A King`s Trade l-13

by Dewey Lambdin

  "Fetch-to, Festival!" Lewrie yelled back. "I will inspect your papers!" To his officers, he ordered in a softer voice, "Lower away a cutter, and muster a boarding party."

  Lewrie completed his climb up the battens and man-ropes to the Festival's starboard entry-port, once both ships had fetched-to, cocked up into the Trades at a relative halt. Sailors, acrobats, and women in scanty casual clothing stood about her decks awaiting him, as did her master and mates. A man in a battered old tricorne doffed his hat, and Lewrie began to doff his in return, but…

  Three white-garbed clowns ran up to "toe the line" along a plank seam; one widely salaamed in Arabic fashion, a second banged his head on the deck in a Chinee kow-tow, whilst the third parodied bosuns' calls on a nose flute.

  "Don't make me shoot you!" Lewrie harshly warned the flutist as he gathered a fistful of pom-pommed smock in one hand, and tapped the butt of one of his sashed pistols with the other.

  "Gerroutofit!" the ship's master angrily shouted. "Jesus!" he added half under his breath as he came from his quarterdeck to shoo them away. "I'm that sorry for that, sir. That sorry, too, to be such a bother, but we had no idea you were Royal Navy, and ran from you. I am Amos Weed, master of the Festival, and you'd be bein'…?"

  "Captain Alan Lewrie, sir, of the Proteus frigate," Lewrie said, his humours still unsettled by the jeering amusement the circus people expressed as they congratulated the clowns on their jape.

  Smells like the cats' sand box, Lewrie told himself as he got a good first whiff of the air aboard the merchantman.

  "Our owner, Captain Lewrie," Capt. Weed said, waving at a portly fellow tromping up the starboard ladderway from the waist. "Mister Dan Wigmore, of Wigmore's Travelling Extravangaza."

  " 'Ow do, sir, W do!" Mr. Wigmore cried as if Lewrie was a long lost brother as he joined them. He was garbed in a bilious green wool tweed coat and loudly-embroidered tan waist-coat, a pair of taupe-grey corduroy breeches, and top-boots. He bobbed from the waist jerkily as he doffed a very fashionable, narrow-brimmed "thimble" hat. "An' werry glad we are t'see ye, Cap'm! Daniel Wigmore… but I 'spects ye know o' our Extravaganza a'ready. Th' finest, most h'amazin' portable show h'ever ye did see!" Wigmore declared in a pronounced Cockney accent. "Circus! Bareback riders… h'acrobats an' h'animal hats. Dramas s'tragic they'll make ye blub, comedies s'funny ye'll split yer sides laughin'! Jugglers, fortune tellin', death-defyin' h'aerialists, an' feats o' magic done by mystic gurus o' th' fabled Far h'East, a li'l bit o' h'ev'rythin' under th' sun, and a men-ag-erie gathered from th' four corners o' th' world, aha!"

  "Lewrie, Royal Navy," he said in stiff reply. "We have-"

  "An' 'aven't ye come in Puddin' Time, Cap'm Lewrie!" Mr. Wigmore energetically prattled on. "Wot a wonder, h'arrivin' h'at th' werry instant in our 'our o' need!"

  "Need, sir?" Lewrie asked with a snort. "What need?" Damned if he'd give up spare spars and canvas to this… circus!

  "Why, pertection, Cap'm Lewrie, perfection!" Wigmore exclaimed. "We're h'all h'alone out 'ere, an' th' wide ocean full o' two-legged sharks o' th' French an' Spanish persuasion, like. Now ye're 'ere, we kin sail t'Recife in comp'ny wif a stout British frigate, so…"

  "You've seen enemy warships, Captain Weed?" Lewrie demanded of the soberer merchant master, trying to ignore Wigmore's patter.

  Trying, too, to ignore the semi-exposed charms of the women the Festival carried: flaming-hennaed redheads, lithe little blondes, and an assortment of brunette or auburn wenches, who were slowly drifting over to starboard to listen to the conversation… or flirt with the file of Marines and the sailors from his boat crew. One of 'em…

  "Seen several odd sail, sir," Capt. Weed told him, "and we ran from a few that gave me the odd itch. Festival's not a swift sailer, laden as we are, but a sure ol' girl. Can't rightly say they were warships, but none pursued us too long. And, we've nought but eight old pieces, and them but puny, converted Army six-pounders, as like as not t'burst, and none o' my hands what ye'd call proper gunners…"

  "Mmhmm," Lewrie said with a sage nod, more than half-distracted.

  "Frets me critters somethin' 'orrid, sir!" Wigmore bemoaned at his elbow. "Oh, 'tis 'ard, shippin' 'orses an' such, an' them a pitch away from broken legs, an' h' after years o' trainin' that'd be wasted. 'Cept on wot Cap'm Weed calls a 'reach,' th' h'upset… damme! There they go, again. An' h'after we just got 'em settled, too."

