Much Ado About Lewrie

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Kinda flimsy,” Deavers said. “And a one, and a two, and a go!”

  The door was indeed flimsy, for it slammed inwards quickly, the old hinges breaking free from the jamb at the top, sending the two men sprawling to their knees, and jamming up the others, outside.

  “Wot th’ fook?” a man inside bellowed in surprise. “Gie at ’em, lads!”

  The urchin girl who served as their messenger let out a scream, leaping from the straw-filled pallet she was using as a bed on the dirt floor, and began to run around, looking for an escape. The dogs in their wood box cages began to bay and howl maniacally.

  A big man came rushing the fallen door with a large knife in his hand, but Desmond had scrambled to his feet, swung the criquet bat, and hit him square in the face. His eyes crossed, his nose, already broken long before, spouted a gush of gore, and he spat out a pair of yellow teeth as he staggered backwards, windmilling his arms to keep his balance before tripping over his own feet and falling to the dirt like a very large sack of grain, unconscious, in a cloud of dust.

  “Oh, yes!” Desmond hooted with glee and rushed forward, cocking the bat over his shoulder.

  “At ’em, lads!” Lewrie roared. “Away boarders! Yahh!” he yelled as he ran in with his dirk jutting forward, and his Manton pulled from his pocket in his left hand.

  A ratty fellow snatched up an iron poker from the large cooking hearth that barely warmed the large shop and tried to swing his way to the door, but Deavers pulled one of Lewrie’s single-shot pistols and shot him in the leg, making him howl, hop about, and stumble even as he continued swinging his poker.

  Him! Lewrie told himself, spotting the biggest villain at the rear of the shop who was loping forward with a clumsy-looking pistol in one hand, and a large butcher knife in the other; He has a ring!

  There was a glint of yellow gold on his left hand, and Lewrie leaped eagerly to engage him. The man raised his pistol, but Lewrie cocked the right-hand firelock of his own on the back of his right wrist, raised his, and fired, just as the burly brute fired his. A lead ball droned past Lewrie’s head, but his own had connected, hitting the dog buffer at the point of his right shoulder.

  I can shoot better than that! Lewrie chid himself as the brute clapped his left hand to his wound.

  “Steal my dogs, will ye?” Lewrie roared, “Strike my wife, will ye? I’ll kill ye for it!”

  The man took his hand away from his wound and took a wild swing with the butcher knife, which Lewrie blocked with the blade of his dirk, countering with a jab at his chest, and blocking the next slash with the barrels of his pistol, back-slashing and ripping a gash into the villain’s face, making him howl and stagger backwards ’til he fetched up against a large table. One of the table legs gave way and he sprawled on his back and buttocks. Lewrie cocked the left-hand barrel of his pistol and aimed it at his chest.

  “You get up, you die,” Lewrie warned him, his finger on the trigger, and wishing that the man would try. But no, he’d had quite enough. His left fist opened and the butcher knife dropped to the dirt floor, so he could clap that hand to his face where his blood ran freely, soaking his filthy shirt and coat collars.

  “Rembrandt? Bisquit? Here, dogs! Where are you?” Charlie was calling out, trotting down the rows of cages and bending down to look inside them. “Woohoo! I found them, Captain Lewrie! They’re here!”

  “Ow! Quit tryin’ t’bite me, ya hellcat!” Deavers cried as he held the urchin girl’s arms behind her. “Somebody, get some rope.”

  She squirmed, she tried to kick backwards, she writhed and let out a long, feral scream worthy of a panther, as Yeovill found a bit of rope atop an old keg and came to bind her arms above her elbows. She wept, she screeched, then launched into a string of curses not heard this side of Billingsgate Fish Market, before switching over to loud shrieks of “Murder, they’s murderers ’ere! ’Elp! They killin’ me!”

  “Got the others bound?” Lewrie asked as Hugh and Desmond came to lash up Lewrie’s foe. Once bound, Lewrie carefully un-cocked his pistol, and shoved it back into his overcoat pocket.

  “What’s acting here?” someone bellowed from the broken door in an authoritative voice. “You men, show your hands.”

  Lewrie turned to see three police constables coming into the building, truncheons out and slapping them on their palms.

