“He is a teacher, now, at Coimbra, married and happy, and well thought of,” Maddalena said with pride. “They no longer speak of me, either, after I could bear it no longer, and ran off to Gibraltar … with the young man who sold wine, remember that I told you? I am a great shame to my father. He does not know of it, but I still speak with my mother. I write our old priest a letter, and mother goes to church every day, so, when my letters arrive, he will read them to her, and writes back what she wishes to say to me. So … you see why I have no wish to go back to Oporto ever again … not until my father dies.”
“Christ,” was Lewrie’s stunned response.
“I sometimes think of my grandparents, who walked all the way from Covilhā to ’Porto,” she sadly mused, taking a sip of wine, “they must have had hopes for a better life than being landless peasants in the mountains, but … my father, all my aunts and uncles, my brothers and sisters, and their husbands and wives seem content to be peasants, almost illiterate, so…” She took another sip of wine and looked closely at him. “That is where I come from, Alan, that is what I come from, so you must understand why I will never go back, not even for my dear mother’s funeral, God preserve her. I will not be cursed and shamed. I will not go back to that lifeless trap, again.”
“So, if I do move the squadron…?” Lewrie posed.
“The young man I ran away with to Gibraltar, and you, promised me that someday I would see Lisbon, and be a fine lady,” she said with a wistful smile. “And here I am, a Lisboêta, and happier than I have ever been. Perhaps I am not yet the fine lady,” she japed, rolling her eyes to mock her aspirations, “but we shall see what the future brings. If you do move there … I will not follow you. I cannot, do you see why?”
“I do,” Lewrie replied, feeling an icy pang under his heart as he envisioned the end of what had been a very pleasurable and affectionate arrangement. Could he dare call their relationship a love affair? Oh, he liked her a great deal, found her extremely attractive, and appreciated her wit and her level-headed sense. Maddalena was so easy to converse with, much more so than most women, who knew little or nothing of the wider world. And her passion! She was rare in that sense, too, as eager for lovemaking as he was, not shy or timidly missish when it came to expressing her own desires. Maddalena was not the sort who would submit to a man’s desires out of a sense of duty to her mate, would not lay back and endure … “lay back and think of Portugal” … as most wives did.
Did he love her? Oh, the endearments of minha dose, minha amor, and minha querida came as easily to his tongue as “my old chap” to a fellow officer of his acquaintance, but … did he really mean them? Could he ever consider making their relationship permanent, taking her back to England?
She loves Lisbon, sure as shite she’d hate London, he thought, imagining her melting away in the rain like a clump of sugar dissolved in a cup of her strong, black coffee!
He had been married once, and could frankly admit to himself that he had mostly been a miserable failure at it. In a desperate moment when he sensed that he was losing Viscount Percy Stangbourne’s sister, Lydia, and her affections, he had blurted out a proposal of marriage, a proposal that had been quickly spurned, for Lydia would not become a lonely sailor’s wife; the times apart were too much for her.
Could he propose to Maddalena to avoid losing her, too?
Not a chance in Hell, he told himself; Might regret that, some day, but … no. If it’s over, it’s over. Dammit.
“Meu amor?” Maddalena asked, after his long silence.
“Hmm? Just wonderin’ if Oporto has shipyards big enough for our use if we need repairs,” he lied.
“From what I remember, there are companies that build barges to bring the wine casks downriver,” Maddalena told him, looking up as if recalling the sights of her riverfront home, “and fishing boats, weed-harvesting boats, but none all that big. The ships that came for wine never seemed in need of repair. If they did, I’d think they would come to Lisbon, instead. A good reason for you to keep your ships here, hmm?” she said with a teasing expression.
“If the Navy ever thought I made the decision ’cause I liked Lisbon wine and food better, they’d have my ‘nutmegs’ off with a dull knife!” Lewrie hooted. “Stand me up by the taffrails and shoot me like Admiral Byng!”
“Who was he?” Maddalena asked, now in happier takings as she sensed that he would not be removing to Oporto anytime soon.
Even as Lewrie told the tale of the unfortunate fellow who had been court-martialed and executed for not doing his utmost long before said … as the cynical French foe said “pour encourager les autres”—to encourage the others—he could not help thinking that if he didn’t move his squadron unless there were some hard, legitimate reasons not to, he could face censure, and all for a woman; people in the Royal Navy would say; that “the Ram-Cat” had been too enamoured of his latest “batter pudding” to do his utmost.
