“Oh, do shut the bloody hell up!” Lewrie snapped.
“Whee-hoo!” the bird whistled back. “Good night, awrk.”
Thankfully after that last utterance, the parrot quieted down, with only a few mutters and wing-flutters, and, after a few more long minutes of snuffling and exploration, Toulon and Chalky settled down, as well, curled up together in a wad behind his knees, silently grooming each other, by the feel of it through the thick covers. In darkness, and curled up in the fetal position to hug the last of the heat from the warming tins, and his own body, Lewrie could not quite go to sleep ’til he had puzzled out Arthur Ballard’s odd behaviour. Not one time had he presumed upon their old friendship to call him “Alan,” but “sir,” even in private. Oh, back then in Alacrity, Lewrie and he were within six months of the same age, about six months as to the dates of their lieutenancies, and both of the same rank, with Dame Fortune tipping Lewrie the nod to command the saucy little converted bomb-ketch . . . a small vessel with a small crew, and they the only Commission Officers aboard her.
He didn’t mention the trial, not once, Lewrie realised with a start; Didn’t ask anything personal, either. Damme, does he disapprove o’ me doin’s? The scandal? Lewrie let out a little snort as he considered that Ballard might read London papers, and could have put two and two together about him and Theoni, too, no matter how salaciously veiled Mrs. Denby’s article was! Christ! Lewrie thought, stiffening as he recalled how he’d caught Ballard looking about for the portrait of Caroline that usually was hung on the dining-coach partition or the forrud bulkhead over the side-board. Arthur’d always been fond of her, and they got along like a house afire, the few times we were ashore in the Bahamas, he remembered. As grave and dignified as Ballard carried himself, so much care he took with his every utterance, it was only the rare shore suppers in a chop-house, or at their rented cottage out by East Bay, when Ballard had ever let his guard down, and had japed and laughed like a normal fellow; only then did he un-bend and . . . smile a lot!
And the cats’ odd reaction to him . . . God above, even that Frog agent, that fellow Brasseur, or whatever he’d called himself, who had come aboard Savage during the close blockade of the Gironde pretending to be a simple local fisherman, and had lied about the shore defences like a French newspaper . . . “lied like a bulletin from Paris” was the French expression . . . why, Toulon and Chalky had been mad for him when he came aft for a glass of rum and Lewrie’s gold.
O’ course, he was covered in scales, and reeked o’ fish, Lewrie told himself; yet, even so . . . ’tis rare they run into a man they shun. Now, why is that?
As if to answer his quandary, Toulon and Chalky shifted a bit, both uttering wee sleep-whimpers as they pressed closer to each other, and him.
Arthur don’t like me, for some reason! Lewrie thought, almost with an audible grunt; Can’t be professional, can it? No, not him, so it must be personal. Oh, he’ll do his duty, right enough, but I doubt his heart’s quite in it, this time round. I’m his new captain, not his old’un, so maybe that’s a wrench for him, same as for Speaks’s nephews, or his Cox’n. Or his bloody parrot!
Lewrie punched his pillows into a deeper pile and dragged a few last inches of covers, and fur, half over his head, leaving just enough of a gap so he could breathe, and tried willing himself to a peaceful rest. Puzzle it out in the morning, he thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Delighted to welcome you aboard, Captain Lewrie,” Capt. Edward Riou said with what sounded like genuine enthusiasm, once Lewrie had taken the salute of HMS Amazon’s side-party. “Doubly welcome is your Thermopylae, of equal weight of metal to Amazon. You will take coffee or tea, sir, for ’tis an unbearably chilly morning.”
“That’d be toppin’ fine, Captain Riou, thankee kindly,” Lewrie replied, shivering under his heavy wool boat-cloak.
Edward Riou was a very pleasant gentleman, though, by the way he carried himself so urgently, with every gesture and movement of his hands spare but efficient, Lewrie could quickly assume that Riou was a most active and hard-charging fellow. Once below in the great-cabins, and free of hats and cloaks, Riou appeared strong yet spare, with wavy hair thick upon his pate, and curling over his ears and neck, an intelligent high brow, thicker, darker eyebrows, and large, expressive eyes. His face was a long oval, split by a very long nose, a thoughtful sort of pose to his mouth, and a determined chin. He was scads senior to Lewrie, but showed him every sign of the nicest sort of condescension.
“There’s a comfortable chair, sir,” Riou offered. “Do take a seat, and we’ll see you warmed up in a trice. You’ve replaced Captain Speaks, I take it?” Riou said, playing the perfect pleasant host.
