“Now, both my sons are in the Navy, Hugh was always to be, but his older brother, Sewallis, was so hot for revenge that I feared that he would enlist as a private soldier, or ship before the mast, did I deny him,” Lewrie sadly said. Truth was, Sewallis had forged his way to sea as a Midshipman! “My daughter lives with one of my brothers-in-law in a little village, Anglesgreen, in Surrey. Though my father has a small estate there, he’s mostly up to London and has little to offer towards a young girl’s raising. Too old, now, to tend to a young’un.”
No, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, damned near a charter member of the old Hell-Fire Club, liked young, so long as the girls were over eighteen, and obliging!
“So, when I received orders to Reliant in April of ’03, I was more than ready to sail against the French once more,” he concluded.
“A toast! A toast!” a youngish gallant cried, standing, and drawing others to their feet. “To the gallant Captain Lewrie, a man of grand adventures!”
Lewrie sat modestly with his hands in his lap to be honoured, bowing his head to left and right, admittedly with his ears burning.
* * *
Once the supper was over, the ladies excused themselves to the parlours for tea whilst the men gathered higher up the table for port, nuts, and sweet bisquits, and more talk of trade and the war. Lewrie excused himself after a while and went out on the front gallery for a breath of air, and to swab his face of perspiration; it had been nigh a steam bath inside, as he had feared, and the dance would be even worse. There were many supper guests who had the same idea, both men and women. Lewrie envied the fact that the women could cool themselves with their fans, something a gentleman could not.
“Your pahdon, sah, but, are you Captain Lewrie?” a liveried Black servant tentatively asked by his elbow.
“I am.”
“Dis note be fo’ ya, sah.”
Lewrie stepped closer to one of the entrance way lanthorns to peel it open and read it, and his face lit up with a feral smile.
My house. Come by midnight.
P
Can this evening be even more perfect? he asked himself.
Inside, the musicians struck up the opening strains of formal airs for the minuet, and Lewrie steeled himself for the ordeal to come. He must squire as many ladies present as he could, from the wife of the Governor-General down to the youngest … with Mrs. Priscilla Frost in the queue, quite happily … without showing any favouritism. It could last for hours, right to the livelier contre-dances. He considered bowing out of those after an essay or two; there must be some shreds of dignity that a Post-Captain in the Royal Navy should show! Besides … the livelier dances would continue beyond midnight.
And he now had someplace else more desirable to go!
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Thank God you’re back aboard, sir,” Lt. Geoffrey Westcott said in some urgency once Lewrie had taken the welcoming salute, a quarter-hour past the beginning of the Forenoon at 8 A.M.
“Has a real French squadron turned up, then, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked, with a brow up in puzzlement that a Commission Officer would be up and stirring, and in full uniform, when it was usually the Mids who stood Harbour Watch. He could not help stifling a yawn, for his night ashore with Priscilla Frost had proven to be a strenuous one.
“No sir, nothing like that,” Westcott told him in a confidential mutter.
“Good, for at this moment, a hot kiss or a cold breakfast would most-like put me in my grave … and I’ve had both,” Lewrie said with a wry and semi-boastful chuckle.
“It is Commodore Grierson, sir,” Westcott went on, drawing from Lewrie a groan of disgust. “Athenian has been flying our number and ‘Captain Repair On Board’ since half past Seven. I sent a Mid over to explain that you spent the night ashore, and despatched the rest of them to hunt you down, but—”
“Didn’t know I was spendin’ the night ashore, ’til after the supper,” Lewrie explained, giving Grierson’s flagship a bleak glance. “And, ’tis best that you didn’t know my, uhm … lodgings. The last thing the lady in question needs would be some younker bangin’ on her doors and raisin’ her neighbours’ int’rest in the early hours.
“Nothin’ for it, then,” Lewrie decided, hitching his shoulders. “Desmond? Back to the boat. I’m summoned to the flag. Carry on, Mister Westcott.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Westcott said, doffing his hat.
His Cox’n, Liam Desmond; stroke-oar Patrick Furfy; and the hands of his boat crew had barely secured the cutter below the entry-port, and had just gained the deck, before they had to turn right round and descend again without a “wet” at the scuttle-butts, or a chance to go below for a lazy “caulk” with the off-watch hands in their hammocks.
