"Circus, menagerie of exotic beasts, and theatrical troupe, in one," Lt. Gamble happily mused. "Comedies, dramas, aerial acts, knife throwers, dancing bears, and lion taming… clowns, mimes, and bareback riders. Some barer than others, hmm?" He leered.
"Oh, 'Princess' Eudoxia!" Adair gaily joined in. "Bow and arrows, and never missed, standing bareback, from under the belly of her huge white stallion, facing aft like a Parthian, what a wonder she was!"
"Billed as Scythian, Circassian royalty, but really a Roosian Cossack," Gamble stated with equal enthusiasm. "An absolutely stunning, dark-haired beauty, slim and tall, with the most cunning long legs, in skin-tight breeches, knee-high moccasin boots, a corsety thing, and see-through gauze… what-ye-may-call-it long shirt. And wasn't she hot after the Captain! Threw herself at him…'til she learned he was married, o' course."
"He did pick up a smattering of Roosian, though." Adair leered suggestively. "Curse-words, mostly, from that vicious old lion tamer father of hers."
"Their slow old tub, the Festival, was bound for Cape Town to capture new beasts, and attached itself to our convoy on our way for Recife," Lt. Devereux explained. "She sailed with our home-bound trade, too, once we'd replaced our rudder and set the ship to rights, and was there the night we fought and made prize of the L 'Uranie frigate. The second Frenchman went after the slowest ship in the convoy… the Festival… but, when they tried to board her, they ran into a hornet's nest of trained, bears, baboons, and a loosed lion. Knife throwers, sharpshooters, and Mistress Eudoxia's bow and arrows, too. The Frogs were so terrified, they tumbled back aboard their ship and sheered off, just as the other escort, the old Jamaica sixty-four, got about and closed with them, and I doubt they fired more than a single broadside for honour's sake before they struck, as well.
"Why, Wigmore's Circus received Thanks of the Crown, Thanks of Parliament and 'John Company,' and even did a command performance for King George," Devereux said with a laugh, "and now Wigmore's future is made forever. I must own surprise, Mister Urquhart, that you haven't heard of them."
"I was at sea aboard Albion , and out of reach of the papers," Urquhart had to admit. "Though I did read the official account about Proteus's defence of the convoy. Well, gentlemen…," he said, with a glance upwards to the stubs of the candles in the overhead lamps, instead of drawing out his pocket-watch. 1 "This had been a most enlightening evening, one which assures me that as Savage's First Lieutenant I run no risk of lacking excitement, hey? And I look forward eagerly to whatever new adventures our gallant Captain Lewrie may lead us in future."
"We will follow him anywhere," Lt. Gamble said with a taut grin, and his tongue firmly in cheek, "if only to see what he'll get into, next, ha ha!" Which jest raised a general round of laughter from all the men at-table, but for the dour Mr. Winwood.
"I, ah…," Urquhart flummoxed, his now-fuzzy thoughts put off pace by Lt. Gamble's smirky comment. "A toast, may I be so bold… a last one, for the Captain assured me that tomorrow will be a strenuous day… to the gallant Captain Alan Lewrie, and to further Glory and Fame for HMS Savage!"
He raised his glass on high, as did the others, but…
"And to 'Mother' Green's best, sirs!" Lt. Devereux amended. "Andom Captain's favourites!"
Urquhart gawped once more, mouth agape for a moment, for Mother Green (God rest her patriotic soul!) had made and sold the finest and safest sheep-gut cundums from the Green Lantern in Half Moon Street in London for years, had come out of retirement at the urging of her old clients when the American Revolution had erupted in 1776 to make "protections" for their officer sons, so they could "rantipole" Yankee Doodle wenches in perfect assurance of safety, too.
Urquhart also blushed, for did he not have a round dozen from that selfsame source, now manufactured by Mother Green's heirs, down in the bottom of his sea-chest, 'cause one never knew when the chance might arise… not with women of the better sort, certainly, but…?
"The Captain… Savage… and Mother Green!" he proposed.
"Boat ahoy!" came a muffled cry from the unfortunate Midshipman who stood Harbour Watch in the officers' stead. The reply could not be made out as they tossed back their last glass-fuls to "heel-taps," but moments later came the faint thud of a boat coming alongside the entry-port, and at such a late hour, too.
