Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

Alan, encumbered with Pitt in his lap, began to spur forward, but Caroline acted for herself. She leaned forward and lashed Harry with her reins, with which she had been nervously toying, across his ruined beak! Harry yelped in redoubled agony and sprang away, hands up to protect his face once more, hunching over as Caroline rode forward, herding him like a steer and lashing at him.

"That for your slurs, Harry Embleton!" she cried. "That for your cruelty! Slander me, will you? Put your dogs on our cat, will you? That for a purse-proud… Tom-Noddy! You vile wretch!"

"Caroline, for God's sake!" Alan shouted, riding up even with her and taking her hands, taking her reins to stop her and lead her away before even more lasting harm was done. "Drop it! Dead'un!"

"Damn him!" She spat, her color up and her hazel eyes ablaze.

"I think he got your point, m'dear," Alan told her. And he could not help himself from betraying his feelings with an approving smile. Caroline blew out a deep breath and looked at him, then she began to smile, too; lowered her head and bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud at the sight of Harry scuttling away, though no more blows struck him.

"By God, you're a Tartar, no error!" Alan told her. "I hope you have not deceived me with amiability. Am I to wed a termagant?" he cajoled, leading her towards the Chiswick house.

"Oh, Alan, no!" Caroline softened at last "You must never think that of me! It's simply his… I am sorry I usurped your place as my defender, darling. But the fool rowed me beyond… he struck you, Alan! He'd have killed Pitt to spite us. And what he called me! Had I a gun, I'd have soon shot him as looked at him. Had I a sword, I'd have run him through, God help me!"

"Sounds termagant to me," Alan said, tongue in cheek.

"I promise I shall be a proper wife to you, Alan." She calmed. "Properly demure and so very affectionate and complaisant. Surely, I trust to your affectionate and gentle nature. There will be nothing but the sweetest tranquility and joy between us. I know that, sure as I know anything in this life!"

"A 'goody,'" Alan japed. "Your uncle's favorite word."

"Oh, aye, a 'goody'!" Caroline replied, throwing her head backto chuckle with wry amusement. "Though I fear he favors 'economical' the more! Your 'goody,' at last, my dearest love."

They took hands between, riding knee to knee, and gazed into each other's eyes.

Damme, Alan thought, but she's got more bottom than any woman ever I did see! With her wits, and her fire, I'm in for a lively old time with her. Might be more interesting than I thought. Who said a marriage had to be drab as ditchwater?

"Your uncle won't care for this much," he sobered.

"Dearest Alan, I don't know anyone in Anglesgreen who will," she rejoined. "This is the stuff Welsh feuds are made of. Will you duel him?" she asked suddenly, realizing the ramifications. "I beg of you, do not!"

"He's a hen-hearted buffle-head." Alan sneered. "And he got a lot worse than he gave, after all. I doubt Sir Romney wants his boy carved up any more than he already is. He'll be a lifetime living this shame down, and I doubt he's the nutmegs to do more than slink away to London or Guildford. Away from all his friends and neighbors who saw his beastly behavior."

"He looked and sounded completely daft, Alan," Caroline said with a frown. "Oh, Lord, what if he found the bottom to challenge you? Crossed in love, bested before his contemporaries…"

"By you, as well, Caroline," Alan laughed heartily. "If indeed he does summon up the stones, I'll be your second!"

\

There was no challenge, though it had been deemed prudent for Lewrie to ride back to London to gather what household furnishings he possessed from storage with the Matthewses at his old lodgings, to make himself scarce for a week or so, whilst Caroline gathered her own trousseau and goods, bought what was lacking, and ordered a new gown from the dressmaker's.

There had been a lot of sighing, mooning and handwringing in the Chiswick house. Uncle Phineas, bemoaning his now-confounded schemes, praying only for icy civility at best from the Embletons for the rest of his life; Mother Charlotte sunk deep in the moping Blue Devils which required an hourly change of handkerchiefs and lots of sad "alases"; Govemour and Millicent squint-a-pipes, split two ways by fondness for Alan and Caroline, and regrets for connections which were now effectively severed, removing Millicent Chiswick nee Embleton from familiar converse, and Governour from hope of support for Parliament, or the conjoining of the lands.

It had been a rather grim wedding party, with half the guests either secretly armed to prevent further scandal, in support of the Chiswicks; or present to gawk and gossip as if their nuptials were a raree show or dramatick which would end in high-flown and safely vicarious violence. Well represented though the gentry were, there had been few representatives solidly partisan, or beholden, to the baronet and his son. And, of course, no Embletons at all, save wan, but game to the last, Millicent.

The wedding supper had been held at the Ploughman instead of the Red Swan Inn, and Alan suspected that whenever he had cause to return to Anglesgreen (God help him on those rare occasions) he would do his tippling and socializing there for the rest of his natural life, odious as that thought was to him once he had inspected the dim, sooty, slightly rank gloominess of that shoddily delapidated establishment.

And, finally and most unhappily, it had been deemed, again, prudent, for the "happy couple" to depart instanter for Portsmouth, rather than consummate the vows in any local bed.

