They ate that fact up like plum duff, with many a pleased, prim simper or shared smile, and softly whispered "Amens."
"Proteus doesn't carry a chaplain, sorry t'say," Lewrie added. "Only line-of-battle ships, admirals' flagships, generally do, with the charge to minister to a squadron's, or a fleet's, spiritual needs, and are paid either by Admiralty for their services, or are supported by a devout senior officer, and, as I'm sure you're aware, the pay isn't all that grand… the same rate as an Ordinary Seaman, with so many groats per hand in the crew atop that. Hardly ever see a chaplain on a ship below the Third Rate. Mister Winwood, therefor, is my chiefest aid at Sunday Divisions. We hold a form of Divine Services… Morning rites with a Collect or two, as specified, a suitable Epistle, perhaps even a brief Homily, and, of course, rather a lot of hymns. No Sacraments, of course! Though," Lewrie just had to add, feeling free enough for a bit of waggishness, "right after the final hymn, we do issue the rum-ration at Seven Bells of the Forenoon. But, totally secular and Navy, you understand."
"But, are your Negroes cabin-servants, waiters, and such, or do you employ them as sailors, Captain Lewrie?" Mr. Trencher asked him.
"Sailors, Mister Trencher," Lewrie firmly stated. "Most, rated Landsman, like volunteers or pressed men un-used to the sailors' trade. In gun crews, waisters at pulley-hauley, aye, the older ones. One is a dev… an outstanding cook, I must admit, but that was his plantation trade. Our five youngest, though, do go aloft, are rated Ordinary Seamen… spry topmen, sure t'be rated Able Seamen in a few years… oh, and one young fellow's a crack shot with a musket or Pennsylvania rifle. And, they're all drilled in musketry, cutlasses, pikes-"
"They have fought, under arms?" Mrs. Hannah More intruded, with a slit-lipped squeamish look at the image of armed Negroes, not merely freed Negroes. Was that too much equality for her, too soon?
"But, of course, ma'am!" Lewrie replied, surprised by her fret. "They must, if they're to serve in the Royal Navy. They have, indeed, and hellish-well, too!" he boasted, though wishing he could un-say the "hellish" part. "Like any English tar must, to serve his King, and to uphold the honour and liberty of his ship… to aid their shipmates in time of peril, whether storm or battle, ma'am. "Shipmates…" Lewrie prosed on, only thinking himself half of a fraud, "paid the same, garbed the same, fed and doctored the same as each other, swing elbow-to-elbow in their hammocks belowdecks… you may see such for yourself aboard any ship in the Navy, for Free Black volunteers are everywhere. In the Pool of London this very morning in any merchantman you'd care to board…"
"Oh, we've seen them!" Mistress Theodora exclaimed, one hand on her mother's arm. "Those poor souls dismissed their ships between one voyage and the next… those horrid captains who turn them ashore to save money 'til they're needed, again. They live as hand-to-mouth as the poorest unemployed Irish. What did that brute call them, Father, that disparaging…?"
"Ah, erm… 'Saint Giles Blackbirds,' dear," Mr. Trencher managed to say, waving a hand to excuse getting even close to commonness, or Billingsgate slang. "Where they gather, mostly… Saint Giles."
"Indeed, they evince such heart-warming gratitude whenever some of us circulate among them with clothing," Mrs. More piously said, in a righteous taking, "or provide a hot-soup kitchen for sustenance once their few pence are lost to vice, to drink, to… the sort of debased women who… well," she said with a grim roll of her eyes. "They're, dare I say, avid to receive our improving tracts and penny Testaments. It is quite encouraging to witness the thirst they have for the Good News of the Gospels. Why, I could even conjure that in every glad eye, one may actually see the spark of uplifting enlightenment blossom! In point of fact, when we lead them at hymns, their simple, joyous expressions put the lie to the contention that Negroes are forever bound into darkness and savagery. I fancy them budding saints in their patience, their eagerness to please, and improve themselves… with God's help, of course… and ours," Mrs. More primly, and firmly, concluded.
"And, do you sense the same patience, gratitude, and, dare we say, budding saintliness in your own Negro sailors, Captain Lewrie?" Mrs. Trencher asked.
