Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

"We didn't know how strong they were, sir."

"Still," Nelson said, leading him to the entry port where his boat waited, almost seeming to grow in size and importance as he began to enthuse, "I was always most pleasantly amazed over in Nicaragua how a smaller force could prevail over a greater one, if one went right at them. Conceive a bold plan, carry it out with audacity, bring all one's strength to bear upon one point, like Rodney did against de Grasse, and you give them pause. They seem to step back, to draw breath at your daring, and once checked, they are beatable!"

"I see, sir." Alan nodded, amazed at how energetic the slight little fellow could become.

"To pause, to question your own chances, is to surrender the initiative to the foe. Fire that challenge to loo'rd, and then go at them!" Nelson insisted. "Lay your ship yard-arm to yard-arm with the enemy, which is all that anyone can ask of a captain, and trust to the pluck of English seamen to win you a victory! Given decent odds, I'll put my money on our men every time, and then it's victory, or a place in Westminster Abbey! Either way, you've upheld your honor, or found glory."

Without a break, Nelson shook Lewrie's hand once more, and went to the entry port, doffed his hat to the crew in reply to the salute due him, and Alan was amazed that the hands were cheering, perhaps in recognition of his solicitousness in coming to see their captain as most officers would not bother to do. It was either heartfelt on Nelson's part, or it was the vainest piece of theatrics Alan had seen away from a stage. Yet there was something about the man, he had to admit.

"Uncanny sort, ain't he, sir?" Caldwell asked once they had the ship under way again. "That one'll go places, you mark my words. Wish he'd come aboard and got the hands fired up before we tried to take Turk's Island. With a little of his enthusiasm, we'd have had the bloody place."

"He is inspiriting, I'll grant you that, Mister Caldwell," Alan replied. But, he kept to himself, with an attitude like that, the little minnikin's going to get himself killed for certain if he keeps all that death-or-glory stuff up. And if Turk's Island is any example of his skills at war, I'd not want to be anywhere near him next time he feels inspired.

"You'll take care of my ship, now, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop said as he was hoisted up to the bulwarks before being lowered into a rowing boat. It was hard on the man, to know that his career was over, to know that he was losing the only command he had ever been entrusted with. Still, in as much physical pain as Lilycrop found himself, Alan knew that the mental pain was the greater at that moment. Lilycrop had insisted he would not go in his night-shirt and had Gooch and his cox'n dress him in his best lieutenant's uniform. Strapped to a carrying board or not, he would leave his ship with the proper dignity due a master and commander.

The Marines had turned out in their best, instead of purser's slops, and the crew had taken as much care with their own appearance as they would have for Sunday Divisions-faces shaved, clean slop trousers and shirts, shoes and stockings on their feet instead of the usual horny bare toes. Those that had decent tarred hats and short blue frock-coats had dug them out of their chests.

"I shall, sir, until they send a man over to take command," Alan promised somberly. "Though I don't know how they'll fill your shoes, sir. Uh…" He reddened.

"Well, that can't be too hard, Mister Lewrie, they only need to fill one these days, don't they?" Lilycrop asked, the sarcasm dripping.

"Sorry, sir," Alan murmured, knowing what a gaffe he had made even as he said it. "What I meant was… well, sir, there's no replacing you, sir, and even I'm capable of realizing it."

"Well, thankee, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop relented. "Stand me up. there, men."

They stood his carrying board on end, so that Lilycrop could look about his decks once more. Tears leaked from his eyes, try as he did to control them manfully.

"Happens to the best of us!" Lilycrop barked in his old manner to his crew. "Shrike's a good little ship, and you've been a good crew. You do your duty same's you done for me, an' no captain in the Fleet could ask for better."

He dug a kerchief from his pockets and wiped his nose. "Now, let's get it over with. No sense keepin' the flag wain'n' fetched-to. Write me if you've a mind, Mister Lewrie. Same goes for the rest of ye. Let me know how you keep, now an' again."

"Aye. I shall, sir," Alan promised again.

"Enjoy the kitty. You'll find they're a comfort. Let's go, Gnooch damn your eyes."

The bosun's pipes squealed a long salute. The Marines and officers brought up their swords and muskets, and Lilycrop's carryig board was hoisted up with a yard-tackle. With his own sword strapped to his side, the captain doffed the cocked hat he could not wear to his men one last time, and Svensen started a cheer for him. The hands took off their hats and waved them over their heads, yelling their "hip-hip-hoorays," then roaring a cacophony of approval, which lasted until Lilycrop's gig had reached Barfleur's side, and he was hoisted to the deck of the flagship. He waved his hat at them one last time, and then was lost to view among the side-party that paid him his due.

"Get a way on her, sir?" Caldwell asked once the hands had quieted and shuffled into small knots of sad mutters.

"No, we're about to be visited, it seems," Alan pointed out. An officer was coming down Barfleur's battens to enter the gig, and a stay-tackle rigged to a main course yard was already hoisting out a sea chest. "Our new commander, looks like."

"Hope he likes cats, sir," Caldwell quipped.

