“There was someone you removed from command of one of the transports, Mister John Dickson. What of him?” Barrow asked.
“The very worst top-lofty, arrogant sort, sir,” Lewrie related. “He was given a decent crew, decent officer and a Mid, and he ruined them in short order with curses, slurs, and floggings. He has no regard for his men, no respect, and no loyalty. I replaced him with Mister Rutland and brought him aboard Vigilance, where he sulked and sang small ’til Commodore Grierson arrived and took him aboard his ship as Fifth Officer. They may be cater-cousins for all I know,” Lewrie said, describing the mini-mutiny that “lost” a barge and some oars aboard the Coromandel transport, and Dickson’s sneering departure, shouting that his Purgatory was at an end.
“Commodore Grierson, yayss,” Barrow drawled, tapping his chin.
“He came in a two-decker seventy-four, Mister Barrow,” Lewrie pointed out, “which draws too much water to get close inshore as I did, and his guns are not notched, so I don’t know how much help he could be if the troops run into another trap ashore. I’ve written Lieutenant Fletcher, who was senior officer over all transports, and Lieutenant-Colonel Tarrant of the Ninety-Fourth Foot, to find out how they are faring under a new commander, but, I’ve not heard back, so far. I am concerned that something will go wrong, sir, sooner or later, harming people I’ve come to admire, and like.”
“Is there anyone else you have in mind to recommend, Sir Alan?” Barrow asked with a cryptic smile. “Any protégés?”
“Well, while I’m at it, Mister Barrow,” Lewrie said with a grin, “there is my youngest son, Hugh, a Passed Midshipman who just came off the Undaunted frigate, Captain Chalmers, who also reccomended him highly, who’s looking for a promotion, or a berth as a senior Mid, and my brother-in-law, Midshipman Charles Chenery. I brought them along with me today, just in case.”
Barrow made no comment, merely scribbled their names down. At last, he set the folder aside, steepled his fingers again, and said “Mister Corker and I suspect that Lord Mulgrave, the former First Lord, still has a hand in things, most un-officially. The new First Lord, Charles Yorke, will be apprised of these doings, and surely will correct the matter. Thank you for speaking with me, Sir Alan. It has been an honour, and a pleasure, to meet you.”
Lewrie got to his feet, got led to the door, and they shook hands one last time.
Well, that’s something, at least, Lewrie thought on his way down to the ground storey; Maybe justice will be done.
Hugh and Charlie peered up at him with hopeful-fearful rictuses of smiles on their faces, brows up in silent question. Lewrie gave them a tight-lipped grin as he got off the stairs.
“Gawd, the looks on your faces!” he teased. “I was given a chance t’put in a good word for each of you. You mayn’t be employed, yet, but the Second Secretary sounded receptive. Now, let’s go home, for we’ve been here far too long. We’ll all of us call on my father at his home for a bit before Charlie and I return home.”
“And if he offers us brandy, sir?” Charlie asked, much relieved to hear that there was a chance for a new ship.
“We’ll stick to tea,” Lewrie directed, “and if he’s in a good mood, he’ll have t’offer scones and jam!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After breakfast the next morning, Lewrie thought to write some letters to old naval friends, and his son Sewallis, who was not the most prolific letter writer; he hadn’t gotten one from him for months.
He also thought to use the table in the morning room, but Jessica reminded him that he had a perfectly serviceable study over the entry hall, where they had installed his desk, chart table, and all of his nautical books and maps. Why not use that?
“Good idea,” he agreed, and requested Deavers to brew up some of his cool tea, with lemon, sugar, and an admixture of ginger beer.
“And what are you up to?” he asked his wife, noting that she had donned a bonnet and her parasol.
“I thought that Lucy and I would walk the dogs in Green Park,” Jessica said, “Their time in the country with us has made the back garden too small for their ambitions, I fear. And bad on my flower beds. Too many squirrels to chase, too many holes dug.”
“You might take Dasher and Turnbow along, Jess,” he said.
“I can’t hear you,” she teased. “I don’t answer to Jess.”
“Dearest, darling Jessica, love of my life,” Lewrie said, taking her hands in his, “have a good time, and keep a firm hand on Bisquit’s leash.”
