Much Ado About Lewrie

by Dewey Lambdin

  More cheers arose.

  He had visited the sandy beaches by Beverly, Massachusetts, but saw no Roman coins, and most locals thought it a myth. He had ridden North into Connecticut and beyond and had found a massive barrow made of local rock, much like an ancient Irish barrow that also showed the signs of being able to determine the solstices that they would surely desire to explore.

  He laid out all that would be necessary for the members of the expedition; pavillions, ground cloths, cooking ware, suitable clothes, blankets, pack mules and riding horses, which could be obtained locally, and laborers, cooks, hunters, and “mule skinners” to tend to the beasts. Survey equipment, map makers, an artist to sketch their finds,

  “Would we need weapons, or hired guards?” someone asked from the audience.

  “This year, sir,” Beresford answered with a wee smile, “we will be in Boston, Beverly, Chatham, and coastal towns North of there, so an armed British party might go over badly. Boston was the birthplace of it all.”

  “Will we run the risk of meeting polar bears?” another asked.

  Lewrie, Sir Hugo, and Sir Malcolm looked at each other, laid all aback, ready to laugh out loud.

  “Ah, polar bears says it all, sir,” Beresford carefully replied. “They are only found above British North America, in the Hudson’s Bay Territories, and in the polar Arctic, of course.”

  “Should we bring along bed-cots and pallets?” someone asked.

  “For the most part, sir, in Boston and its environs, there are sufficient inns and taverns who let rooms,” Beresford told him. “It’s only if we trek off to look for that stone barrow that we will sleep in pavillions, and bed-cots and mattresses will require too many waggons. I and my fellow adventurers have found that a pile of springy pine boughs, with a ground cloth, one blanket under one, and another over one, makes a very comfortable bed, sir.”

  “Are there any protections to be taken against rattlesnakes in such conditions, Major?” a callow younger fellow asked.

  “Rattlesnakes, my God!” Prof. Chenery scoffed.

  “I’ve seen them, pickled in alcohol,” the callow young man shot back. “Are they rife? I’m told they crawl into bedding seeking human warmth. Cold blooded, you know. Are they in those woods, sir?”

  “They usually den up in groups ’til Spring, sir,” Beresford patiently tried to explain, “and, yes, they are in the woods throughout the region, but not in Boston or the coastal towns. One must be cautious in the woods, look where one steps, look before stepping over any fallen log, and carry a long staff to pound the ground to drive them to a quick retreat. Snakes fear people. And if they are in one’s path, they will coil up to defend themselves and rattle their tales, so one can be warned to stop, look round, and back away.”

  “But they do crawl into bedding?” the fellow persisted.

  “I saw a display,” another man chimed in from the far side of the hall, “their scales blended with leaves, twigs, and dirt so well that it was nigh invisible!”

  “Bears come out of their dens in the Spring, too, don’t they?” the polar bear fellow spoke up. “What sort of bears? Will they attack us?”

  Major Beresford lowered his head for a second and pinched the bridge of his nose before speaking up.

  “There are brown bears and black bears, gentlemen, and they do emerge from their dens in Spring,” he told them all, “mostly in search of nuts, berries, some fish in the streams, to replace the weight they lost during their hibernation. That is what the hunters are for, sirs, do we trek into the backwoods. Believe me, attacks by hungry bears are rarities, does one go well armed, and pay attention to one’s surroundings.”

  “Should we take along salt meats?” a portly man asked.

  “God, I hope not!” Lewrie sniggered.

  “I have found that the back country in New England is well-populated, sir, and piglets, chickens, turkeys, and eggs are available for sale if one asks nicely. The hunters we hire are mostly crack shots with rifled muskets, and the woods are full of squirrel, rabbit, wild pigeons, raccoons and opossums, all of which are tasty camp meats, and deer abound. Venison may well be a staple of our diet.”

  “Does bear taste good?” someone asked, sounding tongue-in-cheek rather than ignorantly curious. “Like chicken, or beef?”

  Sir Hugo by then was chuckling aloud, pressing a napkin to his lips so he wouldn’t guffaw.

