“A pleasure, I’m sure, Dan. I have little desire to further my own relationship with the man. Once at dinner in the gunroom was a sufficiency in itself!
“Ah, here comes the other boat… and Henry Allen. Shall we invite him to join us?” I suggested to my colleague’s obvious pleasure.
“Him I have no problem with. A decent fellow and a friend to midshipmen. Seems to not have forgotten his own time in the cockpit. He’s been a great help to me. Hard, but fair and surely knows the ropes.”
“All that is true. He’s been enormous help to me, both before and after he left the cockpit.” I offered my own agreement, though none was necessary, then turned to the lieutenant.
“Mister Allen … Henry. Daniel and I are going to take a look around in Newport. Would you care to join us? And perhaps share a glass or two later?” I smiled at my friend as he stepped into the queue next to me.
“I have a small errand to accomplish for the first lieutenant in town, Oliver, but then I should be pleased to meet you. Shall we say the Jolly Anchor around two bells in the afternoon watch? I should be done by then.”
Mallory blanched at the name and began to make strange noises under his breath.
“Actually, Henry, I had heard of a place called Featherstone’s which, according to Belcher, is quite nice and not as raucous as the Anchor. What say you to that?” I actually had no idea of what the establishment was like, this Featherstone’s, but had indeed heard Joshua mention it several times during our run into the harbor. I hoped it would live up to my words.
“Not heard of it, my own self, Oliver. But sounds fine. Ah. Here’s the boat. Step lively you two and leave me a space aft.” Henry seemed quite indifferent to where we dined; a good thing, I thought. Certainly would do our future dealings with Mister Stoll no good at all should we show up with Henry at the Jolly Anchor!
Featherstone’s was situated in a brick-fronted building above the town proper, but with a fine view of the harbor and an island named, for some reason, “Goat” Island. In hindsight, I recalled some curious glances sent our way when we inquired of passersby for directions. But find it handily we did and both Dan and I were pleased that it was nowhere near the Jolly Anchor, which we had noticed earlier, actually crossing the cobbled road so as not to pass too closely to it. Daniel and I opened the door at precisely one in the afternoon.
A dim parlor greeted us and, as our eyes adjusted to the gloom after the bright midday sun outside, we saw comfortable chairs, a small couch Daniel mentioned was called a “love seat,” and, in the light of several oil lamps, any number of paintings adorning the walls. The drapes, dusty gold in color they were, were drawn, effectively shutting out the sparkling September day along with the noises of the street. The chairs were all covered in the same material and seemed, in the muted light, a bit threadbare. The scattered tables, however, were of a rich mahogany, gleaming with a deep patina that reflected the glow of the lamps. On the floor, a rug of many colors, all quite dark, softened our footsteps. In the far corner stood a staircase, complete with ornate balustrade and spindles supporting a well polished railing that disappeared aloft.
“Look at those paintings, Oliver.” Mallory whispered to me, as he pointed with his chin. His wide-eyed stare gave credence to the awe—was it shock?—in his whisper.
In truth, I had not looked carefully at any of the artwork, too busy was I taking in the rich drapes, heavy furnishings, and beautiful lamps. I looked, at his suggestion. And was as shocked as he.
Women, ladies, I reckon, in varying stages of undress were depicted in a variety of poses; some reclined on couches, others stood by what could only be beds, while still others posed in traditional style with a large vase or urn on a pedestal.
“Well!” I whispered back when I had sufficiently regained the power of speech. “What do you make of that?”
We were discussing, in hushed tones, the titillating decorations when the door opened behind us and a soft voice, feminine, it was, interrupted our ruminations.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Welcome to Featherstone’s. I am Missus Featherstone, the proprietress. What would be your pleasure today? It is a trifle early for our normal trade, but I am quite certain we can accommodate you … both.”
I began to stammer, quite at a loss for words. It was Daniel who found his tongue first.
“Why thank you, Ma’am. We are meeting another gentleman here, directly I expect, and will be interested in partaking of dinner and perhaps a glass or two of some Madeira or mayhaps, a nice burgundy.”
