Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

He charged up the ladders from the holds to the upper deck and the starboard gangway, where an impeccably dressed midshipman of about fourteen was waiting with a sealed letter.

"I'm Lewrie," he said, wiping his damp palms on his working rig slop trousers as though the folded and waxed parchment was a holy relic.

"For you, sir, from the flag."

"Thank you," Alan said, turning it over. He sucked in his breath in surprise. It was addressed to Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy.

"Yes, by God!" he shouted, thrusting that missive at the sky in triumph. It was salvation from Kenyon's wrath, a certain posting into another vessel. It was vindication for all the misery and danger he had faced, willing or not, since being forced most unwillingly into the Navy two years before. It was also, he reflected in his victory, the keys to Lucy Beauman and her father's money as soon as he could get his young arse back to Kingston and ask for her hand.

He broke the wax wafer and unfolded the letter. He was instructed to equip himself as a commission officer and report aboard HM Shrike, brig o' war, twelve guns, Lieutenant Lilycrop master and commander, with all despatch or risk the senior admiral's displeasure. Failing that, he was to communicate to the flag any inability to comply either in accepting a commission or fulfilling his orders, with the threat of immediate loss of income and dismissal from the Fleet.

"Yes, by God!" he repeated, reading it through once more and savoring the words. "Cony, go below and start packing my sea chest."

"Yer a officer, sir?" Cony goggled.

"Yes, I am," Alan replied in exultation.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but you'll be a'goin' into another ship, then? You'll be a'needin' a servant, sir, an' I'd be that proud ta be yer man, sir," Cony offered.

"Then you shall be. I must see the captain. Off with you."

He went down to the gun deck and aft to the main entrance to the captain's quarters where a fully uniformed Marine sentry stood to serve as guard and tiler.

"'E's wif t' pusser, Mister Lewrie," the sentry told him.

"Even better." Alan grinned. "Tell him Lieutenant Lewrie is here to see him."

"Oh, Lor', Mister Lewrie, don' you be japin' now," the sentry chided from long familiarity with a young man who was to his lights not much more than a jumped-up younker half his own age.

"No jest," Alan said, waving the parchment as proof.

The sentry shrugged and came to attention, banging his musket butt on the oak decking and shouting at the top of his lungs. "Lef'ten't Lewrie, sah!"

Freeling opened the cabin door immediately and Alan entered the great cabins, where Railsford and Cheatham had been going over the books and having a glass of wine together.

"This is not your idea of humor?" Railsford asked, his face somber but his eyes twinkling.

"No, sir. The flag-captain has promoted me a commission officer into a brig o' war, the Shrike ," Alan told him proudly.

"My stars above," Cheatham said, rising from his seat to take Lewrie's hand and pump it excitedly. "How marvelous for you!"

"Freeling, fetch an extra glass," Railsford instructed. "We'll take a bumper in celebration. Sit you down, Mister Lewrie. Or should I say, Alan. By God, it is marvelous news."

"Thank you, sir."

"Sorry that we have to lose you, though," Cheatham sighed after they had drained their glasses and sent Freeling digging into the wine cabinet for a fresh bottle to toast his good fortune. "But, my word, what fortune you have had in the last year with us."

"Yes, I shall miss you both, sirs," Alan replied. "You've done so much for me, both professionally and personally, I'll feel adrift without you as my mentors."

Damme if I won't miss them, he thought ruefully, realizing at that moment that he would indeed be leaving Desperate. Much as he feared remaining near Kenyon and his wrath, he would be departing the first ship he had (mostly) enjoyed service in, where Railsford had always been there, believing in him and turning away Treghues' original ill humor toward him, where Cheatham had done so much to clear up his family problems back in London and get him absolved of the false charges that had led to his arrival in the Navy. They've been good to me, he thought, and what'll a new ship be like without 'em?

"Well, you'll be on your own bottom," Railsford said. "But if you continue as you have lately, I'm sure you shall prosper. It's the Navy's way of snipping the leading strings. Really, there wasn't much more you could learn here, and no way the Navy could promote you an officer in the same ship in which you served as a junior warrant."

"The letter says 'with all despatch,' sir," Alan told them. "Does that mean that I depart instantly? I would appreciate it if you gave me one more fair wind to steer by in this regard."

"Let me see," Railsford said, taking the precious document. "Hmm, you shall have to go aboard the flag to get your certificate of commission, since it is not here. Mister Cheatham shall have to square away your accounts, and I shall instruct my clerk to arrange your pay vouchers and prize-money certificates. Go aboard the flag now and see the pertinent clerk or flag-lieutenant. There's daylight enough for you to take a night's lodging ashore and get to the tailors."

"You might see Woodridge's," Cheatham suggested as Freeling got the fresh bottle circulating. "He has a fine selection of ready coats, and I know you may trade your old midshipman's jackets in partial payment." He concluded with a knowing wink, "Tell him I said to go easy on you and you may get away for less."

"Thank you, Mister Cheatham. I seem to be forever in your debt."

"And you shall square every penny of it before we let you get off this ship, sir," Cheatham japed. "I shall go calculate the reckoning."

