THE GUN KETCH - Dewey Lambdin

"I fear so, sir," Lewrie nodded, all but turning St. Catherine wheels with barely repressed glee. "A small price to pay, after all."

"Best it be Whippet stands into port To water, let's say," Commander Rodgers schemed. "You take over escort for Sarah and Jane, make what arrangements you will aboard her, and stand off-and-on, tops'l down over the horizon, t'the east'rd. Pray God Childs an' Guardian be the ship in port. Not that Lieutenant 'Cow-Flop'!"

"He may be as out of touch with Nassau as we were, sir," Lewrie hoped out loud. "And that somnolent arse wouldn't stir up his bones to see the Second Coming."

"Somnolent, sir?" Rodgers laughed, rising and fetching his hat "Damme, but you've been readin' again, ain't ya? After I told ya it was bad for ya, for shame."

"Well, it was only the one book, sir," Lewrie chuckled, getting to his feet to drain his glass. "And a damn' thin 'un, at that."

"Let's go on deck, then, and beard our Captain Grant, sir. And then, lay a course for Eleuthera!"

Chapter 6

Sewallis Alan Lewrie lay sleeping in his cradle, at last, after a noisy afternoon of colic and wailing that had quite worn his young mother to a frazzle. Caroline sat at the side of the cradle, formed in the shape of a miniature dory, that a New England Loyalist joiner had made for her months before, feeling vaguely disloyal.

Women were supposed to adore children, she thought wearily. It was a given that all a young woman could wish for in this life was a brood of offspring to tend. But so far, one was more man enough to deal with, and after six weeks of maternal devotion following the boy's birth, she wasn't so sure she cared to experiencethe terror and pain again. The physician had rated her labor easy, a mere nine hours! To hold her firstborn like a tightly swaddled roast at the end of it, to peer into those grave little eyes, had not seemed worthy enough reward.

Then had come the interrupted nights, at the mercy of his cries, the shambling sham of wakefulness between precious naps, to brave his supping at her breasts with the frantic lustiness of his absent father, almost dreading the aching, until Heloise and Betty had suggested a wet nurse to spare her, to let Wyonnie tend him for a few hours.

Her body felt destroyed. Where was the lissome figure she'd had, she wondered when she bathed? There was still a heaviness, a gravid and palpable puffiness that only now was departing as she began to take rides and putter in her gardens, her kitchen and pantry. And the stretch marks which traversed her formerly alabaster flesh like fault lines, or desert tributaries of a failed river. Would Alan be repulsed by the sight of her when he returned? She could no longer claim to feel like the lithe girl she'd been-and she had yet to feel comfortable accepting a role of young matron; it was surreal.

Yet… She looked down at the puffy little face screwed up into a puckered repose. And had to fight the urge to pick him up to hold him close to her, to carry him out to the dog-run and croon to him as she sat and rocked in the clean air, instead of the humid stuffiness of the bedroom, permeated with the smells of incontinent infancy.

Sewallis Alan Lewrie had been powdered and changed, and she bent down, fearful of waking him, to inhale the aroma of his skin, and of the milky, corn-silk smells he bore like a Hungary Water. She kissed him lightly, brushed his little tuft of hair, and sat back in her straight-backed chair with a fond smile, in spite of all.

Yes, he was a darling baby (most of the time), with his father's gray blue eyes, but with her nose, her paler hair. And her mouth. It felt more than odd to feel his tiny, demanding lips at her nipples, yet it was her mouth, not Alan's.

"You take a rest, missus," Wyonnie offered, entering the room. "I watch 'im fo' awhile. Po' chile cry hisse'f right out. But, he be bettah when 'e wakes. Dot obeah-mon's yarbs get rid de colic, jus' as I tole ya. Un de corn-meal fo' dot rash'll ease 'im."

"And I expect he'll wake up hungry," Caroline grinned with a wry lift to a brow. "God save womankind, Wyonnie, from men's… hungers!"

"All de mo' reason ya naps a spell, missus," Wyonnie chuckled in reply as she sat down opposite Caroline and began to fan him.

"I will, and thank you, Wyonnie," Caroline said. She left the room on tiptoe. Darling or not, Sewallis Lewrie showed signs of a light sleeper, and she felt she'd more than earned this brief respite.

She paused in the parlor to open her stationery box and take out her letter from Alan before going to the dog-run. Even though she had devoured it fifty times at least in the week since it had arrived, it was forever new and reassuring. Hugging it to her bosom, she went out onto the dog-run terrace where a fair wind was blowing, and the air was so much cooler and fresher. She took a seat in her rocker, put up her feet on an embroidered, padded footstool, and began to read it all over again between small sips from a glass of Rhenish.

All over again, she savored his protestations of love, his fear for her and the baby's life, his anguish at being separated so long, and his inability to communicate with her. Once again, Caroline seethed with outrage at the injustice of their mail being cut off, by how base Commodore Garvey could be. She blushed as she read Alan's curses called down on Finney and Garvey, knowing that she had used similar curses directed at him in the bleakest moments of her despair during his hellish silence. Or what she'd called him during her labor, she snickered!

"Two months I fretted," she whispered. "Damn Peyton and Heloise. I know they didn't want me worried, but they could have told me their suspicions… to ease me!"

