Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

Lewrie heaved a slight sigh of relief. Comical as they might have looked to ships longer in commission and practice, Alacrity was on her way. He walked back up to starboard, along the narrow space inside the quarter-deck railings and the after capstan-head to starboard, the windward side, which was his by right as captain.

"Anchor's fished, catted and rung up, sir," Ballard told him, touching his hat with a finger. Those studious brown eyes held the slightest hint of glee. "Cable's below, hawse-bucklers fitted."

"Thank you, Mister Ballard," Lewrie smiled. "Not too awful, considering. Two rehearsals seemed to have turned the trick. Thank you again, for your suggestion."

"My pleasure, Captain," Ballard said, inclining his head, his long upper lip curving just a trifle.

"I'd admire should you attend to the gun salute to the flag," Lewrie instructed. "The experienced hands, mind."

"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard said, turning away.

Lewrie looked down on his gun deck and gangways. What had been total disorder was now flaked down and lashed, hung on the pintails in neat loops; halyards and sheets, braces and lifts, were stowed for instant use.

Senior seamen were explaining things to their rawer compatriots, beginning to play the role of "sea daddies."

William Pitt sprang up atop the quarter-deck railings, his tail lashing with excitement. Alan reached out and ruffled the fur behind his ears. "How does it feel to have a ship of your own to terrorize again, hey, Pitt? Good?" Pitt tucked his paws in and lay still.

For an English day, it was remarkably lovely. There was some bite to the breeze, of course, but the sun was out, peeking between thin scud, making the waters of the Solent gleam, giving them color for once beyond steely gray, brightening the vista of ships and sea.

"Cony?" Alan called, flinching as he remembered Caroline.

"Aye, sir."

"My respects to Mistress Lewrie, and inform her the deck is quiet enough for her to come up," he told him, unable to control a blush at using the unfamiliar title "Mistress Lewrie."

"There's the pretty!" Caroline said, stroking Pitt as she came to the quarter-deck by one of the short ladders from the gun deck, and Pitt stood to get his petting. "Oh, how marvelous!" she exclaimed in delight, coming to his side to link arms with him. "A perfectly gorgeous morning. Good morning, Mister Ballard."

"Good morning to you, ma'am," Ballard replied, doffing his hat to her. "Your pardons, ma'am, but 'twill be a little noisy in a few moments. Aft, there! Prepare to dip the colours! Mister Fowles, be ready!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Abeam of the principal fort, Alacrity began to thunder out a gun salute. She dipped her colours briefly as the equally-spaced shots rang out, with Fowles pacing aft from one gun to the next, muttering the ancient litany of timing, "… if I weren't a gunner, I wouldn't be here. Number three gun… fire! I've left my wife, my home, and all that's dear. Number four gun… fire!"

"Thank you, Alan dearest," Caroline whispered to him between shots. "I'll never give you cause to regret your decision. I love you so completely!"

"And I love you, Caroline," he whispered back, bending from his rigid pose of lord and master for a second, grinning foolishly.

BOOM!

"At least on passage, I shall learn what sort of life you lead aboard your ships," Caroline went on. "So I may understand you better and picture you more clearly when you're away."

BOOM!

"Oh, Alan, we're setting out on a grand adventure!" She laughed. "Such a honeymoon, no one has ever had!"

"There, there, my dear," Lewrie comforted, almost gagging himself as his bride "cast her accounts." She knelt in the starboard quarter-gallery, the "necessary" converted from a wardrobe little larger than a small closet.

"It passes. It will."

She looked up at him, dull-eyed and wan, her livery face now devoid of expression. "Dear Jesus, could I but… Harrackkk!'"

Back her face went over the hole as her body rebelled at such infernal motion, at the stomach-churning odors of ship and food. He knelt with her to hold her head, to apply a towel below her chin as solicitously as he could, for one whose cast-iron craw had withstood the fiercest gales since his first hours in the Navy. But he had to dwell on the smells of fresh-sawn wood and new paint most closely!

There was a rap on the flimsy louvred door to their share of the great-cabins. "Mister Ballard's respects, sir, and I am to tell you he is desirous of tacking ship," a thin voice called out.

"Mister Mayhew, is it?" Alan asked, trying to differentiate between two soprano midshipmen.

"Aye, aye, sir," the fourteen-year-old said, voice cracking.

"My compliments to the first lieutenant and I shall be on deck directly," he instructed. "Caroline. Dearest… I must go on deck to oversee a change of course. I'll be back soon, I swear. Do you think you might be alright until then, love?"

All she could do was nod, dazed by illness, her face twisted inmisery as it was poised over the slop chute. He kissed her on the top of her head, rose, and made his escape, feeling pangs of guilt.

The Reverend Townsley collided with him in the narrow lar-boardside passageway, hands to his mouth and sprinting for the "jakes." But Alacrity was loping like a deerhound over the sea, stern rising high then settling like a dog's haunches as it dug in for a thrust with its back legs, dropping with a giddy swoosh. One moment, running aft was hastened by the slant of the deck; the next moment one churned in place or lost ground as the bows plunged. At least, laid hard over on her starboard side by the wind she did not roll. The good reverend danced in place like Punch pursuing Judy, then was almost hurled the last few feet to crash into the transom settee and the stern timbers. His feet went flying over his head and he landed like a pile of dominie's washing- black "ditto" coat, breeches, stockings and waistcoat all of a piece. He regarded Lewrie for a mournful moment like a hound being put down would stare at the gun, then spewed the last contents of his body over his lap and chest.

So much for serving fresh pork roast, Lewrie gagged as he turned away to stumble forward; there's four shillings wasted!

The door to the Townsleys' cabin was swaying open, left gaping in the reverend's haste, and Lewrie caught a peek of Mrs. Reverend Townsley and her prunish maid fighting to share a bucket.

"Oh, land us ashore, Captain Lewrie!" she wailed, giving him such a glare as said that it was all his fault. "No more, I beseech you! We shall all drown for sure. Gracious Jesus, to be on solid ground…!"

"Approaching a lee shore in the dark in these seas, ma'am, would be drowning for certain," Lewrie explained. "Sorry. Excuse me."

Bad weather might be best, he thought as he gained the quarterdeck; save me money feedin' 'em broth an' gruel for a few days!

"Wind's dead on the bows, and blowing right up the Channel, sir!" Ballard had to shout at him. "And now the tide's turned, we're set too much northerly on the larboard tack, headed for a lee shore!"

The English Channel was a nasty piece of water, with tidal flows as strong as spring rivers in spate. Those, combined with the current and wind, could waft a ship along quick as a "diligence-coach" on the High Road. Or nail her in place for twelve hours, no matter how much wind or sail area to beat against them.

And Alacrity was, like all shoal-drafted converted bombs, tending to slip to leeward like a sot sliding off a chair. Close-hauled into that stiff wind, she would require four or five times the mileage to make good a direct course with a more favorable beam or stern wind.

"On the starboard tack, we have sea room 'til dawn, when this tide turns!" Lewrie declared in return. "Aye, make it so, Mister Ballard! Before you tack, though, take in the outer-flying jib. She's too much pressure on her bows, and I'll not have her broach beam-on to wind and sea if she tacks too sharp!"