King's Captain

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Damme, what are those, then?” Lewrie was forced to ask.

  “This is the balance of your pay owing you, sir,” the prim old fellow intoned most officiously. “Less advances previously paid out …”

  “Looks like burn-fodder,” Lewrie carped.

  “Bank notes, sir”—the clerk tensed—“issued by the Bank of England are hardly, uhm … that which you just described, sir! They are perfectly good, legal tender throughout the realm, sir. There is the shortage of specie to consider, after all! They come in various denominations, you should note, sir … differing colours and such for a one- or two-pound note, the five, ten, and twenty. You will come across the odd fraud, issued by forgers or private or provincial banks … those which have not gone under the past two years, sir. Only these notes are legitimate, so you should give any received in exchange the closest inspection. And, of course, there are none smaller than a one pound.”

  “And I’m to be paid in these, am I? My crew, too, when it comes their due? ’Twill be a wonder do they not riot over ’em!”

  “I fear so, Commander. But times are so terribly hard.”

  “Christ, what’s the country comin’ to?” he griped, stuffing the neat pile of bills into his coat pockets—they surely wouldn’t go in a proper coin-purse! —and wondering how he’d get to Coutts’s Bank to deposit them without losing half to a brisk breeze.

  “One may only wonder, Commander … wonder, indeed!” that clerk lowed, like a mournful bovine.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  What a reassuring sameness and familiarity, Lewrie thought, all but squirming with anticipation as his hired coach swept past the stone ruins of the Norman or Saxon castle at the edge of Sir Romney Embleton’s lands, mossy old St. George’s Church hard by the eastern bridge, then Anglesgreen itself. “Damme, more change!” he grumbled to himself, as he beheld a whole new row of houses on the south side of the stream, the clutch of new buildings ‘round the Red Swan Inn, how the ancient Old Ploughman tavern had taken down a row-house to make a side garden for casual drinkers or bowlers. There was a third bridge … ! He clattered past quickly, ’round the curve of the Red Swan, onto the newly graveled road which forked off north, alongside Chiswick lands—taking the turning, he shouted to the coachman—onto a primeval, rutted goat track.

  Trust Uncle Phineas Chiswick not to waste a single farthing for pea gravel on his private lane; just like the miserly old fart!

  Lewrie sat up straighter, shifting from the larboard window to the starboard, for a first, tantalizing glimpse of his own home! “God!” he breathed in expectation.

  There was a last turning between two (new) grey-brick pillars, onto his own lane, which was proper-gravelled and drained, wide enough for two coaches to pass, and lined with far set back sapling oaks. In twenty-five years, he’d have the makings of a drive found only on regal estates, he marvelled, beaming at Caroline’s handiwork and forethought.

  There was the house … !

  The lane became a circular drive about an immense informal garden, tall and lush with flowers … what sort Lewrie wasn’t quite sure, but they were blue, pink, white, pale yellow, rather pretty, uhm … somethings, he thought, a real English country garden that would bloom colourful from March ’til November. Caroline’s work, that, and her green thumb.

  There had been time for ivy (he was fairly sure he knew ivy when he saw it) to lay tentative creepers on the house front, about the imitation Palladian stucco central portal, and the homey grey brick. New white urns sat on either side of the portal as … jardinieres, he puzzled? Big as washtubs! Some yews and hollies to frame them between the windows—aye, definitely recognisable yews and hollies.

  His hollies, his house, his house … his door! It was a glossy dark-blue, with his silvery Venetian–brass lion door-knocker prominent at its centre … and that door was opening …

  He was out of the coach before the postillion could get down to lower the metal step for him, knocking his hat off in the process, and galloping to enfold the brood which erupted from the house.

  “Good God, Hugh!” he cried. “My, boy, my boy!” he whooped, as he lifted him off his feet. “I’m home! Gad, yer gettin’ heavy as any man. Sewallis!” he said, lowering the wildly exuberant and squirming Hugh, to fling his arms about his eldest, who, for once, came into his arms with something akin to enthusiasm to embrace him. Ten, he was by then, and sprouted like a weed, already as tall as Lewrie’s chin!

  “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes, Sewallis. Grown so … !”

  “Welcome home, Father,” Sewallis said, teared up and with his lower lip trembling, but clinging to some shred of his sober stoicism. “We’ve missed you so.”

