A King's Trade (6 page)

Caroline's aging mother, Charlotte Chiswick, would most-like go into the wailing vapours, brother-in-law Governour would recall all of his panther-lean and panther-quick reflexes of old, lever his substantial arse from one of his over-strong fireplace chairs, and toddle to a gun cabinet, and her miserly, spiteful uncle Phineas Chiswick…his rasping cackles
already
rang in Lewrie's fervid imaginings!

In point of fact, being slung out of the Navy into dreary, civilian misery, with all those vultures flapping round his head like a flock of Harpies, forever-more, just might be a Fate
worse
than Death!

Oh, Death, where is thy sting?
Lewrie mournfully chid himself, dredging up a Bible verse (though not exactly sure from
which
Book of the Good Book). Though, as he turned his arse out-board and began his descent of the man-ropes and boarding battens, he made a quick, mental note to re-read the Book of Job… carefully!

And,
he thought as he took a seat in his smart gig's stern;
if it's a
criminal
trial, there's bound t'be a half-dozen “dominees” near to hand, with Bibles t'loan, just
hot
t'weep o'er my damned soul!

“Ready, sah,” Cox'n Andrews said in a low voice behind him, at the tiller, fetching Lewrie up from his black study to take note that
two
of the six oarsmen waiting to row him ashore were Black, ex-slave sailors: big and strong Jones Nelson as stroke-oar, and the wiry young “George Newcastle” (who'd new-christened himself once free after their King, and a bottle of beer he'd seen but never sampled!) as a larboard oarsman, on the middle thwart!

Take out advertisements, why don't we!
Lewrie thought, in a gawpish shudder. “Right, then …” he said in a proper sea-captain's low growl of impatience,
after re-gathering his courage (which had taken a very sudden tack-about!) “Shove off, lads.”

“Up-oars,” Andrews called. “Let go dah painter, and shove off, bow man. Out oars, starboard,” he ordered as he swung the tiller over hard a'larboard. “Dip oars, starboard…two short strokes. Now…out oars, larboard, ready, and…long-stroke, t'gether.”

“Well, I think that should about conclude things, at last, sir,” the aging Flag-Lieutenant to the new Port Admiral confessed, finally. “Any other matters wanting?” he cheerfully enquired.

“Topping up supplies expended on-passage from Halifax,” Lewrie told him, handing over a fair copy of his frigate's lacks, assembled by her Purser, Mr. Coote, the Bosun, Master Gunner, Sailmaker, Cooper, and others. “Though, I s'pose the Dockyard Commissioner's office would be the best place for it.”

“The Commissioner, Captain Sir Charles Saxton, will be relieved to hear of it, Captain Lewrie,” the Flag-Lieutenant chuckled. “I note your ship received a bottom-cleaning and re-coppering at Halifax, did ye not, sir?”

“We did, sir,” Lewrie agreed amiably. “Amazin' what can be accomplished on a good sand and shingle beach, with such dramatic tides.”

“My word, you'll be
more
than welcome, then, Captain Lewrie, I dare say!” the Flag-Lieutenant gushed. “And
Proteus
is, at present, un-attached? Neither the North American nor the West Indies Station will be expecting you back anytime soon?”

“Not that I know of, no,” Lewrie carefully admitted, taking time to cross his legs the other way about, guarding his “wedding tackle” as he did so, and striving to sound breezily unworried.

“Well, then! I shall inform Channel Fleet of your availability, sir! As well as London, of course,” the other officer gleefully said, all but rubbing his hands. “Our Admiral Nelson has said that there are never enough frigates to go round, and isn't that the truth of it, sir?”

From the beatific look of hero-worship that seized the lieutenant's phyz, Nelson's repute had gone skyward like a sea-mortar's shell after his victory at the Battle of the Nile, so Lewrie thought it politic, and might improve
Proteus
's future employment, to make a boast or two about his connexions to that worthy.

“Served with him twice, now, sir,” he off-handedly tossed about. “Grand Turk Island, in ‘83, just before the end of the American Revolution, then as part of his squadron off the Italian coasts in ‘94, and ‘95. Corsica, too, actually…
and
saw him in action during the siege of Toulon. Oh!” he cried, fingering the medal for Cape St. Vincent on his chest. “He dragooned me to follow him and repeat signals in ‘97 at Saint Vincent, as well!
That
was a ‘windy' hour or so.”