The second thought in the back of his mind was about the end of his time with Maddalena. Sweet and pleasurable it had been, but, sooner or later, it would be done. Sapphire would come to the end of her active commission in the coming year, he would have to sail her back to England and turn her over to the yards, pay off her people, and walk away, probably never to return to Lisbon, or Spain, or to Gibraltar.
Maddalena’s adamant refusal to follow him once more presaged the ending, made them both face it, if even for a brief while, arisen once and quickly suppressed in both their minds, he suspected.
Ride it to the last hurdles, Lewrie thought; and take as much joy as ye can from it, whilst it lasts. And never think, or speak of it, again!
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
To his credit (he hoped) Lewrie did enquire about dockyards and chandleries with the Portuguese civil authorities, those left in place when Dom João, the royal house of Braganza, the entire court and all its treasures fled to the Vice-Principality of Brazil. He suspected that local Lisboêta pride made them disparage his prospects at Oporto. His conversations with the shipyards along the Tagus waterfront told him much the same; he’d be better off remaining at Lisbon. They even said that there was always an outside chance that the French would come back to re-take the city. The British would protect Lisbon to the last, but Oporto? He even hiked up to the castle where bald-headed old General Beresford reigned, finally got a brief interview, and was informed that the only garrison force available to defend Oporto from a French return would be a skeleton force of Portuguese militia. All troops, British and Portuguese, who had any training were in the field with General Sir Arthur Wellesley, over the border into Spain.
* * *
“I gave it a long look and a hard try, gentlemen,” Lewrie told his assembled officers, “but no one can assure me that Oporto wouldn’t be over-run by the French if they decide to come back. And, no one could guarantee that we’d find a wide spot to careen and fire off our seaweed and barnacles, either. No shipyards worthy of the name, few chandleries, and those picked clean by the French while they were in charge of the city?” He heaved them a large shrug. “It appears that we’ll have to continue on as we have, and return to Lisbon when we’ve run short of hands to man the prize crews, or run short of supplies.”
“Little chance of that, sir,” Capt. Yearwood said with a deep, rumbling laugh. “The major needs my ship has are firewood and water when we drop the ‘hook’. I doubt we’ve used half of our six month’s worth of provisions since we struck the Spanish coast.”
“And if we, ah … take contributions’ from the prizes that we torch,” Commander Teague heartily agreed, “we wouldn’t have to delve into our own stores much at all, hah hah!”
“Except for those sour wines the Frogs supply their soldiers,” Commander Blamey said. “Bonaparte sets them a poor table, the miser.”
“No word from Admiralty about more ships coming to aid us?” Capt. Chalmers enquired.
“Admiralty sent me a reply to my latest letter,” Lewrie said. “Our Lords Commissioners regre
t our situation, they appreciated my suggestions for troopships, soldiers, and landing craft so we could raid, as well as take prizes, but … nothing will be available for some time. Oh, they think it’d be a wondrous idea, and they’ll consider implementing it, but not for now. The needs of the Service preclude re-enforcement right now. They’re coming, but not soon.”
“Coming!” Yearwood growled, “so is bloody Christmas!”
“Oh, well,” Commander Teague quipped, “the fewer of us, the greater the glory shared … and the profits.”
“Frankly, had we just one more pair, a frigate and a sloop, I wouldn’t mind sharing,” Chalmers declared. “Not at all!”
“One day Out of Discipline, then, gentlemen,” Lewrie decided, “to give our people their ease, if only a brief’un, and we must sail. We’ve given the French too long a break, and they’re most-like makin’ the most of it. With our army into Spain, and French armies scurryin’ about like poked piglets, they’ll be eatin’ up supplies like … so many hogs, and anything we can deny them’d be more than welcome to Wellesley.”
“Allow me to host a shore supper this time, sir,” Chalmers offered. “Whilst our sailors are in rut, and full cry? It’s always best, I’ve found, to be well away from all that. I may even take a night’s lodging at one of the hotels in the Baixa district, just to get a good night’s sleep, away from the din, hah hah!”
So you and your Chaplain won’t be tempted t’sin? Lewrie asked himself; Or catch yourself singin’ along to “Sandman Joe”?