  “Yay, you’re back, you’re back!” Hugh crowed, so excited that he was capering sidewise like a cross-gaited pony. “Did you kill lots of Frenchmen? Did you sink a lot of ships? What’d you bring us? Ooh, what’s this … a medal! Hurrah, did you get it from the King?”

  “Boys … my God!” He shuddered, hugging them close to either side of him. “And little Charlotte?” He knelt down, tears in his eyes, as he beheld a perfectly adorable wee girl-child, no longer a squawling chub, but a miniature young lady so like her mother, with her mother’s radiant amber-hazel eyes and spider-web fine, light-brown hair, long and bound into a loose tail beneath a missish little mob-cap. “When I left, you were still in swaddles. Lord, is it you, Charlotte?”

  She hung back, a tad leery of him, a coy finger tugging at one corner of her pert little mouth … staring at him wide-eyed, like at a bad bargain. She came within grasping range only at his coaxing.

  “Are you really my daddy?” she asked of a sudden, sounding just a bit cross and hiding her pudgy little hands in the folds of her fully flounced little sack gown.

  “Well, o’ course I am, Charlotte,” he assured her, a tad put off. “Just been away too long, that’s all. Of course I am.”

  As if to say, “Well, that’s alright then,” she relented, rushed to reward him with such a radiant and flirtatious smile, and flung her arms ’round his neck. He picked her up and stood, not knowing quite what to do with such a delicate packet, as she at last giggled aloud and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  Daughters, he thought ruefully, as he returned the favour upon both her cheeks; boys, now … them I can understand! Hell, I was one!

  “Did you like the doll I sent you from Venice?” he asked her, as he paced about in a circle to admire her—now that she was satisfied that they were kin. “Did you get it … all safe and sound?”

  “Ooh, Daddy, yess!” she squealed with delight. “Did you bring me another?”

  “Alan!” From the doorway.

  He spun about to face her. Caroline! He roared her name in joy. It had been three long years; so long he’d almost forgotten what she looked like, even with a miniature portrait hanging in his cabins, almost forgotten what she sounded like.

  Hugh was prancing about, wearing his gold-laced hat. Sewallis was being his ever-helpful self, dragging a heavy valise towards the entry. Yet there was his wife, and he could have trampled them all in the dust in his haste to hold her.

  She came to him with the same haste, and charming little Charlotte had to fend for herself as Lewrie lowered her to the ground, instantly forgotten, to free his arms for Caroline.

  Fierce as a lioness, her arms were about his neck as he lifted her from her toes. Fierce and needy as a starving lion was he, were both of them, as their lips met. She was beaming, weeping, her tears hot on his cheeks and his neck as he held her, pressing her to him and re-discovering her taut, slim firmness, and the sweetly softer curves of her hips, her belly against his, the press of her breasts … !

  “God, it’s so good to be home!” Lewrie crowed at the skies as he lowered her, slid his hands down to grasp hers, and leaned back to regard her. Her hair was down, like Charlotte’s, long, lustrous, and so fine-spun and loosely bound back in an almost girlish welcome, instead of a proper “goody” housewife’s starched mob-cap. Clean, bri
ghtshining … and sweet-smelling of her trademark citrony, flowery Hungary Water. Her eyes, her merry eyes! With the riant folds below them which waxed when she was happy … her mouth and lips, so widely spread in joy … .

  Damme, a touch o’ grey? he puzzled at the sight of her temples; she ain’t … I ain’t … mean t’say, we ain’t that old yet, surely … ?

  Crow’s feet! Merry-lookin’ crow’s feet, he corrected himself instantly. He felt her hands, so spare and slim, looked at her from head-to-toe (smiling all the while, mind), and took in how spare her forearms were below the lacy froth trim at her elbows—a definite softening of her formerly firm flesh, a falling away from the bone beneath … .

  Ah, but she did have the damn’ fever, couple o’years ago, now didn’t she? he assured himself; that’d put a few years on anybody!

  He let go her hands and stepped forward to hold her close once more, to nuzzle at her neck, drink deep of her aroma, and stroke her back. “So damn’ good t’be home! With such a lovely wife t’greet me! Swear t’Christ, Caroline … you’re even lovelier than before!” Lewrie almost (but not quite) lied.

  “Alan, I’ve missed you so!” she whispered in his ear. “Three long years! I’m sorry, I was abovestairs … hoping you’d come today. Preparing, should you … ?” She laughed softly.

