Two Gentlemen of Verona got completely plagiarised, becoming a farce titled A Day At The Forum, with many foot chases and slamming doors, slave girls in skimpy gauze costumes, and lusty, but foolish, Roman lads who didn't know they were related.
Then, there was The Sultan's Hareem, loosely borrowed from the many horrid novels (some running to eight volumes!) written about some plucky English girl kidnapped by Corsairs and sold off to an Ottoman Turk, fending off the old lecher's advances quite cleverly, if quite implausibly, 'til rescued by the Royal Navy. That'un featured skimpy costumes, too, perhaps the same ones worn earlier by the Roman slave girls. Both farces were heavy on popular songs incorporated wherever they even slightly fitted into the plots, The Sultan's Hareem ending with "Rule, Brittania!"
And didn't Eudoxia look grand in barely-concealing gauze!
Since no clowns could throw buckets of confetti or water on him at the temporary theatre, nor any mimes drag him out for their victim or laughing-stock, Lewrie sat down front at the dramas and comedies, with the other captains, officers, and East India Company officialdom, and their wives, mistresses, or doxies.
Where he could get a good view of her charms.
Eudoxia, indeed, didn't get many lines in the dramas, but more than held her own in the comedies. She was a slinky-sultry Egyptian slave girl in one, a star belly-dancer in the other (doing much the same routine in both, actually), and would never be said to possess a fine singing voice, but… who cared? Lewrie certainly didn't, for her natural, nigh-exotic beauty, her graceful, long-limbed carriage as she made her paces across the extemporised stage, and her innate impishness when delivering comic dialogue, combined with the sombrely serious way she went at her nearly-salacious solo dances, transfixed him into gape-jawed, and highly appreciative, awe.
And, just as she singled him out with her bow at the end of any circus act, when the dramatis personae took their final bows, lined up just before the footlights, her eyes always found his, her triumphant smile grew brightest, and her last blown kisses and lowerings of her head were to him… despite her father, who always seemed to be just at the edge of the stage curtains, or in the shadows of the circus's screening drapes, also looking fixedly at Lewrie, and that furiously, too, with his teeth grinding themselves to pea-gravel and dust!
That was as close as he actually got to her, in point of fact, as close as any hopeful gentleman or lusty tar got to her, either, for just as soon as Eudoxia exited the ring or the stage, Poppa Durschenko was there by her side, now sporting two daggers in his waist sash, and bestowing upon one and all cautionary glares so black and menacing that they might have killed birds on the wing, before taking her by the arm or elbow and hustling her behind the safety of the tents or drapes.
Until their last night in port.
Wigmore had staged A Day At The Forum, again, the bawdiest and funniest of his offerings, that seemed to go down so best with sailors and soldiers. Most captains and officers had already seen it, as had the local lights, "squirearch-ish" passengers, and officials, but the audience was still fairly large, most of it garbed in Army red, or in Navy blue, and Lewrie had gotten himself a place in the very front on a low stool he'd fetched off the ship.
No matter that the crowd that night were repeat attendees, the farce went down even better than before. Knowing that this was their last performance before packing themselves and their scrims, costumes, and props aboard Festival for a long, boring voyage, the actors played up even broader and bawdier, altering dialogue and the ends of jokes to suit their less sophisticated, but more loudly-appreciative, crowd. The music was louder and livelier, even the songs leered or eye-rolled more comically, the pace of the foot chases and door slams even more frenzied, and drawn out 'til people in the audience were nearly retching or choking, they had laughed so hard, could not even titter a jot more, yet found something new over which to howl.
Lewrie's own eyes were squinted, tear-filled, his sides ached, the corners of his mouth nearly hurt, and he had guffawed so forcibly that when he could draw a full breath, his lungs felt as abused as if he'd smoked the foulest Spanish cigaro in all Creation.
At last, both noble families were reconciled, the villains were confounded, the long-lost brothers reunited, and the little blonde who played the first ingenue slave girl, and Eudoxia, who played the sultry Egyptian dancing girl slave, were freed and espoused. The entire cast gathered to sing the last song, linked arm-in-arm, then took the final bows. Arslan Artimovich Durschenko slunk out to the edge of the thin curtain on one side of the stage, ready to help haul it shut, glaring at everyone, and…
Eudoxia did her last, deep curtsy, head inclined as grandly as a countess, clad only in a peachy lame chemise, a very sheer goldish sheet of gauze gathered to resemble a Roman stola, ankle bangles, and white-leather sandals. As before, after she had made acknowledging bows to left-right-and-centre of the audience, blown kisses to the four winds, and waved to those who shouted loudest from far in back, higher up the slope, her almond eyes and widest smile was for Lewrie, making him sit up straighter and squirm in lust, no matter the danger lurking in the wings.