  “Gentlemen,” Lewrie began, “Allow me to name myself. Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, Royal Navy. These three men are dog buffers who attacked my wife, Dame Lewrie, and her maid in Green Park yesterday, and stole our dogs. We found where they kept them and came to get them back. As you can see, and hear, they’ve a great many dogs they’ve stolen, as well. Allow me to name my compatriots…” he said with a smile on his face, pointing to Hugh, Charlie, who now had Bisquit and Rembrandt on a leash, or a length of rope, and his sailors.

  “Dog buffers, hey?” the leader of the constables said, walking round. “Yes, there’s proof of th’ puddin’.”

  “They’re all yours, trussed up and ready to go,” Lewrie said.

  “Got nought t’do wif h’it,’ the girl protested. “I jus’ like th’ dogs, an’ come play wif ’em now an’ then, yer honour sir!”

  “She’s the one who delivers their ransom demands,” Lewrie said.

  “Then it looks like you’ll be comin’ with us, too, girl,” the senior constable said with a grin. “‘Yer honour sir,’ my eye! Sounds like you’ve been before a magistrate before. Shots were fired, were there, Captain Lewrie?”

  “That one took a shot at me, and I fired back,” Lewrie told him. “One of my men fired one shot to put down that’un there whilst he was tryin’ t’crack his head with a fire poker. Oh, Bisquit, yes puppy!” he cried, dropping to one knee as his old shipmate broke free from Charlie’s grip on the rope and swarmed Lewrie, tail wagging like mad, paws on his shoulders and licking his face, whining welcome. “We’ll be gettin’ you home, yes we will!

  “I’ll be needin’ to write out a report, the attack in the park and all, Captain Lewrie,” the constable said, reaching inside his coat for a stub of pencil and some loose paper. “Or, better yet, you could come with me to the station house and write it all up proper.”

  “I can do that, if my men can get our dogs back to my house,” Lewrie allowed. “Hugh, Charlie, can you see them home?”

  “Aye, sir,” Charlie promised. “Won’t my sister be pleased!”

  “Uhm, father,” Hugh said, arms akimbo as he surveyed the place.

  “Yes?” Lewrie said, smiling back, full of triumph for a successful raid.

  “What are we going to do with all these other dogs, then?” his son enquired with a thoughtful frown on his face.

  “Well, ah…” Lewrie replied, looking all round himself. “Hmm. My boy, that’s a damned good question!”

  BOOK FOUR

  Away, you scullion! You rampallion! You fustilarion!

  I’ll tickle your catastrophe!

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE MERRY WIVES

  OF WINDSOR, ACT II 67

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  There was no quick return to his house to bask in Jessica’s joy and gratitude, no heroic welcome. No, there was the report to the police, laying charges against the dog buffers, and with a promise to show up in court and testify against them. And once that was done, Lewrie had to coach back to the lair in Ormond Yard to see the men of his retinue whom he’d left to guard and tend to the other dogs.

  “I made a list, sir,” Deavers told him. “The thieves wrote down the names and addresses of all the people they stole dogs from. It’s hard to read their scribbling. I guess, in the morning, we could make the rounds and return them.”

  “Hmm, it’d be easier if they came here t’claim ’em,” Lewrie said, “if they want ’em bad enough. I could place an advertisement in some newspapers. The Times, the Gazette, the Tory Morning Post, and even the liberal Examiner. Christ, I don’t even know where their offices are!”

  “Then there’s the matter of food,
sir,” Deavers pointed out.

  “Do dogs like raw chicken, or cooked, I wonder,” Lewrie pondered. “There’s a poulterer right down the yard. He has some plucked, hangin’ up and ready to go.” Lewrie dug into his coin purse, found that he’d spent a slew on hackney fares, and dug out his new-fangled wallet. “Here’s a five pound note. See how much that’ll buy.”

  “On my way, sir,” Deavers said with a grin.

  “Any other problems?” Lewrie asked, spreading his arms wide.

  “There ain’t much coal in here to heat with, sor,” Liam Desmond told him, standing by the hearth and rubbing his hands. “It’s sure to be a cool night, sor.”

  “T’keep the dogs comfortable, and the guards,” Lewrie agreed. “No coal tonight, perhaps, but the old barrel-makers left a pile of staves and lids, and that low wall o’ old barrels and kegs can be broken down and burned.”

  “Guards, sir?” Yeovill asked.

