"Almost. Some courts-martial still a'waitin'. Hellish docket, d'ye see. That Parker fellow went for the high jump. After that, we marched off for home. Got presented at court, my way back through the City, when the Thanks, and the promotion, came. 'His Nobs' the King, he thinks high of you… that letter you wrote him."
"He does?" Lewrie could only gasp.
"Well, those whores of yours became, ah… 'certain loyal and patriotic women of Sheerness,' but… all in all, he thinks you're th' knacky sort. Never hurts… when he's in his right mind, that is."
"Well, well…!" Lewrie had to gasp again and sit down.
"Now… about personal doin's…" Sir Hugo said, sobering and cocking his head at Aspinall, who was puttering and hovering.
"Aspinall, do you go on deck, for a while. My father and I wish to chat private for a spell," Lewrie bade, tensing once more.
"Damme, never saw ye as a ship captain, Alan… in the Far East, the best ye had was a dog's manger for quarters," Sir Hugo said, as he peered about appreciatively, not innocently though-there was a tad too much of the smirk to his face for that. "Navy lives right well, I must say!"
" 'A poor thing, but mine own,' " Lewrie quoted, shifting uneasily in his chair.
"Fine, quiet… damn' near stylish place t'put the leg over any willin' mort, I'm bound." Sir Hugo leered on. "Damme!"
Toulon, attracted by Sir Hugo's idly swinging, highly polished boot, had come to greet the new face; he leapt into Sir Hugo's lap and swished his tail right-chearly, reaching up to bat at those glittery gold epaulets with their tantalising gilt cord tassels.
"Nice, kitty…" Sir Hugo glowered. "Now, bugger off!"
Damned near cross-eyed in perplexity, and with a tiny "ummph" of disappointment, Toulon did, though Sir Hugo hadn't moved a muscle.
"Father, what…?"
"Always were fonder o' quim than yer av'rage feller, I recall," Sir Hugo frowned, studying his son over the rim of his glass. "Mad for it, from yer first breeches."
"Right, so…?" Lewrie attempted to bluff.
Christ, who blabbed? was his panicky thought though; and just which "liaison" of mine was blabbed about? Did Sophie, that … !
"Just after Caroline fetched Sophie and your kiddies back to home, there came this damn' letter. Damn' good hand, expensive paper… one o' those catty things from 'a concerned friend.' Someone hates ye worse than Muhammadans hate roast pork!"
"What the Devil d'ye mean, someone hates me?" Lewrie flummoxed.
"Lots of people hate me, I'd expect… God knows why! Whatever did it say, then?"
"The court takes note ye didn't try t'deny it straightaway," Sir Hugo quipped, looking coolly amused.
"Well, how can I do that when you've yet to tell me what-the-bloody-Hell's-in-it?" Lewrie snapped back.
"It described, ah… yer 'diversions' in the Mediterranean. A certain sham Corsican countess, no more'n a common whore, named Phoebe Are-tino?"
"Oh!" Lewrie felt the need to gasp again. "Shit!"
It was out at last! Lewrie had himself a deep draught, going icy inside.
"Then, t'make matters worse, some Genoese mount, Claudia… however d'ye say it…" his father prompted, scowling.
"Mastandrea," Lewrie croaked, "Claudia Mastandrea, but she was secret government business, a French spy, and…!"
"And you were ever the patriotic sort." Sir Hugo felt the need to cackle. "Court also takes note ye know the lady in question. Knew, rather… biblically. And the worst part…"
"Worst?" Alan sighed. "Jesus!"
"Last year, when your ship was in the Adriatic," Sir Hugo went on relentlessly, "you rescued some Greek piece, a widow once married to a Catholic Irish trader… in the fruit trade, it said?"
"Currants," Lewrie weakly supplied without thinking.
"Right, then… sweet currant duff." Sir Hugo sniffed, as if it was all a titanic jest. "Took her t'Lisbon 'board yer ship as a cabin guest… Saw more of her in Lisbon too, 'fore she took passage to her in-laws in Bristol. Yer nameless informer knew all that, her new address… and the fact that when the Widow Connor turned up on their doorstep, she was 'ankled.' ''
"What!" Lewrie yelped, his features paling whey-ishly, and just about ready to tear his hair out in consternation. "What? Preg… no! We, I… that is, uhm…!"