Then… Eudoxia stepped to the edge of the stage as the rest dropped their linked hands to depart, bounded lithely over the footlights from the low wood stage, onto the stretch of ground separating the stage from the audience, and, with her most playful laugh, landed in Lewrie's lap, arms about his neck, and one lean, slim leg extended towards the starry sky!
"Merciful God!" Lewrie gawped, beaming fit to bust, with an arm about her waist. "Well, hallo there!"
"Zdrasvutyeh, English, sailor boy," Eudoxia said with a laugh. "You comink here off-e-ten?" One hand came up to stroke Lewrie's cheek to steer his head, then planted a broadly-drawn, loud, and wet kiss on his lips, to his, and the crowd's, amazement and delight.
"Woo-hoo!" Sailors cheered, jeered, and whistled, while her kiss turned from playful to fierce. "That's our 'Ram-Cat' for ye!" a sailor off Proteus loudly hooted, one who knew the sobriquet by which his captain was known in the Royal Navy, and the reason for it, which had nought to do with Lewrie's choice of pets.
"Your papa is going to kill me!" Lewrie carped, stunned, pleased, but very worried, as she gracefully rose to her feet and drew him erect with her, draping her slim body against his, her arms about his neck and fingers toying with the short, tied queue atop his coat collar. "Might even take his whip to you, girl! We'd best…!"
"Then it be good you run away, da?" she teased back, whispering, her lips half an inch from his, and Lewrie could not stop himself from running his hands up and down her back, giving her a firmer squeeze so he could lift Eudoxia's toes off the ground, marvelling at how sinewy, how firm, her body was, compared to most women's, yet how silky-smooth.
"Running away… now," he told her. Yet, didn't. Now eye-to-eye with him, she grinned, and bestowed on him another, more serious, enflaming kiss before leaning her head back and crying, "Hah! Now is good time we both runnink!" He let her go, thinking it a most sensible suggestion, and she fled with a playful hop and a skip for the right-hand side of the stage platform, farthest from her papa, though she did stop, spin about, and cry, "Was much fun! Dosvidanya, Kapitan Alan Lewrie."
He stood staring after her like a Greek hero who'd caught too good a direct look at the Hydra, and been turned to stone. He felt a need to gulp, and did so, a time or two. He also felt a need to grope at his crutch to ease the sudden tightness of his breeches, for surely no human could have a cock-stand the size and hardness of a belaying-pin, but forebore, given the audience about him… and the fear that her father was still watching. He shook himself back to reality, bent down to pick up his hat and stool, and saw the now-drawn stage drapes nigh-churning with a struggle behind them.
"Tot tarakan!"* (*"That cockroach!") he heard, recognising Arslan Artimovich's raspy shrieks. "Let go, yob tvoyematl Chort! † (†"Shit [or] Damn!") Doh! ‡ (‡"God!") Tot sikkim siyn!"** (**"That son of a bitch!") Or, whatever that meant. In punctuation, a long a
rm emerged through the curtains' partings, a hand at the end clutching a dagger, with several other hands struggling to disarm him, and Lewrie determined that, aye, it would be a good time to bolt… in a dignified manner, o' course, though with some purposeful haste. "Tot gryazni sabaka!++ (++"That dirty dog!")
As he headed for the piers and his waiting gig, taking longish strides, he tried to recall what it was the London papers always said of a new play in Drury Lane, or Covent Garden. Right, that was it!
A most enjoyable time was had by all!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
First Off'cer… SAH!" the Marine sentry without the door into the great-cabins cried, thudding the brass-bound butt of his musket on the deck.
"Enter," Lewrie bade, interrupting his breakfast in the dining-coach and rising to his feet, almost wincing with dread anticipation of what report Lt. Lang-lie might make; he had already gotten a letter from HMS Grafton, even before his sailors had finished washing and stoning Proteus's decks.
