Nicely had drawn out that "but," turning it into a descending glissando worthy of a dying diva's final aria, nailing the first spike into the coffin lid by adding, "Of late, though, Hugh Beauman, head of their clan, has heard-tell that your crew has quite a few more Cuffy sailors in it than the usual frigate so long on station in the Caribbean."
"Why, those bastards!" Lewrie spluttered, summoning up every shred he could muster that even resembled righteous indignation, and whey-faced innocence. "Cashman slew Ledyard, /killed one of Hugh's cousins, so…! Before your time, sir, in my midshipman days during the American Revolution, Lucy Beauman and I were, ah… friendly. We even considered a union, should I earn a commission, but the Beaumans would have none of it. Almost had t'duel one of 'em then! Barred the house, Lucy and I cut off…!"
He pointedly didn't supply that he'd been rogering a scandalous older "grass-widow" on the side whilst trying to squire Lucy, that he had escorted Hugh's married sister, Anne, about town unchaperoned one day, and not his fault, that faux pas in gentlemanly behaviour.
"So I have learned, Lewrie," Nicely had sternly muttered. "Just as I'm aware of the Beaumans' threats on your life following the duel, which Mister James Peel of the Foreign Office took seriously enough to discover to me, and get you and Proteus safely out to sea, and out of their reach. We are all aware of that."
"Ah… we, sir?" a stalwart Capt. Lewrie had quailed.
"Well, of course, we, sir!" Nicely had barked, obviously grown weary with tip-toeing and shilly-shally. "Me… Peel, Admiral Sir Hyde Parker, the island governor, Lord Balcarres…" he ticked off on his blunt fingers. "Spiteful, vengeful calumnies laid against you by men who've held grudges against you since the '80s may not be deemed sufficiently actionable beyond an initial enquiry. But…"
The dying diva warbled again.
Didn't know he liked German operas, Lewrie fearfully thought at the mere mention of "enquiries." One look aboard by the Beaumans, and he'd meet up with "Captain Swing," and why the Hell had he thought the theft of a dozen slaves, no matter how perishing-bad he'd needed hands to man his ship, could escape notice forever? A semi-drunken evening with "Kit" Cashman after the defeat and withdrawal from Saint-Domingue, as Cashman was closing his accounts and preparing to emigrate; "Kit" sniggering as they schemed a way to punish the Beaumans, and, indeed, it was meant to be an expensive, parting jape against them, hitting them where it would hurt them the worst… in their pocket books! A way for Lewrie to flesh out his under-strength crew, with
Cashman even offering to urge some of his White ex-soldiers from the disbanded regiment to sign aboard as Marines…!
"Such scurrilous charges 'gainst a Commission Sea Officer, and one so successful, and valuable to the Crown, well!" Capt. Nicely had sniffed again with prim anger. "Baseless charges, of course… Well, we feel that the repute of the Royal Navy should not be tainted with such, so… that is why we thought it best, all round, were you, and Proteus, to be sent away on other duties, Lewrie." As he said that, Capt. Nicely had squirmed on his chair like a Hindoo fakir trying for a comfortable spot on his bed of nails.
"Ah, hmm," Lewrie had responded with an audible gulp of relief. "So, how far d'ye think I…?"
"There's despatches in need of transport to Halifax," Nicely said with a vague wave of his hand, and a cutty-eyed expression on his face. "Hellishly boresome place, Halifax. Fogs, rocks, and shoals… deuced hot summers for that far north, mosquitoes big as wrens, swarms of them as thick as, well… fogs. Nothing much there, but for their dockyard and store houses. What the town was settled for, to service ships on the North American Station, and a seasonal haven for line-of-battle ships from our station, as well. Excellent yard facilities, I know, though. And, isn't Proteus in need of a bottom cleaning, and a re-coppering? "
"Well, there is that, sir," Lewrie had perked up.
"Of course, with our liners from the Caribbean ready to head up that way, soon, Halifax might be a tad too busy fulfilling their needs, so you may end up swinging round the anchor for a considerable bit of time, before they get round to your case."
Oh, don't say case! Lewrie had most illogically thought, ready to titter with relief; Did I say "case "? Silly old me!
"So, I should look to closing my shore accounts, d'ye mean, sir?" Lewrie asked, sure then that his departure would be something quicker than "instanter," and he didn't need to add dunnings from tailors and chandlers to his troubles.
"May you achieve all that by dawn tomorrow, it'd be best."
"Dawn! Ah ha," Lewrie had gloomed, with a benumbed nod.
