Damme, never heard the like, and from an Englishman too! Lewrie fumed. Was the man a bloody Quaker, too meek to raise a hand to guard his own throat? Or one of those “Rights of Man” Levellers?
“You’re new-come, sir, I’ll warrant,” the cherubic-looking old fellow who went by Douglas pooh-poohed. “Back from our most expensive ‘wooden walls,’ hmm? You’ve not seen the suffering, sir. Nor felt it yourself. Thousands more Enclosure Acts, farmers thrown out of work or off the land … industry,” he sneered, “dragooning thousands into the mines and mills, sir. High wages, aye, but high taxes too, so that no one may make the living one made three years past. Price of grains gone through the roof, yet farmers such as myself barely breaking even e’en in a bumper year! Taxed to death, we are … .”
“Hear, hear!” several other gentlemen growled in agreement.
“You’d trust to a French occupation … to lower your taxes!” Lewrie sneered aloud and was gratified to hear an even larger, more vociferous chorus of “Hear! Hears!” from those of the opposing camp.
“You malign me, sir!” the angelically white-maned Douglas said, rearing back and suddenly looking as fierce as an old but game Viking Berserker. “Never the French! Rather, a reforming of our …”
The first older gentleman laid a restraining, cautioning hand on his friend’s coat sleeve. “You mistake our motive, sir.”
“Nay, sir,” Lewrie snickered. “I meant to malign you actually.”
Which won him a rowdy round of cheers, the thumping of tankards or fists on the tables from the more patriotic topers. Lewrie had himself a deep draught from his fresh brandy in celebration, knowing that the old fellow could glare fierce but would never press to cross steel with him or “blaze” with pistols. He could be as nasty as he wished to be! It looked to be hellish-good sport to berate the pair of them as un-patriotic.
I’m off duty—an half-pay “civilian,” for the nonce, he reminded himself; no more “firm but fair”! Damme, I ain’t been free to be me malicious old self in a month of Sundays!
“You have your opinion, sir,” the first man said, much subdued. “We have ours. Do you spend time ashore, you may change yours.”
“I very much doubt it,” Lewrie began. But they were leaving, the first gentleman almost shaking “Douglas” to force him to keep mum. They gathered their capes and hats from the “Abigail” by the door and departed for cheerier taverns.
His shot at amusement over, Lewrie took another sip, heaved up a shrug, and reached over to their table to snag the newspaper they’d abandoned in their haste to depart.
Now this’ll be a rare treat, he thought; reading a newspaper which hadn’t been smudged nigh-illegible by an hundred previous hands, one which wasn’t water-stained, rat-gnawed, folded and crinkled to the fragility of a yellow onion peel. And containing information newer than a month past!
“Ahem, gentlemen,” one of the inn-keeper’s assistants announced from the double-doors to the dining room. “We are now serving.” Those doors were thrown open, and a heady steam wafted out, so tempting that Lewrie’s mouth began to water. A first shot at home-cooking, a proper English meal—course after course of his old favourites, he hoped as he rose quickly. A glutton’s delight to welcome him back to all which he’d fought for—a glad repast worthy of the Prodigal Son’s return!
He crammed the newspaper into a side pocket of his coat, sprang into action, and beat several slower feeders into the dining room! At the first sight of that groaning sideboard, laden with roasts, steaks, chops, savoury fowl—and a pudding the size of a capstan head—Alan consigned the pleasures of political nattering quite out of his mind!
CHAPTER THREE
Wartime hadn’t thinned the Waiting Room, Lewrie noticed, once he had left his cloak with an attendant. No matter those hundred ships of the line, those hundred frigates, sloops, brigs, and such which required every officer still sound in wind and limb … there were indeed a horde of others waiting. Rear-Admirals and Commodores … rather old fellows no higher in seniority than the Blue Squadron, he imagined, though some might have slowly clambered up the seniority list to the Red … because they’d outlived their contemporaries. Some positively doddered! There were Post-Captains blessed with both epaulets, denoting more than three years had passed since their promotion and at least one active commission at sea. They … the most of ’em … looked healthy enough to sail on the King’s business, including junior captains with only one epaulet worn on the right shoulder. A mixed bag, that lot; some spry, healthy, and young, pacing impatiently. Others who looked old enough to be their fathers, plucked by dire need from a sea of lieutenants at long last, those men who’d had no hope of command, of promotion, for they were the unfortunates who were ever at the wrong place at the wrong time, had no patronage or “interest,” and had never been chosen to serve aboard ships where they could shine in the eyes of an influential man of flag rank.