Lt. Anthony Langlie stepped through the door into Lewrie's forward cabins, 'twixt the dining-coach to larboard and the chart-space to starboard, cocked hat under one arm, and a rolled-up set of papers in his free hand. Toulon and Chalky, who had been breakfasting on the fresh bacon bought ashore, raised their tails and tricky-trotted over from their dishes to greet him, as was their usual wont, for Langlie was always good for a kind word and a skritch. They were disappointed, though, for Langlie paced right past them, for a rare once, to attend to the grim matter at hand.
"Coffee, Mister Langlie?" Lewrie offered, dabbing at his mouth with a fresh napkin. "Buttered toast and jam, too, perhaps?"
"Ehm… the coffee'd be welcome, sir, thankee," Langlie said, a frown upon his usually-placid and (some said) handsome features.
"Sit ye down, then, sir. Aspinall? Coffee for the First Officer, and a refill for me," Lewrie directed. Aspinall fetched a fresh cup and saucer, his battered black pot, and did the honours, before, at his captain's firm nod, retreating back into his tiny pantry abaft the chart-space. "Well then, Mister Langlie… just how large a pack of sinners are we?" Lewrie finally asked.
"Ehm…" Langlie commented with a sigh, unrolling his reports. "A total of twenty-two hands on report, sir. I comfort myself with the fact that Proteus isn't the greatest offender, but…"
"To paraphrase those Americans with whom we cooperated in the Caribbean, Mister Langlie," Lewrie stuck in with a scowl, " 'when the captain ain't comforted, ain't nobody comforted,' hmm? I've already had a note from Captain Treghues on the matter. Tell it me."
"Aye, sir. Ahh…" Langlie sadly replied. After one sip from his sugared and goat-milked cup of coffee, he referred to his papers. "First off, I suppose, there was the 'zebra' race, though that Mister Wigmore's made no formal complaint about the ah… borrowing of his beasts, or the condition in which they were returned. It did draw an undue amount of attention, though, sir, so…"
"Could've been worse, Mister Langlie," Lewrie opined. "Might have been camels, not…"
"The camels put them right off, sir," Langlie told him. "All that biting, bawling, and spitting green goo. In point of fact, one could hold Wigmore partially at fault for allowing our Black hands to mount them at all."
Some of their "liberated" Jamaican Blacks, Landsmen or Ordinary Seamen, had been allowed to view the circus's menagerie in their pens down by the piers where they'd been kept after the last circus performance, prior to re-loading aboard Festival. God knows why, but they had also been allowed to mount the so-called zebras, and, on a drunk lark, had decided to race them bareback all the way uphill through the town to the last tavern at the head of the valley, the loser to pay for all.
They had been highly displeased to find that the "zebras" were only tarted-up donkeys, whose "cosmetics" stained their cleanest shoregoing uniforms. Equally displeasing was their discovery that, having been born Black African, they had no more innate "zebramanship" skills than your run-of-the-mill drunken tar. The race had been a shambling, short-tacking disaster, and, once at the distant tavern, they had taken a peevish load of ale aboard themselves, and gotten the donkeys drunk, into the bargain! The garrison's Provost Guard had fetched them Hood, Howe, Bass, Whitbread, and Groome… and the donkeys… home, giving the men Hell for "cocking a snook" at them and giving the Provosts false, and highly improbable, names!
"And what's this about stolen azaleas, roses, and a… tree}" Lewrie asked, referring to Treghues's note by his plate.
"Well, that was mostly our Irish hands' doing, sir," Langlie informed him with a grunt of obvious distress. "Furfy, Desmond, some of the other lads. Once I got them back from the Provosts, and a bit sobered up, their explanation was that they'd heard sailors off those homebound Indiamen talking about how profitable is the importation of exotic foreign… shrubs, and they thought that it might be a two-way trade. Make a bit on the side, sir?… There was, also, some talk about emulating 'Breadfruit' Bligh… the saplings, not the mutinous part. And… they wished to do a bit of… gardening, sir. Spruce Proteus up?" "Were they of a mind t'plant 'em in the water tubs between the damned guns, Mister Langlie?" Lewrie gawped. "Or, would just any-old where suit?"
"Ehm… I gather they'd have gone either side of both entry-ports, the quarterdeck and foc's'le ladderways, and… your door, sir. Decorative door-stoop flowers," Langlie lamely confessed.