CHAPTER FOUR
Alan Lewrie was ready for bed, after a rather succulent supper taken alone in his great-cabins. A whole jointed chicken, dredged in flour and crumbled biscuit, then pan-fried the way his wife from North Carolina had cooked it, a method happily re-discovered when he'd been dined aboard ships of the fledgling United States Navy in the Indies, among officers from South Carolina or Georgia. Fresh garden peas and young spring carrots, intermixed, had accompanied it, supported by a baked potato smeared with mustard, and a basket of dainty shore rolls.
His Cox'n, Liam Desmond, had talked their "Free Black" volunteer cook, so aptly re-named Cooke, into baking a few apple tarts, as well; all sluiced down with one of the bottles of Cape Town white wines that Lewrie had purchased just before sailing back to England, and a couple of brandies, after, when catching up on the last of the day's unending flow of official paperwork from the warehouses ashore, a chapter or two of a new novel, and a game of chase with a champagne cork on a string with Toulon and Chalky 'til they'd tired of it, had rolled their eyes at him, and had flopped down on the canvas deck chequer, exhausted.
He was in his nightshirt, the coverlet and top sheet of his hanging bed-cot turned down, and was just about to roll into that bed that was wide enough for two (and a sure eye-opener for any senior officer who espied it) when there came the sharp rap of a musket-butt on the deck without his cabins, and the loud cry from the Marine sentry of "Vis'tor fer th' Cap'm… SAH!"
"Enter," Lewrie cautiously replied, not without an eye towards his weapons rack, for if the Beaumans had landed in England, and had laid charges against him, it could be someone from a Lord Justice, or one of those new-fangled Police Magistrates, come to arrest him!
Thankfully (perhaps) it was only a lone, rather weedy-looking civilian who entered the great-cabins, hat in hand and blinking his eyes as he took in his surroundings; surely a civilian fellow who'd never been aboard a ship of war, by the way he bore himself so mouse-shy and curious. Lewrie noted, though, that he bore under his arm a leather portfolio of a very pale dye, what attorneys jokingly called "law calf." Lewrie looked even sharper towards his weapons rack.
"And you are, sir?" Lewrie had to demand at last, putting on a stern "phyz" with one quizzical brow raised.
"Beg pardons," the pale-skinned civilian all but stammered as he came forward. "But, am I speaking with Captain Alan Lewrie of the Savage frigate?"
"Of course you are, sir!" Lewrie snapped, appalled at such an inane question. "Your boatman brought you to Savage, not the Victory."
"Beg pardons," the weedy fellow reiterated; though he didn't look daunted in the least. "Allow to name myself to you…"
"Aye, that'd help," Lewrie drawled, summoning up as much dignity as one could when clad in a loose-flapping nightshirt and his bare feet.
"George Sadler, sir… clerk to Mister Andrew MacDougall, Esquire, in London. Your barrister, sir?"
"Aye, Mister Sadler? And what is so urgent that he sent you down?" Lewrie enquired, with one hand hidden behind his back with his fingers crossed, and a sudden cold and empty fear-void in his innards.
"News has come from Jamaica, Captain Lewrie," Sadler announced as he opened his "law calf " brief and withdrew a sheaf of documents. "The Beaumans haven't landed in England, then? Not yet?" "No, sir. Not yet. Word of proceedings instituted on Jamaica have, however, come. Along with most-helpful information anent them provided by, ah… a certain friend of yours from the Foreign Office on Jamaica… a Mister James Peel?"
"What sort of proceedings, sir?" Lewrie asked.
"Why, your trial, Captain Lewrie," Mr. Sadler said, wide-eyed.
"I haven't even been charged with anything yet!"
Lewrie barked.
"Oh my, but you have, Captain Lewrie," Sadler sadly told him as he referred to his sheaf of documents and allowed himself a pleased little "Aha!" as he found the pertinent one, which he held out in offering for Lewrie to take. "Charged, I fear, with the theft of a dozen slaves, and tried in the High Court at Kingston, Jamaica, nearly six months past, found guilty, and are sentenced to be hung."
"What?" Lewrie spluttered. "How can I be tried if I wasn't…?"
"In absentia, Captain Lewrie," Sadler replied, much too calmly, and with a wee shake of his head over Lewrie's lack of knowledge of the intricacies of the law. "It happens all the time, when a felon flees the jurisdiction of the-"
"Flee, mine arse!" Lewrie roared. "I sailed away under naval orders! Got 'em in my desk, t'prove it, by…! Mine arse on a band-box Of all the… shit, shit… shit!"
He sank onto his leather-padded chair behind his desk, feeling badly in need of another brandy, some civilian clothing, and a ticket for overseas. Wonder if the Yankee Navy's in need of experienced men? he shudderingly thought; see one o'their consuls, get a certificate o'citizenship, and huzzah, George Washington!