“Same place as before? Would that suit you gentlemen?” Capt. Chalmers asked round the table. “Excellent! I shall make reservations for, oh … say seven tomorrow night?”
“What about our First Officers?” Commander Teague asked.
“Well, someone has to stay aboard and keep an eye on the revelry, after all,” Chalmers said with a little laugh.
Their meeting in the dining-coach was interrupted by a sharp rap of a musket’s brass-bound butt on the quarterdeck, and a cry that Midshipman Holbrooke was at the door.
“Damn my eyes,” Lewrie grumbled, getting to his feet and going out to the day-cabin. “Enter!”
“Mister Kibworth’s duty, sir,” young Holbrooke said, his hat under his arm, “but there is a boat making its way to us from the store ship. With a mail sack, he believes, sir.”
“Very well, thankee, Mister Holbrooke,” Lewrie said. “Once it is aboard, fetch it here.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Holbrooke said, and bowed his way out.
“Mail d’ye say, Captain Lewrie?” Capt. Yearwood asked, poking his head round the partitions. “Did I hear right?”
“It seems to be, sir,” Lewrie said, nodding, “though I thought we’d already gotten our latest. Did anyone see a mail packet enter port, the last day or so?”
As eagerly as letters from home were anticipated, even if they were bills from tradesmen, a London packet flying the “Post Boy” flag would have loudly been announced by the first to espy her, and no one had. All five officers grouped together before Lewrie’s desk, awaiting the sack’s arrival.
“Hope my wife’s sent me some of her ginger snaps,” Yearwood said. “I adore them, though one never knows their condition when they do come. Sogginess I can deal with, with a little re-baking, but if they’re too long on-passage, I might as well break my teeth on deck planking. She means well.”
“I can’t remember the last time anyone sent me anything edible,” Commander Teague said.
“Sweets and such,” Chalmers dismissively commented. “They just draw the ship’s rats, who end up eating the letters, too.”
There was another rap of the musket, a stamp of boots, and a cry that Midshipman Kibworth was without.
“Mail, sir!” Kibworth said, his eyes alight. “Just in off one of the troop transports newly arrived. The messenger said that there was mail for all ships of the squadron.”
“Capital!” Lewrie crowed, clapping his hands together. “Fetch it to my desk and we’ll parcel it all out, this instant.”
The sack was untied, and at least one hundred letters or small parcels got spread cross Lewrie’s desk. For the next few minutes, it was very much like Christmas as five tarry-handed Commission Sea Officers pawed through the pile, separating out “presents” addressed to their own ships. Lewrie sent his clerk, Faulkes, and his steward, Pettus, to find some empty bread bags so the others could carry their, and their crews’, mail back to their ships without stuffing them into every pocket or jamming theirs into their waist-bands.
“Oh, Mother, what were you thinking?” Commander Teague asked as he held up a soggy, dripping parcel wrapped in heavy butcher’s paper. He sniffed at it, gave it a shake, and they all heard the chinking of what had been a stone crock of … “Honey?” Teague bemoaned. He looked about for someplace he could gingerly unwrap it, finally sat it atop one of those empty bread bags.
“That’ll be your bag, I daresay,” Commander Blamey teased.
“Oh, no!” Teague wailed. “She wrapped it in a new shirt she made me!”
“Not a total loss, Teague,” Capt. Chalmers said, sniggering. “You can wring the honey out into a jar, and the shirt will wash out. A little hot water, a little soap, hah hah?”
“Might take two washings,” Lewrie said, “before the flies, the wasps, and bees stop swarmin’ ye.”
“Oh, but once at sea, that’ll be no problem,” Yearwood japed, “you’ll only have your own ship’s rats to worry about!”
Sapphire’s pile was substantial, and Lewrie, not waiting for Faulkes to sort it out for officers, petty officers, Mids, and hands, pawed through for anything addressed to him in the faint hope that a newer despatch from Admiralty might have come to supercede the bleak reply that he had just briefed his officers about.
He pursed his lips and frowned; there was nothing from Admiralty, not even a promotions list or an update to charts that they’d not use in this commission. “Nothing new from Admiralty,” he told the others. “Oh, well. We’re still ‘on our own bottoms’, it seems.
