"Impressive, were they?" Lewrie asked with a grin.
"Only the two, but yes, Alan." Burgess beamed back with a wink. "Most delightful. Now, most English ladies who come out to India see that their husbands have needs, and when in the field, are presented with opportunities galore. From what Caroline wrote me, I don't think you ever actually dallied with any wench when you were home}"
"No, I didn't," Lewrie quickly said, immensely pleased that his brother-in-law was being so sane and reasonable about it. "Well… I did spend some time at Sheerness with, ah…"
"The Greek widow, yes," Burgess supplied with another wink and a snicker as the waiter approached their table. "Other than her…"
" 'Twas all far from home, Burge," Lewrie swore. "With bloody years, and thousands of miles, between homecomings."
"And, you were always careful," Burgess blithely assumed. "Ah! Satays and boboties, ye say? Like Hindoo cooking? Splendid. I will essay the 'country captain,' and be sure to set out a pot of chautney."
"I'll have the Cape salmon," Lewrie decided, looking over their chalked menu slate. "Salad, egg-drop soup, and let us share a platter of eland strips in the plum sauce between us, first off. Fresh-sliced, is it, or are they soaked biltong} Fresh is best, thankee, and a glass of your best burgundy each with it."
"Biltong?"
"What you'd call jerky," Lewrie explained. "My cats adore it. I have nigh three hundredweight in stores for 'em."
"Oh, you and your cats!" Burgess laughed. "I'll see your eland, and raise you the fresh lobster remoulade, and make it a bottle of the burgundy… my treat, after all, and we might as well make a feast of it whilst we may. Ship victuals are passing-fair, but…! God, your cats. Two of 'em, now? I recall that hulking old ram-cat of yours you left with Caroline when we sailed for India. William Pitt, wasn't it? Didn't take to me, I'll tell you, though he adored Caroline."
"They're good company at sea," Lewrie told him as their waiter topped up their glasses before heading off for the kitchens. "So, you became a 'chicken nabob] Burge? Lashings of a rajah'% loot}"
"Loot," itself, was a Hindi word.
"I've come away with better than sixty thousand, Alan!" Burgess imparted in a careful, but gleeful, whisper cross the table. "Note-of-hand drawn on Army agents, some in rouleaus of guineas for easy access, and some jewelry I scooped up when we broke into rebel rajahs 'palaces, to boot. Haven't even had them assayed, yet, and still have no idea of their value. Emeralds and rubies, big as pigeons' eggs, nigh a pound of strung pearls and such…"
"Good Lord, you fortunate young dog!" Lewrie congratulated with a hoisted glass. "And, you're looking to buy yourself a British Army commission? Why not a whole regiment while you're at it?"
"Oh, I'll end with a regiment of mine own," Burgess casually rejoined. "Do I not make brigadier, I'd be more than happy commanding a regiment of regulars. This will be a long war, Alan, longer than any of us expect, and sooner or later, we must beard the Frogs on their own ground. A naval blockade won't defeat them, begging your salty pardon. Have to kick them in the teeth, make them howl in anguish, and parade down the streets of Paris before they cry 'Uncle.'
"I expect to find an opening as a Major, at the least," Burgess boasted, "even are 'John Company' officers sneered at by the loftier sorts round Horse Guards. 'Tis not so much my experience, which has to be much greater than theirs, but the money I can bid for my 'colours,' after all. Is there need for a Lieutenant-Colonel in a middling regiment, well, I could afford that, too. Then, with what I've learned of real soldiering, not 'square-bashing' and Church Parades, I could turn that middling regiment into one of the finest in the Army. You watch and see if I don't… just like you expect to turn any new ship you're given into the best, as well!"
Lewrie could not remember Burgess being so confident, or so loquacious, but he thought it a grand improvement on the boy he'd known.
"After a proper spell of leave, o' course," Lewrie chuckled. "A quick run through civilised Society, at least."
"Aye, that, too," Burgess agreed. "And, perhaps marry."
"Well… certainly," Lewrie said, surprised.
"D'ye know the old Army saying?" Burgess asked with a puckish expression. "Might be King's Regulations, for all I know… ensigns or cornets must not marry… captains may marry… majors should marry, and colonels absolutely must wed! A good woman, with the proper taste and manners, sets the right tone in the mess. Seen it, when it's good. And, seen the results when the Colonel's wife wasn't up to snuff."
