When Jessica got inspired to sketch, she sometimes took Charlie along, leaving Lewrie to try his hand at fishing (at which he was not very successful, or skilled), shooting at targets with firearms borrowed from his father’s vast collection, or enjoying a book in the drawing room. Charlie got tired of being shanghaied into escort duties, and usually spent his time round the stables, hanging out and yarning with Deavers, Desmond, Yeovill, and the younger lads.
Desmond seemed to spend quite a lot of his time down in the village, at the Old Ploughman, making excuses to be in the company of Miss Abigail. Yeovill found use of his idle spare idyll in the kitchens, where he and Mrs. Furlough jawed about foreign dishes that did not require “foreign kickshaw” sauces that could go bad so quickly. And she allowed him to prepare a meal, now and then.
And, when the hours grew late, and everyone retired for the night, Lewrie and his wife could toss back the bed covers and make love by the light of a single candle, then snuggle up like spoons, cooing, whispering, and chuckling to each other ’til sleep claimed them, making up for all the lonely nights spent apart and lonely when he was overseas.
d
* * *
Fortunately, after those first rencontres with the Chiswicks, and the Embletons, they only had to see them at St. George’s of a Sunday, Sir Harry giving the entire Lewrie party the “cut sublime” as if they were back in London, and they ran into the Chiswicks when all were in the village to shop, up to the moment when Governour took Millicent to the Red Swan Inn for their libations, and the people with Lewrie to the Old Ploughman.
Of course, at the end of their enjoyable fortnight, all of the families shared a last supper, where everyone was on their best behaviour, best manners, and all wearing genteel Public Faces as if they were the best of friends, of kin. And this time, without the presence of Captains Wilmoth and Courtney.
And that next morning, very early, they said their goodbyes to the Furloughs and the house staff, loaded up their chests and luggage, and set off for London. Though not without a tearful goodbye down by the stables, where Jessica found it so hard to part from Bobs, giving him her last pets and strokes, and an apple, a pear, some carrots, and a last lump of sugar. He neighed several minutes after she walked away.
BOOK THREE
I think Crab my dog to be the sourest-natured dog
that lives. My mother weeping, my father wailing; my
sister crying; our maid howling; our cat wringing her
hands, and all our house in a great perplexity—yet did not
this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. He is a stone, a very
pebble stone and has no more pity in him than a dog.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF
VERONA, ACT II, SCENE III
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Going to Admiralty today?” Jessica asked him as they sat down to breakfast their first morning back in London.
“Aye, me, Charlie, and Hugh,” Lewrie told her after a tasty first sip of creamed and sugared tea. “Put in an appearance, let ’em know to send any correspondence here, and remind ’em we’re still alive and available. And what are you up to today, dear?”
“I’ll sort through my sketches and decide which I’ll begin work on first.”
“Something about Bobs?” he teased.
“Oh, of course!” Jessica sunnily admitted. “Oh, Rembrandt!”
Her dog was at her end of the morning room table, whining for something to eat. Lewrie could look down to his right and see Bisquit, whom he’d already given a bit of buttered toast, licking his chops and shuffling his front paws in hope of more.
“We really shouldn’t spoil them with table scraps,” Jessica said, even though she slipped Rembrandt a piece of bacon.
“They’re supposed t’be spoiled,” Lewrie said with a grin.
“But, when we have guests…” Jessica said with a quick frown. “Oh, well. I suppose we could shut them up belowstairs in the kitchen.”
“Where the leftovers are, hey?” Lewrie sniggered.
“Alan,” Jessica said, turning sobre. “Do you really imagine that you’ll be called back to sea? Call me perverse, but … the influence against you seems so powerful that, if you do not get a new ship or a new active commission, it would please me to have you here with me for a long, peaceful time.”
“I’d love that, too, darling,” Lewrie truthfully said, “but, as long as we’re at war I’d feel I was shirking my duty. I have to try to be employed, even if it kills my soul to be apart from you.
“Now, when France is beaten, and Bonaparte gets hung, and peace comes at last,” Lewrie went on more hopefully, “I’ll be more than glad t’stow my uniforms away, deep in a chest, and never set foot on a ship the rest of my life.”
