A Hard, Cruel Shore

by Dewey Lambdin

  His father was considering a long month or so on his estate at Anglesgreen, where he could ride without trampling the summer mobs, for Rotten Row along Hyde Park was becoming impossible with so many brides-to-be and possible suitors crowding it. He had gotten a note from Will Cony, Lewrie’s old Cox’n, then Bosun for a short time, saying that the winter’s beer was tasty, there was a glut of spring lambs, and, knowing Sir Hugo’s penchant for lamb, thought he might drop by the Old Ploughman for a good meal or two. There were strawberries, asparagus, watercress, and his father waxed eloquent on the first of the new potatoes and cucumbers.

  All that writing about the freshness of an English garden and its yield almost made Lewrie’s mouth water. Ah, but there were plenty of greens to be had ashore in Lisbon.

  Surprisingly, Lewrie had letters from Viscount Percy Stangbourne and his other brother-in-law, Burgess Chiswick, the one he liked. It was an odd quirk of Fate, but Percy’s self-raised regiment of Light Dragoons, which had been badly winnowed of both troopers and horses on the cruel retreat to Corunna late last year, was now replenished with mounts, weapons, and saddlery, fully re-enlisted and up to top strength. Percy was delighted to announce that he and his regiment would be coming to Lisbon within the next month, and he was as eager as anything to have a proper bash at the French in warmer campaigning weather, this time.

  The quirk came when he opened Burgess’s letter and discovered that his regiment of Foot had also received orders for Portugal and Spain. Hard as it would be to leave Theodora and the children, three of them now, two strapping boys and a delightful little girl, he had been preparing his officers and his troops for years, he and one or two officers in the mess the only ones who had seen action, his with the East India Company army, and the others who had been part of the invasion of Copenhagen under General Sir Arthur Wellesley a few years back.

  “Burgess with three gits?” Lewrie gawped aloud. “Where does the time go?” He remembered Theodora, a luscious black-haired, blue-eyed un-married girl when he’d been introduced at her parents’ house, where he had met William Wilberforce, who offered to help him with legal bills when the Beaumans of Jamaica had hauled him into court over the “theft” of a dozen of their slaves to man his disease-ridden ship.

  “Wonder if she’s turned into a fubsey?” he muttered, for three children usually fattened most women.

  One letter left, and it was from Miss Jessica Chenery!

  “What more does she have t’write me about?” he muttered as he broke the wax seal and spread it out. He was intrigued, though.

  Dear Cptn Lewrie,

  I have just received the latest letter from my brother, Charlie, who informs me that you are making a rich young Man of him, with all the Prizes that he says have been taken of late! He also informs me that he has mostly survived the Antics played upon him by his Messmates, some of them involving Crudities best not detailed to a Sister, or my Father, either, for I fear that he would worry about his decision to send Charlie to sea even more.

  I do not know and can only imagine how grand is the great City of Lisbon, which beggars my brother’s ability to relate, but he does sing its praises of the few times he has been allowed ashore, and how it soars to the Heavens in tier upon tier like an immense Cake, and how brilliantly it glows after dark, when seen from your ship. How fortunate you both are, Sir, to have gone and seen so many exotic Foreign Places, the like of which I can only Envy!

  She, along with his father, related how marvellous the Spring and early Summer was in London, and how welcome were the long-gone delights just re-appearing at the greengrocers’; young rhubarb down from Yorkshire, sweet fingerling carrots, the first cucumbers, and the cress, onion, lettuce, and cabbage sprouts, the parsley and new potatoes which could cause riots, so eager were winter-deprived Londoners to snatch them up by the bushel. Her favourites, Jessica happily wrote, were the shrimp dredged from Morecambe Bay, the Cromer crabs from Norfolk; oysters, of course, and Cornish or Scottish lobsters. She even sounded delighted with cockles, mussels, and periwinkles, though she wished that smoked salmon wasn’t so dear. The wartime prices were horrendous.