  “There’s no way to lock this place up secure enough to prevent other dog buffers comin’ in and stealin’ the dogs all over again,” Lewrie said with a sigh. That meant that he would have to send home for blankets, lots of them, and spare … spare everything needful to carry himself and his men overnight. There was no way he would coach home to a good supper, hot tea and muffins, and a warm bed.

  “Make a list, Yeovill, of what you’d need t’cook us up a warm supper tonight, and bread, cheese, and beer for morning,” he ticked off on his fingers, adding mugs, plates, and eating utensils. “Enough for four,” he concluded. “It looks as if I’ll be sleepin’ rough tonight. When we list everything, trot home and fetch it, and tell my wife that I’ve still got things to do here.”

  “Aye, sir,” Yeovill said, looking round for pencil and paper.

  “The place needs muckin’ out, sor,” Desmond suggested. “Th’ boxes are full o’ dog filth an’ they may need bathin’, to boot. Maybe when th’ mornin’ comes, we could send for Dasher an’ Turnbow t’help out.”

  “Oh God, brooms, mops, water, too,” Lewrie bemoaned. This was turning into an enterprise as daunting as putting a ship into commission!

  “That stable, sor,” Desmond pointed out. “They got all we need, and I’d bet their stableboys an’ daisy kickers’d be willin’ t’help if they got a shillin’ or two for it.”

  “There’s an ordinary right down the yard, sir,” Yeovill said, jerking his head in that direction as he scribbled his list. “Might be good enough for breakfast.”

  “A penny ordinary, most-like, would poison us by noon,” Lewrie scoffed. “God only knows what they serve and call food.”

  “There’s a dram shop, too,” Desmond said with a taut, innocent grin. “They’re sure to have beer or ale.”

  “We’ll trust to what Yeovill fetches us back from home,” Lewrie quickly replied, knowing his Cox’n’s penchant for drink, and he’d seen that angelic grin on his phyz countless times before. “Are there any lanthorns or candles in here? We can’t stand guard in the dark. Do look, Desmond.”

  There was one old, battered lanthorn with cracked glass panes, and a stub of a tallow candle inside it, several more tallow candles wrapped in newspaper, but too few candle holders. Yeovill wrote down bee’s wax candles to his list, along with empty bottles for holders.

  “I got eight boiling hens at the poulterer’s, sir,” Deavers reported as he bustled back in with a sack over his shoulder, “and a dozen candled eggs for tomorrow. Inspected them myself, so we won’t boil up un-hatched chicks. Came to two pounds eight, and here’s your change, sir.”

  “Ah, thankee, Deavers,” Lewrie said, pocketing one pound notes and coins. “Can anyone else think of anything necessary?”

  “Feather beds, sor?” Desmond quipped. “Beef steaks an’ potatoes?”

  “There’s more than enough chickens for the dogs and us,” Yeovill announced after poking them and having a sniff to see how fresh they were. “I’ll bring my spices and sauces, and if someone could go down to that greengrocer’s and find some potatoes, carrots, peas, and such, I can throw a decent stew together. Here’s my list, sir. Add what you think best.”

  Lewrie looked it over and saw that Yeovill, as usual, was thorough, right down to blankets, candles, and his cooking utensils.

  “Looks good, Yeovill,” Lewrie told him. “You toddle off home and I’ll whistle up a hackney and try t’find all the newspaper offices before dark, so they’ll have the advertisements ready to print in the morning. Maybe the constables at the police station know.”

  “I’m off, then, sir,” Yeovill, said, accepting some coins from Lewrie for the fare there and back. “Back in a tick.”

  * * *

  Fortunately for Lewrie, the police did know where the offices of the various papers were, since they submitted all the crimes and alarums to them each evening for the next-day editions. A bargain was struck ’twixt Lewrie and the chief constable, alleging that the police had co-operated in the raid that apprehended the thievish gang. Lewrie and the chief constable wrote it together, including the list of people whose dogs had been stolen, and a sketchy description of breed or colour, that their pets could be returned to them if they called in Ormond Yard, at no cost, thanks to the bold action taken by Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Bt., RN to retrieve his own dogs, with the able assistance of Midshipman Hugh Lewrie, Midshipman Charles Chenery, and several men of Captain Lewrie’s household. It took time to write out, correct, and agree on the finer points, then got sent off in the hands of constables going off-duty for the night to the various newspaper editors.

