A King's Trade (42 page)

“That flap-eyed bastard! What'd he tell you?” Lewrie demanded, instantly suspecting that luring some of his sailors to desert was the man's way of getting back at him, if putting one of his daggers in his heart was not in the immediate offing.

“He
does
say, when I treat him, that such a hunt will be one of life's grand adventures, Captain, though the danger is
aussi
the great, so, as many guns who go along will be welcome. He suggest, I think, I might enjoy such with him,
hawn hawn!”
Durant said with the nasal sort of laugh of which only the French seemed capable.

“He rode up here?” Lewrie pressed, hoping that Durschenko had no idea, being a foreigner, that Black sailors weren't all that common in the Royal Navy, not in such numbers aboard a single ship, or that burying them alongside Whites was heavily frowned upon.
Else, he'd be crowing it from the rooftops, t'spite me!
Lewrie fretfully thought;
Or, if Groome, Rodney, one of the others, blabbed about how I
got
‘em…!

“Lured ‘em away, did he?” Lewrie griped.

“That is very possible, Captain,” Durant agreed, with the calm of a saint, which, to Lewrie, was becoming maddening.

“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie exclaimed, stomping about the gallery, all but ready to flap his arms in anger. “Didn't the idiots
know
that the Dutch keep slaves here, same as Jamaica…that they're trading one set o' chains for another, once they're far enough away in the wilds where the
trekboers
can do anything they like with ‘em?”

“Perhaps they assum-ed that they were under the protection of that
M'sieur
Wigmore,” Durant said, and if he performed just one more of his damned shrugs, Lewrie would not be responsible for his actions! “Or, that
M'sieur
Durschenko would prevent that…if they were going as free Black men, employ-ed by the circus, Captain.”

“Damn, damn,
hell
and damn!” Lewrie cried, in a stew, for there was no way, short of organising a hunting trip of his own, to get them back, and he was already several hands short; and, what guarantee was there that galloping a pressgang to go after them might not result in even
more
free-spirited hands…even Marines!… thinking that the merry life of the
trekboers
was infinitely better than that of an overworked, underfed, and underpaid Jolly British Jack?

“There was no way to prevent it, Captain,” Durant tried to console. “You were away, and could not have known. Lieutenant Langlie or the ozzer officers could not have known their intentions beforehand, lizz…either.”

“Doesn't
matter,
dammit,” Lewrie gravelled. It
was
his fault. Whatever occurred, for good or ill, was
always
the captain's responsibility! “Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril!” it said near the bottom of his Commission, a phrase the Navy was rather
keen
on. Bleakly, Lewrie thought that the best he could do for the next week or so would be to see to the ship's repair, no matter how tempting it would be to hare after his deserters and haul them back in irons.

“Do they survive, Captain,” Durant continued in his maddeningly serene voice, “you may arrest them on their return,
n'est-ce pas?”

“Well, there is that,” Lewrie bitterly allowed, slouching, with his hands resting on the gallery railing, and staring out at Table Bay. “Not that their present absence does the rest of our people any good. I might have to cancel shore liberty ‘til we have ‘em back, before any
more
of our hands think to emulate ‘em. Replacing the rudder and the sternpost'll keep ‘em busy enough, for a while, but…”

Much as I find it loathsome, I'll have to have those two at the gratings,
he thought;
Give
‘
em both four-dozen lashes apiece, just to drive the lesson home t'one and all!

“You will see the wounded, Captain?” Durant asked.

“Aye, I will. What I rode up for …” Lewrie began to say, but took closer notice of Table Bay before he swung back to face Durant. There was a new ship anchored near Green Point, inside the encircling peninsula. And, even more ships were entering the bay, just starting to round Green Point. Even without a telescope, he could make out a few identifying details in the clear air, so far up above the haze of Cape Town's hearth and workshop fires.

The arriving ships appeared to be five East Indiamen, escorted by a lone two-decker. And the anchored ship seemed to be flying the distinctive “Post-Boy” flag of a mail-packet, a Red Ensign sporting a Union flag in the canton, with the horn-blowing rider on a horse that filled the rest of the fly.

“A convoy coming in,” Lewrie muttered.

“Ah,
oui?”
Durant replied, cheering up as he came to Lewrie's side by the gallery overlooking the wide bay. “Too soon, I am told, for ships from England, so this must be a convoy from China or India. I hope
M'sieur
Hodson or I may go aboard them while they are here…to ask of ingredients for fresh medicines. Oil of cloves is…”

“And the mail-packet?” Lewrie asked. “What of her?”

“Oh, she came in yesterday,” Durant answered. “I trust there are letters from Madelaine and our babes. For a time, both Hodson and I had to be up here to tend our wounded, but, now their care is not so urgent,
M'sieur
Hodson
return-ed aboard
Proteus,
leaving me with only three loblolly boys,” he gently complained, his old plaint of being a better-educated and trained physician serving under a “saw-bones” surgeon. “I would ask, should you discover any mail for me…?”

“Done, and done,” Lewrie assured him, half his attention still on the incoming ships. “Well, let us go and visit our hurt men. Once that's done, I'll sort through our mail and send a Midshipman up here with anything for you, or our patients, sir.”

“Merci,
Captain.
Merci beaucoup.”

I
think
I can trust a Midshipman not t'run off with the circus!
Lewrie grimly told himself.

W
elcome back aboard, sir,” Lt. Langlie said, once the salutes of the side-party and officers were done. “Might I enqire if the hunt went well?”

“It did, indeed, Mister Langlie,” Lewrie gleefully told him as they began to walk aft together. “The rudder and sternpost are sound as the pound, and now in the local contractors' yard. A week or three more, and we'll be completely ready for sea, again.”