“Enjoy your letter writing, Alan, my love. Ta!” Jessica said as she pecked him on the cheek and almost danced down the stairs to gather up the dogs, calling for Dasher and Turnbow.
He went to his study, opened the one window facing the street, and sat down at his desk, drawing out fresh paper, and his steel-nib pen, just as Deavers came in with a pitcher and glass.
“Ah, thankee, Deavers,” Lewrie said with a brief smile.
“That Hazelwood, sir,” Deavers carped, setting the tray down on a side table, “Soon as I got out the tea leaves, he’s fussing over me, telling me how to brew it proper, and when I put in the lemon juice and the sugar in the pitcher, not on side plates, he said I was doing it all wrong. Wouldn’t hear that it’s the way you prefer it, and when I poured in the ginger beer, I thought he was going to have a fit!”
“Damn the man,” Lewrie spat. “A damned good cook, but a pain in the arse. Does he still ban Yeovill from the kitchens?”
“Most of the time, sir,” Deavers explained, “but for when a pot needs scrubbing, a platter needs fetching, or something menial. This goes on much longer, and we might lose Yeovill. He’s been talking of hiring on at one of the gentlemen’s clubs, or a restaurant.”
“God, I’d hate t’lose him, and his talent with food,” Lewrie exclaimed. “He’s a wizard, he is. I may have t’have a stern word with Hazelwood. If they can’t get along, I’ll sack him and put Yeovill in his place.” Are you lads gettin’ enough at your meals? Same food as the dinin’ room gets?”
“Oh, yessir,” Deavers assured him, “more than enough, though it may not be as fancy. Hazelwood’s a penny-pincher.”
“Well, you ever have a complaint, I’ll deal with Hazelwood,” Lewrie vowed.
He poured himself a glass of his cool tea and took a deep sip, relishing, for it was just as good as it had been aboard ship, then dipped his pen in the inkwell and started a letter to Benjamin Rodgers, who now had command of a Third Rate, and a small squadron, in the Eastern Mediterranean. He vowed that he would not sound too sorry for himself.
* * *
On the other side of Piccadilly Street, the dogs were having a grand time in Green Park. Crossing Piccadilly, with its myriad of carts, waggons, coaches, and saddle horses, and the throngs of people on foot, had quite dazzled Bisquit and Rembrandt. The sights, and the new aromas had them straining at their leashes in curiosity and exuberance. And, there were squirrels, many more than the dogs could chase in the back garden, impudent squirrels who clung upside down on the boles of trees just beyond a leap’s range, chittering amusement and defiance, or openly hopping cross the grass. There were birds everywhere, people pushing prams, people walking strange dogs, too, and oh, it was a wonder to the dogs. So many trees and bushes that they had yet to pee on, so many entrancing odours! Of course they strained at their leashes!
“Don’t pull so, Bisquit,” Jessica entreated, slipping her hand through the loop at the end of the leather leash. “We’re here for a walk, not a run. And I don’t know what that mess is, but you’re not going to roll in it!”
“Your dog is more used to the park, ma’am,” Jessica’s maidservant, Lucy, said, “you’ve walked him almost daily here. Rembrandt is a sweetie, yes he is!” Lucy praised him, and at the mention of his name, he looked up at her. “Cross the park, or just round the northern bounds, do you think, ma’am?”
“Oh, just along the Piccadilly side,” Jessica decided. Bisquit stopped straining at his leash and squatted of a sudden to drop a f
ew “presents” on the grass. “Feel better, Bisquit?” she asked once he was back on his feet. “Good dog.”
Dasher and Turnbow trailed along behind the women and the dogs, not quite totally bored with their escort duties, taking in the sight of the various classes of people in Green Park, snickering and whispering comments about the overly well-dressed and the showy, or about the poor who were taking an idle morning off, assuming that they were employed at all. They marvelled at an Irish family, fair-haired all, dressed in their shoddy best with broken-down shoes, with five children in tow, fitted out with a patch quilt and wicker basket, looking for a shady place to dine al fresco, strutting like lords.
“A basket full o’ ale or beer, I’d wager,” Turnbow sniggered, “an’ nought more than bread an’ cheese, hee hee.”
“Who needs th’ cheese?” Dasher japed.
Two burly men in cast-off rags and old, grimy tricorne hats, who had been strolling along the sidewalk, abruptly turned into the park and trotted ahead of their party.
