He tried to let an infantry ensign take the lead, but he was more interested in the blond noddy, whose parents owned a whacking chunk of Hampshire, it seemed; so while trying to maintain a silent dinner conversation with Lucy uptable by eye and shrug and smile, he also found himself down for three dances with Aemilia Country-Get without knowing just how he had managed it. Her buttock-brokering parents looked most pleased.
Lewrie always enjoyed dancing. His French hopmaster had convinced him that women dearly loved a man who could dance well and carry himself gracefully, and would eventually show their gratitude. Most naval officers, having been ’prenticed at age ten or twelve, could not dance a courtly step and only rumble about like a loose cannon in the country dances, so he had a leg up on most of them.
He and Lucy always came back together, after she had been amused by Lieutenant Wyndham, by Ashburn, by Warner and Ozzard and a platoon of panting admirers. Her hand lingered on his arm longer, their fingers held their touch longer, their smiles were shyer and more pleasing. But it was her night, and the most ardent finally got her to go to the card room to wager pennies at Loo or Hazard, and Lucy gave him a backward glance of mock despair and he was left alone.
As he fortified himself with a cup of claret punch Ashburn came across the room to join him.
“I see we have been both outranked and outmarched by those bastards from the Army,” Keith said, mopping his sweaty brow.
“There’s an ocean of mutton here tonight, Keith. Why complain?”
“Do you and Miss Beauman have some sort of an agreement?” Keith asked, finishing off one cold cup of punch and dipping another. “The sighing and peeking have been making Commander Ozzard’s teeth grind most wondrous hard.”
“We have established that we are fond of each other,” Alan admitted. “And there is hope for after the war, perhaps. But in this life you may bank on little.”
“God stap me, but you have the best shitten luck,” Keith said. “Prize money, some fame, and now Miss Beauman.”
“I was envious of you when you gained your commission.”
“Want to trade?” Keith said sourly. “We shall never stir up the anchors unless the French sail past Cape Shirley, please God they do!”
“Sir Onsley’s a friend to you. You’ve already moved up to fifth officer from sixth,” Alan reminded him.
“But we’re not at sea!” Keith groused.
“Aye, I could use a berth myself. Oh, God, Aemilia Chaw-Bacon,” Alan muttered, spying the dark girl approaching him from the other side of the salon. “Like to meet a very obliging girl, Keith?”
“Oh, nice poonts,” Keith said. Alan tried to introduce Keith but it was no go, not the fact that he was a Commission Officer, not the fact that his family was rich as the Crown, nor that he was related to just about everyone who mattered. She had Alan down to dance with her at the country dances, and that was that. She was civil, but never took her gaze off Lewrie. He had to take her out onto the floor as the band struck up more lively airs, though he would have much preferred going to the card room to see how Lucy fared.
After half an hour he pushed another claret punch into her and set out to deposit her in the paws of her family, but they could not be spotted.
“Oh, they retired,” Aemilia said matter-of-factly. “There was a nice old captain was to see me home but he’s had too much to drink. Perhaps you could…”
“Well, perhaps. Where do your folks live?”
“On the other side of the island.” She beamed.
“I would admire that, Miss Aemilia, but I am on the admiral’s staff and have strict orders to stay close should he need me,” Alan lied quickly, listening to the happy cries from the card room as Lucy won a small pot. Unfortunately, Aemilia had laid her plans too well. Sir Onsley was nearby and saw no reason why Mister Lewrie could not safely escort a young lady home, once Aemilia had wiggled against him pleasantly. One look at her straining bosom, and it was a close thing as to whether he would have traded his flagship for a chance to fondle her bouncers.
“If I could presume upon you to pay my respects to your niece, Sir Onsley,” Alan said, almost strangling in his neckcloth at the thought of having to leave, “and to your good lady for a most enjoyable evening.”
Sir Onsley assured him that he would, and there was nothing for it but to escort Aemilia out onto the veranda. The family coach was already gone, but a hired coach was whistled up, Aemilia insisting on a closed one to avoid the cool night air on her daringly bared shoulders.