  Evidently, lying fetched-to didn't suit his "menagerie," either, for Lewrie heard a sudden cacophony of grunts, roars, bleating goats, burbling somethings, fierce moos or hee-haws, yelps, bugles, and enough dog barks for a whole hunting pack. One set off the others, then some parrot squawks and shrill peacock cries arose, too.

  "Might ye be good h'enough t' h'excuse me, Cap'm Lewrie. I've beasts t'set-tle, damn 'em," Wigmore griped, then scampered down to the main deck and down a midships hatchway, bawling for his keepers.

  "Tell me ye're bound for Recife, sir," Capt. Weed nigh-implored.

  "We're, ah…" Lewrie temporised, loath to tell Weed too much. "Perhaps, sir. Bound South, at any rate. But, let me ask you, sir… what took you to the Cape Verdes, and from where did you sail, before you fetched 'em?"

  "As to yer second question first, sir," Weed explained, "we'd just done a whole year o' shows all up and down the coast of the United States of America, ev'ry seaport city from Maine to Savannah, down in Georgia. Right successful, too, and huge crowds ev'rywhere we lit. The Yankee Doodles are starved for entertainment, I expect. We did a show or two in the Bahamas, then planned to head South, ourselves, for Cape Town and the Far East. Could've fetched Recife, but Wigmore was leery of how the dramas'd go over in Brazil, with so few folk speakin' English, there, for none of our folk speak Portuguese, e'en the fortune tellers, and, bein' a Catholic country, they might not've taken kindly to our costumes, neither. A bit… scant, for some tastes, ah…"

  Lewrie could see the sense in that worry, as he let himself be distracted by the women clad in muslin or sheer cambric underskirts and chemises, exchanging recited lines from slim booklets he took for the scripts of a new dramatic work. One of 'em that particularly caught his eye was an exotic, foreign-looking girl with raven-dark and long curling hair, high-cheeked features, and a complexion that put him in mind of Spain or the New World. Bright amber-brown eyes, or were they hazel, but very attractive, and firm young breasts straining against her loose chemise, damned impressive and full "poonts"…!

  "As to yer first question," Capt. Weed continued, dragging him back to reality, "we hit the Equatorial Current, and the passage turned longish… so much so we were runnin' low on water for the critters, Cap'm Lewrie."

  "There's been drought in the Cape Verdes, the last fourty years, Captain Weed," Lewrie scoffed, his un-formed suspicions of such an odd ship revived, and took a moment to glance over his shoulder to see if his Marines or sailors had found anything piratical in their searches.

  "Aye, and so there is, sir," Capt. Weed sadly agreed. "I told Mister Wigmore it'd be iffy, but… The few folk still livin' on those isles were damn' tight with what they had, too. Sold us barely enough t'fetch Recife, after all, then shooed us outta port, nigh at cannon-point. Wouldn't even let us land the beasts for exercise, nor any of our people, either! Got a low opinion o' circus and theatre people in the Cape Verdes! I hope we can make it all the way to Recife, and we just may, do we not meet slack winds, or have to run from any more of those strange sail. We'd much appreciate escort, Cap'm Lewrie, do ye be bound that way," he almost pleadingly stated.

  "We, ah…" Lewrie hedged once more, then finally had to spill it. "That would be up to my senior officer, sir, and the East India Company's civilian 'Commodore.' We're part of a rather large escort to a 'John Company' trade. Should the winds suit, those gentlemen may even plan for us to beat our way direct to Saint Helena."

  "A 'John Comp'ny' convoy, up to windward of us?" Capt. Weed gladly exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in such an avaricious way that he put Lewrie in mind of a new-day B
lackbeard, who had just heard news of tops'ls in the offing. "Though I never heard a good word said o' Saint Helena water, either, nor decent anchorage, that'd be better than swanning about these seas, alone. Aye, 'John Comp'ny' masters'd not discomfit their paying passengers with too long a passage, 'thout putting in for fresh stores. High on fresh, Cap'm Lewrie… manger beasts and wines, flour so they can bake fresh, daily, aha! I'd lay ye any odds ye wish, ye'll fetch Recife long before ye see the hills of Saint Helena! Why, by sundown, we'd know one way or t'other!" he happily went on, rubbing his hands together again.