“I have, sir, poor fellow,” Lewrie told him. Riou sat down in a chair opposite, and his cabin steward was there with a tray bearing a coin-silver coffee pot, sugar, creamer, and Meissen china cups and saucers. “Cannot stand tepid coffee myself, so have a care, Captain Lewrie.”
“My own preference, indeed, sir,” Lewrie replied, grinning as he felt the heat through the cup. “Aah . . . splendid brew,” he added after his first tentative sip. “Nigh to boiling, too. I do apologise if I interfere with your preparations for sea, sir, but, with neither of our admirals present yet, I thought it prudent to speak with the most-senior officer in port.”
“Well, there is Rear-Admiral Graves, reputed to be on his way to us, but . . . for the nonce, I suppose I’ll have to do,” Riou said with an easy grin. “With the fleet divided into the usual three divisions . . . Van, Main Body, and Rear . . . I hear he’s to be third in command, after Sir Hyde and Nelson. Pending the arrival of someone else, mind. It’s all still a bit up in the air.”
“Sir Hyde is not present, I’m told, sir?” Lewrie asked.
“Oh, he is, but he has not yet gone aboard Ardent, where he’s hoisted his flag . . . temporarily,” Capt. Riou said with a disappointed twitch of his mouth. “The rumour is that he’s to have the London when she gets here, and will not go aboard Ardent only to have to shift all his dunnage later. He, ah . . . has taken lodgings ashore, at the hotel . . . the Wrestler’s Arms,” Riou added with a faint frown.
“Oh,” Lewrie said with gawp of surprise. “I’d thought things were already afoot, all but ready to sail, sir. Time of the essence . . . all that? Ice melting?”
“One would think,” Riou agreed, his frown a touch deeper than before, and rolling his delicate cup ’tween both hands for warmth. “It is a quickly gathered expedition, though . . . robbing Peter to pay Paul, as it were, taking vessels from Channel Fleet, recalling others from the French blockade, and juggling ships and officers like a circus act. Such things take time,” he said, sounding as if he was putting the best face he could on what seemed a serious lack of urgency.
“Pray God, sir, not too much time,” Lewrie said. “We should be at ’em. But then . . . people have accused me before of bein’ too rash a frigate captain, who can’t see the larger intent.”
“Then you are a man after mine own heart, Captain Lewrie, and I do believe a ‘drap’ of rum in your coffee would not go amiss?” Riou offered with a conspiratorial, sly grin.
Lewrie had only stayed aboard Amazon for a bit less than an hour, being treated to a quick tour by a proud Capt. Riou to show off how fine was his frigate. Amazon was indeed “ship-shape and Bristol Fashion” in every respect.
“Damme, but I like that fellow!” Lewrie exclaimed once he’d sat down in the stern-sheets of his boat, and his Cox’n, Desmond, had gotten it underway for the town piers. “Captain Riou is one Hell of a fellow.”
Now, if only Parker turns out t’be half the man Riou is, Lewrie thought; Come t’think on’t, I can’t recall ever really meeting’ him.
He’d been under Admiral Parker’s command in the West Indies for almost three years, and had exchanged reports and orders, but the closest he’d ever gotten to the man was to call upon his shore headquarters out on the point of Kingston Harbour . . . dealing with that drink-addled Staff Capta
in known as “the Wine Keg,” later with Capt. Nicely, who had taken his place once the former had died “in the barrel,” and . . . he’d heard Sir Hyde Parker snoring in his chambers just above the entrance hall. Lewrie had made the man a pile of “tin” with his capture of that new-minted Spanish silver at Barataria Bay, but then Parker’s favourites, like Otway and others, who had been allowed to cruise independently and reap prizes like a dealer raked in cards from the baize of a gaming table had made him umpteen thousands more. He wondered if the man would even recall his name!
“More ships comin’ in yonder, sir,” Desmond pointed out towards the Sou’east, to the treacherous entrance through the series of shoal-banks offshore that guarded Great Yarmouth from the full onslaught of the North Sea. A brace of ships of the line, Third Rate 74s, led the procession, followed by a small frigate or sloop of war, and a brace of bomb vessels or gunboats; at that distance it was hard to tell how their masts were spaced.
“They keep a’comin’ in like that, sor, ’twill be that soon th’ whole shebang gits underway, aye, Liam?” Patrick Furfy, the starboard stroke oar, muttered to his mate.