"They do sing better than most of my crew, ma'am," Lewrie said. "Though… I fear that that French scribbler, Rousseau, had it wrong, when it came to the nobility of the simple savage. Whether still back in Africa, or dragged unwilling to Civilisation, by Civilisation, men, women and children are pretty-much the same, at bottom, the wide world over."
Why, you damned heretical cynic! Lewrie could imagine he could hear them all say; they certainly pruned up and sat back, at that.
"Some will drink too much, and try to smuggle rum aboard during a shore liberty, or when anchored in harbour," he explained. "Some are clever, some are dull… the same as us. The younger ones will cock a snook and be playful imps, if they can get away with it, the same as my Midshipmen or powder monkeys. Some serve chearly, some will always be bitter they've traded one form of slavery for another, just like any Navy or merchant sailor aboard any ship, in peace or war, even if they are paid regular, and get some prize-money to hand. All get homesick and lonely, now and again… miss loved ones, wish to have loved ones, someday, somewhere.
"I'm sorry, but I've never met anyone even close to saintly in the Navy, and very few might earn such an appellation ashore, either, ladies and gentlemen," Lewrie told them in measured tones. "Negroes or Swedes, or British, it doesn't signify. They aren't saintly, nor are they child-like; they fit no playwright's cast of sympathetic characters, for each one's different, an individual. Aboard my frigate, they're… Proteuses. All of a piece, but each one a unique piece of the whole. When this war ends, and they're turned loose on their own devices, who knows what they'll make of themselves, but, for the meantime, they're… my crew."
"And quite right, too!" Miss Theodora piped up, ready to clap her hands, again. "Full equality!"
"Even if enforced," the Rev. Wilberforce commented, musing on all that Lewrie had said. "Well, I think… and I believe I am safe in saying for all of us, Captain Lewrie, that what you have related to us this morning has been enlightening… as to your motives, and what sort of man you are." He arose, leading the others to their feet.
It sounded very much like the interview was over and he had not won enough of them over. Well, there was the girl, but…
"There is the grave matter that what you did officially might be termed theft of chattel property," Wilberforce went on, "and property is the heart of Common Law, but… could it be intimated that you intend to offer the Jamaica Beaumans perhaps a modest recompence to assuage their rancour…"
"The Jamaica Beaumans hold too hot a grudge against Lewrie for even a princely sum to soothe them, sir," Mr. Twigg countered. "That would be for a court to determine, and, as I said when I first placed the matter to you, a court is the absolute last resort for Lewrie's cause, the very first for the Beaumans."
"Because you duelled," Mrs. More sniffed with disgust.
"Because I seconded Colonel Cashman, ma'am, and they cheated," Lewrie corrected her. "It was that, or allow my best friend get shot in the back. I'd not have that stain on my honour."
He could see another vicarious thrill cross their features at the image of Lewrie as a duelling man, a "killing gentleman," even if they did profess to abhor the deadly practice. At least it was done among the "better sorts," not the scurrilous poor and the riff-raff! And, if one intended to be Respectable in this new England these Reformers wished to make, honour went with Respectability.
"Whether you intend to aid Captain Lewrie," Mr. Twigg told them as they began to drift towards the double doors, "or not, his presence in Great Britain will be a hindrance to both his cause… and yours, sirs, madames. I have spoken to people I know at Admiralty, whichever way things fall out, d'ye see. HMS Proteus will soon be departing for foreign waters…"
Thank bloody Christ, and it's about time, too! Lewrie thought.
"… support in the Commons, assisting Sir Malcolm Shockley and his allies," Twigg su
ggested, "depicting the Beaumans as the epitome of cruelty, greed, and… crude rusticity. Sordid 'Country-Puts' of a brutal and spiteful nature, hmm? Speaking of saints, here's Lewrie and his magnificent list of achievements as a naval hero. Details of which I and my associates may supply you, as we also drop a few hints here and there… in the public press, if absolutely necessary," Mr. Twigg said, with an obvious dislike for newspapers.
Here now, just a tick, you said we'd not become a public spectacle! Lewrie cringed, wishing he could openly disagree to the idea of being… celebrated. And right vehemently, too!
"Else, sirs, else, ladies," Twigg ominously told their assembly, with a stern forefinger raised, " 'tis the Beaumans who will prosper in this affair, and the cause of emancipation in the Empire will suffer a grievous backwards step. Hang property, I say! For this touches more on Morality, and ultimate Justice… not Man's niggling laws. Well, then… we thank you for receiving us so kindly and attentively, and, no matter your final decision, are both most grateful that you allowed us our say."
