The King's Commission by Dewey Lambdin Page A

didn’t even know he had and a remittance anyone would kill for. A small measure of fame in the Fleet, promotion to master’s mate—and now this. Every time he had things in hand, some perverse twist of fate brought him crashing down in ruin, until he did not imagine he would have any chance of security in anything this side of the grave.
    â€œBetter people than you have tried to ruin me, damn your blood,” Alan cursed softly as he pondered what Kenyon had in mind for him. And he grinned suddenly as he realized that it was true. His father had laid a plot almost inescapable, and look who still could trot his phyz out in public without being snatched into debtor’s prison! If Kenyon would use his power as first lieutenant to bring Lewrie down, then he would be forced to fire off his own broadside in reply. Kenyon was not invulnerable, for all his rank and position and talk of honor. The man was a secret Molly, a butt-fucker of the windward passage, wasn’t he? Alan had been told that odd goings-on between Kenyon and their host in Kingston had occurred in the wee hours. Alan had seen the men bussing like practiced lovers in the dark coach outside The Grapes the last night in port; Kenyon and Sir Richard Slade, rekindling a boyish passion for each other when their paths crossed once again. Hadn’t Lieutenant Kenyon hinted once that he had not wanted to go to sea any more than Alan had, but there had been … reasons?
    You’ll not have me, Jemmy, Alan swore to himself. If you try, I’ll have you! Railsford’ll never abide a sodomite in his ship, not with the Navy trying so hard to stamp it out on long cruises. We’re not in Cambridge.
    Kenyon came back on deck once more, and made his way
towards the taffrail, out of ear-shot of the other people in the harbor watch or the working parties. He crooked a finger to draw Lewrie to follow him.
    â€œI am sorry to hear that Mister Claghorne passed over, sir,” Alan said, trying to mollify the man.
    â€œHe shot himself, Lewrie.”
    â€œAh, too bad.” Alan frowned. Claghorne had been an idiot, but there never had been anything in his life that Alan knew of that would force him to that. “Gambling debts, sir?”
    â€œYou, you little bastard,” Kenyon snarled. “Admiral Matthews gave him a commission after Parrot made port. He got her as his command, and the shame was too much for him.”
    â€œBut why in hell would they do that, sir?” Alan marveled. “He’s the one struck her colors. Moody the bosun called him a coward to his face!”
    â€œAh, but remember, Lewrie, our passenger Lord Cantner and his lady, who thought you were so bloody marvelous that you’d saved their lives and their profits from the sale of his Jamaican properties, all the gold they’d brought aboard with them.” Kenyon sneered. “They went to Matthews and bade him make sure you were written up a hero, and that meant there could be no mention of the colors being struck—not quite the honorable usage of the white flag—and they didn’t want it getting round that a British ship had done such a thing. Fortunately, there were no survivors from that privateer brig, you made sure of that.”
    â€œClaghorne wouldn’t allow us near her as long as she was afire, sir, and I was down with the Yellow Jack myself before we could do anything, so that is grossly unfair, sir,” Alan shot back.
    â€œKeep a civil tongue in your head, boy,” Kenyon ordered. “So poor Claghorne is a new commission officer, senior in a victory over a more powerful foe, and what’s the reward for a faithful first?”
    â€œPromotion and command, sir,” Alan stated, in control again of his emotions.
    â€œYes. And would they transfer him into another ship?”
    â€œIf they had half a brain, sir, given the circumstances.”
    â€œAye, they would, but old Onsley is not blessed with brains,