Havoc's Sword

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Havoc's Sword Page 7

by Dewey Lambdin


  “What? Oh…” Lewrie asked, but heard the answer.

  Ledyard Beauman’s pain, as they moved him in a litter from the beach to his family coach, sounded inordinate. Surely, he was still curled up like a singed worm on his side, legs drawn up, arms crossed low on his stomach as if cramping from too many green apples.

  Ledyard Beauman was thinly, femininely, keening and screaming.

  “Ah!” Cashman said, beaming, most happily sleepy-eyed from laudanum and liquor, but suddenly hugely content. “Damn my eyes, but did ya ever hear such a pleasin’ sound, yer whole bleedin’ life?”

  Chapter Four

  Of course, Kit Cashman couldn’t resist the celebration. Breakfast had been laid on at Baltazar’s, the discrete and elegant Kingston eatery, at tables on the raised section overlooking brick-enclosed fountains, trellises, and herb gardens. Kit’s friends, former officers of the 15th who inclined to his cause, and well-wishers made it a jolly affair, with many toasts made and drunk, and champagne cups had sloshed about like so many watering cans might flood those herb gardens and small lawn. There was food; Lewrie was pretty-well sure of that…but no matter how comestible, and welcome by that hour of the morning, the victuals were definite also-rans. Fried eggs, tatty hash, fletches of bacon and small chops, heaps of thick-sliced toast, and the requisite butter and jams, had first been heartily swallowed, but had later become more akin to party favours, or missiles to be flung or trampled.

  The nigh-White waitress, a local who always seemed to serve Cashman whenever he and Lewrie had dined there, was in attendance, more as a guest than a servitor, half of her time spent lolling in Kit’s lap, shrieking and guzzling, bussing and petting the hero of the hour, with her ornate hair unwinding rather fetchingly.

  More girls of the town, most “no better than they should be,” began to turn up as the morning drew on towards 9:00 A.M., and it looked fair to becoming one of those all-day celebrations, with Baltazar’s reserved and shut to public custom ’til next noon. Fine for Kit, but he had duties.

  After two last fortifying cups of black coffee, drunk standing by the common room bar, he reclaimed his sword and hat and departed, sure that he wouldn’t be missed ’til tea-time…if then.

  On the short (but a bit unsteady, thankee!) stroll to the dock, Lewrie and Andrews felt the eyes of the town bore into them, heard the faint hum-um of whispered conversation. Some sounded scandalised, but more than half seemed secretly pleased, yet too daunted by Beauman wealth and influence to cheer them openly. However the news had come, by fast rider or forest drums, the outcome of the duel seemed known as soon as they’d clattered into Kingston!

  All this public notice made Lewrie check to see if his breeches flap was buttoned more than once as they threaded the last gawping clot of fellow officers, merchant captains and crewmen, stevedores and servants on the stone quay just in front of The Grapes; some glaring at him so severely he expected to be called out as he waited for his gig to arrive.

  “Done for two of ’em, ’e did!” Lewrie heard one of his oarsmen off his own boat whisper, beamingly jubilant. And how the devil news of the cock-up had reached the ship before he did, he had no way of knowing!

  “Welcome back aboard, sir,” Lieutenant Adair crisply said, his smallsword drawn and held before his face in salute as Lewrie climbed aboard HMS Proteus and took the on-deck crew’s salute amid a trill of bosun’s calls.

  “Mister Adair,” Lewrie said, with a brief nod to his Third Officer, now confirmed and possessed of his commission, no longer an acting lieutenant; putting his mute “Captain’s Face” back on. “Thankee, sir. Dismiss the side party, and return the hands to their duties.”

  “Message from the flag’s come aboard for you, sir,” Adair said, coughing into his fist.

  “Oh, damn,” Lewrie said, wincing at that news. He was nowhere near sober enough for official doings. Did Admiral Parker abhor duelling? Or did he loathe affairs of honour turning into Cheapside shootouts? Either way, the summons boded ill.

  “’Twas a lieutenant fetched it, sir,” Adair informed him.

  Worse and worse, Lewrie thought; not a Middy’s errand, but….

  “Drew straws, did you?” Lewrie snorted, hands in the small of his back. “Diced t’see who’d have to tell me?”

  “Uhm, seniority, sir,” Lt. Adair mumbled, blushing as Lewrie twigged to the fact that Langlie, Catterall, and Adair had all felt the summons was Trouble, capital T, and had all turned queasy. For all of their proven courage as Commission Sea Officers, it now appeared there were some things that’d make ’em blanch!

