A King`s Commander

congratulations once again, on this victory… a glorious way to usher in the summer.'

'A most glorious first day of June, Commander Lewrie, aye!' Sir Roger Curtis brightened, making a little note to himself that he stuck in a side pocket of his 'iron-bound' dress captain's coat.

'Sorry we could not make you more welcome, Commander Lewrie,' Lieutenant Codrington said, once they'd gained the gangway. 'After your actions, as well, in escaping those frigates, and shaving their battle line, well…! There should have been a bottle in it, at least!'

'I quite understand, sir,' Lewrie chuckled in mock rue. 'I'm quite satisfied the fleet was here, to rescue me, as it were. Uhm… when you come aboard, Lieutenant Codrington? The fleet will be off for home, soon?'

'I doubt that, Commander,' Codrington told him. 'Still all the Frog ships that got away to deal with. A letter to send?'

'Aye,' Alan answered. 'A letter of condolence to the parents of a lad who was killed this morning.'

'I apologize, sir, I didn't know…'

'None needed, sir,' Alan allowed. 'I'd hate for them to think he's still, well…'

'I'm quite certain Captain Curtis will have a frigate sailing for England with our good tidings, Commander Lewrie.' Lieutenant Codrington scowled. 'Dashing, really-sails set 'all to the royals.' When I fetch you the documents, you may rest assured your letter to the lad's parents will be aboard that frigate. My word on't.'

'My heartfelt thanks to you then, sir,' Lewrie said as they shook hands on the agreement.

'Ahoy, th' boat party, below! Make ready!' A petty officer shouted down. 'Side-party… uhmm. Sorry, Mr. Codrington, but…'

'Do make no fuss over me,' Alan offered. Most graciously, and modestly, he thought. 'You've better things to do, at the moment, I'm sure, than take men away from repairs. Or seeing to their mates.'

'Oh, thankee, sir!' The petty officer beamed in approval.

'An hour, no more, sir,' Codrington promised, casting an envious eye over Lewrie's shoulder to the beautifully formed sloop of war that rode fetched-to, two cables off.

CHAPTER 7

'Ship's comp'ny… off hats,' Bosun Porter ordered, speaking in a throaty rasp, though one almost soft and reverent, for once, as the ship lay once more fetched-to, just at sunset.

Once free of Howe's fleet, just after sailing them under the horizon, the winds had come more westerly, more like what was expected in the Bay of Biscay, and Jester, on starboard tack, had loped nearly forty-five miles farther, by dusk. Now she lay cocked up to weather, some sails full of drive, others laid all a'back to snub her motionless.

T'gallant yards a-cock-bill, though, to signify a death, and a burying- lift-lines purposely put out of trim to speak grief.

The entry port on the starboard gangway to weather was open, and a party stood by with the canvas-shrouded corpse on a long eight-man mess-table board. The small hump beneath the Red Ensign seemed too small to bother with.

How much room did a mere boy take, Alan wondered; short before- shorter, now? There'd been little to find of his head and shoulders but scoops of offal. Josephs's body looked arsey-varsey; the two round-shot at his feet more headlike. Heretical it might be, but Lewrie had the thought anyway, as he opened the prayer book to the ribanded page… custom said the sailmaker took a final stitch through the nose of those dis-charged-dead, to assure the crew that the departed was truly gone over. Now, if there wasn't a nose, or a head…?

He shook himself, to silence such fell musings. The light of a spectacular sunset was fast fading. He had to hurry.

'O God, whose beloved Son didst take little children into His arms and bless them; Give us Grace, we beseech Thee, to entrust this child, Richard Josephs… gentleman volunteer… to Thy never-failing Care and Love…' he intoned from the prayer book. And followed its suggestion that, for the interment of a child, Lamentations 3:31-33 was particularly apt. '… for He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men…'

There followed Psalm 130, tried and trusted by sailors since time immemorial. Most of them knew it, and could recite it softly, with the older men leading:

Out of the Deep have I called unto thee, O Lord;

Lord, hear my voice,

O let thine ears consider well,

the voice of my complaint…

And it got especially tearful, and Lewrie could hear rough tars beginning to weep, when they got to

… My soulfleeth unto the Lord before the

morning watch; I say, before the morning watch.

A lesson from the New Testament, the equally familiar 23rd Psalm, and then, since they had no clergy aboard to celebrate the Eucharist, or speak a homily, Lewrie skipped ahead to the Committal.

'In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our shipmate Richard Josephs, and we commit his body to the deeps… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make His face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him, the Lord lift up His countenance upon him, and give him peace. Amen.'

There was a dry swishing noise as the mess table was upended, as the Red Ensign collapsed, followed by a splash alongside. Josephs was making an end to his first and only passage, sped by the weight of combative iron to abyssal depths, where, it was hoped, there was no corruption, until the Day of Resurrection.

Thank God, he knew it by heart, for he could no longer read the text of the prayer book. His eyes were just as full of tears. Damme, only a year older'n Sewallis, he thought! As he, and his crew, began to chant the Lord's Prayer. Even as the westerly huffed impatiently over the gangway, fluttering the pages of both prayer book and Bible, as ratlines quivered

and shook, and an eldritch wailing keened aloft in the rigging. And ghostly wind-mutters spoke in the shrouds.

'… for ever and ever, Amen,' he concluded.

'Saints presarve us!' an Irish Catholic seamen whimpered, and a number of the burial party on the gangway crossed themselves, muttering like sentiments. There was a surge forward to the bulwarks.

' Es come!' An ancient-looking member of the sail-maker's crew swore. ' 'E's come f r 'im!' he declared.

Lewrie stepped to the starboard bulwarks and peered over the side, and once more, his hackles and nape-hairs went up. Heart rose in his throat, stomach chilled in icy terror, and his breath stopped, faint!

There were seals in the water, close-aboard, cavorting about; their wine-bottle bodies swirling half submerged, round in a circle below the entry port where little Josephs had splashed!

Sweet Jesus, save us, Lewrie gibbered to himself!

A seal's head broke water, about ten yards off to windward, a sleek, bewhiskered hound's head, with wide- open, gentle puppy eyes.

Lir, Lewrie gawped! Seals, this far out to sea, why else A …!

More heads appearing, in a pod as they back-paddled, gazing up at the sailors along the rail, as more and more left off their circle to join them, until the entire pack was motionless. Just breathing and staring! Bobbing on the slightly restless sea, letting wrinkly wind-stroked waves break over them as the sea got up.

'Seals, not sharks, Cap'um,' Mister Buchanon whispered harshly near his ear, which made Lewrie like to jump