  “Rattlesnake tastes like chicken, sir,” Major Beresford hissed, finding that holding his disgust was getting harder and harder. “Bear is even gamier than venison. Some swear that basting in beer or ale reduces the gameyness. Beef, unfortunately, will be rarely available, except in inns and taverns.”

  “Milk or cream?” another man wondered aloud.

  “From the local farmers, sir, though it will not keep,” Major Beresford said. “Now, as to the tools we will need for any excavation or prying rocks aside, I recommend that we take all we need with us, since metal tools are mostly imported to our former Colonies, and the smiths in America mostly repair things.”

  “Ehm, what sort of clothing do you find suitable?” one gentleman sensibly asked. “Are moccasins and buckskins better in the woods?” he added, inanely.

  Lewrie’s table all grinned widely as they saw Major Beresford visibly wince.

  “Only if one wishes to gather souvenirs of our journey sir,” Beresford said, casting his gaze all about as if looking for escape. “Stout top-boots, wool and sailcloth trousers, warm waist-coats that one may wear if the weather turns cold or rainy, a coat, an overcoat, and a painted or oiled cloth foul weather coat that one may obtain at any ship chandlery.”

  “Are you considering going, sir?” Sir Hugo asked Sir Malcolm.

  “Oh, Gracious God, no Willoughby,” Shockley said with a hearty laugh. “And, after the idiotic questions, and the looks on many faces, I doubt if many others would, either, hah hah. They’ll donate to be one of the patrons, should results be found, and be dined out on their small fame, but to go and rough it among the crude Americans? Hah!”

  “Most sensible, sir,” Lewrie told him. “D’ye think we could slink off without notice? This is gettin’ dry, again.”

  “What, and miss some more ignorant questions?” Sir Hugo scoffed. “This is as good as a comedic play. Besides, I wish to speak with the gallant Major Beresford, if only to offer my commiserations.”

  So they sat through it to the end, and another long parting speech from Professor Chenery, before being allowed to dismiss, come sign up to volunteer, or make a sizeable donation.

  Major Beresford was swamped by a crowd of hangers-on wishing to ask just one more question or two, so it took some time before their party, and Reverend Chenery, could approach him.

  “Major, allow me to name to you Major-General Sir Hugo Willoughby, Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy, and Baronet, and Sir Malcolm Shockley,” Chenery intoned.

  “Gentlemen, happy to make your acquaintance,” Beresford replied, though he looked to be a man more than ready to mop his brow and get out of the hall, soonest.

  “Good Lord, I do not envy you, sir,” Sir Hugo said, “your role here today, or your task of herding this pack of fools this Spring.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, sir,” Beresford said with an easy grin. “Back in the day, I’ve put together explorations up the Nile, to the ancient temples and relics of Egypt, to Jerusalem, with all sorts of in-experienced academics and enthusiasts. I’m used to amateurs.”

  “Polar bears, though, my God,” Lewrie said, chuckling, “one might as well ask you about unicorns.”

  “As for that fellow,” Beresford agreed, “I wasn’t sure whether he feared that polar bears abound in Massachusetts, or he really wished to see one.”

  “And have you travelled far enough North to see one, sir?” Sir Malcolm Shockley asked.

  “Only once, and no, I did not,” Beresford told him, “but I did meet an old hand with the Hudson’s Bay Company who told an amusing tale about polar bears. He was breaking in a newcome
sent out from London, and he advised the young man to always carry several muskets with him should he have to dog sled into the ice fields. Then, if he met with a polar bear, he must take careful aim if it approached him, loaded with buck and ball, and at sixty yards, a decent range, shoot the bear in the chest.

  “What if I miss, the newcome asked,” Beresford went on, “and the old hunter told him to snatch a fresh musket off his sled, take aim, and about fourty yards, shoot the bear. What if I miss again, the fellow asks? Snatch up another musket, and at twenty yards, shoot him.”

  “What if I miss again, the newcome asks, and the old hunter says when the bear gets within swatting distance, you fling a handful of shit in the bear’s eyes and run for your life,” Beresford said, starting to laugh. “And where does the shit come from, the young man asked? And the old hunter sagely tells him, if the bear is close enough to rip your face off with his claws … believe me, it will be there, haw haw!”