Once alone, Railsford leaned back in his chair and flung a leg over the arm and studied Lewrie closely. "You know, this is a fine moment for me. To see you with a commission."

"And for you to be promoted to commander with Desperate as yours," Alan countered.

"Ah, 'twon't last." Railsford grimaced. "The war may end soon and I may not be confirmed before it does. Desperate shall pay off in another year no matter what happens, and I shall most likely go back to being a half-pay lieutenant, liable for stoppages on commander's pay."

"But there is a power of prize-money to soften the blow, sir." Alan grinned. "And war enough still to get you made post."

"Aye, there's that, God willing, if we pitch into the Frogs and Dagoes sharp enough, and I intend to do just that. Damme, it's fine to think of you with a commission, though. I remember when it happened to me. Up and out of a ship I'd served in for three years, into a new one full of strangers. God, I missed Hercules for months! I don't know this… Lilycrop, is it? God help the poor man with a name like that. But I tell you truly, Alan, he'll be getting a good officer."

"You do me too much honor, sir," Alan confessed. "I'm proud as hot punch, but scared to death at the moment. And I feel like such a little fraud, and sooner or later someone's going to find me out, sir."

"'Tis only natural to be nervous about all the added responsibility," Railsford said, comfortingly, leaning forward on his desk. "And you'll no longer have patrons in your new ship to protect you. God knows, you have been more in need of protection than most. But it was worth it, I think. You've turned out main well, with nothing to be ashamed of."

"Thank you, sir, thankee kindly," Alan replied, choking up at the thought of being adrift from the cosseting he had gotten.

"Well, one bad part about this Navy of ours is that when you make great friends they get transferred to the other side of the world and one never sees them again, while the dross keep showing up, one commission after another." Railsford harrumphed, stifling his own emotions. "Another thing is that, as the Bard said, 'parting is such sweet sorrow.' Best do it short and direct, and have done. There's a power of errands you must run before reporting to this… Shrike … so let us say our farewells now, and let you get on about your business. But keep in touch. Drop us a letter now and again. Who knows, at this rate of advancement, I could be coming to you for a favor someday, when I'm still a long-in-tooth lieutenant and you're a high and mighty post-captain."

They stood and shook hands, almost equals now for the first time, and Railsford did him the grace to walk him to the door. "By the way, I meant to ask you something. Lieutenant Kenyon wasn't exactly enthralled with giving you suitable recommendations. Do you know of any reason why he should have been loath to sponsor you? He said he didn't want to lose you, but he acted deuced odd about it."

Damme, that's the trouble with such a died-in-the-wool rogue like me being around decent people like Railsford and Cheatham, Alan thought. Sooner or later their ways rub off and keep you from doing the sensible thing.

He could square Kenyon's yards by mentioning his sexual preferences, what he had seen that night in Kingston, and end up ruining the man's career, removing him as a threat to him forever. But, he rationalized, he was out and away from him, and would probably never cross his hawse again in this life. Shrike would be his escape, and if he did good duty in her, no one could ever threaten his standing in the Navy, not with the record he had posted so far. So he relented.

"He mentioned that Mister Claghorne had committed suicide after he gained his commission and command of old Parrot , sir. But other than that, I can think of no animosity," Alan said with a straight face.

"Oh, poor fellow," Railsford sighed. "Still, some people are made to handle the solitude of command and some go under. No, this poor Claghorne was not your problem. And as I remember you saying once, Kenyon was down with Yellow Jack at the time. He most like blames himself for not being able to give the benighted soul leadership at such a stressful moment, which broke his spirit. Well, off with you, you rogue! Make a name for yourself in this Shrike, and we'll see you a post-captain yet."

Thank God for looking glasses for vain cock-a-hoops like me, Lt. Alan Lewrie, RN, thought to himself with a smugness matched by the smile that greeted him in the hall mirror of the Old Lamb Tavern as he entered.

The cocked hat which had adorned his head nigh on for nearly two and a half years had lost its plainness with the addition of the wide vertical gold strip of lace, held by a gold fouled-anchor button, under which a stiff little bow of black silk riband stuck up above the rim of the brim in a commission officer's "dog's vane."

Black neck cloth over the stock, and the longer tailed naval blue coat with its low stand-collar trimmed at the edge in white. The pristine new broad white turn-back lapels that ran from collarbone to his waist, also adorned with gold buttons bearing the fouled anchor device of his Service. He reached up a hand to remove the cocked hat and could not help but admire his sleeve, dressed with a wide white cuff, a widely spaced row of three large gold cuff buttons.

Damme, but I make a fine- looking officer, he preened.

"'Ere fer the commission party, sir?" one of the tavern's daisy-kickers asked, wipping his ale-stained hands on the universal blue publican's apron. "Take yer 'at, sir?"

"Yes, thankee, yes I am. Guest of honor, actually," Alan said, sneaking one last look in the mirror to see if his light brown hair was in place, the black silk riband tied properly around his now long and seamanly queue of hair at the back of his collar. He could not help winking one blue-grey eye at himself as the servant took his hat away for safekeeping.