Much Ado About Lewrie

by Dewey Lambdin

  “The dogs have been fed, sir,” Deavers told him as he tapped an ale in a tall china mug. “That’s why they’re so quiet, now. Poor wee things. Boiled chicken meat, no bones to choke on. They were really starving. There may be enough left over for their breakfasts, too.”

  “Good, very good, Deavers,” Lewrie said, nodding his thanks as he stuck his nose into the mug and took a deep draught of ale with a smack of his lips and a long, drawn out “Aahh!”

  By God, I think you could plunk Yeovill down in the middle of the Egyptian desert, and he’d produce a feast! Lewrie thought as the spicy aromas of the stew, or whatever it was, wafted over him. He took a peek at the hearth and spotted slabs of cheese and loaves of bread.

  And when it came time to eat, gathered round the propped up wood table, they had mugs, china plates, bowls, knives, spoons and forks, and the meal consisted of a creamy pea soup, that bread and cheese in liberal slices, a savoury chicken stew loaded with vegetables, and the apple pie for afters.

  Yeovill had even taken the time to scrounge up some leaf tobacco for those who had pipes. The pots and pans, plates and utensils were taken to the stables where there was a water pump, to be sluiced out.

  An attempt was made to brace the broken door back in place, for show, mostly, and the first watch was set, Lewrie volunteering for the first watch, and letting the others doss down on their blankets. He waited three hours before shaking Desmond awake, then retired himself, after giving his pocket watch to Desmond. The misty rain still fell, swirling like a halo round the few lanthorns in Ormond Yard as he lay down on the lower blanket, spread the other atop him, and added his overcoat atop that, and with his weapons near to hand.

  Sleep was hard to come by, though, for Yeovill, he discovered, snored like a steam engine, and the thirteen remaining dogs in their cages whimpered and whined in longing for their masters and familiar places. One young Pomeranian even approached a mournful howl.

  I’d get it out and let it sleep with me, Lewrie considered; but for the probable fleas, and the shite it’s lain in. And has anyone bathed and groomed Bisquit and Rembrandt?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When at last the sun rose through a river fog, the fires were in full bloom, again, breakfast was sizzling in Yeovill’s skillets, beds were shaken out and folded into a large pile, and buckets of water for the dogs, and human ablutions, were fetched from the stables. There was ale from one of the shops in the yard to slosh down scrambled eggs, sliced potatoes, and toast with butter and jam.

  Leftover chicken meat was fed to the dogs, then, one at a time, they were leashed and let out of their cages, then led outside into the yard, where they did their business. As each cage was left empty, buckets of water and mops swabbed them out of the worst filth. Once free, though, the dogs were loath to return to their pens before they were walked up to Duke of York St. at a brisk pace and back.

  Lewrie strolled up to the shops, looking for the morning papers, but all he could find was a single copy of the Morning Post. Evidently, keeping up with things, and reading itself, were not all that important to the denizens of Ormond Yard, and he couldn’t even buy it; it was held at the ordinary for anyone to pick up, like a coffee house.

  News pages were always on the inside, with a four page sheet of advertisements on the outside, and there it was, his notice, smack dab in the middle of the first page, large and bordered.

  “Oh, good God!” Lewrie muttered as he read it. Someone at the paper had embellished the notice, making their raid sound only a bit less adventurous and dangerous than the Battle of Talavera … or one of Liam Desmond’s last recitations of the tale to last night’s visitors. “Th’ owners gonna come an’ get their dogs, then?” the publican asked as he swabbed a table top with a tea towel.

  “That’s the plan,” Lewrie told him as he folded the paper back in order.

  “Good, ’cause me an’ th’ missus sleep upstairs, an’ th’ barkin’ was drivin’ us both daft,” the man snarled. “But, will th’ swells who come spend any money round here, I ask ye? Pshaw!”

  Lewrie went back to the barrel-maker’s, noting that the double doors had been thrown open and the two-wheeled cart had been pushed out of the way. “Airin’ th’ place out, sir,” Desmond told him as he entered. “Don’t smell half so bad as before, sure.”

  “There’s still a hellish stink,” Lewrie noted, wrinkling his nose.