I could scarcely believe my ears! Daniel had put on the airs of a proper gentleman—he was a fine mimic, I knew—and seemed most credible. But did he realize where we were? It had finally dawned on me that this was not a tavern or eatery. At least not like any others I had occasioned.
“Excuse us for just a moment, Ma’am.” I uttered, as I took my shipmate by the arm and led him to a far corner of the room. Directly under, as it happened, one of the more graphic depictions of the female form. At which he stared with unabashed enthusiasm.
“Daniel! Do you not realize where we are? What are you thinking, man? We don’t belong here. I am quite certain this is one of those houses we spoke of last night. They surely are not about to feed us, and the service they likely do render is not something we should be buying. Lets wait for Henry outside.”
“Oh, Oliver. Don’t be such a coward. I know exactly what this place is and, personally, would relish the opportunity to spend the afternoon in such delightful pursuits. Have you not, with all your wild travels all over the eastern world, partaken of similar such places?” He continued to use his “educated” accent, convinced, I assume, that a gentlemanly demeanor would hold more sway than his normal tone with any who might hear him. Which, in this case, was only Missus Featherstone and, of course, me.
“Well … I alm … I … can not … say … that … well, that is to say … Let’s wait outside for Henry.” I stammered, struggling with the sought-after admission of my naiveté and finally retreated to a safe repeat of my earlier plea.
Which fell on deaf ears. Daniel had turned and was addressing the quite attractive lady who had greeted us and now waited patiently, her hands folded in front of her and a half smile adorning her pretty face.
“I would be most interested, Ma’am, in having a glance at your … bill of fare, should such be forthcoming. My colleague seems a bit reluctant, but, I am sure, when he sees the fine offerings you must have available, he will become a willing participant.”
I was beyond horrified! What was Daniel, who I thought I knew fairly well and thought of as my friend, getting me into? Well, I had pretty much figured that part out, but what was I to do? It appeared I was in a fine mess.
“I believe I shall wait for our colleague on the steps outside, Ma’am. Just in case he is not sure of the exact position of your establishment.” I was making for the door as I spoke and, as I passed by Missus Feather-stone, I could not help but catch a most pleasant whiff of her scent. I paused, enjoying the cloying fragrance of a wonderful tropical flower that seemed to have some sort of spice mingled with it.
“Why, sir, that would be just fine, if that is your want. I shall amuse your friend here until you and the third of you returns.” Her smile was so genuine and warm, it almost caused me to linger just to enjoy this pleasant, and pleasant smelling, person. But the little voice within me urged me on, and, without looking, I put my hand out to open the door.
I was still two or more steps from my objective and felt quite the fool as I stood with outstretched arm and nothing to grab. Quickly returning the offending limb to my side, I mumbled something, likely silly, to cover my embarrassment, and hastened to the door, which, as my hand touched the ornate knob, opened.
I was momentarily blinded by the blast of daylight that flooded in and so, it seemed, was Henry Allen, whose eyes were equally slow to adjust to the darkness within. We collided and, only by grabbing each other’s arms, did we manage not to land in an unceremonio
us heap in Missus Featherstone’s parlor.
“Henry!” I gasped as I regained my senses. “You’re here.”
“Of course, I am here. Is this not the time and place we earlier agreed upon?” He released my arm, catching his balance, and closed the door behind him, once again surrounding us with the muted light of the oil lamps. My eyes adjusted more quickly this time.
I noticed, as we faced each other—me still toward the door and him looking into Missus Featherstone’s parlor—that his gaze was focused over my shoulder, taking in the scene behind me. Shock registered briefly on his face as the realization of our whereabouts dawned on him. Much more quickly than it had dawned upon me.
“I was just going outside to wait for you, Henry, on the chance you might … er … uh … care to dine elsewhere. Perhaps the Jolly Anchor?” I stammered and uttered the first name that came to my addled brain. I hoped, after I offered the tavern as an alternative, that he might select yet another as I had no interest in a further encounter with Lieutenant Stoll.