“Eyes in th’ boat, Pat,” Desmond whispered back, “an’ mind yer Ps an’ Qs.” As Cox’n, he was supposed to keep good order, though stern discipline, and a “hard face,” came un-naturally to the fellow.
“Shebang?” Lewrie asked. “What sorta word is that? I’ve heard of Irish shebeens . . . all fleas and whisky . . . but what’s a shebang, Furfy?”
“Lock, stock, an’ barrel, like, sor,” Furfy replied with a grunt of effort, paying more mind to the pace of the stroke. “Th’ whole thing.”
“You listen to Furfy long enough, you lads’ll learn a thing or two,” Lewrie told his boat crew, all of whom but for Desmond and Furfy were strangers to him, so far.
“Ye listen t’Pat Furfy, ye’ll learn all th’ wrong things!” Liam Desmond countered, which raised a small laugh from them all. “Easy all, now . . . bow man, ready with yer gaff an’ painter,” Desmond ordered as the boat ghosted towards the foot of the slimy stone stairs at a quay. “Toss yer oars, larboard,” he added, putting his tiller over.
A moment later, and Lewrie was able to step over the gunwale to the wet steps, and trot up to the top of the quay. “Won’t be but half an hour with Sir Hyde, Desmond. Hot cider on me if a vendor comes by, but keep ’em close,” he ordered.
“Aye aye, sor,” his Cox’n replied, knuckling his forehead in salute.
A foul wind was whipping over the harbour, out of the East-Nor’east, not quite a “dead muzzler” yet, to pen the gathered warships in port. It was a cold Scandinavian wind, though, that whipped his cloak and plastered it to his back, threatening to snatch away his best hat as he set a brisk pace towards the Wrestler’s Arms hotel. Head down, and a hand on his hat, he almost rammed a pair of gentlemen who trudged against the wind in the opposite direction, giving ground and swivelling his shoulder clear without half looking at them.
“Captain Lewrie, sir? My stars, it is you!”
“Huh?” was Lewrie’s witty rejoinder as he turned about. “Damn my eyes . . . Mister Mountjoy?”
“To the life, sir!” his former clerk in HMS Jester cried, looking both relieved and pleased. “Speak of coincidence, sir, but I was just in search of a boat to come out to you.”
“Whyever, Mister Mountjoy?” Lewrie asked with a frown, recalling that Thomas Mountjoy, the younger brother of his London solicitor, was now employed by the Foreign Office—not by the silk-drawers, laced handkerchiefs, Oxonian drawlers who implemented and delivered British diplomacy, but by the other “department”; the one that employed Zachariah Twigg and James Peel. Spies, lurkers, and cut-throats, did the need arise, and dealing with their sort was never a very healthy thing to do.
“Well, first off, sir, Mister Keane, here, who coached down from London with me, is an Admiralty messenger,” Mountjoy said, turning to indicate the young fellow with him. Lewrie cocked a brow in wonder.
“Admiralty Orders, Captain Lewrie,” Keane said, tapping a thick canvas despatch bag slung over his shoulder, “just confirmed with Vice-Admiral Sir Hyde Parker, sir.”
“Well, let me see ’em, then,” Lewrie requested, holding out a hand.
“Well, erm . . . they might best be opened and read aboard ship, sir,” Keane said, coughing into his fist, not from caution; it sounded wet, phlegmy, and ominous. “Sealed orders, sir, well . . . one set sealed, t’other, uhm . . . private.” Keane might have said more, but for a fresh bout of hacking, which bent him half over.
“I suppose you’ve saved me a call upon our Admiral Parker, Mister Mountjoy?” Lewrie asked, beginning to get one of those fey feelings that association with Twigg usually engendered. “Customary, after all.”
“Sir Hyde, sir, is, ah . . . quite busy, and barely had the time to see us, do you see,” Mountjoy explained with a twist of his mouth. With a confidence that Lewrie had not seen in him when he’d served as his clerk, Mountjoy actually winked, and further said, “I do believe Sir Hyde and his bride are . . . otherwise engaged, Captain Lewrie.”
“Draggin’ his ‘sheet-anchor,’ like the papers said?” Lewrie surmised.
“Lady Frances is become known as his ‘little batter pudding,’ I do believe, sir,” Mountjoy replied with a salacious grin.
“Well, I can see why Mister Keane came down from London, Mister Mountjoy, but . . . why is your presence required, as well?” Lewrie just had to ask, though dreading the answer.