What the Devil does Grierson want o’ me this early in the morning? Lewrie wondered as he settled himself aft in the boat once more; Whatever it is, I except I won’t enjoy it!
* * *
Commodore Grierson stodd behind his expensive desk in the day-cabin as Lewrie entered, ducking under the overhead beams as he made his way aft to stand before the desk.
“You slept out of your ship, Captain Lewrie?” Grierson began in a frosty tone, as if doing so was a violation of some regulation.
“Aye, I did, sir,” Lewrie replied. “To my recall, ’tis only Channel Fleet that requires Captains to sleep aboard, pending an appearance of a French fleet in the middle of the night. At least, that was the case when I was attached to Channel Fleet. Were you thinking of establishing such a rule, might I ask, sir?”
“No, I was not,” Grierson snapped, furrowing his brows to even deeper wrinkles, as if Lewrie’s attempt at “early morning cheery” was putting him off course. “At least your doing so results in your showing up in more suitable uniform, what?”
“Soon changed, as soon as I’m back aboard my ship, sir,” Lewrie easily confessed, looking toward an empty chair before the desk as if to prompt Grierson to proper hospitality. Commodore Grierson took no notice of his hint; his eyes were fixed on Lewrie’s chest, on the two medals he still wore (the one round his neck admittedly askew!) and on the star and sash of the Order of The Bath.
Damn my eyes, is he jealous? Lewrie was forced to wonder.
“And you enjoyed the supper and ball immensely, I should not wonder,” Grierson went on, raising his glare to Lewrie’s face, again.
“Oh, quite, sir!” Lewrie said with a laugh. “How do the papers in London put it … ‘a good time was had by all’?”
“Hhmmph!” Grierson sneered. “I found the Society of Antigua and the nearby islands crude and dreary, but that of Nassau!… How have you stood such a pack of ‘Country-Puts’ and tradesmen but a cut above privateers?”
“I haven’t really spent that much time in port t’deal with ’em, sir,” Lewrie told him. He doubted if Grierson’s complaint was a stab at finding some mutual understanding; the man was just grousing to be grousing!
“They are insulting beyond belief,” Grierson went on with his plaint, pacing behind his desk and peering down his nose at the odd corners of his cabins. “One woman even had the nerve to take me to task for the manner of my arrival, sir!”
That’d be Priscilla, most-like, Lewrie happily thought.
“Quite fetching a mort, but for that,” Grierson growled. “The nerve of the bitch! I saw you with her, Lewrie. Did you put her up to it? That Mistress Frost baggage?”
“I most certainly did not, sir,” Lewrie vowed.
Aye, I did, did you like it? he thought, his face stony; And is that why ye summoned me, ye petty bastard?
“She did tell me, though, sir,” Lewrie explained, “that there were many locals who were frightened out of their wits ’til they learned the true identity of your ships. Recall, I did warn you that your idea of a jest might turn round and bite you.”
Did he expect ’em t’be so relieved they’d cheer him and chair him through the streets? Lewrie asked himself; What an ass!
“As I was rowed past your frigate, C
aptain Lewrie, I noted that she is rather heavily weeded,” Commodore Grierson snapped, changing the subject as he whipped round to glare at Lewrie once more. “I saw more green slime than I did coppering or white lead, and I expect you also have so many barnacles that you could not find her coppering. How long has it been since your ship was docked and cleaned, sir?”
“Well, since she was taken out of Ordinary in April of 1803, I don’t believe we’ve had time for such, sir,” Lewrie informed him. “We spent much of that year in the West Indies and the Gulf of Mexico, then back to England as escort to a sugar trade, half of 1804 in the Channel, then right back here via Bermuda, since January.”
“Then you are more than due,” Commodore Grierson said with a satisfied nod of his head, though he didn’t even try to plaster on a gladsome smile. “Since I now have three frigates and two more brig-sloops on station, your frigate is redundant to my needs. And, as you say, it is doubtful that the French Admiral, Villeneuve, has designs upon the Bahamas. Those, plus the vessels already assigned here will more than suffice. As slow as your ship is reduced, she would be a hindrance to me.”