"The adorable Miss Brothers, perhaps?" Lewrie japingly hinted.
"Oh, Lord!" Burgess exclaimed, all but writhing in his chair.
"No?" Lewrie teased. "She seems a prim, mannerly sort."
"The good Reverend and his wife have been all but shoving her at me, Alan, soon as word got round the ship that I'd made a fair pile of 'tin,'" Chiswick scoffed. "After all my time in India, I'm not sure what a good woman looks like, but, for all her time in India, Mistress Alicia is still the 'shrinking violet' sort, so prim and sheltered she might as well be new-come from the Moon!
"Besides," Burgess grumbled, "she and her family are as 'skint' as… church-mice. I doubt the girl would fetch me fourty pounds per annum for a dowry, and her paraphernalia might not extend beyond poor Hindi-made furniture and bedding. Like… calls to like, what?"
"Definitely not 'landed,' either, I'd s'pose?" Lewrie asked.
"Spent their whole time traipsing from one poor glebe to a next, doing 'good works' and ministering to pagans and 'rice Christians' in the Bengali slums," Burgess told him with a mocking shudder. "Reverend Brothers may be the only man ever took Holy Orders who believed in a vow of poverty. Either that, or he's a disguised Catholic monk with a weakness for dour bed-partners, haw haw! Aha! This is our eland?" he exulted as the waiter fetched their first course. Chiswick forked some onto his plate, slathered a bite with the spicy-hot plum sauce, and sampled it. "Marvellous!" he cried after a sip of the local wine. "This Cape burgundy's better than any they sent us, too, I'll tell you. That… biltong of yours. It's as good as this? Might I be able to purchase some for the voyage home? 'John Company' victuals are decent, but I'd relish some game meat, now and again."
"Purchase able, aye," Lewrie told him, "though, I shot most of mine. A little hunting down the peninsula to Simon's Town, and back."
"I'd adore an African shikar," Burgess declared, between bites. "Didn't get much chance, our first voyage out East. Hunted all over India, of course, even bagged a tolerable tiger once, but, there might not be time enough, even with the bad water problem. Comes from relying too much on local suppliers, who filled their casks close to Calcutta, 'stead of inland."
" Hooghly River sewage, no wonder they had sickness aboard. 'Tis a wonder no one died," Lewrie commented, raking several strips of hot eland meat onto his plate before the ravenous Burgess Chiswick gobbled them all. "I'm told they'll be ready to sail in two days."
"Not enough time, then," Burgess said with a disappointed sigh. "Look here, then, Alan… do you recall anyone round Anglesgreen who might be a suitable mate? I intend to heed Millicent's and Caroline's advice in seeking a good match…"
"Well, Caroline might be a touch prejudiced on wedded bliss," Lewrie admitted with a wee grimace. "Not much local 'talent'…"
"Always did have her head in the clouds," Burgess scoffed, "all those horrid romance novels she's read. As you allude, Millicent may be my best advisor."
"You could call on my father in London," Lewrie teased, again.
"Not him!" Burgess hooted. "Well, perhaps London, but not with his advice. A wider 'market,' what? In fact, Alan… I've received letters from Sir Hugo, 'bout once a year or so, and, frankly, had I my druthers, I'm much intrigued to be introduced to your ward, Comptesse Sophie de Maubeuge."
"She's no 'dot,' no dowry worth mentioning, Burge," Lewrie had to caution him. "Though, she is become a fine and fetching, mannerly young lady, of the best accomplishments. Beyond the usual parlour and musical doings,
she's an excellent horsewoman."
"Fine as your Russian Cossack wench?" It was Chiswick's turn to tease. "My word, but your Mistress Eudoxia was impressive."
"Not my wench," Lewrie was quick to correct him. Just in case he got home and spoke to Caroline before he could. "Never laid a hand on her. Really!" he added, at seeing Chiswick's extremely leery expression. "Might have given it a thought, but…"
"And I didn't help matters. Ah, well," Burgess said, sighing again. "Wroth as the mort is with you, I doubt a stab at her on my part would go down well, either. Seemed taken with you… a while."
