A King's Commander (11 page)

“
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.

S
hip'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 discharged-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 soul fleeth 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.

“'E's come!” An ancient-looking member of the sailmaker'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'
d . . . ! 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 right out of his skin! “
You
be th' one t'tell 'em, sir. 'Tis
seals,
come f'r him. You'll see. They won't be afeard no more, when 'ey hear 'at.”

“Calmly, lads!” Lewrie called out, still skittery with fear of the unknown, himself. “'Twasn't sharks that have come to . . . take him. 'Twas
seals!
Look at 'em. Just playful seals!”

“Aye, 'tis a
selkie,
th' tyke's t' be!” the Irish sailor said, with a note of gladness, and pleasure in his voice. And several more West Country men agreed aloud, still crossing themselves cautiously, but sounding almost crooning, now, as if a wrong had been righted.

“Goo'bye, lad!” one called down to the depths. “Goo'bye, boy! 'Twill be playin' t' yer heart's content, ye'll be doin', now on 'til foriver!”

Christ, what sort of madness
is
this, what heresy have I countenanced? Lewrie wondered. Though his hands were calmer, easier, and no longer terrified—most of 'em, anyway, he thought; noting how a landsman or new-come was being told the Real Facts of Life by the old and experienced “sea-daddies.”

“Ye selkies . . .” the old sailmaker's assistant chortled. “Poor chub'z a good lad, 'twoz Josephs. See ye take th' best o' keer o' him, hear me? An' . . .” More fresh tears ran down his aged cheeks. “An'when it come me own time, pray Jesus an' all th' saints, ye come f'r
me,
when I go o'er th' side. God pity ye . . . an' God love ye.”

One by one, the seals' heads submerged, into a swirl of barely disturbed water, until only the oldest and largest was left, blinking incredibly huge and soft brown eyes at them. Why he did so, Alan had not a clue, but . . . he waved to him. The seal seemed to nod, as a sea broke over him, and came up blinking once more, his huge gentle eyes swept clear of saltwater tears, Lewrie could conjure, with droplets of sympathy bedewing his mustaches.

And then he was gone.

As if he'd never been, he submerged, making not even the tiniest ripple on the waters; he sank out of sight, and he was gone. And Alan Lewrie shivered like a wet dog, having to grip the bulwarks' oak to keep a grip on his sanity. Shivering at the revealed presence of a sea god far older than Jesus!

“Christ!” was all he could mutter in icy awe, as he came back to his senses. And wishing to be far away from that hoary phantasm.

“Ahum,” he continued, “Mister Knolles? Hands to the braces . . . put us back on the wind, and get us underway.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Knolles replied from the quarterdeck astern.

Bible and prayer book gathered from the deck where he'd dropped them, bent pages reverently smoothed out. That took a few welcome and contemplative moments. Hat back firmly on his head. Back to his place along the weather bulwarks of the quarter-deck, where he could pace, as a symbol of authority . . . Christ, as a symbol of
Reason! . . .
again.

“Mister Buchanon,” he had to ask, though, drawing the sailing master to his side, where they could talk confidentially. “What are they, the what-you-call-'ems . . . selkies?”

“'Ere's a legend, Cap'um,” Buchanon told him, “'at long, long ago, 'twas a battle comin' 'twixt Good an' Evil, an' Lir, as one o' ol' gods, come t'this fishin' village, lookin' for help 'gainst Evil. Now th' villagers cried off, d'ye see, sir. Said 'ey's too poor, 'ey didn't know a thing 'bout fightin', nor weapons. 'Eir men go away t' fight, 'eir wimmen'n babes'd starve. So Lir—so me da' tol' me—put 'is
cess
on 'em all. Said he'd come again, oncet th' battle woz won. Good did beat Evil. Never for very long, though . . . an' ain't
that
just th' way of it, sir? Well, ol' Lir come back t'at village, 'bout th' time 'ey'd all forgot, an' laid his curse. He turned 'em into selkies, Cap'um. Seals with human souls, sir, who remembered livin' ashore, an' how good 'twoz. Drove 'em inta th' sea, weepin' an' wailin', where 'ey'd bawl all 'eir live-long days.”

“Doesn't sound like a good god, to me, to punish so,” Lewrie sniffed in disapproval. Of action, tale, or truth, he didn't know.

“Ol' Testament's full o' such, though, sir,” Buchanon countered wryly. “But, here's the cruelest part o' Lir's curse. After a century'r two, his
cess
seemed t' sputter out. One at a time, 'ey swim ashore on some rookery beach, an' woke up
people,
again, Cap'um! Thought 'ey'd
paid
for 'eir sins, at last, an' woz free. But, oh no!”

“Don't tell me they got so used to being seals, that . . .” he kenned with a wry grimace. “They began to ache for the sea?”

“Aye, sir, 'at 'ey did.” Buchanon chuckled. “Fell in love an' wed, had babes an' houses, an' lives worth livin'. But then, some night, sir . . . when the wind's blowin' soft off th' sea, an' th' moon is shinin' soft an' pretty, 'ey gets t' starin' at it, walkin' th' beaches night after night, listenin' t'th' others out there, callin' to 'em . . . ? Comes a time, sir, 'ey can't resist no more. Strip off 'eir clothes, an' swim out, with no lookin' back, an' turn back inta seals, 'ey do, Cap'um! Have a high old time o' it, for a while, back with 'eir ol friends in th' sea, as selkies again.”

“And then that gets old, and they remember being people, and their loved ones ashore?” Lewrie shivered.

“Doomed t'go through th'whole pain, over an'over, again . . . 'till th' end o' Time, Cap'um,” Buchanon intoned, as sure of his lore as he was of the next sunrise. “But, 'tis said, sir . . . 'ere's times 'ey come
back
ashore, t'fetch 'eir gits. Selkie makes a babe, he's half selkie, himself, then. An'
he
can't resist wadin' out some night, neither, when his da' or ma does. No matter whose heart it breaks. 'Twas a heavy curse Lir laid on em, sir. A heartless bugger, he.”

“No, Mister Buchanon,” Lewrie protested. Or felt that he had to, as a rational man. As
some
sort of a Christian. “Lir sent the seals—selkies—to take Josephs? That'd be robbing God of that lad's immortal soul! That'd keep him from Salvation!”

“Th' lad'z from Bristol, sir,” Buchanon explained, shaking his head, utterly convinced of his rightness, no matter that he was speaking an ancient pagan heresy. “Little Josephs might o' been a selkie t'begin with, livin' at close t'th' sea, from a seafarin' fam'ly? I seen, or heard, o' such before, Cap'um, back home when I'z a lad. A spell as a seal . . . Lir didn't rob God. Jus'
borrowed
Josephs's soul, for a piece. More like, th' lad'll appear in 'is world again, might be a foundlin', an' grow up t'be a sailor. Maybe one with a better run o' luck, th' next time, an' a longer life. After he pays off whatever sin he done in his ol' life afore, sir . . .
then
he'll go t'his true reward. B'sides, sir . . . 'ere's more myst'ries in 'is here world'n we can shake a stick at. An' we just
saw
one, sir, and 'at's a fact! All folk can do sometimes is be left t'wonder.”

“Amen to that,” Lewrie said automatically, looking astern at their wake, a gray specter, only darkly sunset-tinted upon the foam. Wondering if it
would
be a wonder—or a sign of a further curse from Lir!—to espy another seal. “Well, then. Ahum! Thankee, Mister Buchanon. That'll be all for now. Do carry on.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the sailing master replied, doffing his hat in salute as he wandered over to the hands by the wheel, as Seven Bells of the Second Dog were struck up forward.