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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"What could be more perfect, Cony!" Alan laughed out loud as he turned to look over his shoulder at his "man" Will Cony, who had shared his adventures (and his misadventures) since Yorktown.

" 'Deed i'tis a fair mornin', sir!" Cony enthused back, beaming a farm lad's pleasure to be in such fair country on such a fine morning. "An' there's the squire's house, round the bend, sir. Not a league from the public house at Anglesgreen."

"We'll stop for a pint, how's that suit you, Cony?" Lewrie promised. "Then on to the Chiswicks."

"Pint'd suit me right down t'me toes, i't'would, sir," Will Cony agreed, kneeing his mare to match his master's quicker pace.

Anglesgreen was a quiet community, sited in a small, winding dell along the banks of a sluggish but clear-watered stream, with banks and bed flowing with rushes and grass. The village was surmounted to north and south, and at the far western end, with low and gently rolling hills, some forested, some asweep with velvety swaths of rippling, growing grain. And those hills from the summit of the nearest seemed to topple, to roll on forever like a delightful verdant sea-north toward Glandon Park and the Thames, south all the way to the Channel at Portsmouth.

There were three curving streets to Anglesgreen, two on the north bank, and one on the south bank, with two narrow stone bridges, one at either end of the village. There were shops on the High Street, Georgian-bricked fronts and bay windows for display, spreading to either side of a much older Tudor-timbered public house called the Ploughman. Behind the High Street, the homes were cottages with thatched roofs, while on the opposite bank the houses were newer, some Georgian or semi-Palladian, roofed with slate, and looked upon with some suspicion as being a bit too grand and uppity.All three streets curved to match the bend in the stream. At the east end, by the oldest bridge, there was St. George's Church, a high and narrow stone pile dating to the Norman Conquest with a topsy-turvy cemetery nearby that sheltered headstones and monuments green with moss, some from the ancient Anglo-Saxon clan which had erected the now-fallen castle and bailey which brooded half a mile to the north of the first bridge, now lost in scrubby woods and brambles, that marked the edge of the local squire's lands. To the western end, by the second bridge, was a New Green, a parklike expanse of tall oaks that fronted another public house and inn, replete with stables and a budding row of new cottages around it-the upstart Red Swan Inn-it had only been there since Henry V's times, and in tiny Anglesgreen, one could ascertain a body's station in life by whether a person frequented the older, darker (and cheaper) old Ploughman, or rubbed elbows with the magistrate and squire's crowd at the Red Swan. Lewrie, knowing strangers were more welcome with the elite, headed for the Red Swan, and as they rode at a sedate walk up the High Street, villagers wagered, correctly, they'd not tie reins at the Ploughman.

Anglesgreen could be thoroughly boresome, Alan knew-he'd been there briefly once before in '84. But it was homey, a village so typically English with its stone buildings and fences, its hedgerows and garden plots, that anyone six months at sea would crave its peaceful boredom. The trees were tall, giving acres of shade. Ducks and swans swam the lazy stream in slow glides. Stocky fellows in homespun or a great house's castoffs fished from the bridges and banks, gamboled on the greens, strode about in boots and straw hats, or sat sipping their ales in front of the Ploughman, a solid and dependable yeomanry who paid their rents on time, worked their acres with diligence, both prayed and played with vigor, and formed the backbone of the nation.

There were smells of new thatch, of cooking and baking, of a load of wash being boiled, and the scorch of ironing and starch. Of new-brewed ale mellowing in barrels, and of cartloads of manure and animal fodder. Most especially, ale, Lewrie smiled to himself as he drew rein at last in front of the Red Swan.

There was a "daisy-kicker" there in a twinkling to take reins and lead the horses off for a drink and a rubdown, with the older ostler waiting hopefully by the stable doors to see if he might make money by putting them up for the night, or rent them a coach.

There were quite a few horses tied at the rails, splendid and shiny blooded mounts, all sound "hundred guinea" horses, with bright saddle leather and clean pads. A backgammon game was proceeding at a table without the welcoming double doors, in the shade of the trees, and a lively sound of merrymaking coming from inside.

Alan and Cony entered, handing their hats to a bobbing "abi-gail" in homespun and a pure white apron and mobcap. The public room was crowded with gentlemen gathered around a large table, all standing and laughing. One of them Alan recognized, and went to his side.

"Governour Chiswick!" he called. "The very fellow I was looking for!"

"Good God, here already?" Governour said, spinning to take his hand and thump him on the back. "We didn't expect you until the end of the week at the earliest! By Christ, but you're looking fit an' full of cream! The Chinee and the Hindoos couldn't put you off your feed, hey?"

