“Aye, sir,” Cadbury replied, looking glummer than usual.

“I’m thinking that we can issue the beer and all for a penny a pint, and no more than two pints per day,” Lewrie suggested. “With the rum issue atop that, I don’t want ’em staggerin’ drunk on duty.”

“Pints, aye, sir, though…” Cadbury waffled, as if the idea was taking food from his children’s mouths. “Only about half of the ship’s people own pint piggins, d’ye see, sir? I’d have to purchase them from shore, out of my own accounts, and Admiralty won’t—”

“Two hundred officers, hands, and boys, sir, payin’ two pence a day, is one pound, thirteen shillings, and four pence profit to you,” Lewrie reminded him, “with nothing owing for the beer! Each day, sir, and we’ve enough aboard t’last nigh a fortnight. Do your sums, and I think you’ll find it rewarding, hey? You can afford the investment in a few wooden piggins—perhaps sold to those without ’em at no more than a penny each?”

“Well, put that way, sir…” Cadbury said, looking shrewder.

“Very good, Mister Cadbury! I’ll go below!”

Lewrie shucked his dress uniform and all the fripperies, rolled up his shirtsleeves, got help removing his boots, and slipped his feet into an old, broken-in pair of buckled shoes. That was hard going, for his cats urgently wanted to be a part of it.

“Might you be wishing something wet, sir?” Pettus asked, with a sly look. “An ale, perhaps, sir? We’ve already knocked out the bung and driven in a tap.” He looked as if he’d sampled it, on the sly.

“Might need a settlin’ jug, sir,” young Jessop, his cabin servant added, “for all th’ luggin’ about’s made it right foamy.”

“Aye, Jessop?” Lewrie posed. “I note there’s a wee puddle under the tap on the deck. You didn’t sample it, did ye, lad?”

“Me, sir?” Jessop swore, too vigourously. “Never a bit, sir!”

”A pint, aye, Pettus,” Lewrie agreed, going to the collapsible starboard-side settee and its cushions, plunking his feet atop the Hindoo brass table. “Here, lads! Here, Toulon, Chalky! Glad t’have me back, are ye? Ah, that’s my catlin’s!” he cooed as he finally let the cats swarm him, eagerly demanding stroking and tickly “wubbies.”

“Pint of pale ale, sir,” Pettus said, presenting a mug.

Shame t’turn it all over to the Prize Court, Lewrie thought, taking a first, appreciative sip as he gazed with satisfaction at the fifty-gallon hogshead that sat beside the wine-cabinet between two of the heavy 18-pounder guns. There’s more than enough t’go round, enough for Darling’s and Bury’s people, and Lovett’s Firefly, and Ritchie’s brig, to boot.

The loss of several, well, many kegs was easily explainable. There was spillage and ullage, and some kegs and hogsheads could have been damaged when re-taking Santee, which they had found anchored and hidden close to the lee shore of Little Inagua Island, after questioning the crew of Caca Fuego. There’d been no resistance from the five privateers aboard her, but…!

I can even blame it on the Spanish! Lewrie told himself. That they drank it up when they ran short o’ their preferred wine, brandy, rum, and arrack! Though, I never ran across a Spanish beer worth a damn, nor a Spaniard who’d touch the stuff.

He took a second deep quaff and wiped foam from his lips, for the ale did need a settling jug, or a day and a night of resting still.

Eight Bells was struck far forward at the ship’s forecastle belfry, marking the end of the Day Watch and the start of the First Dog. In harbour, the frigate’s working day was done, and the hands were released from duty for an hour or so before their suppers.

Then came the sounds of music, of a flute and a fiddle, and his Cox’n, Liam Desmond’s, uilleann lap-pipes, launching into a hearty reel or jig. Impromptu groups of sailors began singing despite the tune; Lewrie caught snatches of “Come, Let Us Drink About” or “Nottingham Ale,” even some older voices belting out “He That Would an Alehouse Keep” in ragged competition.

The musicians eventually won out, and HMS Reliant began to drum to the stamping of horny bare feet or stout shoes as her people danced atop and around the midships hatchway cover to “The Tenpenny Bit.”

“They sound in fine fettle, hey, Pettus?” Lewrie chuckled.

“They do, indeed, sir,” his cabin steward agreed. “Our Irish lads the more so, when they saw some kegs of Guinness come aboard.”

Lewrie let out a most happy belch, contemplated his mug to ascertain just how a full pint of ale could disappear so quickly, and decided to call for another.

The sun ain’t under the yardarms yet, but…who gives a damn! He could assure himself: And, I think I’ve more than earned it!

Also by Dewey Lambdin

The King’s Coat

The French Admiral

The King’s Commission

The King’s Privateer

The Gun Ketch

H.M.S. Cockerel

A King’s Commander

Jester’s Fortune

King’s Captain

Sea of Grey

Havoc’s Sword

The Captain’s Vengeance

A King’s Trade

Troubled Waters

The Baltic Gambit

King, Ship, and Sword

The Invasion Year

Reefs and Shoals

Hostile Shores

About the Author

DEWEY LAMBDIN is the author of nineteen Alan Lewrie novels. A member of the U.S. Naval Institute and a Friend of the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, England, he spends his free time working and sailing. He makes his home in Nashville, Tennessee, but would much prefer Margaritaville or Murrells Inlet.

Photo credit: Grant “Sgt. Speed” Achepohl

Read on for an excerpt of

HOSTILE SHORES

An Alan Lewrie Naval Adventure

By Dewey Lambdin

On Sale February 2013 from St. Martin’s Press

Copyright © 2013 by Dewey Lambdin

Pre-Order Now at

http://us.macmillan.com/author/deweylambdin

PROLOGUE

Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,

Assume the port of Mars, and at his heels,

Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire Crouch for employment.

— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH, PRO., 5-8

CHAPTER ONE

Ajaunt ashore would clear his head and provide a brief but welcome diversion from his new responsibility and worry, he was sure of it. It might even result in a dalliance with a young, bored, and attractive “grass widow”, he most certainly hoped!

Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet (a title he still found quite un-believable and un-earned), left his frigate, HMS Reliant, round mid-morning to be rowed ashore in one of the twenty-five-foot cutters that had replaced his smaller gig, turned out in his best uniform, less the star and sash of his Knighthood in The Order of The Bath, an honour he also felt un-earned, scrubbed up fresh and sweet-smelling, shaved closely, and with fangs polished and breath freshened with a ginger-flavoured pastille. His ship was safely anchored in West Bay of Nassau Harbour, protected by the shore forts, and the weather appeared fine despite the fact that it was prime hurricane season in the Bahamas.