  * * *

  It was nearly five in the afternoon by the time Lewrie returned to Ormond Yard and paid off his coachman, just in time for a fine and misty rain to begin to fall, making his triple-caped overcoat more than welcome.

  As he strode past the poulterer’s and the stables, now full of tired coach horses neighing for their fodder, the barrel-manufactury seemed almost homey. Smoke was rising from both the hearth and the forge fireplace where barrel hoops had been pounded out from raw iron strips. What windows there were, and the broken single door entry, showed the winking and flickers of an host of candles, and was there a whiff of chickens stewing in there?

  What in Hell’s this crowd about? he wondered as he got closer, for there were men, women, and children gathered round the door, trying to peer inside, though the women held scented handkerchiefs and wee posies to their noses to counteract the stink, curious despite it.

  And, of course, there was the loquacious Liam Desmond telling them all about the raid and what had led to it, his Irish brogue even thicker then normal as he jollied them along.

  “Nah nah, ma’am, we’re standin’ watch over th’ dogs, ’cause the real owners ain’t come t’claim ’em yet, arrah,” Desmond told a lady, “th’ dog buffers took no care of ’em, sure, an’ we want t’let ’em rest quiet, for a change. Note how they’re not barkin’ so loud as they did before we busted in? Oh, Jaysus, Mary, an’ Joseph, but the rogues put up quite a fight afore we overcame ’em.”

  “Desmond,” Lewrie said, touching the brim of his hat.

  “Cap’um Lewrie, sor! Th’ very fella who led us!” Desmond said, sweeping his hat off in salute. “Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, one o’ th’ fightin’est Cap’ums in the Royal Navy, th’ victor of an hundred battles, nigh as famed as Lord Nelson, God rest his soul, arrah!”

  There came a chorus of Ooohs and Ahhs from the bystanders.

  “People, good evening,” Lewrie had to say, doffing his hat again, and plastering a modest grin on his phyz. “Excuse me.”

  “Th’ thieves attacked his good wife and her maid in Green Park yesterday, pulled knives, clubbed Dame Lewrie on th’ head when she wouldn’t let go th’ leash, an’ dragged her by her wrist afore they tore th’ Capum’s dog away. What else could a bold man do, after that, I ask ye all? Still laid up in bed, she is…”

  Oh, do stop yer gob, Desmond, Lewrie thought, gritting his teeth as he entered the building to peel off his hat and overcoat; Damme, it�
�s almost warm in here! Still stinks t’high heaven, but the dogs’re mostly quiet.

  Empty brandy and wine bottles stood everywhere, sporting tallow or wax candles, throwing an amber glow all round the dog cages and the fireplaces. The straw-filled pallet the urchin girl had slept on had disappeared, most-like burned for fuel, along with its lice and fleas. The broken table had been propped back in place atop some old barrels, and smaller kegs sat round it in lieu of chairs. Beds on the dirt floor were marked by blankets, two to a place.

  “Ah, Captain Lewrie, sir,” Yeovill perkily greeted him, busy at the fireplace, where he’d hung a large copper cauldron, stirring the contents with a large spoon. “I gave Pettus your message to Missuz Lewrie, and she said to tell you that she’s thrilled beyond measure to have Rembrandt back. Pettus says her dog’s atop her bed, in her lap, and not likely to move, ever. She said it was brave of you, and most responsible to stand guard over the dogs ’til their owners claim them, though she’d love to have you home, and ah … hug and kiss you.”

  Yeovill actually seemed to blush; maybe it was the firelight.

  “Hazelwood went raving daft, of course,” Yeovill went on, “with all the victuals I fetched off, an apple pie he’d baked, and all of my cooking goods. And his knives, sir,” Yeovill sniggered this time at his nemesis’s rage. “That lad Haddock may be a canny tracker, but he knows nothing of sharpening knives, and half of Hazelwood’s blades are blunted or scarred up with file marks. He swears he hasn’t one decent knife left to cut an apple in two, or pare off a slice of cheese!”

  “Oh, bugger him,” Lewrie said, looking for a keg to sit on. “I see Desmond is in fine form.”

  “Loves an audience for his yarns, sir,” Deavers said, chuckling. “And this’un’s gettin’ grander with each telling. Care for an ale, sir?”

  “Yes, I certainly do!” Lewrie agreed, realising how dry his stay at the police station had been.