A King's Trade

by Dewey Lambdin

  “But, you say she’s been salvaged over, looted…?” Lewrie said, unwilling to raise false hopes too soon.

  “Other chandlers unt me been strip her over,” Goosen admitted. “Mast, spar, sail canvas, unt cordage…upper bulwarks, deck planks, unt blocks. Locals take boats, cabin goods, straightest oak timbers for houses, unt I was going to go down dahr unt burn what is left for her nails unt metal, butt…” he drawled, brightening. “Stripped so far only halfway, to midships, so far. Hoisting rings still standing. You hire my kaffir divers to undo bolts unt t’ings, rig hoisting line wit’ kedge capstan unt shear-legs…! I sell you big rudder for gut price, Kaptein Loo…myhneer!”

  “Well, I’m damned!” Lewrie said with a happy whoosh of wind. “We could sail down round the Cape, take your barge, our launch and cutter, and…”

  “Iss big rudder, big sternpost, too, Kaptein,” Goosen cautioned. “Get offshore in heavy Cape swell, wit’ that aboard, you swamp, sure. Nie, best-est, you hire timber waggon. Volk at Simon’s Bay, dey heff many boats, all sizes. I speak to my cousin, Andries de Witt, he heff timber waggons, heff big, strong dray horses. You, me, my kaffirs unt two-dozen men of yours for heavy pulley-hauley. Well, maybe take more waggons, for shear-legs, heavy cables, tents, food unt water, rum unt beer …your men ride in waggons, not walk so far, too, ja! One day down, two, three day work like Trojans, one day back, unt you heff new rudder, quick as wink, haw haw!”

  “You’re sure it’s still there, not looted, yet,” Lewrie pressed. “Word of honour, it’s in good shape!”

  “On Holy Bible, on my vertroue in God, it is so, Kaptein!” the stout older fellow vowed, one hand in the air pointing to Heaven, with a suddenly solemn air.

  “And…just how much d’ye expect this expedition of ours will cost, Mister Goosen?” Lewrie asked him, satisfied that the Indiaman’s rudder and sternpost was still there, but suddenly leery when it came to talk of “cousin Andries” and his magically available waggons.

  “Wreck now belong to me, rudder unt sternpost belong to me unt other chandlers, but… I give you gut price, word on that, too! My cousin Andries, well… I am sure something be worked out, to mutual satisfaction, Kaptein Leer…myhneer,” Goosen swore, his face going as cherubic, and as innocent, as the veriest babe at Sunday school.

  That’s what I was afraid of, Lewrie thought with a well-hidden sigh, but… reached out and shook hands with the cagey bastard. If he played his hand well enough, there was a good possibility that the Navy might sport him the cost, entire!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Kapitan Lewrie!” a tantalisingly familiar voice interrupted a foul musing as Lewrie’s little train of waggons reached the Southern outskirts of tidy little Cape Town, almost into the first of the farms and vineyards, on the dusty road to Simon’s Town. “Zdrasvutyeh!”

  Oh, shit, and where’s her papa? Lewrie thought with a twinge of alarm as he reined his hired mare and wheeled her slowly about, to see the equally familiar spirited white gelding loping to catch up with his caravan. Eudoxia Durschenko was beaming fit to bust as she easily and athletically “posted” in her stirrups, heels well down, and back just as straight and erect as a fence-post as she came near.

  “Is good be seeink you, again, Kapitan Lewrie!” Eudoxia gaily called out as she reined in her horse to a walk, patting his neck as he tossed his proud head and snorted in frustration that his fun was over. “Ve have not see you at circus or theatre, since comink here, pooh, fine Engliski kapitan. Where you are goink wit’ ox and waggon?”

  That had been the first surprise; “cousin” Andries de Witt had refused to risk his precious dray horses, as big as English Punches, to haul that much weight, and had supplied six oxen to each long and narrow, pink-ended waggon, that rose up so high at “bow and stern” that they resembled Yankee dorys, and a round dozen oxen as the team for the timber waggon, which was little more than two sets of wheels as tall as a man, and a stout frame linking them together.

  “Mistress Eudoxia… enchante!” Lewrie responded in an equal gayness, and doffed his newly-purchased wide-brimmed farmer’s hat to her. “You keep well…you and your father?” he asked, not taking it for granted that the surly bastard wasn’t lurking somewhere over the next rise, or skulking behind the last house but one to spy on her. “As to where I’m going, we’re off to salvage a new rudder for my frigate, to replace the one the French shot up.”

