T
hank God for looking glasses for vain cock-a-hoops like me, Lt. Alan Lewrie, RN, thought to himself with a smugness matched by the smile that greeted him in the hall mirror of the Old Lamb Tavern as he entered.
The cocked hat which had adorned his head nigh on for nearly two and a half years had lost its plainness with the addition of the wide vertical gold strip of lace, held by a gold fouled-anchor button, under which a stiff little bow of black silk riband stuck up above the rim of the brim in a commission officer's “dog's vane.”
Black neck cloth over the stock, and the longer tailed naval blue coat with its low stand-collar trimmed at the edge in white. The pristine new broad white turn-back lapels that ran from collarbone to his waist, also adorned with gold buttons bearing the fouled anchor device of his Service. He reached up a hand to remove the cocked hat and could not help but admire his sleeve, dressed with a wide white cuff, a widely spaced row of three large gold cuff buttons.
Damme, but I make a fine-
looking
officer, he preened.
“'Ere fer the commission party, sir?” one of the tavern's daisy-kickers asked, wipping his ale-stained hands on the universal blue publican's apron. “Take yer 'at, sir?”
“Yes, thankee, yes I am. Guest of honor, actually,” Alan said, sneaking one last look in the mirror to see if his light brown hair was in place, the black silk riband tied properly around his now long and seamanly queue of hair at the back of his collar. He could not help winking one blue-grey eye at himself as the servant took his hat away for safekeeping.
“Right 'iss way, sir,” the servant beckoned, leading him from
the common rooms to an upper private suite overlooking a cool patio.
Alan shot his lace to show the proper amount of ruffles on his wrists, tugged the waist-coat down, and entered.
“Huzzah!” The occupants raised a cheer, some already standing atop the long dining table.
“Marcus Aurelius was right,” Lt. Keith Ashburn, now fifth officer of the fifty-gunned 4th Rate squadron flagship
Glatton
japed from his perch atop a chair seat as he waved a bottle of champagne and a glass in the air. “âHow ridiculous and what a stranger he is,'” he quoted, “âwho is surprised at anything which happens in life!'”
“Wet the bugger down, somebody!” Jemmy Shirke, a former shipmate aboard
Ariadne,
Alan's first ship, suggested. Shirke was still a midshipman, now about eighteen or nineteen by Alan's recollections. Only the fact that he was a passed midshipman who had yet to find a suitable opening allowed him to be away from his ship.
Wine was sloshed in his general direction, soaking his shirt and fine new coatâthankfully Alan had had the money from his hidden cache of guineas to purchase four. A glass was shoved into his hand and quickly filled with champagne.
The only other officer present was Lt. William Mayhew who Alan had worked for briefly when that poor young fellow had served Adm. Sir Onsley Matthews as flag-lieutenant. Mayhew had come ashore with Ashburn.
“Get down from that chair, Keith, you're making me dizzy,” Alan jested, stepping up to shake hands with him after nearly a year of separation.
“Never did have a head for heights. Same's the day I ran you up the mast for the first time,” Keith hooted, jumping down with easy grace. “Goddamn my eyes, you of all people, a commission officer!”
“I thought pretty much the same of you at the time,” Alan replied. “Mister Mayhew, is he worth a tinker's damn yet?”
“Oh, for God's sake, call me Billy, will you, Alan?” the ginger-haired, permanently sunburned young man snapped impatiently. “No, he's no more use than the duck-fucker. Never will be. Good to lay eyes on you again, that it is, Alan. And congratulations on passing the board. I'm told not one in five passed, and not one in ten got an immediate commission. Lucky bastard, you are, I'll tell you.”
“And we had to be at sea when it happened, more's my luck,”
Jemmy Shirke complained. He had passed the previous board, but wasn't in port when the blessings were handed out this time.