“Pray God peace comes soon,” Jessica said.
“Amen t’that,” Lewrie agreed. “Good omelette this morning. All cheesy and onion-y.”
* * *
After breakfast, Lewrie went up to their bedchamber to sponge off and shave, then don his best-dress uniform, upon which Deavers had affixed his Knight of The Bath star. He grabbed up his hat and trotted down to the ground storey to take up his showy presentation sword, popping into Jessica’s front parlour studio, where she was sorting through her many sketches. He gave her a hug round the waist and a peck on her cheek.
Sure enough, there were several sketches of her horse, Bobs, a colourful hen with her yellow chicks crowding round her, a dairy cow and her calf rubbing cheeks, a village scene with the Old Ploughman in the centre, and a sketch of Hugh standing by his horse’s head.
“I may do this one first,” Jessica said, spreading out the drawing of Hugh. “I’ll re-do it from the waist up, not full length … if I can convince him to sit for me, that is.”
“And take him away from his entertainments, haw?” Lewrie said with a guffaw. “If he isn’t appointed to a new ship, he may have all the time you need … and my father’d be pleased t’have it.”
“Off you go?” Jessica asked, turning to hug him.
“Off I go,” Lewrie replied, giving her a lingering kiss. “And off we go. I’ll have t’collect Charlie and Hugh, first. Have a good day, my love.”
* * *
Charles Chenery was easy to round up; he was just coming up the street when Lewrie stepped outside. Some of the prize-money that the lad had garnered under Lewrie’s command had gone for a newer, better fitting uniform, and the showy new dirk at his side.
“Hah!” Lewrie greeted him, “Turned out as fine as Sunday Divisions. I’ll wager you even washed behind your ears! Let’s whistle up a hackney and go pick up Hugh.”
Minutes later, Passed Midshipman Hugh Lewrie tumbled into the hired coach, turned out as immaculately as an illustration of what a Navy Mid should look like. Though he did look a bit under the weather.
“Did you go caterwauling last night, son?” Lewrie asked him.
“I played backgammon with grandfather,” Hugh sheepishly said, “late into the night, and matching him brandy for brandy.”
“Oh, that’ll put you in a coma,” Lewrie laughed. “The man has a limitless ability to put away spirits. If you nod off, the Waiting Room’s the perfect place for it. Coachee? Admiralty if ya please!”
The various roads that led to Westminster were teeming with an host of waggons and coach traffic, making their journey longer than Lewrie had estimated. Somewhere along the way, as their hackney was brought to a full stop, Charlie jerked his head towards Hugh to direct Lewrie’s attention. Sure enough, Hugh had slumped down on the bench seat with his head lolling over so far it appeared that he had broken his neck, with his mouth half open, dead asleep!
“Never, Charlie, never drink with my father,” Lewrie cautioned. “I’m surprised Hugh managed t’dress himself and get the buttons done up in the right holes!”
“Should we wake him, sir?” Charlie asked.
“Lord no, not ’til we get there,” Lewrie told him. “Just take off his hat so it don’t get cru
shed.”
At last the coach clattered up to the curtain wall adorned with the stone porpoises, and rocked to a stop. Charlie got out first to lower the iron steps, followed by Lewrie, who paid the coachman, and at last, Lewrie stuck his head into the coach to shout “Wakey-wakey, show a leg, lash up and stow!” at the top of his voice.
Hugh came awake with a start, mouth agape, eyes un-focussed, and sliding off the padded bench seat to the coach’s floor in a tangle of arms and legs. “What?!” he croaked. “What?”
“We’re here, lad,” Lewrie said, grinning with delight. “Put a shine on.”
Hugh managed to scramble out of the coach and lurch to his feet outside. Charlie handed him his hat, grinning impishly.
They walked cross the courtyard, stopping for a mug of tea for Hugh to brighten him up before confronting the tiler, another of the Greenwich Pensioners who delighted to taunt Captains and Admirals who wished entry.
“Mornin’ to ya, sirs,” the burly old retiree said, doffing his hat, “an’ good luck t’ya all, for it’s a rare mob in there, t’day, not a seat t’be had, an’ if ya don’t have an appointment, God help ya.”
