"My condolences, Mistress, um… but I must enquire," Lewrie said, perched on the edge of the rickety caned chair, by then ready to duck or bolt did she feel like slinging something at him.
"Oh, faith, and 'tis th' rich'uns, th' titled squires own most o' th' land, an' keep it, hardhanded English fashion, sure!" she accused. "Foin gennulmen such's your like, Cap'm Lewrie, who'd press me man, then think ye'd shown 'im Christian favour do ye 'How him volunteer t'be yer slave, 'stead o' whip-pin' 'im to't, sure an' no better'n them Cuffy sailors he said ye'd stolen on Jamaica!"
"He wrote you about that, did he?" Lewrie asked, after having a good, guilty squirm to imagine that the tale of his "accepting" runaway slaves from the despised Beauman family's plantations to take the King's Shilling (as it were) as Freedmen able to decide their own fate.
"Aye, an' he did," she huffily continued. "He wrote me letters in 'is own hand, mind. An't no scholard, is me Toby, but he can manage, sure. Writin', readin', an' ledgerin', good as any man, so's we won't be cheated like some'd try."
"And he said nothing to you of wishing to run, of any scheme to make off with the prize, or…" Lewrie doggedly pursued.
"Nought but four letters from 'im did I get, sir," she informed him, "th' last four month ago. Run? Aye, an' what sailor wouldn't?"
"Long before the prize disappeared, hmm," Lewrie muttered, his spirits
sinking at the thought that he'd been on a wild goose chase all this time. "Might I be so bold, Mistress… Hosier… as to see the last couple of letters, to see if there's anything… any hint of…"
"Mummy, piddle!" little Tess urgently said from the cabin door. "Swab it, then shoo that dog out, and-" "No, mummy! Baby piddled," wee Tess amended. "See?" Tess wriggled damp fingers, then the babe within began to carp and wail, so Mrs. Hosier (Whomever) leaped to her feet and scornfully flung her husband's letters at him before entering the house, there to make soothing but frazzled noises.
As Lewrie sorted the crinkly sheets, he could be forgiven (perhaps) for a slightly smug and amused "tetch" of relief that all of his three legitimate children, and both his by-blows, were long past swaddles, piddles, and poops.
Thet damt Lt. Caterall hoo thinx himsef so Clevver but wat a Buffel-Hed!… Ferst Off. Lt. Langlie [spelled correctly, for a wonder] rites Capts. ward moon-caff in luv Capts. pett so is Lt. Adare [phonetically, he supposed] top lofty too smart by haff afavryte. Capt. Loory [a close approximation] the idel basterd him his catts all spoony over them tho thay Piss on hammok netts we must sleep in them… Mr. Pendarves Towpenny the Bos 'n Mate ar hard men never take calls from ther lipps tis a hard life the Navy dear.
Lewrie wished he could take the letters along or find paper and pen to make some notes, for Jugg had chuckled over the way some of the crew were getting their hands on smuggled rum or American corn whisky and where it was usually hidden; how the assistant and clerk to the Purser, Mr. Coote, the Jack-in-the-Breadroom, was working a fiddle in tobacco twists and sundries that he concealed in the fishroom; all about the breadroom and cable-tier rats being bred, where they were "pitted" in battle, how they were fed off wardroom flour and corn-meal, thanks to the "Pusser's" aide, too; how the Marine complement's Trinidad Hindoo mongoose was unfair competition…
What bloody mongoose? Lewrie silently gawped; and how did they smuggle that aboard? We've never been t'bloody Trinidad!
Oh, it was a rare and embarrassing glimpse into the lives of the people "before the mast," their complaints and sorrows so well hidden from officers under a mask of rote duty.
Jugg himself… sullen and truculent, embittered against those over him, those with Admiralty-ordained rank, or social position, with inherited money or soft hands. Indeed, he steered a quarter-point alee of mute insubordination, boasted of it to his wife, whether dealing with captain or officers as eagerly as he would with a main-mast or gun-captain with the power to order him about so brusquely.
Toby Jugg, or Hosier, or Warder-whatever he truly named himself- would never be a glad hand, no matter were he promoted to Bosun or Fleet Admiral! Yet Jugg, for all his simmering grievances, his ability to doff his hat, cry "Aye aye, sir!" and tug his forelock and smile while supping on his superior's shite, evinced no mutinous plots, schemed none, and reported none; nowhere in his letters did he sound like a man who would run. Be-grudgingly, Jugg admitted that he had settled in tolerably well, that Proteus was a competently run frigate whose mates and officers knew their professions, and that she was mostly a happy ship
.