"Probably not," Lewrie replied, busying himself with knife and fork and plum sauce, secretly relieved that Burgess had no chance with her, even he didn't, either. Jealous, am I? He thought; Whyever?
"A harmless flirtation on her part," Lewrie dismissively said. "Here's a thought, though. When you take leave and go up to London, I am acquainted with a very rich tradesman's family with a daughter you might wish to meet. The Trenchers, whose daughter Theodora is about as angelic as ever I did see. Elfin and wee, about nineteen or twenty… perhaps too young, but she seemed sensible, and comported herself well. Enthusiastic, and outgoing, not your run-of-the-mill languidly-bored and too-elegant-for-words missy. Slews of spirit."
"Hmmm?" Burgess prompted, sounding intrigued.
"Very dark, curly brown hair, almost black, and the most amazing violet eyes," Lewrie further tempted. "Soberly dressed, when I met her, since the family's on the newly-fashionable 'respectable' side, but with excellent taste. The hints of a fine form… though I wasn't exactly looking. Met her with the Reverend Wilberforce, Clarkson, and Mistress Hannah More, that crowd…"
"You!" Burgess exclaimed, rather loudly, in point of fact. "In with Wilberforce and the Clapham Sect… that slavery abolition pack?"
"'Twas the reason for our meeting," Lewrie confessed, turning a touch guarded as he recalled that the Chiswicks had been slave-owners once and his brother Governour Chiswick was still fervidly in favour of the practice. "I've a dozen Black hands in my crew, some of them, ah… might be runaway slaves who volunteered aboard on Jamaica…"
"Well, good for you!" Burgess told him. "Horrid thing, that."
"You think so? I'd have thought…"
" 'Tis one thing to hire Hindoo labour and such, and yes, you get a slacker now and then who needs a touch-up with your quirt to keep him on the hop, but actual slavery is just… despicable," Chiswick swore. " 'Twas my parents in North Carolina who thought slaves necessary for a plantation. Mother Charlotte was born there, and used to it. Father, God rest his soul, adopted it after he emigrated to the Cape Fear, no matter what he really thought of it. And, yes… I suppose I took it for granted, as well, but…"
"You rather surprise me, Burgess," Lewrie had to confess.
"Well, times change… people change," Chiswick shrugged off. "You remember at Yorktown, those runaway slaves who served with us to earn their freedom, should we have defeated the Rebels? They served your artillery, and stood with us ready to march and volley, though I doubt they knew the first thing of soldiering, and there wasn't enough time for them to learn. God forgive me, but that was the first time I saw slaves as men, not useful animals! They'd have gladly died under arms than be taken, and returned to lashes, manacles, and slavery."
"Aye, I do recall them," Lewrie agreed. "Though, at the end, we abandoned 'em, and made our own escape."
"And, God forgive us for not even thinking of taking a single one with us," Burgess spat, turning soberly stern, after all his previous bonhomie. "Met more of them when what was left of our regiment skirmished round New York, before the surrender, and evacuation, and not one of our generals thought to include them in the terms before we sailed away, either. Then, India…
"Serving under your father, Alan, in the Nineteenth Native Infantry, commanding sepoys as dark as Negroes, most of them, learning to be the next best thing to a. father to the ones in my company, on campaign elbow-to-elbow for months on end, well… it changes your way of thinking 'bout the so-called 'lesser races.' Makes you see them just as human as us, by God. Worry 'bout their wives and children, just as we do, get into debt, gamble, drink too much, fight like tigers, be as idle or industrious as any White man… 'eat our salt' and prove themselves even better soldiers than British regiments in India! Now, what is a fellow to make of a lesson like that, but to realise that they're our equals, but for their lack of being like us."
"Governour's going t'dislike you as much as he does me," Lewrie told him with a chuckle, and a sigh of relief.
"Well, he never had that great a love for you, anyway," Burgess teased him. "The subject comes up, I expect Mother will go off into a fit of the 'vapours,' and Governour will puff up like an adder and spit fire. Don't know what Caroline will think of me. Don't signify to me, really, for I've come to believe that real chattel slavery's a degrading evil which Britons should expunge wherever we hold sway, not just in Great Britain, and damn the Sugar Interest! And yes, Alan… once I've worked out the kinks back home, I'd admire could you arrange me an introduction to some of Reverend Wilberforce's people. Can't buy all the tomfoolery they spout, but I can side with them on ending slavery. And," he added with a droll expression, "being introduced to the girl you mentioned wouldn't go amiss, either."
