Sail Away

by Lee Rowan

  A knock at the door announced their shaving water.

  David got out their tiny shaving mirror. “You go first. Yes, I do think you will enjoy London more than you expect. There’s less danger because there are two of us, and we are officers and armed. But we need to watch each other’s backs, same as we would in a cutting-out. As long as you stay alert, you’ll be fine.” When Will said nothing, he continued, “I think we should break our fast here, pay our shot, then take a cab to the Lion, and then visit my family’s tailor.”

  Busy with his shaving, Will could only roll his eyes with what David interpreted as resignation, and he felt badly for lecturing as though Will had never been on land before. But he hadn’t ever been in London. “I’m speaking from my own mistakes,” he explained. “When my brother Mark took me down to get my first proper evening dress, I lost my holiday money to one of the little villains and felt like an idiot. I’m only trying to save you learning the hard way.”

  Finished shaving now, Will said, “It’s all right, Davy.”

  “Perhaps we should hire a cab for a few hours, until you adjust to the crowds. That would let us see more of the city and reduce the risk of trouble.”

  Will rinsed off his razor. “I am in your hands, Mr. Archer,” he said, his smile softening the formality. “I’m an Englishman, an officer, and doing my best to be a gentleman, so I must form an acquaintance with this city. But you know I’d be just as happy if we spent the whole time in some quiet garret with no one to disturb us.”

  “Someday,” David said, wishing they had time to consider the notion. “Of course, we’ll probably be too old by then to do anything with the privacy, but… someday.”

  WILL APPRECIATED Davy’s attempt to make him feel less the country mouse, and he found that facing London Town after at least a partial night’s sleep—and from the elevation of a cab—was less daunting than he’d feared. They drove first to the Red Lion to leave their baggage, taking the long way around over Blackfriars Bridge, a grand tour that left Will overwhelmed with impressions of the city streets. Never mind the buildings; London held more vehicles than he’d seen in one place in his whole life. And after a while, all the scenes began to look the same.

  He was annoyed with himself for being less impressed than he’d expected to be. But the plain truth was, he was a man of simple tastes. He was perfectly willing to admire the grand architecture that Davy happily pointed out, and he did realize how clever the engineering had been, but he lacked any desire at all to explore what lay within the impressive stone and brick edifices. Which probably meant that sooner or later Davy would find him boring, and he would hate for that to happen. He determined to maintain an interest in London for the next ten days.

  The Red Lion did seem a much more comfortable stopping place, busy but not as hectic as the George. Their room there was considerably larger and had its own mirror over the washbasin, with sconces set on either side—and no carriages thundering past just outside the door. It was all he could have wished for.

  As they stepped up into the cab, Davy had asked, “Do you have some other tailor you’d prefer to visit, Will? I can vouch for Stratford, but….” He shrugged.

  “You’re better dressed than anyone I know, barring the Captain,” Will said. “I doubt anyone would be able to make me look half as neat as either of you, but I do need a dress uniform.” He was now wearing what had been his best, and even though the tailor in Portsmouth had done a fair job of mending it, a new coat was definitely in order. “Lucky you had another dress coat good enough to face the Board in. It would be a shame to have a new midshipmen’s uniform made just for one day’s wear.”

  “That one’s had its sleeve torn off, and half the seam split, but as long as I don’t wave my arms in the air, it won’t show. I could trade my old stuff to one of the younger mids, I suppose,” Davy said. “I think I should just give my old coats to Wilcoxon. He’s been growing this past year, and I might as well share my good fortune—if I’m so fortunate as to pass.”

  “Touch wood,” Will said, doing just that on the cab’s armrest.

  “And then to Lock, for a new hat,” Davy said. “I sent them a note last night, when I was scavenging newspapers. I think our good hats must have been left in the coach when we were kidnapped.” He was wearing one that had seen better days and was all right for duty watch but not for the Admiralty.

  “I saw what happened to mine,” Will said. “One of those oafs stepped on it.” He had replaced his own bicorne at a shop in Portsmouth—not as stylish as Lock & Company, but probably not as costly either. He wasn’t going to waste his fortune, modest though it was, on window dressing. “If Lock can’t come up to scratch in time, you can borrow mine.”

