Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

So bloody what? Alan thought as Kenyon left.

"Old friend, Mister Lewrie?" Sedge asked after the first officer had gone aft to present himself.

"Ah, he was master and commander of Parrot , my previous ship," Alan replied, feeling weak in the knees. "And second officer of Ariadne back in '80, sir."

"What, that old receiving hulk in the inner harbor?" Sedge said. "You were in her when she was condemned?"

"My first ship, sir," Alan informed him.

"Well, what sort is he, then?"

"Kenyon's a taut hand, very professional," Alan went on, putting on a grin and an air of old comradeship that he most definitely did not feel. "You'll find him a fair man, sir."

Unless he hates the fucking sight of you, Alan qualified to himself. Then he'll be a raving bastard.

"Was he much of a flogger?"

"No, sir, and neither was our old Captain Bales."

"All's right, then," Sedge sniffed in his Jonathon twang and paced away to his own concerns, satisfied that Desperate would be getting a first lieutenant much like her new captain in spirit, and that there would be no unreasonableness to upset his new rating.

Fuck it is, Alan thought, and wondered why these things had to happen to him so continually. First Kenyon's animosity after Parrot, then that bloody duel with that sneering fop of an Army lieutenant. In Desperate he could do nothing right in Treghues' eyes, but had almost won the man over when up pops Sir George Sinclair and his flag-captain who was the same man from the Impress Service that had carted him off to Portsmouth to sling him into Navy uniform. Treghues had turned on him meanly, and probably would still despise him if it had not been for that blessed French gunner and his damned rammer. Erratic insanity could sometimes be a blessing. He had settled the smut on his name back home, found a family he didn't even know he had and a remittance anyone would kill for. A small measure of fame in the Fleet, promotion to master's mate-and now this. Every time he had things in hand, some perverse twist of fate brought him crashing down in ruin, until he did not imagine he would have any chance of security in anything this side of the grave.

"Better people than you have tried to ruin me, damn your blood," Alan cursed softly as he pondered what Kenyon had in mind for him. And he grinned suddenly as he realized that it was true. His father had laid a plot almost inescapable, and look who still could trot his phyz out in public without being snatched into debtor's prison! If Kenyon would use his power as first lieutenant to bring Lewrie down, then he would be forced to fire off his own broadside in reply. Kenyon was not invulnerable, for all his rank and position and talk of honor. The man was a secret Molly, a butt-fucker of the windward passage, wasn't he? Alan had been told that odd goings-on between Kenyon and their host in Kingston had occurred in the wee hours. Alan had seen the men bussing like practiced lovers in the dark coach outside The Grapes the last night in port; Kenyon and Sir Richard Slade, rekindling a boyish passion for each other when their paths crossed once again. Hadn't Lieutenant Kenyon hinted once that he had not wanted to go to sea any more than Alan had, but there had been… reasons?

You'll not have me, Jemmy, Alan swore to himself. If you try, I'll have you! Railsford'll never abide a sodomite in his ship, not with the Navy trying so hard to stamp it out on long cruises. We're not in Cambridge.

Kenyon came back on deck once more, and made his way owards the taffrail, out of ear-shot of the other people in the larbor watch or the working parties. He crooked a finger to Iraw Lewrie to follow him.

"I am sorry to hear that Mister Claghorne passed over, sir," Man said, trying to mollify the man.

"He shot himself, Lewrie."

"Ah, too bad." Alan frowned. Claghorne had been an idiot, but there never had been anything in his life that Alan knew of that would force him to that "Gambling debts, sir?"

"You, you little bastard," Kenyon snarled. "Admiral Matthews gave him a commission after Parrot made port. He got ler as his command, and the shame was too much for him."

"But why in hell would they do that, sir?" Alan marveled. "He's the one struck her colors. Moody the bosun called him a coward to his face!"

"Ah, but remember, Lewrie, our passenger Lord Cantner and his lady, who thought you were so bloody marvelous that you'd saved their lives and their profits from the sale of his Jamaican prroperties, all the gold they'd brought aboard with them." Kenyon sneered. "They went to Matthews and bade him make sure you were written up a hero, and that meant there could be no mention of the colors being struck-not quite the honorable usage of the white flag-and they didn't want it getting round that a British ship had done such a thing. Fortunately, there were no survivors from that privateer brig, you made sure of that."

"Claghorne wouldn't allow us near her as long as she was fire, sir, and I was down with the Yellow Jack myself before we could do anything, so that is grossly unfair, sir," Alan shot back.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, boy," Kenyon ordered. "So poor Claghorne is a new commission officer, senior in a victory over a more powerful foe, and what's the reward for a faithful first?"

"Promotion and command, sir," Alan stated, in control again of his emotions.

"Yes. And would they transfer him into another ship?"

"If they had half a brain, sir, given the circumstances."

"Aye, they would, but old Onsley is not blessed with brains, is he, Lewrie? More tripe and trullibubs upstairs to match the suet down below. What sort of chance do you think Claghorne had in command of a crew that knew him for a man who once was forced to strike? Whether or not there was a chance to fight that privateer, he was in command, and his decision was correct, simply because he was a senior officer, do you comprehend that, Lewrie? You disobeyed him!"

"So you'd rather be dead or in chains, sir?" Alan demanded.

