Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

• Название: THE GUN KETCH
• Автор: Dewey Lambdin
• Жанр: Морские приключения

It's 1786 and Alan Lewrie has his own ship at last, the Alacrity. Small but deadly, the Alacrity prowls the waters of the Caribbean, protecting British merchants from pirates. But Lewrie is still the same old rakehell he always was. Scandal sets tongues wagging in the Bahamas as the young captain thumbs his nose at propriety and makes a few well-planned conquests on land before sailing off to take on Calico Jack Finney, the boldest pirate in the Caribbean.

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"Sir, if you would but listen to me…"

"Well, if it ain't young Captain Lewrie!" Sarah and Jane's captain said, coming on deck to join them. "Now you're here, young sir, I trust you'll tell Commander Rodgers how I aided the Royal Navy, and let me go 'bout me innocent occasions, as you did last year, sir. I've already give him enough threats 'bout false arrest and all. But will he heed me, sir? He will not!"

"I've noticed," Alan snapped in exasperation. "Captain Grant, I recall. Delighted to make your acquaintance again, sir. I did warn you, did I not; sir, that you should not return to Bahamian waters?"

"I'm but a poor merchant skipper, sir, and…"

"Later, perhaps, sir," Lewrie cut him off. "Commander Rodgers, I've abandoned my patrol area. There's news from Nassau, and we have to talk. It's urgent, sir!"

"Signal Ballard to get underway," Rodgers nodded. "And let us go below. Mister Cargyle? Get sail on her and resume our course!"

"Good Christ!" Rodgers sighed when Lewrie had finished. Hehad cut his hair much shorter for summer, close to the scalp as an urchin infested with lice and fleas, and he rubbed his stubble with two hands. "The bastard! The son of a bitch! No, more'n a bastard, he's a bastardly gullion! In league with Finney an' his pirates? I always wondered how he could afford that palacio of his. Damn' near good as the Governor's mansion, an' filled with fine plate an' furnishin's. A commodore won't draw more a year'n a post-captain of a 1st Rate, an' Ј350 or so won't cover half his expenses, high's he's been livin'. Him an' that chick-a-biddy wife o' his, that semi-ugly daughter, an' good Chaplain Townsley an' his lawful blanket're sure to be expensive to keep as well. What'd ya wager, Lewrie, he banks with Finney's private merchant bank, an' there'll be no way your Mr. Boudreau and Solicitor-General Wylly'd ever smoke him out?"

"I hadn't thought of that, sir," Lewrie deflated as he poured them more claret from Rodgers' much-depleted final stock. "Surely, though, there must be something we can do, if the investigation can't convict them."

"I'm tempted t'sail into Nassau Harbour, all guns blazin', myself," Rodgers gloomed, knocking back half a glass." 'Nother reason for action. Damme, but I'm outa champagne! Wish we knew which ships were patrolling where. That might give us a clue as to where to go."

"Banned though we are from going north," Lewrie commented with a sneer.

"We've this interloper Grant as a fine excuse," Rodgers perked up, leaning his elbows on the table they shared. "He has t'face the Admiralty Court for violatin' the Navigation Acts."

"Not both of us, sir," Lewrie counseled. "You and Whippet, for certain. And the Governor's Council and the Bahamian Assembly were kicking 'round the idea of turning Nassau into a free port If they vote that in, Finney's undutied goods are safe as houses from here on out. Might as well void the Navigation Acts, too, I suppose."

"Did you really let him off last year?" Rodgers grinned.

"Needed his testimony hellish bad, sir," Lewrie blushed. "Only way I knew to have evidence the pirates were caught in the act. But I thought he was smart enough to take my warning to heart. What was Captain Grant up to?"

"Sellin' bricks an' timber, buyin' salt, so the Yankee fisheries can preserve their stock-fish for export," Rodgers sniffed. "Hell, name a good he wasn't sellin'!"

"So he's bung to his deckheads in salt now, sir?"Lewrie asked.

"Aye. Takin' it north as evidence against him."

"Hmm, sir," Lewrie grinned.

"What, sir?" Rodgers grinned in reply, expectantly.

"I was thinking, sir, that bagged salt is just as good as dirt-filled gabions to absorb round-shot and musketry," Lewrie mused.

"Whatever are ya drivin' at?" Rodgers asked, sitting up.

"Bait, sir," Lewrie explained. "Were we to find where pirates are operating, we could trail Sarah and Jane under Yankee colours as a tempting bit of bait with a Navy crew, armed and ready for anything."

"And just where'd we do the trailin', Lewrie?" Rodgers demanded. "We haven't more of a clue than we did last year. Walker's Cay was a fluke o' fortune." He winced. "Of a rough sort, mind."My Lieutenant Ballard suggested that one of us put into Harbour Island or Spanish Wells, on Eleuthera," Lewrie went on quickly. "They're major ports, and a man o' war from the squadron should be in the area, or at anchor. They could inform us where our ships are operating, sir. Now we know Finney's a pirate for certain, now we almost have it as Gospel our commodore's involved, where our ships are would point the way. Or, more to the point, where our ships are not."

