The same could pretty much be said for men of his own grade, with the epaulet on the left shoulder-the Commanders in the room. They either were too young to be so fortunate or looked too old and worn-out for the rank, the ones who'd go down on their knees and thank God for a "bloody war or a sickly season," as the old mess-toast went.
He had no eye for the many hopeful lieutenants and midshipmen in the Waiting Room. The Devil with 'em, he thought, competition! A lap or two about the room, looking for a seat, revealed no officer of his personal acquaintance.
Either the good, he thought sourly, or the twit-like!
The twits he'd served, or served with, he suspected, were well-connected twits and would be at sea that instant. The good men he'd known should be. He took that as a hopeful omen; that either way he was regarded by Admiralty-twit or good'un-he'd soon receive one more active-duty commission and not end up cooling his heels in here with the hopeless!
"Ah, Commander Lewrie, do come in, sir," the strange new secretary offered. Not too cheerful, considering, Lewrie thought; but he'd not sounded threatening either. "Evan Nepean, sir, First Secretary."
"Your servant, Mister Nepean," Lewrie cooed, as the door was shut behind him. Nepean waved him to a wing-back chair before a desk, then took a seat behind it, spreading his coat-tails carefully before he sat down. He was a much younger man than either old Phillip Stephens, or his deputy, Jackson, had been. Cultured, slim, and rapier-like, and togged out most nattily in the latest civilian style. Something about him, though, that arch look perhaps, that wryly observant glare, made Lewrie think he wasn't a man he'd exactly put his trust in.
"Well, well, sir," Nepean drawled, in a lofty, nasal accent of the titled and powerful. "So you are the infamous Lewrie." He smiled, looking at Lewrie intently over steepled fingers.
"Depending on which 'infamous' you had in mind, Mister Nepean," Lewrie most carefully replied, shifting from one buttock to the other, crossing his legs to guard his "nutmegs." Damme, what'd he heard?
"Why, 'the Ram-Cat,' sir," Nepean simpered, "the successful and 'lucky' Lewrie. Toulon, Genoa… of the recently promoted Rear-Admiral Nelson's squadron. The one well-known of-and dare I say it, sir, as highly commended by-a certain ah… audacious and unconventional gentleman from the Foreign Office? The Far East 'tween the wars. A certain Frenchman by name of Choundas? There and, of late, ashore near Genoa? I speak of that Commander Lewrie, sir."
"Ah!" Lewrie gawped. "Well, that!" He pretended to preen with at least a shred of becoming modesty. Thankful they didn't keep files on the other part of "infamous." "Nothing, really… just…"
"Some rather, uhm… sub rosa activities this past year in the Adriatic?" Nepean interrupted. "I've letters on file, hmmrn…" Nepean thumbed through a short stack of correspondence. "Sir Malcom Shockley the M.P… the millionaire. Lord, what a horrid word, do you not believe? Thankfully, a firm supporter of our faction and of the Prime Minister. One from Lord Peter Rushton in Lords. Though not known for anything much… still, full of praise for your nautical quality. At least his first address to the House of Lords could be construed as actually making sense-which is more than one may expect from one of that august body, so…"
Politics, again/ Lewrie groaned to himself; damme. It had even crept into Admiralty, with this new man Evan Nepean thinking him brave because he was Tory and was spoken for by ones who were Tory! Allied with William Pitt the Younger, am IF IVouldn 't know him from Adam if he crawled up and bit me on the ankle! Nor the old Whig, Fox, either!
Well, call this old dog any good name ye wish 'long as it puts me in command of a new ship! he decided, nodding sagaciously yet committing himself to nothing.
"More to the point, though, Commander Lewrie," Nepean sobered from his bout of hero-worship, becoming all business-like, "are your good 'characters' from Captain Thomas Charlton. And from Lord Saint Vincent… a new investiture; you wouldn't have heard of it yet. From Admiral Sir John Jervis, now made Earl."
"Good for him, sir," Lewrie crowed suddenly. "His ennoblement, rather." Yet wondering; When the blades did he ever take time to think good o' me?