  “And you couldn’t find little Larkin or Burns,” Lewrie assumed aloud, almost chuckling. His newest, junior-most midshipmen, one a Bog-Irish squire’s by-blow, uniformed so poorly it looked as if he’d robbed a scarecrow, and t’other a blinkless, drooling lack-wit.

  “Couldn’t find ’em, sir,” Adair admitted. “Most-like, they’re still hiding in the cable-tiers or furled themselves aloft in the main course.”

  “Goes t’prove, then, that one, or both, just may be smarter than we give ’em credit for,” Lewrie replied. “Well, give it me, then.”

  Andrews slunk below with his shore-going bag while Lewrie broke the wax seal and unfolded the single-page note. He glanced over toward the Palisades, the long, natural seawall, where stood Giddy House, and the shore residence where Admiral Parker entertained.

  “Pass word for my Cox’n, Mister Adair. ’Vast there, you men. Back into the boat,” Lewrie snapped. “We’re bound away.” He stuck the letter into a side pocket of his coat, and wishing that he had shaved before the duel, that he didn’t subtly reek of the wine-table at such a pagan hour…or that there seemed to be some sticky, reddish jam patches, some greasy flung-chop smuts, and some scrambled egg stains on breeches, waist-coat, and shirt cuffs at the moment.

  The letter stressed his reporting “Instanter,” underlined twice with some force, so there went a change of clothing, or a sponge-down.

  Should’ve stuck with just throwin’ bread rolls, Lewrie sighed to himself as the gig’s crew reassembled, as Andrews reappeared to muster them. And damme, but don’t he look natty! Took time t’scrub…the bastard!

  “Uhm,” Andrews muttered, showing his captain the damp towel and tall pewter mug of sudsy water that he’d fetched along. “Mebbe on de way ovah, sah, we could, aahh, touch ya up a tad?”

  “I take back everything I just thought about you,” Lewrie said with a grateful smile as the bosun’s calls phweeped again to salute his departure, leaving Andrews in befuddlement as he doffed his hat and scampered back down the man-ropes and battens to the waiting gig.

  Chapter Five

  ’Twas Giddy House, the old pile that served as administrative headquarters, not the stately, welcoming, and airy Admiralty House where Admiral Sir Hyde Parker resided, that was Lewrie’s destination. He was escorted to the offices of Staff Captain Sir Edward Charles. Was there a piss-proud, drunken, officious prig who despised him more (in the Caribbean, at least) Lewrie had yet to encounter him. He steeled himself for a long, rambling, and abusive tirade before the double doors swung back to admit him.

  A rap upon those doors, and the announcement that he had come at long last drew a “Hah! Come!” roar—Sir Edward’s high-handed snip of “Got ye now, ye bastard!” with an admixture of the enticing coo a starving bridge troll might employ to lure a tasty stray child.

  Hat under his arm, with the broken dog’s vane and egg-stained front averted, Lewrie entered the “devil’s den.”

  “Captain Lewrie!” Captain Charles growled, his blood-shot eyes given youth and clarity by this chance for “comeuppance.” “Hah, sir! Damme, a waiter tip his tray o’er ye, did he? The publican’s drinks tray, more like. Dis-reput-able, sir, most!” he sneered, savouring the word. “’Tis a wonder yer shirt-tail’s still in. How dare…!”

  “Disreputable, aye,” another voice chimed in, snatching Lewrie’s attention to a civilian who stood near the bookcases at the darker end of the s
pacious offices, in a sombre suit of black “ditto” enlivened by a green satin waist-coat, and grinning like a sardonic devil.

  Christ, just shoot me now! Lewrie goggled, half of a mind to do a bolt. Not him, not another hare-brained…!

  “Mister….?” Lewrie managed to say, unsure whether Peel would be under some new alias, or was the Foreign Office spy still sailing under his own colours. Peel, ex-Captain of Household Cavalry, John…no it had been James…James Peel; right-hand man to that devious old cut-throat, Zachariah Twigg, in the Mediterranean, several years before.

  “You recall me, surely, Captain Lewrie,” Peel (or whomever) said with a taunting smirk over his obvious discomfiture.

  “Oh, indeed, sir…with fondly remembered shudders of dread,” Lewrie countered with equal banter to his tone. “Though how you wish to be named, this time, is…?” he concluded with a mystified shrug.

  “It’s still Peel, Captain Lewrie,” Peel chuckled, coming up to take hands with him. “It serves as good as any. Been years, has it not, sir? Good to see you again.”

