A King's Commander by Dewey Lambdin Read Free Book Online Page B

Lewrie sighed to the companionable dark.
    Best to end that, fast, he thought sadly. Face to face, that’d be best, I s’pose. Letter’s so bloody cowardly an’ cold. Well, I had my joy of her. Give her, what . . . a hundred pounds or so, to tide her over till she finds herself a new patron? Sounds about right. And . . . here on out, I’ve far too much on my plate, to spare time on diversion.
    Even a petite and pretty diversion. He shrugged.
    â€œBedtime, Toulon,” he announced in a yawny whisper.
    He undressed in the dark of the sleeping coach, just abaft the chart space on the starboard side, a canvas and folding partition chamber. He pulled off his own boots, dropped his breeches, and tossed them over the top of a sea chest for Aspinall to stow away in the morning. His “man” had laid out a clean pair of slop trousers, which Alan preferred for undress wear at sea. Cheap, durable, and easy to part with once they’d mildewed, tanned, gotten stained with tar and slush . . . or simply wore out.
    Fresh, virginal bed coverlet, painted and embroidered by Caroline’s talented hands; fresh linen sheets, and pillow slips over puffy, never-used bolsters filled with home-farm goose down. The mattress in the bed box was from Anglesgreen, too; goose down packed top and bottom over a lamb’s-wool batt center, sewed into a striped ticken cover.
    The narrow hanging bed cot was slung at about waist level over the black-and-white painted checker of the canvas deck covering; slung fore-and-aft instead of the more-usual athwart-ship. An elegant form of hammock, really, braced by a rectangle of oak, with double layers of heavy storm canvas inside. Six feet long, it was, and a few inches more than three feet wide.
    A bachelor’s box, Alan snickered to himself as he rolled into it and set it swinging, as Toulon sat on the deck crying “Maiwee?” in a plaintive voice, as if he had to ask permission each and every evening, judging the best moment for his leap.
    The little pest required a full ten minutes to satisfy, shoving his head under Lewrie’s more-than-willing hands to be rubbed, purring and vibrating, nose-patting with soft paws, ear-snuffling as he kneaded the bolsters. He finally took his ease ’twixt torso and arm to the larboard side, paws braced against the canvas, with his back hard up against Alan’s chest.
    Damme no, not a bachelor’s box. Lewrie grinned in the darkness, yawning so hard he thought he’d dislocate his jaw this time. ’Tis a husband’s box. Narrow, and straight-laid.
    His husband’s box swayed to the easy roll and slow pitch of the ship as she snored her way across the deeps, loping for the open seas. And rocking her captain, his cat, and all the sleeping off-watch tars who put their trust in her, to a pacific rest.

C H A P T E R 3
    T he winds did indeed come more and more westerly, as Jester came abeam of Plymouth on her slog down-Channel, veering bow-wards toward a close reach, then close-hauled, her second day of passage, forcing her to alter course nor’west, for she could not maintain a luff nearer than six points to the wind.
    The old problem of leaving England; being driven shoreward by a brisk westerly, right up toward the Lizard or Torbay, or having to tack and beat sou’west toward the hostile coast of France, which was a rock-strewn horror in peacetime, and aswarm with warships now, from the French bases at Brest and St. Malo.
    By ten of the second morning, Jester was near enough to Torbay to peek inside, with a long-glass from the top of the mainmast. No sign of Admiral Howe’s fleet, though; the westernmost war anchorage was empty, which meant he was still at sea, somewhere out in the Atlantic. And so, one must suppose, were the French.
    With a heavy sigh, Lewrie had been forced to come about south, and make that long board down toward France on the starboard tack; a day wasted, he thought, marching