  “Oh, they will. I’ll wager they sell hundreds. Whoever designed cocked hats must have meant them to be blown off in the least breeze.”

  Will smiled—it was true, the broad, flat surface caught the wind like a sail. “At least the fore-and-aft style sends the rain off behind,” he said as the cab pulled up to the storefront.

  Mr. Stratford, the tailor—astonishingly, there was no Shakespearean connection—was a matter-of-fact, competent fellow who took Will’s measurements, gave him a reasonable estimate for a new uniform, and brought Davy’s records to date. “You’ve grown up well, Mr. Archer, if I say so myself!” A small, balding, cheerful man, he spoke to Davy as to a favorite child. “I saw your uncle just last week, and he told me you’re quite the hero in some circles. I understand the next uniform I’ll be making for you will be a step up!”

  “Perhaps,” Davy said. “If I make the grade. I should know by this time tomorrow, at any rate, and I’ll be sure to drop you a note. Do you know if my uncle Jack is in town?”

  “That was not the impression he gave me,” Stratford said. “On his way out of the country, I thought, though with those diplomatic gentlemen, you never really know.”

  “I shall have to see if he’s back before we leave.”

  They bade farewell with a promise to return in a week for the finished clothing. “Does your family know everyone?” Will asked when they were back in the cab.

  “Of course not. I’m only taking you to those who might remember me in order to impress you.” As they wheeled around a corner, he said, “We are now on St. James’s Street. Respectable ladies do not travel in these precincts, because the gentlemen who inhabit the area are not always gentlemen. If a well-dressed woman accosts you, be polite but firm in spurning her suggestions.”

  Will cast a sidelong glance at him. “Can you doubt I would?”

  Davy only grinned as the cab slowed to a halt before No. 6, James Lock & Company. As predicted, the hat was ready and waiting to be tried on. In a matter of minutes, the hat and its handsome protective case were set for delivery to the Lion, and they were back in their cab on Piccadilly, rolling past a beautiful expanse of trees and greenery that Davy identified as the Green Park. “London does have some trees, you see. This was where Handel’s music for fireworks was first performed. My mother says she was taken there as a child but does not remember the concert. Oh, and speaking of fireworks, we must go to Vauxhall one evening. If any of the family are in town, perhaps we can make a night of it. I don’t want to say too much about the place—I would rather surprise you.”

  Unsure of how to take that, Will said, “What about your uncle’s family—do you mean to visit them?”

  “No, they’re at Brighton,” Davy said, apparently in one of his talkative moods. “My aunt always goes to Brighton with as many of her kin as she can recruit, and—not to be unkind—she’s the most boring woman I know. I had only hoped to introduce you to Uncle Jack. He despises seaside resorts and always stays in town. He’s only my half uncle, actually.”

  “I thought he was your mother’s brother.”

  “Oh, no. He’s my grandmother’s son by her previous husband.”

  “Is his name not Archer, then?”

  “No, it is. Look, here’s Hyde Park. Later this week we
should take a stroll here and see all the fashionable people parading for one another. Perhaps after we get our impressive new togs. But to answer your question—I should tell you that my family has a propensity for odd romances—really, Kit and Zoe are typical. My grandfather had been in love with Uncle Jack’s mother, but her father, who probably had some Roman blood—the complete paterfamilias—forced her to marry someone else with a more impressive title. Fate thought otherwise, and just a year later, the fellow broke his neck foxhunting. At that point my grandfather thought enough was enough and eloped with the widow, my Grandma Rose, who was a wonderful lady.”

  “Daring too, I imagine.”

  “Very likely. Either that, or she was simply fed up with her father’s ambitions and bullying. She saw nothing shabby about being a countess! At any rate, Grandfather treated Uncle Jack as his own, and Jack added “Archer” to Edmundton after he inherited the title. That annoyed the Edmundtons, and there was a bit of scandal because she married so soon after the Marquis died but I suppose they thought that with a new baby, it was better she had a husband. So Uncle Jack is my family, but not my grandfather’s blood descendant. Grandfather’s title went to my father, naturally, and Uncle Jack has a much nicer one of his own.”