The same could pretty much be said for men of his own grade, with the epaulet on the left shoulder—the Commanders in the room. They either were too young to be so fortunate or looked too old and worn-out for the rank, the ones who’d go down on their knees and thank God for a “bloody war or a sickly season,” as the old mess-toast went.
He had no eye for the many hopeful lieutenants and midshipmen in the Waiting Room. The Devil with ’em, he thought, competition! A lap or two about the room, looking for a seat, revealed no officer of his personal acquaintance.
Either the good, he thought sourly, or the twit-like!
The twits he’d served, or served with, he suspected, were well-connected twits and would be at sea that instant. The good men he’d known should be. He took that as a hopeful omen; that either way he was regarded by Admiralty—twit or good’un—he’d soon receive one more active-duty commission and not end up cooling his heels in here with the hopeless!
“Ah, Commander Lewrie, do come in, sir,” the strange new secretary offered. Not too cheerful, considering, Lewrie thought; but he’d not sounded threatening either. “Evan Nepean, sir, First Secretary.”
“Your servant, Mister Nepean,” Lewrie cooed, as the door was shut behind him. Nepean waved him to a wing-back chair before a desk, then took a seat behind it, spreading his coat-tails carefully before he sat down. He was a much younger man than either old Phillip Stephens, or his deputy, Jackson, had been. Cultured, slim, and rapier-like, and togged out most nattily in the latest civilian style. Something about him, though, that arch look perhaps, that wryly observant glare, made Lewrie think he wasn’t a man he’d exactly put his trust in.
“Well, well, sir,” Nepean drawled, in a lofty, nasal accent of the titled and powerful. “So you are the infamous Lewrie.” He smiled, looking at Lewrie intently over steepled fingers.
“Depending on which ‘infamous’ you had in mind, Mister Nepean,” Lewrie most carefully replied, shifting from one buttock to the other, crossing his legs to guard his “nutmegs.” Damme, what’d he heard?
“Why, ‘the Ram-Cat,’ sir,” Nepean simpered, “the successful and ‘lucky’ Lewrie. Toulon, Genoa … of the recently promoted Rear-Admiral Nelson’s squadron. The one well-known of—and dare I say it, sir, as highly commended by—a certain ah … audacious and unconventional gentleman from the Foreign Office? The Far East ’tween the wars. A certain Frenchman by name of Choundas? There and, of late, ashore near Genoa? I speak of that Commander Lewrie, sir.”
“Ah!” Lewrie gawped. “Well, that!” He pretended to preen with at least a shred of becoming modesty. Thankful they didn’t keep files on the other part of “infamous.” “Nothing, really … just …”
“Some rather, uhm … sub rosa activities this past year in the Adriatic?” Nepean interrupted. “I’ve letters on file, hmmm …” Nepean thumbed through a short stack of correspondence. “Sir Malcom Shockley the M.P … . the millionaire. Lord, what a horrid word, do you not believe? Thankfully, a firm supporter of our faction and of the Prime Minister. One from Lord Peter Rushton in Lords. Though not
known for anything much … still, full of praise for your nautical quality. At least his first address to the House of Lords could be construed as actually making sense—which is more than one may expect from one of that august body, so …”
Politics, again! Lewrie groaned to himself; damme. It had even crept into Admiralty, with this new man Evan Nepean thinking him brave because he was Tory and was spoken for by ones who were Tory! Allied with William Pitt the Younger, am I? Wouldn’t know him from Adam if he crawled up and bit me on the ankle! Nor the old Whig, Fox, either!
Well, call this old dog any good name ye wish ’long as it puts me in command of a new ship! he decided, nodding sagaciously yet committing himself to nothing.
“More to the point, though, Commander Lewrie,” Nepean sobered from his bout of hero-worship, becoming all business-like, “are your good ‘characters’ from Captain Thomas Charlton. And from Lord Saint Vincent … a new investiture; you wouldn’t have heard of it yet. From Admiral Sir John Jervis, now made Earl.”