  "You know the rules of convoying, sir?" Lewrie had to ask him. "The Acts and Admiralty regulations, that you'd have to post a bond with the Commodore, before…"

  "And follow ev'ry rule, aye, Cap'm Lewrie, aye!" Weed replied. "An' Daniel Wig more's rolling in 'chink,' so the bond'd be no bother. A very profitable bus'ness, is entertainment! 'Tis another reason to wish to join yer convoy, sir… there's lashings o' profits hidden in Dan's cabins, most of it in silver coin, so…"

  Lewrie's interest drifted off, again, as a pack of nigh-naked people swarmed down from aloft where they'd been swinging or leaping about. And, there was that raven-haired girl, again, too, and this time, she was done with reciting her

  lines, and was leaning against the larboard bulwarks on the opposite gangway, her arms crossed under her breasts, her legs-parted stance through the sheerness of her underskirtings hinting at slim hips, a taut belly, and long, fine limbs. A narrow slit of bare flesh was bared 'twixt the waistband of skirt and chemise bottom. Freed of rehearsing, she was frankly and openly staring at him, with the slightest hint of a promising smile upon her lips. She began to grin as he stared back at her just as boldly, and her eyes widened, she drew in an expectant, impressive breath, before clapping a hand to her mouth, as if she found him as attractive as he found her, felt as "risible" as Lewrie did. Then her grin widened to gape-mouthed, and she pointed at him, saying something aside to those other wenches near her (rather gauche, that, but who knew what foreign girls thought proper, Lewrie wondered), and he half-raised a hand to wave at her, 'til…

  Something butted the back of his booted calves, something hairy encompassed his lower legs, something as reeky as his cats' sand box after a month's neglect, and he looked back and down.

  "Jesus fuckin'…!" Lewrie screeched, of half a mind to break into a panicky gallop to the taffrails, or leap for Festival's lower yardarms.

  "Whuff!" the thankfully leather-muzzled bear said as he tried (thankfully) unsuccessfully to lick and chew on Lewrie's ankles!

  "… Christ!" Lewrie yelped.

  "Oh, pay Fredo no mind, Cap'm Lewrie," Capt. Weed told him as he let out a guffaw, "but don't do nothing sudden-like, either. Old Fredo's just curious 'bout a new-come. His teeth are dulled, and his claws've been clipped short. Gentle as a baa-lamb… mostly. One of our dancing bears, he is, and ain't he a beauty? Does a whole series o' tricks… when we feed him regular. He'll give up and lose interest, in a bit."

  "That'd be nice!" Lewrie shudderingly said as the bear's great bulk, gentle or no, made him stagger as the beast began to scratch his hairy hide on the back of his thighs.

  "Jose! Come do something with Fredo, will ye, por favor? He's an Andalusian bear, him and his brother, quite rare where they come from, they are. Raised 'em from cubs, Wigmore did," Weed told him.

  "Uh huh?" Lewrie whinged, fearful of taking a deep breath.

  "Fredo, amigo!" his keeper, Jose, cajoled, coming to take hold of the bear's thick collar. " Chu beeg seelly, leggo de chennleman."

  Instead, the bear rose up on his hind feet, laid a heavy paw on Lewrie's right shoulder and epaulet hard enough to make him sag, and started to sniff his coat and head all over. Fredo gave him another chummy "Whuff!" and a soft but rasping bawl, then slapped his cocked hat off. At least that got him off and down!

  The bear gave it a lick or two, then skittered it along the gangway like an amusing new toy… a football, perhaps. Jose swept it up from him, eliciting another disappointed bawl, and handed it back to Lewrie, towing better than five hundred pounds of furry appetite by the collar like he would a wolfhound. "He mean no harm, senor," Jose said in a friendly manner, even going so far as to tap the bear on his long snout. "Fredo and Paulo, dey are poosycats. Say jello to de chennlemun, Fredo, say jello!" he urged, and the bear stood up, again, raised a foreleg, and "waved" his paw at Lewrie, uttering another "friendly" squalling bawl that might be taken for a pacific greeting… did one ignore the paw, the size of a soup bowl!

  "Geef heem a scratch on de head, senor," Jose coaxed. "He like de head pat, an' den he be chur vriend. Say jello to my widdle vriend, senor Capitano."

  "Uh…" Lewrie began to demur, rather shakily it here must be noted, but, so many of Festival's people were watching by then, that spectacular and highly-amused raven-haired wench included, that Lewrie couldn't refuse, so… he (tentatively) reached out one hand to stroke the bear's broad head, to dare skritch his fingers in Fredo's coarse, thick fur, knowing that his hand would reek afterward, as if he petted a wild goat or badger, and wouldn't Chalky and Toulon be pleased when he went back aboard, to snuffle, savour, and go gape-mouthed in wonder over such exotic new stinks! Fredo seemed pleased, giving out a raspy "Whuff " or two. "So, mightn't ye put in the good word with yer Admiral an' them, Cap'm Lewrie?" Weed asked as Jose mercifully led Fredo away, finally. "'Bout us joinin' your convoy for a spell?"

