The Baltic Gambit

by Dewey Lambdin

  CHAPTER TWO

  The outer halls of the building were just as thronged as those icy steps, though the “ton” of the crowd inside was considerably higher, and better known to Lewrie. There was his brother-in-law, Major Burgess Chiswick, the beautiful young lady to whom he was but lately affianced, Mistress Theodora Trencher, and her wealthy Abolitionist parents. His fond supporter and patron since ’96 in the Adriatic, Sir Malcolm Shockley, of the Midlands coal and iron fortune, was there with the earnest young Sir Samuel Whitbread, he of the beer fortune, and one of the new “Progressives” in Commons with Sir Malcolm. There was his old schooldays chum, Lord Peter Rushton, and by his side stood “too clever by half” Clotworthy Chute, a trimmer and “Captain Sharp” who specialised in separating newcome heirs down to London from some of the wealth by playing guide to all things Fashionable. Despite that stern majesty of the Law, the both of them, and the lovely ladies by their side, hooted, huzzahed, and stuck their fingers in their mouths to make shrill whistling noises, cackling away like loons, and waving at him . . . which only encouraged even the haughtiest to follow suit.

  “Bread and circuses,” his father, Sir Hugo, griped sotto voce as a servant took his hat, cloak, and walking stick. “Bad as a Roman raree show, I swear. Necessary, I s’pose, but . . . what flummery.”

  “Bloody Hell!” Lewrie exclaimed, dignity and serene confidence bedamned, as he turned over his own hat and cloak, and caught sight of a bevy of Navy men waiting for him with bright eyes and smiles. “How the Devil did they dredge you up? Just damn my eyes!”

  For there stood officers and men from old HMS Proteus, those who had turned over into his latest ship, the Savage frigate, and had been there off Portland Bight the night of his “crime”—Lt. Adair, his former Second Officer; Lt. D’arcy Gamble, Third into Savage, then a Midshipman; Sailing Master Mr. Winwood; Midshipman Grace, even Coote, the Purser; along with all seven surviving sailors of the dozen he’d absconded with! The only man missing was Anthony Langlie, then First Officer of Proteus, and now Commander Langlie, and in command of HMS Orpheus, a brig-sloop of his own.

  “Savage put into Torbay to re-victual on the Second, sir,” Lt. Adair gleefully explained as he pumped Lewrie’s “paw” in joy, “and up pops an order from Lord Saint Vincent, aboard the flag, before we got the kedge anchor down. Captain Wolters wasn’t keen on it, but, here we all are, sir, ready to testify on your behalf. No delay, really, with the weather foul in the Channel, and at least a fortnight’s work to put the ship right.”

  “Gentlemen . . . lads, I’m damned glad t’see ye, damned glad . . . and not just for your testimony, hey?” Lewrie enthused, shaking hands with one and all. “Dry, read affidavits are one thing, but your tales in your own words’ll be quite another, my barrister tells me. You’ve met my father, before? And, here comes Desmond, Furfy, Aspinall, and Jones Nelson. Old Boys’ Week, ha ha!”

  His Coxswain, Liam Desmond, and his big mate Patrick Furfy, Lewrie’s longtime cabin servant and cook Aspinall, and the very big Black sailor (most recently his personal bodyguard) Jones Nelson had come into the hall, so it really did become a grand reunion.

  Introductions had to be made all round, from Lord Peter, who had precedence, down to the burly Irishman, Furfy. Then there came Lewrie’s barrister’s clerk, one Mr. Sadler, who was forced to play his usual role of coughing into his fist and “aheming” to beat the band to herd Lewrie down the hallway to the proper courtroom. “Sir . . . sir. Captain Lewrie? Ahem. Mister MacDougall suggests we should be entering . . . ahem?”

  “Right, right then,” Lewrie finally had to allow. “My pardons, Mister Sadler, and we’ll be going. Lead on, do you please.”

  The long and heavy table set aside for Defence Counsel was piled high with octavos bound in “law calf” the colour of pie crust, with a large easel standing off by the far wall, and something framed nearby, currently covered, and as big as a bed sheet.

  “Joy of the morning, Captain Lewrie!” his young Puck of an attorney declared, spreading his arms wide, and swirling the black legal “stuff” robe he wore. Mr. Andrew MacDougall, Esquire, stood about four inches shy of six feet, plump, round, and moon-faced; no amount of dark cloth could make him appear sober; nor did the stiff white peruke with three tight horizontal side-curls and out-standing ribbon-bound queue that jutted from the nape of his neck over his own generous dark blond hair. MacDougall might have come extremely well recommended, but Lewrie still thought of him as the merest boy, who should still have been playing pranks at university.

