Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

Damned handsome wench, Lewrie appraised silently. More coffee-milk than black. Huge brown eyes, that pouty mouth, and… Christ!

"Just taking my ease for the day," he said at last.

"Dot rum punch be bettah wit' de pineopple in it, sah. Ya let me show ya how, sah, an' do I get a glass, I be obliged," she teased. "De son, he be hot t'day, Cap'um sah."

Oh, Christ, I'd best…! He squirmed inside.

"Take a seat with me," he said instead. "Indeed, it is a hot day. I'd not see a lady suffer. And it's a very old paper. And who might you be?"

"M'name's Wyannie, sah. Wyannie Slocum," she smiled in victory.

Hot, sweaty couplings they had, in a rented room of the tavern. Bodies sheened with perspiration as they plunged away at each other in total, wanton abandon. Her legs were strong and muscular, and Wyannie bucked and thrust back at him with equal vigor, enfolding him with all her limbs, writhing and shoving to meet him hard enough to lift him in the air off the crackling straw mattress and creaking bedropes. She squalled and grunted, panted and lowed like a cow, cursed and groaned and shuddered, then ended each time in hissing screams.

There was more rum punch between bouts, mutual sponge-downs with a pitcher of water and a mildewed handcloth, which renewed their heat. She'd roll a firm thigh across him to ride St. George as he squeezed those heavy breasts, or teased large, dark rock-hard nipples with his thumbs. Once she romped atop him facing away toward his feet, which led to her bent forward, kneeling on the side of the rickety, low cot and him standing behind her with a death grip on her madly rocking hips as he thrust deep into her as frantic as a hound, sweat rolling off his chest and belly, off her solidly firm buttocks, to mingle with their juices. They'd bellowed like bulls and had fallen almost senseless in an exhausted swoon after that one, Alan's mind areel with her cheap perfume, a woman's odors, and her exotic, musky aroma.

"You come t'Clarence Town agin, Alan?" she breathed lazy as a cat as she lolled open and idle beside him. She picked up a top-silver palmetto-frond fan and began to cool him. "Got me a nice shack down t'the beach. We c'n go dere nex' time, luvah-mon. Save ya money an' not need t'rent a room heah."

"We never did discuss your fee," Alan sighed. "We were a touch too… eager, for tawdry business talk."

"Ah ain't no who'," she chuckled as she rolled over to kiss and fondle him. "Jus' walk inta town t'market, an' sell m'melons an' veg'tables. Jus' comin' heah t'buy m'rum, an' dere ya wuz, a'lookin' finel Had me a mon, but he drown las' year fishin', an' nobody else since. Nobody 'roun' heah wort' messin' wit'!" she snorted in contempt. "Some as tried. An' I ain't sayin' de lonely don' pester me s'hard I didn' sport wit a mon a time'r two. I be a who', Lord, I en' up payin' you, darlin'! No, I got me a patch o' white Ian', I got de nets, an' goats an' chick'ns, so I c'n keep m'self right good most de time. Ya don' owe me nottin', luv."

"Well, stap me!" Alan purred, pleased as punch at the news.

"I know ya ship come heah once de mont'," she said, sitting up on one elbow and leaning over so her breasts spilled over his chest. "Ya come t'me, hey? I be yer wo-m'n when yer ashore. Ya sport wit' me good's ya do t'day, Wyannie don' need dese no-'count Clarence Town bo-eys. None o' 'urn's ram-goat as you, Cap'um Alan!"

"You make a tempting offer, Wyannie," he told her. "A damned handsome offer!"

"Shack needs t'fix up some. An' I may need a few t'ings, so Ic'n look pritty fo' ya," she allowed. "Ya know wot dey say, shillin' he be good's de poun', in Clarence Town. Mebbe ya gimme two, t'ree shillin' t'tide me ovah 'til ya get bock t'me an' I c'n luv ya agin, hey, darlin' mon? Den I be ya wo-m'n, an' ya have me all t'y'self."

Right, and I'm Prince Henry the Navigator, Alan thought wryly; I thought it sounded a little too good to be true! Still…

"Wot ya say, luv?" she cooed, drawing him over to her, lifting a breast to his face to be suckled and licked, trailing her lips over his neck and shoulders. She reached down to dandle his waking member.

There came a sudden rapping on the flimsy door.

"Damn my eyes," he muttered under his breath. "Who is it?"

"Lieutenant Ballard, sir."

"Oh, shit," Alan started. "Uhm. A moment! Get dressed, girl."

He got to his feet, fuddled with rum punch and weak-kneed from past exertions, and staggered into stockings, breeches and shirt, gave up a search for his shoes, and went to open the door. He tried to step out into the rude hall and close the door behind him so Ballard would not see his companion, but Wyannie had walked into plain sight to bend over and retrieve her shift, and stood there, splendidly, provocatively nude.

Arthur Ballard's brows lifted, his wary eyes flew open, and for a fleeting moment of shock, he lost his usual calm composure. His jaw sagged, until he swallowed and shut his mouth into a prim set, his lower lip even more pouted than usual.

"What is it, Mister Ballard? Something amiss aboard?"

"Ah, no, sir," Ballard replied, still flustered, and blushing like a schoolboy. "But there's a note come aboard, sir, from the local magistrate. Said there's a letter in his possession for us from Cat Island. Been held by him for a month or more, sir."

"Hallelujah!" Alan whooped with joy. After six months of silence, any missive at all was nothing short of miraculous! "Give me a moment to dress, and I'll be right with you."

"Aye, sir. I'D wait on the veranda," Ballard blushed again.

"Do me buttons up, luvah-mon?" she asked him, dressed but for the back of her gown.

"Sorry we were interrupted. I have to go back aboard."