… was rated Able rite off and struk for QwarterMasters Mate hah Me in a red wesket butt Sailing Master Winwood putt my name for 'd am now Rated serving on the helm At lest Proteus is ever in the way of fyteing as all frigates the Capt. betes the Kings Enemmys ever Dear it looks fare to be prime for Prize Monie Capt. tho is madd for Qwim thay call him Ram Catt not for his petts…
Embarrassing, aye, to think how much of his personal, private life his sailors, and Jugg, knew! Jugg had learned about his American bastard son, Desmond McGilliveray, knew all about Theoni Connor back in London and his other by-blow, Alan Michael Connor; how his wife, Caroline, was chewing brass rags over his peccadilloes, and that there was a "dear friend" somewhere back in Europe (now that narrowed it down, didn't it?) who'd written anonymous your-husband's-a-swine letters, and how the hands-his trusted "ship's people"!-crammed fists into their mouths to keep from howling and chortling out loud over his doings!
thay reck her a lucky ship tho Dearun for her lawnching was rite Odd she wud not swimm stuck on the ways as Proteus butt gott haffway when thay ferst name her Merlin butt change it an Irish sawyer hiz son whisper to her stemmpiece then she swamm Capt. Loory is sayd to seen Selkies sum say he has there favour sure.
Jugg had also been struck that Proteus was a musical ship when the work allowed, and he'd quite enjoyed that.
Liam Desmond his lap pipes ar capital we hev 3 gudd fiddlers Mr. Rain (?) Saylmaker plays a Dago Gittar even Capt. Loory plays tin whissle lets us hev manie dear gay Irish tunes plays them butt nott well poor man tho he dus not mind step slip jigs nott like sum top-lofty English hoo 'd shutt us up call us mutinuss.
He 'd been coming round, Lewrie sadly thought, letting the note drop to his lap; better the Devil you know, 1s'pose…
Jugg had had a snug berth, promotion and decent pay, shares in Proteus's prize money, acceptable shipmates, and no obvious grievances. Most deserters took "leg bail" within the first few weeks, or months, aboard, 'til they established a personal investment. There were some who'd "run" after getting the Joining Bounty, before their kits were deducted, then enlist under a fresh name at another recruiting rendezvous, but Jugg hadn't had that chance. Perhaps wasn't even that sort, after all.
"Damn," Lewrie dejectedly muttered as Mrs. Hosier came back out to the porch and sat down again. A jutted hand silently demanded her precious letters, and he handed them over. She fondly straightened them and pressed them fiat with a palm, as if ironing them, before she tucked them away in an apron pocket.
"Toby warn't th' one pirated yer ship, Cap'm Lewrie, not him," Jugg's wife said. "He'd never, else we'd lose ev'rything we've built up, did he haveta run an' change names, again."
"I thought that he'd… if he had, that he'd come to Barbados to fetch you and the children," Lewrie confessed, a little chagrined. "You're sure you've not heard from him, he didn't…"
"Nary a word since that last letter," she firmly stated, chin up and sullen at his accusation. "Nor nary a sight o' him, at least twelve month or more, when the boy was quickened. Huh!" she snorted derisively, "Had he stole a rich prize, ye think I'd still be grubbin' at this farm, that we'd still be livin' in a pore shebeen like this? I'm cairtain ye already asked, down at th' harbour, an' know neither that prize ship, nor Toby, has come in here. An't it sor
"Admitted," Lewried grudgingly allowed.
"So, when ye do find it, if e'er ye do, ye'll already know me Toby didn' steal her. An… an' whoever did, they'd not be th' sort t'let hi
m live." Mrs. Jugg teared up and began to blub again. "That sort'd want no witnesses, oh arrah!"
"Ma'am…" Lewrie said, springing to his feet at her upset.
"Damn 'is eyes, but I almost wish 'e had took her, sure, for he would still be livin', if he did!" She sniffled, blowing her nose on her fingers. "An' bad cess t'ye at findin' him, for you'd hang him, cairtain, do ye. Have to. La, la! What'll we do, wi' Toby gone?"
Lewrie blushed and dug into his breeches pocket for his coin-purse. He counted out about eight shillings and the odd pence in real coinage, and a wadded-up pound note. "Call it bringing his pay up to date, ma'am, and I'm sorry that I cannot do more. Navy paymasters…"
"I'd no take yer charity, Cap'm Lewrie," Mrs. Jugg huffed back, scraping up all her dignity. "But, aye, 'needs must,' sure. Call it hard-earned pay, but a beggar's price for me Toby's life, for all that.