  Talented, aye, Lewrie allowed to himself; successful with past cases, but . . . ’tis no skin off his arse does he fail. It’s just one more court appearance . . . notorious enough t’make his name either way.

  And it rather irked Lewrie that the stout young whelp was all but ready to cut capers, or do a horn-pipe of glee.

  “Good morning, Mister MacDougall,” Lewrie felt fit to reply. “I trust we’ll both be smiling when the day’s done . . . ow! Damn!” for he had stubbed the toe of one of his gilt-trimmed Hessian boots against a large wood box placed under the table.

  “I am completely certain that we shall, sir!” MacDougall replied. “Now, more than ever,” he added, rocking on the balls of his feet and bestowing upon his “brief” a “sly-boots” smile.

  “What?” Lewrie enquired with a scowl of some confusion. It was his life on the line; for a second he could conjure that the box under the table was reserved for his head after they lopped it off, hanging bedamned. “You know something I don’t?”

  “A most wondrous something, Captain Lewrie!” MacDougall all but chortled, his face dimpled and rosy with delight. “Word has come to me from Mister Twigg of the Foreign Office concerning your accuser, Hugh Beauman, sir. It seems that he, that frostily handsome young wife of his . . . his own attorney, and all his witnesses . . . have decamped!”

  “So?” Lewrie said with another frown of confusion. “Last time they were in court, he turned into his own worst enemy with all o’ his bellowin’ and threats. His barrister most-like—”

  “His witnesses, sir!” MacDougall reiterated, peering at Lewrie as if he were too simple to understand plain English. “Decamped. Gone like thieves in the night. No longer in London. No longer in England, d’ye see.”

  Christ, Twigg’s killed ’em? Lewrie just had to imagine. There wasn’t any reason that he could see for Hugh Beauman to withdraw his case, short of a dire threat from official circles in H.M. Government, or a gang of hooded assassins to hustle the bloody, bound corpses into the Thames. God knew how many thousands of pounds Hugh Beauman had already spent to discover who’d stolen his slaves, to bring the prosecution before a rigged Jamaican court and justice, pack the jury with his kin and employees, then spend over a year in England, supporting all of his henchmen (paying thousands more to amuse and please that icy blond wife of his, and her passion for shopping, too, by God!) waiting for a court date.

  Lewrie had known the Beaumans since 1781, off and on, and, no matter they were as rich as the Walpoles, they were so “Country-Put,” so “Chaw Bacon,” they could make the crudest John Bull country squire gawk and sneer. Dog-slobberin’, huntin’, shootin’, fishin’, tenant-tramplin’, slave-whoppin’, arrogant, brute, and boorish as they come were the Beauman men (and God help their womenfolk) with thousands for Publick show, yet penny-pinchin’ miserly in private. Overbearing and loud, un-grammatic and blasphemous (well, so am I, Lewrie admitted to himself!), and so used to getting their own way, all the time, that it was ludicrous to think that Hugh Beauman, the very worst of a very bad lot, would just fold his tents and steal away, after coming so close to getting his revenge!

  Zachariah Twigg and his “unofficial” little private battalion of watchers, noters, spies, and bully-bucks (both male and female) served the Crown damned well, and God only knew how many foreign agents were crab-food, downriver. Had it come to that stage? Lewrie wondered; So what? Good for him, but didn’t he leave it just a bit late? Native chiefs, rebe
l rajahs . . . it ain’t like Twigg t’hold off so long.

  Lewrie involuntarily looked about to see if anyone was watching before sketching a finger across his throat and shrugging a question best left unsaid in a court of law.

  “Oh, Lord no, Captain Lewrie, nothing like that!” Mr. MacDougall wheezed with good cheer. “They have absconded . . . coached off to Yarmouth to board the Portugal packet . . . out of reach of a King’s Bench warrant for perjury, and laying a false prosecution.”

  “Well, just damn my eyes!” Lewrie barked, too loudly, drawing the attention of every spectator now filling the benches in the court room. “Gone to Portugal, in this weather? They’ll be lucky do they not drown . . . or get taken by a French man-o’-war. Humph! Couldn’t happen to a worse set o’ people. The wife, excepted . . . perhaps.”