  They said their goodbyes on that amusing note and left the hall to find their waiting coach. Rev. Chenery, who had done the most to organise the meeting, had been overlooked by the attendees who gathered round his elder brother and the other noted professors, sidled up as if begging a ride back to his manse at St. Anselm’s, and Lewrie and his father took pity on him and offered him a seat.

  “He wishes another planning conference, and Robert will have to hire out the Crown and Cushion in Oxford,” Chenery complained, “let him make the arrangements.”

  “Professor Chenery and his compatriots depart tomorrow, sir?” Sir Hugo asked.

  “Only if God is indeed just, Sir Hugo,” Chenery said with a sigh. “My brother is brilliant, possessed of a keen intellect … but he can wear out the kindness of the Good Samaritan. After he is gone, I will summon Madame Pellatan and my servants to the drawing room and urge all to sit in the dark and be very, very quiet!”

  “I wish you at least one peaceful hour before they leave that hall, then, Reverend,” Lewrie offered.

  They dropped Chenery off, then coached to Dover St. to drop off Lewrie.

  “Oh, my Christ!” Lewrie roared as the coach clattered to a stop in front of his house. “Mine arse on a bloody band-box! They’ve done it again!” he shouted as he alit on the sidewalk and gawped. People of his house staff were gathered in front, bundled up against the cold, mopping, swabbing, and sweeping up the mess, trying to reach high with one hand at the end of a mop or broom to get at the splatters on the second floor level.

  “In broad daylight?” Lewrie fumed, “Who are these bastards? Did anyone see ’em at it?”

  Dasher held a dust pan, now oozing with egg yolk and shattered shells, making a face of disgust. “Can’t be animal lovers, sir. See? They threw eggs with chicks growin’ in ’em.”

  He picked up a dead, unborn chick by a tiny leg.

  “Wasn’t that a delicacy at Canton?” Sir Hugo commented, leaning out the door window. “Or was it Macau, or the Philippines?”

  “God damn whoever they are,” Lewrie growled. “I’ll set watch, I’ll thrash ’em within an inch o’ their miserable lives!”

  “I’ll leave you to it, me lad,” Sir Hugo cheeerfully said as he thumped his walking stick on the roof of the coach to set his coach-man to lash up and drive on. “Good luck with all that. You might send a new letter to The Times to complain, hee hee!”

  If Lewrie had had an unbroken egg, he would have hurled it at his father’s smirking face!

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Is it safe to leave your house for a few hours, Alan,” Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick, and an old school chum from Harrow, teased as Lewrie got into his coach a few days later. “Mean t’say, do your tormentors only strike when you’re away? And is my coach safe if I’m seen with you?”

  “They haven’t been back since,” Lewrie was happy, warily happy, to tell him. “We’ve spoken to all our neighbours, and they’ve promised to keep a lookout, as my house servants will. I spoke with the police, as well, and they said a constable would stroll up my street now and then. One hopes they’ll be daunted.”

  “Champion of All Animals, was it?” Peter tittered. “I saw the caricatures. Bought the complete set.”

  “Lady Draywick amused?” Lewrie asked as the coach lurched into motion.

  “My wife has not been amused by anything since the Act of Union,” Peter said with a dry laugh, throwing back his head. “Possibly she has found nothing funny since William Pitt the Younger first became Prime Minister. Everything is a great dis-appointment to her. Thank God for Tess.”

  Long before, Lewrie had found Tess in a Panton St. brothel, a sweet, impoverished girl fresh come from Ireland. He’d rescued her from a daft Russian nobleman who’d been so besotted that he’d tried to kidnap her, and kill anyone who’d had her favours. Sadly, when Lewrie couldn’t make her his mistress, he’d introduced her to Peter, and they had been a mutually pleasing item ever since.

  “And how is Tess?” Lewrie asked.

  “Simply delightful, as always,” Rushton said with a longing sigh. “I think the wife knows of her … but then she suspects every pretty girl or young woman we know, and half the housemaids. So, where is this new restaurant?”

  “A few blocks from the Foreign Office,” Lewrie told him. “James Peel, a fellow I know there, introduced me to it. You’ll like it, I think.”