"Or where fools such as your Lieutenant Courtney 'Cow-Flop' hangs his hat?" Rodgers grinned briefly, then scowled. "Lieutenant Ballard. God! He's the one got us banished, when you get right down to it. All that talk o' his 'bout irrefutable evidence, and that missin' slaver, Matilda.'"

"Damme, sir, but wasn't he right?" Lewrie pointed out. "Matilda was pirated, and her people slaughtered. There's a knacky wit churning in that head of his, sir, 'click-clack' like some German clockwork. I know he's right about this, too, sir."

Pray God Peyton Boudreau was wrong for once, Lewrie cautioned his eagerness; don't let him be a slender reed one couldn't count on!

And, Alan also warned himself; keep your bloody mouth quiet for once! I can't urge him any harder, or he'll balk like a hunter at the high fence! We either pull this off successfully, or we get cashiered at the easiest-or hanged for mutineers!

Rodgers twisted and turned for many long minutes like a corpse on the gibbet, shifting restless and frightened on his chair, trying to decide what to do that wouldn't ruin his career if they failed.

"There's Captain Childs in Guardian," Rodgers said at last. "I think he should be informed, Lewrie. About the commodore, that is."

Shit! Lewrie thought.

"The more who know, the more who talk, sir, and word gets back to Garvey and Finney, and then we'll have abandoned our patrol areas for nought," Alan shrugged, taking the softest approach he could.

"If Coltrop's in an Eleutheran port, word'll get back to them, you can wager a rouleau o' guineas on't," Rodgers spat, lips pursed in a sour pucker. "Dammit t'hell. Dammit t'hell, though… if they get away a second time! If we end up with nothing to show for it!"

"Not if they take the bait, sir," Lewrie promised.

"Hmm," Rodgers stalled. He slapped the table top hard with the flat of one hand. "Damme, let's do it, then! This Yankee-Doodle Captain Grant… I s'pose I'll have t'let him off, same as you did, once we find our pirates?"

"I fear so, sir," Lewrie nodded, all but turning St. Catherine wheels with barely repressed glee. "A small price to pay, after all."

"Best it be Whippet stands into port To water, let's say," Commander Rodgers schemed. "You take over escort for Sarah and Jane, make what arrangements you will aboard her, and stand off-and-on, tops'l down over the horizon, t'the east'rd. Pray God Childs an' Guardian be the ship in port. Not that Lieutenant 'Cow-Flop'!"

"He may be as out of touch with Nassau as we were, sir," Lewrie hoped out loud. "And that somnolent arse wouldn't stir up his bones to see the Second Coming."

"Somnolent, sir?" Rodgers laughed, rising and fetching his hat "Damme, but you've been readin' again, ain't ya? After I told ya it was bad for ya, for shame."

"Well, it was only the one book, sir," Lewrie chuckled, getting to his feet to drain his glass. "And a damn' thin 'un, at that."

"Let's go on deck, then, and beard our Captain Grant, sir. And then, lay a course for Eleuthera!"

Chapter 6

Sewallis Alan Lewrie lay sleeping in his cradle, at last, after a noisy afternoon of colic and wailing that had quite worn his young mother to a frazzle. Caroline sat at the side of the cradle, formed in the shape of a miniature dory, that a New England Loyalist joiner had made for her months before, feeling vaguely disloyal.

Women were supposed to adore children, she thought wearily. It was a given that all a young woman could wish for in this life was a brood of offspring to tend. But so far, one was more man enough to deal with, and after six weeks of maternal devotion following the boy's birth, she wasn't so sure she cared to experiencethe terror and pain again. The physician had rated her labor easy, a mere nine hours! To hold her firstborn like a tightly swaddled roast at the end of it, to peer into those grave little eyes, had not seemed worthy enough reward.

Then had come the interrupted nights, at the mercy of his cries, the shambling sham of wakefulness between precious naps, to brave his supping at her breasts with the frantic lustiness of his absent father, almost dreading the aching, until Heloise and Betty had suggested a wet nurse to spare her, to let Wyonnie tend him for a few hours.

Her body felt destroyed. Where was the lissome figure she'd had, she wondered when she bathed? There was still a heaviness, a gravid and palpable puffiness that only now was departing as she began to take rides and putter in her gardens, her kitchen and pantry. And the stretch marks which traversed her formerly alabaster flesh like fault lines, or desert tributaries of a failed river. Would Alan be repulsed by the sight of her when he returned? She could no longer claim to feel like the lithe girl she'd been-and she had yet to feel comfortable accepting a role of young matron; it was surreal.

Yet… She looked down at the puffy little face screwed up into a puckered repose. And had to fight the urge to pick him up to hold him close to her, to carry him out to the dog-run and croon to him as she sat and rocked in the clean air, instead of the humid stuffiness of the bedroom, permeated with the smells of incontinent infancy.

