The King's Marauder by Dewey Lambdin Page A

bright blue gunn’ls.
    The hired boat had to circle wide to clear those ship’s boats, giving Lewrie a long look at her stern, which was not as ornate as he had expected. There were white dolphins and griffins along the upper scroll board in bas-relief against black, above what would be his stern gallery, which gallery sported close-set white railings and spiralled column posts. Below the gallery were the several windows of the wardroom right-aft on the upper gun deck, then a bright blue horizontal band below that, on which was mounted the ship’s name in raised block letters, painted white and gilt.
    Somebody has a deep purse, Lewrie thought; or had.
    Post-Captains with enough “tin” could afford to have gilt paint applied, figureheads custom made, and improve the lavishness of their ship’s carving work. It appeared that Sapphire ’s recently departed Captain had been one of those men.
    “Boat ahoy!” someone shouted from the quarterdeck.
    “Aye aye!” the tillerman shouted back, holding up four fingers to denote that his passenger was a Post-Captain.
    The lugs’l halliard and jib sheet were loosed and the sails handed, as the hired boat drifted up to the main channels and chains at the foot of the boarding battens and man-ropes. Lewrie stood and tucked his everyday hanger behind his left leg so he would not get tangled up with it as the younger boatman hooked onto the channels with a long hooked gaff, bringing the boat to a stop.
    Lewrie teetered atop the hired boat’s gunn’ls, grasped one of the man-ropes, stepped up with his right foot to the main channel, and swung up with his left foot to the first step of the battens, noting with gratitude that the steps had been painted then strewn liberally with gritty sand before the paint had dried, improving his traction.
    At rest, Sapphire ’s lower-deck gun-ports were about five feet above her waterline, and they were all opened for ventilation, with some of them filled with curious faces as he passed the pair closest to the battens. Once above those, the ship’s tumblehome increased, making his ascent less steep.
    All the exercise is payin’ off, he thought as his head rose level with the lip of the entry-port; he hadn’t even begun to suck wind! And there were the half-spatterdashed boots of Marines, in view, the buckled shoes of sailors peeking out from the bottoms of long, loose “pusser’s slops” trousers, and the trill of bosun’s calls in welcome.
    Lewrie placed his first foot on the lip of the entry-port and made a final jerk upon the man-ropes to come aboard with a characteristic hop and stamp. Sure that he was in-board with no risk of going arse-over-tit backwards, he doffed his hat to the flag, quarterdeck, and his waiting officers.
    “Welcome aboard, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, doffing his own hat along with the others.
    “Thankee, Mister Westcott … gentlemen,” Lewrie replied with a grin trying to break out on his face, despite the traditional formality of taking command. “If you do not mind, I will read myself in, first, before we make our first acquaintance.”
    He went to the forward quarterdeck rail and iron hammock rack stanchions, ’twixt the two square companionways let into the deck to allow rigging to pass through, pulled his commission document from inside his waistcoat, where it would stay dry despite foul weather, and not be lost overboard in the climb up the battens, folded it open, and began to read loud enough for all to hear.
    “By the Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain and Ireland and all of his Majesty’s Plantations, et cetera … to Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, hereby appointed Captain of His Majesty’s Ship, the Sapphire …”
    He paused to look up and forward into the waist and the sail-tending gangways to either beam down the upper deck.
    Jesus Christ, but there’s a slew of ’em! he thought, awed by the hundreds of people in the crew, nigh twice as many as