  “Da, and it was so brave of you, Kapitan, to save us from the Fransooskie, las’ week!” Eudoxia quite prettily gushed as her gelding came up alongside his mare, ‘til they were riding knee-to-knee. And a rather slim and attractive knee it was, for Eudoxia, paying no heed to prim Dutch Boer proprieties, was wearing a pair of green moleskin breeches, only slightly less snug than the skin-tight ones she wore in her performances, black-and-tan knee-high riding boots, and was, gasp!, shamelessly astride her saddle. And if Eudoxia had made an attempt at “propriety” by wearing a loose linen shirt tucked into those breeches, with a loose and unbuttoned tan suede waist-coat over it, the shirt’s collar was unbuttoned nearly all the way down the placket. To top off her outré ensemble, she had chosen a light grey, wide-brimmed hat with perhaps her one and only gesture towards proper femininity, for it was flounced with long, trailing ribands, one brim pinned up over her right eye, with a long, locally-obtained ostrich plume caught in the fold.

  “Our peoples is karasho, Kapitan Lewrie,” she beamed. “Everythink good, everyone good, but for Poppa’s best lion. He is die, eta tak groozni…pras-teenyah. Sorry, it is too sad, am meanink to say. Vanya, we are thinkink he eat somethink bad for him at Saint Helena…find head of little dog in cage, then he lose appetite.”

  That’d explain the last complaint Treghues got from the governor’s wife, aye! Lewrie thought with a wince; Exit one former lap dog, stage left!

  “Find collar in throat, after Vanya die …” Eudoxia explained.

  “Choked t’death on a pug and his collar, hmm,” Lewrie opined.

  “Vanya is oldest, grown when Poppa get him from old trainer,” Eudoxia sadly continued, “not like Ilya, who is not to be trusted wit’ head in mouth… ‘less he is very well-ffeed…fed? Da, fed. Even then, Ilya is …how you say, uhm…frisky! Now, Poppa not havink lion to swallow his head!”

  Well, ‘twas a forlorn hope, at best, Lewrie thought, grinning.

  “So now, Poppa is goink hunt for new lions,” Eudoxia breezily said on, “for is best, raisink from cubs. Mister Vigmore, he is hunt for new beasts, too! Want real zebra…maybe feed donkeys to lions, at last. Ostrich, girafffee, even ele…?”

  “Elephants?” Lewrie supplied, turning in surprise.

  “Da, ele-funts, spasiba!” Eudoxia happily exclaimed. “Thankink you for right word. Mister Vigmore, he say ‘ele-funts,’ it soundink so funny…hell-ee-finks!” she told him, tossing back her head to give out a rich laugh. “Mister Vigmore beink Engliski, like you, Kapitan Lewrie, but God! He havink such stranyi accent!”

  “Hallo, miss!” Some of the sailors in Lewrie’s party, lolling at their sublime ease in his gear-waggons for a rare once, recognised her from her circus and theatrical performances…and from the kiss she’d planted on their captain, that last night at St. Helena. They waved their tarred straw sailors’ hats and gave her a cheer. “Gonna ride t’Simon’s Bay wif us, missis?”

  “Simon’s Bay?” Exdoxia asked.

  “Down the Cape, t’other side of it, on another bay, my dear,” Lewrie informed her. “There’s a wrecked ship there, where we hope to obtain a new rudder, and timbers, to repair Proteus. And what of you? You’re rather well-armed, I must say. Doing a spot of hunting as well, are you, Mistress Eudoxia?”

  She looked down at the brace of single-barrelled pistols jammed into dragoon holsters either side of her saddle’s front, the long and slim firelock in a leather scabbard under her right leg, and the bow case and tube that held at least two-dozen of her arrows. “Oh, pooh, is only to practice. A quiet place in country, where I am practicink not to distu
rb peoples in town. For wild beast, if one come. For the wild man, if one come, too! Corn merchant in town who sellink us feed for beasts say many dangers in Africa, must always be ware. Rifled, see, Kapitan?” she declared, drawing her musket from its scabbard. “I buyink musket and pistols in Ph…Philadelphia, in tour in America. Mnoga… much better even than Poppa’s old ones. Lighter, too. See? Try, Kapitan,” she said, thrusting the rifled musket into his hands.

  He swung it up and sighted down the barrel, hand well clear of the trigger or lock, for he was sure that she’d loaded it before leaving town; that would be mere caution for a young woman out riding all by herself in the wilds of Africa…which, like inland settlements in North America, began about fifty yards past the last truck garden.

  It was light, and pointed well, though the comb of the stock was tailored to a slighter form, custom-made by a talented Yankee gunsmith. Glossy burled wood, lots of brass, with brass or silver inlay, about as fine as the Pennsylvania rifles that his ship had captured from an American smuggling brig in the Danish Virgins in the Caribbean, all of them top-grade presentation models sent as gifts or bribes to the rebel ex-slave leader Toussaint L’Ouverture and his senior generals.