“Aye, Oliver. A fine choice. I think our dining needs might be better served there. The Jolly Anchor it is!” As he spoke, he shot a glance at Dan, who was still examining a piece of vellum, presumably the bill of fare for the establishment.
“What say you, Mister Mallory? Will you join us at the Anchor?” Henry’s voice left little doubt as to his meaning.
I waited, hoping Dan would come to his senses, but recognized that when confronted with the choice before him and a raucous tavern, there could be little doubt as to the winner.
“Perhaps I shall meet you there a bit later, gentlemen. For now, I am quite content with the offerings provided by Missus Featherstone’s establishment. Please do not wait for me to begin your meal; I might be detained.” Mallory was still putting on that ridiculous accent.
“Very well, then, Midshipman Mallory. Enjoy yourself.” Henrys emphasis received not so much as a glance from Dan, who was now gazing at a female form descending the stair in a diaphanous wrap. I followed his gape toward the stair.
We might as well have been pieces of furniture for all the attention he paid us and Henry, sensing, perhaps, that I might become equally beguiled, took my arm and turned me toward the door.
“Well, then, Oliver. I reckon it will be just you and me for the Anchor. Let us waste not another minute; I am quite famished.”
A moment later we were both on the street, blinking in the brilliance of the day, as Henry decided in which direction we should set our course. I had no idea, nor did I care; all I could see was the vision of that dark-haired beauty on the stair.
The girl—or woman, possibly (I could see her neither clearly enough nor long enough to determine which)—filled my brain and, combined with the scent of Missus Featherstone, made a positively consuming image. And, with the passage of mere seconds, the vision, at first fuzzy and indistinct, took on a more defined form.
In a trice, I could see her lustrous dark mane held back with a long green ribbon and, below a smooth brow, her beautiful dark eyes. One delicate hand rested lightly on the handrail, as she paused to take in the scene below her. Her long, thin fingers gracefully assumed the curve of the wood and her fingernails reflected the glow of the lamps. A smile started, first on her full red lips, then moving to those captivating eyes, which seemed to dance at the sight of the three of us in her parlor. Her head moved slowly from one of us to the other, taking in each of us in careful study. Her smile dimmed nary a mite and she again started her descent, her white gown trailing behind her like a cloud. She stepped off the last step and floated towards us …
“Are you not interested in dining, Oliver? I had thought you were interested only in escaping from that place.” Henry, unforgivably, intruded on my thoughts and the glorious image vanished before I determined the outcome.
I am afraid the look I shot him might have been a bit harsher than I had intended, but, after all, he did ruin my dream!
“Oh, aye. I guess. Which way do we go; I am a bit confused.” From the glance I received, the last bit was quite unnecessary.
“You surely are! If you wish to go back with your friend, do so. I shall manage quite nicely on my own. I do not frequent establishments of that stripe. But I would suggest that your first choice was the right one and, while Mallory will no doubt have a salacious tale to share in the cockpit, he has done himself no good. Despite the ridiculous accent he was affecting, he is surely not of the first character! At least in my eyes.”
Nor in Decatur’s, should the tale reach his ears. He would most likely be uninspired by my colleagues behavior. Might even hold it against him, should he be told.
“No, Henry. I thank you for providing for my escape. A moment longer and I would undoubtedly have made the same mistake. So I am again in your debt. Let us get along to the Jolly Anchor. This way, I collect?” Without waiting for an answer, I stepped off smartly, hoping I was heading in the right direction.
The noise of a busy waterfront tavern assaulted us as we entered. I cast a quick look around, peering through the gloom of the dim light given off by the lamps that lined three of the walls and the smoke of several dozen men puffing on pipes and cheroots. I noticed about half of the room’s occupants wore naval uniforms, both officer and sailor.
Was Stoll here already? We had agreed to meet at two, but perhaps he is early. What will …
Henry interrupted my thought. “Well, lookee there; is that not your favorite inhabitant of the gunroom?”