” ‘Pon my stars, Captain Lewrie, you did?” the Flag-Lieutenant responded with the expected gawp of astonishment, giving Lewrie a rare chance to preen and forget his impending troubles.

“Prosperin', is he?” Lewrie idly asked.

“Well, aye, sir.” The Flag-Lieutenant sobered, looking uneasy, and skittish. “You knew he'd lost his right arm when trying to force a landing at Tenerife, in the Spanish Canaries?”

“Poor fellow, never had a
bit
of luck at land expeditions, did he?” Lewrie said, with the expected clucks of sorrow. “Grand Turk…”

“A head wound at the Nile, which I am told still pains him and causes sick headaches,” the other officer sadly intoned.

“Why, they'll whittle him down to a nubbin, he keeps that up,” was Lewrie's rejoinder to that, which gave the Flag-Lieutenant pause, for a leery second.

“Lately, he's…well, there are rumours that he's come under the sway of the King and Queen of Naples, and their corrupt court—”

“Met him, too,” Lewrie interrupted. “Runs his own fried fish shop, ‘Old Nosey' does. Serves a grand platter. Italians,
well…”

“All sorts of difficulties with the Neapolitans, Captain Lewrie. And, there's scurrilous talk of the Admiral's
dealings
with the Hamiltons…the Ambassador's
wife,
most—”

“Lady Emma?” Lewrie butted in, again, sitting up straighter for closer attention to the “dirt” he expected to hear.

The Flag-Lieutenant dared cock a brow at him as if to ask,
You know
them,
too?
before getting cutty-eyed and breaking his gaze. “He is
said
to be led about by the nose, like a prize bull, by that lady, Captain Lewrie. That they've, uhm …” he gravelled, actually turning red with embarassment, or remorse for a hero's seeming failings.

Topped her, has he?
Lewrie thought, and felt like snorting with derision; Took
him long enough, didn't it? Five years or more, since he met her. The way she went after
me,
Nelson must've been numb from the waist down…or held her off at sword-point like a daft saint!

“I am sure the rumours are indeed scurrilous, and baseless, my good sir,” Lewrie pretended to growl in support of Nelson's fame.

“Lady Emma
gambles,
sir,” the Flag-Lieutenant bleakly sniffed.

“Uhm, aye, as I recall…”

“Gambles to
excess,
sir. And a woman who wagers like a man is utterly
lost,”
the junior officer primly stated, all but wringing his hands that his paragon would even associate with such a woman.

Never been to Bath…have ye?
Lewrie drolly thought. Seeing in which quarter the wind was blowing, Lewrie decided to trim sails to suit. “She came from low
degree,
don't ye know, sir…an
actress
for a time, so I heard. Mistress to Sir William Hamilton's own kin for a bit…bought off him as token for gambling debts. Bedded, risen in
foreign
societies, then only properly married
years
later. A dancer
au naturel,
hey? Would've done her scanty-clad ‘impressions' for the Hellfire Club, she'd been old enough.”

And wouldn't Father have loved that!
Lewrie happily considered.

” ‘Tis a pity, though, sir, that Lord Nelson cannot be more
discerning
of the company he keeps,” the Flag-Lieutenant fretted. “A man so high-minded and intent ‘pon defeating the King's enemies might not even be aware of what people in England might construe from, ah…”

“Lie down with dogs, at Admiralty Orders, mind,” Lewrie said to comfort the older fellow, who most-like would serve out his years as an humble “catch-fart” to shore-bound admirals, never pace a quarterdeck, and could but savour
vicarious
joy from newspapers that cited his hero, “and one cannot help but rising with a flea or two.”

And, haven't I just!
Lewrie told himself, recalling all those sordid duties
he'd
performed for King and Country in the company of an host of “foreign hounds.” Though, some of them
had
been handsomer than others, and delightful temporary company.

“I am certain you are right, Captain Lewrie,” the Flag-Lieutenant at last agreed, though nowhere near happy about his hero being slurred. “As I said, I do believe we have concluded our business. May I congratulate you on your return to England, and humbly wish you success in all your future endeavours.”

“Whatever those may be,” Lewrie said with a smile, rising at the same moment as the other officer. “You've heard nothing of any foreign expeditions that need a stout frigate, or …?”

“Not for me t'say, sir…though, with that Frog general, that Bonaparte, just returned to France, there still may be some actions to be taken to clean up the Mediterranean, again. Malta's still in French hands, half of Italy, the Adriatic, and the Ionian Islands…my word, Captain Lewrie! You may very well end up serving under our Nelson one
more
time!”