  “Magnificent!” Lewrie told her, handing it back. “A match to a rifle I took in the Caribbean. And, I’ve a breech-loading Ferguson as well, ever seen one? We should have a shoot, so you may try them… though I’m certain you’d out-shoot me without even trying.”

  “I would like that, Kapitan Lewrie! You thinkink you are good shot?” she teased as she slid the rifle back into the scabbard.

  “Uhm…passing fair, I s’pose,” Lewrie said with a grin, and some false modesty. “Potted pirates in the China Seas at two hundred yards with my Ferguson.”

  “Wing-shot?”

  “Give me a decent fowling piece, and I can fetch home a decent bag,” Lewrie chuckled. “Though, up the Mississippi, I did manage to knock down ducks and geese on the wing, with an air rifle!”

  “Schto?” Eudoxia gaped, leaning away in her saddle. “Wit’ air rifle? I am seeink one, in gunshop in Portugal, but never am shoot!”

  “I’d let you,” Lewrie teased back.

  “Ooorah!” she whooped, startling both horses. “Uhm, skolka vremene, pardon…how long it take you to be goink to this Simon’s Bay?”

  “Two days each way,” Lewrie said, unconsciously gritting teeth at the thought that horses would have been much faster. “Perhaps two or three more to fetch what we’re after, so…call it almost a week, together. Oh, but you’ll be off hunting, by then, I’d expect.”

  “Nyet,” Eudoxia said with a silvery laugh. “No, Kapitan. Men go hunt, but sailors and girls stay in Cape Town. We do circus, but soldiers have seen, Gallandya… Dutch peoples have seen, and plays in Engliski make no sense to them, so…we are finish performances. Mister Vigmore puttink hunt t’gether. Kapitan Veed lookink after us ‘til they come back, ponyemayu? See? Poppa say huntink lion in wild Africa no place for girl, hah! Say I stay on ship wit’ Kapitan Veed, but Moinya, big sweety,” she said, patting her gelding’s neck in affection, “mus’ not go stale, mus’ ride him, every day. Moinya is for to say in Engliski ‘Lightning,’ da?”

  “And a cracking-fine horse I’m sure he is,” Lewrie praised her, “one worthy of his name. So…when does the hunting party leave?”

  “Oh, not for week, at least, Kapitan Lewrie,” Eudoxia told him, with a mischievious glint in her large amber eyes almost as playful as his own, and prettily lowering her lashes at him. “Vigmore is talk to…Boers, what you call them… trekboers, who are knowink country, ev’ry stitch! Havink waggon trains like yours, wit’ ox teams, wit’ a band of Black drivers, like yours, too! Mister van der Merwe, one is called, he havink cutest little Black fellows who drive his oxes! I am thinkink they call them …Hottentots! Like doll peoples!”

  “Well, we should be back, by then,” Lewrie off-handedly said. “Perhaps we could…once my ship is repaired, o’ course, ride out to the back-country and have ourselves a shooting contest.”

  “Oh, would be bolshoi! Would be grand, Kapitan Lewrie! And… may-be …” Eudoxia posed girlishly, shyly, all but biting her lower lip and drawing out that tentative, suggestive word, “you sho wink me grand Engliski frigate, da? Then, we have shootinks. Race horses or hunt little beasts, not lions! Take picnic basket….”

  “Why, what a delightful idea, and thankee for suggestin’ that!” Lewrie cried, his baser humours well-stirred, by then. And, with yer pesky poppa off gettin bit half t’death by flies, too! he thought in glee; And, damn my eyes, but, for playacting so doe-eyed innocent, I swear there’s an eager vixen in her nature!

  “We’re to ‘break our passage’ at an inn that our guide, Mister Goosen, knows, up ahead, Mistress Eudoxia,” Lewrie further suggested. “Care to ride with us and dine with us?”

  “Oh, so sorry, Kapitan,” Eudoxia said with sudden pout, “but, I am promisink Poppa I not ride far, give hour I must return. Spasiba, for invitation, but I mus’ go. I makink it up to you, in a few days?” she hinted with an enticing chuckle, in a throaty, promising way.

  “Then I will be looking forward to that most eagerly, Mistress!”

  “Pooh, Kapitan.” Eudoxia pouted some more. “Mistress Eudoxia, always Mistress. So stuffy, da? Is Eudoxia, please? You are Alan, not Kapitan. Beink very good, maybe I sayink ‘tiy,’ not ‘viy.’ How you say… un-formal? Unner-stan’?”

  “Completely,” Lewrie told her with glad leer, stunned by that allowance, and half-strangled by the implication.

