THE GUN KETCH

What had he known as love before? Pretty much a spectral semblance-flattery and entendres which passed for wit and talk, followed by ogling, grappling, and frantic coupling on whatever fell to hand.

Never regard, never esteem, fellowship, never… some affection, of course, but nothing of a lasting nature.

On, off, and where the devil'd I drop me shoes, he scoffed!

Granted, it would be bad for his career. But had he not already blighted that by marrying at all so junior an officer? And, once this commission was ended in 1789, would he really shed a tear to spend his life ashore on half pay, no matter how much pride he had at last derived from his growing skill as a Sea Officer?

He could spend that life with Caroline, with enough money to buy land, to live off interest with Coutts Co., some investments in funds.

'Two weeks ago, the idea scared me witless, and now…' Lewrie puzzled, bemused by his eagerness to admit that he was married, and married most damnably well, too, to an absolute gem of a young woman!

Even if it had come about like an unintentional dismasting.

Yet…

Lewrie knew people; admittedly some thoroughly despicable ones. He knew the enthusiasms of 'grass widows,' and the sort of men who went baying like a pack of hounds in pursuit of abandoned and lonely women; God knows he 'd prospered on them. He could see how other officers and Portsmouth gentlemen regarded her so hungrily when he and Caroline were out and about the town already. Might she… even Caroline… succumb at last, missing lovemaking so much after a brief, glorious introduction, with him away for three years, might she…?

'Christ, I've rattled too many wives and widows,' he muttered in gloom. 'Ironic justice, that'd be. Maybe innocence and ignorance would be a blessing! God, surely not her!'

So when, the night preceding, Caroline had shyly confessed that she had not actively sought decent lodgings, and begged his forgiveness for scheming to go with him, he had been more than relieved of all his worries, and had surrendered to her will most ecstatically.

There was a rap on the cabin hatchway.

'Ship's carpenter Mister Stock, sir!' the lone seaman on guard called out, filling in for the Marine sentry Alacrity did not have.

'Enter!' Lewrie replied.

'Yew wanted t'see me, Captain, sir?' the youngish Mr. Stock said as he ducked his head to enter and removed his stocking cap.

'Aye, Mister Stock,' Lewrie brightened. 'I need your expertise to rearrange my cabins to accommodate our passengers. I'd thought you might be able to turn the starboard quarter-gallery into a second 'necessary closet,'/ give our passengers some canvas and deal partitions to provide privacy… oh, about here, say. And their maid needs sleeping space. The manservant will berth below in the stores room.'

'Uhm…' Stock pondered. 'Foldup pilot-berth here, sir, over the sideboard in the dinin' coach f r the maid. Double berth f r the married folks.' Here Stock actually blushed! 'We've partitions enough, sir. And yon double hanging-cot a'ready. Not a day's work, sir.'

'Best build a double hanging-cot for them,' Lewrie said. 'Leave me equidistant room down the starboard side, and a passageway t'other side. I'm… ahumphh… partial to the existing double.'

'Oh, aye, aye, sir,' Stock agreed with a sad expression.

Chapter 4

'God, what a bloody pot-mess,' Alan fumed on sailing day as he beheld his little command turn from a trig gun ketch to a bloody Ark, from a sane and rational construct to a barking shambles!

'Heave, and in sight!' Parham, one of his fourteen-year-old midshipmen, howled from up forward.

'Jib halyards, gaff halyards, peak halyards, Mister Ballard!' Alan snapped. The inexperienced landsmen and volunteers were being trampled by the ordinary and able seamen; the draft of midshipmen flitted about trying to appear useful, or to avoid a mob of hands who suddenly stampeded in their general direction. A yearling steer gave out a mournful bellow of annoyance, the pigs and sheep squealed or baaed in sudden terror, and ducks and geese in the fo'c's'le manger squawked and fluttered, so that Alacrity's foredecks were nigh awash in feathers. There was a deal of cursing from professionals, too.

The ship's boys served as nippermen, seizing the lighter line to the heavier anchor hawser, whilst inexperienced landsmen under the direction of the bosun's mate, a Portuguese named Odrado, tried to deal the stinking coils of salt-stiffened cable into manageable heaps, then down to the cable tiers to drape over the bitts to dry. And it was a truism that had Alacrity been a 1st Rate 100-gunned flagship, they would still not have had enough deck space for the nippers, the men on the cable, the hands heaving on the capstan, the sailhandlers or the sheetmen on the gangways ready to brace the jibs and gaff sails.

Blocks squealed, lignum vitae sheaves hummed, and gaffs cried as the sails were hoisted aloft.

'Payin' off t'larboard, no helm, sir,' Neill said from the long tiller sweep with his fellow Burke standing by, ready to lend strength for when the wind gave enough way through the water to make the rudder function.

'Forrud!' Lewrie bawled. 'Walk your jib sheets to larboard and haul away! Brace up the after course, there, lads! A luff, no more, foredeck!'

Alan spun to walk to larboard to peer over the side to see if there was even the slightest hint of a wake, and to gauge distances to other anchored ships. He almost collided with the Reverend Townsley and his wife who were gawking about like farts in a trance, cackling with amusement and treating the spectacle like a rare show.

'Your pardons,' he said, not sounding much like he meant it as he brushed past them. He had advised Caroline to stay below and out of the way until he sent Cony for her, once the ship had gotten under way and things were a bit less disorganized.

'Brace on the capstan, well the cable!' Ballard called, tending to his chores. 'Ready on the cat!'

Thank God for a first lieutenant, Lewrie thought. And thank God for a competent one. There, a wake, he exulted! He tossed a chip of scrap wood over and watched it bob astern, foot at a time.

'Bite t'the helm, sir,' Neill cried.

'Larboard your helm, Mister Neill. Bring her up to weather on a soldier's wind for now. Forrud!' Alan called, once more stumbling over the Townsleys, who had moved to the forward left corner of the quarter-deck nettings. 'Haul away on your larboard sheets!'

'Silly bugger!' Burke yelped as his way with the tiller sweep was impeded. Alan didn't have to turn around to see who it was that had gotten in the way.

'You might do better all the way aft by the taffrails, Reverend,' Alan said, then shouted,' 'Vast hauling! Luff enough! Now belay!'

Alacrity was free of the land, free of the bottom, and moving faster. The wind was from the west, with a touch of northing, giving them a clear shot down the western passage past the Isle of Wight, with enough strength to it to let them harden up to weather to keep off the coast to their lee, to go close-hauled if they had to without a tack. With luck and no traffic, they could get to sea in the Channel on one long board.

Lewrie heaved a slight sigh of relief. Comical as they might have looked to ships longer in commission and practice, Alacrity was on her way. He walked back up to starboard, along the narrow space inside the quarter-deck railings and the after capstan-head to starboard, the windward side, which was his by right as captain.

'Anchor's fished, catted and rung up, sir,' Ballard told him, touching his hat with a finger. Those studious brown eyes held the slightest hint of glee. 'Cable's below, hawse-bucklers fitted.'

'Thank you, Mister Ballard,' Lewrie smiled. 'Not too awful, considering. Two rehearsals seemed to have turned the trick. Thank you again, for your suggestion.'

'My pleasure, Captain,' Ballard said, inclining his head, his long upper lip curving just a trifle.

'I'd admire should you attend to the gun salute to the flag,' Lewrie instructed. 'The experienced hands, mind.'