Lilycrop had taken Henrietta, Samson, Hodge and a few others with him, along with his furnishings and chests, but the bulk of the kittens and yearlings had been parceled out among the warrants and senior hands. Even Edgar and Rossyngton now shared the midshipmen's mess with a brace of lean tabbies.

As a parting benison, Alan had been forced to accept a kitten, one of Henrietta's latest brood, a mostly black female of about four months age. To his chagrin, she was of pretty much the same disposition as her parent, a little pest who showed the same partiality for his stockings and lap and deposited her fur with the same liberality on every stitch of bedding and clothing he possessed. Since she was, like Henrietta, a starving whore for attention and petting, he had named her Belinda, after his hellishly licentious half-sister who had been instrumental in forcing him into the Navy. The captain had been touched that he had named her after blood-kin, and it was all that he could do not to strangle with secret, ironic humor, as he had tried to explain to Lilycrop just who Belinda was.

There was a possibility that Shrike might soon make her way back to Antigua. Perhaps Dolly Fenton would still be there. During that terrible last parting, she had said she'd wait for him, no matter how long he was away, and maybe she had meant it. Dolly had liked cats, would have been delighted to have one in their set of rooms while he was out at sea, but at the time, the last thing Alan had wanted was to put up with a cat on land, after being cooped up aboard a ship infested with platoons of them. She'd like Belinda, and would be delighted with such a reunion present. If she was still there, and still cared. He found it suddenly very important that she still be on Antigua, unattached.

"By God, I hate him already, whoever he is," Alan whispered, irked that Lilycrop would be losing out and going home a discarded cripple, while this new officer, from the admiral's wardroom, naturally, would take his place.

He had surprised himself that, when asking of Captain Nelson, or when later writing to Admiral Hood himself, he had not asked for the command of Shrike. He had only entertained that pleasing fantasy long after doing everything in his power for his former captain. For once he had done something for someone else whole-heartedly, with no thought of his own personal gain. Maybe it was his sense of guilt, he thought; maybe it was because Lilycrop had been so kind and fair with him, when anyone else would have chucked him for his incompetence. Whatever the reason, Lilycrop was the first captain in his experience that he would genuinely miss.

The side-party formed up once more as the gig attained the ship's side. "Ship's company, muster by the entry-port!" Alan ordered. "Off hats and salute!"

A cocked hat appeared over the lip of the entry-port. A stern face emerged as the bosun's pipes began to trill. The visage was not the old salt that Alan expected. This was a young man, perhaps only a few years older than he, a favorite blessed with membership in the flagship's officers roster. La Coquette needed officers, so officers with "interest" had gone into her. The prize sloop that Resistance and Dugay Trouin had taken needed officers. And now, like a gift from the gods, another command slot had opened up for Hood to fill with one of his protйgйs.

He did not look, though, like someone Alan would prefer to serve, even if he could have looked at him impartially. There was a set to the mouth, a squint to the eyes, that bespoke a "taut hand," a hard disciplinarian, one of those fellows with a harsh manner for all under him. Alan drew a heavy sigh, then drew his sword to give the man his salute. However, the cat William Pitt delivered his own version of salute first.

The cat, drawn by the commotion, had, in answer to the curiosity of his tribe, crossed the deck and wormed his way between the legs of the gathered Marines, pausing to "mark" a likely set of half-gaiters in passing. But at the sight of a stranger, he greeted him as Lewrie had been greeted when he had signed aboard.

There was a challenging yowl of displeasure, a slash of claws that caught the officer across the nose, and a startled squawk of alarm from their new commander. Then, losing his grip on the loose-hung man-ropes, and still vertical along the ship's side instead of leaning slightly into a larger ship's tumble-home (Shrike had none), the new captain dropped from sight as if he had never been there. A second later, there was a rather loud thud in the gig, and a chorus of shouts.

"Oh, shit, Pitt's killed him!" Alan groaned, sheathing his sword and dashing to the entry-port. "How is he?"

"Er, 'e's knocked 'isself h'out cold, sir," the temporary cox'n of the gig shouted back up. "'E don' look sa good ta me, sir."

"Mister Lewyss to the gangway, on the double!" Alan shouted. Lewyss turned up a moment later with a small medical bag and descended to the gig.

"I'll kill that cat!" Caldwell vowed. "Who was the new captain, sir?"

"How the hell should I know, Mister Caldwell?" Alan complained. "He never got a chance to tell us. Somebody pass up his orders. They should be in his pockets. At least," he said in a softer voice to the temporary first lieutenant, "we can determine whom we've murdered."

"Nasty, sir," Mr. Lewyss informed them, regaining the deck with the documents requested. "Nasty cut on the back of his skull, and sure to be concussed. He's out like a light. And I don't like the look of his right arm, either, sir. I am certain he broke it. I'd be happier with him in Barfleur, sir. They have an excellent surgeon aboard, I'm told, d'ye see."

"Well, until he read himself in, he's not one of ours yet." Alan nodded in agreement. "And since he's in the boat and ready for transport, that'd be best. Mister Rossyngton?"