THE GUN KETCH

to hounds, and splendid country dinners and dances, until he was due to report to Portsmouth to take command of a vessel named Alacrity. And on that Chiswick estate would be the lovely and charming Caroline Chiswick, who, by the evident fondness in her letters to him, was positively pawing the ground to see him once more.

'What could be more perfect, Cony!' Alan laughed out loud as he turned to look over his shoulder at his 'man' Will Cony, who had shared his adventures (and his misadventures) since Yorktown.

' 'Deed i'tis a fair mornin', sir!' Cony enthused back, beaming a farm lad's pleasure to be in such fair country on such a fine morning. 'An' there's the squire's house, round the bend, sir. Not a league from the public house at Anglesgreen.'

'We'll stop for a pint, how's that suit you, Cony?' Lewrie promised. 'Then on to the Chiswicks.'

'Pint'd suit me right down t'me toes, i't'would, sir,' Will Cony agreed, kneeing his mare to match his master's quicker pace.

Anglesgreen was a quiet community, sited in a small, winding dell along the banks of a sluggish but clear- watered stream, with banks and bed flowing with rushes and grass. The village was surmounted to north and south, and at the far western end, with low and gently rolling hills, some forested, some asweep with velvety swaths of rippling, growing grain. And those hills from the summit of the nearest seemed to topple, to roll on forever like a delightful verdant sea-north toward Glandon Park and the Thames, south all the way to the Channel at Portsmouth.

There were three curving streets to Anglesgreen, two on the north bank, and one on the south bank, with two narrow stone bridges, one at either end of the village. There were shops on the High Street, Georgian-bricked fronts and bay windows for display, spreading to either side of a much older Tudor-timbered public house called the Ploughman. Behind the High Street, the homes were cottages with thatched roofs, while on the opposite bank the houses were newer, some Georgian or semi-Palladian, roofed with slate, and looked upon with some suspicion as being a bit too grand and uppity.All three streets curved to match the bend in the stream. At the east end, by the oldest bridge, there was St. George's Church, a high and narrow stone pile dating to the Norman Conquest with a topsy-turvy cemetery nearby that sheltered headstones and monuments green with moss, some from the ancient Anglo-Saxon clan which had erected the now-fallen castle and bailey which brooded half a mile to the north of the first bridge, now lost in scrubby woods and brambles, that marked the edge of the local squire's lands. To the western end, by the second bridge, was a New Green, a parklike expanse of tall oaks that fronted another public house and inn, replete with stables and a budding row of new cottages around it-the upstart Red Swan Inn-it had only been there since Henry V's times, and in tiny Anglesgreen, one could ascertain a body's station in life by whether a person frequented the older, darker (and cheaper) old Ploughman, or rubbed elbows with the magistrate and squire's crowd at the Red Swan. Lewrie, knowing strangers were more welcome with the elite, headed for the Red Swan, and as they rode at a sedate walk up the High Street, villagers wagered, correctly, they'd not tie reins at the Ploughman.

Anglesgreen could be thoroughly boresome, Alan knew-he'd been there briefly once before in '84. But it was homey, a village so typically English with its stone buildings and fences, its hedgerows and garden plots, that anyone six months at sea would crave its peaceful boredom. The trees were tall, giving acres of shade. Ducks and swans swam the lazy stream in slow glides. Stocky fellows in homespun or a great house's castoffs fished from the bridges and banks, gamboled on the greens, strode about in boots and straw hats, or sat sipping their ales in front of the Ploughman, a solid and dependable yeomanry who paid their rents on time, worked their acres with diligence, both prayed and played with vigor, and formed the backbone of the nation.

There were smells of new thatch, of cooking and baking, of a load of wash being boiled, and the scorch of ironing and starch. Of new-brewed ale mellowing in barrels, and of cartloads of manure and animal fodder. Most especially, ale, Lewrie smiled to himself as he drew rein at last in front of the Red Swan.

There was a 'daisy-kicker' there in a twinkling to take reins and lead the horses off for a drink and a rubdown, with the older ostler waiting hopefully by the stable doors to see if he might make money by putting them up for the night, or rent them a coach.

There were quite a few horses tied at the rails, splendid and shiny blooded mounts, all sound 'hundred guinea' horses, with bright saddle leather and clean pads. A backgammon game was proceeding at a table without the welcoming double doors, in the shade of the trees, and a lively sound of merrymaking coming from inside.