“What?” Turnbow gawped.
“Gi’ oos th’ dogs!” one of them snarled, taking hold of Bisquit’s leash and his collar.
“Stop! How dare you!” Jessica yelled. “Let go of him!”
The other burly man snatched up Rembrandt, dragging Lucy along with him for a step or two before he pulled out a knife and shoved it at her, making her let go of the leash.
“Help, thieves!” Lucy screamed. “Thieves! Brutes! Help!”
Jessica joined her, yelling for assistance. “You dirty criminals,” she cried, poking her open parasol forward as if to use the brass ferrule as a weapon. The man swung a paw at the parasol, brushing it to one side, then back-handed Jessica on the side of her head, knocking her to her knees, her senses reeling. Bisquit and Rembrandt squirmed, barked, and tried to bite the attackets.
“I said, gi’ oos th’ bloody dogs, bitch! Leggo!” the assailant roared. He scooped Bisquit up, pulled hard on the leash and Jessica was drawn flat on her stomach, dragged by her wrist, crying out, this time in pain. Her fingers on the leash let go, but her hand was still trapped in the loop. The other assailant, the one with the knife, cut the leash just behind Bisquit’s collar, and they both turned and ran to the street.
For a numb second or so, Dasher and Turnbow had stood still in surprise, then broke into a run together, shouting “Thief, thief!” or “Dog-nappers!” or “Ladies gettin’ hurt!,” pummeling at the men, on their ribs and backs. Their efforts were futile, both being hit and brushed aside. The threat of the knife forced Turnbow to quit.
“See t’th’ ladies, Robert!” Dasher yelled, running after them as they reached Piccadilly and scrambled up and into the back of a two-wheeled cart, throwing the dogs in before them. A third thief at the reins whipped up and the cart rattled off at reckless speed, no matter the traffic, or pedestrians, weaving its way up Piccadilly towards Haymarket. Dasher ran full-out, chasing the cart, but ship-board life and its constraints on running caught up with him. Dasher had to stop, finally, bent over with his hands on his knees, heaving for wind, and tears running down his face. He had lost sight of the thieves and the cart, hadn’t seen where in all the traffic it might’ve turned into a side street. He hadn’t been able to save the dogs, or defend the Captain’s lady wife or her maid, people he truly liked!
He had let the Captain down! All he could do was trudge back to the park, mopping his face with the sleeve of his coat.
“Brutes, animals!” Lucy continued yelling, gathering a crowd of gentlemen, far too late to aid her or her mistress.
“Are you hurt, madam?” a nattily dressed solicitor asked as he offered to help Jessica to her feet.
“My wrist, oh!” she managed to say. “They stole our dogs! They struck us! Lucy, are you alright?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. One of them had a knife, and I was so frightened, I let go!” Lucy wailed, shaking with aftershock. “I let your dog go, and I wish I’d been braver, but … I’m so sorry!”
Jessica rolled to a sitting position, clutching her wrist to her chest.
“Let us help you to your feet, ma’am,” another gentleman said.
Jessica tried, but her head was spinning, and she felt faint, so she waved off the assistance. “My head is reeling. Let me rest a bit longer.”
She reached up to touch the side of her head that the thief had struck and it felt hot and sore. Her fingers came away, reddened with smears of blood. “Oh, my God,” she said with a groan.
“Turnbow,” Lucy ordered. “Go fetch the Captain, fast as you can.”
“Right!” Turnbow agreed, leaping to his feet from kneeling near Jessica. “I’m off!”
Dasher came trudging back from his fruitless chase, broke into a trot to reach his mistress, wriggled through the people who had been drawn to the scene, and dropped to his knees in front of her, gawping to see her bleeding and cradling her wrist.
“Aw, Miz Lewrie, I’m so sorry,” he blubbed, “I couldn’t fight ’em, an’ I tried t’chase after ’em, but they got away, an’ I don’t know where they went with the dogs.”
“Don’t cry, Dasher,” Jessica tried to say to comfort him. “You and Turnbow were brave fellows, trying to fight two huge men. Brutes! Stealing our dogs, in broad daylight! How horrid! Why? Why?”
Dasher knew why, but he kept mum about a part of his life that he wasn’t that proud of.