But, all was right again. Alan still loved her. And, with her harshest memories of pain and fear subsiding, she was once more as much in love with him as the first moment she saw him. And surely he would come back soon. Do something about Finney and Garvey. Hold her again. And there would be no more cause for longing and dread.

The late afternoon heat was ebbing, and a cool wind rushed into the dog-run; Alan's nor'east Trades, which might waft him home at last. She finished her wine, folded up the letter and slipped it onto the table under the wine glass, then put her head back on the small lashed-on pad to take Wyonnie's advice about a nap. She eased the ache of her neck and shoulders with a shrug and a stretch, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and, with a wistful smile, fell asleep.

She woke in the twilight of another spectacular sundown, rummy with barely eased exhaustion, rocking forward with a start, andlistening close for her baby's waking cry, which was what she thought had stirred her. But it was a carriage.

Bay Street, a narrow sandy track, ran in front of their house, and a second, narrower sand-and-shell lane forked off southeast from the coast road, parallel to the front porch for awhile before winding south along the garden to the great house. A coach had turned in at the gate, and now stood in the lane, half hidden behind the tops of her palmetto hedge. A man was walking towards her through the gate in the "tabby" wall, and up the crushed-shell path to the front porch.

Caroline stood and peered to see who it was. The hat was laced with gold, and for a fleeting moment, she thought it was Alan returned.

"Hello, the house," a voice called. "Anyone to home, be they?"

"Good God!" she whispered in alarm, putting a hand to her mouth.

It was John Finney!

"Ah, there you be, Mistress Lewrie," Finney said, stepping upon the deep front porch and coming to her in the mouth of the dog-run. "A very good evenin' to you, Mistress." He took off his cocked hat, laid it upon his chest, and performed a deep, formal bow, one leg extended.

"Mister Finney," she replied, trembling a little with fear that he'd dare appear so boldly. "And to what do I owe this unasked visit?"

"Why, 'tis concern, good lady," Finney replied, stepping closer, and making Caroline wish to shy back, though she stood her ground. "We heard you'd birthed a fine man-child, spittin' image of his beautiful mother, so 'tis said in the town, yet never hide nor hair t'be seen of him, nor your fine self since."

Finney had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes sparkled with secret merriment.

"Call it curiosity, Mistress Caroline," Finney went on'. "Worry about how ye fare. I'm that fond o' children, ya know, and I wish t'satisfy meself that you were recovered an' all. And t'gain a peek at the little lad, if I be so bold, now."

"He is sleeping, and it's best he's not disturbed," Caroline rejoined, losing her fear as her outrage took over, and the crease in her forehead deepened. "He is quite well, as am I, sir. But I am not yet receiving callers, Mister Finney. It's not seemly for you to be here."

"I'm not so polished as most, I'll tell ya, Mistress Caroline," Finney shrugged with a fetching smile." Tis my lack o' manners I most regret, ma'am. But I meant to assure meself o' your good health. And yer contentment I brought a few things for the little lad, d'ya see. Gewgaws from me stores. Toys and pretties. Hope ya won't begrudge a feller bein' so bold as to be offerin' a fine young lady such as yer sweet self a few trifles t' start the lad in life. 'Tis rough I come up, Mistress Caroline, an' ne'er a pretty'd I have fer my amusement. I'd not care t'see yer wee one deprived as me."

"I thank you for the sentiment, sir," Caroline allowed. "But I do not think that my son will lack for ought I could not accept any gift from you, Mister Finney."

"Been a hot one t'day, Mistress," Finney said, fanning himself with his cocked hat and stepping even closer to her. He picked up the wine bottle, peered at the label, and poured himself a glass of Rhenish, spilling a few drops on Alan's letter which was still on the table. "A glass o' somethin' cool'd be appreciated. With yer permission?"

"Ya got comp'ny, missus?" Wyonnie said, coming from the parlor side onto the dog-run. "Oh."

"Company, aye," Finney said, taking a seat in one of the wooden chairs as if he owned the place. "P'raps Mistress Caroline'd be needin' another glass, woman. Fetch it."

"I will not be needing another glass, Wyonnie. And Mister Finney will be leaving," Caroline snapped. "Really, sir!"

Her eyes went to the letter, and she almost gasped aloud at the idea of Finney knowing that she'd heard from Alan. Of knowing what the Boudreaus suspected, and were investigating on the sly! Did he already know, she wondered? Was that why he'd come?

"Oh, I'll be on me way, quick as a wink," Finney promised, taking a tiny sip of the wine. "Soon's I've finished me drink. I know how it is, ma'am. I'm the great bogeyman ye've heard s'much bad about, an' you're a proper lady. But I do wish t'talk to ye, Mistress Caroline. An' seemly or no, I did bring presents fer the lit'l'un. Wot you from the Carolinas'd call an Injun's pipe o' peace. Do sit an' be mannerly, just fer a bit."

"Very well, Mister Finney," Caroline nodded, sitting down in her rocker once more, and reaching out for the letter to fold it up and put it deep in a side-pocket of her child-tending apron.

"A letter from home, is it?" Finney asked with a twinkle. "An' do yer parents know o' the blessed event yet, ma'am?"

"I have written them, sir, but my post will not reach them for at least three months more," Caroline said, relieved he'd not seen it.

"Most tasty wine ya have, Mistress Caroline," Finney said."One o' me best imports, I declare. And does yer husband know? Sure, an' it's that proud he must be, t'be the father of a fine boy! Ye'll not have a glass with me?"