  “Wish I could say the same, Mister Peel,” Lewrie lightly replied. “But where you and your old master turn up, there’s no one safe. And how is….?”

  “Allow me to name to you my new superior, Captain Lewrie,” Peel said, deflecting the question, and turning them to face the other man, who had been lingering near a tall bookcase now burdened with reports and returns rather than books. Lewrie wondered how he could have missed the peacock. “The Honourable Grenville Pelham…here is our Captain Alan Lewrie, in the flesh at last. Captain Lewrie, Mister Grenville Pelham.”

  “Ah-de-do,” Pelham intoned in a high-bred Oxonian voice as he allowed his hand to be shaken, preferring to be grasped by the fingers, not a hearty palm-to-palm greeting. “Heard much about you, Captain…much, indeed.”

  “Mister Pelham, sir, an honour to make your acquaintance.”

  No, it ain’t, but what else can y’say, Lewrie snidely thought.

  The Honourable Grenville Pelham, obviously someone’s “promising git,” was a brisk, wee sprout for all his high-nosed manner, a thoroughbred colt. Compared to Peel’s sombre suiting, though, Pelham was rigged out in a cream-white linen coat and breeches, cuffs, collar, and lapels trimmed in dark green satin, with a light green waistcoat of nubby silk, all sprigged with looping gilt embroidery. Black shoes and white silk stockings, large brass buttons on coat and waist-coat, shoe and knee buckles that Lewrie suspected were gold, not brass.

  And, dammit, but Pelham seemed awfully young to be Peel’s, or anyone’s, superior; why, he couldn’t be beyond his mid-twenties! This dandy-prat put Lewrie in mind of Rear Admiral Nelson, greyhound lean, full of nervous energy, forever wavering ’twixt the languid airs of a proper Crown official and the titters of an impish University boy.

  Pelham wore his own hair, fashionably long and wavy, but clipped in the back where a gentleman’s queue should ride atop his stiff stand-and-fall collar. His face was pale and peeling with sunburn, his eyes bright and snapping blue—though squinted at the moment, as if just a touch leery, and darting as if impatient with the social amenities.

  “Didn’t do half of what I’m reputed, sir,” Lewrie said, determined to make a decent impression on somebody, given the state of his own attire, and employing his gruffest “gentleman sea-dog” air. “It’s all a slander.”

  “Uhm, quite,” Pelham said, disengaging his fingers as if discomfited. “Though you must admit, you are…. renowned, Captain.”

  “Good God, off on the wrong foot already, are we?” Lewrie felt emboldened (or enough disgruntled by that tone) to remark. “I assume you spoke with Mister Twigg before sailing out here? Then you heard only the naughty bits.”

  “Ahem, well….” Pelham commented, unsure what to make of that. “Let us begin, then. Thankee, Captain Charles…. Sir Edward. That is all that we require. We’ll not take long, I assure you.”

  Pelham turned to beam false cheer at the man commonly known on the West Indies Station as “The Wine Cask,” a hair away from shooing him from his very own office! Which prompted Lewrie to turn about and bestow his own “shit-eatin’” grin on that worthy, as well.

  “Ah, hmm. Well, o’ course, Mister Pelham,” Capt. Charles said, flummoxed, with much throat-clearing and frowning. “Anything for the Crown, though?” Capt. Charles grumbled, slyly making his complaint known as he snatched up a thick stack of loose papers, files, and ledger books as if salvaging an inheritance—and gave his wine service a longing, famished, look; perhaps to gauge how much was left in the decanter, did they dare partake while he was away! With a few more stammers, he departed with a bow, and an ominous “We must discuss things later, Captain Lewrie!” before the twin doors to his office suite clicked shut behind him.

  Pelham did, indeed, amble over to the desk and pour himself a goodly measure of the white wine, after scrounging about for an unused glass in the set of four, all of which seemed to have been employed at some time or other since sunrise. “Dear Lord, he’s the taste of a Philistine! Not what I’d call even a poor vintage. Has a taste, and the finish, more like…horse liniment!” the young man snickered.

  “May I, sir?” Lewrie bade, and Pelham offered the glass for his tasting. Lewrie merely sniffed it, though, and returned it. “That’s Navy-issue white wine, Mister Pelham. We call it ‘Miss Taylor’, and a bad vinegar it is, too. It’s damn’ cheap, and he can indent for it from the stores house, just down the quay. By the ten-gallon cask…then lose the chits, which all come through him, d’ye see. A dirty business.” Lewrie jadedly “tsk-tsked” to Mr. Pelham in hopes that he might report the bitter man’s peccadilloes. “And aye, Navy surgeons can, and have, used it as a liniment.”