"Under the circumstances, Captain Lewrie, Mister MacDougall is in need of your presence in London, as soon as possible, he told me to relate to you," Sadler went on; legal cases and trials were his work-a-day experience, mostly piles of paperwork to him, and the personality of the accused was of no matter; nor were the accused's feelings! "He also told me to assure you that the informations supplied by Mister Peel, including a complete copy of the trial transcript, reveal a most 'colourable' proceeding. He is certain that perjury was committed… though, to determine the full nature of that, it is vital that he speak with you in person, sir."
"I was… what is it called?" Lewrie managed to say from a dry throat; one that he massaged to see if a hempen noose was already about his neck. "What's the legal term for…?"
"Falsely convicted, Captain Lewrie," Sadler said with a simper of esoteric amusement for a second. "Though the informal term would be 'framed.' I fear you must come up to London at once, sir."
"Oh, bugger!" Lewrie bemoaned. "I just can't leave my ship at the drop of a hat, the Navy'd have my 'nutmegs' off, relieve me of my command, whether I request leave, or not, just…! Couldn't MacDougall simply sue for more time?"
"Believe me when I tell you that time is precious, sir," Sadler said with a negative shake of his head. "Your poor relationship with the Beaumans, and their brutal and vengeful nature which you described to my employer in letters, must be fleshed out by direct questions put to you, before the Beaumans and their representatives arrive and lay the charges, the verdict, and the sentence before a court. This can't be done by post, any longer."
"Christ shit on a biscuit," Lewrie muttered under his breath as he rose and headed for his wine-cabinet for a restorative glass of something… any spirit that fell first to hand. "The bastardsl"
"They seem to be, sir," Sadler primly agreed, with a longing eye on the squat bottle of brandy that Lewrie dug out. He brightened as Lewrie waved the bottle in his direction and fetched out a second glass. "It would appear that we, meaning your legal representatives, have received the transcript, and the verdict, beforehand of its being laid before a Lord Justice in King's Bench, where all criminal trials are held. Which happy fact will allow us perhaps enough time to find flaws in your trial, which may result in the sentence being ruled null and void, and a second trial held here, or your being acquitted."
"Really?" Lewrie piped, with a faint glimmer of hope.
"And, until your foes actually arrive, and are allowed to lay the sentence of death before a Lord Justice, you will remain a free man, Captain Lewrie," Sadler assured him (sort of) as he accepted the glass of brandy and did, for a weedy sort, a manly job of drinking off half of it at once. "And there is the matter of which law term will have space on its docket before an evidentiary hearing… before you are brought to dock, that is to say…"
"Damme, I could be at sea long afore that!" Lewrie gleefully cried. "Out of reach of…!"
"Though, sir… perhaps under a death-sentence," Sadler had to point out. "Until we may challenge the result of your trial, and stay its execution."
"Ba-ad choice o' words, Mister Sadler," Lewrie said, blanching. "Bloody-bad choice o' words!"
Christ, am I fucked! Lewrie thought to himself; think o' going to Sophie's and Langlie 's wedding with this hangin' over me! Shit! Did I say "hanging "? Now th' bastard's got me doin' it!
BOOK I
Dick Butcher: The first thing we do, let's kill
all the lawyers.
William Shakespeare,
The Second Part of King Henry VI
Act IV, Scene II
CHAPTER FIVE
It had been extremely crowded in the diligence coach up from Portsmouth to London; "arseholes to elbows" as Lewrie grumbled at the coaching inn at Petersfield, where the horse teams had been changed. A few passengers got off there, but a horde of new'uns had gotten on, and Lewrie had been crammed into a tiny corner by a window, with the bench seat normally fit for three abreast jam-packed with four, and nary a one of them seemed to have bathed, the last week entire!
He had taken lodgings at an inn suggested by Mr. Sadler, who had made a bad travelling companion. The man simply could not silence his cheery babbling; towards Lewrie, who grunted back, lost in his own brown study and ready to throttle the wee bastard; with each and every passenger-male, female, child or toddler, wizened, droop-eyed, and wheezing dodderers, simpering matron-hags, adult men, new mothers with "drool fountains" on their laps-anyone was fare for him, from rich to poor, and generally goggling out the windows at every passing sight like a simpleton who'd found himself on an aristocrat's Grand Tour of the Continent by mistake!