* * *
Lewrie was just applying a daub of sealing wax on a letter to his former First Officer, Geoffrey Westcott, now a Commander with a brig-sloop ravaging the French coast, when he heard someone banging on the front door below him, and through his opened window, the voice he recognised as Robert Turnbow.
“Help! Open the door! Tell Cap’um Lewrie ’is wife’s been hurt in the park!” Turnbow howled.
Lewrie whirled to his feet to stick his head out the window, to look down on Turnbow at the door a storey below. “Hurt? How?” Lewrie shouted down.
“Two big, ugly men attacked yer Missuz an’ Lucy, sir!” Turnbow replied, looking up and shouting his news. “Stole the dogs, hit yer Missuz on th’ side of ’er head an’ knocked ’er down! One of ’em had a knife! ’E almost cut Lucy with it!”
“I’m coming!” Lewrie roared, fearful, and enraged at the same time. Down the stairs he dashed, just as Pettus opened the locked door to let Turnbow in. “Deavers, Desmond, Yeovill! I need all of you! You too, Pettus.”
Lewrie looked about for a weapon, and his eyes fell on his old hanger, standing in the porcelain umbrella stand. He snatched it up.
“What happened?” Pettus demanded to know, slack-jawed.
“My wife and Lucy were attacked in the park!” Lewrie snapped in impatience, his anger growing. “Lead on, lad,” he ordered to Turnbow. “Pettus, fetch all the lads and follow on. Go, lad!”
Down Dover Street Lewrie and Turnbow trotted, Turnbow, out of breath from his run to the house, stammered out details of what had happened, between breaths. Piccadilly Street was still full of cart, waggon, and coach traffic, and they had to weave, skitter ahead of, or dart behind it all in a sea of snorting, neighing draught horses, and shouting waggoners or coachmen, and people cried out in alarm to see a man out with a sheathed sword in his hand.
“There, sir,” Turnbow managed to croak, pointing to the knot of bystanders about twenty yards beyond the verge of the park.
“Jessica!” Lewrie shouted. “Jessica!” as they got closer.
“Alan?” he heard her cry out.
“Let me through!” Lewrie demanded as he shoved some bystanders aside, dropping to his knees to slide to her, drop the hanger, and take her in his arms.
“Oh, Alan,” Jessica whimpered, throwing one arm round his neck. “They took our dogs, they … attacked us! I tried to keep Bisquit, but…!”
“There, there, love,” Lewrie tried to comfort into her hair. “Did they hurt you?”
“One of them hit me. My hand was caught in the leash,” Jessica said, raising her right arm a bit to sho
w him.
Lewrie saw the dabbles of blood on her temple, where something on the assailant’s hand, a ring of some kind perhaps, had opened a small gash, surrounded by a developing bruise. He gently touched at it, and found a knot.
“Oh, my love, my dear!” Lewrie cooed. “We’ll get you home, and send for a doctor. Who’s that friend of yours, her husband, Doctor…?”
“Stansfield,” Jessica said, slowly nodding, though it hurt.
“Lucy!” Pettus cried out as he and the rest of the household got to the scene, rushing to embrace her and press her close.
“Who dares hurt th’ Captain’s lady?” Liam Desmond demanded, his fists clenched tight. “Any o’ th’ bastards still around? Ah, yer pardons, Dame Lewrie.”
“They’re long gone,” the helpful solicitor said. “This young lad chased after them, but they got away.”
“In a two-wheel cart, sir,” Dasher piped up. “Big brutes, they woz. I run as far as Arlington Street, but they woz just too fast, an’ I’m sorry I let ya down, Captain.”
“They stole the dogs?” Lewrie gawped, at a loss as to why anyone would go to such lengths, offer violence, for a pair of dogs.
“Can ya walk, ma’am?” Deavers asked. “Need help gettin’ up?”
“I feel a bit faint, and weak, Deavers,” Jessica told him.
“Here, lads,” Yeovill said, “She can’t walk, we’ll carry Dame Lewrie home. Play like loblolly boys and make a chair.”
Desmond and Deavers, the strongest of all, went to each side to put their arms behind her back, to help her stand for a second, then put their free arms linked together under her bottom. Lewrie went to her side and took hold of her left hand.
She squeezed back, and managed to summon up a brave smile.
Much Ado About Lewrie Page 20