"And I see that married life agrees with your digestion," Alan joshed him, giving him a slight poke in the breadbasket. Governour Chiswick, the whip-lean and dour eldest Chiswick he had met at Yorktown, was now becoming a stout, apple-cheeked fellow, a settled and extremely well-married junior squire. Quite a change from the officer of a North Carolina volunteer regiment, and deadly with a Ferguson rifle or sword. Or a pistol, Alan remembered; this was the bloodthirsty, blackhearted devil who'd gut-shot the informer that had gotten half his surviving company killed just before they'd escaped, so he could linger in agony for days. To look at him now, you'd never catch an inkling of that.

"It does, indeed," Governour grinned wryly. "Come here, Alan, and meet the lads. And Will Cony, still tailing along with this rogue of ours? Well, step forward and take a stoup of ale with us. Good to see you, Alan. And you, as well, Cony."

"Thankee, sir," Cony replied, as someone shoved a stone tankard into his paws. He stayed long enough for introductions, then faded off to the counter, apart from "the quality," to have a jaw with the publican, and his pretty serving wench.

"Alan, this is my father-in-law, and you couldn't wish a finer," Governour boasted, and the gray-haired man in question pretended to blush with mock embarrassment. "Sir Romney Embleton; the fellow who saved my bacon at Yorktown, Lieutenant Alan Lewrie."

"Your servant, sir," Alan replied. "So pleased to make your acquaintance."My brother-in-law, Harry Embleton…" Governour babbled on.

Sir Romney Embleton, Baronet, was about Alan's height, though heavier, dressed rich and fine in dark brown velvet coat, gray breeches and a white, floral-figured satin waistcoat, with the prerequisite black and brown-topped riding boots on his thin shanks. Sir Romney favored an older man's short white tie-wig. He looked to have been in his youth a most handsome and well-setup fellow, with clear blue eyes and a fairly smooth complexion free of smallpox scars and such. The nose was a trifle beaky, and the upper lip long as a horse's.

The same could not be said for the son, the Hon. Harry Embleton, who, though he was dressed richly as his father the baronet in red coat, blue waistcoat and breeches, could not aspire to the easy style and dignity of the father. Harry had the same extremely long upper lip, the narrow horsy face of his father, and, to his misfortune, the same overhanging beak of a nose. But the eyes were set rather close together, and were pouched as though by dissipation or too many late hours. And where Sir Romney's hair might at one time have been blond, Harry's was almost black and lank, tied back in a severe style. And finally and most unfortunately, where the elegant Sir Romney Embleton was blessed with a square jaw, young Harry had a pronounced slope from weak chin to the point where his throat dived into his neck-stock. In profile, he resembled an otter.

"Now were you with the Army, or with the Navy, Lieutenant Lewrie?" Sir Romney inquired as Alan dipped his phiz into his ale.

"Navy, milord," Alan answered, wondering if he was teasing.

"Lock up the maids and yer daughters!" Harry Embleton guffawed. "Or yer footmen! The Navy's here!"

Damn the bastard, Alan winced as several of the rowdies had a laugh at his expense! I think I could dislike this piss-proud young fool. Alan stiffened and cut his eyes to Governour, who had winced a little himself.

"I can assure you, Mister Embleton, your virginity is safe with me," Alan stated calmly as the laughter died away. "Damme, but this is a good ale! Haven't tasted its like in weeks."

"Just ashore, are you, Mister Lewrie?" Sir Romney asked quick as a wink to cover the nervous laughter that reerupted, this time at his son's expense. Out of the corner of his eye, Alan could see that Governour had gotten a glum expression, and that Harry Embleton was glaring daggers at him, his face gone paler.

"Since February, milord, but I was visiting in the west country with my grandmother. I don't believe Devon has the soil for grains and hops that Surrey has. Certainly not to make such a splendid ale as this," Alan stated. "Now the Chinese have good ale, surprisingly."

"You were with Burgess Chiswick in the Far East," Sir Romney nodded, dominating the conversation. "A trading expedition?"

"An attempt to increase British trade, milord," Alan said in reply. He could never discuss what occurred in the past two years until England was once more at war with France. The activities of English warships disguised as merchantmen, had they been known, would be a violation of the treaty terms ending the recent war. "To… uhm… open new markets and trading stations, in cooperation with the East India Company."

Trade was not a gentlemanly calling, though profit from an investment in trade was quite acceptable, as long as a proper gentleman did not soil his hands with the sordid details of buying and selling.

This facile explanation, breezed off with a languid wave of a hand, sounded semiofficial, requiring the presence of a naval officer, and Alan had gotten quite good at trotting it out since his return.

