The King`s Commission

thought a bit sadly. The wheel that squeals the loudest never gets the grease. He rubs everyone the wrong way- God help him, he's even proud of it.

'Damn Society,' Lilycrop groaned, lifting his beak from the mug, but he had calmed himself. 'Think you, though… we were too small an offerin'?'

'I'm sure of it, sir. Perhaps Admiral Rodney offered larger ships, or Drake's small division of line-of-battle ships for later in the despatches we carried, but we don't know that.'

'Nor should we have,' Lilycrop nodded firmly. 'So I was the bearer of bad tidin's, the one the Roman emperors used to kill. Uriah smugly bearin' his death warrant from David to place him in the thickest fightin' so Uriah's wife would be a widow for David's pleasure.'

'Um… something like that, sir,' he shrugged, at a loss.

'Nothin' more'n I'd expect after fifty years in the Navy, man and boy, watchin'…' Lilycrop squirmed as he realized he could not expose himself or his life-long grudges to anyone, much less to an officer from that very background that seemed to spawn the successful, while he soldiered on without seeming rewards. 'Stores complete, sir?'

'Ah, aye, sir,' Alan replied, caught off guard by the sudden shift of topic. 'Or, that is, they soon shall be, sir. The purser is ashore, and should be returning soon.'

'Once we're replenished, be so good as to hoist 'Easy Discipline' so the doxies can come aboard, then,' Lilycrop directed wearily. 'The hands've shaped up main-well, the last two months. They've earned a few rewards. Mister Lewyss to check for pox'n fleas, mind.'

'Aye, sir.'

'Far's I know, we could tup'n sup out here 'til we sink at our moorin's, for all this admiral cares. Shore leave tickets for the senior warrants first, junior warrants second. Leave tickets for those hands deservin' afterward.'

'Aye, sir. Um…'

'Aye, I mind you've calls to make,' Lilycrop said, frowning. 'I'll take a turn ashore myself, but my needs're simple. You've earned your chance for a wench and a bottle as well, young sir.'

'Thank you, sir, but…'

'Then you don't wish shore leave?' Lilycrop teased.

'Not at all, sir! Of course, I want shore leave! It's another matter, sir. About Shrike. About the admiral, sir.'

'Spout away. Sit you down an' have some hock, then.'

The cabin cats had sensed that the rant was over, and emerged from their hiding places, tails flicking for attention. Samson and Henrietta and Mopsy and Hodge and the kittens made for Lilycrop, and this show of affection mollified him most won-drously.

'Who says we're useless, sir?' Alan began.

'Every poxed mother-son of a gun in the flag, damn their eyes.'

'You once said Shrike could go inshore, where a frigate or sloop of war would fear to go, sir,' Alan schemed on. 'Now, I see no ships in harbor capable of that.'

'Small ships… ketches'n cutters'n such… they're possibly out on patrol,' Lilycrop waved off as Gooch brought another mug to the desk and poured Lewrie some of the wine.

'Could the Spanish have some siege artillery of their own, sir?'

'Oh, aye,' Lilycrop agreed. 'Every fuckin' fort on Cuba'r Hispaniola's full of heavy guns. Poor local-milled powder, maybe old stone shot, though. Be a bitch to dismount and build field carriages.'

'But they could improvise a siege-train from them, if they were of a mind, sir. And the easiest way to transport them would be by sea, along the coasts, would it not?'

'Aye, they'd kill a thousand bullocks haulin' 'em on what pass for roads in the islands.' Lilycrop perked up.

'Exactly, sir,' Alan pressed. 'But what sort of ships would be available to carry siege guns to Cape Francois or Havana? How many ships of worth do they have in the Indies they'd risk in coastal waters?'

'Not that many, I grant.'

'Too strong to be taken by a small ketch or cutter, sir, but just the presence of a well set up brig of war could run them back into harbor. They'd think themselves safe from a frigate close inshore, but we are pretty fast, sir, and we can go into less than three fathoms to chase them down.'