And … and what? Lewrie wondered, waiting for the other shoe to drop as Grierson took his time to walk back to his desk, sit down behind it, and leaf through some correspondence.
“I will send you orders, releasing you from my squadron, sir,” Grierson at last said when he folded the correspondence away, folding his hands atop the desk.
“What about the continuing problem with French and Spanish privateers, though, sir? My independent orders from Admir—”
“As Senior Officer on-station, and senior to you, sir, by nineteen months on the Post-Captains’ List, I deem such enemy activities temporarily ‘Scotched’, and feel that, with my re-enforcements in frigates and brig-sloops, will be more than capable of dealing with any new outbreaks,” Grierson cut him off, and simpered at Lewrie.
That won’t last ye six months, Lewrie sourly thought; not when the trade route’s so busy, and privateerin’s so profitable!
“If you say so, sir,” Lewrie said, instead.
“And I do,” Grierson gaily rejoined, quite perkily. “As for you and your frigate, Captain Lewrie … I will allow you to detach yourself from my command and … and sail for England for a proper time in dry dock. Does that prospect not please you, sir?”
“Well, aye, it does, sir, but…,” Lewrie flummoxed. The prospect was pleasing, and he had to admit that Reliant was in serious need of a hull cleaning, The loss of his temporary status as a Commodore even of such a small squadron really meant little, either. It was the way he was being shooed off that rankled!
“Good, then,” Grierson said, smiling at last, though not with the sort of smile one could trust. “That’s settled. I will have your orders aboard by the start of the First Dog Watch this very day … before I despatch the wee vessels of your former squadron to other duties down-islands. I expect you and their commanding officers will wish a last shore supper together, before you all depart.”
Vindictive bastard! Lewrie fumed inside.
“I expect that we shall, sir,” Lewrie said, keeping his disgust well-hidden, and thinking that their last shore supper would be a bitch session which Grierson should studiously avoid.
Damn him for takin’ it out on them! he thought.
“Will that be all, sir?” Lewrie asked.
“Uhmm, yes,” Grierson said, all a’twinkle by then, rising from his chair to see Lewrie to the doors. “You may return to your ship.” Grierson leaned a bit close then away. “Where you may sponge the lady’s scent from your clothing.”
I wondered why his cabins smelled like rose water! Lewrie realised; Well, they say ye can never smell yourself! Priscilla did dab it on a tad thick.
“Beg pardon, sir?” Lewrie countered, stiffening his back. Would the fellow prove himself that crude?
“A good ride, was she? Mistress Frost?” Grierson leered.
“I deem it most un-gentlemanly of you to ask that question, sir,” Lewrie stiffly intoned, glowering at the Commodore. “As for the lady’s qualities … that’s something I very much doubt you’ll ever know.”
Grierson’s reaction was a hearty laugh, and another easy and arrogant “we’ll see about that” cock-sure leer. “Goodbye, Captain Lewrie. Bon voyage, and bonne chance!”
Grierson did not go so far as to see him to the deck, so Lewrie had to make his way alone, his ears and the nape of his neck burning, determined to call upon the bouncy Priscilla one more time, if only to tell her what Grierson had in mind, and how low a mind he possessed!
CHAPTER NINE
A day or two later, and HMS Reliant was ready to up-anchor and depart. Last-minute rations had been fetched aboard, along with some sheep, pigs, and a bullock for supper on the eve of sailing, and for fresh meat for the first few days on-passage. The officers’ wardroom and Lewrie’s cabins had been re-stocked with the many needful things that would be unavailable or in short supply on their long voyage to England. For Lewrie, Mister Cadbury the Purser had purchased several one-gallon stone crocks of aged American corn whisky, and an hundred-weight weight of jerked, smoked, or cured meats and hard sausages for his cats and, begrudgingly, for Bisquit, the ship’s dog. He might be a playful pest, might still foul the decks, and took to howling whenever Lewrie tried to practice on his penny-whistle, but Lewrie had grown somewhat fond of the beast.
“Pettus, wos ’em things in th’ quarter-gallery?” young Jessop, the cabin servant, asked the cabin steward as Captain Lewrie finished his pre-sailing breakfast in the forward dining coach, dressed in casual and comfortable old sea clothes, with the finery packed away.