Damn the Navy, damn, damn, damn, he thought miserably as he handed the girl in and took a seat on the front bench facing her. The coachee whipped up, but was obviously a cautious man on the steep hill road with his team. And once at the bottom he would not force the horses faster than a brisk walk. It would be two hours to get the girl home, and most likely the same returning.
“Come sit by me so we may talk,” Aemilia ordered, patting the upholstery by her side. “The coach will sway on these roads so, we’ll be safer … wedged in together.”
He slid over to lump beside her as the coach left the cobbled town streets for a country lane with an uneven surface. There was only a hint of the moon, and the interior of the coach was dark as a boot.
“I know about you midshipmen…”
“Oh?” he archly queried.
“Won’t do nothing to hurt their chances.”
“Um. I suppose so…” he had to allow.
“My parents’re pushing for a good match.”
“I believe I had noticed that at dinner.” He sighed.
“So if I wanted me a good match, I’d be having a young captain see me home, wouldn’t I have?” she said, turning to press against him.
“Most-like,” he said in the dark, trying to slide away.
“Nobody wants a midshipman with no prospects.”
“I hardly rate myself as one with no prospects,” he fumed, in a pet that he had to be there in the first place, and for being told he was a nobody in the second by a colonial … nobody!
“Being a good little girl is such a bore. Ever do it in a carriage?” she whispered, leaning close and laying a kiss on his cheek, all but bouncing with excitement.
“Now look here, that’s all fine for you, but if you turn up with a Jack-In-The-Box, where am I?”
Damned if I haven’t had my fill of these island women. Leading you into promises or pushing you into the bunk like you have no say about things.
“Well, don’t you know that the blacks know how to stop babies?” she said, stroking his cheeks. “There’s half a dozen men with better prospects I could blame it on, anyway.”
Well, if that’s so, the whole evening won’t be a waste, he told himself.
“I’ll have to marry one of ’em sooner or later, but for now, why can’t we have some fun?” she said into his ear. She took hold of one of his hands, and forced him to seize a breast. It promised to be as full and heavy and round as he had imagined. “I like doing it in a coach. Ever so nice. So dark and cozy, and the coachee not knowing what’s going on, or if he does, he can’t do a thing about it, can he? And the people by the side of the road who can’t see in while we’re having our fun?”
Lord, You will remember I was ordered, he sighed. He tossed his hat on the opposite seat and turned to her. Within a minute he had his waistcoat and coat off, and his breeches down. He unbuttoned her gown and played with her truly magnificent breasts as she hauled up her gown and petticoats.
She spread herself open for him and propped her feet on the opposite seat while he half-knelt before her, his knees precariously perched on the seat between her legs, and gripped her buttocks.
“Oh, God, yes!” she whispered happily as he slid into her deeply. His knees slipped off the upholstery, but his feet were firmly planted against the front of the opposite bench, giving him purchase so he could thrust into her. Once engaged, he became excited and drove hard, partly for the enjoyment, partly to take his anger out on her for press-ganging him i
nto leaving Lucy at the ball. Aemilia didn’t care if he was performing with a knife at his throat, lost in her own joy and delighting in crying out just loud enough to tantalize their black coachman on top of the box. That also excited him, and he forced her to turn and present to him after her first pleasuring, still iron-hard and eager to gain revenge. He exploded into her, hoping that she was impregnated and forced into an unhappy marriage with one of her “better prospects.” Wants servicing, does she? I’ll give the bitch service!
She was nimble and eager for more after some cooing and sighing, and he bulled her all over the coach for the rest of the trip, slamming into her hard, and ending with her head down into his groin as he sat on the seat and watched the suggestion of a planter’s house loom up from the darkness. He ordered the coachee to stop for a while as he filled her once more, even though she was beginning to protest by then. She was shaken by the time he handed her down, and scurried into her home without looking at him. He shut the coach door and climbed up by the coachee, snapping the whip to speed their passage back to English Harbor.
* * *
“The things one is forced to do for one’s admiral,” Alan said as he entered a dockside inn and found Ashburn still up, dozing over a pipe and a glass of wine.
“With that little country-put?” Keith asked, jealously.