  “Oh, that’d be the ‘jakes’ t’other side o’ th’ yard, sir,” Liam Desmond informed him, jerking his head in that direction to indicate a row of five sagging doors at the front of a large shed, separating it into compartments no bigger than a “Parish Charlies’” watchman’s booth. “I think th’ whole yard uses ’em.”

  “Ugh,” Lewrie said, grimacing. “I’d rather do my business right out in the open, on the cobblestones. And with only the one newspaper at the ordinary, it don’t bear thinkin’ about.”

  “Ah, someone’s comin’, sir,” Desmond pointed out.

  Sure enough, a well-dressed gentleman was stepping down from a hackney in front of the stables, assisting his equally well-dressed wife, and two children, who held to his hand once alit, but tugging in impatience. The gentleman asked one of the stablemen who pointed to the end of the yard, and the adults turned and walked in Lewrie’s direction, careful of their footing on some loose cobblestones that could squirt muddy water after last night’s fine rain. The children broke away and ran, despite their parents’ warnings.

  “Please, sir!” the boy almost pleaded, “Is this where the dog buffers kept? Is our dog here?”

  “Pudding?” the girl yelled, “Are you here, Pudding?”

  To her amazement and delight, one of the dogs inside gave out a quizzical Whoof?

  “This is the place, young man,” Lewrie told the lad. “Go in and claim your dog.”

  They needed no more encouragement, dashing through the doors and squealing in joy to spot their pet.

  Deavers fetched a leash and let the dog out of its cage, handing the leash to the children, which was quickly wound round their legs as their dog, a black-and-white Border Collie leaped, wriggled, and bounded in equal rapture.

  “He’s here, he’s here, he’s safe, papa!” the girl shrieked and laughed as her face was licked. She knelt to embrace him.

  “One down, a dozen t’go!” Lewrie yelled to his men, feeling an equal delight.

  “Good day, sir,” the gentleman said as he doffed his hat. “So this is the place, sir? Samuel Putnam,” he said extanding his hand. “And you are?”

  “Captain Alan Lewrie,” Lewrie answered.

  “The fellow who raided this stew, sir?” Putnam said, “My eternal thanks to you for doing so. Out children were heartbroken ’til we saw the advertisement. The felons are under arrest? Good, very good, and damn their blood. Ehm, is there a fee?”

  “No charge, Mister Putnam,” Lewrie assured him. “I rescued both my dogs yesterday, and didn’t know quite what to do with the others ’til the police spoke with me. Keep a sharp eye on your dog, though, Mister Putnam. This gang isn’t the only batch of dog-nappers. I am delighted that you have him back.”

  Putnam shooed his children out towards the waiting hackney, not without getting an exuberant greeting from the dog, then got everyone back in and it whipped away.

  “Now, that’s a good feeling, it is, sir,” Yeovill said.

  “Damned if it ain’t, Yeovill,” Lewrie told him. “Those children are happy, the dog’s happy … and we’re happy.”

  * * *

  Over the course of the morning, seven more parties showed up to retrieve their pets, usually with children in tow who were cock-a-whoop with joy to see their beloved dogs and take them home, again.

  Round noon, two hackneys rolled into Ormond Yard at the same time and at least six people got down, and approached the barrel-maker’s, a party that had no children with them. For a moment, Lewrie imagined that all the remaining dogs were to be claimed at once, but as they got closer, he changed his ass
umption. He had been sitting on a keg, dangling his booted feet, but sprang off and went to greet them.

  “Have you come for your dogs, sirs, ladies?” he asked, doffing his hat.

  “We have not lost our dogs, my good man,” a portly fellow said, shifting his walking stick to his other hand to doff his own hat, revealing a sprawling shock of white hair, “We’ve come to call upon the hero who broke up that scurrilous mob of dog-nappers, Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet.”

  “You found me, sir,” Lewrie said with a grin. That got a mixed reception, some Oohs and Aahs, an Aha! or two, along with a few pruny faces as they observed his dress. The day had cleared to a sunny and warm-ish one, so Lewrie had doffed his overcoat, coat, waist-coat, and neck-stock, and was in his shirtsleeves, and those rolled to the elbow.

  “Then, allow me to express our admiration,” the portly fellow said, “We are members of The National Society To Eliminate Cruelty In All Forms Towards Animals.” He rocked on his feet and puffed out his substantial chest, performing a sweeping bow.