"Thought I taught ya th' value o' good cundums, Alan, me dear," Sir Hugo sighed, worldly-wise, as if disappointed in him. "Venetian or Dago made, were they? Hard t'find at Lisbon? When I was hidin' from creditors in Oporto, they surely were. Damn all Romish countries and their meddlin' priests…"
"P… pregnant?" Lewrie could only splutter. "Impossible, for I had three-dozen of Mother Green's best, I assure…"
God, he thought though; that first night, we didn't! Too mad for it, right after I rescued her from the Serb pirates! One bloody, incautious night, just the once…? That was simply too unjust!
Despite his predicament, for a glad second or two, he recalled summer-sheen sweat and slippery bodies, going at it like stoats, quiet whimpers instead of wee screams, so her son could sleep through it in his hammock… God, at least four bouts or more!
August, that'd been-Theoni had taken ship from Lisbon in October and wasn't showing then! He caught himself counting the months on his fingers.
"Fine thing t'master… mathematics," his father commented, in a hellish-pleased humour, as if scoffing a cully who dared to be half the man that he was. "Mistress Connor was delivered of a healthy boy, your informer says… Papist baptised, though. Alan James Connor, do ye see. Hellish coincidence… ain't it."
"Dear Lord," Lewrie said, topping up their glasses.
"Bein' in trade an' all," Sir Hugo sneered, "the Bristol branch of the Connors can add too, and knew there was no way their dead son could've quickened her, so… her new in-laws truckled her right out, soon as she bloomed. The damn' foreign chit, and what can ye expect of Dago trash? Damme, the Connors must be rollin'in 'chink' t'have such touchy morals… never could afford 'em, me. But Mistress Connor has her dead husband's half-share o' th' currant trade, plus a good claim on their share, with a wolfish lawyer. She lit in London, livin' just as high as any righteous widow. Your 'concerned friend' knew her address there too. Looked her up on my way back to Anglesgreen, your dear wife bade me."
"You what?" Alan said with a wince, sure the game was up after all this time. At Caroline's urging? "She did?" And did his father try to put his leg over? "How was she? How did she…? Is he really?" "He has your eyes," Sir Hugo cooed.
It was true, then; after all these years, he'd sired a bastard… one he knew of, at any rate. One he had to own up to… well, there'd been Soft Rabbit up the Appalachicola, but he'd scampered long before she'd borne his git… on King's business!
"Fetchin' wee lad," Sir Hugo said, holding up the bottle to see if they'd need a replacement soon. "And I'll give ya points, me son, for taste. A dev'lish-handsome woman is Mistress Theoni Connor. Those big amber eyes, almond-slanted and all, her chestnut hair? And still trim as a spinster lass, despite bearin' two 'gits.' "
"So… what did you tell Caroline?" Lewrie enquired, crossing his fingers for luck; feeling the urge to cross his legs too!
"Partways, the truth," Sir Hugo replied, taping his noggin and looking especially sly.
Lewrie felt like putting his head on the desk and blubbing.
"Partways, lad." Sir Hugo chuckled. "Whorin' runs in the fam'ly blood… so does artful lyin'. Told her, yes, she's a newborn and she did name him after you… but for savin' her and her son, Michael, from rape and butchery… for helpin' her t'Venice to cash in, thence t'Lisbon and the packet ship for Bristol. Out of gratitude! But I also said I didn't see a bit of resemblance."
"Thank bloody Christ for that!" Lewrie whooshed in relief. "I mean… thank you, Father!" That was hard-wrung from him; Lewrie could not recall too many benefits he'd ever gotten from the man to thank him for!
"Lied main-well, if I do say so m'self," Sir Hugo told him, as he smiled. "Your ward, So
phie, did too."
"Sophie? Hey? She never knew Theoni, so… Oh! Phoebe!"
"Aye, that'xm" Sir Hugo chuckled. "Poor chit got flustered… when home, remember, does Sophie begin t'babble more Frog than English, she's up t'somethin'. But Sophie assured Caroline this Phoebe chit was just a seamstress and maid from Toulon… came aboard your ship as a refugee with hundreds of others, and served Sophie 'til she got off at Gibraltar. Your cabin was arseholes and elbows with emigres. No privacy anyway."
"So what did Caroline make of all that?" Lewrie dreaded to ask.
"That there's a damn' sight too many women so 'grateful' to ya t'suit her. Allowed that it all might sound innocent… you bein' so manly and fetchin', or so she said. But there's a bit too much of it. Said maybe the damn' letter was from some termagant mort you'd spurned…!"
"Oh, good!"
"Should there actually be one in that category… hmmm?"
"Forehead creased?" Lewrie asked, crossing his fingers again.