“Good for him, sir,” Lewrie crowed suddenly. “His ennoblement, rather.” Yet wondering; When the blazes did he ever take time to think good o’ me?
“Rather a furor in the Fleet, after The Glorious First of June, Commander Lewrie,” Nepean scowled. “Admiral Howe allowing his flag captain, Sir Roger Curtis, to, ah … ‘anoint’ by mentioning only those few captains of line-of-battle ships present for honours whom he himself thought worthy … those who’d closed yardarm-to-yardarm to take their foe as prizes. For the rest who fought well, nothing. A medal struck, but given only to those fortunate few.”
“Excuse me, sir, but … ?” Lewrie puzzled. “Whilst in Lisbon, in the careenage, I read a London paper and Admiral Jervis’s report made no mention of anyone at all. So you’re saying … ?”
“A taciturn man is the new Earl Saint Vincent, Commander, as I’m mortal certain you’ve already discovered.” Nepean chuckled, shuffling one pile of papers aside and drawing out a single slim folder to open. “Yet he would not ever make the same mistake. Would never create even more jealousies among his officers. He sent Captain Robert Calder home with his dispatches … which glad arrival soon after resulted in Captain Calder being knighted and promoted. No, ‘Old Jarvy,’ as I believe the men of the Fleet are wont to call him, waited to write a more complete list and report of the action to the First Lord Earl Spencer, after he’d had time to assess things, to sort them out. This time, every captain of every ship-of-the-line present is to be honoured. Given a medal commemorating the battle too.”
“I see, sir.” Lewrie nodded again, still striving for “sagacity” but more than a little puzzled by this long, prosing prologue. “Then, again … good for ‘Old Jarvy,’ the Earl Saint Vincent, that is.”
“You, sir, more to the point at hand, were cited in that letter to the First Lord,” Nepean said with a smirk, very much like “I know something you don’t know!”
“Ah? Sir?” Lewrie gulped, expectations rising.
“For rushing … let me see, how did he phrase it? Ah! ‘For his intrepidity and alacrity at rushing to support HMS Captain, his fear-nought daring in engaging the enemy battle-line in complete disregard for the custom and usage of repeating frigates, at such hopeless odds in those minutes before he could hope for reinforcement or succour, I most respectfully request of your Lordship that Commander Alan Lewrie of the Jester sloop be included in the list of those to be honoured.’”
“Ah?” Lewrie gargled. “Mean t’say … ah, sir! Well … !”
“The only officer below ‘post’ rank to be so named, Commander Lewrie. Breaking away from the line as you did, in trusty and loyal … and dare I say, heroic fashion in support of your old squadron commander, Horatio Nelson! ’Spite of all the rules to the contrary, the risk of court martial and infamy, well, sir! Well, well!” Nepean cried, sounding for a moment almost fawning in his appreciation.
“Well, sir, it was …” Lewrie began, fighting the urge to bark like a pack of seals at such an absurd characterisation.
Pushed me out o’ line, he did! Ordered … kickin’ an’ screamin’!
“In spite of the volume of work still waiting, you will do me the honour of coming with me, Commander Lewrie,” Nepean bade, motioning towards the door in the far wall, the one that led to the Board Room!
A discreet knock, a muffled bidding to enter, and they were in the presence of the First Lord of The Admiralty, George John, the Earl Spencer, a fairly tall and distinguished-looking fellow of middling, uncertain age. There followed some cooing remarks which Lewrie could never quite recall for the heady rush of blood in his ears. He would recall, however, the moment the medal was slipped over his head. Long and broad white satin riband, edged in blue, which passed through the oval of a large-ish gold medal—finely milled and rope-chained about its diameter, a scene of Victory standing on the prow of a galley and placing a laurel wreath on the brow of a triumphant Britannia.
“ … under the coat collar, over the waist-coat, so the medal will hang just above the pit of your stomach, sir,” Alan thought he heard the Earl Spencer instruct. “First, Sir Robert Calder, now you, Commander Lewrie … the only ones I will have the honour to personally bestow. The rest are to be sent on to the Fleet, now blockading Cadiz, so that the Earl Saint Vincent may award them.”