"Frivolous, detestable, spiteful…" Capt. Nicely had mumbled, intent on nibbling Georgia "pee-cans," giving them his whole attention, unable to look at Lewrie, or unwilling to do so. And Lewrie wasn't so sure whether Nicely had been griping about the Beaumans, or him! He'd also noticed that Nicely hadn't, or couldn't, put Lewrie to a question of whether the Beaumans' suspicions were true. What Nicely didn't know, he could not testify to in a court of law, should it come to it!
"Well, of course they are, sir!" Lewrie had spat.
Nicely had squirmed some more, his eyes nicking about as if in search of a basin of water and a towel, like a Roman governor about to remand a felon back to the Court of The Sanhedrin-or so Lewrie's fervid imagination could conjure at that instant.
"Sail under Admiralty Orders," Nicely had grunted, "fly colours of an 'independent ship,' all that."
"Written orders, sir?" Lewrie had had wit enough to press. The last thing he needed was to be charged with stealing his own frigate!
"Oh, most assuredly, sir," Capt. Nicely had chirped. Meaning that Vice-Adm. Parker would treat his departure as a trivial matter of a minor refit for a hard-used frigate, which could carry despatches to Halifax at the same time, and could later swear that he'd known not a blessed thing about any legal charges. Nicely's signature would not be on those orders, either; nor would Lord Balcarres's, or Peel's, or anyone else's. "Can't have you just swanning off whenever… damme!"
Nicely might have said more anent the matter, but was startled by faint brushings of fur against his well-blacked, fashionable boots, as Lewrie's cats, Toulon and Chalky, took that moment to gird up their not very considerable courage to make musky rencontre of their former cabin-mate.
Though the cats had made a fuss over Nicely when he'd first gotten aboard to supplant Lewrie, once their master was gone it was another matter, and they'd tormented the man… mostly with piss! Stockings, shoes, linens, sheets, and mattress, dressing robe abandoned on the back of a chair, uniforms laid out near to-hand atop his sea-chests, and the contents of the chests, too, if carelessly left open… all had gotten Toulon's and Chalky's "liquid blessings"! Teeth and wee claws had marked Nicely's boots, sword-belt, and leather scabbard covering, too, and his bright brass or gilt brassards, buttons, or sword fixtures had gone a gangrenous shade of green by the time Lewrie had come back aboard.
"Why, those…!" Nicely had barked, like to lift his boots from assault, draw his knees to his chest, or climb atop his chair and let out a screech like a lady who'd seen a mouse. "Why… there are the little darlings," he'd pretended to coo, instead, after he'd gotten past the urge to kick them as far as the stern transom settee. Only to be polite to his host!
"Aspinall?" Lewrie had called out. "I assume we've nothing more private to discuss, Captain Nicely, so I might…?"
"Aye, have him in," Nicely had quickly agreed.
"Thought you were keeping an eye on the cats, lad," Lewrie said as his steward returned.
"Oh, I woz, sir. 'Twoz feedin' 'em tasty scraps, but…"
"If you'd… herd 'em aft, for a bit longer, I'd be grateful," Lewrie had gently bade him.
"O' course, sir. Here, lads! Come, Toulon! Come, Chalky, an' here's more bacon shreds for ye, there's th' good littl'un!" Aspinall coaxed, as they trotted for the day-cabin, tails fully erect. Once by Lewrie's desk, though, the cats did take a moment to gloat over their little shoulders, lick their chops, and seem to grin a
t each other as if highly pleased with themselves!
"I'll see you to the deck, if that is all you, ah…" Lewrie offered, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and rising.
"Ah, well, aye," Nicely had replied with a sigh, setting aside his own napkin, and getting to his own feet. "One last thing, sir."
"Aye?"
"Sir Hyde, and Lord Balcarres, both bade me relate to you that they appreciate all you've achieved since coming under their command, Lewrie," Nicely had whispered to him. "They, and I, think you much too valuable an officer to be sacrificed. Though we all consider you the damnedest fool… should the Beaumans' suspicions hold even a drop of water. Sir Hyde particularly stressed his approval of your fighting qualities, your, ah… unorthodox way of achieving whatever you're set to accomplish. We, all of us, wish you to know that, should you have need of patronage in future, you may… should the Beau-mans insist on laying false charges… count on our support."
And, were the charges true, Lewrie would end swinging in small circles in the wind, at the end of a fresh, new rope, it went without saying!
"I'll miss ye, Lewrie, 'deed I shall," Nicely had said, by way of gruff departure. "Best of luck, young sir," he added, offering his hand for a fierce shake.