Sewallis Alan Lewrie had been powdered and changed, and she bent down, fearful of waking him, to inhale the aroma of his skin, and of the milky, corn-silk smells he bore like a Hungary Water. She kissed him lightly, brushed his little tuft of hair, and sat back in her straight-backed chair with a fond smile, in spite of all.

Yes, he was a darling baby (most of the time), with his father's gray blue eyes, but with her nose, her paler hair. And her mouth. It felt more than odd to feel his tiny, demanding lips at her nipples, yet it was her mouth, not Alan's.

"You take a rest, missus," Wyonnie offered, entering the room. "I watch 'im fo' awhile. Po' chile cry hisse'f right out. But, he be bettah when 'e wakes. Dot obeah-mon's yarbs get rid de colic, jus' as I tole ya. Un de corn-meal fo' dot rash'll ease 'im."

"And I expect he'll wake up hungry," Caroline grinned with a wry lift to a brow. "God save womankind, Wyonnie, from men's… hungers!"

"All de mo' reason ya naps a spell, missus," Wyonnie chuckled in reply as she sat down opposite Caroline and began to fan him.

"I will, and thank you, Wyonnie," Caroline said. She left the room on tiptoe. Darling or not, Sewallis Lewrie showed signs of a light sleeper, and she felt she'd more than earned this brief respite.

She paused in the parlor to open her stationery box and take out her letter from Alan before going to the dog-run. Even though she had devoured it fifty times at least in the week since it had arrived, it was forever new and reassuring. Hugging it to her bosom, she went out onto the dog-run terrace where a fair wind was blowing, and the air was so much cooler and fresher. She took a seat in her rocker, put up her feet on an embroidered, padded footstool, and began to read it all over again between small sips from a glass of Rhenish.

All over again, she savored his protestations of love, his fear for her and the baby's life, his anguish at being separated so long, and his inability to communicate with her. Once again, Caroline seethed with outrage at the injustice of their mail being cut off, by how base Commodore Garvey could be. She blushed as she read Alan's curses called down on Finney and Garvey, knowing that she had used similar curses directed at him in the bleakest moments of her despair during his hellish silence. Or what she'd called him during her labor, she snickered!

"Two months I fretted," she whispered. "Damn Peyton and Heloise. I know they didn't want me worried, but they could have told me their suspicions… to ease me!"

But, all was right again. Alan still loved her. And, with her harshest memories of pain and fear subsiding, she was once more as much in love with him as the first moment she saw him. And surely he would come back soon. Do something about Finney and Garvey. Hold her again. And there would be no more cause for longing and dread.

The late afternoon heat was ebbing, and a cool wind rushed into the dog-run; Alan's nor'east Trades, which might waft him home at last. She finished her wine, folded up the letter and slipped it onto the table under the wine glass, then put her head back on the small lashed-on pad to take Wyonnie's advice about a nap. She eased the ache of her neck and shoulders with a shrug and a stretch, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and, with a wistful smile, fell asleep.

She woke in the twilight of another spectacular sundown, rummy with barely eased exhaustion, rocking forward with a start, andlistening close for her baby's waking cry, which was what she thought had stirred her. But it was a carriage.

Bay Street, a narrow sandy track, ran in front of their house, and a second, narrower sand-and-shell lane forked off southeast from the coast road, parallel to the front porch for awhile before winding south along the garden to the great house. A coach had turned in at the gate, and now stood in the lane, half hidden behind the tops of her palmetto hedge. A man was walking towards her through the gate in the "tabby" wall, and up the crushed-shell path to the front porch.

Caroline stood and peered to see who it was. The hat was laced with gold, and for a fleeting moment, she thought it was Alan returned.

"Hello, the house," a voice called. "Anyone to home, be they?"

"Good God!" she whispered in alarm, putting a hand to her mouth.

It was John Finney!

"Ah, there you be, Mistress Lewrie," Finney said, stepping upon the deep front porch and coming to her in the mouth of the dog-run. "A very good evenin' to you, Mistress." He took off his cocked hat, laid it upon his chest, and performed a deep, formal bow, one leg extended.

"Mister Finney," she replied, trembling a little with fear that he'd dare appear so boldly. "And to what do I owe this unasked visit?"

"Why, 'tis concern, good lady," Finney replied, stepping closer, and making Caroline wish to shy back, though she stood her ground. "We heard you'd birthed a fine man-child, spittin' image of his beautiful mother, so 'tis said in the town, yet never hide nor hair t'be seen of him, nor your fine self since."

Finney had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes sparkled with secret merriment.

"Call it curiosity, Mistress Caroline," Finney went on'. "Worry about how ye fare. I'm that fond o' children, ya know, and I wish t'satisfy meself that you were recovered an' all. And t'gain a peek at the little lad, if I be so bold, now."