"I'd fling yer paltry silver back, an' spit in yer eye, arrah," she said, rising, stiff-backed and arms crossed over her chest, "but th' pore can't have no scruples, not in this Life. Not like 'quality' folk like your foin self, sir. An' now I'll thankee t'be departin' me lands, Cap'm Lewrie."
"Of course, ma'am," Lewrie said, gathering up his hat. "Mind, is your husband innocent, and if I find him, I promise I'll fetch him back to you, safe and sound… unlashed and not dis-rated."
"Promises from yer like is 'fiddler's pay,' Cap'm Lewrie," she said, "for so 'tis been my experience, sure? How can ye promise such, when… oh, fash!" She swept her hair back from her brows in exasperation. "Don't go makin' promises ye don't mean t'keep. Or promises ye most-like can never keep, is my meanin'. I would admire, howiver it falls, that somebody'd write an' let me know."
"I shall, Mistress Jugg… Hosier… damme, which do you prefer? To which do I write, without confusing the post-boy?"
"Hosier'd do."
"Good-bye, Mistress Hosier," Lewrie said, bowing himself back off the porch and doffing his hat with a sociable bow. Despite what anger she felt, Mrs. Jugg (for so he thought her, anyway) dropped him a bobbing little housemaid's curtsy, then squinted her eyes in embarrassment the next second, to have such a servile habit so engrained in herself… arrah!
"So, the trail's gone cold as old, boiled mutton, sir," Langlie gathered, glumly sipping the last of his mug of cool tea.
"Phantom, spectral false trails are never hot enough to cool, Mister Langlie," Lewrie sourly rejoined. "We've wasted nigh onto two whole months, staggering from port to port, down the whole Windwards, and no one's seen them! Bloody fool's errand. The prize is most-like in Cartagena, Tampico, Havana, or Vera-bloody-Cruz by now, and has been all this time. Therefore, untouchable, 'thout a major military expedition! Damn!"
"And our people are most-like a long-time dead," Lt. Langlie further supposed. "Without Jugg as a culprit, I cannot imagine any of the others capable of the deed. Toffett, Ahern, and Luckaby were good men, and certainly not Mister Towpenny, or Mister Burns!"
"Unless that lack-wit Burns couldn't keep them in control, they found some liquor that we missed, and it got out of hand," Lewrie said to the overhead and the deck beams. "A fight, a knifing and a murder, and they ran off with the ship out of fear, not hope of gain. We both know how insensible poor tars can get. And how quickly. And so quick to quarrel on a bung-full
of rum."
A goodly number of men who enlisted in the Army, a goodly share of sailors, willing volunteers or press-ganged failures, did it for a reliable daily issue of "grog." Where the term "groggy" came from!
"Well, we've searched everywhere we possibly could, except for Trinidad and Tobago, and the Dutch isles down South," Lewrie grumbled, cocking his head to a chart of the West Indies that had been pinned to the larboard side of his day-cabin for months on end. "We've prowled every cay and rock in the Grenadines and haven't found a sign of 'em. I'd say it's time, Mister Langlie, that we confess our failures, then sail back to Antigua and face the music. Then, on to Jamaica, where we belong. Damme, though… Captain Sir Edward bloody Charles…"
"Very well, sir," Langlie glumly agreed. "Shore liberty, sir?" "Hmm? Oh, aye," Lewrie decided. "We've worked the people hard, and they've earned a run ashore. Bridgetown isn't a bad port for 'em. Lots to do… and the shore officials are reputed to be cooperative at huntin' down 'runners.' Larboard Watch first, at the end of the Morning Watch, and back aboard by Eight Bells, midnight."
"With the usual caution for troublemakers and deserters that if they run, or run wild, the starbowlines won't be allowed, sir?" First Officer Langlie said with a twinkle.
"Just so, sir," Lewrie tiredly snickered back. "And whilst the Larboard Watch is ashore, Mister Langlie, you are going to become some sort of legend."
"Sir?"
"There's trade in smuggled rum and spirits aboard," Lewrie said, reaching into a waist-coat pocket to withdraw a hastily scribbled list he'd made at a harbour tavern while waiting for a hired boat to convey him back aboard. "Here are the likely places to look. This time, at any rate. You will also have a word with Mister Coote in the privacy of your mess, and inform him that that jack-a-napes clerk of his sells smuggled tobacco at half the official price. Bits and pieces cut off Mister Coote's supply… God knows what all else he deals in, but he stashes it in a false-side keg in the fishroom, under the tiller flat."