  "Uh…" Lewrie dazedly reiterated, seeing another keeper come up on the main deck, just done leading a burbling, spitting baby camel into the sunshine, and damned if he'd pet that! "Perhaps it's be best did we retire to your cabins, Captain Weed, so I may study your manifests, registries, and such."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Absolutely not!" Capt. Sir Tobias Treghues snapped. "A band of seagoing… Gypsies! Might even be pirates in a gaudier garb."

  "Well, Festival's papers are all in order, sir," Lewrie pointed out, with as much deferential patience as he could. "And, while there very well may be some Gypsies among the circus folk… fortune tellers and such… I don't b'lieve we've any pots need mending, nor are there any babies aboard our ships to steal, so…"

  "Oh, well put, young sir!" Capt. George Clowes hooted, lifting a handkerchief to his mouth as he had himself a good guffaw. Clowes was the senior civilian master of the East India Company "trade," and therefore the temporary "Commodore," who would see them all the way to Calcutta or Bombay, perhaps onwards to Canton in China, too. "We indeed are bound for Recife, Captain Lewrie, and I see no valid reason why the circus ship should not be given our protection, seeing as how we're all going the same way. Really, Sir Tobias…" he "tsk-tsked."

  "They could have been lurking off the Cape Verdes, just waiting for a fat convoy to come along, sir," Capt. Treghues continued to demur. "If not pirates themselves, perhaps they serve as the eyes and ears for enemy privateers, perhaps a small French raiding squadron. Their claim of water shortage might allow them alongside one of Captain Clowes's vessels to be succoured, and…"

  "They look slit-eyed dangerous to you, Captain Lewrie?" Clowes asked, giving Treghues a long up-and-down look as if his patience was long, but not limitless.

  "I'd not turn my back on their dancing bears, sir," Lewrie told him. "But, my boarding party and I searched the entire ship, looking for anything odd… well, piratical odd, not outrageous odd… and we found nothing amiss. They've but eight light six-pounders, and those are British Army cast-offs. There are only thirty-odd in her crew, and perhaps an hundred circus and theatrical folk, all told. The Festival's master, Captain Weed, possesses but a dozen muskets and fowling pieces, and a dozen rather dubious Sea Pattern pistols, all under lock and key in his great-cabins. Of course, there are boarding pikes and cutlasses in their one arms locker, also locked up securely. Oh, I fancy those sailors of theirs have personal knives, there's a knife-thrower with a small chest full, and a sword-swallower with a small arsenal, and among the 'artists' one'd find pocket pistols and d
aggers and such. Hat-pins among the women, but…"

  "And she's a slow sailer, this Captain Weed admitted?" the East India Company captain enquired. He was a trim and spare fellow in his late fourties, rather distinguished looking, and, with the salary of a "John Company" master, dressed extremely well, with a vague attempt at a uniform look that emulated Royal Navy fashion, 'less all the gold lace folderol, and with silver buttons instead of gilt or brass.

  "Aye, and there's another reason she should be shunned," Treghues snapped, fidgeting in his leather-covered chair behind his desk in HMS Grafton's great-cabins under her old-fashioned poop. "She'll slow our progress. We'll take weeks more to…"

  "And my Indiamen won't, Sir Tobias?" Capt. Clowes tittered, as he shared an amused look with Lewrie. "You've already made sufficient remonstrances for more sail, and quicker progress, sir, and complained of our customary reduction of sail after sundown. 'Bare steerage-way' you called it, I seem to recall? It's the Company's way, sir, for the comfort of our paying passengers." Clowes stated more soberly, laying down the law, in a manner of speaking.

  A way of speaking that a Royal Navy captain, a putative "Commodore" in his own right with a triangular red pendant to prove it… even if it did bear the white ball of an officer not officially listed in that rank, yet… found both egregious and insufferable, it would appear, from Lewrie's observation this evening, and from his previous service under Treghues.

  God knows he was always smug and insufferable.1Lewrie thought.

  Treghues was the son of a poor but titled family, and had been raised with all the deference given to members of the peerage; he had entered the Navy despite being the eldest, for there was little to inherit but the empty title, with "The Honourable" following his younger rank, and preceding his Christian name. Even so, people would tug at their forelocks and doff and scrape to nobility, and… unless he had proved himself monumentally unsuited… would continue to be courted in a midshipmen's mess, the officers' gun-room, or as a captain second but to God. He never had been the sort who took disagreement with his notions easily, had ever been sublimely cock-sure of himself, and was primly "strong in the Lord." Lewrie was certain that Capt. Clowes and his casual nature, and his quick, amusing wit, was a constant trial to Treghues. Treghues was the sort who expected pot-holes to be filled before he crossed them, stairs to flatten themselves, and Clowes, and Lewrie himself, were deep, sloppy road ruts and trip-snares!