"Rather a furor in the Fleet, after The Glorious First of June, Commander Lewrie," Nepean scowled. "Admiral Howe allowing his flag captain, Sir Roger Curtis, to, ah… 'anoint' by mentioning only those few captains of line-of-battle ships present for honours whom he himself thought worthy… those who'd closed yardarm-to-yardarm to take their foe as prizes. For the rest who fought well, nothing. A medal struck, but given only to those fortunate few."
"Excuse me, sir, but…?" Lewrie puzzled. "Whilst in Lisbon, in the careenage, I read a London paper and Admiral Jervis's report made no mention of anyone at all. So you're saying…?"
"A taciturn man is the new Earl Saint Vincent, Commander, as I'm mortal certain you've already discovered." Nepean chuckled, shuffling one pile of papers aside and drawing out a single slim folder to open. "Yet he would not ever make the same mistake. Would never create even more jealousies among his officers. He sent Captain Robert Calder home with his dispatches… which glad arrival soon after resulted in Captain Calder being knighted and promoted. No, 'Old Jarvy,' as I believe the men of the Fleet are wont to call him, waited to write a more complete list and report of the action to the First Lord Earl Spencer, after he'd had time to assess things, to sort them out. This time, every captain of every ship-of-the-line present is to be honoured. Given a medal commemorating the battle too."
"I see, sir." Lewrie nodded again, still striving for "sagacity" but more than a little puzzled by this long, prosing prologue. "Then, again… good for 'Old Jarvy,' the Earl Saint Vincent, that is."
"You, sir, more to the point at hand, were cited in that letter to the First Lord," Nepean said with a smirk, very much like "I know something you don't know!"
"Ah? Sir?" Lewrie gulped, expectations rising.
"For rushing… let me see, how did he phrase it? Ah! 'For his intrepidity and alacrity at rushing to support HMS Captain, his fear-nought daring in engaging the enemy battle-line in complete disregard for the custom and usage of repeating frigates, at such hopeless odds in those minutes before he could hope for reinforcement or succour, I most respectfully request of your Lordship that Commander Alan Lewrie of the Jester sloop be included in the list of those to be honoured.' ':
"Ah?" Lewrie gargled. "Mean t'say … ah, sir! Well…-.!"
"The only officer below 'post' rank to be so named, Commander Lewrie. Breaking away from the line as you did, in trusty and loyal… and dare I say, heroic fashion in support of your old squadron commander, Horatio Nelson! 'Spite of all the rules to the contrary, the risk of court martial and infamy, well, sir! Well, well!" Nepean cried, sounding for a moment almost fawning in his appreciation.
"Well, sir, it was…" Lewrie began, fighting the urge to bark like a pack of seals at such an absurd characterisation.
Pushed me out o' line, he did! Ordered… kickin' an' screamin'!
"In spite of the volume of work still waiting, you will do me the honour of coming with me, Commander Lewrie," Nepean bade, motioning towards the door in the far wall, the one that led to the Board Room!
A discreet knock, a muffled bidding to enter, and they were in the presence of the First Lord of The Admiralty, George John, the Earl Spencer, a fairly tall and distinguished-looking fellow of middling, uncertain age. There followed some cooing remarks which Lewrie could never quite recall for the heady rush of blood in his ears. He would recall, however, the moment the medal was slipped over his head. Long and broad white satin riband, edged in blue, which passed through the oval of a large-ish gold medal-finely milled and rope-chained about its diameter, a scene of Victory standing on the prow of a galley and placing a laurel wreath on the brow of a triumphant Britannia.
"… under the coat collar, over the waist-coat, so the medal will hang just above the pit of your stomach, sir," Alan thought he heard the Earl Spencer instruct. "First, Sir Robert Calder, now you, Commander Lewrie… the only ones I will have
the honour to personally bestow. The rest are to be sent on to the Fleet, now blockading Cadiz, so that the Earl Saint Vincent may award them."
"Then I'm doubly honoured, milord," Lewrie murmured, still not quite featuring this was happening. This was fame! This was glory… beyond his wildest fantasies! Within a quim-hair of being knighted!
God, he thought; / can dine out on this, free, for years!
"… suitable period of leave, then… will there be something open, Mister Nepean?" Earl Spencer enquired, as Lewrie swam his way back to the here-and-now.
