The King`s Commission

'The sweetlin's gettin' theirs, too, Gooch?' Lilycrop demanded.

'Um, aye, sir,' Gooch tried to say through a mouthful of pork from the pantry, taking his pleasure with some slices that had been intended for the platoon of felines, who were crowding around his feet and yowling for their tucker.

'Damn yer blood, Gooch, stop stuffin' yer ugly phyz an' feed those cats their rightful share before I come in there an' hurt you,' Lilycrop bellowed, turning to wink at Lewrie as though it was a huge joke. 'They'll be cracklin's enough for the likes of you later!'

'Aye, sir,' Gooch sighed.

There were still cats enough who jumped up on the table to take what they thought was their 'rightful share,' who refused to stay shooed. And between gentle remonstrances to their gluttony, and his reminiscing about his career, Lilycrop carried the conversation, while Alan guarded his plate with both elbows and nodded or grunted in agreement all during supper.

Then the dishes were removed, the table cloth snatched away and the cheese and port set out. Lilycrop poured himself a liberal measure and passed the decanter down, then patted his thinning hair and looked at Alan carefully, as he poured his own glass.

'Now, young sir,' Lilycrop said after they had both lowered the levels in their glasses.

Here it is, Alan sighed, going stone cold inside.

'Tomorrow, we shall alter course. We've been out over two months, an' need to put into port for fresh supplies,' Lilycrop said.

'Aye, sir,' Alan nodded, nose deep in his glass again.

'Do it at first light, just after standin' down from dawn Quarters-no sense waitin' for sun sights, we know pretty well where we are, an' no hazards this far offshore.'

'Aye, sir, I'll see to it,' Alan replied, steeling himself for the blow. 'Sir, I suppose… well, I have been doing a lot better in the last few weeks. Whatever you decide, I am grateful I had the chance to be a first officer, if only for a little while.'

'What's this, you resignin'?'

'If you think that best, sir,' Alan whispered. God, he thought, Lilycrop don't just want to chuck me, he wants me out of the Navy altogether!

'Don't know why you'd want to do a thing like that,' Lilycrop told him, cocking his head to one side. 'Thought you wanted to get on in the Navy. Can't do it if you cash in your chips on your first commission. Is it you're unhappy in Shrike?'

'I thought you wanted me to, sir,' Alan stammered.

'Now why would I want a thing like that?'

'Because I'm bloody awful!'

'You are?' Lilycrop gaped. 'Couldn't tell it by me.'

'But… the way you've treated me the past two months, I never knew how I stood with you, sir, and…' Alan fumbled, feeling relief flush him like a quick rain-shower, and the beginnings of an anger that Lilycrop would string him along in this manner. 'Damme, sir, you've had a good laugh at my every effort, and I've been on tenter-hooks all this time, waiting to let my guard slip and make some mistake, and…'

He could not go on, his tongue dangerously close to letting go something that could be construed as insolence or insubordination, as much as he wanted to rant and slap the old bugger silly.

'Want your mammy's teat to cosset you?' Lilycrop scowled as he topped up his glass again. 'Want me to pat you on the back an' tell you how marvelous you are? Damme, you're a commission Sea Officer, there's no room for your bloody feelin's. There's the ship, her people, an' the Navy that comes first before makin' you feel good.'

'I…' Alan started to say before clamping his mutinous trap shut once more.

'You started on the wrong foot, but that didn't last a day,' Lilycrop continued. 'I told you I'd say no more about it, and I haven't. 'Sides, 'tisn't my nature to go around praisin' somebody to the skies. You do your duty an' that's all I expect of any man. If you do your duty proper, you know it, an' you can pat yourself on the back if you've a mind. 'Sides, you learned, didn't you?'

'I… I think so, sir,' Alan said realizing it was true.

'Found your feet, got a firm grip on the hands, found out how to run Shrike to my satisfaction, what more would you be wantin'?' Lilycrop shrugged. 'More port?'