  “And a fine piece o’ preparin’ you’ve done, my dear,” he told her. “Turned out like Sunday Divisions. Fair as morning …”

  Here now, don’t trowel it on, he chid himself; well—hang it—do! She’s a woman, ain’t she? You can’t pay enough compliments!

  They stood back from each other again, gazing fondly.

  “Been dyin’ t’be away from Portsmouth, London … achin’!”—Alan chuckled—“t’be with you … see your sweet, angel’s face.”

  She teared up again. But she was smiling fit to bust.

  “Love what you’ve done with the house, the drive, and all. And this fine round garden! What a splendid sight,” he prated on. “I’d wager it’s a fine thing to clap eyes on first thing of a morning … from our chambers, hmm? Or watch the dusk gather … ?” He leered.

  “Mummy, see Daddy’s medal!” Hugh prompted. “For killing ever so many Frogs!”

  “Frenchmen, Hugh dear,” Caroline automatically corrected.

  “For killing Frenchmen then,” Hugh amended.

  “Not so polite to say ’round dear Sophie though, is it, Hugh?” Caroline instructed. “You must think of what might hurt people by the words you say … or the topics you mention, hmm?”

  “It’s alright, Hugh. I got this for fighting Spaniards.” Alan winked. “The one for Frogs is to come by post.”

  “Hurray!” Hugh piped, and even Sewallis sounded glad.

  “Let’s go inside, shall we?” Lewrie suggested. “I’m fair dry, and a tad peckish. That coach ride … let me but park my fundament in my favorite wing-chair. See if it awakens! Oh, Caroline, this is my steward, Aspinall. And his burden … that’s Toulon.”

  “Ma’am,” Aspinall said, doffing his hat and making a shy “leg.”

  “Mister Aspinall,” Caroline replied, with a regal incline of her head and a warm smile of welcome. “My husband has written of you so often. It will be quite the sailors’ rendezvous here; you, Mister Padgett, and Andrews, for a time. I hope you take joy of your stay here.”

  “Lordy, I hope not, Mistress,” Aspinall said, making a jape in his slow, shy way, “but … a sailors’ rendezvous is where the Impress Gang gathers ’fore they goes out t’kidnap unwary sailormen.”

  “Let’s call it ‘Fiddler’s Green,’ then.” Lewrie laughed out loud. “Freeflowin’ rum, beer, and wine; music ’round the clock; and never a groat does the publican demand.”

  “Amen to that, Cap’um Lewrie.” Aspinall smiled. “I’ll be yer burden just ’til Monday, though, ma’am. Me and Padgett … we thought t’go back up t’London for a piece. Me mum an’ dad’s there … and Ma’s doin’ poorly. ’Til Cap’um Lewrie gets a new ship, ma’am.”

  “A new ship, yes … I see.” Caroline frowned, turning to Alan for confirmation with a vexed, worrisome look. Complete with that vertical exclamation point wrinkled ’twixt her brows. “Do they say … ?”

  “Oh, not for weeks, I’m bound, dearest,” Lewrie hastened to assure her. “Nigh on a month, perhaps. The First Lord, Earl Spencer, to my face told me I was due a spell of shore leave.”

  “Daddy’s new kitty?” Charlotte exclaimed, going to peer close into the wicker cage. “Ooh, I want to hold him!”

  “I wouldn’t, young miss,” Aspinall cautioned. “He’s a terror when he’s upset. An’ the coach ride didn’t set him well.”

  “Aye, Charlotte, leave him be, for a while, there’s a good chub.”

  “But, Daddy … !” the wee’un said, stamping an imperious foot.

  “Let’s go in,” Lewrie said again. “I’m dying to see what you’ve done with the place. All those improvements you wrote of … .”

  The formal salon was now furnished in light, airy fabrics, homey cherry or walnut settees, and such; the larger dining room was furnished as well. In the entry hall, those red-lacquered Venetian bombe commodes that Clotworthy Chute had “obtained” (how, he’d prefer never to know!) flanked the carpeted stairs, bearing coin-silver candelabras.

  “Gawd, it’s magnificent, Caroline!” He breathed in awe, as she preened proudly; a visitor might think the Lewries settled and financially secure for ages. More to the point, possessed of good taste all that age, which was more than could be said for even titled households, who equated cost with instant elegance, no matter how garish.