"D'ye think we did my… 'cause' a damned bit o' good, Twigg?" Lewrie fretfully asked, once they'd been hatted, sworded, caned, and cloaked, ready to re-board their hired carriage, outside. "Damme, we didn't even touch on my involvement with the Saint-Domingue uprisings, respect for Toussaint L'Ouverture's slave rebellion, like we planned to, and…"
"Oh, I think we did, Lewrie," Twigg rather distractedly replied as he clambered into the coach and took seat upon the rear bench, hands crooked over the top of his cane, fingers flexing as his acute mind also churned odds and probabilities, going over what had been presented, as well as what had not been said, for lack of time or the right opening. Lewrie settled in across from him and felt like gnawing on one of his thumbnails as the coach lurched into motion, for Twigg was quite ignoring his presence.
Finally, Twigg's fingers did a last little dance on the handle of his cane, and a sly smile spread across his harsh, ruthless face.
"What?" Lewrie simply had to ask; that smile was just too odd.
"Bless me, Lewrie, but 'til now I never knew just how convincing you can be. Damme, but I am impressed by your seeming sincerity!" Mr. Twigg said with a simper.
"Wasn't a total sham, Mister Twigg!" Lewrie groused. "Mine arse on a band-box, but I do despise slavery. No person with the slightest bit of feeling could do else. The idea of court-martial and cashiering, a criminal trial and hanging, might've made me urgent and… glibber…"
"I don't think that's actually a word, sir," Twigg snickered.
"Damn dictionaries!" Lewrie griped. "With my name and neck on the line, maybe I did do a stellar stage performance to convince those people to aid me, but 'twas not a conversion by indictment, like your common criminal! Slavery makes me queasy, aye, but 'tis not a thing I thought to do anything active about, 'til… it just is, and…"
"What is the saying?" Twigg amusedly said. "That the threat of hanging concentrates the mind most wondrously, hmm? Well, of course most people in England despise slavery, Lewrie, whether they have ever been exposed to its evils, or not. They think, most patriotically, in Arne's song, 'Rule, Britannia'… 'Britons, never, never, neh-ver shall be slaves.' Now, how that squares with suspicion, xenophobia, and the Mobocracy's general hostility towards 'Samboes,' Cuffies, Hindoos, and Lascars if they turn up in this country, well… that's rather hard to say. Englishmen like the idea of emancipation… just so long as they don't have to rub elbows with the results, ha ha! Free as many as you like… just keep them out of England , what?"
"So…" Lewrie warily said, wondering just where Mr. Twigg was going with his prosing. "You're saying, then…?"
"That once this matter becomes public, almost everyone in the British Isles… minus those actively engaged in the slave trade and colonial trade, it goes without saying… will adore you for what you did, Lewrie. Do the Beau-mans dare sail here to press their charges in court… as they simply must, if you are allowed to be faced by your accusers, as the law requires… I fully expect them to be greeted at the docks by hordes of the Outraged Righteous… with the further addition of the idle, drunken, and easily excited Mob, of course."
"There'll be a trial, you're saying," Lewrie responded, with a groan and a sigh. "I'd hoped…"
"I fear there must be, sooner or later," Mr. Twigg said with a shrug, his eyes alight, making Lewrie feel as if he felt that it was no skin off his back if Lewrie got pilloried and dunged, or carted off to Tyburn. "But, only after such a public spectacle as to poison any jury empanelled, from Land's End to John o' Groats. Public sentiment will uphold you, and spit upon the Beaumans, and slavery. I do imagine that, 'twixt Wilberforce and his strident associates, and what covert efforts I and my associates may contribute, public sentiments may be played like a flute. But for one potentially harmful distraction…"
"Which is?" Lewrie asked, one eyebrow up in wariness.
"You," Twigg replied, tilting back his head to gaze down that long nose of his, looking as if he was having difficulty stifling his chortle of glee. "You're a much easier man to extol at long-distance, Lewrie, with none of your warts and peccadiloes on public display! It is foreign waters for you, me lad. At sea, where I believe you once told me… or Peel… either of us, it don't signify, that you did not get in a tenth the trouble you did ashore. 'Out of sight, out of mind,' whilst your allies at home strive mightily to put a gloss upon your valiant repute, hmm? Very far away, for an extended period of time, where, one may hope, you garner even more-glorious laurels with some laudable achievement 'gainst England 's foes. That'd go down nice, did you-"
"You said you'd already spoken to people at Admiralty?" Lewrie said. "So I s'pose that's in-hand, too?"