  You’ll never make an acronym o’ that mouthful, Lewrie thought.

  “Delighted t’make your acquaintance, sirs, ladies,” Lewrie said instead. The portly fellow, one Mr. Singleton, named his compatriots, though most of their names flew right past Lewrie’s ken, sure that he would meet them only once. “A noble goal, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed it is, Sir Alan,” Mr. Singleton said with a fierce look coming over his phyz, “One sees brute cruelty everywhere, daily, in the streets of London. Working beasts starved and beaten to perform far beyond their strength, horses horribly whipped, dogs, cats, and all manner of lesser creatures abused, kicked, and tormented for people’s amusement. It is shameful, sir, shameful beyond belief!”

  There was a chorus of Amens from the rest of his committee.

  “So, when we read of such a noble deed to rescue animals from fear, starvation, and a horrible fate should their owners refuse to ransom them, or do not have the means to do so, we all were quite literally overjoyed, and determined to come honour the man who did such a selfless thing.”

  “Well, they had my dog, and my wife’s dog,” Lewrie pointed out, “and they attacked my wife and her maid. Dame Lewrie is still in bed from her injuries. It was partly vengeance, in truth.”

  “Our condolences to your good wife, sir,” Singleton intoned as if he was at a funeral, laying his hat on his heart. “Your act was heroic, nonetheless, and we wish to honour you.”

  “Come meet my men, who fought with me,” Lewrie bade, sweeping an arm inside the building. “I hope we’ve done enough to rid the place of its odours. There’s the cages where they penned the dogs. Allow me to name to you Liam Desmond, my long-time Cox’n, Michael Deavers, my cabin steward when I’m at sea, and my personal cook, John Yeovill.”

  His men did not pull their forelocks like servants or farm laborers; they doffed their hats briefly, nodded and smiled, then went back to what they were doing. Once more, Lewrie’s introduction of common sailors to the committee got a mixed-bag reception.

  “We’ve still got five dogs left, as you can see,” Lewrie said, giving them a brief tour, “Counting mine, they had fifteen in all. At ten pounds ransom each, the dog buffers expected a fine profit. God only knows how many they’d stolen overall. Or how many they killed, skinned for their pelts, and ate.”

  He took secret delight to see them cringe, put handkerchiefs to their faces, or the ladies pulling out their fans to whisk fresh air, vigourously beating the aether.

  “Is … is that blood?” one of the other gentleman asked with a pale face.

  “Probably is,” Lewrie told him. “It was a hard, but short fight. We had to shoot a couple of them when they pulled out pistols.”

  The committee broke into pairs to stroll round the large room, gawking at weapons, the cages, the penned up dogs, the cooking arrangements, and the piles of staves.

  “There’s still a lot to do to muck this place out,” Lewrie went on. “Would any of you care to lend a hand?”

  None of them barked an indignant “Certainly not!” but the look of being asked to do something menial was there.

  Thought so, Lewrie told himself; They’re talkers, not do-ers.

  “We would … all here present … and our other members, would wish to honour you, Sir Alan, with a benefit dinner,” Mr. Singleton proposed of a sudden, “We hold our monthly meetings at Nerot’s Hotel, quite near Saint James’s Palace…”

  “I know the place,” Lewrie told them, “A dinner, you say?”

  “In a few weeks, and, should Dame Lewrie be up to it, perhaps you both could attend?” Singleton said with a simpering noise.

  “That would depend on her physician’s advice, sir,” Lewrie said with a frown. “But, should she be recovered by then, I believe she’d be delighted, as would I.”

  Oh, simply capital!” Singleton exclaimed. “Our other members are, I am certain, eager to meet you, as would such members of the public who would also attend, and contribute to the cause.”

  “We live at Twenty-Two Dover Street,” Lewrie told him. “Write me with the pertinent details.”

  “Thank you, Sir Alan, thank you for your courage, for your brave deed, for your great care for animals!” Singleton cried, shaking his hand, sounding as if he was in some rapture. “We will detain your good works no longer, and bid you a fond, admiring good day!”

  With that, they all bowed or curtsied their way out, got back in their carriages … personal carriages, not hackneys … and rattled off.

  “Faith, sir, and what th’ Devil was that about?” Desmond asked, amused.