  Toulon was making unsettled rumbling, hissing noises as Aspinall set his cage down in the entry hall beside the luggage. Wee Charlotte was down on her knees, poking and peeking.

  “Best we feed him quick so he doesn’t get it in his head to run outside and get lost,” Lewrie suggested. “’Fore he runs afoul of those setters Sewallis is so proud of, hey, Sewallis?”

  He looked at his eldest son, remembering that Sewallis had been half terrified of his old cat, William Pitt, before he’d passed over.

  Well, chary of him Lewrie amended to himself, being charitable.

  Sewallis shared a look with him, glad that he’d remembered his dogs— though he looked more than cool to the idea of a new cat about the place. He shrugged as if it were no matter, yet …

  Aspinall gently moved Charlotte out of the way and opened the cage. Toulon bounded out, uttering a wary, confused trill, then leapt for the parlour, where he immediately slunk under a settee to fuss.

  “Oh, come and see the morning room!” Caroline enthused, as she took Lewrie by the hand to lead him from one wonder to the next. “That particoloured fabric you sent me, darling … two bolts were just enough. See? Much too sheer for dress material, not in England at any rate. Heavens, do Venetian ladies strut about that undressed?”

  Aye, they do, Lewrie secretly smirked; an’ a damn’ fine show they were too!

  “ … drape this one large window. What do you think?”

  He was a bit disappointed. He’d intended that she run up a gown from the fabric—or, as he’d most lasciviously hinted in his letter which had accompanied it, a sheer bed-gown and dressing robe? In his heart-of-hearts fantasy, he’d have loved to see her through both thin layers, every sweet inch of her flame-draped by the subtle, marbley waves of umber, peach, ochre, and burgundy, like one of Lady Emma Hamilton’s most pornographic “Attitudes”!

  Now that cloth made bright, cheerful drapes for the window in their smaller dining room, where they usually ate en famille, without houseguests. Caroline had coordinated plush, ochre velvet overdrapes, using the sheer material as gauzy inner drapes, and had tablecloth and napery of peach, with the other colours picked out here and there in the paintings’ frames, some fresh paint on the chair rail, but … It wasn’t the use he’d wished.

  “Here, kitty-kitty!” He could hear Charlotte still coaxing in the salon, and a faint carp from Toulon as
he was chivvied from pillar to post in search of a new hidey-hole in a strange, threatening house.

  “Charlotte, leave the cat be!” Lewrie called over his shoulder, wearing a supposedly pleased smile of appreciation on his phyz for the drapes. “He’s not used to you, and he wants to be left in peace!”

  He said it in an exasperated, out-of-his-depth semblance of his best quarterdeck voice, the one he’d use on slow brace-tenders. Which brought forth a whine from Charlotte as she began to blub up, to be so loudly chastised.

  “Alan, really …” Caroline gently chid.

  “Don’t want her eat’ half-alive, that’s all, dearest,” Lewrie tried to quibble. “Aye, they’re fetchin’ as Hell, aren’t they, these drapes? Whatever was I thinkin’ … that you’d make a gown of it, in Anglesgreen, and all …”

  “Oh, do come out, kitty … Owwww! Mummy!” was the shriek.

  Rrrrowww! It could have been fright; it could have been a glad victory cry. Lewrie could see, once he’d turned his head, his cat making a dash for the stairs, a black-white streak nigh flat to the floor and his legs churning like a Naples centipede. There went another streak in pale blue moire satin and white lace, as Caroline tore off to comfort her “precious little girl.” Left with the boys, Lewrie looked over to see Hugh pursing his mouth to blow a fartlike sound with his lips and rolling his eyes. Evidently, Charlotte’s curiosity, and the teary result, wasn’t exactly a new thing in their house. And Sewallis surprised him with a world-weary, almost adult sigh of exasperation. And a high-pitched “Hmmpph!” or “Tittch!”

  “Girls,” Lewrie agreed, hands behind his back, and tipping them both a conspiratorial wink. “They do take a power o’ gettin’ used to.”

  Lewrie figured he’d done enough damage indoors for the nonce. It was time to trot, ’til domestic “bliss” was re-established.

  “How’s your pony farin’, lads? And, Sewallis, where’re those dogs? Does your mother ever let ’em in the house?”