A King's Trade (22 page)

Three white-garbed clowns ran up to “toe the line” along a plank seam; one widely
salaamed
in Arabic fashion, a second banged his head on the deck in a Chinee
kow-tow,
whilst the third parodied bosuns' calls on a nose flute.

“Don't
make me shoot you!” Lewrie harshly warned the flutist as he gathered a fistful of pom-pommed smock in one hand, and tapped the butt of one of his sashed pistols with the other.

“Gerroutofit!” the ship's master angrily shouted. “Jesus!” he added half under his breath as he came from his quarterdeck to shoo them away. “I'm that sorry for that, sir. That sorry, too, to be such a bother, but we had no idea you were Royal Navy, and ran from you. I am Amos Weed, master of the
Festival,
and you'd be bein'…?”

“Captain Alan Lewrie, sir, of the
Proteus
frigate,” Lewrie said, his humours still unsettled by the jeering amusement the circus people expressed as they congratulated the clowns on their jape.

Smells like the cats' sand box,
Lewrie told himself as he got a good first whiff of the air aboard the merchantman.

“Our owner, Captain Lewrie,” Capt. Weed said, waving at a portly fellow tromping up the starboard ladderway from the waist. “Mister Dan Wigmore, of Wigmore's Travelling Extravangaza.”

” ‘Ow do, sir, ‘ow do!” Mr. Wigmore cried as if Lewrie was a long lost brother as he joined them. He was garbed in a bilious green wool tweed coat and
loudly
-embroidered tan waist-coat, a pair of taupe-grey corduroy breeches, and top-boots. He bobbed from the waist jerkily as he doffed a very fashionable, narrow-brimmed “thimble” hat. “An' werry glad we are t'see ye, Cap'm! Daniel Wigmore…but I ‘spects ye know o' our Extravaganza a'ready. Th' finest, most h'amazin' portable show h'ever ye did see!” Wigmore declared in a pronounced Cockney accent. “Circus! Bareback riders … h'acrobats an' h'an-imal h'acts. Dramas s'tragic they'll make ye blub, comedies s'funny ye'll split yer sides laughin'! Jugglers, fortune tellin', death-defyin' h'aerialists, an' feats o' magic done by mystic
gurus
o' th' fabled Far h'East, a li'l bit o' h'ev'rythin' under th' sun,
and
a men
-ag
-erie gathered from th' four corners o' th'
world,
aha!”

“Lewrie, Royal Navy,” he said in stiff reply. “We have—”

“An' ‘aven't ye come in Puddin' Time, Cap'm Lewrie!” Mr. Wigmore energetically prattled on. “Wot a wonder, h'arrivin' h'at th' werry instant in our ‘our o' need!”

“Need, sir?” Lewrie asked with a snort. “What need?” Damned if he'd give up spare spars and canvas to
this…
circus!

“Why, pertection, Cap'm Lewrie, pertection!” Wigmore exclaimed. “We're h'all h'alone out ‘ere, an' th' wide ocean full o' two-legged sharks o' th' French an' Spanish persuasion, like. Now ye're ‘ere, we kin sail t'Recife in comp'ny wif a stout British frigate, so…”

“You've seen enemy warships, Captain Weed?” Lewrie demanded of the soberer merchant master,
trying
to ignore Wigmore's patter.

Trying, too, to ignore the semi-exposed charms of the women the
Festival
carried: flaming-hennaed redheads, lithe little blondes, and an assortment of brunette or auburn wenches, who were slowly drifting over to starboard to listen to the conversation…or flirt with the file of Marines and the sailors from his boat crew. One of ‘em…

“Seen
sev'ral
odd sail, sir,” Capt. Weed told him, “and we ran from a few that gave me the odd itch.
Festival
's not a swift sailer, laden as we are, but a sure ol' girl. Can't rightly say they
were
warships, but none pursued us too long. And, we've nought but eight old pieces, and them but puny, converted Army six-pounders, as like as not t'burst, and none o' my hands what ye'd call proper gunners …”

“Mmhmm,” Lewrie said with a sage nod, more than half-distracted.

“Frets me critters somethin' ‘orrid, sir!” Wigmore bemoaned at his elbow. “Oh, ‘tis ‘ard, shippin' ‘orses an' such, an' them a pitch away from broken legs, an' h'after
years
o' trainin' that'd be wasted. ‘Cept on wot Cap'm Weed calls a ‘reach,' th' h'upset… damme! There they go, again. An' h'after we just got ‘em settled, too.”