"Several vessels will, I am certain, be coming open, milord," Nepean purred back. "Though none for several weeks, as I recall."
"There you are, then, good sir. Your few weeks of shore leave, Commander Lewrie." Earl Spencer beamed. "You reside where, sir?"
"A… Anglesgreen, milord. Just down the road past Guildford, in Surrey," he replied, his mind gibbering. Bloody Hell, they goin' t'promote me into the bargain?
"Family estates, sir?"
"Oh, erm… milord. Near my wife's relations," he admitted.
"Good huntin' country, Surrey," Spencer prosed on. "Wide open and rolling. Lovely riding. Which hunt do you follow, sir?"
"Only the local, sir. Sir Romney Embleton… baronet," Lewrie related, glad he could elide his way 'round how often he'd been invited to ride with them since he and Caroline had wed in '86. Sum total of zero, it was, since he'd shamed Sir Romney's otter-jawed, lack-wit son, Harry. Damn' near broke his nose, in point of fact! He could at the least sound like he still "Yoicks, tally-hoed" after foxes!
"Well, my regards to your wife and family, Commander Lewrie," the First Lord chuckled. "And do you take joy of a few weeks ashore. Mind, now… don't fall off anything and lame yourself. We expect a great deal of you once you're back in Navy harness, ha!"
"I shan't, and thankee most kindly, milord! Most kindly!" he babbled on his way out, with Evan Nepean taking hold of his elbow to steer him away before he said something lunatick.
"My Lord, that was…!" Lewrie marvelled, back in the privacy of Nepean 's adjoining offices.
"Quite," Nepean said, with a firm nod, though sounding much less appreciative than he had before. "Well then, sir… I will turn all the official correspondence from your commission over to the junior clerks, though I don't imagine… after a thorough 'scouring' by Vice-Admiral Sir Peter Parker's staff at Portsmouth, that there's anything serious amiss to quibble over. My congratulations again, Commander Lewrie," he said, extending his hand for a quick shake. "I note that you are owing eleven pounds, two shillings, six pence. And there is the matter of your official certificate for your medal. That will be another two shillings, six pence. Do you prefer we may deduct the total from the pay certificate owing you, sir. Or you may deposit the sum with my under-clerk, then see the Pay Office superintendent, get your chit, and be on your way home."
Nepean was looking at his mantel clock whilst he said all that, no matter his hearty bonhomie; he'd done his duty, and it was time for him to take up others, and Lewrie's presence was a time-waster. Which made Lewrie all but snort with cynical amusement.
"I'll just pay your clerk, Mister Nepean," he drawled, with one brow up and a quirky smile on his face. "And damme if it ain't one o' the cheapest ways ever I heard of to get a medal. Stap me… I should have thought o' this sooner."
"Erm… yayss," Nepean purred back, just as chary of Lewrie of a sudden as Lewrie was of him. "Well, goodbye, Commander Lewrie. We will be in touch by post, hmmm…?" And he chivvied Lewrie out of his offices into the care of an underling before Lewrie could utter another sound. The underling led him without a word to the aforementioned clerk, far down the hallway.
Lewrie felt like stopping dead in his tracks, or going back into Nepean 's office, concerned about the sheaf of penny tracts which had been hidden in his borrowed newspaper the previous evening. All sorts of rabble-rousing Republican cant: no more King, annually elected Parliaments, votes for the Common Man. What rot! But given his unfortunate penchant for shooting off his mouth, as he just had, of indulging his smarmy wit… he didn't think he'd get another welcome. Or a bit more of Nepean 's time of day.
He dug into his purse and paid on the nail, then waited for his slowly penned receipt for the sum owing. The clerk then opened a tin cash-box, and proceeded to begin counting out a stack of ornately made papers, muttering to himself and referring to a thick ledger.
"Damme, what are those, then?" Lewrie was forced to ask.
"This is the balance of your pay owing you, sir," the prim old fellow intoned most officiously. "Less advances previously paid out…"
"Looks like bum-fodder," Lewrie carped.