“Well, there is another niggling little matter, sir,” Mountjoy confessed, looking more like his old, hesitant self for a moment. “If I may accompany you aboard your ship, I can enlighten you further,” he said, tapping his lips with a mittened finger, which request for privacy—for secrecy!—almost set Lewrie’s innards squirming into a Gordian knot.
“Mine arse on a . . . ,” Lewrie grumbled, knowing that he’d been had—again!—and carping would not even make him feel better about it, much less get him out of whatever deviltry the new government had come up with. “Anything more for me from Admiralty, Mister Keane?” he asked instead, turning to that wheezing worthy.
“Nothing more, sir. If you would take possession of the orders, and affix your name in receipt of them, ah . . . here,” Keane said, opening his canvas bag to produce a ribbon-bound and wax-sealed bundle of paper, a short receipt form, and a stub of pencil. “Save me a row out to your ship in this weather, do you see, and grateful for it, ha ha!”
Lewrie shoved the orders under his boat-cloak, into a side pocket of his uniform coat, then looked for a flat surface. “Turn round, Mister Keane, would ye be so kind,” he said, employing the man’s back as a writing desk on which to press the form and pencil his name down. “There ye are, then, Mister Keane, and take care of that cough.”
“I fully intend to, sir, and thankee for your solicitous—” Keane tried to say, interrupted by another bout of fluid coughs. He had the good courtesy to turn himself away, alee of both Mountjoy and Lewrie ’til he was done.
“A hot mustard salve,” Mountjoy hopefully suggested, “followed by candled tea cups applied, to draw out the humours, perhaps.”
“A scalding bath, followed by a bowl of stiff-laced punch, sir” was Lewrie’s sage advice. “Drunk in a bed piled with covers, and hourly changes o’ warmin’ pans. It don’t work, ye can’t feel any worse in the morning, Mister Keane.”
“I thankee again for your solicitation, sirs, and take my leave to follow your advice,” Keane said, bowing from the waist. “Godspeed,” he concluded, before turning to lope for the nearest warm tavern.
“So . . . what the Devil is it, this time, Mister Mountjoy?” Alan Lewrie sourly demanded as he led his former clerk towards his waiting boat.
“It is more in the nature of a diplomatic mission, sir,” Thomas Mountjoy told him, frighteningly cryptic and tight-lipped.
“Meanin’ some diplomat’s throat must be slit, I s’pose,” Lewrie sarcastically rejoined. “Does Twigg have somethin’ t�
��do with this?”
“He did participate in the initial consultations, yes,” Mountjoy answered, though loath to say too much in the open. Lewrie increased his pace, if only to warm up, forcing Mountjoy to toddle along off his larboard quarter to keep up. “Mister Twigg was not instrumental in the choice of ship, or captain, however, sir. Does that mollify you.”
“By God it does not!” Lewrie groused. “I should’ve known gettin’ an active commission so quick’d have a catch to it. I’d get leery even if Twigg was only walkin’ by Admiralty, or Whitehall, and wasn’t at the bottom of it . . . whatever it is.”
“Once completely laid before you, sir, you’ll see that it really is quite straightforward,” Mountjoy attempted to console.
“Well, they all begin that way, don’t they, Mister Mountjoy?” Lewrie shot back, past gut-churning dread to a good fume. “Christ on a crutch, sir . . . will that foul old schemer ever be shot o’ me? Or, me of him?”
“Perhaps when he passes from this mortal coil, at last, Captain Lewrie,” Mountjoy said with an enigmatic smile. “Yet, when he finally does . . . God help England,” he stated with a touch of awe and respect for his patron.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A Franklin stove?” Mountjoy enthused once Pettus had taken his overcoat, hat, and cane, and had seen to his captain’s things as well. Mountjoy rubbed his chilled hands over the stove, savouring the heat.
“And thank God coal’s cheap in England,” Lewrie said, enjoying his early-morning splurge with the Purser in much the same fashion. He cocked an ear and looked about. “The parrot’s gone!”
“Aye, sir,” Pettus told him after he’d hung up their things on the row of pegs. “Mister Ballard sent him ashore with Perry, just at the change of the watch. Coffee, sir?”
“Nigh-boilin’, aye,” Lewrie gladly agreed, turning to lift the back of his coat to the stove. “Won’t do in a sea-way, but our Surgeon, Mister Harward, says it’s best for the ship’s people, are they kept a bit warm. Thermopylae’s been prowling the North Sea and Baltic all winter, and there are a number of hands come down with consumption. More a matter of too many men cooped up below with hatches and companionways shut, he told me, Mister Mountjoy.”
The Baltic Gambit Page 23