"Thank you for that, sir… for all you've done for me in the past… truly," Lewrie had soberly answered, realising that the thing was still afoot, that formal charges for grand theft could follow him wherever a mail-packet could go, and, unless he walked away from his ship in a foreign port, there could always be a British court near to hand to find him and haul him before its bench.
"I really do like you, Lewrie," Nicely had declared, then, as fiercely as privacy allowed. That was as far as he could go, though; that was all he'd allow himself to say on the matter.
"I hope we have the chance to serve together, again, sir," he had replied to that. "Goodbye, sir. May you have a successful cruise down there against the Frogs and Dons, and continued success in your career."
"Thankee, Captain Lewrie, thankee," Nicely had gruffly said.
Then it had been time for them to call for their swords, hats, and marks of dignity, then go out onto the main deck; up to the quarterdeck, then the starboard gangway as the side-party had assembled, and the strict ritual for the departure of a senior officer was performed. Proteus's crew, Black and White, still mellow from that rum issue, and their own mid-day meal, had doffed their hats and raised a second cheer for good old Capt. Nicely.
And Lewrie had stood by the entry-port, hat raised high over his head in salute to watch Capt. Nicely enter his barge and be rowed away to his bright, new frigate… and had suddenly never felt so alone in all his born days.
BOOK I
Dulcis inexpertis cultura portentis amici;
expertus metuit.
Those who have never tried think it pleasant
to court a friend in power; one who has tried
dreads it.
Horace, Epistles I, xvm, 86-87
CHAPTER THREE
HMS Proteus lay peacefully at anchor in the sheltered waters of Spithead, north of the Isle of Wight, just a bit Sou'east of Gilkicker Point, taking her bearings from the Monkton Fort on the point, the buoy marking the No Man's Land Shoals, and a windmill on Portdown Hill, It meant a swim of over two miles to the point, and just over a mile swim to reach the Isle of Wight, and a hard slog 'cross the Ride Sands, when the tide was low, to deter desertion. Desperate as Proteus's crew was for diversion, and the pleasures of the shore, hungry as they were for solid land, reunion with wives, sweethearts, children, and their parents-for free-flowing kegs of beer, tall tankards of grog or un-watered, neat rum, for "ladies of the town," alley prostitutes ready to dole out "knee-tremblers," for sheep or goats, if they were too eager!-it was not to be. Lt. Langlie had already posted fully-uniformed and fully-armed Marines along the bulwarks, the beakheads, and taffrails to keep any "inspired" seamen from slipping over the side in the wee hours when no one was looking.
Proteus had come in "all-standing," her best and second bower, and a kedge anchor, ready to loose if a permanent mooring buoy was not available. With a flashy show of seamanship, the well-trained sailors had rounded her up into the wind as soon as the bearings to shore were satisfactory, had swarmed the masts, yards, and running rigging to take in all sails at once, and one side-battery of her guns ready-loaded and thinly manned to fire a slow, metronomic ritual salute to the Port Admiral, the last discharge timed to be fired at the same moment that not a scrap of canvas remained un-fisted, un-furled, or not harbour-gasketed.
Whether such a "scaly-fish" display actually impressed anyone or not, well… under the circumstances which might obtain ashore, Lewrie hoped with crossed fingers that coming to anchor "man o' war" fashion might mitigate his later reception from his seniors; crossed fingers, as well, that they could actually pull off the stunt!
It helped, of course, that in the sheltered lee of the Isle of Wight, the wind's force had been blunted, and the harbour waters were much calmer. Had the sea and wind been up, he wouldn't have attempted it, no matter how badly he needed to make a good impression!
He stood about midway aft 'twixt the helm and the taffrail, in his very best shoregoing uniform, with all his "brightwork" polished as glossy as his boots, and the gilt lace of his coat and hat fit to blind the unwary. He glanced aft to watch one of Proteus' cutters as it was rowed out astern, with the kedge anchor aboard, and a messenger line bound to the stern cable, which was laid out on the quarterdeck ready for feeding. The cutter made slow but steady progress over the harbour chop, which today was heaving barely two feet.
"Beg pardon, sir," Lt. Langlie reported, casually touching the front of his cocked hat, "but the best bower's down firm in nine fathom, same for the second bower, and we've veered off near ninety degrees between 'em. Fourty-five fathom of chain and cable to each, sir."
"You might dis-mount both nine-pounder bow chasers, for later, Mister Langlie," Lewrie decided. "Lash 'em ready to be bound to the cables, should the weather make up. 'Tis winter, after all."