Well, perhaps Mr. Sadler had never been outside London before, Lewrie could speculate, and he was on a Grand Tour. And, slaving away over special pleadings, all ink and rustling paper, from dawn to dusk as a law clerk just might be a stiflingly drab life, in a sober-sided profession. Sadler was like a boy just up from school!
He ate like one, too, for Lewrie had been given to understand that the "honorarium" already paid to his employer, Andrew MacDougall, Esq., did not cover travel expenses, meals and lodging, etc., and etc., so it was Lewrie's not-bottomless purse that had gotten Sadler back to shore and into decent lodgings after they had completed their business aboard Savage, had repaid his downward fare to Portsmouth, and their coach fares to London, Sadler's hearty breakfast, their mid-day meal at Petersfield, and a basket of treats to take the edge off any wants the rest of the way up to London, as well as a pint of ale here, then a bottle of porter aboard the coach (to keep Sadler's touchy throat condition wet), Lewrie's rooms in London, and another hearty evening meal taken together at a rather fashionable new chop-house near Somerset House in the Strand… a chop-house that seemed dedicated to settling the National Debt off the price of its victuals, and one Lewrie was mortal-certain had never been one of Sadler's haunts, without one of his employer's clients to pay for all… the damned fool! He'd even shown up at Lewrie's lodgings for a "pre-consultation" breakfast, by God!
"Mister MacDougall will be out shortly, Captain Lewrie," Sadler said with a simper as he hung up his hat and greatcoat on a hall-tree in the outer "office," and saw to Lewrie's as well. They had coached the short distance from Lewrie's inn. Well, Sadler had coached in rare style from whatever miserable garret he occupied to the inn, then had the cabman wait (for an extra fee) 'til they had eat, and for a small fellow, Sadler could put it away like a modern-day Sir John Falstaff, then taken the coach up the Strand to Fleet Street, then into narrower Whitefriars Street, where MacDougall had his "digs."
It was not quite the "offices" where Lewrie had expected to find himself; the first room he entered was more a parlour or sitting room than anything else, all prim and clean, with an Axminster carpet on the floor, a marble fireplace, and fresh-looking and brightly upholstered settees and wing-bac
k chairs set about, with two large windows facing the street, and God only knew how much MacDougall paid in Window Tax for such a lot of light, and a good view.
Sadler parted a set of double doors in the back wall, stepped through, then closed them, leaving Lewrie to pace about the parlour, peer into the bookcases, and fret with his shirt collar and neck-stock. A moment later, Sadler was back, leaving the doors open this time and saying most formally, "If you will step this way, sir?"
Hmmph… got his work-a-day face back on, I s pose, Lewrie had to think; thank God there 'II be no more blathering.
He followed Sadler into a room of equal size to the parlour, one featuring a dining area, a wee butler's pantry, and a large sideboard. Past that'un into a third, a bedroom with an old-style curtained four-poster, then through a final set of double doors to yet another large room furnished as a proper office, a book-lined study with a fireplace and yet another pair of windows looking west onto Bou-verie Street. Damme, how much is his fee? Lewrie wondered, and felt thankful that Reverend William Wilberforce and his charitable, and fervent, anti-slavery followers had so far footed the bill!
"Aha, Captain Lewrie, do you come in, sir!" his barrister gayly exclaimed, broadly gesturing him to a wing-back chair before his desk, which was piled high with stacks of legal octavos and folders of that pudding-crust "law calf" leather. "Your servant, sir, and I am Andrew MacDougall. Will you take coffee or tea, Captain Lewrie? Take a pew, sir, and be comfortable whilst we begin about it, ha ha!"
And'he's the one t'save mine arse?Lewrie gawped to himself as he took in Mr. Andrew MacDougall, Esquire, for MacDougall looked more like a puckish public school boy than what Lewrie expected an attorney to be. MacDougall looked no older than his middle-twenties, his face round, with dimpled cheeks and chin, under a head of curly dark blond hair that spilled over his forehead in an unkempt mop-one that he swiped back at least twice before Lewrie could seat himself-and was so curly that Lewrie could conjure that he really wore a peruke-styled court wig of unconventional colour, were it not for the fact that his lawyer's formal black court robe and peruke already rested on a stand in one corner, a stand formed much like a mast with one crossed yardarm. Lewrie found it oddly disconcerting, that mute display; more of a legal scare-crow with "arms" spread wide to net the unfortunate, and the peruke with its three tight side-curls, short queue bound with a black ribbon resting on a pad atop the stand, a faceless intimation of future horror. It was so ghoulish that Lewrie felt a tiny shiver.
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