"Dot's fine," she smiled as she turned around to face him. "I gotta be gettin' back t'my place, anyways. Lef m'chillun wit' m'ma t'watch. Don' ya worry 'bout de kids nex' time ya come, Cap'um Alan. I shoo 'um off fo' de night ovah t'momma's."

"Of course," he said, cringing inside.

Christ on a crutch, she has children, he thought! Here I've been bulling her all over the shop, and Caroline… what of my child? Damme, but I can be such a bloody fooll

"Here, Wyannie," he said, pressing a crown into her palm.

"Lord o' mercy, Alan, ya don' need t'gimme dot much!" Wyannie protested. "I tol' ya, I ain't a who'! Two shillin keep me fine 'til ya get back. An' ya don' need t'gimme ev'n dot, luv."

"Five shillings keeps you better," he said gallantly, smiling in spite of his sudden chagrin, and knowing he'd never see her again in this life, if he had any willpower left. "Dresses you prettier, and takes care of those sprouts of yours the better, hey? Widowhood is hard any place you are. And you're much too young and pretty to be a widow in need."

"Ya sweet," she warmed to him, and accepted the coin. She gave him one last fervid embrace, one last series of open-mouthed and moist kisses. "Walk me t'de road, like a gen'mun, hey, Cap'um?"

He saw her down the hall, onto the veranda, where she retrieved her straw baskets and produce bags, doffed his hat and gave her a bow which made her smile so widely that she dimpled as she curtsied to him, and watched her stroll away loose-hipped and proud with a profound sense of relief, yet a smile of pleasant reverie on his face. Even if Arthur Ballard was watching his antics.

"Well, shall we stroll over to the magistrate's, Arthur?"

"Aye, sir."

They set off down the single street Clarence Town could boast, the afternoon swelter of a late August day only slightly tempered by the sea's breeze, kicking up small clouds of sandy dust with each step.

"Uhm, Alan," Arthur said at last. "Sir, I… uhm."

"Yes, Arthur?" Alan asked, certain that this was not to be an official matter.

"Damme, sir," Ballard cursed for the second time in Alan's recollection. "I know it's not my place. Or concern, how you conduct your personal affairs, sir."

"No, it isn't, Arthur," Alan replied. "Yet …?"

"I mean to say, though, sir. Well, there're… you are married, sir. There're vows and such," Ballard strangled out. "And to such a fine young lady as your dear Caroline, sir. Were the… uhm… had you been with a white woman, sir… dash it all, Alan, it seems such an incomprehensible slip for you to make, sir, with Caroline waiting for you in Nassau. With child! And to lay with a Cuffy slattern…"A handsome young widow, Arthur, with children of her own," Lewrie stated calmly.

Damme, but he's a priggish young swine, he thought!

"Not a year over twenty, she is. Proud, free, and independent. For your information, she did it for free, Arthur. And she was damn' good, let me tell you," Lewrie said, his perverse streak standing up on both hind legs and baying the moon down. "She's a lonely widow, and I am a weak and foolish man. We crossed hawses once, and like as not, we'll never come bulwark-to-bulwark again."

"I understand your loneliness, Alan," Ballard stuttered. "How worried you've been without news from… from Nassau."

"Don't you ever get lonely, Arthur?" Alan inquired. "Doesn't a craving for abandon come over you so powerful of a sudden that any old drab doxy'd do you? Don't you ache to put the leg over?"

"I hope to set my aim a bit higher than mere rutting, sir," Lieutenant Ballard rejoined primly. "I'd wish someday for… well, sir, for some bright and lovely young lady as fine as your wife, sir."

"Yet you turned your nose up at Elizabeth Mustin."

"A bit too frippish and… flibberti-gibbet for my lights, sir. I hope you do not take that the wrong way, seeing as how you and your wife set such store by her company, sir, but…" He shrugged.

"I don't know why I care for you as much as I do, Arthur," Alan chuckled, clapping him on the back. "You're shy as a spanked puppy in women's company. You'd lie like a butcher's dog next to a handsome bit of quim as yon Wyannie, and never sniff the beef! You don't drink but a bottle a day, bad days or good! And you're as stiff-arsed as a parson in a poor parish."

"True, sir," Ballard grimaced, rueful at the truth.

"But you've wit, and you've sense, and damme if you're not right about most things," Alan allowed, laughing out loud. "I,use mine for jollities. And I'd go dashing off on a tear without your advice half the time. Begrudge me my faults, Arthur. Mind you, I'm not asking you for forgiveness, Reverend Ballard. That's between me and Our Lords Commissioners for the Execution of the Office of Lord High Admiral of this world, and the next. Takes all kinds. I am most often one of the sorry kind, and when it comes to Caroline, damned fortunate. Made me feel good, Wyannie did. She and this mysterious note of yours have put me in a fettle such as I've not felt in months, sir! As my old Captain Lilycrop would say, feagued me so well as a lump o' ginger up a prad's rump! Ought to issue girls like her. Good for morale."

"I see, sir."

"No, you don't, you're only making noises like you do," Lewrie cajoled him. "Wish to God you did. Damme, but you take life serious, Arthur! God knows sailors don't mean much by their sins, when they do get the opportunity. Precarious as we get Life, we're a pack o' hymn-singin' castrati compared to landsmen. Try putting a foot wrong, now and again, Arthur. Go on a tear, why don't you?"

"Takes all kinds, as you say, sir," Ballard replied, grinning shyly in spite of himself. "I'll not meddle again, sir. Sorry."

"The devil you won't," Alan chortled. "And I may bark to pin your ears back, but remember I mean nothing by it And if you care enough about me to warn me when I'm about to do something lunatic, then that's what friends are for. As oddly matched as they sometimes are."