  The Illustrations I was commissioned to do for a childrens’ Book have been accepted, and, in the course of delivering them the other day, I met a Man well-known to you, Sir, a Mr. Aspinall, the Assistant Publisher of the firm. I saw his previous Titles on Knots, nautical Songs, and Seamanship for beginners, and upon mentioning that my Brother could use them, he enquired which ship he was in, and which Captain, and Mr. Aspinall shewed me the Dedication he had written for his first Book which featured a most Flattering description of you and your Exploits! I must say that his description of your early Career, briefly summarised though it was, sounded most Adventurous and Impressive; which account I told to my Father that evening, who was also amazed. Mr. Aspinall swore he would write you, straightaway, of his doings since leaving your service and bade me to send you his Respects. A very decent man, I daresay, is he.

  Jessica went on to tell him that her commissioned portrait for a Bond Street merchant had been received so well that the man had asked her to do a portrait of his daughter, as well, and, upon displaying it at his shop, had drawn the interest of one of his customers from Hatchard’s, a bookseller on Piccadilly, who wished to have his portrait done, too! And that fellow was a member of the Royal Horticultural Society, which might result in her, her father’s, and Madame Pellantan’s invitation to the annual flower show, which was one of the finer events of the London Season.

  “Not for me it ain’t,” Lewrie sniggered aloud. “Flowers and such, hah. Not that it’ll catch you a husband, either, poor chit. You ain’t dowried deep enough, but … who knows?”

  … we have tried to put our heads together to come up with something to send to Charlie other than one more Letter, something that he really needs, but he gives us no Clue. Might small pots of jam, mustard, or a packet of sweet bisquit go down well, or might he need a new shirt, or some stockings? If it would be no Difficulty, could we beg to prevail upon your Knowledge and advise us as to what would be most Welcome?

  “Certainly not honey,” he said with a laugh. And yes, he would write her back. Jessica Chenery’s letters were becoming a welcome delight.

  “Honey, sir?” Pettus asked as he brought Lewrie a tall glass of his sweet, cool tea with a dollop of lemon juice.

  “Midshipman Chenery’s sister asks me to suggest something the family might send him, something that he needs,” Lewrie told him.

  “Certainly not honey, then, sir,” Pettus said, grinning, “or anything else breakable. From what I see of his appearance on watch, new stocks and shirts would suit him better. Miss Chenery is the one who did that sketch of you, sir?”

  “Aye, she is,” Lewrie agreed.

  “A most attractive young lady, if I may say so, sir,” Pettus commented. “Quite talented, too. Perhaps she’s set her cap for you, sir … so she can paint your picture when you’re back in England?”

  “Set her…?” Lewrie said with a scowl, looking up at Pettus, but he’d donned his “invisible, inscrutable servant” mask and was half-way cross the great-cabins on another errand. “Ridiculous! And damned desperate if she has … set her cap for the likes o’ me.”

  He knew just what Pettus intended, though.

  Without a husband, it was almost impossible for an English woman with any pretensions to even modest gentility to have a life, and young women without prospects, handsome features, or pleasing frames, and especially those without attractive dowries, usually ended up as some family’s governess or nanny, “old maiden aunt” housekeeper for luckier relatives, or even suffered the shame of entering domestic service as some more-fortunate lady’s personal maid!

  Just like the Mamas his father had described in his latest letter, the better-off gone up to London to ferret out suitable matches. It was a family’s prime task to get their daughters married off, assuring them a comfortable and secure life, whether they were happy about it or not. In some cases,
it was more a business or political alliance that got arranged, not a love-match.

  Despite her seeming ability to support herself with her talent for painting and drawing, was Jessica Chenery any different than any other English lass, raised from their first frock gown to expect to be wed? What else were all the lessons in music, singing, dancing, sewing, and “housewifely” skills for but preparation for the eventual role of wife, mother, hostess, house mistress, and pleasing companion to some man of her social station, or hopefully, a cut or two above?

