Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"Mister Knolles, I…" Lewrie began hesitantly, quite unlike his usual demeanor.

"Aye, sir?" Knolles prompted, wondering why his frank and open commanding officer could not quite match glances with him, of a sudden.

"Bosun's chair, over the side, to the boat, Mister Knolles." The captain grunted. "Arad a working-party. Blackwall hitch on the main-yard stay-tackle, to fetch dunnage aboard."

"Aye, aye, sir," Knolles replied. "Mister Cony? Rig a bosun's chair. And a cargo stay-tackle hoist."

"Dismiss the side-party, Mister Knolles," Lewrie ordered, turning to peer over the side, arms spread wide on the bulwarks. "We're not receiving officers."

Ralph Knolles raised an eyebrow, stepped to the side, surreptitiously, and cast a single furtive glance over. Their lone passenger was a woman! A most beautiful young… lady? Knolles frowned. Oh, he gasped in recognition. Last time we were at Gibraltar, the captain… they said he had a doxy ashore, but…

Hell's bells, Knolles thought, with a weary sigh, before turning to supervise the working party. It was no concern of his, really, what his captain did, whom he entertained aft on-passage. Knolles had served in ships with a captain's entire family aboard, had been aboard a 3rd Rate in which every warrant, division, or department head had his "wife" and kiddies along! The solitary, celibate seafaring life was a convenient fiction, for the most part-mostly for the benefit of the true wives and families left ashore-! But, he never thought Commander Lewrie'd be…!

No, probably not a lady, Knolles sniffed in prim dismissal; an affair… most definitely an affair! … he had no business in.

You damn' fool, Lewrie eluded himself; you damn' fool! His face felt flush, and his clothing chafed him, itchy and sore. Or, perhaps, his very skin, he thought. Yet, he stood atremble with more concern for Phoebe's safety than for his repute, as she was hoisted aboard.

He'd really meant to end their relationship, had taken a fair amount of solid coin, and a note-of-hand upon his shore agent, then his London bank, to cushion her dismissal from his life. So short a time, though, in her bewitching presence, and he was as will-less as a drunken gambler.

"Zat ees effroyable" Phoebe peeped, once free of the slings of the bosun's chair, a high color to her own cheeks, but with glitter to her eyes. "Mais… ees trиs їmotionnant]" With a giggle of fading delight, she slipped an arm through his.

"Ahum… Mister Knolles, allow me to name to you, Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino," Lewrie stammered over the social graces. "She will be sailing with us. Mademoiselle is from Corsica, originally, so…"

"Mademoiselle Aretino," Knolles said, doffing his hat, and making a "leg" in reply to her graceful curtsy. Though his expression was hellish-bland.

"Lieutenant… Knolles, enchantй, m'sieur," Phoebe rejoined, with her best formal manner. "Ah, M'sieur Spen'loove! Bonjour, encore] You are-ah well?" she cried, as she spotted a familiar face.

"Ma'am," Spendlove greeted, blushing. "Aye. Well, uhm…"

"An' m'sieur… Lapin? Non. .. pardon, merci merde alors …" Phoebe stumbled. "M'sieur Cony! Ze gran' 'ero weez ze… grenades?"

"Aye, ma'am," Cony said, preening, " 'twaz grenadoes, we used. Good o' ya t'remember, ma'am."

"Well, hmm…" Lewrie flummoxed, once the many introductions were done among the quarterdeck people, who had crowded forward, after word had gone around that a vision had descended from heaven. And that the captain had a doxy! Alan felt as a pilfering thief might, forced to run a gantlet of his mess-deck victims, and their starters or rope ends. "Cony, do you be so good as to see uhm… Mistress Aretino's… dunnage, aft? Mister Knolles, I note the wind'll serve, just. We've an hour till full dark. We could be standing out, around Europa Point, by then. Pipe the hands to Stations for Weighing Anchor, and prepare us for getting underway."

"Aye aye, sir," Knolles replied, just as glad as Lewrie to escape into something more mundane and maritime.

"I'll see Mistress Aretino aft, and get her somewhat settled," Lewrie promised, "then rejoin you. Carry on, till then, sir."

"But, isn't he married?" Midshipman Hyde queried in a whisper.

"Aye, but…" Spendlove griped, just as softly. "Met her at Toulon. Used to be… enamored, I s'pose you could call it, of our Lieutenant Scott, but he passed over when we were sunk. Didn't have anyone else to turn to, around the time of the evacuation, so…"

"Oh, like the Vicomtesse de Maubeuge?" Hyde said, his tongue firmly in cheek. "I must say, Clarence… at least the captain has grand taste, when it comes to women. Wives and doxies, hmm?"

"My word, Cony!" Knolles grumbled. "My bloody oath] So she is, well… was Scott's paramour, first? Now, our captain's?"

"Aye, sir," Cony said with a faint scowl of worry. "A sweet l'il thing, though." He'd known Lewrie's amatory appetites for years; shared 'em, in point of fact. Reveled in 'em, truth to tell! Going to sea, becoming Lewrie's "man" so long ago, had opened his eyes to life, broadened his horizons far beyond that bucolic innocence he'd known as a rustic Gloucestershire "chaw-bacon," with thatch sticking from out his ears. What enthusiasm he had for his new status as the Proper Married Man, he owed to the Lewries' fondness for each other.

And what enthusiasm he had for Maggie had been born abed with her. How else was there a Little Will in swaddlings, now, if not for prйnuptial passion? Being a practical, commonsensical sort, Bosun's Mate Will Cony knew from long experience that sailors will usually be sailors, far from home, with months between letters or news. Maggie almost kenned that, as any seaman's wife should. As they said on the lower decks… "shouldn'ta joined, if ya can't take a joke!"

Still, he'd always believed that Lewrie would be more discreet than that. He'd even spoken disparagingly of officers who carried a mort to sea, parading before the love-starved, lust-surly "people" what they could not have. If the little sauce-pot had that much influence on him, though…

"She is, that!" Knolles commented, rather wistfully. "Well… Mister Cony. Ahem. Carry on."

"Aye, sir." Cony chuckled, knuckling his forehead in salute, knowing he'd been dismissed. Knowing that Knolles had said too much to an inferior, and was seething inside for being so open.

"Dot de guhl th' cap'um woz s'sweet on, Will?" Andrews asked, once Knolles had walked away. "De one ya toi' me 'bout?"

"Aye, that she be. 'Ope she don't spell trouble. For him, or us." Cony shrugged.

"Law, Will!" Andrews guffawed, his teeth brilliant against the dusk of his skin. "It be th' same'zit always woz, bock in de Wes' Indies, durin' de 'Merican War. Jus' a whiff o' quim, not de whole garden. Cap'um, he lose his head ovah de ladies, now'n 'gain. But, he nevah lose it fo' long!"

"Mister Cony, make 'em hop to it\" Midshipman Hyde called to them, snappish and still fretful. And more than a little scandalized.

"Aye, Mister Hyde. Hoppin', this instant," Cony answered as he withdrew his bosun's pipe from a chest pocket of his waistcoat by its ornately plaited lanyard. "Messenger, aft t'th' capstan-head!"

"You, too, Andrews," Hyde added.

"On me way, t'de quawtah-deck, yassuh, Mistah Hyde, uhuhh!" the coxswain replied, falling back on a West Indies slave patois in subtle mockery, to rejoin the hands of the after-guard, who would tend sheets, halliards, lifts, and jears on the mizzenmast. "Right, lads. Tail on, weak-lin's. De strong men'z walkin' de capstan fo' ya."