  “Aye, that would have been a mortal pity,” Mr. MacDougall said with a bemused nod. “It seems . . . ‘’ MacDougall added, drawing Lewrie towards the far wall of the richly panelled court room, near the mystifying covered easel, “that Hugh Beauman was made aware that, should his barrister, Sir George Norman, put him, or any of his witnesses, in the box to testify, they would lay themselves open to some extremely serious charges. Then, once I presented my case in refutation of all their lies . . . with all your officers and men, and your Black sailors to prove them liars . . . well, t’would be a genuine wonder did Beauman and his people not wind up in gaol awaiting their own trials. A risk that Mister Hugh Beauman evidently would not take.”

  “His attorney, Sir George, might’ve told him?” Lewrie asked.

  “No . . . I rather doubt that, Captain Lewrie,” MacDougall said as he tapped the side of his nose sagely, and tipped Lewrie a broad wink, lowering his voice even further. “Sir George Norman is, ah . . . still not cognisant of the flight of his principals. Though I’m certain all shall become plain to him soon enough, haw haw! And, given the fact that it is not customary for principals to place more than a retainer fee with the solicitor who engages a barrister, with the balance due after the completion of a barrister’s duties . . .”

  “Beauman left a huge debt when he scampered?” Lewrie gawped in delight, trying to keep his own voice down. “Sir George can’t touch him in Portugal! Why, there’s thousands owing!”

  What my father did, when he went bust, Lewrie enjoyed recalling; after he crimped me into the Navy, and Granny Lewrie refused to die and leave me ev’rything. He took a second to look back at the spectators’ benches and espied Sir Hugo, who was hovering rather droolishy and leeringly wolf-like over some “chickabiddy” woman in her late thirties.

  “I do so look forward to seeing the expression on Sir George’s face when that shoe drops, ’deed I do, Captain Lewrie,” Mr. MacDougall whinnied like a panting pony.

  “If they’ve decamped, this could just be dismissed, then . . . just like that?” Lewrie asked with a snap of his fingers.

  “Well, not quite, sorry t’say.” MacDougall sobered, leading him back towards the Defence table. “Our first outing last year was an evidentiary hearing, with Lord Justice Oglethorpe ruling that he would review both the trial transcript, and our affidavits. Even with those Beaumans gone . . . and Sir George left without a leg to stand on, with all previous testimony against you declared ‘colourable,’ there still remains the fact that, with your own witnesses giving the lie to the evidence in the trial transcript, you do lay yourself open to the charge of Illegal Conversion of another’s property . . . assuming the jury will be of a mind to consider your Black sailors property. Once I learned of the Beaumans’ departure, I did consider requesting an en bane proceeding, with Lord Justice Oglethorpe to rule upon your guilt or innocence, yet . . . ’tis not the irrefutable facts of your defence t’will prevail today, but the irrational emotions of your Black sailors’ testimony that will carry the day. Logic bedamned. ’Tis the heartstrings of the jurymen . . . the notoriety your cause has created among them beforehand . . . the sympathy for your Blacks, and for you, particularly, that the jurymen’s wives have expressed over the last year, that will . . . hopefully . . . find you acquitted.” MacDougall all but promised in a sly, cagy way. “Be of sanguine takings, Captain Lewrie. You stand very good odds of walking out of court a competely free man. Aha!”

  A side door at the back of the courtroom opened. A court official emerged in robe and wig, with a large ornamental mace in his hand, which he loudly thudded on the floor, crying “Oyez, oyez, oyez!” to silence the packed crowd, and order them to take seats.

  Free to do what? Lewrie wondered as the procession of officials emerged, as Lord Justice Oglethorpe in his voluminous black silk robes and large bag-wig strode out as grand as a royal.

  Even were he acquitted, Lewrie just knew that Lord Spencer at Admiralty would never give him another warship. He’d be assigned to the Yellow Squadron, that unofficial dust-bin for fools, incompetents, lunaticks, and dodderers. He’d stay ashore on half-pay, might even rise to Rear-Admiral of the Red, should he outlive his contemporaries—but “beached,” waiting for seniors to die.

