Dewey Lambdin - The King

"Ah," Lord Sydney replied with a suddenly prim expression, his lips popping together. "Him. You're his… uhm… son, are you?"

"When we left Calcutta, the question of his brevet to colonel of the 19th Native Infantry was still up in the air, milords. And he more than proved his worth, on every occasion."

"He wishes to remain in India, in 'John Company' service?" Lord Howe asked, incredulous that anyone would want such an exile.

"He does, sir. His men adore him. And he… well, whatever his faults, milords, he is a good soldier and a good officer, and he truly does care about the regiment."

"Hmm, s'pose that's best, after all, him to remain out there," Lord Sydney sighed. "I'm told he's cleared his creditors? And there was a Captain Chiswick mentioned in Twigg's report. I assume he is to stay in that regiment as well? A cater-cousin to you, is he?"

"A good friend, milord. We were together at Yorktown. In fact, I shall be going down to Guildford to visit his family next week, to deliver news of him, and some presents for them."

"There wouldn't be a pretty sister, would there, Lieutenant Lewrie?" Lord Sydney teased.

"There is indeed, milord," Lewrie said, blushing for real.

"Active duty, naturally," Hood intoned, lifting a wary brow. Officers of bis generation were extremely leery of younger men who contemplated marriage too early in their careers- they were forever lost to the Sea Service, in their opinion, and even the hint of an imminent attachment was suspicious to that worthy. "I trust, hmm?"

"Active duty, yes, milord, that goes without saying," Lewrie answered quickly. That was the response they expected, much as he wished he were brave enough in the face of this exalted gathering to tell them what he really thought: that if he was truly as rich as he dared hope, they could have his resignation and bedamned to all the nautical deprivation he'd suffered since his father had damned near press-ganged him into the Navy as a midshipman back in 1780! After the last bit, he'd had nearly enough, and no public thanks or fame from it, either!

But that could never be said, he realized. And shaming himself before Ayscough, Hood and Howe by such a declaration was a thing he didn't have the courage for. He could only hope that they would file him away for future employment, hopefully very close to home for a change. Else they'd allow him a few months' shore leave and forget their promises, as great men were wont to do, and let him fester most happily on the half-pay list to the end of his indolent days!

"I once, milords, awarded Lieutenant Lewrie command of a small brig of war off Cape Francois," Admiral Hood said, turning to face his fellows. "The war ended before he could make his mark with her, but he more than made up for it with little Culverin this time. I am convinced he would be wasted in some other captain's wardroom."

Oh, sufferin' shit! Lewrie groaned to himself, aghast that they would send him right back to sea. It was peacetime, after all! The Waiting Room below his feet was crammed to the ceiling with half-pay officers so eager for employment they'd crawl from Whitehall to Limehouse Reach on their hands and knees, in a dog-collar, if they could crawl up a ship's gangway when they got there!

Lewrie's throat was already dry, and he essayed a cough. The artificial soon became the genuine article. Maybe, he mused, if they think I'm going to expire right here in the Board Room from the flux or something, they'll delay it, at least. He dug out his handkerchief and began to bark into it.

"Are you well, Mister Lewrie?" Lord Sydney inquired with some alarm on his face. "A glass of something, perhaps…"

"The change in weather, milord," Lewrie "struggled" to reply. "All this cold and rain here in England, after the tropics…"

He cut that statement off, paling at what they might do about it. Idiot! He could have kicked himself. No! Wrong thing to say, you damned fool! Goddamn their solicitous little hearts, they'll probably ship me right back where I just came from, and think they do me a blessing! Dear Lord Jesus, just a little help here, please?

"A small vessel below the Rates," he heard Lord Howe instruct Mr. Stephens. "In a somewhat healthier and warmer climate than the Channel Squadron, I should think. What do we have at present?"

Pray God they've all sunk! Lewrie hoped, turning a wild gaze on Stephens. Stephens had been first secretary to the Board of Admiralty for years, the Lords Commissioners for the Office of High Admiral, surviving one First Lord after another. More than any other man in England, he was the one who truly had his fingers on the pulse of the Fleet such as no senior officer or appointee had. Stephens executed more administrative power in an hour of scribbling and reading of files than most fighting admirals did in an entire career of bloody battles. He knew of every opening, every promising officer, every fool and every little scandal.

Stephens gazed back at Lewrie, sizing him up, cocking his head to one side as if reading his career file from memory. Lewrie ducked a little; Stephens most probably knew of his every scandal, too!

"Nothing suitable immediately, milord," Stephens said after pretending to glance through a sheaf of documents. "There is a possibility coming due in a few months, though. Lieutenant Lewrie shall find it familiar, I believe. A ketch-rigged gun-boat shall be ending her commission and returning from the Mediterranean station at Gibraltar. We had discussed sending her to the Bahamas, after her refit, you may recall, milord?"

"Ah, yes," Howe nodded. "We've need of swift, shallow-draft vessels out there, Lewrie. If it's not piracy in the Bahamas, it's our Yankee cousins, violating the Navigation Acts and stealing our carrying-trade, selling their shoddy goods without paying customs due. And the Bahamas are so temptingly close to that new nation, so easily reached from their southern ports. Rather a dull little back-water but for that, as I remember. But just the place for an ambitious young officer to show his mettle, hey? What say you, sir? Ready to conquer the King's enemies a little closer to home?"

Lewrie remembered the Bahamas as well, and none too fondly. The most fun he'd had there was watching the dogs roll over halfway through their afternoon snoozes. Well, Nassau on New Providence was sporting enough after sundown, and heaps of American Loyalist families had made the place their home after the war ended. Surely one or two of 'em'd have daughters! He swore to be more careful this time.

I really should never set foot in the Admiralty again, he told himself: Every time I do, I come out feeling raped!

With an exuberance he most certainly did not feel, he was at last forced to say, "Words cannot express my gratitude, milords, sir. Naturally, I shall be delighted to serve in any capacity! Lead me to 'em!"

"That's the spirit!" Lord Howe exclaimed approvingly. "That's our sort of lad, Lewrie! I knew you'd be pleased."

Yes, he thought. It seems I'm fated to be your lad for bloody ever, don't it?

From some of the fan mail I've received, I may have erred on the side of authenticity when it comes to ship-handling and the jargon of the sea in use in the eighteenth century.

This came from a deep-seated fear that someone a whole lot saltier than I ever hope to be would telephone me in the middle of the night and call me a lubberly "farmer" if I got it wrong. It also came from my abiding love of ships and the sea; I figured that if I was already "there" (so to speak) I might as well learn something for myself as well. And, too, there is the tendency among sailors to speak a language that most landsmen don't readily understand, a language I must admit I have to partly relearn every boating season, but one that makes me one of "the fraternity."