  Will shook his head. “I wish I had a pencil and paper. You lost me back at the fox hunt, but I see the broad outline. Your family does sound interesting.”

  “I could write melodramas.”

  THAT THOUGHT prompted him to stop at the next bookshop they saw. Besides a guidebook to the sights of London—which Will considered a needless expense—they acquired a Gentlemen’s Magazine and The Dramatic Censor; or, Weekly Theatrical Report: Comprising a Complete Chronicle of the British Stage, and a Regular Series of Theatrical Criticism in Every Department of the Drama.

  “How many ‘departments of the drama’ are there?” Will asked.

  “That depends on who you ask,” David said, riffling through the pages. “I would say the legitimate theater, which holds a royal patent, and opera, of course, and melodrama. Then there’s music halls…. I’m not certain if one should count the sort of thing Astley does as theater, though I don’t know what else you could call it.”

  “What sort of thing is that?”

  “Oh, performing horses, ladies who dance about on horseback, simple musical plays… not much appeal to the intellect, but great fun. My own wish is to see some real Shakespeare in his natural habitat. They’re doing King John at Drury Lane—it seems as though King John is all they’ve been doing for some time now—and, Will, it’s Charles and Philip Kemble, Miss Tidswell, and Mrs. Siddons!” He could see from Will’s face that they might as well be four random urchins plucked from the streets. “Extraordinary actors, Will. Mrs. Siddons has men worshipping at her feet. She is amazing.”

  “Are we going to the theater today?”

  “Oh, no, I’m waiting for that as a reward if I make Lieutenant. Or as consolation if I do not. We can buy the tickets now and then rest from our arduous journeys. Are you feeling ready for a bite to eat?”

  “Of course.”

  David stuck a hand out and signaled the cabman to halt. When the man hopped down, David asked him to take them to Drury Lane. “I’ve not been to town these past five years, and I am sure things have changed. If you can recommend a place nearby with decent food, we’ll take a break—and let you and your horse take one too.” He passed the man a silver sixpence. “On account. We’ll settle the bill then, or you can meet us afterward and we’ll continue on.”

  “Reckon I will, sir,” the driver said appreciatively. “There’s a place just a few streets away got a Yorkshire puddin’ that makes you sorry there’s no vittles in Heaven. Was you lookin’ for any entertainment later? I know a gal….”

  David laughed. “No, thank you! I’ve a big day tomorrow, and no time for distractions. We’re just dull, nose-to-the-grindstone fellows, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said, and clambered back up to his perch.

  Will gave him a shocked look. “Do all the cabmen act as pimps?”

  “Of course not—well, I suppose some do, I wouldn’t know. But plenty of men ask, just as I asked about a place to eat.” He knew it would be cruel to laugh at Will’s naïveté. “Lieutenant Marshall, only consider: we are sailors on shore leave in London, the biggest and naughtiest city in the world. Many of our colleagues would’ve taken him up on the offer—and those who didn’t would likely be too old or would already have made their own arrangements.”

  Will smiled and pressed his leg against David’s. “I prefer our own arrangements.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “OH, HE’S long gone, sir,” the clerk at the ticket office said, scratching his unkempt head. “Ninety-nine, I guess it was. Two years ago the first of June, right after Grimaldi came offstage. Just dropped down dead.”

  “I see,” David said. “Old Joseph was up in years, wasn’t he?”

  He had parked Will in the theater’s entry hall while he went to purchase tickets for a performance later in the week and inquire after the people he’d known in his younger days. His intention had been to find some old acquaintance and give Will a peek backstage when the house was quiet, perhaps let him look out on the rows of seats and lavish boxes and imagine the sight when the place was full. A silly notion—that was not something that caught Will’s imagination as it did his own.

  And just as well. He’d expected that things would have changed in the theater. He hadn’t thought everyone he’d known would be gone, though. Joseph, who was in charge of minding the steel fireproof curtain—old Joseph, whose last name he’d never learned—he’d seemed to be a part of the place that would go on forever. But old men died, and life went on. Even in the theater.