Alan and Cony entered, handing their hats to a bobbing 'abi-gail' in homespun and a pure white apron and mobcap. The public room was crowded with gentlemen gathered around a large table, all standing and laughing. One of them Alan recognized, and went to his side.

'Governour Chiswick!' he called. 'The very fellow I was looking for!'

'Good God, here already?' Governour said, spinning to take his hand and thump him on the back. 'We didn't expect you until the end of the week at the earliest! By Christ, but you're looking fit an' full of cream! The Chinee and the Hindoos couldn't put you off your feed, hey?'

'And I see that married life agrees with your digestion,' Alan joshed him, giving him a slight poke in the breadbasket. Governour Chiswick, the whip-lean and dour eldest Chiswick he had met at Yorktown, was now becoming a stout, apple-cheeked fellow, a settled and extremely well-married junior squire. Quite a change from the officer of a North Carolina volunteer regiment, and deadly with a Ferguson rifle or sword. Or a pistol, Alan remembered; this was the bloodthirsty, blackhearted devil who'd gut-shot the informer that had gotten half his surviving company killed just before they'd escaped, so he could linger in agony for days. To look at him now, you'd never catch an inkling of that.

'It does, indeed,' Governour grinned wryly. 'Come here, Alan, and meet the lads. And Will Cony, still tailing along with this rogue of ours? Well, step forward and take a stoup of ale with us. Good to see you, Alan. And you, as well, Cony.'

'Thankee, sir,' Cony replied, as someone shoved a stone tankard into his paws. He stayed long enough for introductions, then faded off to the counter, apart from 'the quality,' to have a jaw with the publican, and his pretty serving wench.

'Alan, this is my father-in-law, and you couldn't wish a finer,' Governour boasted, and the gray-haired man in question pretended to blush with mock embarrassment. 'Sir Romney Embleton; the fellow who saved my bacon at Yorktown, Lieutenant Alan Lewrie.'

'Your servant, sir,' Alan replied. 'So pleased to make your acquaintance.'My brother-in-law, Harry Embleton…' Governour babbled on.

Sir Romney Embleton, Baronet, was about Alan's height, though heavier, dressed rich and fine in dark brown velvet coat, gray breeches and a white, floral-figured satin waistcoat, with the prerequisite black and brown-topped riding boots on his thin shanks. Sir Romney favored an older man's short white tie-wig. He looked to have been in his youth a most handsome and well-setup fellow, with clear blue eyes and a fairly smooth complexion free of smallpox scars and such. The nose was a trifle beaky, and the upper lip long as a horse's.

The same could not be said for the son, the Hon. Harry Embleton, who, though he was dressed richly as his father the baronet in red coat, blue waistcoat and breeches, could not aspire to the easy style and dignity of the father. Harry had the same extremely long upper lip, the narrow horsy face of his father, and, to his misfortune, the same overhanging beak of a nose. But the eyes were set rather close together, and were pouched as though by dissipation or too many late hours. And where Sir Romney's hair might at one time have been blond, Harry's was almost black and lank, tied back in a severe style. And finally and most unfortunately, where the elegant Sir Romney Embleton was blessed with a square jaw, young Harry had a pronounced slope from weak chin to the point where his throat dived into his neck-stock. In profile, he resembled an otter.

'Now were you with the Army, or with the Navy, Lieutenant Lewrie?' Sir Romney inquired as Alan dipped his phiz into his ale.

'Navy, milord,' Alan answered, wondering if he was teasing.

'Lock up the maids and yer daughters!' Harry Embleton guffawed. 'Or yer footmen! The Navy's here!'

Damn the bastard, Alan winced as several of the rowdies had a laugh at his expense! I think I could dislike this piss-proud young fool. Alan stiffened and cut his eyes to Governour, who had winced a little himself.

'I can assure you, Mister Embleton, your virginity is safe with me,' Alan stated calmly as the laughter died away. 'Damme, but this is a good ale! Haven't tasted its like in weeks.'

'Just ashore, are you, Mister Lewrie?' Sir Romney asked quick as a wink to cover the nervous laughter that reerupted, this time at his son's expense. Out of the corner of his eye, Alan could see that Governour had gotten a