"But, the island governor's wife s roses and azaleas, Mister Langlie!" Lewrie exclaimed, referring again to Treghues's damned note. "The bloody tree from right outside the governor's courtyard!"
"Ahern was especially covetous of the roses, sir," Lt. Langlie morosely commented. He'd been up all night, from the first alert he'd gotten from the garrison's Officer of the Guard, and was, by now, much the worse for wear. "His old grannie was a herbalist healer, or so he says, and highly recommended rose hips for those feeling poorly. The, ah… argument over which ship got the roses and such never really did get to an outright brawl, though hundreds of sailors were involved, not just our Proteuses, sir! Men off Grafton, Horatius, and Navy tars off the homebound escort ships were actually the greatest offenders… or so I heard from the other First Lieutenants, once we were all summoned to the Mundens Fort at dawn, sir. Once there, we compared notes, held a little 'guild meeting,' as it were…"
"The tree, Mister Langlie?" Lewrie pressed.
"The tree, aye, sir," Langlie said with a put-upon sigh. "Furfy clapped eyes on it, and swore it was the very sort of tree that stood just outside his childhood croft back in Ireland, sir, and…"
"And was it?" Lewrie asked, most dubiously.
"I rather doubt it, sir," Langlie replied with a brief grin on his phyz. "It was a twenty-foot Chinese magnolia. Furfy said, though, that it'd look grand forrud of the roundhouse. Give shelter and shade for hands at the beakhead rails, and the 'seats of ease'? It required hundreds of sailors to up-root it, and bear it back to the piers, sir, where they discovered that it wouldn't go in even the largest cutter without swamping it, so they did return it, and tried to re-plant it… sort of, sir. That's when the garrison mustered a company of infantry."
"Mine arse on a band-box!" Lewrie attempted to growl, picturing it in his mind's eye. The only scene he could conjure up was a horde of tars dancing and weaving ribbons 'round a mobile May Pole. He used his napkin to conceal his snicker.
"Well, was it returned, and mostly re-planted, it wasn't rightly stealing, was it, Mister Langlie?" he hopefully asked. Under English Common Law, the theft of anything worth more than a guinea would earn the perpetrator-in this case, perpetrators!-a hanging. There were urchins in London who'd met "Captain Swing" or been transported for life for the theft of a loaf of bread or silk pocket handkerchief!
The governor-general and his wife might be that wroth, he told himself; Sir Tobias-bloody- Treghues, for certain, if they 're not!
"I gathered Saint Helena 's governor has seen a deal worse, sir," Langlie told him, "though he may be a long time forgetting this one. I was informed he'd only press for monet
ary damages, though that may be subject to change. The shrubs suffered no permanent harm, though that magnolia tree may be ruined. 'Tis a shallow-rooted thing, and, there wasn't a single blossom or leaf left on it when it was returned. The spoils of war, victory laurels, I suppose the Mob thought, sir. There is also mention of a Chinese lap dog missing, a pug something or other, very dear to the governor's wife. All ships are to be searched for it."
"Not aboard Proteus, thank God," Lewrie sighed, for a search had already been made. "Now, what about this low brawl?" he asked as both his cats, eager for attention from two such affable people, chose a lap or the table top; Chalky to Langlie's lap, where he rolled over onto his back and wriggled for "pets" or "play," all four feet pawing air, and trilling shut-mouthed for amusement. Toulon sniffed about the edge of Lewrie's breakfast plate, first, then flopped on his side, just out of easy reach, with his thick tail thumping the table, and his own paws "rabbited" against his chest, issuing louder, more insistent "Mmrrs!" "Now, that wasn't our lads' doing, sir!" Langlie objected in an insulted manner. "Hands off Adamant objected to sailors off any ship drinking in 'their' private tavern. One of the homebound two-deckers she is, sir… the greatest offenders, as I earlier said. The tavern in question is the one nearest the piers, and too convenient to be the sole property of one ship, so… the last hours of liberty, our lads popped in for a last pint… or two… the Adamants took exception to not only our lads, but any Navy sailors they didn't recognise, and especially to our Black hands, and fell on our people.
"Well, sir… the rest of our tars weren't having any of that, neither were our Marines, sir!" Lt. Langlie further explained. "Just before it got completely out of hand, Mister Neale, the Master-At-Arms, and his party turned up, mustered petty officers off every ship, and broke it up. The publican's damage claims are rather piddling…"
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