“Faulkes, I’d admire did you sort our mail out for everyone else. Set my own on the desk, and I’ll read it later,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the ever-dutiful clerk replied, scooping up a pile, and finding that Teague’s crock of honey had tainted their mail, had tainted everyone else’s, with sticky spots here and there. Faulkes sniffed at his fingers, and almost looked as if he would lick them.
“Well, I’m happy that I could give you all an un-looked-for treat,” Lewrie told them, “and I’m certain that you wish to return to your ships to distribute your people’s mail, and enjoy your own. No ginger snaps, Captain Yearwood? Ah well, the year’s still young. Good luck with that shirt, Commander Teague. I will show you to the quarterdeck. Easy Pendant hoisted tomorrow at Eight Bells of the Morning Watch, supper at seven? Capital!”
He stood by the starboard entry-port as they departed in order of seniority, doffing his hat in salute as the side-party and Bosun Terrell rendered departure honours.
“Mail, sir?” Lt. Harcourt asked, rubbing his hands.
“Mail, aye, Mister Harcourt,” Lewrie said, in a rush to enter his cabins and tear open his own. “Take joy!” he shouted over his shoulder as he closed the cabin door.
* * *
Again, there was no letter from his eldest son, Sewallis, not even a brief plea for spending money, which he’d usually send to his grandfather, Sir Hugo, anyway. There were no bills due to any hatters, tailors, shoemakers, or chandlers, either, for a rare, blessed once, for all his accounts were squared.
There was a new one from his father, Sir Hugo, boasting of his new attire, and how delightful the start of the London Season was.
… scads of young, eager Not-So-Lovelies in Town with their gimlet-eyed Mamas looking for a Match made in Heaven, or at the Bank of England. Damn my neighbours, for they have let their house next door to mine to a fubsey clan of Midlands cotton Barons, rich as anything, but “Country-Puts” with TWO daughte
rs out at the same time, both doomed, from what I can observe of them, to spend the Season in gilt chairs along the wall of the dance hall. And what a noisy fuss it is, morning to late night with their comings and goings, the parade of dress-makers, milliners, tailors, deliverymen and coaches, and I fear it will go on ’til the Thames begins to reek in August. Your Charlotte is not among them, thank God, for I’m certain that your brother-in-law Governour would try to shame me into putting them all up at my house. And you KNOW how I like my privacy!
“Damned near shooed me off with a broom, he did,” Lewrie said under his breath. “And I wasn’t there that long.”
I fear I put Governour’s nose out of join by refusing his request that I use what influence I still possess, as a Knight of the Garter, to have Charlotte presented at Court, which is as ridiculous as my wealthy neighbours letting their house for a little MORE money!
“Gawd, Governour’s gotten high above himself,” Lewrie growled. “We ain’t in the peerage. What’d he expect?”
Sir Hugo expressed much the same, though he did say that the old New Peerage had added the Baronetage back in 1800, after Mister Almon turned his bookseller and stationer business over to someone named Debrett. His father had bought a copy, just to see Lewrie’s name in it, from the store cross from Burlington House on Piccadilly.
… went to White’s with an old army Companion, and who did I see but Beau Brummell, in full fig! The Prince of Wales was there, too, and for once he did NOT resemble a corpulent Ottoman Pasha or Moghul Emperor! Prinny the peacock, while still stouter than most breeding bulls, has transformed from a Fashion Disaster as gaudy and colourful as a whole pack of Hindoo women to a Brummell-ite, as sobrely dressed as a parson in “dominee ditto”! Black is the new standard, along with dark blues or forest greens, and what Beau Brummell terms Trousers. Intrigued, I dropped by Meyer & Mortimer in Sackville St. and got shoved into a pair or two, along with the requisite black cutaway coat, white waistcoat, top hat, and white silk neckstock. The trousers fit over the whole leg, with a strap that goes under the arch of one’s boots or shoes, and I must say it’s a dashing look. Wigs are becoming outmoded, and damn old Pitt and his wig powder tax, for I still must use mine. It seems everyone is wearing Brummell’s new dark colours, too, so much so that they begin to look Uniformed! It’s all of a piece with this damned new Respectability thing, the Modesty, the Puritanical Earnestness that Wilberforce and Hannah More and their ilk have shoved down our throats. I’m tempted to go out in my old 19th Native Infantry mess dress, just to stand out from what resembles a parade of Arctic Penguins!
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