I followed his outstretched arm and saw, to my horror, Peter Stoll sitting by himself at a table. A schooner of ale rested on the scarred surface before him and, mercifully, his head was turned away from the door. I took a second look, trying to determine a course of action and response that would excuse us from joining him. My addled brain was staggering under the weight of my confusion. I struggled to breathe the smoke laden air while I tried to regain some composure.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire!
Finally, after pretending not to see him at first and feigning a quiet coughing fit, I could delay no longer. “Aye, I think it might be Mister Stoll. Hard to tell in this light, but he does bear a resemblance to your colleague, Henry.”
“In name only, and that only by virtue of his status as an officer.” Henry’s tone left no doubt that we would likely not be sitting with the aggravating officer. His next words confirmed my very thought: “We shall take a table over there …” He paused, then shot me a glance. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to join Peter.”
He wouldn’t! Henry likes that arrogant ignoramus no better than I.
In shock, I looked at my friend; the smile that wreathed his face and his outstretched arm pointing in quite another direction restored my sense of calm.
“Yes sir. I think that would be fine. A table over there, I mean.” I agreed and, hoping we would remain unnoticed by our shipmate, moved in the direction of an empty table some distance away from him. Henry followed.
Hardly had we shouted our order for two tankards to the hard-faced maid who had inquired as to our pleasure, than I sensed a presence behind me. Henry’s look, as his eyes rose above my head, confirmed my fear; the hand that landed heavily on my shoulder was connected to the arm and ultimately, the person of Peter Stoll.
“What a surprise to find you two in the Anchor.” Even with his voice raised to ensure he would be heard over the din of the tavern, Stoll’s tone sneered in derision.
I turned and found myself looking directly into the midsection of his waistcoat. By turning, I had caused the unwelcome hand to move, and so, out of a respect I surely did not feel, stood, a gesture called for by his uniform.
“Well, Mister Baldwin! Where is your colleague, my former shipmate, Mister Mallory? I was under the impression you two were thick as thieves and would dine with me here in …” Stoll paused and consulted a large gold watch with a studied arrogance. Then he raised his eyes back to mine and continued. “… in just short of half an hour. Surely he can not have
found more agreeable entertainments?”
“I think Mister Mallory has been unavoidably detained in other pursuits, Peter. I doubt we will see him anytime soon.” Henry jumped to my rescue, causing Stoll to shift his gaze.
I noticed that my friend did not stand. The conversation during the unpleasant meal in the Gunroom popped into my head, reminding me that Stoll was indeed senior to Henry, even if only by months, and was entitled to some show of respect. Regardless of Lieutenant Dunne’s remark comparing seniority among junior lieutenants to chastity in a house of pleasure, it only took a moment for the obnoxious Lieutenant Stoll to call Henry on his slight.
“Mister Allen. May I remind you, sir, of our respective times in grade. Were you not taught to rise when approached by your senior?”
“Aye … sir. I was also taught that respect is earned and not to be given lightly.” Allen remained seated.
“Well, then.” Stoll’s tone clearly suggested that more was coming and we—or at least I did—waited for the riposte he would surely deliver.
But the man, clearly incensed, could only stare at his messmate. His eyes became hard, his lips a thin white line across his face, and the muscles in his jaw worked as though he were chewing. No words, no sputters, no nothing. He simply stood there, glaring at Henry; I had ceased to exist. Finally, he just turned on his heel and left us.
“That man is a fart in a gale of wind! I can not, for the life of me, understand why somebody has not yet bludgeoned him to death!” Henry’s anger was palpable.
“Well, Henry, just consider him a fool and be done with it. That’s the advice my mother always gave me when confronted with a Peter Stoll and it oft times works.” I tried to mollify him and, while I was irritated at Stoll’s arrogance, I tried to overcome it by convincing myself the man was not capable of acting otherwise. And I tried to avoid him.
In Pursuit of Glory Page 19