"Nigh a yard deep," Sir Hugo related. "Muttered somethin' like 'where there's smoke, there's fire.' More fool you, me lad, marryin' a shrewd woman. I'd o' cautioned ye t'stick with 'stupid' if I knew you felt the marriage itch. Slack-wit women may fluff up 'jealous'… never for th' right reasons, thank God, so ye can get away with more. Now, Alice, Lord… I could've had her maid in the soup tureen, and she would've said the tang was off, was all."
"So Caroline's mollified? Completely?"
"Well, let's say she almost was.. .'til your solicitor wrote to her," Sir Hugo said, beginning to smirk and chuckle under-his breath as he topped their glasses with the last of the bottle. "Beg pardon?"
"Needed seed money, day-labourer's wages. Feller said that she couldn't get as much as she'd requested since ye'd promised one-hundred-sixty pounds to some Sheerness women for, ah… 'services rendered.' ''
"But that was for helpin' me… they weren't… I never!" "Stap me, didn't I caution ye. Quality beats Quantity all hollow, me lad?" Sir Hugo had the cruelty to hoot in high humour.
"Thirty-two of 'em, surely the number told her it was preposterous…" Lewrie spluttered some more, growing numb.
"I'll not get in the middle o' that 'un," Sir Hugo vowed.
Aye, it'd look that way, wouldn't id Lewrie sighed to himself; / am so well and truly … ruined! Do I go home, I'll most-like be shot on sight.1 Her brother, Governour, always was toppin '-fair with pistols!
"We need another bottle," his father pointed out.
"Gad, yes… I expect we do," Lewrie replied, stumbling over to the wine-cabinet and fetching one himself, stripping the lead foil off and fiddling with the cork.
"Oh, give it here, cunny-thumbs. I know my way 'round a cork," Sir Hugo crankily told him. "There… d'ye see? Slap, twist… pop!" "Think it's safe to go home?" Lewrie enquired, once re-enforced.
"Not if you care for breathin', no… not for a while. Gathered from the keyhole like… things'll be more'n a tad frosty, for quite a spell. 'Time heals all wounds,' they say though. She'll still write… though she suggested separate letters to yer children so ye and she can thrash things out in private missives. I also gathered she's of a mind that your Navy can have ye…'twas best you're at sea and absent. At least a year in foreign climes, she said t'me direct. I did fetch a letter along. Sorry, lad. Tried me damnedest, but…"
He slid a rather slim letter across the desk, making Lewrie lean far back from the edge, half expecting it to burst into flames!
"And whilst I was passin' through London on the way here, Alan… I also stopped off t'see your mistress. She bade me bear a letter to ye as well."
"She's not my mistress!" Lewrie felt need to growl. "I've not seen her since Lisbon, not heard a word…"
"Oh, is she not?" his father drawled, amusedly. "May have little need o' yer loot… Hindi word for plunder, by-the-by… but I've ears, me lad. I know th' sound o' fondness when a lady speaks of a feller… how she asked after ye an' all?" he added, softer, more kindly.
He slid the second over; this one was thicker-much thicker.
And which'll I end up readin' first? he asked himself, fearing to touch either, yet unwilling to shuffle them into a drawer together.
"That damned 'concerned friend' letter," he said instead, "is there a single clue as to where it came from, who wrote it?"
"No return address o' course," his father said, with a shrug of his shoulders, making his epaulets dance and glitter. "As I said, it was a good hand, quite cultured, in fact. Costly paper, but no identifying seal in the wax. Who might've known about your Mediterranean doin's?"
"Lucy Beauman… old amour from the Caribbean," Lewrie confessed, "Lady Lucy Shockley now… she was there in Venice. I turned down her advances."
"Well, there's a wonder!" His father hooted once more.
"Married woman, throwin' herself at me, and havin' it off with another Navy officer, Commander Fillebrowne, at the same time!" Lewrie spat, railing at Lucy's morals.
"Oh, such shameful doin's." Sir Hugo mocked.
"Well, I quite liked her husband."
"Could she be your anonymous correspondent, then?"
"Doubt it." Lewrie frowned in thought, all but chewing a thumb nail. "A bold, florid penmanship, as I recall… rich as Croesus even when single, but… sheep could spell better than she could! Well…"
"Hmmm?" his father prompted, with a purr.
"Fillebrowne. Clotworthy Chute diddled him with some expensive 'instant' antique Roman bronzes. You recall Clotworthy from Harrow?"
