"My reply off by afternoon post," Lewrie speculated-gently. "Depart by first light tomorrow, I fear. I really am sorry, dear'un. You don't know how sorry. Our joys together… us and the children… you're not the only one who misses peace and normalcy. Tranquility."
"Do they say where you're to go?" she asked, clenching back at him, her face cooler against his at last.
"I rather doubt Portsmouth or Plymouth are in any mood for new ships to commission at the moment," he dared to scoff. "First, up to London… then perhaps the Nore or Great Yarmouth. Some port close to home, I'd suspect, with the French and Dutch fleets threatening us. I doubt it's to be a foreign station, not for a year or better most-like," he told her, leaning back a bit, emboldened by her resignation to meet her eyes once more.
"So… not too far, or long, a separation?" Caroline softened, leaning back herself, for a tiny crumb of promise.
"Perhaps even close enough to get home every month or so," he said with a shrug. "Can't count on it, but… when winter comes down, if I'm still home-ported, the weather'll bind me in harbour for weeks at a time. We could have you and the children down to visit. School can go hang for a bit, or fetch their tutor along…"
Aye, that's the way, m'girl, he thought; perk up game, as you always do! Put the best face on it.
"Care to lay a wager with me, dearest?" he joshed, feeling he was now on safer ground. "Lay odds with me, hmtn? I win, and I get you… with no tykes underfoot… just the two of us, for hotel weekends."
"And what do I win if you're wrong, Alan?" she queried, still dubious, but much closer to an amused grin than she had been.
"Why, you get me, m'dear!" he promised, "a joyous romp, so you may do what you will with me, have your beastly way with me!"
"Oh, you're incorrigible," she sighed. But, Lewrie noted, this time it was a teasing sigh. "I s'pose we should begin packing you."
"Let's both pack… Hell's Bells, let's all pack, Caroline," he insisted, all come over with inspiration. "The overseer can deal with the farm for a few days. We'll all go up to London, perhaps beyond to my new ship, 'til I'm settled aboard."
"Alan, I can't abandon the farm work, not now, not…" Caroline balked, but with a pensive, almost eager sound, as if considering it.
'Course you can!" he rejoined quickly. "Extend the times we have together by a fortnight at least! The boys are out of school; you'll be free of my pesky father for a while… and when was the last time Sophie saw London? Do her good to see more of the world. Other likely young lads, hmm? Turn her head? Gawd, that'd be four birds or more with one stone, hah? Let's do, love! I'm to be made 'post,' so we deserve to celebrate!"
"Well…" She hesitated, head cocked to one side, and swishing her long tail of hair under her mob-cap. A sly smile sprang to life. "Whyever not, then? Yes, let's!" And she sprang to her wardrobe to open it for likely gowns suitable to impress.
And thank bloody Christ that mellowed her! Lewrie thought.
He sat on the foot of the bed to sort the rest of the mail, as she measured a dress against her. Bills, mostly tiny sums, he noted; and thank God for that, else they'd not be able to afford a diverting jaunt to the city. More "prize-money deposited in his Coutts's account by his solicitor, Mr. Mount-joy, aha! But a tithe of what he'd really reaped so far, but more than enough to offset their sudden lunatick excursion and tide the farm over for the rest of the year's needs.
"Bloody Hell!" he barked, of a sudden.
"Yes, it's much too plain," Caroline agreed, misunderstanding his meaning and hanging the last gown she'd tried back in the wardrobe. "Though you needn't take such a harsh tone as to…"
"No, Caroline, look!" he insisted, bounding from the bed. "The scales are gone from our eyes, as it were. This bill from a milliner, a Mistress Cowles…"
"Quite cunning, dearest, and not really that expensive really," Caroline continued to apologise. "Sophie, Charlotte, and I only ordered one apiece for spring."
"Ah, but it's not a bill, love…'tis a billet-doux,/" Lewrie cried, waving it at her. "Wondered why a local bill needed wax seals. It's really from Harry Embleton… suggesting an actual assignation."
"Let me see that!" Caroline demanded, fresh fury in her voice; thankfully for Lewrie, none directed at him for a change. "Why, the conniving… hmph! See if she has our trade in future! I know she's been at her shop quite often lately, but… I hardly expected Sophie to exhibit such back-alley guile. The thoughtless, headstrong chit!"
"Like that Frog novel, Les Liaisons Dangereuses," Lewrie scoffed, more than glad for Caroline to be on other ground. "Lovers passed letters easier than… gas!"