Evidently, lying fetched-to didn't suit his “menagerie,” either, for Lewrie heard a sudden cacophony of grunts, roars, bleating goats, burbling
somethings,
fierce moos or hee-haws, yelps, bugles, and enough dog barks for a whole hunting pack. One set off the others, then some parrot squawks and shrill peacock cries arose, too.

“Might ye be good h'enough t' h'excuse me, Cap'm Lewrie. I've beasts t'settle, damn ‘em,” Wigmore griped, then scampered down to the main deck and down a midships hatchway, bawling for his keepers.

“Tell me ye're bound for Recife, sir,” Capt. Weed nigh-implored.

“We're, ah …” Lewrie temporised, loath to tell Weed too much. “Perhaps, sir. Bound South, at any rate. But, let me ask you, sir…what took you to the Cape Verdes, and from where did you sail, before you fetched ‘em?”

“As to yer second question first, sir,” Weed explained, “we'd just done a whole year o' shows all up and down the coast of the United States of America, ev'ry seaport city from Maine to Savannah, down in Georgia. Right successful, too, and huge crowds ev'rywhere we lit. The Yankee Doodles are starved for entertainment, I expect. We did a show or two in the Bahamas, then planned to head South, ourselves, for Cape Town and the Far East.
Could've
fetched Recife, but Wigmore was leery of how the dramas'd go over in Brazil, with so few folk speakin' English, there, for none of
our
folk speak Portuguese, e'en the fortune tellers,
and,
bein' a Catholic country, they might not've taken kindly to our costumes, neither. A bit…scant, for some tastes, ah…”

Lewrie could see the sense in that worry, as he let himself be distracted by the women clad in muslin or sheer cambric underskirts and chemises, exchanging recited lines from slim booklets he took for the scripts of a new dramatic work. One of ‘em that particularly caught his eye was an exotic, foreign-looking girl with raven-dark and long curling hair, high-cheeked features, and a complexion that put him in mind of Spain or the New World.
Bright
amber-brown eyes, or were they hazel, but very attractive, and firm young breasts straining against her loose chemise, damned
impressive
and
full
“poonts”…!

“As to yer first question,” Capt. Weed continued, dragging him back to reality, “we hit the Equatorial Current, and the passage turned longish…so much so we were runnin' low on water for the critters, Cap'm Lewrie.”

“There's been drought in the Cape Verdes, the last fourty years, Captain
Weed,” Lewrie scoffed, his un-formed suspicions of such an odd ship revived, and took a moment to glance over his shoulder to see if his Marines or sailors had found anything piratical in their searches.

“Aye, and so there is, sir,” Capt. Weed sadly agreed. “I
told
Mister Wigmore it'd be iffy, but…The few folk still livin' on those isles were damn' tight with what they had, too. Sold us barely enough t'fetch Recife, after all, then shooed us outta port, nigh at cannon-point. Wouldn't even let us land the beasts for exercise, nor any of our people, either! Got a low opinion o' circus and theatre people in the Cape Verdes! I
hope
we can make it all the way to Recife, and we just
may,
do we not meet slack winds, or have to run from any more of those strange sail. We'd
much
appreciate escort, Cap'm Lewrie, do ye be bound that way,” he almost pleadingly stated.

“We, ah …” Lewrie hedged once more, then finally had to spill it. “That would be up to my senior officer, sir, and the East India Company's civilian ‘Commodore.' We're part of a rather large escort to a ‘John Company' trade. Should the winds suit, those gentlemen may even plan for us to beat our way direct to Saint Helena.”

“A ‘John Comp'ny' convoy, up to windward of us?” Capt. Weed gladly exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in such an avaricious way that he put Lewrie in mind of a new-day Blackbeard, who had just heard news of tops'ls in the offing. “Though I never heard a good word said o' Saint Helena water, either, nor decent anchorage, that'd be better than swanning about these seas, alone. Aye, ‘John Comp'ny' masters'd not discomfit their paying passengers with
too
long a passage, ‘thout putting in for fresh stores.
High
on fresh, Cap'm Lewrie…manger beasts and wines, flour so they can bake fresh, daily, aha! I'd lay ye any odds ye wish, ye'll fetch Recife
long
before ye see the hills of Saint Helena! Why, by sundown, we'd know one way or t'other!” he happily went on, rubbing his hands together again.

“You know the rules of convoying, sir?” Lewrie had to ask him. “The Acts and Admiralty regulations, that you'd have to post a bond with the Commodore, before….”