  “Then I’m sure that Clotworthy will, too,” Rushton said. “We’ll end up paying his share, you know. ‘Why, I’ve come away without my coin purse, or my wallet!’ he’ll claim. Always does. Just like at Harrow when we ate off campus.”

  “And yet he’s making such a pile of the ‘blunt’ these days,” Lewrie agreed, nodding. “He’s branched out into fine art, ye know.”

  “Clotworthy? What does he know about art?” Peter Rushton exclaimed. “At school, the best he could draw was stick figures!”

  “You’ll see,” Lewrie promised.

  * * *

  They alit in front of Chute’s emporium, which, by the numbers of shoppers stopping to gawk in the bow-windows, or stroll inside, was indeed doing a thriving business. They made their own way in, skirting round couples admiring the furniture, the statuary, both the real and the “reproduced,” or outright fakes.

  “My word, it is a big place, ain’t it?” Peter Rushton marvelled at the expanse, and how much there was by way of merchandise.

  “Ah, there he is,” Lewrie said, as Clotworthy Chute came from a back room. “We’d best pat him down t’see if he has money on him.”

  “Well, hallo, Peter, Alan,” Chute cried, spreading his arms in welcome. “Welcome to my humble establishment. Care to look round for a bit? You never know what you may find that strikes your fancy.”

  “Alan tells me you’ve began selling fine art,” Peter said.

  “Indeed I have, but only in a small way,” Chute pooh-poohed. “On consignment only. You know my way.”

  “Oh, indeed we do,” Lewrie heartily agreed.

  “Yayss, I see,” Rushton drawled, slowly strolling down the row of paintings hung on an open, stud-framed wall, or leaned against the odd chair or hassock. “Hmm, quite nice,” he commented over one, made a face over a second, then stopped dead in his tracks. “I say, where did you get this’un, then?”

  “The Embarkation of The Queen of Sheba, by Claude Lorrain, done in Sixteen Fourty Eight or so,” Clotworthy boastfully told him, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Quite nice, isn’t it. Alan here loves it, ’cause it has ships in it, hah hah.”

  “No,” Rushton said, “Where, and when, did you get it?”

  “About a fortnight ago, as I recall,” Chute said, “I’d have to look at the paperwork. Some très élégant, but seedy, Frog émigré was in need of selling off his last heirloom … starving babes, house falling down, a bad night at the card tables, one of the usual problems. Why? I’m only asking three thousand pounds.”

  “Remember Bagby Blakeley?” Rushton asked them.

  “‘Rajah’ Blakeley?” Lewrie asked, grinni
ng. “That pompous ass? Thank God none of us ever fagged for him. Whatever happened to him? Something evil, I hope.”

  “He’s with the East India Company,” Rushton told them. “Just as he predicted when we were at Harrow, since his father’s a member of the board, of long standing. He boasted that he’s pulling down twenty-four hundred pounds a year, and actually goes in to work at least four days a week.”

  “Well, what of him?” Lewrie said.

  “The wife and I attended a supper party at his house five nights ago,” Peter Rushton said, “so he could show off his art collection … and his latest acquisition … that! The Embarkation of The Queen of Sheba! For a minute, I thought Blakeley’d brought it in here to sell for some reason. Maybe his wife or father said he’d paid too much for it … five thousand pounds, he boasted. The purse-proud pig.”

  “Five thousand pounds?” Chute gasped, then fingered the paste-board price tag of the painting in question. “I should mark this up.”

  “Clotworthy!” Lewrie exclaimed, “What if it’s a forgery?”

  “Ssh! Not so loud, old son,” Chute cautioned, with a finger laid to his lips. “It can’t be a forgery. Your wife’s friend, that Madame Whos-it, with the yard-high wig and the oo la la royal airs. Isn’t she supposed to be a noted Frog painter, and when she and your wife were here in the store, she thought it was real. From a private collection, smuggled out by some aristocrat running from the guillotine.”

  “Madame Pellatan, aye,” Lewrie pointed out. “She said it could be real, but she’d never seen it hangin’ in a Paris museum, so it may have come from a private collection, or it could be a fraud, and she really couldn’t say, one way or another. Nothin’ sure.”