“Excellent news, sir!” Langlie enthused.

“What's happened aboard, now two of our Black sailors have run?” Lewrie asked him. “And, how did
that
happen?”

“I stopped all shore liberty since, sir,” Langlie reported, turning sombre. “My fault, sir… should have seen it coming, what with that mountebank, Wigmore, beguiling them. Perhaps as early as our stop at Saint Helena, I now gather….”

“When they return,
if
they return, we'll have to make examples of ‘em, Mister Langlie,” Lewrie grimly announced. “Was Wigmore after any of the others?”

“The more exotic, the better, I believe, sir,” Langlie replied. “Play-act as Hindoo
mahouts,
should they get themselves some elephants…trick them out as eunuchs or Turk swordsmen for one of his plays, or the circus parades, but, I also have ascertained that the rest of our sailors thought it a daft idea, and rightly reckoned the consequences of desertion. Especially in a land that keeps native Blacks as slaves, and makes war on the rest, sir.”

“Good!” Lewrie declared, relieved to hear it. “Mister Durant tells me a mail-packet has come in. Was there anything for us?”

“Scads, sir!” Lt. Langlie said, brightening. “And, may I convey my congratulations, Captain.”

I've quickened
another
babe somewhere in the world?
he thought in confusion;
I've inherited all of Surrey?

“You have me at a loss, sir,” Lewrie said to that.

“The latest Captain's List, sir!” Langlie gushed. “Your name now appears among those of
More
than Three Years' Seniority. You may ‘board' your second epaulet!”

“Well, damn my eyes,” Lewrie replied, after a stunned moment, then began to chuckle. “With all that's occurred lately, the date that I was ‘posted' quite slipped my mind. Thankee for that news, Mister Langlie. A ream of officialese from Admiralty, too, I s'pose.”

“All your letters are in your clerk's possession, sir, awaiting you in your cabins,” Langlie told him.

“Very well, sir,” Lewrie said, eager to be at them, for, with a slew of official documents, there might be personal letters from home
as
well, word from Twigg or that gaggle of earnest do-gooders who had sworn to defend his good name. “I'll be aft and below. Do you, in the meantime, see to victualling arrangements for our shore working-party, and send a Lieutenant along to supervise the work, when it begins, on the morrow.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Hello, lads!” Lewrie cooed as Toulon and Chalky swarmed him. “Miss me, did ye? Yes, I smell exotic, don't I? African dirt, blood, and meat…ain't it
tasty?
Yes, love you, too, Toulon,” Lewrie told the black-and-white ram-cat as he knelt down, allowing both of them to sniff him, raise up on their hind legs to rub chins on his clothes, and make snoring noises over such blissful new scents.

“Welcome back, sir,” Aspinall happily said. “Will ye be havin' a sip o' somethin'… a scrub-up? There's lashin's o' fresh water comes aboard every mornin', enough for a hip-bath, do ye care for it. And, I've your workin'-rig uniform fresh as a daisy, when ye call for it. Cool tea'll take no more than half an hour, too, sir.”

“Should have taken you along, Aspinall,” Lewrie said, as Chalky swarmed up his thigh to scrub the side of his little head on his chin, and start to snuffle his hair. “I could have
used
a bit of civilised seeing-to. Ah…a sponge-down, first, aye. A gallon of water, if that much is aboard…
two
gallons, and I'll wash
Africa out of my scalp, too. Ow, Chalky! Here, lad…
biltong!”
he beguiled, as the newest cat's affection turned “nippish.” Lewrie reached into a pocket of his slop trousers and pulled out two strips of dried springbok wrapped in a handkerchief. “Wild game meat, lads.
Could
have brought it down yourselves, I'm certain, but you can pretend. Smell good, hmm? Taste it, Toulon, ooh yes!”

He tore a strip into wee bites, feeding both cats a bit or two from his fingertips as they swished their tails, rose up on their hind legs again, and went frantic, meowing loudly for more.

“I've two hundredweight coming aboard, Aspinall,” Lewrie said, still on his knees. “We'll have to find a safe place to store it, else they might founder on it, the first dark night.”

“I'll think o' somethin', sir. Hot water's on the way.”

Lewrie rose at last and went to his desk, where he discovered a fair-sized mound of correspondence, sorted out by his clerk, Padgett, into official Must-Read-First, personal and newspapers, bills, and a slush-pile of Who-Cares and Future-Toilet-Necessities.

Surprisingly, the official pile was rather small, the most of it those sort of directives sent out at quarterly or half-year intervals to every warship in active commission, and yes, it
was
delightful to pore over the Captain's List to see his own name among those who'd lived long enough, and hadn't come a cropper, with the beginnings of real seniority; down at the
bottom
of that list, even so, but his name was finally there. And, Lewrie could smugly note, about a quarter of the names above his did not command ships or hold
active
commissions.

He had to stop and play some more with the cats, reach into the larboard pocket of his trousers, and dig out another strip of
biltong
with which to placate them before he could pore over the list for the names of friends or foes.

Keith Ashburn, a fellow Midshipman in 1780, was listed in the lower third, in command of a frigate; Francis Forrester, that fubsy fart with all the “interest” and patronage, was above Keith, now pestering the crew of his own Fifth Rate. His old captain in the Far East, Ayscough, was near the top of the list, with a two-decker 74.

Dropping down to Commanders, he found that Midshipman Hogue of those Far East adventures under Ayscough had just taken command of one of those new-fangled Brig-Sloops, and even more pleasingly, his First Officer into HMS
Jester,
Lt. Knolles, had been promoted into a Sloop of War with an epaulet on his shoulder, too. Far down, though, there was Kenyon… damn his blood! That “windward passage” bugger was now a Commander, too.