Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

There didn't seem to be much point in patrolling the area, either. There was very little sea traffic except for fishing boats and the rare inter-island packet. There was no foe to fight, no trade worth the name to protect, and hence, no piracy to defend against. It was rare to see a deep-draught seagoing ship pass by, since most of the trade headed for Nassau, Eleuthera or the Exumas up north, or down south to the salt isles of the Turks and Caicos in season. Alacrity made a nuisance of herself by stopping every ship she could catch to inspect cargoes and manifests to enforce the Navigation Acts. And plead for their personal letters to be forwarded to Nassau, should a ship be going there.

Yet, most mysufyingly, there had not been one article of mail from the outside world received in the entire six months. And with the lack of personal correspondence, the hands had gone sullen and slack, as had the warrants and officers. Try as they might to keep the men active with hydrographic work, with the erection of night-beacons and day-marks to aid navigation, it was a halfhearted endeavor as weeks wore by with little pay, few amusements and dulling drudgery to face, with no hope of novelty, or relief.

With no Admiralty funds with which to purchase fresh meat and vegetables, Lewrie had resorted to many refreshing shore expeditions. They would land and hunt wild goats, pigs or iguanas. They would lay at anchor for a day or two and let the hands fish, or gather conch from the shallows, then stage "maroons" with music, singing, dancing and drink enough to at least mellow the men as their food cooked by nighttime beach campfires. By day, they'd extemporize the means to play village games like football or cricket, endless "best-of-seven" tournaments of watch against watch. Even that had palled, lately.

Turtle races, cockroach races, rat-catching… they'd tried it all on. They'd allowed the hands to keep parrots they caught ashore, wild kittens and puppies. They tried to capture wild pigs and temper them to abide being penned in the manger forward by the break of the forecastle for later consumption. Lately, only William Pitt was fond of the menagerie, licking his chops in drooling expectation over the fractious shoats, and attempting to creep up on unsuspecting parrots.

On almost uninhabited Rum Cay, Lewrie had rented a small piece of white land, and had hired an older man to watch it for them, with hopes of fresh vegetables and melons, buying the seeds out of his own pocket, as he had several other small lots of supplies. But now, he was down to his last thirty pounds, and was practically living on the ship's rations himself most of the time, with no replies from Nassau requesting funds from his personal accounts. Every officer or warrant with a shore agent was similarly cut off!

And, he had no idea if he was now a father.

Or a widower.

There had been no letters from Caroline; not one!

Childbearing, the ordeal of childbirth, was the scourge of women, no matter how healthy. "Childbed Fever" they called it and even back home in civilized London, the annual bills of mortality bore thousands and thousands of victims. What could be expected in such a rude climate as the Bahamas, with so few skilled physicians he could not force himself to contemplate any longer.

And half of those hopeless drunkards, he thought miserably!

He threw himself into anything, if only so he could cease his frantic brooding for a few hours. Swordplay until he frothed with sweat. Practice upon the flageolet until he could carry a tune from start to finish at a regular meter. Hunting and fishing. Amusing William Pitt with a cork on a piece of string for hours.

And sulking. And morose imaginings of Caroline dead, until his lack of news for good or ill, his hours of staring raptly at her portrait, his fretful sleep and vivid, nightmarish dreams, had sunk him into a deep despondency, a surreal resignation.

Clarence Town on Long Island was a dreadfully boresome place, worse than Anglesgreen on Sunday, and this was a market day. He took a table in the shade of a veranda at the one inn the settlementcould boast and ordered rum, lime juice, sugar and water for a cold punch. He put his feet up in a rickety chair, removed his hat, undid his neck-stock, and settled in for an afternoon of drinking, an activity which was beginning to figure more prominently in his life lately.

There was a London paper nine months old to read, what was left of it, after being pawed over by countless other patrons, so he was in for the day, if he read all eight pages slowly.

"Ho dere, Navy mon," a fetching black girl said from the railing overlooking the sandy street. "Got no-thin' bettah t'do on ya run asho', now, an' you a hon'some young feller, Lord."

Did I bring my condom with me, he asked himself? No, I'll not! There's Caroline, now. Well, would it hurt to sit and at least talk with a woman? Six months, it's been.

"Cat got ya tongue, fine sah?" she teased. She wasn't as dark as most, tarted up in a decent sack gown she'd altered so it fell low off her shoulders, and bared a darkly shadowed cleft between heavy breasts that swelled her bodice far beyond the original owner's design. She sported a wide-brimmed straw hat, tied beneath her chin with a yellow ribbon, and to keep off the August sun, a small parasol which she twirled fetchingly.

Damned handsome wench, Lewrie appraised silently. More coffee-milk than black. Huge brown eyes, that pouty mouth, and… Christ!

"Just taking my ease for the day," he said at last.

"Dot rum punch be bettah wit' de pineopple in it, sah. Ya let me show ya how, sah, an' do I get a glass, I be obliged," she teased. "De son, he be hot t'day, Cap'um sah."

Oh, Christ, I'd best…! He squirmed inside.

"Take a seat with me," he said instead. "Indeed, it is a hot day. I'd not see a lady suffer. And it's a very old paper. And who might you be?"

"M'name's Wyannie, sah. Wyannie Slocum," she smiled in victory.

Hot, sweaty couplings they had, in a rented room of the tavern. Bodies sheened with perspiration as they plunged away at each other in total, wanton abandon. Her legs were strong and muscular, and Wyannie bucked and thrust back at him with equal vigor, enfolding him with all her limbs, writhing and shoving to meet him hard enough to lift him in the air off the crackling straw mattress and creaking bedropes. She squalled and grunted, panted and lowed like a cow, cursed and groaned and shuddered, then ended each time in hissing screams.

There was more rum punch between bouts, mutual sponge-downs with a pitcher of water and a mildewed handcloth, which renewed their heat. She'd roll a firm thigh across him to ride St. George as he squeezed those heavy breasts, or teased large, dark rock-hard nipples with his thumbs. Once she romped atop him facing away toward his feet, which led to her bent forward, kneeling on the side of the rickety, low cot and him standing behind her with a death grip on her madly rocking hips as he thrust deep into her as frantic as a hound, sweat rolling off his chest and belly, off her solidly firm buttocks, to mingle with their juices. They'd bellowed like bulls and had fallen almost senseless in an exhausted swoon after that one, Alan's mind areel with her cheap perfume, a woman's odors, and her exotic, musky aroma.

"You come t'Clarence Town agin, Alan?" she breathed lazy as a cat as she lolled open and idle beside him. She picked up a top-silver palmetto-frond fan and began to cool him. "Got me a nice shack down t'the beach. We c'n go dere nex' time, luvah-mon. Save ya money an' not need t'rent a room heah."

"We never did discuss your fee," Alan sighed. "We were a touch too… eager, for tawdry business talk."

"Ah ain't no who'," she chuckled as she rolled over to kiss and fondle him. "Jus' walk inta town t'market, an' sell m'melons an' veg'tables. Jus' comin' heah t'buy m'rum, an' dere ya wuz, a'lookin' finel Had me a mon, but he drown las' year fishin', an' nobody else since. Nobody 'roun' heah wort' messin' wit'!" she snorted in contempt. "Some as tried. An' I ain't sayin' de lonely don' pester me s'hard I didn' sport wit a mon a time'r two. I be a who', Lord, I en' up payin' you, darlin'! No, I got me a patch o' white Ian', I got de nets, an' goats an' chick'ns, so I c'n keep m'self right good most de time. Ya don' owe me nottin', luv."