Dewey Lambdin
THE GUN KETCH
(Lewrie – 05)
To my mother,
Edda Alvada Ellison Lambdin.
Her generous support and unflagging encouragement never wavers, even if she does think that Alan Lewrie is a trifle 'lewd' sometimes.
Foreword
For those readers unfamiliar with the preceding installments in the adventurous (some would say 'reprehensible, nefarious, venal, Just Like a Man, rakehellish squanderings of a ruling-class pig'… and, mind you, this chronicler has heard it all at one time or another-but they're all Politically Correct or smugly moral carpers, so who the bloody hell cares what they think?) life of our heroic, if somewhat lazy Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy, allow me to fill you in on some of the highlights of his
Epiphany Sunday, 1763: Born a bastard. (Now
1766: Rescued by his father (since he had discovered that the last viable Lewrie heir to a positive flood of guineas was none other than our lad Alan) and raised as a gentleman in St. James's Square.
There followed the usual hellish childhood, and a disappointing
1780: Arranged to be caught in bed with his half sister Belinda Willoughby so he could be exiled, and never know that he was on the verge of being the last male Lewrie, due that aforementionedgolden shower of 'yellowboys,' and shoved into the Royal Navy as a midshipman before he could even learn to say 'Jack- Ketch.'
1780-1781: In 3rd Rate line of battleship
1781-82: In the
1782-83: Still in
1784-86: Fleeing an irate, titled, husband who'd caught him
Lieutenant Lewrie, RN, is now looking forward to the prospect of a peaceful three-year commission in command of a small vessel with the Bahamas Squadron, at least as much as an unwilling Navy officer may 'look forward' to continued active service.
But then, with Alan Lewrie's singular inability to keep his breeches buttoned, his hands out of the honey pot, his smarmy wit to himself, or his mouth properly shut, there is the distinct possibility that he's going to come a cropper. Again. And, judging from his own catastrophic past, we may rest assured that somewhere along the line, he simply cannot help getting into both peril and mischief!
Now that we have all this out of the way, then, let us proceed with the continuing chronicle of our ne'er-do-well rakehell.
I
'Sed tamen, nymphae, cavete, quod Cupido
pulcher est:
totus est in armis idem, quando nudus est
Amor.
Cras amet qui numquam amavit,
quique amavit eras amet!'
'Yet take heed, nymphs, for Cupid is
wondrous fair:
when Love is naked, he is fully armed.
Let him love tomorrow who has never
loved,
and let him who has tomorrow love!'
Pervigilium Veneris
– Albius Tibullus