"Bank notes, sir"-the clerk tensed-"issued by the Bank of England are hardly, uhm… that which you just described, sir! They are perfectly good, legal tender throughout the realm, sir. There is the shortage of specie to consider, after all! They come in various denominations, you should note, sir… differing colours and such for a one- or two-pound note, the five, ten, and twenty. You will come across the odd fraud, issued by forgers or private or provincial banks… those which have not gone under the past two years, sir. Only these notes are legitimate, so you should give any received in exchange the closest inspection. And, of course, there are none smaller than a one pound."
"And I'm to be paid in these, am I? My crew, too, when it comes their due? 'Twill be a wonder do they not riot over 'em!"
"I fear so, Commander. But times are so terribly hard."
"Christ, what's the country comin' to?" he griped, stuffing the neat pile of bills into his coat pockets-they surely wouldn't go in a proper coin-purse!-and wondering how he'd get to Coutts's Bank to deposit them without losing half to a brisk breeze.
"One may only wonder, Commander… wonder, indeed!" that clerk lowed, like a mournful bovine.
CHAPTER FOUR
W hat a reassuring sameness and familiarity, Lewrie thought, all but squirming with anticipation as his hired coach swept past the stone ruins of the Norman or Saxon castle at the edge of Sir Romney Embleton's lands, mossy old St. George's Church hard by the eastern bridge, then Anglesgreen itself. "Damme, more change!" he grumbled to himself, as he beheld a whole new row of houses on the south side of the stream, the clutch of new buildings 'round the Red Swan Inn, how the ancient Old Ploughman tavern had taken down a row-house to make a side garden for casual drinkers or bowlers. There was a third bridge…! He clattered past quickly, 'round the curve of the Red Swan, onto the newly graveled road which forked off north, alongside Chiswick lands-taking the turning, he shouted to the coachman-onto a primeval, rutted goat track.
Trust Uncle Phineas Chiswick not to waste a single farthing for pea gravel on his private lane; just like the miserly old fart!
Lewrie sat up straighter, shifting from the larboard window to the starboard, for a first, tantalizing glimpse of his own home! "God!" he breathed in expectation.
There was a last turning between two (new) grey-brick pillars, onto his own lane, which was proper-gravelled and drained, wide enough for two coaches to pass, and lined with far set back sapling oaks. In twenty-five years, he'd have the makings of a drive found only on regal estates, he marvelled, beaming at Caroline's handiwork and forethought.
There was the house…!
The lane became a circular drive about an immense informal garden, tall and lush with flowers… what sort Lewrie wasn't quite sure, but they were blue, pink, white, pale yellow, rather pretty, uhm… somethings, he thought, a real English country garden that would bloom colourful from March 'til November. Caroline's work, that, and her green thumb.
There had been time for ivy (he was fairly sure he knew ivy when he saw it) to lay tentative creepers on the house front, about the imitation Palladian stucco central portal, and the homey grey brick. New white urns sat on either side of the portal as.. .jardinieres, he puzzled? Big as wash-tubs! Some yews and hollies to frame them between the windows-aye, definitely recognisable yews and hollies.
&n
bsp; His hollies, his house, his house… his door! It was a glossy dark-blue, with his silvery Venetian-brass lion door-knocker prominent at its centre… and that door was opening…
He was out of the coach before the postillion could get down to lower the metal step for him, knocking his hat off in the process, and galloping to enfold the brood which erupted from the house.
"Good God, Hugh!" he cried. "My, boy, my boy!" he whooped, as he lifted him off his feet. "I'm home! Gad, yer gettin' heavy as any man. Sewallis!" he said, lowering the wildly exuberant and squirming Hugh, to fling his arms about his eldest, who, for once, came into his arms with something akin to enthusiasm to embrace him. Ten, he was by then, and sprouted like a weed, already as tall as Lewrie's chin!
"God, you're a sight for sore eyes, Sewallis. Grown so…!"
"Welcome home, Father," Sewallis said, teared up and with his lower lip trembling, but clinging to some shred of his sober stoicism. "We've missed you so."
"Yay, you're back, you're back!" Hugh crowed, so excited that he was capering sidewise like a cross-gaited pony. "Did you kill lots of Frenchmen? Did you sink a lot of ships? What'd you bring us? Ooh, what's this… a medal! Hurrah, did you get it from the King?"
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