“And follow ev'ry rule, aye, Cap'm Lewrie, aye!” Weed replied. “An' Daniel Wigmore's rolling in ‘chink,' so the bond'd be no bother. A very profitable bus'ness, is entertainment! ‘Tis another reason to wish to join yer convoy, sir…there's lashings o' profits hidden in Dan's cabins, most of it in silver coin, so…”

Lewrie's interest drifted off, again, as a pack of nigh-naked people swarmed down from aloft where they'd been swinging or leaping about. And, there was that raven-haired girl, again, too, and this time, she was done with reciting her
lines, and was leaning against the larboard bulwarks on the opposite gangway, her arms crossed under her breasts, her legs-parted stance through the sheerness of her underskirtings hinting at slim hips, a taut belly, and
long,
fine limbs. A narrow slit of bare flesh was bared ‘twixt the waistband of skirt and chemise bottom. Freed of rehearsing, she was frankly and openly
staring
at him, with the slightest hint of a promising smile upon her lips. She began to grin as he stared back at her just as boldly, and her eyes widened, she drew in an expectant,
impressive
breath, before clapping a hand to her mouth, as if she found him as attractive as he found her, felt as “risible” as Lewrie did. Then her grin widened to gape-mouthed, and she
pointed
at him, saying something aside to those other wenches near her (rather
gauche,
that, but who knew
what
foreign girls thought proper, Lewrie wondered), and he half-raised a hand to wave at her, ‘til…

Something butted the back of his booted calves, something hairy encompassed his lower legs, something as reeky as his cats' sand box after a month's neglect, and he looked back and down.

“Jesus
fuckin'…!” Lewrie screeched, of half a mind to break into a panicky gallop to the taffrails, or leap for
Festival
's lower yardarms.

“Whuff!” the thankfully leather-muzzled bear said as he tried (thankfully) unsuccessfully to lick and chew on Lewrie's ankles!

“… Christ!” Lewrie yelped.

“Oh, pay Fredo no mind, Cap'm Lewrie,” Capt. Weed told him as he let out a guffaw, “but don't do nothing sudden-like, either. Old Fredo's just curious ‘bout a new-come. His teeth are dulled, and his claws've been clipped short. Gentle as a baa-lamb …mostly. One of our dancing bears, he is, and ain't he a beauty? Does a whole series o' tricks …when we feed him regular. He'll give up and lose interest, in a bit.”

“That'd
be nice!” Lewrie shudderingly said as the bear's great bulk, gentle or no, made him stagger as the beast began to scratch his hairy hide on the back of his thighs.

“Jose! Come do something with Fredo, will ye,
por favor?
He's an Andalusian bear, him and his brother, quite rare where they come from, they are. Raised ‘em from cubs, Wigmore did,” Weed told him.

“Uh huh?” Lewrie whinged, fearful of taking a deep breath.

“Fredo,
amigo!”
his keeper, Jose, cajoled, coming to take hold of the bear's thick collar. “Chu beeg seelly, leggo de chennleman.”

Instead, the bear rose up on his hind feet, laid a heavy paw on Lewrie's right shoulder and epaulet hard enough to make him
sag,
and started to sniff his coat and head all over. Fredo gave him another chummy “Whuff!” and a soft but rasping bawl, then slapped his cocked hat off. At least
that
got him off and
down!

The bear gave it a lick or two, then skittered it along the gangway like an amusing new toy… a football, perhaps. Jose swept it up from him, eliciting another disappointed bawl, and handed it back to Lewrie, towing better than five hundred pounds of furry appetite by the collar like he would a wolfhound.

“He mean no harm,
senor,”
Jose said in a friendly manner, even going so far as to tap the bear on his long snout. “Fredo and Paulo, dey are poosycats. Say jello to de chennlemun, Fredo, say jello!” he urged, and the bear stood up, again, raised a foreleg, and “waved” his paw at Lewrie, uttering another “friendly” squalling bawl that
might
be taken for a pacific greeting… did one ignore the paw, the size of a soup bowl!

“Geef heem a scratch on de head,
senor,”
Jose coaxed. “He like de head pat, an' den he be chur vriend. Say jello to my widdle vriend,
senor Capitano.”

“Uh …” Lewrie began to demur, rather shakily it here must be noted, but, so many of
Festival
's people were watching by then, that spectacular and highly-amused raven-haired wench included, that Lewrie couldn't refuse, so…he (tentatively) reached out one hand to stroke the bear's broad head, to dare skritch his fingers in Fredo's coarse, thick fur, knowing that his hand would reek afterward, as if he petted a wild goat or badger, and wouldn't Chalky and Toulon be pleased when he went back aboard, to snuffle, savour, and go gape-mouthed in wonder over such exotic new stinks!