He swung the massy door open for them and they strode in, putting on confident faces and determined smiles, which became hard to keep as they beheld the crowd already inside the Waiting Room. Officers and Mids stood arsehole-to-elbow, and every seat was taken, as the tiler had told them. People tried to pace about with an eye peeled for the fortunate fellow whose name was called to be summoned abovestairs, and ready to spring, hurdle, or trample their fellow officers to lay claim to it.
Hell, there’s a Rear-Admiral in here! Lewrie thought; Even the high-ranked are havin’ t’beg!
Clerks threaded their ways up and down the stairs, and in the hallway outside the Waiting Room, at their best pace, some with sea charts fetched from the basements, others with thick sheaves of official papers from one office to the next. Those who didn’t have a burden were continually stopped by officers wishing for their names to be noted down as present and seeking an interview.
“Have we declared war on somebody new?” Charlie asked, gazing about in awe. “It looks extremely busy.”
“Aye, I’ve never seen it so crowded,” Lewrie said, shrugging, and trying to snag a familiar-looking clerk to the First Secretary of the Admiralty, Mr. Croker. Lewrie had long before labelled the principal pair of clerks as “the happy-making one” and the “bugger off one,” the first who did the summoning, and the second who delivered the regrets. He managed to get their names scribbled down and their presence recorded at last.
“I wonder if there’s anyone I know in here,” Hugh speculated.
“In all my years, I never have run into anyone I know,” Lewrie admitted. “Backgammon, was it, Hugh? Did he trounce you?”
“Not at first,” Hugh confessed, “but the drunker I got…”
“Any wagers on it?” Lewrie asked. “No? There’s a blessing. My father showed you rare mercy. The last time I played against him, I lost eleven shillings, and he cackled his glee like a Demon!”
“Well, as I sloped off to bed at last, I did hear him wheezing with mirth,” Hugh related with a faint groan.
“By the by,” Lewrie told him, “Jessica did a sketch of you and your horse, and she wishes to make a portrait of it. She asked me if you’d not mind sitting for her a few times, so she can paint you for your grandfather.”
“Oh, well,” Hugh said, mulling that over, “I suppose I could. If I don’t gain a new berth soon, I’ll have all the spare time in the world.” He yawned widely, then yawned again, as if his jaw was being un-hinged. Lewrie screwed up his face in imagined pain.
They paced, looking down at the toes of their fresh-blacked boots, and hands in the small of their backs. Hugh and Charlie, with less dignity to preserve, now and then leaned against a wall to chat, out of the way of the press of bodies. Lewrie nodded and smiled at officers he did not know, exchanging pleasantries. He stood, arching his aching lower back, curling his toes in his new boots. Beached Lieutenants chatted him up now and then, wondering if he would be in need of officers aboard the new ship they imagined he was there to get, and he had to dis-appoint them by saying that he was between commands. After a while, he found it harder to say, not without a satisfying snarl. He strove not to pull out his pocket watch to see how long they had been waiting.
Finally, hunger drove him to hunt up that clerk, inform him that he and his fellows would be going out to dine, and gathered up Hugh and Charlie to exit the building, cross the courtyard, and repair to an ordinary close by. He treated, since Midshipmen earned very low pay to begin with, and when un-employed did not receive half-pay. A plate of sliced beef, boiled potatoes, rye bread, and mushy peas, with an ale each seemed to restore Hugh, who called for a piece of currant duff with treacle.
“Ehm, how much longer should we stay, sir?” Charlie asked once they left the ordinary and walked back to Admiralty.
“It’s half past one now,” Lewrie replied, “so, let’s give it ’til three, and we’ll call it a day. After that, let’s come here only once a week. There’s too much desperation and misery in there t’suit me.”
“And bring along a whacking thick book,” Charlie japed.
Once back to their slow, idle pacing about, it was Lewrie’s turn to feel the need to yawn, and wish for a chair where he could take a needful nap. He did sneak a peek at his watch, finding that an hour had passed, and there remained but a half-hour ’til his intended departure. He closed his eyes, nodding and lowering his chin to his chest.