They had had to coach as far as Petersfield to feel safely out of range of any residual rancor. Once there, in a homey, low-ceilinged set of rooms at a rambling old coaching inn, the happy couple celebrated the especial bliss of newly begun married life in proper style, which left Caroline purring, and Alan so ecstatically spent, and so delighted by her physical charms and her ardor that he wondered just how he was going to deal with being separated from her once his new ship was ready for sea.

Charms or no, there was a thrill of expectation that morning. Following a teasing, tickling, mirthful and infinitely pleasing bout after the "abigail" at the George Inn had brought their tea, breakfast in the public rooms, and a lingering goodbye kiss, Alan still felt an impatient urge to tear away from her.

Dressed in his best, brand-new uniform, white waistcoat and breeches gleaming, and buttons and metal appointments shining fit to blind the unwary, Lt. Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy, made his presence known at the shore offices of the Port Admiral before going out to his new command.

"And you are?" a punctilious silver-buttoned naval clerk said with a traplike opening and shutting of a severe little mouth.

"Lewrie, sir," Alan replied. "I'm come to take command of Alacrity."

The clerk looked him over carefully, one bored eyebrow cocked in cynical appraisal. Silver-Buttons had sometimes been appalled by the turnout of some holders of the King's Commission, by how shabbily and "pinchbeck" salty stalwarts could dress themselves, as if their slightest attempt at nearness was a civilian crime.

Silver-Buttons also made a rough estimate of Lieutenant Lewrie's value during his appraisal. Real gold coat buttons, not gilded; a new cocked hat, and by the officer's London accent, probably from James Lock. Real silver buckles on his shoes; a good watch and impressive fob, and a damned good sword, even if it was a hanger and not a slim, straight smallsword. A Gill' s, and they didn't come cheap! Hmm!

Silver-Buttons rang a tiny handbell on his desk to summon his compatriot, the regulating captain of the Portsmouth Impress Service. Aye, this Lieutenant Lewrie had the wherewithal, unlike so many others, and could pay to get his ship commissioned and manned when the pettifogging frustrations of the dockyards (and Silver-Buttons knew just how to invent said frustrations) became insurmountable for an aspiring young captain. Not too much, though, Silver-Buttons decided; that scar upon the cheek, that restless look in those genial eyes (were they gray or were they blue, he dithered) spoke caution, and a limit to what Lewrie might abide before making loud complaints to Silver-Buttons' superior.

"Might I see your orders, Mister Lewrie?" The clerk smiled, deciding upon a larger measure of civility than was his wont.

Alan surrendered his documents from the Admiralty.

"You'd be amazed how many Sea Officers positively lurk around this anteroom," Silver-Buttons "tsk-tsked" as he read those precious papers. "Or attempt to bluff their way aboard a ship, bold as a dog-in-a-doublet. One must be certain of the bona fides in these times. Aye, yours are quite in order, sir," he concluded with a smirk.

"Quite, sir," Alan nodded, itching to get his documents back, and safely into a deep side pocket of his coat. "Would it be proper for me to make my courtesy call to the Port Admiral at once, sir, or might I perform that chore after reading myself in?"

"I regret to inform you, Lieutenant Lewrie, that that worthy is not here. Nor will he be for the rest of the week," Silver-Buttons sighed with an audible sniff. "Matters of state in London, with the Board of Admiralty, do you see? Ah, Captain Palmer! Captain Palmer, allow me to name to you Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, come down to assume a new command. Lieutenant Lewrie, our Regulating Captain."

"Your servant, sir," Lewrie said, extending a hand to the oily older man who had appeared with breakfast grease on his chin.

"Nay, I be yours, sir. And that, soon, I'm thinking. And what ship?"

"The Alacrity, sir."

"Alacrity, Alacrity, hmm…" Silver-Buttons mused, searching his files stacked in untidy piles on a sideboard.

"A ketch-rigged sloop, sir. To turn over, then fit out for the Bahamas Squadron," Lewrie prodded impatiendy.

"Ah, here we are!" Silver-Buttons brightened. "Ten-gunned, once a bomb ketch. Should have been in port over a month ago, but she found nasty gales returning from Gibraltar and broke her passage, hmm… once in Lisbon. And a second time in Nantes. Odd."Odd, sir? What's odd?" Lewrie fretted. "Was she damaged? How badly? To dock in Frogland… she is here, is she not, sir?"

"Well, of course she's here, Lieutenant Lewrie!" Silver-Buttons snapped. "Else how would I have this paperwork, hey? Came in Tuesday last. As to her material condition, I haven't a clue, though. I cannot be expected to keep track of everything! Aha. Docked and breamed last week, her coppering redone, and is now lying at anchor, awaiting turnover."

"And does that say how many hands stayed aboard, sir?" Lewrie continued. "Any Discharged I must recruit to replace, or will the men turn over entire?"

"Portsmouth's full o' willin' hands, sir," Captain Palmer said after masticating a last, fetching bite of bacon. "I'll be that able to fulfill yer ev'ry desire. Bahamers, is it to be, did y'say? Then y'd rest easy to know there's Cuffy sailors aplenty, awishin' the hot o' their tropics. Mister Powlett's Marine Society o' London's sent down a draft o' their very best, and were ya able to deem 'em Ordinary Seamen, seein' as how they know their knots an' can box the compass good as a hand a year at sea, then half yer problem's solved, I say!"