THE GUN KETCH - Dewey Lambdin

"Damn you, Harry, what's got into you?" Sir Romney demanded in a hoarse shout above the gasps and cries of the other riders at this outrageous conduct. "Stop, I say, boy! Hear me?"

Lewrie spurred his mount forward to rush him, like a joust. The horses met right shoulder to right shoulder, and Lewrie swept out an arm to drag Harry from his saddle to sprawl heavily on the ground, then leapt down to finish him.

Harry twisted 'round and almost got to his feet, though he'd landed hard and lost half his wind. He slashed once more with the crop, grunting "You bastard!" with the effort. Alan ducked the blow to his right, letting the leather crack on the back of his coat, and then brought both fists upwards and to his left, right into Harry's startled face! Harry Embleton was almost lifted off his feet and did a half-turn, yelping in a sudden pain, to go down hard and stay down, rolling on his back with both hands to his nose, too hurt and out of wind to rise.

"Damn you, sir!" Sir Romney snarled, "If you've hurt my boy, I'll…" He threatened, his own crop raised as if to strike Lewrie to protect his son.

"He struck me, milord," Alan snapped, whirling to face him, his eyes aflame. "With fist and crop. Not the actions of a gentleman, milord! I'm within my rights as an English gentleman to demand satisfaction from him. Is that your desire, milord?"

Sir Romney looked into those eyes. Odd; he'd recalled them as being light, genial blue. But in anger, Lewrie's eyes glinted as bright and steely gray, and as hard, as a drawn sword. And in them, he saw implacable rage… and murder!

What Harry had done, for whatever mystifying reason, smacked of lunacy, Sir Romney shivered. And truly, totally unforgivable; and so public! The best of local Society, the cream of the landed gentry and superior classes the parish and county could boast had seen it!

"No," Sir Romney grunted unwillingly, the surrender wrenched out of him. Slowly, he lowered his fist to the pommel of the saddle. And he lowered his eyes, unable to match glares with the young man.

"See to your son, milord," Lewrie ordered. "And call off your hounds." Ordered, to a man whose every whim, whose every pronouncement was nearly sacred writ to parish, village, and county. Without waiting to see if that order would be obeyed, sublimely confident that it would be, Lewrie turned to see to his horse, to gentle him and stroke him over for possible injury.

"Mr. Lane, Toby… get the pack away and home," Sir Romney sighed, dismounting to go to Harry and help him to his feet, to pry his hands away from his face to look upon his smashed nose.

Caroline rode forward to join Alan as he remounted, sure his gelding had suffered no hurt. "Good God, Alan, are you alright?"She put out a gloved hand to his cheek and turned his face to look at it "He welted you with his crop," she huffed, by turns solicitous to him, and outraged at Harry. "And bruised your cheek!"

"Nothing a cold cloth and a measure of brandy won't heal." He smiled, reaching up to take her hand in fondness for a moment. "Now, how to get Pitt out of this tree?"

Alan rode under the limb and drew rein. He stood high as he might in his stirrups and reached up, wiggling enticing fingers.

"Come to me, Pitt," he cooed. "Come on down, you silly fart. Don't hiss at me… 'twasn't me treed your silly arse! Pitt, these dogs'll tear you apart if you don't come down to me. Come on, now."

The cat slunk backwards towards the trunk, reached the fork and mewed uncertainly as it turned tail-downward, and inch by wary inch, began to crab down the trunk toward Alan's outstretched hands.

"There's a brave little man," Alan encouraged. "Now come to me, that's the lad." He stretched upwards and put a hand under Pitt's tail, another 'round his middle. It was like trying to peel off barnacles. "Let go the tree, you stupid little…"

Pitt at last turned his head and leapt, curling up in a ball of angry fur as Alan fumbled him onto the saddle and his lap. Once there, William Pitt lay still, suffering for once the indignity of being enclosed and held, though he trilled deep in his throat, moaned and hissed, licking his chops at the affront.

Sir Romney had walked Harry back to his horse, away from the softly gossiping onlookers. Suddenly, he broke away from his father and advanced on Alan and Caroline, to end standing by her stirrup.

"Is it true, Caroline?" Harry demanded in a broken voice. "Is it true you're to wed this…?"

"It is, Harry," Caroline nodded somberly.

"And all we've been to each other means nothing to you?" he fumed, gaining strength from what to him felt like betrayal.

"We have been neighbors, Mister Embleton," Caroline continued. "I have never encouraged your attentions. Had you misunderstood my cordiality for something more, for that I offer my apologies, Harry."

"He's a nobody!" Harry groused, a little muffled from the hurt to his nose, which was now oozing blood and mucus, and swelling large as an angry turnip. "Not landed, not…"

"I love him with all my heart," Caroline replied, turning to Alan as she said it, rewarding her choice of mate with an expression that left no doubts, even among the onlookers out of ear-shot.

"Be-damned to you, then!" Harry raged, pink-tinged tears trickling past his nose. "You cheap, bloody whore! You silly, misguided… brainless… faithless… bitchl"

Alan, encumbered with Pitt in his lap, began to spur forward, but Caroline acted for herself. She leaned forward and lashed Harry with her reins, with which she had been nervously toying, across his ruined beak! Harry yelped in redoubled agony and sprang away, hands up to protect his face once more, hunching over as Caroline rode forward, herding him like a steer and lashing at him.