'Damme, but you're a nacky little'n, Mister Lewrie,' Lilycrop marveled. 'I misjudged your wit, an' for that I apologize. Aye, Shrike could stir 'em up like the Wrath of God. If,' he cautioned, 'if we were allowed. I'm sure this Admiral Rowley has his own favorite corsairs; bought in some shallow-draught vessels as tenders to the flagship to line his pockets with prize-money already. We'll swing at our anchors 'til next Epiphany waitin' for the call to glory.'

'A respectful letter to the flag, suggesting suitable employment for us could take the trick, sir.' Alan smiled. 'Prize-money for us and the admiral, a reduction in the bottoms available to the Dagoes, some repute for us, and… if there is some grudge between Parker and Rodney, we could mollify it. Rowley needs to be seen doing something to save Jamaica, doesn't he? Rodney'll have all the glory at the victory celebrations, and…'

'Now you're off in fictional speculatin',' Lilycrop scoffed. 'We know no such thing. Still…'

'Beats waiting for employment at the admiral's pleasure, sir.'

'Hmm.' Lilycrop stroked his chin, now shaved of the usual crop of bristly white for his appearance aboard the flagship-usually he only laid steel to whiskers once a week for Sunday Divisions.

Alan took a sip of wine while Lilycrop pondered the matter. He could see the battle going on between the need for recognition and some small bit of fame before the war ended (and his hopes of future service in the Navy with it) and the desire to safeguard what little he had. The want of prize-money for retirement, and the risk to his ship and the loss of what grudging respect he had won if he failed.

'Too deep for me, Lewrie,' Lilycrop scowled finally. 'It smacks too much o' schemin' for 'place,' to suit me. An' what sort of fool may I look to go clamorin' for action when there's others more senior or deservin'? In the Navy, you'll learn to take what comes as your portion an' not go wheedlin' for a chance to shine, sir.'

'They do wish us to be ambitious, sir,' Alan allowed with a shrug, thinking he had disappointed his captain by being too forward.

'In our actions, yes, once given a charge,' Lilycrop cautioned. 'But not in advancin' our careers 'thout earnin' the right to do so.'

'Well, it was just a thought, sir,' Alan sighed. 'But it would gall me terribly to think we had to sit out the rest of the war with no opportunity to do something useful.'

Did I mean that? Alan wondered even as he uttered it. It was the proper sentiment a fire-eating young officer was expected to display, and he thought he had said it rather well, so well, in fact, that Alan felt a hard kernel of truth in it. He sometimes thought it was his curse that he could sit outside himself and judge his performance on the stage of Life like a disgruntled theater-goer waiting for a chance to get rid of the rotten fruit carried in with him, ready to jeer and heckle a poor reading, or cheer when a scene was carried off well.

It would make little difference if Shrike did spend the rest of the war at her moorings, or off on boresomely empty patrols. He had fulfilled his present ambitions; a small measure of fame for cool bravery, a commission, some prize-money, and now his post as a first officer, even in a small ship. He had seen the razor- edge of terror often enough to know how mortal he was, and like any sensible person could give war a great big miss the next time, to save his own skin.

If Shrike did stay in Kingston Harbor for some time, he could get ashore to court Lucy Beauman and make a firm pact with her about their future together. And from the tone of her latest letters, that would be best, before her circle of swains and admirers monopolized her to his detriment.

So why am I urging the captain to get us active employment? he asked himself, when anyone with any sense would want to stay out of danger and go courting one of the most beautiful young women of the age. It's daft, but this Navy stuff must be getting to me.

It made him squirm to face it, but he was indeed, through no fault or wish of his own, a Sea Officer of the King. He was getting rather good at it. And it was an honorable profession, not just the Guinea Stamp admitting him to the society of other gentlemen, but now a small yet burgeoning source of pride in his abilities. God knew he had had few reasons for pride before. It was demanding, dangerous, but it was his. There was no reward on earth for meekness, so why should he be content to stand on the sidelines crying 'well played, sir' to some other ambitious