"Unfortunately yes, I do," his father said with a grimace. "Fillebrowne bedded Phoebe, after we fell out. Boasted of it, to row me. How he learned of Claudia though… that was before his ship and mine served together… though Phoebe knew of Claudia. Hell's Bells, yes! 'Twas the reason we parted! I couldn't tell her it was orders!"
"And knows nothing, ah… recent, with which t'plague ye?" his father asked, almost looking relieved. "Beyond Mistress Connor?"
"Not a damn' peep," Lewrie declared, rather relieved by such a revelation himself. "If not him, though… I can't imagine who'd be such a bastard… or bitch."
"Mistress Connor herself? More fond o' ye than she lets on?" "Oh, surely not! Might as well accuse Harry Embleton!" Lewrie scoffed. "And he hasn't a clue, a decent hand … or the wits!"
"Well, p'rhaps this'll blow over then, given time. And when back in Anglesgreen, I'll tell Caroline how aggrieved ye were by her suspicions… how sunk in th' 'Blue Devils'… took 'all aback,' as I think you sailors say?" "That'd be a wondrous help, Father. Thankee."
"And…" his father began to coo again, "when passing through London, on the way, as it were… might there be anything you'd wish me t'say to th' handsome Theoni Connor?"
"I…!" Lewrie began to say, staring off at the forward bulkhead, where his wife Caroline's portrait hung in the dining coach. "I don't know quite what to say… she deserves more than… I mean. Give me her address. A letter'd be best. A few days' time to think about it, then write to her before we sail for the Texel again. Besides," he attempted to make a jape, "I know you of old, dear Father. I'd never put it past you not to inveigle your way into her good graces, and her bed, out of familial, paternal… duty!"
"If you think I'd do that to th' only son I care t'claim, then you've worse problems than a suspicious wife, my son," Sir Hugo said, with a wry shake of his head. "Were I not comfortably… ensconced, as it were, already, I'd be sore tempted, I admit. Odd, though, that you would come over all possessive of her. That's what I mean when I say you've a worse problem. Not her… your bastard either. Guilt and a sense of responsibility towards them doesn't quite explain the sound of your voice. Oh, my son, my foolish son!" he gallingly mocked.
"Rot!" Lewrie shot back, "Mine arse on a band-box!"
But he found himself diverting his eyes from that portrait on the partition; found himself, instead, passing a hand over his eyes as if to block it out.
Gawd. Lewrie squirmed in the beginning throws of agony; too scared t'rea
lly face either, read either letter! What t'do, what t'do?
Get mine arse to sea, that's what! he told himself; there's the Dutch, sure to sail out sooner or later. Th' Frogs, ready to fall on Ireland, or us! Poor Proteus, still so raw and barely battle-ready! Compared to those problems, what matters my puny…! And if Proteus isn't ready, then Caroline, Theoni, my children, her child… what if England 's conquered, what life would they have if my Navy doesn't. .. ?
He almost gagged and wished he could throttle himself.
Oh, right, he chid himself, chagrined; try t 'couch it so noble! Such ragin' patriotic twaddle… what a lecherous fool I am. And in it for sure now… up t'my eyebrows!
He prayed that Proteus would be ordered back out to sea instanter; to the sea, his final, perfect haven… where a man had a chance to think! Where, it would seem, a man was safe! Where he had no opportunities for stirring up more trouble for himself! Hopefully for a long time to come.
AFTERWORD
I've always liked to open things with a bang, which is why this installment of the Alan Lewrie saga began with the Battle of Cape Saint Vincent on Valentine's Day, 1797-quite apt, that holiday, in light of Lewrie's later troubles with "the Fair Sex."
Saint Vincent was the first great break-out event in the career of Horatio Nelson. His actions were totally unheard of and a reason for a court martial and firing squad at the taffrails, a la Admiral Byng, had he failed. Nelson's solo charge into the teeth of the larger Nor'west part of the Spanish fleet, so they could not shake themselves out in battle order, or close the gap behind Admiral Jervis's fleet, confounded them. He risked their overwhelming fire, yet boarded and captured one, then used her as his famous " Patent Bridge " to cross and board a second, larger line-of-battle ship that had come to aid the first!
Nelson was promoted to Rear Admiral and became a household word, got command of a squadron of his own, and began to apply a unique "all-or-nothing" style of sea-fighting (all three good for his craving for glory!), beginning an unbroken string of lopsided, annihilating victories. That's not to say that I still don't think Nelson was about three hotdogs shy of a picnic, at times.
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