  “A flock o’ silly geese, Desmond,” Lewrie said, chuckling and shaking his head. “Do-gooders out to right the world like those Abolitionists who want to do away with slavery. What’d they call themselves? The National Society To Eliminate Cruelty … to something or other. They probably have a ‘down’ on fox hunting, too. Too hard on the fox!”

  “Too hard on th’ cottagers, more like, sir,” Desmond sneered. “Gallopin’ over poor people’s farm plots an’ tramplin’ their pigs an’ chickens. Anglo-Irish back home is mad for it. When me an’ Furfy was littl’uns, whenever we heard someone blowin’ his ‘tara tara,’ we hid in th’ house, or they’da trampled us!”

  “Sounds more like steeple-chasin’ to me,” Lewrie said. “That’s what does the damage.”

  “Well, they’re both daft, sir,” Desmond decided.

  “Amen,” Lewrie agreed; he knew his limits as a horseman, though he’d done both when he was younger.

  “Excuse me, excuse me?” a fine lady, escorted by her maid and a footman called out as she tentatively approached the building after alighting from a private coach with a coat-of-arms painted on the door. “Is this where the stolen dogs are kept? I am looking for my little dog, a Pomeranian. He answers to Precious.”

  “It is, madame,” Lewrie said, “and there is a white and tan Pomeranian inside. Do come in!”

  * * *

  Finally, after a hasty dinner of bread, cheese, and some apples from the greengrocer, and more ale, the last dog was retrieved by an old couple who came by foot to Ormond Yard, a pair who appeared to be unable to afford a ransom fee. Their dog was only a mutt of lovable but mixed breed who had been a particular favourite of Lewrie’s men.

  The mops, brooms, pails, and rakes were returned to the stables, and Deavers was despatched to Duke of York St. to flag down a coach to take them home, at last. Lewrie had re-dressed, with his overcoat slung over one arm, his weapons stashed on his person, and looking round to see that nothing was left behind.

  “Hallo, who’s this?” Yeovill said, kneeling down. “What are you doing here, puss? The smell of food draw you?”

  The cat was a young one, recently weaned, a black-and-white tom who showed no distress at being picked up and cuddled to Yeovill’s chest in one arm as Yeovill picked up a scrap or two of the stewed chicken leftovers that they’d been feeding to the dogs. Lewrie was drawn to it at once.
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  “Isn’t he a fine one?” Lewrie cooed, stroking its head with one finger as it avidly chomped on the chicken scraps. “Long ago, I had a cat much like him. Bit of a disaster that I adopted at Toulon, so that was his name … one disaster found at a disaster. He was a fine cat, for all that.”

  Done with his scraps, the kitten regarded Lewrie with jade green eyes, blinked slowly as if contemplating, then wriggled and reached out a paw to take hold of Lewrie’s coat lapel. Yeovill let him go and the kitten scrambled into Lewrie’s grasp, sniffing him over. It had a white mask, a black nose, white paws, and white belly, with a streak of white down its back like a bolt of lightning. As Lewrie stroked it, it began to purr, once more raised its gaze to look him in the eye, and licked his fingers. It began to throb with its purr.

  “Think you just got adopted yourself, sir,” Yeovill sniggered. “A kitten on his own, round here, wouldn’t last out the week. Maybe you should … to make up for losing Chalky.”

  “We’ll need to buy a barrel of dry sand, build a box for it,” Lewrie said. “But aye, I think I’ll take him with us. Something good comes o’ this, after all. Come on, puss. You’re going t’have a home. Don’t piss all over it, please? Claw up the upholstery? My wife’d not care for it. We’ll figure out what t’call you. Hmm, how would you like … Buffer?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Oh, you’re feeling better!” Lewrie exclaimed one morning a few days later as he sat at-table in the smaller morning room, having his breakfast, when Jessica came sweeping in, dressed in one of her older gowns.

  “I could not, in good conscience, lounge in bed a minute longer,” she said as he rose to pull out her chair for her. “You’re spoiling him,” Jessica told him, jutting her chin at the kitten, Buffer, which was chewing away at a slice of a wee sausage from his bowl, atop the table.

  “Nonsense, pets are meant t’be spoiled,” Lewrie japed, “most especially cats.”