  The young lady was working at several dis-advantages; firstly, was her lack of a Mama, who had passed over some years before, and was not there to guide, poke, prod and steer her into the narrow lane of Acceptability, possibly far away from making a living on her own.

  Secondly, there was her father, the Reverend Chenery, who had not struck Lewrie as the Captain of the “Chenery Ship”. A slender reed, that’un, too much the book-ish student of natural history and antiquarianism, most-like led by his brother by the nose, if Midshipman Chenery’s comments were to be believed. The man had expensive hobbies, with little to spare for the lad’s kitting-out, or Jessica’s dowry, or paraphernalia.

  Trousseaus and hope chests; did she have them? Of course she did, Lewrie was certain. To not amass the necessities was like a girl child who didn’t have a single doll! And, she had sisters, married sisters, along with girlhood friends who had preceded her to the altar, and an host of young ladies in her father’s parish who wed before her eyes.

  That Leftenant Beauchamp she’d mentioned in her first letter to him; had she not implied that they were close to becoming affianced? Whether that was true, or really Jessica’s hopes, he had no way of knowing.

  Damme, did I impress her that much? he asked himself, feeling a bit of pride that he might have appeared to be a “catch”, even at his age; And just what did Aspinall tell her about me? Did he mention that I’m a widower?

  It was possible that her brother had learned of his situation since he’d joined the ship, and had written her about it.

  He had to face the fact that, on the surface anyway, he looked to be a desirable possibility; Post-Captain and temporary Commodore, with a knighthood and a Baronetcy (no matter how ludicrously that had been awarded) shoals of prize-money, a reputation as a fighting Captain with the honourable scars to prove it, rather handsome (if he did say so, himself), and still lean and fit and able to wear the same size breeches as he had when a Midshipman, with lots of his own hair left on his head, and the majority of his teeth remaining, and those mostly in front so he could still smile without frightening children. Add to that the fact that he had been a widower for several years, and all of his children were mostly grown and no longer underfoot, and …

  His summary of his assets made him feel smug for a moment, but then reality struck. He imagined her shock should she ever learn of his past doings, and what she would make of his kin; Sewallis, prim and prudish, his father’s evil leering nature, his daughter’s hatred of him or any one he might take up with, and even his brother-in-law, Governour Chiswick’s, barely-masked derision.

  Run screamin’ for the exits, most-like, he glumly thought.

  And, there was the problem of, if she indeed had “set her cap for him”, did he really wish to be caught? Since his wife, Caroline, had died, he actually had no need of a wife, or time spared from the war to go in search of one. Being a widower, being free to do what he chose when the Navy allowed, felt quite natural, a late bachelorhood.

  Now if the long war with France ever ended, and he was cast upon the shore on half-pay, well, maybe. But, did he dare risk becoming a foolish, doting old “colt’s tooth”, sure to wear a cuckhold’s horns as soon as the shine wore off, or he was called to sail out of sight?

  Could he actually keep his breeches buttoned, his hands to himself, and cleave to one woman the rest of his natural life?

  “Ridiculous,” he muttered.

  Yet he took out a fresh sheet of paper, opened the ink-well, and dipped his pen into it to begin a letter in reply, if only to advise against anything edible or breakable.

  He did not notice that he hummed “Pleasant and Delightful” as he did so.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The supper party which Capt. Chalmers had hosted had gone well, as happily boisterous as an Old Boy reunion. The crews of the squadron’s ships had had their one-day rut, and, with all provisions replenished right down to spare mustard pots, Lewrie had intended to hoist a signal for them to Weigh the next morning, but the weather had other ideas, for a stiff Westerly had roared down upon the mouth of the Tagus that very morning, a “dead muzzler” that sent waves crashing on the Praia do Guincho, the beaches of Caparica, and sent steep rollers surging into the river’s mouth, meeting the regular out-flow in a tangling, churning, white-foamed maelstrom. Along with that wind had come a torrent of rain.

