The King`s Commission - Dewey Lambdin

It would make little difference if Shrike did spend the rest of the war at her moorings, or off on boresomely empty patrols. He had fulfilled his present ambitions; a small measure of fame for cool bravery, a commission, some prize-money, and now his post as a first officer, even in a small ship. He had seen the razor-edge of terror often enough to know how mortal he was, and like any sensible person could give war a great big miss the next time, to save his own skin.

If Shrike did stay in Kingston Harbor for some time, he could get ashore to court Lucy Beauman and make a firm pact with her about their future together. And from the tone of her latest letters, that would be best, before her circle of swains and admirers monopolized her to his detriment.

So why am I urging the captain to get us active employment? he asked himself, when anyone with any sense would want to stay out of danger and go courting one of the most beautiful young women of the age. It's daft, but this Navy stuff must be getting to me.

It made him squirm to face it, but he was indeed, through no fault or wish of his own, a Sea Officer of the King. He was getting rather good at it. And it was an honorable profession, not just the Guinea Stamp admitting him to the society of other gentlemen, but now a small yet burgeoning source of pride in his abilities. God knew he had had few reasons for pride before. It was demanding, dangerous, but it was his. There was no reward on earth for meekness, so why should he be content to stand on the sidelines crying "well played, sir" to some other ambitious young bugger with better connections, when there was a chance for advancement? There were prizes to take, money to be made, further fame to be won which would ease his passage to-to what?

Post-captain? He scoffed at his speculations. Admiral's rank? A bloody knight-hood? The peerage? Why not make the most of it while I may. Lewrie, what a hopeful little fool you are! But then again, why the hell not? We could sweep the seas so clean we could come back like that Dutchman Tromp with a broom at his mast truck. Just goes to show why one shouldn't encourage people like me. Once they got a taste of something, damme if they don't aspire to the whole thing.

"Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, of the Shrike brig!" the major-domo announced over the sound of the lawn party, to which announcement very few people took notice, being too intent on their pleasures. The sun was low in the sky and the tropical day had lost most of its heat to a sea breeze that swayed the paper lanterns in the trees, toyed with the wigs of the revelers and ruffled the intricate flounces of the women's gowns. String music (something by Purcell, Alan decided after cocking an educated ear) waxed and ebbed, depending on the wind or the thickness of the throng in front of the musicians in the gazebo to his right.

He stood at the base of the brick steps that led down from the tiled and sheltered back terrace of the house, surveying the crowd and searching for Lucy Beauman. Her parents' town house, which was no town house at all but a second mansion large enough for a titled lord, was aflutter with bunting and Naval ensigns in celebration for Admiral Rodney's victory at the Battle of The Saintes. There was enough red, white and blue material to make commissioning pendants and ensigns for every ship in the active inventory of the Fleet. As he had come through the central hall, Alan had seen a dining table decorated with a line of pastry and confection 3rd Rates, candied sails abillow and marzipan guns belching angel-hair powder smoke, a card table as a center-piece amid the buffet items with Winged Victory bearing a trident and flag, roaring lions at her feet, with a gilt helmet overlaid with the laurel wreath corona of triumph.

"Damme, but the Beaumans know how to spend their money, don't they?" he muttered, happy they had the pelf with which to entertain their burst of patriotic emotions. "Wonder they didn't just gild the whole damned house?"

There must have been over two hundred guests, the luminaries of Jamaica: prominent officials or high-ranking Navy and Army officers, and leading citizens with the government, title, place or sufficient money and lands to be included. Men strolled languidly in silk and satin suitings, women glided and tittered and fanned themselves, showing off their most stunning gowns and jewels.

Somewhere in that mob, Lucy could be found, and Alan felt his pulse quicken at the thought of seeing her again. He looked for the densest clutch of young men; Lucy would be sure to be in the center of them, flirting madly, if Alan knew his average young tit.

The wind picked up briefly, and a gust played with the tail of his long uniform coat. A black servant in cloth-of-silver and silk livery offered him a tray that bore delicate flutes of champagne, trying to balance the tray and keep his fresh-powdered white tie-wig from scudding somewhere off to leeward at the same time.

It would rain soon, Alan knew, a heavy tropical downpour fit to run all these revelers indoors, but not a threatening storm. If there had been any ominous signs to the weather, Lilycrop would have pulled his pug-nose and not allowed him ashore, invitation or not. But Lilycrop had had his own run ashore, and had come back aboard in the "early-earlies," breeches half buttoned, with what appeared to be rouge or paste on the fly, and most cordially "in the barrel," so he could not deny his first lieutenant his chance.

Alan took a sip of champagne-it was a suspiciously good vintage from France, a nation with which they were at war, and he smiled wryly as he imagined what under-handed practice had brought the wine to this occasion. He stepped out into the crowd, bowing slightly to people now and again if he caught their eyes, or they took notice of him, a cordial smile plastered on his phyz.

Aha, he thought, hearing a small shriek of laughter from the left, near a span of side-tables loaded down with delicacies and drink.