"Calcutta, Canton…" Governour said with a wistful look. "I believe you saw both, did you not, Alan?"

" 'Deed we did, Governour," Alan turned a thankful grin on his compatriot. "And a host of trading posts you wouldn't believe for horrid heat and rain, too. Took me a month to squeeze the last water out of my hats. But tell me, how does the Chiswick family fare? Is Caroline well?"

"Quite well," Governour almost snapped. "Father, though… well, there was bad snow last winter, and his horse fell with him. Laid out for an hour or so before anyone missed him, and… the surgeon had to take his leg where it had been broken by the weight of the horse."

"Governour, how truly awful, I had no word of it!"

"He recovered at long last, thanks be to God, but… if you do recall how he was in Wilmington when you first saw him…"

"Ah," Alan nodded. Sewallis Chiswick had been half out of his mind back then, brought on by the death of his youngest son George, of being burned out and impoverished by Rebel irregulars led by his own relations because he was a Tory, a Loyalist, and had equipped the regiment in which Governour and Burgessserved. "A heavy burden on you, Govemour, which I am sure you managed well," Alan concluded, laying a supportive hand on Governour's broad shoulder.

"Thank you for that, Alan, 'twas well said. And well meant, to be certain. So, how long can you stay with us?" Govemour brightened.

"Three or four weeks, if you can tolerate me that long," Alan laughed. "Then it's off to Portsmouth and a new ship, Alacrity. To be with the Bahamas Squadron. I'll need a good last dose of country life to do me."

"That we can, that we can," Govemour promised. "We'll have you aching for the sea by the time we're done carousing."

"Sounds as if you gentlemen were doing a bit of carousing of your own as I rode up," Alan smiled. "Did you race those fine horses I saw outside?"

"Court day, Mister Lewrie," Sir Romney beamed. "We dealt with a couple of ruffians, and were just recalling their appearance."

"Two poachers," Harry Embleton explained. "We've been missing a rabbit or two from the warren, a deer's carcass was found stripped of meat. Well, last night…" Harry had to wheeze in fond remembrance for a moment. "Last night, Douglas here, our gamekeeper, sets a mantrap or two, and bang on midnight, 'blam' goes the trap! We run out to see what we caught, and no sign of 'em. But this morning, bold as brass, they turn up at Mister Gallworthy's the surgeon's, rattling with buckshot, and he sent his man to fetch us. Caught 'em with the pelts, the meat, an' all in their larders, and had 'em into court!"

"One fellow's bloody eye was gone!" chortled Sir Romney. "Took the blast right in the face, I suppose, as he crawled up the path in the woods to lay a snare. And will you believe, sir, that he claimed… hee hee… he claimed he knocked his own eye out!"

" 'Cause the Good Lord told him to, haw haw!" another stalwart chimed in. "Said he'd looked at a dirty book o' pictures…"

"With only the one eye, mind," Sir Romney snickered.

"An' th' good book says, sir, it says…" Harry continued, trembling with pent-up laughter, "iffen yer eye offends ye, then yer s'posed t' pluck it out, ain't ye now, sir? Right, yer honor, sir?"

"As if that offending eye wasn't holed dead center with shot," Sir Romney frowned. "Shot from my spring-gun, damme if it wasn't."

"And the other could do no better than to say he'd pelted himself whilst taking a loaded fowling piece down to show it off,"

Harry grumbled, as though the second victim had been no amusement at all, not even bothering to mock a "country" accent.

"So what was the punishment?" Alan asked, appalled by them all. He'd seen men quilled with splinters, limbs ripped off with grape-shot, or puking blood from stomach wounds suffered in battle. He'd been hit enough to know what agony those men must have endured already.

"Transportation," Sir Romney said. "And the families to be put out of the parish. I'll have no poaching on my lands, and by Jesus, they know it."

"And those two tenancies'll be enclosed. Last of the common lands this side of the stream anyway," Govemour stated calmly. "And they were always behind on their rents. Well, Alan. I have to get back home. Finish up your ale and ride with me."

"Only if you promise you have some more waiting," Alan managed to smile. "Good morning to you, gentlemen, milord. I trust I'll be seeing you again in the next few weeks. We'll hopefully have merry times?"

Chapter 2

"Bloody squires," Cony grumbled as they were fetched their horses. "A spring-gun. A mantrap! Jesus, sir."

"And transportation to where, I wonder, with America lost," Lewrie speculated in a soft voice, "the Fever Islands? That new Van Diemen's Land? They'll rot in the hulks for months. Years."

"And the fam'lies turned out, sir, just 'cause they ain't free-holdin'. Damn th' bloody Enclosure Acts, too."

"Easy now, Cony," Lewrie warned.