"Damn you to hell, sir!" Kenyon spat. "Have you learned no shame, no sense of guilt for what you have done? You cost a good man his life."

"I saved yours, and every man-jack aboard, sir," Alan retorted. "Besides, Claghorne was ready to strike as soon as he saw that brig, and nothing you or anyone else could have said would have changed his mind, and not doing everything in one's power to prepare a ship to fight, or offering no resistance when there's a chance to do so is cowardice, at least a court-martial offense on one charge, sir. But we did offer resistance, and I proved that resistance was possible, so Claghorne should have been strung up, or cashiered. Now it's not my fault Sir Onsley gave that fatuous clown Parrot, sir. Had he given it a little thought, he would have known it was a death sentence, and…"

"God, I knew you were base, but I had no idea you were such a cold-blooded, dissembling hound, Lewrie!" Kenyon marveled. "Had the colors still been flying, your resistance would have resulted in every man-jack, as you put it, slaughtered with cold steel. And to smear a good man's name, to call him a clown, a fatuous clown… I once thought highly of you, Lewrie. I asked for you in Parrot. I took you under my aegis when I saw how you were floundering about those first weeks in Ariadne. I'd like to think that what little you have learned about the Navy was partly my doing."

"It is, sir, believe me."

"I gave you my trust," Kenyon went on, his heart almost breaking as the enormity of Alan's perceived sins overwhelmed his anger. "I brought you up from a seasick younker, taught you, gave you room to grow as a seaman, gave you responsibility, and I thought you were growing into a fine young man. But then you let me down so badly."

"I am sorry you see things that way, sir." Alan calmed, knowing he would not be able to get through Kenyon's screen of bile with any logic. "But I was technically second in command of Parrot at the time, and had a responsibility to do everything I could to prevent us being taken. Lord Cantner's knowledge of government secrets, their persons, the ship's people…"

"Don't cloak your actions in any false sense of duty," Kenyon snapped, back in rancor again. "I told you in my letter I'd not abide you in my presence, nor in my Navy, and I meant it. There's a vile streak to you that belongs in the gutter, not strutting about a quarterdeck as a junior warrant. Now I'm first officer into this ship, I shall make sure you serve her, and the Fleet, no longer than necessary."

"And satisfactory performance at my duties could not alter your resolve, sir," Alan sighed, steeling himself to use his ammunition.

"Not a whit, Lewrie. I mean to see you cashiered, or broken to ordinary seaman and sent forward in pusser's slops."

"That's devilish unfair, sir."

"Not to my lights it ain't."

"There are other officers who think highly of me in this ship, sir," Alan countered. "Your intent will look like persecution."

"I've been in the Navy ten years longer than you, Lewrie, I can find a way, believe me," Kenyon promised with a lupine grin that lit his countenance for a bleak moment. "And when you are broken, I'll shed a martyr's tears over your lost potential. No one shall portray sadness more than I."

"Ah, but you are good at acting, sir," Alan let slip out as the threat loosened his last cautions. "By the way, sir, have you seen Sir Richard Slade in Kingston lately?"

"What do you mean, sir?" Kenyon asked, suddenly on his guard.

"I was just wondering if he was still buggering his little black link-boys, and the odd house-guest?" Alan replied. In for the penny, in for the bloody pound, he thought grimly.

"You think that I…" Kenyon spluttered, but Alan was delighted to note that the man had blanched a fresh, book-paper white under his deep tropical tan, and his eyes almost bulged out of his head.

"I was in 'The Grapes' when you and Sir Richard came up in his coach, sir," Alan went on. "I saw the crest on the door, recognized the man, and the naval lieutenant in the coach with him, sir."

"I never suspected until now just how filthy you are, Lewrie," Kenyon muttered, still floundering after that broadside to his hull. "All the more reason to break you and toss you back into the sinks and stews you came from!"

"But do I malign you, sir?" Alan asked, fighting a grin of triumph. "Or is your manhood just another sham?"

"You'll pay for this," Kenyon said, once he had regained control over himself. He smiled wickedly, which smile made Lewrie wonder if he was half the sly-boots he had thought himself just a second before. But he knew what he had seen, didn't he?

"A beslimed little get like you'll not hope to threaten me with a blackguard's tale, Lewrie," Kenyon swore. "I promised I'd break you, and I shall. And I tell you this. For trying to blackmail me into leniency, I swear I'll see you at the gratings, getting striped by the cat. You'll leave the Navy wearing the 'checkered shirt' that I'll put on you. I'll see you flayed raw and half-killed, and you know I can find a way to do it, don't you. Don't you? Answer me, you Goddamned rogue!"

"Aye, sir," Alan was forced to admit, for the sin of not answering could be construed as a charge of dumb insolence, enough to get him disrated from master's mate, if Railsford was of mind.

"I assure you you'll pay," Kenyon promised, with almost a lover's sweetness. "You'll not enjoy a moment's peace from this day on. And I also assure you, you'll not enjoy what's coming to you. Now get out of my sight!"

"Aye aye, sir," Alan said, saluting and turning away. As he made his way blindly forward, he suffered a cold, shivering fit at what a cock-up he had made of things with his defiant remarks. There was a sheen of sweat on his body and he was like to faint from the encounter.