  Lewrie had a signal made, the word “Tomorrow” spelled out letter by letter, and then summoned his boat crew. If he was penned in port one more day, he could at least take advantage of it and go have one last bath at that bagnio, then hunt up Maddalena for a last day with her. Before he made his way uphill, he popped into Mountjoy’s lair, on the off chance that she might be there. Mountjoy was not in, out on some hush-hush work, but Mr. Deacon, when asked, had no news from any quarter, and nothing of the movements of Wellesley’s columns.

  Much like the old days at Gibraltar, Maddalena was out on her balcony with a fine view of the street as he trudged up to her place from the bagnio, and gave him an enthusiastic wave and a blown kiss.

  * * *

  “You look drenched,” Maddalena said, finding a place to hang up his sodden boat cloak and cocked hat. “What a horrible morning.”

  “Oh, fairly dry, really,” Lewrie told her, “I got wetter at the bagnio, a good, long hot soak. Feel like a new man, I do.”

  “So, you do not sail today?” she asked, puttering round at her modest cooking facility to put on some fresh coffee.

  “Tomorrow, if the weather clears, and the winds shift,” he idly said as he sat down on her settee. “Well, hallo, Precious, and how are you, puss? Can’t go out on the balcony and watch the birds?”

  Maddalena’s white-and-tan cat came to sniff at his extended finger, found tarry nautical smells attractive as he always did, discovered the aroma of the bagnio’s soap and eau de cologne, and a tinge of Chalky on Lewrie’s coat and breeches, and leapt into his lap to curl up and accept some stroking and chin rubs.

  “I have no milk or cream,” Maddalena said, coming to sit with him as the water began to boil. She put an arm on the back of the settee and toyed with his hair. “Black coffee, sorry.”

  “On a day like this, I’ll not send you out to get it, either,” Lewrie told her. “Though, we could send old Rubio on an errand.”

  “Oh, he’d never go,” she said with a laugh, tossing her head back for a second, then scooped her cat off Lewrie’s lap and held him up for a minute to touch noses and kiss his head before settling him down in her lap. “He would give off clouds of steam where the rain hit him. Rubio is outraged, you see, meu amor.” She leaned into him to impart a secret. “Two more young ladies have lately moved in here, both, ah … protected by British army officers, and he thinks that the house is becoming scandalous, nothing like it used to be before the French, or the British, came.”

  Lewrie turned and raised his head to give her a rather chaste peck on her lips. “That’s what armies do, minha dose … piss in the soup. Look at what we’ve done to the prices, after all?”

  “Oh, do not get me started on what things now cost,” she said with another toss of her head, this one more impatient.

  “D’ye need a little more spending money?” he asked.

  “No, meu amor, I am doing fine,” she fondly assured him.

  Well, ain’t this … domestic? he thought; We’ll be readin’ the newspapers and takin’ a nap, next!

  “Alan, would you be a dear and grind the beans?�
� she asked him. “There is not enough already prepared for a full pot, just my one or two cups in the morning.”

  Damme, what’d I tell ye, he thought.

  “Well, if I must,” he said with an exaggerated groan as he rose from the settee and went into the cooking area. He found the grinder, he found a sack of roasted beans after some fumbling among her stores, but then was stuck. He’d seen it done, but he had no idea how many beans to grind; would one pass be good enough, or might he have to give them a second pass to make them the size of mealed gunpowder?

  “How many beans make a pot?” he asked her.

  “Hmm, at least two handfuls,” she told him from her ease on the settee, still stroking her cat.

  “Big handfuls?” he had to ask, shoving his fingers into the sack.

  “Yes, meu amor … big handfuls,” she replied, sounding amused. “I will make it up to you.”

  Rather have some wine, anyway, he thought, scooping out the requisite handfuls into the hopper, closing it, and grinding away. After a peek into the lower receptacle drawer, he poured the results back in the hopper and ground away some more.

  “Twice through good enough?” he asked. “Now I pour ’em in the boiling water?”