“You know all good things come from the flag,” Ashburn stated, and that was pretty much true. Promotion came more rapidly for those fortunate officers in a commodore's or an admiral's wardroom than it did for two-a-penny lieutenants in lesser ships, no matter how good their records. And the same could be said for lieutenants' vacancies dropping from heaven to midshipmen who were more favorably placed and endowed with the proper connections; those who had, got.
“Aye, damnit, I do,” Jemmy Shirke grumbled, and Alan wondered why Ashburn had suggested inviting him, if he was still the same surly, practical-joking lout he had been in
Ariadne.
They had been mess-mates, but never true friends, not like he and Keith had been. Time had not seemed to have changed him much, either.
“Last I saw of you, dear Jemmy,” Alan said, hauling a chair out from the table to take a pew, “you were still lashed up like a fished course yard, pumping away like a stoat on some dark-haired wench. God, must have been July of '81? What did they assign you once you healed, after
Ariadne
was condemned?”
He meant to be pleasant to the fellowâafter all, he was paying part of the reckoning for this party.
“And the broken arm didn't slow you down much, as I remember,” Keith stuck in.
“Told you to get me a gentle one and I'd take my fences same as anybody,” Jemmy mellowed. “No, once my flipper was healed, I went into the
Admiral Rooke
. She's a hired brig o' war, duration only, but she's not bad. They've made me an acting master's mate. No Marines, just the captain, first officer, master and two midshipmen. Only eighty or so in the whole crew.”
“That's grand for you, Jemmy,” Alan enthused for him. “You're learning scads more than most. Like I did when I went into
Parrot
with Mister Kenyon. And I was an acting master's mate not too long ago, too.”
“Promotion may come faster in the bigger ships,” Shirke said with returning pride after his brief sulk, “but you can't beat service in a small ship for making a real seaman of you. Only thing is, some of us rise faster than others.”
“It'll come,” Alan assured him, not sure who Shirke was needling; him, or Ashburn and Mayhew.
“So, what ship are you getting?” Mayhew asked.
“Shrike,”
Alan said grinning. “Twelve-gunned brig o' war.”
“My stars, you're to be a first officer right out of the starting gates!” Mayhew goggled.
That
was news to Alan. He had believed a brig o' war would be big enough for a first
and
second lieutenant. Jesus, he said to himself, I hadn't thought about that! They're going to find out what a total fraud I really am!
Still, Railsford must have known what it meant, as did the admiral's secretary who made the appointment. Railsford had said that he'd prosper and told him to his face that this new captain would be getting a good officer.
“Not
all
good things come from the flag, I'm thinking,” Alan told them with a lazy drawl and a grin that he didn't quite feel. He looked at Shirke, who appeared to have been kicked in the guts by the news, and at Ashburn, who was not exactly overjoyed, either. His appointment had come from
Barfleur,
Admiral Hood's flagship, while Keith Ashburn, for all his connections, his family's money, and “interest”âlifeblood of a successful careerâleft him a junior officer in a 4th Rate ship, no matter that he had been commissioned a year-and-a-half longer. It hinted at high-flown connections back home with Admiralty, with Hood; else why did not a more senior and deserving man not get the appointment, even if it was in a small brig below the Rate?
“Now, what had we planned for this celebration?” Alan asked in the dumbstruck silence. “I must own I'm famished.”
“A page taken from your favorite book, Alan,” Keith said, regaining his composure. “That's why we are having it here at the Lamb in Falmouth Harbor, 'stead of over the ridge in English Harbor. Less chance that a naval watch will break things up. And a better run of whore over here.”
“God bless you, Keith, you read my mind. I haven't had a good ride since Charleston last August, and damn-all blood and thunder in between.
Rake's Progress
for us, tonight, eh?”