"And what would you know of such scandalous scribbling… Alan?"
"Well, I heard tell…" he waffled, turtling his neck into his collar once more. "Men talk, don't ye know… in the gunroom," Lewrie gruffly, most off-handedly, added.
"I shall speak harshly with her about this," Caroline promised. "All this time I thought her sweet and naive, but now…! Warn that young miss I'll have no lies or dangerous folderol in my household! Surely she must have sense enough to see that he's so bad for her, or any true Christian young lady! I really must put my foot down in this instance… bring her up short before she…"
Uh-oh! Lewrie thought in sudden panic; and when cornered like a rat, accused of foolishness, she 'II turn and bite back and blab about Phoebe Aretino and me… for jingle-brained spite! There's an end to Domestic Bliss, by God!
"Caroline, she's but a child still," he cooed instead, going to embrace his wife to cosset her out of another pet. "Besides, do we accuse her, act as if we don't trust her, we will lose all the affection she's developed with us, and she'll practically run to Harry. Or the first human-lookin' substitute. All the way to Gretna Green, hey? The first hedge-priest or false-justice that'd wed her to a charming rogue? No, dear, that's not the way! I must… insist!"
Beg, would be more like it! he told himself in a fret.
"Use my father. Sophie finds him amusing, calls him Granpere. Some of his rough, uhm… sagacity about men might be of more avail," he urged. "God knows, he must be good for something! She needs soft, insistent, and loving… motherly, paterfamilial… advice. Guidance."
She stared at him for a long moment, her hands and that damned billet-doux limply hung together on her belly. He felt a need to see to his fly-buttons, his neck-stock, under such close inspection.
"Alan, you continually amaze me," she said at last, forming her fondest grin, that furrow disappearing, and the riant folds below her eyes acrinkle. "You're right, of course. Harsh words and accusations… once hurled… can never be recovered-or forgiven."
" 'Least said, soonest mended,' " Lewrie dared breathe in relief.
"Where do you get your insight, being so much in the company of sailors, my dear?" She actually snickered, coming to give him a grateful hug and a peck on the lips. "I'd feared her head being turned by Harry… he is rich, and she is not… we are not."
"Un-used to household drudgery, though she tries to accommodate your wishes… from love and gratitude, m'dear," he tacked on, "with sisterly, dare I even say, uhm… daughterly obedience? She's come to love you… us, after all."
"That's true, too, love," Caroline gently chuckled. "Sophie is never going to be a 'goodie' housewife. A magnificent hostess, wife, or house-mistress, but… yes. Soft words and sage advice, drop by gentle drop, will I be more suitable. And, your father's cautions given her during their rides and card games. A stiff warning to that colluding Mistress Cowles… a word to Harry. Or should I merely take down my horsewhip, do you think, dearest? Might he get the hint?"
"Perfect, my dear. Well, off to London, all of us?"
"Yes. By first light tomorrow. You write your letters, whilst I pack." She kissed him once more, deeper, with more meaning, before going to the door. "And be sure to reserve us a separate room at Willis's, will you? I mean to hold you to your wager… dear Alan!"
Whew! he thought in relief; can I finesse 'em or not?
&nbs
p; "Children… boys! Sophie? Guess what?" Caroline announced.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Like a presaging omen of his new-found prospects, the coach ride up to London had been a cool but sunny delight. The weather had turned off splendid, the roads dried out, but not so dusty they couldn't lower the sash windows of their coach and savour the aromas and sounds of a marvelous springtime, though travelling with children aboard wasn't a thing Lewrie was quite used to. There were times he envied Andrews-up on the driver's seat with their coachee to make room in-board and free of the nonsense. " London!" Charlotte would scream, whenever a new village or town loomed up before them. "Are we there yet?" Hugh would demand… at about every tenth milepost. Sewallis, thankfully, kept his own counsel for the most part, and his lip buttoned, decrying only the most marvelous sights which flickered by as their coach reeled off a goodly clip, almost as fast as one of the new "balloon coaches" which bore the Royal Mails. No mud-well, not much, anyway-flew up to daub them, no herds of geese, sheep, beeves, or turkeys blocked the road so completely they'd have to come to a complete stop…
No, the delays they suffered were for nourishment, for sweets or fruits hawked by pedlars at the kerbs of the towns they passed. And, of course, the inevitable "… Mummy, I have to, uhm… now.1" bawled by Charlotte, sometimes by Hugh. "But, darling, you just, uhm… not a mile back." "I know, but Mummy…!" Hugh, at least, could be taken behind a hedge by the side of the road, whilst the horses got a rest; Charlotte, though… well, that required a proper inn, a proper jakes, a proper escort from Caroline or Sophie with the family's travelling "necessary" bundle. Followed by a sweet, perhaps…?
