Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

Not trusting himself to utter one more word, he turned to Mr. Caldwell and nodded, and Caldwell dismissed the hands to their duties.

There was no whole-hearted cheer such as Lilycrop had gotten. But no one was cursing and skulking, either, and no one was throwing loose objects at him, so Alan could be satisfied with his reception, if only slightly disappointed that he did not receive the same affection Lilycrop had evinced from them. Several hands were smiling broadly, and they went off to their work at least somewhat cheerful.

"Ah, Mister Caldwell," Alan said, noticing Caldwell's hangdog expression at last. "I believe that Commodore Affleck is to be allowed to appoint a lieutenant into us, to take my place. Sorry you could not keep your acting status. I did mention you to the admiral when I wrote concerning the captain."

"That's alright, sir," Caldwell said, though it didn't look alright. It would have been his best, and perhaps last, opportunity to attain to a commission instead of a warrant, and he was already approaching fifty. "Who would you like for cabin-servant, sir? And your cox'n?"

"Cony," Alan said without a second's hesitation, and then gave the matter of cox'n some thought. A third of the hands were Island Blacks, and Andrews was at least listed as a free-bom volunteer. He was deserving of some notice after Florida. "Andrews for my cox'n."

"Aye, I'll make it so, Captain," Caldwell replied.

That has a nice ring to it- Captainl Alan thought happily.

"I'll be aft for a moment," Alan said. "Summon me when we near Bedford ."

He made his way aft of the wheel and the main-mast trunk, to the low poop and the coach-top built into it to allow standing headroom for entry to the hanging cabin. There was now a Marine sentry on duty, who banged his musket on the deck and brought it up to salute as Alan opened the door that offered the short flight of steps below.

His cabins! Though they seemed more spacious with all of Lieutenant Lilycrop's poor furniture gone, they didn't look all that grand. The black-and-white checkered canvas on the deck was frayed, and the wall paint had not improved with age. He could see that this unlooked-for promotion was going to cost him, to equip himself with dining space table and chairs, a sideboard, a wine cabinet, desk and chairs, and paint. Not to mention more lamps, and silver and plates. Still, he was now in receipt of five shillings per day instead of his earlier two shillings six pence; eighty-four pounds a year, for as long as it lasted, figured at the miserly twenty-eight days per lunar month of the parsimonious Admiralty.

"Thought I'd shift yer dunnage, sir," Cony said, entering the cabins with loose bedding and linen under his aims. Alan could hear a couple of seamen struggling with his heavy sea chest.

"Oh, there 'e be, sir. That damn cat," Cony snapped.

"Hmm?" Alan replied, coming out of his inventory of expenses. "Oh, him."

"Over the side with 'im, sir?" Cony asked.

William Pitt was stretched out on his side on the bare, straw-filled mattress of the hanging bed-box, tail curling lazily and supremely at ease, washing himself, as if he had won the space for himself with his claws. The kitten Belinda was huddled as far away as she could get on the sill of the transom windows, bottled up and sitting ready to pounce in flight. Between hisses, she licked her lips and chops nervously, for fear of what the bigger male cat would do.

"You mangy young bastard," Alan said, walking up to the bed. "Think you earned the right to stay aft just 'cause you did for that Lieutenant Sharpe, hey? Think I'm grateful to you or something?"

Pitt did not bristle up as he usually did when Alan got anywhere near him, but rolled to his stomach with his front paws stretched out, looking up with his yellow eyes. Alan put out a tentative hand, half expecting to get his fingers ripped off, but was surprised that William Pitt allowed him to actually touch the top of his wide, battle-scarred head and gently rub him between the ears.

"Well, I'm damned, sir," Cony whispered.

It didn't last long, of course; after a few too many rubs, Pitt had claws out and ready to swat, shaking his head vigorously.

Alan realized that it was probably not going to be one of those affectionate relationships between man and animal, such as the young cat Belinda offered; more like adopting a wild beast with whom one could maintain a wary but grudging regard.

"Well, maybe I should be grateful," Alan relented. "Sweetling."

William Pitt made his disgust plain by laying back his ears and assuming a most pained expression.

"Chuck 'im out an' over the side, sir?" Cony asked.

"No, let him be for now, Cony. There's room to spare."

CRASH! went the Marine's musket on the deck. "Sailin' master, SAH!" he bellowed.

"Enter."

"We're about two cables off Bedford now, sir, ready to fetch-to to receive her boat," Caldwell reported.

"Very good, Mister Caldwell, I shall be on deck directly."

He followed Caldwell out onto the quarterdeck- his quarterdeck, where the warrants and others allowed the use of the deck headed down to leeward to leave him the captain's prerogative of the windward side.

I suppose I can pull this off, Alan told himself. I had a good set of teachers-Railsford and Lilycrop. Even Kenyon, God rot the sodomite. If it's peace soon, how bad can it be? And then I can go home with honor. Who knows, they might even be daft enough to give me another commission, or another command? If I'm careful, this could be all cruising and claret!

But a second after boastful musing, he felt a tiny shiver of presentiment. Things had gone too well lately, and from hard experience he knew that every time he felt the slightest bit smug and satisfied, something always went disastrously wrong in his life. The ancient gods had always taken umbrage with satisfied mortals, had they not?

"Turne, quod optanti divum promittere nemo,

auderet, volvenda dies en attulit ultro."

"Turnus, what none of the gods would have

dared promise to your prayers, see what rolling

time has brought unasked."

Aeneid IX 6-7

– Virgil

On April 6, 1783, Admiral Hood, whilst cruising off Cape Francois, received intelligence that a preliminary peace had been signed at Versailles in January. M. de Bellecombe, French governor of the Cape, sent a ship to his squadron, inviting Admiral Hood and His Royal Highness Prince William Henry, then serving as a midshipman aboard Barfleur, to enter the port and receive the honors due them.

Hood declined, though he did despatch the Bloodhound sloop into harbor to take the salute of the French. Schomberg's Naval Chronology does not tell us what thrilling deed, or, given-the feeling against the French at the time, what egregious screw-up Bloodhound had committed to give her this dubious honor.

British agents were quite active among the Creek, or Muskogean, Indians, and their relatives the Seminoles, as well as with the Cherokee, trying to inflame all the Southeastern tribes to side with the Crown in the Rebellion to take pressure off Charleston, their last remaining port south of New York. What the members of the expedition feared would happen to the Indians did indeed occur; they became more "civilized" after the Revolution until they dressed, lived and acted much like white settlers, with wagons, farms, carriages, plantations and mansions for some, and even black slaves of their own. And they were still dispossessed, kicked off the land by armed bands, and resettled in the Oklahoma Territory by the Andrew Jackson administration in one of the great, un-mentioned shames of American history.