  “Dosvidanya, Alan,” she cooed, leaning over from her saddle to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek and put a hand in the small of his back. Before he could respond in kind, though, she gave out a whoop and put spurs to her horse. She whipped away, to go cantering down the length of Lewrie’s motley caravan to its very head, spin round before the ox team of the first waggon, and come galloping back along the far side of it towards town. “Sh-chastleevava pooti! Paka! Have good trip, Alan! See you!”

  God in Heaven! Lewrie thought; And just how long’ll it take for Wigmore and her poppa t’hunt down their lions, elephants, and such?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Well, h’it’s a big bugger… h’ain’t it?” one of the sailors commented with a scowl on his face as they contemplated the wreck of the Indiaman.

  “Big as a bloody three-decker,” Bosun Pendarves agreed, looking up at her from a few yards away, hands on his hips and goggling at her ruined hull which towered over them. “Bigger’n a Third Rate, anyways.”

  The East Indiaman, once named the Lord Clive, lay rolled over on her starboard side, with her bows driven into the knee-deep shallows and her forefoot, cutwater, and bluff bows now half-sunken into the soft sand of the beach, while the rest of her extended out into the water of the bay, her stern underwater up to the counter under the stern walks that her best-paying passengers had enjoyed. Local scavengers had salvaged most of her forward hull planks already, those they could reach without a boat, so her ribs, frames, knees, and carline posts showed in the gaps they’d torn, clear from her larboard side to starboard, where crushed frames could be seen, after her grounding on the Whittle Rocks.

  Even as Mr. Andries de Witt’s caravan was unpacking and setting up camp on the low bluffs above the beach, die-hard local Boers sawed and pried on her forward half, even redoubling their efforts before the new-come “interlopers” could decide to run them off.

  “Damned shame,” Lewrie said to the Bosun as he joined him beside the wreck, looking up at her great bulk. “What d’ye make her, Mister Pendarves? One hundred eighty feet on the range of the deck? Perhaps fourty-eight feet abeam?”

  “Summat near that, aye, Cap’m,” Pendarves said with a sage nod. “Big as an eighty-gunner, or a Sir William Slade-designed seventy-four o’ th’ Large Class. Bigger’n th’ Common Class for certain, sir.”

  “She’ll have one hell of a rudder and sternpost, then,” Lewrie surmised. “Might take a deal of cutting and tri
mming down.”

  “Aye, sir, but we’ll do ‘er, long as it’s in decent condition.”

  “Ah, here come our boats, I believe,” Lewrie pointed out, as a group of three rather large cutters came near them, from the docks at Simon’s Town. Mr. Goosen stood in the bows of the lead boat, waving.

  Talk about your book-ends, Lewrie thought with a scowl of his own, as he walked down to the hard-packed sand of the lower beach; Both of ‘em bad bargains… crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Still, reminding himself that beggars can’t be choosers, he waved and smiled in similar enthusiastic fashion to greet Goosen’s arrival.

  “Ach, dere be Goosen!” Andries de Witt cried from his left side.

  Book-ends, indeed; both were squat, solid, and stout, both florid of face and balding, and both sported beards so thick they looked like a brace of “owls in an ivy bush.” All Lewrie could normally make out of their features were thick and meaty lips—which they licked with sly relish whenever he enquired about costs—and pale blue eyes.

  “Gut morning, Kaptein Lewrie!” Goosen bellowed ashore, flapping his wide-brimmed hat in the air. “You see, we heff boats! And, I am speaking vit’ de leading burghers of Simon’s Town, to assure them all you vish is de rudder, and they can keep the rest of the wreck, oh ja!”

  “Very good, Mister Goosen!” Lewrie shouted back, cupping hands to his mouth. “Can we board your boat and take a look at the rudder right away, sir?”

  “Ah, ja, climb aboard!”

  ” ‘Tis big, aye,” Bosun Pendarves commented again, minutes later after the cutter had been secured under the Lord Clive’s stern counter. The locally-hired Dutch crew—owner and helmsman, and two younger lads who seemed to bear an uncanny resemblance to Goosen and de Witt—found a quiet spot right-aft by the tiller and took themselves a well-earned nap, the doings of rooinek British sailors no concern of theirs.

  Mr. Pendarves got out his long wooden ruler, and Mr. Garroway, Proteus’s Carpenter, produced a long hank of knot-marked and ink-ruled twine. For long minutes they hemmed and ahummed over the great rudder, which hung as far over as its gudgeons and faying pieces would allow, as if the last helm order had been to put it hard-over. Thankfully, it still seemed to be in one piece, above-water at least, and all pintles and gudgeons in reach had held firm through the grounding, and still supported the rudder without evident strain.