"God bless you for that, Burgess, and, aye, I shall…" Lewrie began to promise, almost ready to confess that he'd stolen his Black "volunteers," warn him that the subject of emancipation would come up about five minutes after the welcoming hugs and kisses, but was stopped by a sudden rising commotion in the dusty street beyond, a din that got all their attention.
"What the Devil…?" Burgess Chiswick wondered aloud, removing his napkin from his collar and tossing it into his empty plate as he got to his feet.
There came the usual sounds of trekboer waggons, the lowing and grunting of huge oxen, and the steady clop of unshod hooves. Mingled with that were the squeals of ungreased axles, the timber-on-timber thuds of unsprung waggon bodies, and the squeak of jostled joinery, as a train of pink-ended waggons slowly rumbled into town. Under all the expected sounds, though, was the hum-um of pedestrians and shoppers on the sidewalks, taken by the novelty, some even tittering laughter, as the waggon train heaved into sight. And, there were unusual sounds as well… some squealing "meows," hisses, and growls, some loon-like and silly brays, some nasal… trumpeting?
Lewrie joined Burgess by the railing of the deep veranda facing the street, up above the sidewalk and the strollers who had stopped in their tracks to witness this oddity.
"Aha!" Lewrie cried. "The circus is back in town! The 'mighty Nimrods' are back from a successful hunt!"
"Someone been on shikar}" Burgess had to ask.
"To bring them back alive, aye," Lewrie told him, chuckling.
For there was Mr. Daniel Wigmore, mounted on a decent mare, in the lead. He sat his saddle like a sack of heart-broken turnips, head down and grumbling to himself, it looked like. Next came a local Boer on a much better horse, but a man with as poor a "seat" as Wigmore, a lanky, heavily-bearded, and thoroughly dispreputable-looking bean-pole of a man who looked so filthy it might be possible to shake him hard, and reclaim ten pounds of topsoil. He bristled with weapons: a musket laid crosswise of his saddle before him, two more in scabbards hung on either side, and a brace of fowling pieces bound behind him. One arm hung in a sling, and fresh, bright-red scratches crisscrossed his bare arms and what one could see of his craggy face. As soon as he came in view, people on the street began to hoot, point, and laugh out loud.
"Van der Merwe… gobble-gobble!" in Dutch Lewrie heard some of them cry out; he couldn't follow anything past the fellow's name, but was sure that he was clapping eyes on the very idiot whom his guide, Piet duToit, had disparaged. After seeing the fellow, he could see the why.
Then, up came Arslan Durschenko on an even better horse, riding stiff-backed, erect, and easy, as a proper Cossack should. He looked a bit worse for wear, too, but when he ca
ught sight of Lewrie, he scowled with fresh anger, his eyes brightening, and his long whip cracking.
Then came the waggons, ox teams driven by near-naked Blacks with goads or lance-long thin wood poles which bore short whips at the ends. Some were the fabled little Hottentots, some stouter and taller. Some between waggons bore crates on their shoulders, or atop their heads.
"Well, I'm damned!" Burgess cried. "Look at that!"
Behind the second waggon was a menagerie. There were two baby African elephants, at least half a dozen actual zebras, the source for those inane brays they'd heard earlier. The next huge waggon carried a stout wooden cage containing a pair of cheetahs, who didn't look very happy to be Cape Town 's latest Nine-Day Wonder, either. Atop the next waggon's pile of camp gear and tentage stood a smaller cage filled with three lion cubs, who hissed and spat, and uttered raspy little growls of displeasure at each jounce, though tumbling all over each other as clumsily as domestic kittens to take in all the strangeness of a town.
There were four ostriches leashed together into a kicking and outraged coffle. There was a middling-sized crocodile in a cage, and other cages borne by Black bearers contained a half-dozen wee baboons; a brace of spotted panthers, and some young wildebeests, or gnus!
"Looks as if they were successful," Burgess commented.
"But not very happy about it," Lewrie pointed out the many who looked utterly exhausted and hang-dog, the many who sported bandages, or limped on make-shift crutches.
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