"Keep a civil tongue in your head, boy," Kenyon ordered. "So poor Claghorne is a new commission officer, senior in a victory over a more powerful foe, and what's the reward for a faithful first?"
"Promotion and command, sir," Alan stated, in control again of his emotions.
"Yes. And would they transfer him into another ship?"
"If they had half a brain, sir, given the circumstances."
"Aye, they would, but old Onsley is not blessed with brains, is he, Lewrie? More tripe and trullibubs upstairs to match the suet down below. What sort of chance do you think Claghorne had in command of a crew that knew him for a man who once was forced to strike? Whether or not there was a chance to fight that privateer, he was in command, and his decision was correct, simply because he was a senior officer, do you comprehend that, Lewrie? You disobeyed him!"
"So you'd rather be dead or in chains, sir?" Alan demanded.
"Damn you to hell, sir!" Kenyon spat. "Have you learned no shame, no sense of guilt for what you have done? You cost a good man his life."
"I saved yours, and every man-jack aboard, sir," Alan retorted. "Besides, Claghorne was ready to strike as soon as he saw that brig, and nothing you or anyone else could have said would have changed his mind, and not doing everything in one's power to prepare a ship to fight, or offering no resistance when there's a chance to do so is cowardice, at least a court-martial offense on one charge, sir. But we did offer resistance, and I proved that resistance was possible, so Claghorne should have been strung up, or cashiered. Now it's not my fault Sir Onsley gave that fatuous clown Parrot, sir. Had he given it a little thought, he would have known it was a death sentence, and…"
"God, I knew you were base, but I had no idea you were such a cold-blooded, dissembling hound, Lewrie!" Kenyon marveled. "Had the colors still been flying, your resistance would have resulted in every man-jack, as you put it, slaughtered with cold steel. And to smear a good man's name, to call him a clown, a fatuous clown… I once thought highly of you, Lewrie. I asked for you in Parrot. I took you under my aegis when I saw how you were floundering about those first weeks in Ariadne. I'd like to think that what little you have learned about the Navy was partly my doing."
"It is, sir, believe me."
"I gave you my trust," Kenyon went on, his heart almost breaking as the enormity of Alan's perceived sins overwhelmed his anger. "I brought you up from a seasick younker, taught you, gave you room to grow as a seaman, gave you responsibility, and I thought you were growing into a fine young man. But then you let me down so badly."
"I am sorry you see things that way, sir." Alan calmed, knowing he would not be able to get through Kenyon's screen of bile with any logic. "But I was technically second in command of Parrot at the time, and had a responsibility to do everything I could to prevent us being taken. Lord Cantner's knowledge of government secrets, their persons, the ship's people…"
"Don't cloak your actions in any false sense of duty," Kenyon snapped, back in rancor again. "I told you in my letter I'd not abide you in my presence, nor in my Navy, and I meant it. There's a vile streak to you that belongs in the gutter, not strutting about a quarterdeck as a junior warrant. Now I'm first officer into this ship, I shall make sure you serve her, and the Fleet, no longer than necessary."
"And satisfactory performance at my duties could not alter your resolve, sir," Alan sighed, steeling himself to use his ammunition.
"Not a whit, Lewrie. I mean to see you cashiered, or broken to ordinary seaman and sent forward in pusser's slops."
"That's devilish unfair, sir."
"Not to my lights it ain't."
"There are other officers who think highly of me in this ship, sir," Alan countered. "Your intent will look like persecution."
"I've been in the Navy ten years longer than you, Lewrie, I can find a way, believe me," Kenyon promised with a lupine grin that lit his countenance for a bleak moment. "And when you are broken, I'll shed a martyr's tears over your lost potential. No one shall portray sadness more than I."
"Ah, but you are good at acting, sir," Alan let slip out as the threat loosened his last cautions. "By the way, sir, have you seen Sir Richard Slade in Kingston lately?"
"What do you mean, sir?" Kenyon asked, suddenly on his guard.
"I was just wondering if he was still buggering his little black link-boys, and the odd house-guest?" Alan replied. In for the penny, in for the bloody pound, he thought grimly.
"You think that I…" Kenyon spluttered, but Alan was delighted to note that the man had blanched a fresh, book-paper white under his deep tropical tan, and his eyes almost bulged out of his head.
"I was in 'The Grapes' when you and Sir Richard came up in his coach, sir," Alan went on. "I saw the crest on the door, recognized the man, and the naval lieutenant in the coach with him, sir."
"I never suspected until now just how filthy you are, Lewrie," Kenyon muttered, still floundering after that broadside to his hull. "All the more reason to break you and toss you back into the sinks and stews you came from!"
"But do I malign you, sir?" Alan asked, fighting a grin of triumph. "Or is your manhood just another sham?"
"You'll pay for this," Kenyon said, once he had regained control over himself. He smiled wickedly, which smile made Lewrie wonder if he was half the sly-boots he had thought himself just a second before. But he knew what he had seen, didn't he?
"A beslimed little get like you'll not hope to threaten me with a blackguard's tale, Lewrie," Kenyon swore. "I promised I'd break you, and I shall. And I tell you this. For trying to blackmail me into leniency, I swear I'll see you at the gratings, getting striped by the cat. You'll leave the Navy wearing the 'checkered shirt' that I'll put on you. I'll see you flayed raw and half-killed, and you know I can find a way to do it, don't you. Don't you? Answer me, you Goddamned rogue!"
"Aye, sir," Alan was forced to admit, for the sin of not answering could be construed as a charge of dumb insolence, enough to get him disrated from master's mate, if Railsford was of mind.
"I assure you you'll pay," Kenyon promised, with almost a lover's sweetness. "You'll not enjoy a moment's peace from this day on. And I also assure you, you'll not enjoy what's coming to you. Now get out of my sight!"
"Aye aye, sir," Alan said, saluting and turning away. As he made his way blindly forward, he suffered a cold, shivering fit at what a cock-up he had made of things with his defiant remarks. There was a sheen of sweat on his body and he was like to faint from the encounter.
Damme, how could I have been so abysmally bloody stupid! he thought. If it was just Claghorne and Parrot, I could have found some way to prove my worth to the dirty bastard. Why did I have to say that? In for the penny, in for the pound, indeed! Why, why do I have to think I'm so bloody clever, when I just dig my grave deeper every time I do so?
He fetched up somewhere on the fo'c'sle and pretended to study the angle of the anchor cable and the chafe-gear on the hawse, as he found his breath and tried to still the rising panic in his heart. Where was salvation? Should he go to Railsford immediately and tell him what he had seen? There was a good chance Railsford would not believe him, or Kenyon would have a good excuse for his actions in that coach. He and Sir Richard had been childhood friends, and what was more natural than a goodbye kiss between old friends? It could be painted a lot more innocent than what Alan had seen. And he was sure of that, wasn't he?
Should he parley his new fame into a transfer? He would have to state reasons, and would be back to the same contretemps. Should he simply cash out and escape? Damned if he would!