“Is Captain Sir Alan Lewrie here?” a clerk called out, waking Lewrie with a start.
“Here!” he called back.
“Sir, the Second Secretary, Mister John Barrow, wishes to speak with you,” the clerk imparted. “If you will follow me?”
“I s’ppose I could find the time,” Lewrie japed. “Lead on.”
He had not dealt with Barrow before, didn’t know the man from Adam, and actually had to be shown to the proper office. He entered as Barrow rose from behind his desk and offered him a seat.
“I have read your accounts of your latest doings in the Mediterranean with great interest, Sir Alan,” Barrow began, hands steepled atop a pile of documents. “I gather that Rear-Admiral Sir Thomas Charlton and you conceived the idea of amphibious landings, and that you, with the aid of Captain Middleton, brought the concept to fruition. A novel idea, that, and a mostly successful one.”
“Unfortunately, Mister Barrow, ‘novel’ and ‘experimental’ ideas are usually orphans,” Lewrie replied. “But, thankee for finding it successful.”
“The First Secretary and I found it odd, though, Sir Alan, that your ship, ah … the Vigilance, was recalled, and another officer was appointed to replace you, just as you were hitting your stride, as it were,” Barrow said with a frown.
“I was appointed to Vigilance with two years of useful service left in her before she did need a refit,” Lewrie admitted. “And, by the time we sailed home, she was weeded and slow. I think she could still have served for at least a year’s extension. It’s not as if we had to chase after French frigates. She matched the speed of the transports, which was all that was needed.”
“We found your idea of notching sights on your guns novel, as well, Sir Alan,” Barrow went on, shuffling some papers. “Much like the reports Captain Phillip Broke sent us when he did the same. You cited the increased accuracy of your gunners as a factor in supporting what troops you put ashore, as well.”
“Did it when I had Sapphire, too, sir,” Lewrie pointed out. “We got quite good at shooting off the North coast of Spain.”
Mr. Barrow made a great deal of that earlier commission, recounting the many prizes taken, the many French supply carriers sunk or run aground, and, most especially, Lewrie’s small squadron’s complete victory over four French frigates sent to eliminate them.
“We also note, Sir Alan, that you have sent Mister Croker several letters of recommendation fo
r your former officers and petty officers,” Barrow said, setting aside the report on the frigate battle, trading it for a thinner folder, which he opened. “We have made appointments for these gentlemen to new ships, but, for some reason, these men still sit idle ashore without employment. We are wondering why assignments from the First Secretary are delayed or set aside, and who might have done so.
“Do you, sir, have any suspicions as to why this would happen?” Barrow asked with one brow raised in significant puzzlement.
“I was called home and lost my command, sir,” Lewrie began to fume, “I was replaced by an officer I’ve detested since Eighteen Oh Four, and it was mutual. He, and others, have much more powerful patrons than I’ll ever gather. Ruin my career? Fine, but to ruin good men because they served under me is despicable! Aye, I’ve suspicions of who requested it, though I’m not sure of their names, and wouldn’t slur anyone without proof. But, I sincerely hope that you and Mister Croker, within your power and high office, can do for those officers, patronage and influence bedamned!”
“And something for yourself, Sir Alan?” Barrow slyly asked.
“That goes without sayin’, sir,” Lewrie replied with a shrug, “and my career speaks for itself. Aye, I would love an active commission … though I doubt it’d please my wife,” he added with a sheepish grin. “I won’t plead for me, Mister Barrow, I’ll plead for them!” he said, jabbing a hand at the folder. “This gross injustice based on envy, spite, and jealousy must be un-done!”
“Tell me of those officers you so highly recommend, sir,” Barrow asked, opening the folder. “This Lieutenant Farley.”
And, one by one, Lewrie laid out his reasons why his officers should be allowed to contribute their talents to the Navy; Farley, he could have a command of his own, by now; Rutland was clever and courageous; Greenleaf went through life like a bulldog; and Grace, who’d come from Ordinary Seaman in 1797, from the Nore fisheries, had turned into a most efficient and able man.
Much Ado About Lewrie Page 19