Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

"No," Alan snapped. "They're too strong. The captain's going to lose his ship for nothing. Goddamnit, I'm getting tired of this."

"You and me too, sir," Caldwell agreed.

They veered out to take up their stream anchor, hauled back up to short stays on the bower, and got under way. The wind and waves were too much, and she paid off immediately, rolling her larboard rail almost under, even under bare poles. "Sweeps, Mister Fukes!"

Like an ancient oared galley, Shrike extended her sweeps, too few to Alan's eyes, but they needed strength to finish hauling up the anchor by the capstan, fish it in and ring it up on the catheads. More hands were already aloft, loosing the spanker and jibs, leaving only twenty or so hands to pull at the long oars. It was enough to hold her head up to the fresh breeze until the rudder could bite, and the fore and aft sails could give her forward motion.

Not trusting to square-sails until they were out beyond the reefs, they short-tacked away from the lee shore, employing the sweeps to get her head around on each tack and keep her driving forward no matter how slowly, until the sails could fill and impart drive. The leadsmen in the forechains swung their shorter sounding lines continually, until they reported no bottom. Then, when even the deep-sea lead could find no bottom, they hauled their wind to the south and loosed topsails and courses, now out over the abyssal depths of Turk's Island Passage.

Some of the other ships had had to use their row-boats to tow them out against the wind until they had room to pay off when loosing sails. Shrike had to stand off and on the coast until all vessels were safely at sea and in company together.

"Neatly done, sir," Caldwell told him once the off-duty watch had been allowed to go below and the ship was out in her proper element.

"Yes, we hadn't worked with sweeps before, but they did well," Alan replied. "We did a lot better than the others."

"Aye, sir. Um, I'll expect we should have someone strike for master's mate."

"How would Mister Rossyngton do, would you think?"

"Well, sir, he's a bit flighty for me." Caldwell frowned. "Long enough in the Navy, I expect, but my word, sir, he's a terror."

"It did me a world of good to get some little responsibility as acting master's mate. And it is only temporary. Let's give him a try."

"Aye, sir. Um, something else, sir. What about the captain?"

"Well, we can't sail for harbor for one wounded man, and I'm sure the captain would not let us, once he comes around," Alan replied. "We'll rejoin the squadron and see what they say. If Mister Lewyss thinks he will recover, he'd probably prefer to do it aboard his own ship. If we can be fitted with a false leg below the knee, he should do alright."

"No, sir," Caldwell said, throwing water on the tiny flickering embers of Alan's hopes. "They'll pack him off home, whether he heals or no. New commander for us, looks like."

"Poor old bastard," Alan muttered, feeling guilty all over once more about staying aboard during the landing. "Should be me in there less a foot."

"I think he would have gone, even if you'd been whole, sir," the sailing master told him, taking off his glasses and pulling out a large pocket kerchief to polish them clean of salt spray. "Something grand to do before the war ends, to make a name for himself. It was his last chance."

"Just like this Nelson fellow." Alan nodded. "Like my old captain in Desperate . To make amends for an earlier failure."

"Aye, sir. Like that thing up in Florida. Clear his name."

"But damnit, Mister Caldwell, we didn't fail in Florida!" Alan protested.

"Somebody thinks we did, sir, and that's the same thing." The older man shrugged. "Wonder what Captain Nelson failed at before, to make him so eager to tackle the French here?"

"Who knows?" Alan replied.

The next morning, with Sand Cay, the last speck of land of the Turk's and Caicos Islands just under the horizon, Albemarle signaled Shrike to close her, and once close alongside, ordered her to back her tops'ls and heave to. As they wondered what the matter was, a boat set out from the flagship's side, bearing little Captain Nelson. He scrambled up the side and took the salute from the side-party, then advanced to where Lewrie and Caldwell were standing.

"Good morning, sir," Alan said. "What is the matter?"

"I have come to see your gallant captain Lilycrop, Mister Lewrie," Nelson told him. "I trust he is well enough to see visitors?"

"Aye, sir, he is," Alan replied. "If you will allow me to lead you to his quarters? Mister Caldwell, would you take the deck?"

"Admiral Barrington took the highest number of casualties," Nelson said as they walked aft. "It is my intention to go there later, to see to their needs. Your captain is recovering?"

"Still in much pain, sir, as I'm sure you'll understand," Alan replied, mystified that Nelson was making the effort. Was he salving a guilty conscience that people had been hurt at his orders in a doomed adventure? "I saw him this morning, and he was awake, mostly."

"Your surgeon holds hopes for his recovery, then, sir?" Nelson pressed.

"Aye, sir. He's very strong for his advanced age. Spent a lifetime at sea, you know," Alan told him, feeling the urge to put the needle in at Nelson's expense. "This was his first command. And now he'll likely lose it."

"I see." Nelson frowned, pulling at his long nose.

Lieutenant Lilycrop swung in his hanging bed-box to the gentle motion of his ship. His usually dark-tanned face was pale, and he sweated a good deal, but the surgeon had said that it was good for him, to sweat out the poisons from the wound. The offending limb was propped up on a pile of pillows, wrapped in bast and gauze, looking no more harmful than a peer suffering a bout of the gout. There was a mug of rum near at hand, and every cat he had ever owned had gathered in some silent sense of commiseration, near the bed-box, or curled up in his lap or on the pillows.

The captain had his eyes closed, and they could hear him make soft groaning noises, wincing a bit as a wave of pain intruded on his senses. But he opened his eyes brightly when they were announced.

"Captain Nelson has come to pay his respects, sir," Alan said, and did the duty of introducing them.

"Are you in much pain, sir?" Nelson asked, taking a seat that Gooch offered him.

"Well, sir, you get your foot shot damn near off, then let a drunken Welsh sheep-coper saw the damn thing off, an' see how it makes you feel," Lilycrop said uncharitably.

"I am sorry, Captain Lilycrop," Nelson replied in a soft voice, totally abashed, and evidently wishing he were anywhere else in the wide world at that moment. "Since you suffer on my behalf, I was wondering if there was anything I could do for you, to make you more comfortable."

"Ah, don't mind me, Captain Nelson," Lilycrop said, laying his head back on the pillows. "Gooch, come prop me up a bit. That's it. I went for the fun of it. Can't let Lewrie have all the glory, and he's half laid up himself with a nasty leg wound. No one to blame but meself, see. One takes one's chances. Thankee for comin', though. 'Tis more'n I'd expect from most." Samson jumped up onto the bed, ruler of the cabins, and sniffed around for a place to lay close to his master, making a couple of more fearful others jump down. "Ah, we smell all medicinal, don't we, sweetlin'? Like some rum, Captain?"

"Thank you, no, Captain Lilycrop. I've never been much on rum, or spirits," Nelson answered.

Oh, God, please don't let Lilycrop call him a hedge-priest! Alan thought.

"If you're sure there is nothing I could do for you, sir?" Nelson said, beginning to rise.

"Oh, sit ye down, sir. We tried to do somethin' right, an' if I didn't get hit when I did, it'd a been later, tryin' to take the battery. Had a funny feelin' about the place, soon's I stepped ashore. Not your fault. No sense lookin' like a hanged spaniel on my account. I've had fifty years in the Fleet, man an' boy. Had to happen sometime. In the last war, with Pocock, thought I was a goner half a dozen times."