"I fear you've no time to dilly-dally, Lewrie," Twigg assured him, still simpering in a most haughty manner. "No recontre with the little wife, no visiting your children. Not even time to drop in on Sir Hugo for a brief meal…"
"No loss, there," Lewrie sarcastically said; it wasn't so much the active dislike of his sly sire that had dominated his early years-people who "press-ganged" one into the Navy in the middle of a war and stole one's inheritance had a way of fostering distrust!-but, more a leeriness that, no matter Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby's new repute, fortune, and "rehabilitation" in Society, one should keep one hand on one's coin-purse at all times, and reject any proposed investments!
"Twigg, you're smiling like you already know where I'm going," Lewrie sullenly accused.
"Perhaps," Twigg slowly and cagily drawled back. "I will allow that it will not be back to the Caribbean. And… weeks from summons to court," he mystifyingly added. "Good God, sir… you should now be doing handsprings or Saint Catherine's wheels. Are you not grateful?"
"I am, but it's the way you…!"
"Were I you, I'd gather my traps from the Madeira Club at once, and book a seat on the 'dilly' to Portsmouth, instanter," Twigg went on quite blithely. "Make haste to return aboard your frigate, before your new orders beat you there, and the Port Admiral takes notice that you've been absent rather a bit too long for one still holding active commission and command. Well, perhaps I might run you down, myself, in my chariot. Much faster than a diligence-coach…"
"Ah, no… thank you!"
"Or, does Sir Hugo wish to have a brief bit of time with you," Twigg drolly continued, "he could drive you to Portsmouth in his. He purchased a chariot and team, recently, d'ye know. We race, when we have the time to weekend at my country house. They're all the crack, haw haw!"
"I'd rather walk," Lewrie bleakly replied, with a shudder.
BOOK II
"I, bone, quo virtus tua tt vocat, i pede fausto,
grandia laturus meritorum praeiia! Quid stas?"
"Go, sir, whither your valour calls you. Go, good
luck to you!~to win big rewards for your merits.
Why [do you] stand there [still]?
Horace, Epistles II, 11, 37-38
CHAPTER NINE
Anyone looking for me, Mister Langlie?" Lewr
ie asked, once all the honours had been rendered to welcome him back aboard. He tried to make it sound like a casual enquiry, not a furtive fret.
"We've heard nothing from shore of any note, sir," Lt. Langlie crisply reported as Lewrie's shoregoing traps were borne below by his steward, Aspinall. "Beg pardon, sir, but… in your absence, I felt that a few days 'Out of Discipline' mightn't go amiss, and allowed the hands 'board-ship liberty. Once the water butts had been scrubbed and scoured, and the hoys fetched us fresh."
"Good thinking," Lewrie commented, his mind elsewhere, kneeling on the quarterdeck to stroke his affection-starved cats, which had come scampering to the starboard gangway at the very first tweetles of the bosun's calls. "No one knifed, poxed, or run?"
"Poxed, I could not say, sir," Langlie replied with a chuckle. "A few fist-fights and drunken rows over the doxies, of course, but no runners. Erm… I also sent ashore to the yards for spare spars and Bosun's stores, replenished our salt-meat and biscuit, and indented for live animals, so… Proteus is stocked with the full six months' worth of supplies, Captain," he reported, with a touch of pride.
"Very good, Mister Langlie," Lewrie congratulated, looking up at him, then rising to his feet, now that Toulon and Chalky had had their immediate fill of "wubbies." "I apologise that London required me to be away longer than I expected. In my absence, you've done well… as you always do. Of course, I expected no less, after our years of being thrown together," he tossed off with a grin.
That's enough praise, Lewrie thought; don't trowel it on! Else, it'll go to his head.
"Once I've gone below and changed into working rig, bring me the indentures and all to sign," Lewrie said. "Any more mail come aboard?"
"Some, sir. Yours is on your desk," Langlie told him, as they began to stroll towards the ladder to the gun-deck. "When in the City, sir, did you discover where our future orders might take us. sir?"
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