"Commander Lewrie?" the tiler gawked. "Back again, are we, sir? Aye, sir… on th' list, sir. Workin' ya like a dray-horse, ain't they, sir? In an' out, in an' out. Go-on-in, sir, there's-a-horde-o'-others waitin'…"
And again in a promising omen, his heels had barely cooled in the infamous Waiting Room before his name was called and he was abovestairs to see Nepean once more. And it was personally gratifying for Lewrie to have so many contemporaries in the Waiting Room that day, even some of the renowned fighting captains, peer from their corner coteries of admirers and well-wishers to wonder who he was or why he had the gold St. Vincent medal clattering on his chest as he made his way to the stairs.
"Commander Lewrie, aha," Evan Nepean commented, allowing himself a stab at "glad" welcome. "Do take a seat, sir. You've quite enjoyed a few weeks ashore, I take it?"
"Oh quite, Mister Nepean," Lewrie replied, hat in his lap and his legs crossed. Damme, this is goin' main-well, he allowed himself to imagine. "Though I did take a trip down to Portsmouth to visit my old ship… try to talk the hands remaining out of their nonsense. Wasn't to be, sorry to say."
"Aha," Nepean barked, looking cross. " Portsmouth, did you? I see. And whilst there, sir… did you happen to come across any tracts amongst, your former crew, sir? Of a radical, rebellious nature, which might be to blame for this mutiny?" Nepean suddenly demanded.
"None, sir," Lewrie replied, guardedly. "And on that head, sir, I did enquire. But I was assured by my old Bosun that he'd seen none, and that the, uhm, disturbance was spontaneous-within the Fleet-with no prompting from shore. Though with so many Quota Men, these United Irishmen being 'pressed lately, well… there's sure to be radicals in each draught from the receiving ships. Spirit of the times,,more-like, sir. Known him since '81, sir, and he's truthful as the day is…"
"Hmmm… odd." Nepean sighed, looking disappointed. "We were sure… the Duke of Portland… responsible for hunting down utterers of treason and mutinous, rebellious assemblages. He's agents afoot in Portsmouth, looking into the matter. Done a magnificent job of hounding our Republican schemers. Break up every meeting place, drive them from pillar to post. We'd hopes that the plucking… or the arrest and silencing of a few ranters might defuse this… take away their leadership, d'ye see. Can't expect lack-wit, drunken sailors to hold out for long once the instigators are cast into prison, hmm?"
"Beg pardon, Mister Nepean," Lewrie countered. "But it was my impression that the sailors did their own scheming… crosspatch or no. I'll grant you, the petitions my old hands showed me were written rather well, which might seem suspiciously like someone wrote 'em for them, but… our tars ain't that child-like, the bulk of 'em. Oh, the total lubbers, the failed 'prentices, and clerks with grudges…"
"You do not side with the sailors' demands, do you, sir?" the secretary posed. "Surely," he purred, come over all suspicious.
Shit! Lewrie sighed; and it was goin' so bloody well.1 I'll be hauled out o' here in chains, next!
"Of course not, sir!" he barked back, laying a thick scowl 'pon his phyz. "And I was most distressed to find my counsel wasted, even with men I'd sailed with for years. Trusted…!"
He almost thought of throwing in a petulant "ungrateful curs!" which seemed to be the common coin lately, but forebade.
"I am gratified to hear that, Commander Lewrie," Nepean said, seeming to relent. He got that quirky "I know something you don't" smirk on his face, thumbed a folder to his right, and drew out a sheet of paper. He held it up to the light to read over just once more, to prolong the suspense. He let out a satisfied wee sniff.
Bastard! Lewrie thought in heat, though posing "just waiting."
"It is my honour to tell you, Commander Lewrie, that our Lords Commissioners have seen fit to offer you the Proteus Frigate."
"And it is my honour to accept, sir… gladly!" Lewrie breathed in relief. "Where is she, sir?"
"At Chatham Dockyard, Lewrie." Nepean deigned to grin, holding out that precious document 'twixt thumb and forefinger. Florid scrollwork in the penmanship, yet legible as block-printing and suitable to the solemnity of the occasion; a square stamp in the upper left-hand corner bearing the seal of Admiralty embossed into the thick paper… and a tax stamp halfway down the left side.