"My word, sir, how did you…" Langlie all but gasped, sitting up straighter.
"Jugg's chatty letters to his wife," Lewrie chuckled. "The man is also skimming off your wardroom's flour and corn-meal to fatten the rats they fight in the cable-tiers and the forrud orlop."
"Rat fights, sir?"
"Rat on rat," Lewrie said, beaming, "for want of terriers. Wagers are laid on 'em, and I'll not have it."
"Well, now that you mention it, sir, I had noticed a diminution in the number of rats aboard, lately," Lt. Langlie said, making notes of his own with a pencil stub and his ever-present pocket notebook. "Though I did put it down to the midshipmen's appetites."
"They don't have that Brutus look, do they?" Lewrie mused. "No 'lean and hungry' air."
"Probably purchasing the dead losers from the fights." Langlie laughed. "Aye, sir, I will see to all of it."
"Damme, the people will think you have eyes in the back of yer head, Mister Langlie!" Lewrie crowed. "That you're a dark, devilish wizard who knows all and sees all. Most-like ask you to take augury on chicken guts, next. Hold one of those Gothick… seances. Speak to the dead…"
"Only for people who could pay, I would, sir," Langlie replied.
"Speakin' of chickens…"
"Sir?" Langlie enquired, pencil poised.
"Haven't some of the chickens gone missing, lately?"
"Well, aye sir, and so they have. Forgive me, but I did suspect that your cats had, um…" Langlie said, squirming and blushing.
"It's the mongoose, more like," Lewrie offhandedly told him.
"Beg pardon, sir… mongoose, did ye say?" Langlie gawped in perplexity. It wasn't often that his efficient First Lieutenant wore a bewildered, nigh cross-eyed expression, but he produced a passable facsimile.
"Mongoose. The Marines' mongoose," Lewrie assured him. "Blue riband, champion Hindoo rat-killin' emigrant mongoose. From Trinidad, or so I learned. It's been beatin' the sailors' best rats, and they don't much care for it, so it's creating bad blood. Find it, Mister Langlie, run it to earth. It's probably been keepin' its hand in by practicing on creatures in the manger up forrud. That's where all our chickens have gone, I'd wager."
"Find a mongoose and get rid of it, sir… aye," Langlie said as he scribbled into his little book.
"Well, if all else fails, definitely put a stop to the fights and definitely spare our fowl," Lewrie breezed on. "Do the Marines put so much stock in the beast, well… I don't much care whether it serves as a mascot with a red riband round its neck, 'long as no one thinks t'bring snakes aboard for it to fight."
"I s'pose I'll recognise a mongoose when I see one, sir?"
"Like an ermine or a ferret." Lewrie chu
ckled. "Like an smallish otter, with a talent for killin' cobras and such."
"Ah!" Langlie rejoined. "I see, sir. I think. Perhaps we may declare it the ship's official ratter… so long as no more wagers'r made on its prowess?"
"That's what I like about you, Mister Langlie." Lewrie smiled. "Your flexibility in the face of un-looked-for adversity. I believe that'll be all for now, Mister Langlie. That should be enough on yer plate, for the nonce."
"Oh, agreed, sir. Agreed!" Langlie said, rising and departing.
CHAPTER TWO
HMS Proteus s return to English Harbour, Antigua, was actually not necessary, and mostly unproductive. The frigate's mail was still being held at Kingston, Jamaica, by the authorities of the West Indies Station, to which fleet she still putatively belonged, even after her long sojourn.
Thankfully, Lewrie's personal devils of late, Mr. Pelham and Mr. Peel, had long departed Antigua for other climes-all the way back to London, Lewrie fervently wished, so he could live his life free of their cynical machinations, ever more!
Antigua's Admiralty House atop Mt. Shirley held only one letter for him, and that from his new-found bastard son, Desmond McGilliveray, now a sixteen-year-old Midshipman aboard his uncle's (and the captain's) United States Navy Armed Ship, the Thomas Sumter. Desmond sounded as if he was thriving at his new profession, so eerily coincidental to Alan's own. Sumter had just embarked upon arduous and boresome escort duties to convoy a
trade" of Yankee merchantmen home and, most-like, would put back into her homeport of Charleston, South Carolina, for refitting and provisioning. Young Desmond chirped right-merry over the prospects of how much prize money might result from Sumter's-and her small squadron's-recent captures in the Caribbean: French merchant ships and several warships, too-ones that Lewrie had led them to, twice, using the reborn U.S. Navy as British cat's paws in Pelham's and Peel's scheme.
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