Lewrie was about to blurt out that he'd met that little prick, Napoleone Bue-naparte, back at the siege of Toulon, too, but, after a quick second forebore; the Flag-Lieutenant had already looked at him askance for a braggart, once. He didn't wish to leave the impression of a Falstaff—no matter that flag-lieutenants
had no say in things, a Port Admiral's ink-spotted clerk most especially, still there was a chance that an off-hand remark might linger.

“I'll call upon Captain Saxton, then, and thank you for all your help, sir,” Lewrie amiably said, bowing his way to the door.

A brisk stroll ‘cross the sprawling dockyards took him to the Commissioner's offices, where he found half a dozen officers waiting ahead of him, got told that an appointment
could
be made for the next day, but his ship's needs
could
be addressed, had he the requisite ream of chits and documents handy.

“A
total
refit will it be, Captain Lewrie?” a weary clerk asked with a total lack of enthusiasm as Lewrie produced a thick sheaf from his haversack, as the waiting captains smirked among themselves.

“Just done at Halifax…stores, mostly,” Lewrie replied.

“Thank the Good Lord, then, sir,” the clerk brightened. “I
may
work you in tomorrow at…shall we say nine, sir?”

“Nine it'll be, thankee,” Lewrie quickly agreed. “Fresh mail for
Proteus…
stuff not yet handed over to the packet, yet. Might there be any? And, who do I see about it? Lewrie… Ell-Eee-Double You…Arr…Eye… Eee.
Proteus…
” he said, as the clerk penned scribbles in a ledger-sized book atop his waist-high desk.

“Post storage is down the hall to the right, ‘cross the yard to the red-brick building, and there you are, Captain Lewrie.”

“Ah! Fine, then. See you tomorrow!”

He left the offices, went down the hall, crossed the yard, was presented by a
row
of red-brick buildings, but found the one that had a “Post-Boy” gridiron flag flying atop it, and entered.

“Not much, sir,” a grimy, very old clerk finally told him, with a limp canvas sack in his hands, after a thorough rousting through the dusty shelves and hundreds of similar bags. “Sign here, sir. Then on this line…then this ‘un,” the mail-clerk croupily required, whilst coughing up a lung on the thick fug of coal smoke from a badly drawing fireplace.

Lewrie thought of going back aboard
Proteus
with the sack still bound, of receiving dire news in the privacy and safety of his great-cabins…where he could rant, weep, scream at the unfairness of it, toss back several reviving brandies, and plot a solo escape overside in the wee hours, but a most
dreadful
curiosity took him. After years in the Royal Navy, he'd been drilled to paw over the stacks of mail at once to separate the official from the personal, then open
and read the official, first; he'd been whipped as a Midshipman for
not
adhering to that nautical custom, so…

Near the piers was a lacklustre coffee-house, where Lewrie knew the brew more-resembled dish-water, but an establishment where a chap could sit and sip in relative anonymity…were one not a Nelson, of course, whose phyz was on everything from portrait prints to ale mugs, by then. Once there, he could sort out anything horrid addressed to him, and mull over his prospects…or a new career as a brothel-master in Calcutta!

“Oh, wait one, sir!” the grimy old clerk called out before he'd laid hold of the office's doorknob. “
Thought
there woz somethin' come in I should'a put in th' sack,” the fellow said, shuffling over to the pigeon-hole racks and mumbling to himself. “Come in ‘is very mornin', it did, now where'd I, ah! Here ye go, Cap'm Lewrie, o' the
Proteus
frigate! Sign here, sir, ye'd be so kind. An' here…an' here.”

“Thankee,” Lewrie numbly said, taking note of the creaminess of the paper, the heaviness and expense of the bond, as he turned it over and over in his hands, fresh, crisp, new-mailed corners still intact, and not a jot of smut from being transferred from pillar to post…except for the clerk's coal-sooted fingers, of course. It was sealed with a large blob of brown wax, which wax topped and cemented two wide bands of black riband together.
Grim-lookin',
Lewrie shudderingly told himself;
grim as a death-notice!
And, whoever had sent it didn't trust to mere wax to seal the flapped-over paper's corners to keep the contents private, but had bound it north-south, then east-west, to boot! A seal
had
been pressed into the wax, but it was one he thankfully didn't recognise. It wasn't Admiralty, and thank God it wasn't from a Crown Court, not even a barrister or solicitor!