Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

"You'd think, with all the talents mankind has at his disposal, there'd be someone working on a machine to harvest sugar cane instead of causing so much misery. As if life isn't misery enough already."

"God, wouldn't that be grand, sir!" Cony beamed. "An' I'll lay ya odds, it'll be an Englishman what does invent it, sir. Britons'll never be no man's slave, so why 'elp make other people our'n?"

In the months during the siege of Yorktown, in their escape, and ever since Cony had become first his hammockman in the midshipmen's mess and later his personal servant, it was only natural that Alan would become familiar with the young man. It was no longer an officer/common seaman relationship, nor was it strictly an employer/servant relationship, either. Cony had little education, no philosophical practice, but a strong sense of justice and decency, and had learned that in most instances, Lewrie was willing to give his opinions a fair hearing, which had encouraged the lad to speak out when he felt something strongly enough.

Perhaps it was because they had shared misery together, or the familiarity had come from Alan having so few people he could relate to on a professional basis; his circle was limited to the captain and the other officers in the wardroom, and he had to be standoff-ish with those or suffer a loss of respect. Decorum demanded he stay aloof, and it was only with Lilycrop that he could let down his hair, him and Cony, though he had yet to ask Cony for an opinion or advice-that would be going too far, he thought. One could be seen, warts and all, by a servant of long standing (which was probably why people changed them so often, he thought) but an English gentleman was drilled from the cradle to not get too close to the help, and never allow his dignity to slip before the servants.

A few warts were allowed, then, but if Cony really knew him for the rake-hell he was, he was sure Cony would lose his awe of him in short order.

"What else did Andrews say?" Alan asked, still intrigued by the man.

"Well, sir, 'e said back on the plantations, they beat 'em for almost anythin'," Cony went on, now that he was bid to speak further. "Rice an' beans, some truck they grow in their own time maybe, an' now an' agin some salt-meat…"

"Most likely condemned naval stores, that," Alan stuck in.

"Aye, sir. An' new clothes but once a year, after ever'thin' else's rotted off 'em." Cony sighed. "Treat 'em like beasts, sir, an' th' way they abuse the women, sir, is somethin' shameful. Ya know, sir, I can expect the practice o' the Frogs an' Dagoes. They's just cruel ta the bone with 'orses an' dogs an' people, but sometime 'tis 'ard ta see Britons a'doin' it here in the islands, or in the Colonies. Remember them escaped slaves what 'elped us build an' man the battery at Yorktown? Like whipped puppies they were, sir, grateful for what little we could share with 'em. Come away ta us ta escape their masters, poor old things. Wonder what the Rebels did with 'em after Cornwallis surrendered?"

"Same as today, most like," Alan scowled. "Them they didn't flog or hang for an example. Same they do with a runaway apprentice, hey?"

"That's differ'nt, sir," Cony insisted. "A 'prentice made 'is own choice o' master, made 'is contrack an' give 'is bond-word. Nobody asked those poor buggers. An' a 'arsh master deserves his 'prentices runnin', long's they don't steal nothin' when they go."

"Damme, Cony, you sound like one of those Leveling Rebels!"

"Nossir!" Cony defended himself. "They wanta give ever'body, the unlettered an' the poor the franchise, don't they? An' fer all their 'igh-tone' talk o' freedom, they still keep slaves ta toil for 'em sir. Seems ta me, iffen they mean all that guff, an' don't do away with slavery, they won't 'ave much of a country. They may o' been English once, sir, but livin' so wild an' rough musta addled 'em, an' I couldn't 'old with 'em now."

"Well, it didn't affect the Chiswicks," Alan said. "They're still our sort."

"Oh, aye, them Chiswick lads 'ad their 'earts in the right place fer King George an' all, sir, even if they were so fearsome. And you'll pardon me fer sayin' so, sir, but young Mistress Chiswick was fair took with you, sir. She was a real lady." Cony blushed at his own daring.

"And certain people of my acquaintance aren't?" Alan frowned.

"Not my place ta say, sir. Beg pardon, meant no disrespeck."

"The hell you didn't, you sly-boots." Alan laughed, even if his servant had come too close for comfort. "Off with you now, and keep an eye on Andrews for me, will you?"

"Aye, sir, that I will. 'E's a pretty good feller. An' 'e was grateful ya didn't pay 'eed ta what Mister Murray said about 'im, sir."

"So you think he ran from some slaver, too, Cony?"

"Aye, sir, I thinks 'e did," Cony almost whispered. "Not from the fields… mebbe a 'ouse servant'r such… ya know, sir, 'e can read and write? Now ain't that a wonder! 'E never goes ashore 'cept h'it's a workin' party. Maybe 'e's afeard o' bein' took back."

"Well, he'll not be, you can tell him that for me," Alan vowed.

"Aye, sir," Cony replied, looking mightily pleased.

Once the main bustle was over, and the shore authorities took charge of their prizes, Shrike stayed at her anchor stowing fresh provisions, with Lewrie keeping a wary weather eye cocked on Henry Biggs the purser for any peculiarities in goods or bookkeeping.

