alan's efforts with that maddening little smile, his eyes atwinkle and another kitten being strolled about the decks; sometimes that tiny 'hee hee' could be heard from the skylight or the companionway. Lilycrop didn't spend much time talking to him, and when he did, it was the same sort of needling he had gotten after his disaster in leaving English Harbor. Oh, there was some pithy bits slung in now and again as admonitions to not do something like this or that (depending on which exercise or evolution they had been forced into), but nary a word of praise, even the faintest sort, even when Alan had the time to realize that he had done something close to right, and frankly, he was getting damned tired of Lilycrop's attitude. It got to the point that when the captain was on the deck watching Lewrie perform, Alan tensed up so much he could barely keep his victuals down, and his mind would go blank under that amused stare. To utter the right commands was a daily victory over his unsteady nerves.

They were over halfway through their supplies. Another two weeks of patrol and they would have to go back to Antigua to resupply, and Alan had absolutely no idea if he would be retained, or chucked out for incompetence. Alan was sure Lilycrop would wait until the last moment after they dropped anchor to tell him he was out, and the uncertainty was enough to make him want to scream.

Finally, on a fine day while the hands were enjoying their rum ration, he stirred up his courage and accosted Lilycrop on the quarterdeck, perversely wanting to know his fate, though dreading it.

'Dine with me tonight, then,' Lilycrop said, ending his stroll about the deck and going below, still wearing that enigmatic twinkle.

'Aye, sir,' Alan replied, trying to sound cheerful for the invitation, the first of its kind since he had come aboard. Probably tell me with the port, so I can weep in private, he quailed sadly.

But he showed up halfway through the second dog-watch, turned out in his best kit, and let the Marine sentry announce him and pass him aft into the great cabin to hear his fate.

'Ah, right on time, I see.' Lilycrop beamed at him, waving him to a chair. 'Gooch, get the first lieutenant a glass of whatever strikes his fancy.' Lilycrop had tricked himself out in his best uniform as well, and the white coat lapels, shirt, waist-coat and breeches gleamed in the candle and lantern light.

Dressed for my execution, Alan cringed to himself.

Alan got a glass of poor Black Strap-Lilycrop's purse did not run to claret or Bordeaux-Lilycrop was already slurping away at a mug of brandy, and from the harsh reek of the fumes that Alan could smell all the way across the cabin, it was no better than captured French ratafia, the raw stuff they issued their wretched sailors.

'We're havin' a joint of pork tonight, Mister Lewrie,' Lilycrop told him genially. 'One of the shoats escaped the manger and took his death dive down the forrud hatchway. Thought pigs'd survive a fall such as that. 'Tis kitties that land on their feet, ain't it, Samson? But I don't tell you nothin' you don't already know, do I, Mister Lewrie?'

'No, sir,' Alan agreed, having seen the accident, and having heard the uproarious cheer from the hands when it was known that the pig had succumbed and would be fresh supper for all. There was a rumor on the rounds that the pig had been 'pushed,' and how he had escaped the foredeck manger was still a mystery. 'Perhaps it was Pitt killed him, sir,' Lewrie japed, hoping he could cajole Lilycrop into leniency.

'Wouldn't put it past the young bugger, indeed I would not.' Lilycrop laughed heartily at Alan's small attempt at humor. 'A clever little paw on the latch peg, a scratch on the arse, some judicious herdin'… he'll get his share, same as the others. I do believe that cats are smarter than most people give 'em credit. Gooch, how long now?'

'Not half a glass, sir,' Gooch answered from the pantry by the small dining alcove. The table had already been set with a somewhat clean cloth, wide-bottomed bottles to anchor it down after it had been dampened to cling to the wood, and plates and utensils already laid out. Shrike was on an easy point under reduced sail, so they would not have to fight the table for each morsel that reached their mouths; she wasn't heeled over ten degrees from upright and her motion was easy tonight. Cooling sunset breezes blew down the open skylight and through the quarter-gallery windows.

They chatted ship's business for a few minutes, interrupted often by the antics of the various cats or kittens that shared the captain's quarters, until Gooch announced that supper was ready.

There was a soup of indeterminate ancestry, most likely 'portable soup' reconstituted from its boiled-dry essence. The biscuits were the usual weevily lumber that took much rapping to startle out the occupants and some soaking in the soup so they could be chewed. But the leg of young pork arrived to save the day, crackling with fat and running with juices their bodies craved after weeks of salt-meat boiled to ruin in the steep-tubs. There was pease pudding, too, and a small loaf of fresh bread they sliced thin as toast so it would last, something the cook had whipped up for the captain alone.