There was a knock at the door. “That must be the mutton,” Billy Mayhew hoped aloud as he rose to answer it. Sure enough, the bare-back riders had arrived. More glasses were called for, and more wine, while they were introduced. There was Hespera (most Mother Abbesses ran to the same classical bent as Ashburn when it came to naming their stock-in-trade with Greco-Roman sobriquets), a slim and lanky young blonde of about seventeen, with straight hair. There was an older woman of about thirty, rather hard-faced but blessed with a promising bodyâshe went by Pandoraâwho appeared to be the bosun's
mate in charge of the distaff party. There was a girl with hair so red it had to be hennaed, short and talkative as soon as she got through the doorâElectra, she insisted she be called. And there was Dolly.
Alan took a sudden like for Dolly, if only because she probably was using her own name for variety's sake. She appeared to be about twenty-five, just a few years older than Alan. And she was beautiful, rather than merely pretty, and stood out from the rest like a peacock in a barnyard. A high, clear brow, high cheekbones and a slim, almost thin face that tapered to a firm little chin; a slim straight nose cleverly shaped, and a Cupid's Bow of a mouth that showed her upper teeth in repose, and widened in a hesitant smile to show pure, healthy white. And she had the most peculiar dark green eyes and hair the hue of polished mahogany, and just as lustrous and full. She was also much better dressed than the others; not just in splendorâany whore could buy splendor from a rag-picker's barrow or a used dress shop, and these hadâshe wore a dress less gaudy than the others, almost respectable enough to take out on the town, with fewer flounces and fripperies. One, at first glance, might take her for a proper young woman, or a wife.
“You done us proud tonight, Keith,” Mayhew commented.
“Yes, Keith usually has the taste of a Philistine,” Alan said.
“Gentlemen, choose your partners,” Ashburn ordained loftily. “As our guest of honor, let Alan have first pick.”
“'Oo shall 'ave this 'un, then,” Alan chuckled, mimicking the “love call” of the lower deck when they paired off with their temporary “wives” whenever a ship was put out of discipline and the doxies came aboard. The blonde looked promising, but her straight hair reminded him too much of Caroline Chiswick from Wilmington; the others were the usual run-of-the-mill whores one could have any day of the weekâhe had only one clear choice.
“Mistress Dolly, if you would be so kind as to grace my side during supper?” Alan asked, bowing in congé deep enough for a duchess and taking her hand.
“If you wish, sir,” she replied in a voice so soft and meek he almost had to ask her to repeat herself. So she's one of those that'll play the virgin, is she? he thought. This could be interesting.
“Sport?” Shirke suggested after picking Hespera the blonde.
“Oh, let's sup first,” Alan said, and Dolly relaxed from a sudden stiffness at his side as he led her to the wine-table. “Take a
pew, my dear. God knows what we're eating tonight, but it'll not be short commons. I hope you brought a bounteous appetite.”
“I did indeed, sir,” she replied, taking a glass of champagne.
“Oh, h'ain't never 'ad bubbly wine afore!” Hespera giggled loud when she took a sip of wine across the table. “H'it tickles me nose!”
“That's not all we'll tickle before the night's through, I'll wager!” Billy Mayhew promised his choice, which made them all roar with laughter.
Â
The supper was more than palatable. There was a poached local fish the servitors called grouper, firm as lobster and just as succulent, served with a melted butter and lime sauce. That had been preceded by a green salad and ox-tail soup. The fish was followed by some small wild fowl, then a domestic goose. Then a smoking joint of beef which was not as stringy and lean as most island cattle. And with it all, there was hot and crusty bread, small potatoes roasted and boiled, native chick peas and broad beans, young carrots in butter and parsley.
Washed down, of course, with several bottles of hock with the fish and fowl, captured or smuggled burgundy with the beef, and more champagne when things got slow between courses.
For those with a sweet tooth, a servant wheeled in a huge raisin and citrus-fruit duff, soaked so long in brandy it was a threat to sobriety of itself, and that was followed, once the cloth was removed, by a fairly fresh cheese, apples, extra-fine sweet biscuit, and port or brandy.
“Drinking games!” Ashburn announced, climbing back onto his chair and striking a pose like a ship's figurehead. “Electra, name me a ship's mast.”