"That for your slurs, Harry Embleton!" she cried. "That for your cruelty! Slander me, will you? Put your dogs on our cat, will you? That for a purse-proud… Tom-Noddy! You vile wretch!"

"Caroline, for God's sake!" Alan shouted, riding up even with her and taking her hands, taking her reins to stop her and lead her away before even more lasting harm was done. "Drop it! Dead'un!"

"Damn him!" She spat, her color up and her hazel eyes ablaze.

"I think he got your point, m'dear," Alan told her. And he could not help himself from betraying his feelings with an approving smile. Caroline blew out a deep breath and looked at him, then she began to smile, too; lowered her head and bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud at the sight of Harry scuttling away, though no more blows struck him.

"By God, you're a Tartar, no error!" Alan told her. "I hope you have not deceived me with amiability. Am I to wed a termagant?" he cajoled, leading her towards the Chiswick house.

"Oh, Alan, no!" Caroline softened at last "You must never think that of me! It's simply his… I am sorry I usurped your place as my defender, darling. But the fool rowed me beyond… he struck you, Alan! He'd have killed Pitt to spite us. And what he called me! Had I a gun, I'd have soon shot him as looked at him. Had I a sword, I'd have run him through, God help me!"

"Sounds termagant to me," Alan said, tongue in cheek.

"I promise I shall be a proper wife to you, Alan." She calmed. "Properly demure and so very affectionate and complaisant. Surely, I trust to your affectionate and gentle nature. There will be nothing but the sweetest tranquility and joy between us. I know that, sure as I know anything in this life!"

"A 'goody,'" Alan japed. "Your uncle's favorite word."

"Oh, aye, a 'goody'!" Caroline replied, throwing her head backto chuckle with wry amusement. "Though I fear he favors 'economical' the more! Your 'goody,' at last, my dearest love."

They took hands between, riding knee to knee, and gazed into each other's eyes.

Damme, Alan thought, but she's got more bottom than any woman ever I did see! With her wits, and her fire, I'm in for a lively old time with her. Might be more interesting than I thought. Who said a marriage had to be drab as ditchwater?

"Your uncle won't care for this much," he sobered.

"Dearest Alan, I don't know anyone in Anglesgreen who will," she rejoined. "This is the stuff Welsh feuds are made of. Will you duel him?" she asked suddenly, realizing the ramifications. "I beg of you, do not!"

"He's a hen-hearted buffle-head." Alan sneered. "And he got a lot worse than he gave, after all. I doubt Sir Romney wants his boy carved up any more than he already is. He'll be a lifetime living this shame down, and I doubt he's the nutmegs to do more than slink away to London or Guildford. Away from all his friends and neighbors who saw his beastly behavior."

"He looked and sounded completely daft, Alan," Caroline said with a frown. "Oh, Lord, what if he found the bottom to challenge you? Crossed in love, bested before his contemporaries…"

"By you, as well, Caroline," Alan laughed heartily. "If indeed he does summon up the stones, I'll be your second!"

II

HECUBA

"Ite, ite, Danae, petite iam tuti dotnos;

optata velis maria diffusis secet secura classis."

"Go, go, you Danae, seek now your homes

in safety; let your fleet now spread its sails and at

ease plough the longed-for sea."

Troades

– Seneca

There was no challenge, though it had been deemed prudent for Lewrie to ride back to London to gather what household furnishings he possessed from storage with the Matthewses at his old lodgings, to make himself scarce for a week or so, whilst Caroline gathered her own trousseau and goods, bought what was lacking, and ordered a new gown from the dressmaker's.

There had been a lot of sighing, mooning and handwringing in the Chiswick house. Uncle Phineas, bemoaning his now-confounded schemes, praying only for icy civility at best from the Embletons for the rest of his life; Mother Charlotte sunk deep in the moping Blue Devils which required an hourly change of handkerchiefs and lots of sad "alases"; Govemour and Millicent squint-a-pipes, split two ways by fondness for Alan and Caroline, and regrets for connections which were now effectively severed, removing Millicent Chiswick nee Embleton from familiar converse, and Governour from hope of support for Parliament, or the conjoining of the lands.

It had been a rather grim wedding party, with half the guests either secretly armed to prevent further scandal, in support of the Chiswicks; or present to gawk and gossip as if their nuptials were a raree show or dramatick which would end in high-flown and safely vicarious violence. Well represented though the gentry were, there had been few representatives solidly partisan, or beholden, to the baronet and his son. And, of course, no Embletons at all, save wan, but game to the last, Millicent.

The wedding supper had been held at the Ploughman instead of the Red Swan Inn, and Alan suspected that whenever he had cause to return to Anglesgreen (God help him on those rare occasions) he would do his tippling and socializing there for the rest of his natural life, odious as that thought was to him once he had inspected the dim, sooty, slightly rank gloominess of that shoddily delapidated establishment.

And, finally and most unhappily, it had been deemed, again, prudent, for the "happy couple" to depart instanter for Portsmouth, rather than consummate the vows in any local bed.