  Lewrie knew his shortcomings; they were legion. He could not pretend to be a gentleman farmer; he’d tried that ’tween the wars and had been a miserably confused failure. He was too old to take up some new career, too gullible to stand for a seat in Parliament, too idle and slug-a-bed, if given the chance, to seek merchant service. He was too poor to play the market at the ’Change (and most-like would waste his last farthing on speculative idiocy and ignorance), too much of a stiff-necked “gentleman” to stoop to anything that smacked of “Trade” and Commerce, no matter how lucrative (or risky) such turned out to be for other venturers. The prize-money he had reaped in the Med, in the West Indies, and South Atlantic was tied up in the Sinking Funds and Three Percents anyway, and sooner or later, the last of that’d come in, and there’d be nothing after.

  Maybe Twigg needs a new cut-throat, he speculated as he took a seat at the Defence table, before the summons to the raised dock.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lord Justice Oglethorpe was a stolid man, a phlegmatic and ponderous older fellow who, it was rumoured, could take an hour choosing an entrée from his club’s daily menu, and so meditative at chess, cards, or backgammon that no one had asked him for a game since his teens.

  “Your principals are not present, Sir George?” he enquired with a bland expression. “How odd.”

  “They are not, milud,” Sir George Norman, usually a very smooth gentleman, responded, fidgeting a little, looking as if he wished that he could jerk his head about to hunt for them. Both his clerks had already been sent haring round the halls and into the street outside, in a desperate last-minute search for the Beauman party.

  “And have you, sir, had cause to correspond with them prior to this instant?” Oglethorpe intoned, with his head cocked to one side.

  “I have not, milud,” Sir George had to admit, all but wringing his hands. “Not since a brief note from their lodgings in Islington, in receipt of my informing them of the date their case was to be held.”

  “How extremely odd,” Oglethorpe commented with an uncharacteristic huff. “Mister MacDougall . . . I trust your witnesses are here.”

  “We are, in all respects, both ready, and eager, to proceed, my lord,” MacDougall piped up as he bowed his head, taking a second for a smirk in Sir George Norman’s direction.

  A folder of pale “law calf” was opened, up on the banc surface, and papers rustled as Lord Justice Oglethorpe cleared his throat with several “ahems,” waiting out the snickers and whispers of the court spectators.

  “Ahem . . . in the matter of Beauman versus Lewrie . . . after an exhaustive review of the trial transcript from the High Court in Kingston, Jamaica . . . and comparing the witness statements sworn in that proceeding against the sworn affidavits provided by the defendant, I find such contradictions of the facts of the matter obtaining to warrant an entirely fresh proceeding, de ovo. Harumph!

  “Further . . . the nature of the jury empanelled on
Jamaica, with so many of the members either kin to the Beaumans, or kin to the Captain George Sellers, who perished along with Colonel Ledyard Beauman in an infamous duel of honour, and, the inclusion of men either employed by Mister Hugh Beauman or his kin, or intimately linked with the slave trade on Jamaica, smacks of collusion and prejudice . . . which as well requires a new proceeding, de ovo.

  “Therefore . . . ahem! . . . I rule that Captain Lewrie’s trial in absentia at Kingston, Jamaica, the verdict of guilty, and the sentence of death by hanging is null and void, and is set as—”

  The last of his ruling was drowned out by hoots, whistles, and cheers from the spectators, and a boisterous round of clapping (along with the surreptitious exchange of pound notes as bets were paid off) that continued ’til Oglethorpe gavelled them to relative silence, and more carefully guarded pleased whispers, coughs, and the rustling of ladies’ skirtings.

  “At this juncture, ahem . . . ,” Lord Justice Oglethorpe continued. “I should empanel a jury. I wonder, however, Sir George, whether such an action might be precipitate. If your principal is not here, and neither are any of the witnesses quoted in the transcript, I conjure you, sir . . . are you able to lay a case against Captain Lewrie, this day?”

  “I . . . I . . . ‘’ Sir George Norman stammered, all his glibness and noble carriage punched from him. “Is the transcript of the previous trial eliminated, milud, I do not see how I would be able, no.” Sir George could almost be heard groaning . . . or grinding his teeth.

  “My lord!” MacDougall cried. “Will this odious charge hang over my principal’s head the rest of his life, like the Sword of Damocles? Must Captain Lewrie’s good name, his repute as a successful Commission Sea Officer in our Navy, be besmirched? His accusers are not present today, but . . . when might Mister Hugh Beauman come forth with a fresh proceeding, a new crop of witnesses, perhaps even an expanded list of charges, since the first set did not suit? A year, my lord? Two, or five, or ten?