  “You wish a glass, then, sir?” Pelham seemed to tease.

  “No, thankee kindly. Bit early for me,” Lewrie beamed back.

  “Really,” Pelham drawled, rightly skeptical of that claim, in light of Lewrie’s dishevelment, and his breath. “Gentlemen, be seated, please,” he bade instead, making free with Capt. Charles’s furniture, and seeming to dither as to whether he himself should sit in authority behind the desk or appear more “convivial” in one of the club chairs. He chose the chair, sweeping the long, but narrow-cut tail of his coat back with an elegant swish as he plopped down and crossed his legs at the knee, with his hands in his lap.

  “All the ‘go,’ is it?” Lewrie asked, tongue-in-cheek, to bring the younker down a peg. “We’re years behind London fashions, out here. I haven’t seen a coat such as yours…cut so high to the waist, with the tails beginning so far back. Damme, you make me wish the name of your tailor, Mister Pelham. Or yours, Captain Peel!”

  Now that they were in private, Pelham no longer had to pretend to be amused. He raised one eyebrow, his face stony, resting his elbows on the chair arms and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth, whilst Mr. Peel coughed into a fist in warning.

  “In answer to your earlier question, Captain Lewrie, Zachariah Twigg is now most honourably retired, though frequently consulted for his vast knowledge. Mister Twigg was one of my mentors, d’ye see, and as soon as I was given this assignment, I, and Captain Peel, were quick to call on him for background material. You will be relieved to know…or, not, given your past relations with that worthy…that he keeps well, in the main, though his constitution will no longer admit to the travail of overseas adventures,” Pelham prosed, high-nosed from being twitted by a mere…sailor. “We spent the better part of a day and a night in his company. And when your presence in the Caribbean was revealed to us, naturally we discussed your, ah…attributes. And your sense of wit,” Pelham concluded with a sniff.

  “Well, what is the old saying…‘Forewarned is forearmed’?” Lewrie breezed off, unabashed. “And what was the old fart’s advice to you? ‘Don’t take any guff off him? Keep a weather-eye peeled for his foolishness,’ was it?”

  “Something very much like that,” Pelham rejoined, harumphing.

  “Mister Twigg sends you
his warmest regards, Captain Lewrie,” Peel said, interjecting to keep their initial interview running smooth, and perhaps to allay any rancour. “Believe it or not,” Peel went on, with a knowing smirk.

  “Pardon me, sir, but that’s ‘fiddler’s pay,’” Lewrie commented. “Mere thanks and wine…less the wine. And easy for him to say after all the shitten messes he got me into. Told you all our doings together, did he?” he said, returning his attention to Pelham. “The Far East and then the Mediterranean? Well, here’s another platitude for you…‘Once bitten, twice shy,’ Mister Pelham. So you will understand why I have my qualms at being dragooned into another neck-or-nothing affair, one involving that ogre Choundas, most especially.”

  Pelham and Peel exchanged glances, at that.

  “That is why you’re here, I take it,” Lewrie stated. “He’s in the Caribbean, I’m in the Caribbean, and suddenly here comes a brace o’ spies from the Foreign Office just slaverin’ t’put me back in harness to deal with the bastard, just one more time,” he sneered. “Thought I was summoned t’be broken for seconding my friend at his duel, which turned to shit, by the way…what with Charles an’ Admiral Parker so tight with the planter family we just winnowed, but no…to my lights, it’s even worse. Beggin’ yer pardon, o’ course.” Lewrie said, facetiously bowing from the waist in his chair.

  “You are demurring from such duty, sir?” Pelham charily asked.

  “Damme, you know I can’t, Mister Pelham,” Lewrie snapped back. “You surely hold sealed orders up your sleeve, directing me to aid you, no matter what I think of it. Don’t you.” It was not a question.

  “Yes, I do, Captain Lewrie,” Pelham quirkily informed him, with a faint, superior grin. “Believe me, I do understand, should you hold any misgivings.” And he seemed so sincere that Lewrie could almost believe him…for a moment. “And, yes, Mister Twigg also discovered to me all your past doings. And, again, yes…my mentor told me how you react when pushed. That since it is beyond your power to demur, or be too truculent and insubordinate when handed extraordinary duty beyond your customary brief…that your last refuge is an acid and sarcastic wit. Which wit will seem to border upon insubordination, and truculence. I was strongly advised to make allowances for when you suffer the odd ‘snit,’ Captain Lewrie.”

 

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