  It made him feel older too.

  “Seventy-eight, his son said. A good bit past his threescore and ten. Said that was how old Joseph wanted to go too. He loved this place.”

  “How about Marybelle Blossom? Did she ever get billing?”

  “Blossom…. You mean Mary Soames? Pretty little thing, big eyes, black hair? Did a lot of understudy work—that’s right, it would’a been five, six years ago. Been here five, myself, just barely. Time does fly.”

  “It does,” David agreed, wanting to shake the man.

  “Well, she’s gone too. Oh, not dead!” he said hastily, seeing the shock on David’s face. “She just got married. He sold pies off a cart. Nice fellow. Her last night here, he brought his cart around and gave us all pies. Good eatin’ they was, too. They say he’s still in business, but I never see that cart anymore.”

  “I see. Thank you.” He paid for his tickets and added a tip for the information, even though it was well-nigh worthless. He was in a thoughtful mood when he met Will out in the entry hall.

  “Something wrong?” Will asked.

  “Nothing unexpected. A very old stagehand passed away, and it seems that everyone else I once knew has gone on to other things. Now I understand those old tales about a man who’s lured away by the fairies and comes back to find everyone he knew is gone.”

  “Even your long-lost love?”

  “Oh, she went off and married a pieman!” David said, and the absurdity of it cracked the shell of his gloom. “That puts me in my place, right enough! But I’m told they were very good pies.”

  “Well, you said she was a sensible girl.” Will shrugged. “Theater is all very well, but you know where you stand with a good pie.”

  “True enough. Let’s go find our cab and something hot for our tea.”

  Now that he was thinking of food, it seemed the whole street carried the aromas of cooking. The jarvey clucked to his horse, and they set off again, going only a little way before they came to a halt in front of a neat shop with spanking clean paint and a sign that proclaimed “The Mr. and Mrs.” The cabman tapped on the roof, and they took that as the signal to climb out and arrange for a rendezvous in an hour’s time.

  The place was busy as they walked
in, but not overcrowded. A young man wiping dishes behind the bar nodded to them and pointed to an empty table off in one corner. He held up a pint mug in an inquiring way. David indicated two, then led the way to the table.

  Moments later, a fair-haired girl in a tidy apron brought them two mugs of ale that had a strong, hoppy scent. She beamed as she set the beer down, and David grinned at the appreciative way she eyed Will. “Afternoon, gentlemen! Are you here for a meal or just a bite?”

  “What’s on offer?” Will asked.

  “Roast beef or mutton, bread with dripping, potatoes and green beans, bread and cheese, shepherd’s pie, pork pie.” She stopped the singsong and thought. “And there might be some Yorkshire pudding left. Got soup almost ready, and currant buns.”

  Will nodded happily. “Something smells delicious. I’m ready for a meal.”

  “Oh, yes,” David agreed. “Beef, please. And by all means, bring the Yorkshire pudding if you still have it. It comes highly recommended!”

  “Start with soup?”

  “Why not?”

  “Careful, Will,” he warned as the girl skipped away. “There’s a lass who likes a man in uniform!”

  Will gave him a patient look and lifted his mug. “She must be all of fifteen. To your health and success tomorrow… and someday a fine young man—who is not me—for that child!”

  David chuckled and hoisted his own drink. But he’d only taken a sip before another woman approached the table—probably ten years older than the serving girl, but much prettier—a bright smile, dark curls tucked under a kerchief, and eyes he would never forget.

  He set his mug down hastily and scrambled to his feet. “Marybelle?”

  “Davy! It is you!”

  He was suddenly enveloped in a mass of feminine pulchritude as she hugged him and gave him a hearty buss on the cheek. She grinned at his shock and Will’s bewilderment, then turned to the room. “Settle down, boys, he’s just an old friend. Nothing to worry the Mister.” Still smiling, she said, “Susan came running into the kitchen to tell me there were two beautiful sailors in the house, and when she started to describe you, I thought—well, maybe it is him. And here you are!” She looked his uniform over. “What sort of officer are you, then?”