“Then I’m doubly honoured, milord,” Lewrie murmured, still not quite featuring this was happening. This was fame! This was glory … beyond his wildest fantasies! Within a quim-hair of being knighted!
God, he thought; I can dine out on this, free, for years!
“ … suitable period of leave, then … will there be something open, Mister Nepean?” Earl Spencer enquired, as Lewrie swam his way back to the here-and-now.
“Several vessels will, I am certain, be coming open, milord,” Nepean purred back. “Though none for several weeks, as I recall.”
“There you are, then, good sir. Your few weeks of shore leave, Commander Lewrie.” Earl Spencer beamed. “You reside where, sir?”
“A … Anglesgreen, milord. Just down the road past Guildford, in Surrey,” he replied, his mind gibbering. Bloody Hell, they goin’ t’promote me into the bargain?
“Family estates, sir?”
“Oh, erm … milord. Near my wife’s relations,” he admitted.
“Good huntin’ country, Surrey,” Spencer prosed on. “Wide open and rolling. Lovely riding. Which hunt do you follow, sir?”
“Only the local, sir. Sir Romney Embleton … baronet,” Lewrie related, glad he could elide his way ‘round how often he’d been invited to ride with them since he and Caroline had wed in ’86. Sum total of zero, it was, since he’d shamed Sir Romney’s otter-jawed, lack-wit son, Harry. Damn’ near broke his nose, in point of fact! He could at the least sound like he still “Yoicks, tally-hoed” after foxes!
“Well, my regards to your wife and family, Commander Lewrie,” the First Lord chuckled. “And do you take joy of a few weeks ashore. Mind, now … don’t fall off anything and lame yourself. We expect a great deal of you once you’re back in Navy harness, ha!”
“I shan’t, and thankee most kindly, milord! Most kindly!” he babbled on his way out, with Evan Nepean taking hold of his elbow to steer him away before he said something lunatick.
“My Lord, that was … !” Lewrie marvelled, back in the privacy of Nepean’s adjoining offices.
“Quite,” Nepean said, with a firm nod, though sounding much less appreciative than he had before. “Well then, sir … I will turn all the official correspondence from your commission over to the junior clerks, though I don’t imagine … after a thorough ‘scouring’ by Vice-Admiral Sir Peter Parker’s staff at Portsmouth, that there’s anything serious amiss to quibble over. My congratulations again, Commander Lewrie,” he said, extending his hand for a quick shake. “I note that you are owing eleven pounds, two shillings, six pence. And there is the matter of your official certificate for your medal. That will be another two shillings, six pence. Do you prefer we may de
duct the total from the pay certificate owing you, sir. Or you may deposit the sum with my under-clerk, then see the Pay Office superintendent, get your chit, and be on your way home.”
Nepean was looking at his mantel clock whilst he said all that, no matter his hearty bonhomie; he’d done his duty, and it was time for him to take up others, and Lewrie’s presence was a time-waster. Which made Lewrie all but snort with cynical amusement.
“I’ll just pay your clerk, Mister Nepean,” he drawled, with one brow up and a quirky smile on his face. “And damme if it ain’t one o’ the cheapest ways ever I heard of to get a medal. Stap me … I should have thought o’ this sooner.”
“Erm … yayss,” Nepean purred back, just as chary of Lewrie of a sudden as Lewrie was of him. “Well, goodbye, Commander Lewrie. We will be in touch by post, hmmm … ?” And he chivvied Lewrie out of his offices into the care of an underling before Lewrie could utter another sound. The underling led him without a word to the aforementioned clerk, far down the hallway.
Lewrie felt like stopping dead in his tracks, or going back into Nepean’s office, concerned about the sheaf of penny tracts which had been hidden in his borrowed newspaper the previous evening. All sorts of rabble-rousing Republican cant: no more King, annually elected Parliaments, votes for the Common Man. What rot! But given his unfortunate penchant for shooting off his mouth, as he just had, of indulging his smarmy wit … he didn’t think he’d get another welcome. Or a bit more of Nepean’s time of day.
He dug into his purse and paid on the nail, then waited for his slowly penned receipt for the sum owing. The clerk then opened a tin cash-box, and proceeded to begin counting out a stack of ornately made papers, muttering to himself and referring to a thick ledger.
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