By the Commifsioners for executing the Office of Lord. High. Admiral of Great Britain, and. Ireland c and all of his Majesty's Plantations c.
To Captain Alan Lewrie, hereby appointed Captain of his Majesty's
Ship the Proteus.
"Dear Lord." Alan grinned in awe. "What is she, sir?"
Nepean chuckled with amusement at his surprise, "A 32-gun of the 5th Rate… which requires a Post-Captain into her."
God, they've been building those for years, Alan thought quickly; lying at Chatham… sure to be a total refit and old as the hills, but no matter! He was now to make Ј15 8s. per lunar month, have an honest-to-God frigate to command! And he'd made the long leap to "post" at last! There it was in black-and-white, down in the left-hand bottom corner-his date of seniority. Newest of the new-again it was no matter! Junior-most captain in the Fleet that morning to be certain. Yet… who in Hell gave a tinker's damn for that?
"Proteus," he muttered, savouring her name. "The divine oracle of Greek myth, as I recall… the so-called 'Shepherd of the Sea'?"
"Uhm, more like the Roman, Captain Lewrie," Nepean corrected, pulling at his nose. "B'lieve Nereus was the Greek. Fathered all the Naiads…?"
Are we there yet? Lewrie wondered, hiding his smile; wonder if old Nereus, or Proteus, got asked that? Well, I was close, key?
"… one could assume so many shapes when he was cornered, before revealing the truth of the matter, a proper oracle." Nepean smirked.
Damn useful social skill, Lewrie thought; sounds like me… and sounds like we 'II get on together.
"Well, then…" Nepean drawled.
"I'll take my leave then, sir"-Lewrie cried, leaping to his feet and knowing an exit cue when he heard one-"and coach down to Chatham instanter."
"Just left the graving dock, I believe she has, sir," Mr. Nepean informed him, already digging at a pile of more pressing letters. "A partial crew aboard. Time enough, though, for a slight celebration… and for you to go well stocked in cabin stores, hmm?"
"Aye, sir, I s'pose," Lewrie allowed, wishing he could shift his epaulet to his right shoulder that i
nstant, so he could descend to the Waiting Room and put a nose or two out of joint. "My thanks, sir… my undying thanks. Good morning to you, Mister Nepean."
"And a good morning to you, Captain Lewrie," Nepean had grace enough to say. "Do you remember to see my under-clerk on your way, sir. There is the slight matter of the tax…?"
"Ah, yes," Lewrie soured a bit, taking a look at the stamp upon that precious document. They were dunning him for another two shillings and six pence! "Right, then…"
"How did you put it last time, Captain Lewrie?" Nepean drawled, tweaking him a trifle sardonically. " 'Damme, had I known it was this cheap, I'd have done it long before'?"
"Uhm… aye, sir," Lewrie cringed. "Quite."
He turned to go, then stopped himself, reminded of a vital point which had not been mentioned, but should have been.
"Uhm, Mister Nepean, sir…"
"Uhmm?" Nepean replied, looking up from his papers with a brow cocked in the beginnings of petulant impatience, though not stretched quite so thin as to bark or bare his teeth… yet.
"The matter of my retinue, so to speak, sir. Usually a captain is allowed some of his old hands to accompany him into a new ship."
"Ah, yes." Nepean sighed, abandoning his work, faced with what amounted to a real problem and not a time-waster. He steepled fingers below the vane of his nose, brow creased in thought.
"I've my Cox'n, my clerk, and cabin-steward with me, sir, that's the
lot. Perhaps some hands off Jester could be called away to Chatham? There's my old Bosun, a damned good gunner named Rahl… Yeoman of The Powder now, but a keen-eyed shot as Quarter-Gunner should he take the re-rating. There are some Able Seamen been with me since Toulon…"
"But, Captain Lewrie," Nepean frowned, opening his hands and closing one to a fist, so he could shake an admonitory finger at him, "your last ship now lies at Portsmouth and is reputed to be actively supportive of the sailors' cause. We simply cannot have men such as those spread throughout the rest of the Navy, which is so far free of the taint of mutiny. I know it is the custom and usage that captains have reliable, personally spoken-for men from their last ships, but… given the fragile nature of these current circumstances, I do not see how we may oblige you. 'Pon: my life, I can't."
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