"I shall see to it directly the kedge is bound and set, sir," his First Officer crisply replied. "Your gig is alongside the entry-port, too, sir, and Cox'n Andrews has your boat crew standing by," he informed Lewrie, with a glance down to the large-ish canvas bag sitting on the deck near Lewrie's feet that held the mail and despatches from Halifax. Slung off Lewrie's shoulder was a second, smaller bag; that one held Lewrie's orders, journals, and reports.
"Thankee, Mister Langlie," Lewrie replied with a satisfied nod, though he secretly felt extremely loath to quit the relative safety of his frigate's decks. They can't take me up, 'long as I have artillery! he told himself. "And a 'foin marnin' fer it,' as our Irish sailors'd say, hmm?" Lewrie posed with a faint, sarcastic grin.
It was England they smelled over yonder; it was England on which they hungrily gazed. It was grey, gloomy, and raining, of course; the sullen sort of fickle showers that could come and go, come and go, for weeks on end, seemingly timed to concur with every second chime of the ship's bell, (which was to say at every hour) and perversely coinciding with any human need or urge to go outside!
"Any signals from shore, Mister Gamble?" Lewrie asked, turning to face their oldest and most-senior Midshipman, who was getting upwards of twenty, compared to their other 'tween-year "snotties."
"They acknowledged our signal when we made our number to them, sir," Mr. Gamble replied, brisk and efficient as usual, as he'd proved to be since joining months before. " 'Have Despatches' was also acknowledged, but nothing since."
Ooh… canny! Lewrie sourly thought, ready to suspect a hearty "good morning" as a veiled threat by then; Lure mine arse ashore, all unsuspectin', then "slap "! Into irons, and under the gaol!
"Business as usual," Lt. Langlie surmised with a yawn. "And too busy to fret over a single frigate's appearance."
"Well, then…" Lewrie announced, heaving a heavy sigh of resignation, seeing as how there was nothing to keep him aboard.
"I should be on my way. Expect t'be back aboard a few hours hence, but… keep the bumboats and doxies away 'til I return, or send you word, Mister Langlie. And when we do hoist 'Out of Discipline,' make sure no more rum or spirits get smuggled aboard than we may help, hmm?"
Lewrie glanced forward towards the larboard gangway, where the Bosun and his Mate, Mr. Pendarves and Mr. Towpenny, and the Master At Arms, Mr. Neale, and his Ship's Corporals, Burton and Ragster, already had their heads together. Neale had been born burly and gloomy, but a shipboard "liberty" in a British port most-like had his guts in knots, in dread of what riotous excesses that could mean belowdecks!
"Side-party, then, Mister Langlie," Lewrie bade, forcing himself to take the first step forrud towards the starboard gangway, the entry-port, the man-ropes and battens alongside the main-chains… towards his gig, a dock ashore, then… ignominy and court-martial? His feet felt suddenly leaden, as did his innards.
A court-martial, and a quick dismissal from the Navy could turn out to be the least he could expect! Lifelong shame, and the life of a haplessly ignorant tenant farmer; a veritable exotic stew of the village drunk, wastrel idler, and a black-sheep shame, all in one!
Boot-heels drummed on snowy-scrubbed oak deck planks with an ominous thudding sounding very much like Doom-Doom-Doom!
Caroline'll file a Bill of Divorcement, o' course, Lewrie sadly thought as he passed 'twixt the twin rows of the side-party, doffing his hat to all assembled; she and her brother, Governour, came from old slave-holdin 'folk in North Carolina! Why, they'll curse me as a traitor to the nat'ral state o' humankind!
Of late (with not an inkling of his crime yet revealed to her of course) his wife had actually begun to respond to his letters, again; a chary sort of reply, to be sure, after that still-unknown scribbler who had filled her head with tales of his overseas "doings" with a mistress in the Mediterranean, Phoebe Aretino; a tussle or two with the bustily alluring Claudia Mastandrea in Genoa and Leghorn (even if she had been a French spy he'd been ordered to bed and blab lies to!); about Theoni Kavares Connor, the Ionian Greek widow with the currant-trade fortune who'd removed to London… with his bastard son "Alan" in tow! Since he and Proteus had departed for the Caribbean back in '97, that vengeful gossip's "dirt" had dried up, but… there'd already been enough for Caroline to stew over, and she'd made it quite clear that she was of a mind to shoot him, despised him worse than cold, boiled mutton, and et cetera and et cetera, so there, you faithless bastard!
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