“What things in the quarter-gallery?” Pettus patiently asked as he stowed away spare shirts and trousers, just come back from the shore laundry where they had been washed and rinsed in fresh water, not salt. “You have to be specific.”
“’Em stockin’-lookin’ things in ’eir, them wif th’ ribbons on ’em,” Jessop pressed.
“Those are ‘protections’, Jessop,” Pettus coolly informed him.
“P’rtections f’um wot?” Jessop further asked, puzzled.
“They are cundums,” Pettus told the lad in a mutter, not wishing to disturb their captain, who was in a sour-enough mood already. “Things gentlemen wear when they, ah … take pleasure with ladies so they don’t get them pregnant, or catch the Pox. They are made from sheep gut.”
“Wos th’ ribbons for, ’en?”
“To tie them on round one’s … ‘nut-megs’ … so they won’t slip off in the middle of things,” Pettus said, whispering by then.
“’At’s a lotta work f’r a fook!” Jessop exclaimed, wide-eyed. “Ye kin see right through ’em, anyways. Izzat why the Cap’um needs s’many of ’em?” Jessop scoffed.
“One for each … bout,” Pettus explained, cryptically grinning.
“Mean t’say ’e topped a mort half a dozen times last night?” Jessop gawped aloud. “Or, six diff’r’nt doxies?”
“Hush, now!” Pettus cautioned.
Jessop looked forward to watch Lewrie butter a last slab of toast, smother it with sweet local key-lime marmalade, and take a bite. He goggled in outright awe!
Lewrie heard Jessop’s later utterances, and looked aft at the lad, smiling and tipping him a cheerful wink.
Not all that bad for a man o’ fourty-two, Lewrie congratulated himself quite smugly; and that don’t count the fellatio, which I doubt Priscilla’s “lawful blanket” is too prudish, or ignorant, t’know about.
She, like all ladies of worth, kept her fingernails short, but his back felt as if Toulon and Chalky had galloped over him with their claws out.
Poor Mister Frost! Lewrie thought; He’ll never know what he’s missin’!
Priscilla might not have strictly been a proper and virginal bride when she’d wed the old “colt’s tooth”, but might have been able to play-act a satisfactory sham of inexperience on the wedding night.
Not that her husband
knew all that much about pleasuring her, or any woman. Priscilla had told him with sad amusement their first night that the old fellow came to bed in an ankle-length flannel gown, and had hiked it up only far enough to climb atop her, a business as quickly, roughly done to his release, before he would roll off and go to the wash-hand stand to sponge off, then fall deeply asleep. He did not find it seemly for her to remove her night gown, so it was possible he had never seen her bounty, which could have given him so much more delight, had he the slightest clue! But, Priscilla was his third wife, the first two dying of Child-bed Fever after producing enough males to assure that one would inherit, all now grown with families of their own. Priscilla was less a help-meet, more a house keeper, a hostess at his supper parties, the handy vessel for his rare needs, and a bit of adornment on his arm when invited out, but little else.
Hmm, sounds like most marriages! Lewrie had cynically thought.
Priscilla adored baring her body, being outlandishly nude and posing most fetchingly a’sprawl and inciting. Her “lawful blanket” might never worship at her firm and perky breasts, the insides of her thighs, or at “the wee man in the boat”, but by God Lewrie had been more than glad to attend “services” there! And the rewards of such ardent adoration had been nigh to Paradise itself!
What a waste of a good woman, Lewrie told himself as he mused over his last cup of coffee; Wouldn’t trust her outta sight, but—
The Marine sentry at his door stamped boots, banged his musket on the deck, and cried, “First Officer, SAH!”
“Enter,” Lewrie replied, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
Lt. Westcott entered, his hat under his arm. “The ship is in all respects ready for sea, sir. We stand ready to pipe ‘Stations To Weigh’, whenever you wish.”
“Very well, Mister Westcott, I will come to the quarterdeck,” Lewrie said, rising and snagging his hat off the sideboard, where it was temporarily safe from his cats, who were still busy at their bowls at the other end of the table. “I am sorry I had to call you back to the ship by midnight.”
Hostile Shores Page 7