Lilycrop strutted about, pleased as punch with himself for taking so many prizes and burning so many more. Their captured Don Thingummy had related that Shrike was becoming feared from one end of the coast of Cuba to the other. And Adml. Sir Joshua Rowley, who took an eighth share of any prize his squadron captured, had made a pretty penny from Lilycrop's new-found zeal, so he was most pleased with his junior officer. Which meant that Lilycrop was pleased with the world, and with his first lieutenant. Alan, however, did not know just how far that pleasure extended until one afternoon after Shrike had completed provisioning and placed the ship out of discipline so the whores and "wives" could come aboard. Alan had been primping for a run ashore. Even if he was persona non grata with the Beaumans and Mrs. Hillwood (who was reported to have gone inland to her husband's plantations to ride out the scandal that had redounded to her total discredit in Society) there had to be a company of willing mutton ashore to choose from.

"Passin' the word fer the first l'ten't!" came a call from the upper deck, and Alan uttered a soft curse at the interruption of his planned pleasures. He tossed his fresh-washed sheepgut condom back into his sea chest and slammed the lid in frustration. Damme, it's been two months! he sulked on his way topside.

"Cap'n warnts ya aft, sir," the messenger told him.

"Thank you." Alan shrugged. He was turned out in his best uniform, and was grateful for the awnings rigged over the quarterdeck so he would not sweat his best clothes clammy, but it would be hot and close in Lilycrop's great cabin.

"You wished to see me, sir?" Alan asked once he had been admitted.

"Yes, Mister Lewrie. Sit ye down. You know where the wine is, by now. Fetch yourself a glass."

Alan poured himself some hock which Gooch had been cooling in the bilges, shoved a cat out of his usual chair, and glared at the rest, as if daring them to climb up on him and leave a quarter-pound of hair on his fresh breeches.

"You had plans to go ashore this evenin'. I see," Lilycrop said, noting how well he was turned out.

"Aye, I did, sir. But if there's any service I may do you…?"

"Oh God, but you look such a choir-boy when you do that," Lilycrop chuckled. "You'd rather be stuffed into some willin' wench than do me a service, an' well you know it. More to the point, so do I, by now."

"Aye, sir," Alan admitted, allowing himself a small smile.

"Can't say as you didn't earn your fun. Mister Lewrie," the captain went on, leaning back in his chair with both feet on his desk and a cat crouching on either leg. "Fact is, though, you may have to delay any hopes of fuckin' yourself half-blind, at least for this night. I've been bade dine aboard the flag, along with my first officer."

"With Admiral Rowley, sir?" Alan asked, perking up at the news.

"One may assume so. Seems we've been active little bodies, all but winnin' the war single-handed or such," Lilycrop hooted in glee. "And it don't hurt our cause we've lined the admiral's purse with prize-money, neither. Six month ago, he didn't know who the bloody hell we were, and I expect he'd like to show a little appreciation to us. Now, you can pass up a crack at the whores for a night for that, can't you, Lewrie."

"Oh, aye, sir!" Alan preened, excited at being known personally to the flag. "Lead me to it. And I'm told he sets a good table, too."

"You have my word on that," Lilycrop replied, for he had dined aboard the flag once before. "Fine things can happen yet, even if this war of ours seems to be peterin' out."

"Time enough for a lieutenant master and commander to be made post, perhaps, sir?" Alan hinted.

"I'll not hold my breath on that, mind." Lilycrop shrugged, but Alan knew the hope was there nevertheless. "Just wanted to catch you before you went ashore. Have my gig ready at seven bells of the first-dog. And since you're dressed to kill already, I'll not have to tell you to do so. That'll be all, Mister Lewrie."

"Aye, sir."

Amazing how quiet we are, Alan thought to himself as he sipped his soup in the admiral's cabins aboard the flagship. It was a small supper party, and not one prone to much conversation. Lieutenant Lilycrop was head down and almost grim with determination not to make an ass of himself, and as long as he was silent, his first lieutenant should keep his own mouth shut, if he knew what was good for him.

Adml. Sir Joshua Rowley presided at the head of the table, a man of some girth and seniority. Next to him on his right was a Lieutenant Colonel Peacock, commanding one of the regiments that garrisoned the island of Jamaica, resplendent in polished metal gorget, scarlet waist sash and red regimentals. To the admiral's left sat a civilian in a bottle-green silk suiting, a Mr. Cowell.

The next pair of diners were, on the right, a Captain Eccles of Lieutenant Colonel Peacock's regiment; at least, to Lewrie's eyes, their regimental button-hole trim matched. Across the table from Eccles was another civilian named to them as a Mr. McGilliveray, a young man in his mid-twenties or so. From the poor quality of his snuff-colored suiting of "ditto"-matching coat, waist-coat and breeches-Alan assumed that he was Cowell's secretary, or something menial.

Then came Lewrie on the admiral's left, and Lieutenant Lilycrop across from him on the right. There had been a place laid for the admiral's flag-captain at the foot of the table, but he had not been able to attend at the last moment.

There had been some conversation, of the dullest and blandest sort, when they arrived, and the admiral traded gossip at the head of the table with his more distinguished guests, which did not extend to the people below the salt. From Cowell's comments, Alan gathered that he was not long from London. Turning to McGilliveray, his dining companion on his right, Alan said, "I take it you're out from Home recently?"

"Not in about a year, sorry," the man replied with almost a guttural slurring of his words, which led Alan to wonder if he was drunk as a lord already.

"Ah. I'm from London, you see," Alan went on. "Thought you might know something entertaining about things there."

"Oh, London." McGilliveray brightened slightly (but only slightly). "Yes, six months ago. About the same sort of thing as usual. Crowded, prices too high, much too noisy."