'Aye, sir. But how can you-most people respond to some sign of encouragement, sir. They have to hear that they did something right now and then, just as they need to be told they did something the wrong way if they make a muck of things.' Alan floundered.

'Life's an unfair portion, ain't it, Mister Lewrie?' Lilycrop chuckled, slicing himself a morsel of cheese, which he plumped down on a thin slice of the remaining bread in lieu of extra-fine biscuit. 'I told you once I don't splice the main-brace without I see the angel Gabriel close abeam. Now what would you a'done if I'd said 'you're doin' splendid, laddie' when you weren't? Gone all smug an' satisfied before you had it down pat. I gave you instruction, let you find your own way, an' you've come around to be a man I'd trust with this ship. Mind you, I had my doubts when you first came aboard. Um, good cheese.'

'So you'll not ask for a replacement, sir?'

'Oh, Hell no. You'll do.' Lilycrop grinned through a mouthful of cheese and bread.

'Well I'm damned!' Alan exhaled heavily, leaning back in his chair.

'No, you've turned more competent, an' you've gotten the ship smartened up right clever. I'm satisfied,' Lilycrop sniffed.

'Even if every hand hates my guts, sir,' Alan said, smiling, feeling he was ready to burst into hysterical laughter at his redemption.

'Oh, give 'em no mind, they always hate the first officer, an' don't you go tryin' to be their bosom friend, either,' Lilycrop told him, wagging a finger down the length of the table at him. 'They despise you, they tolerate me, and beside you an' your fault-findin' an' carpin' I'm a fuckin' saint in comparison. You didn't come aboard to be popular. You came aboard to be efficient in runnin' my ship for me. You're not a heavy flogger, nor are you a hand- wringin' hedge-priest. Firm but fair, you said your motto was, remember, young sir?'

'Aye, sir, I do.'

'You're not half-seas-over are you, Mister Lewrie?'

'No, sir,' Alan assured him of his relative sobriety.

'Then wipe that lunatick smile off your face and tip up your glass. Gooch, trot out another bottle of this poor excuse for port!'

I'm safe! Alan rejoiced inside as the servant puttered about and drew the cork from a fresh bottle. I'm safe in my place. He'll not chuck me. I'll do, he says? That must mean I'm not at all bad, even if he did half-kill me. Now, can I keep this pace up? Don't I ever get a chance to relax?

Ruefully, he decided that he probably would not. That was Lilycrop's sort of Navy, where one labored long and hard with not one whit of praise or encouragement, ready at all times to care for the ship first, last and always, with little chance for letting one's guard down.

'Now, sir,' Lilycrop sighed after he had sampled the new bottle and sent Gooch off for his own supper. 'I get the feelin' you may disagree with me 'bout how to train men. Maybe were we talkin' of raw landsmen, I might soften my methods, but 'tis the way I was brought up, you see. When you've a ship of your own to run, you may employ your own methods, and I give you joy of 'em. But I've never seen a sailor yet who was worth a cold-mutton fart for bein' cossetted like he was still in leadin' strings. You just have to make 'em get on with the work, trust your mates and warrants to pound 'em into line, and see they don't get brutalized, nor pushed too fast. Nor do you want 'em dandled on daddy's knee and told what good lads they are when they ain't.'

'It varies with the man, some say, sir. What's sauce for the goose isn't sauce for gander all the time, sir,' Alan replied, laid back at complete ease for the first time in two months, his breeches tight about his middle after a splendid repast, and his head light with wine fumes.

'But you never have time to train 'em, one man at a time. Some never'll do, no matter what you do with 'em.' Lilycrop frowned. Samson leaped up on the table and arched his hindquarters into the air as Lilycrop stroked his back. 'I've seen boys come aboard so starry-eyed for bein' at sea you'd have thought they'd seen Jesus in the riggin'. Some made it, some didn't. Raw landsmen, midshipmen, pressed men, we make sailors of 'em all if we can, or kill some of 'em in the process. When the shot starts to fly, you don't have time to make allowances for a