A King's Commander by Dewey Lambdin Page A

though they’d been close enough to rub shoulders. Close enough, though, to be spattered with droplets of gore, brains, and bone chips!
    â€œSurgeon’s mate!” Lewrie shouted uselessly. “Loblolly boys!”
    Whey-faced himself, but determined not to show it, nor allow this horror to demoralize his crew, he was forced by duty to cross to Rydell.
    â€œShut your mouth, Mister Rydell! Stop that noise!” he rasped. “Go below, if you wish to unman yourself. Loblolly boys? Get that . . . that, off the quarterdeck, at once!”
    And turn his back, to deal with Duty.
    â€œOh, dear Jesus,” LeGoff whispered as he came up from the cockpit on the orlop, the place of surgery during quarters. “Poor little chub!”
    â€œDeal with it, Mister LeGoff,” Knolles ordered coolly, after he was over his own funk. “Anyone else injured below, or aft?”
    â€œNo one, Mister Knolles, praise God,” Lewrie heard LeGoff say to the first officer. “Here, you men. Scrap o’ canvas. The carrying board. Take him below to the cockpit, and ready him for burial.”
    â€œMister Buchanon,” Lewrie inquired, his face a stony mask. “I believe we have enough sea room to return to larboard tack?”
    â€œAye, sir,” the sailing master muttered, as shaken as anyone.
    â€œVery well, then. Mister Knolles? Stations for Stays. Come about. New course, west-by-south, till we’re well up to windward of our line-of-battle ships. Then we’ll ease her due west, to parallel.”
    â€œAye aye, sir,” Knolles replied, happy to have something constructive to do. “Mister Porter? Stations for Stays!”
    â€œOnliest one, sir,” Buchanon continued, with a whimsical air.
    â€œHmm?” Lewrie grunted, still in pain, but curious about that tone in Buchanon’s voice.
    â€œJosephs, Cap’um. Onliest one e’en scratched!” Buchanon said more soberly, almost in a rueful awe. “We got our comeuppance from th’ ol’ mad buggers. An’ ’ey took ’eir due from us. Th’ gods o’ th’ sea, Cap’um. Th’ ol’ pagan gods o’ winds an’ seas, ’ey took ’im.”
    â€œSurely, Mister Buchanon, in this modern age . . .” Lewrie began to scoff, a little angered by such a heretical suggestion. Or, maybe a little angered at what he did not yet know. At himself, perhaps, for having the boy “started.” For making his last days fearful.
    â€œMe da’, he was Welsh, Cap’um,” Buchanon related. “’Twas oft he tol’ me ’bout ’em. Him an’ th’ granthers, all, sir, on th’ stormy nights, with th’ rain an’ winds a’howlin’ ’gainst th’ shutters, ’r th’ public house. Onliest folk still take note o’ ’em’z sailormen, sir. Priests an’ Church, ’ey drove ’em out, into th’ wide, trackless seas. But ’at don’t mean ’ey passed away, Cap’um. Oh no, not at all!”
    â€œReady about, Captain,” Knolles intruded.
    â€œVery well, Mister Knolles. Put the ship about,” Lewrie said in response, mesmerized, and only half paying attention to his first.
    â€œHelm’s alee! Rise, foretack and sheets!”
    â€œOne ’ey named th’ most, sir, ’at’d be Lir,” Buchanon went on, paying only half attention himself, as Jester began to come about to the eye of the wind. “Don’t know much ’bout th’ ones crost th’ seas, in th’ heathen latitudes. Ones I read about in school, sir, ’em ol’ Roman an’ Greek sea gods, ’ey sounded like gennlemen ya could deal with, so long’z ya didn’ cross ’em ’r ’eir boss Zeus. Sportin’ sort o’ gennlemen, who didn’ mean much by it. But Lir, now, Cap’um. Ol’ Irish an’ Welsh sea god, one th’ Scots dread,