"Young Lewrie!" a voice boomed, interrupting his progress in that direction. Alan turned to see Mister Beauman. If anything, his host (and hopefully, prospective father-in-law) had gotten even stouter, and his taste in clothing had not improved much. It had been a sweltering spring day, and still felt clammy despite the cooling breeze from so much rain due soon, but he was tricked out in a massive older wig awash in side-curls down past his ears, which gave off puffs of flour every time the wind came up. His coat and breeches were white satin, and he wore a sleeved, older style waist-coat of pale yellow silk heavily embroidered with vines and flowers. How he kept from melting away, Alan could not ascertain.

"Mister Beauman, sir," Alan replied, as though he was the very person for whom he had been searching. "How grand to see you once more. May I express my heartfelt thanks for your kind invitation!"

"Don't ye look a sight, sir!" Beauman whooped. "Bless my eyes, a commission officer! Give ye joy, me lad."

"And to you, sir."

"Heard ye'd made lieutenant. Hard service in Virginia? Damn all Frogs." Beauman rumbled on, snatching another glass of claret from a passing tray. "Still, skinned the bastards, hey?"

"Indeed we did, sir," Alan agreed.

"Saved Jamaica," Beauman pronounced between slurps. "Took part in it, did ye? Grand sight, and all that?"

"No, sir. Shrike was up north patrolling between the Bahamas and the Virgins when…"

"Oh, too bad," Beauman interrupted. "Not your fault, I expect."

Alan wondered once more if the man had ever completed a full sentence instead of lopping them down to the pith. The Beaumans, except for their dear Lucy, were "country" types, shootin', huntin', dog-lovin', tenant tramplin', slave-bashin' Squires with more money than ton, and Alan felt a twinge at the thought of having to spend more than a day in their presence if he were fortunate enough to wed their daughter. He vowed he'd live in London and let them pursue their own amusements, preferably as far away as possible, as long as possible. Had it not been for their money, he'd have sneered at them for being such a pack of "Country-Harrys" and "Chaw-Bacons."

"Come meet the missus, Lewrie," Beauman ordered, turning his back and leading off through his guests, and Alan had no choice but to take station on Beauman's ample stern-quarters and follow.

"So this is young Mister Lewrie of which we've heard so much," Mrs. Beauman exclaimed after they had exchanged greetings.

Mrs. Beauman was the source of Lucy's beauty, Alan saw, fair and petite, a bit gone to plumpness, but still a fine figure of a woman in spite of her age. Her choice of attire was much better than her husband's, as well, though a bit old-fashioned. Hugh, the eldest son, was a younger replica of the father, hard-handed and hard-eyed as he finally met the upstart suitor for his sister's hand; the welcome from him was a chary one. The younger son resembled Lucy in his short stature and fair complexion, a bit of a dandy-prat in grey and maroon shot-silk coat and breeches, exaggerated sleeve cuffs and coat tails, and blue leather shoes with red heels trimmed in gold.

"Alan Lewrie, haw haw," he offered. "Ain't you the fortunate buck! Escapin' Yorktown and all, what?"

"Cut his way out!" Beauman, Sr., boasted. "Through fire and steel! My youngest boy, Ledyard, Lewrie."

"Delighted," Alan replied, offering his hand.

"Y're servant, sir, haw haw!" Ledyard rejoined inanely.

There was a middle daughter named Floss, bearer of the worst traits from the father's side of the union, ill-favored and swarthy; but her husband seemed happy enough, perhaps mollified by her father's gold. Master Hugh Beauman was married as well, to a rather good-looking young piece who evidently had realized it was impossible to get a word in edgewise in such a family, and had stopped trying. Anne gave him a sympathetic shrug, and a bit of a wink that in other circumstances would have had Alan scheming for a space of time alone with her.

There followed some rather uncomfortable minutes of chitchat, with Alan the unwitting victim for not knowing any of the people or events they referred to, a common fault in people full of themselves. And Alan should have known about that, from monopolizing past conversations, but it was a wrench to be on the receiving end. There was no chance to break away and go searching for Lucy, the prime object of his trip ashore.

"Think it'll rain?" Mistress Anne asked him as the tops of the trees began to sway, and the sky turned gloomier.

"I would not doubt it at all, ma'am," Alan replied.

"Then we must see to getting the side-boards indoors before it begins. And I see you are out of wine, sir," she offered.

"Ah, yes I am," Alan noted. "May I escort you, ma'am?"

"I would be deeply obliged, sir."

Alan bowed his way out of the family circle and offered his arm to walk the fetching Anne Beauman towards the buffets.

"Daunting, ain't they?" she smirked once they were out of earshot.

"Daunting is a good description, ma'am," Alan smiled back.

"And I doubt you'd care to spend the rest of the evening with them, when Mistress Lucy is the reason for your visit?" Anne rejoined.

"I had hoped," Alan agreed, waving the servant with the askew wig over to service them with a tray of wine. He traded their glasses in for two fresh flutes of champagne and offered her one.

"We have heard much of you, Mister Lewrie," Anne continued. "From Lucy's description, and from your letters-those portions which Lucy thought relevant to relate to us-I would have expected someone much older. More… weathered."