“Just got back. Damn trull like to have had the skin off my back,” Alan said, motioning for the waiter. He was dehydrated by his exertions, and badly in need of ale. “How was the rest of the ball?”
“Wonderful,” Keith said. “Ozzard got stinking drunk and had to be carried home. Lucy stayed ’til about one and then went home with her aunt. Far as I know, Sir Onsley is still tippling port with the dockyard captain and that ugly old general.”
The door slammed open and a roistering party of Army officers staggered in, hooting loudly, calling for drink, service and spare women. Lieutenant Wyndham was with them, as well as the little Ensign Ames who had been at-table with Lewrie at dinner, plus two more lieutenants and a captain of some years named O’Boyle.
“We want your best, not common swill,” O’Boyle said as he swayed over a table. “Not the usual stuff you trot out for sailors an’ whores.”
“And we’ll only pay for what we like,” Wyndham added to the cheers of his mates. “Here, I don’t like this glass!” It went into the fireplace, raising another cheer. Several naval officers began to look for their hats.
“Sufferin’ Jesus,” Ashburn said. “There goes a fairly nice public house. Behold our Army, the Drury Lane Fencibles!”
“Wonder what got them out of Hyde Park?” Alan speculated. “Gambling debts?”
“That was good enough for Admiral Rodney.”
“This will do, barely,” the ensign told the publican. “Though it’s piss compared to the cases we brought with us.”
“I don’t need no trouble with the watch, now, sirs,” the publican told them, grovelling and trying to watch all of them at the same time. “Maybe ya might be findin’ yer own better ta drink at this late hour.”
“There’s a cod’s-head I know,” Wyndham shouted, pointing at Keith and Alan. “Ashburn, and little Cap’n Queernabs … Lewrie or something, ain’t it?”
“Your servant, sirs,” Keith said, raising his glass to them.
“Come have a drink on the 12th Foot,” Wyndham said, which set the officers off on a regimental ditty that made no sense at all, set to a nonsensical tune that resembled “The World Turned Upside Down.”
“They look like they can pay,” Keith said. “Want to?”
“Free wine. Never refuse a treat.”
It seemed that they were all from London, or close thereabouts, so they spent a lively half hour reviewing plays, raree shows, gossip, and comparing mutton they had bulled. The 12th Foot had given up a half-battalion, a grenadier company and two line companies, which were to transship to St. Kitts to upgrade the defenses. The rest were still enjoying the pleasures of London, and this batch was mortally offended that they had been thought dispensable. The captain was Irish, which meant that he felt disposed of by the more fashionable officers, and was morose as a Paddy could be after having been sent to fight a war, while his English compatriots still rogered and swaggered through the towns back home.
More wine was called for, and the empties went smash into the fireplace. Gradually, the noise drove most of the other naval sort of customers away into the night.
“Lewrie,” Lieutenant Wyndham said suddenly. “Now I remember you. You were at the ball this evening.”
“Aye, I was.”
“With that tasty little dish Lucy Beauman. Gentlemen, you remember the blond tit I taught cards to?” Wyndham asked, and received their drunken and heartfelt assent. “A lovely piece, was she not?”
“Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews’ niece, yes,” Alan said, looking at Keith, who was beginning to sense trouble as well.
“I’m told you’ve been dashing, Lewrie,” Wyndham said. “Particularly dashing, I believe was the lady’s term for it. Burned a privateer all up with your own little hands. Saved a ship of the line, too.”
“Alan has been busy since coming to the Indies,” Keith interposed quickly. “I was in Ariadne with him, both midshipmen at the time. Let me tell you—”
“In fact, that was all I heard from that bitch,” Wyndham broke in. “And I don’t want to hear any more of it.”
“Here, now,” Alan said evenly.
“I shall make it a point to taste her pleasures, even if she is a lowbred island trull. Gentlemen, charge your glasses. Let’s drink to my next mutton!”
“Warren,” the Irish captain warned. His mates had gone silent at the provocation.
“No, I want us all to drink to Lucy Beauman,” Wyndham insisted, swaying to his feet. “I’ll play the upright man and break that little dell, though she wouldn’t be fit company at home without half a crown for socket-money. Unless Mister Lewrie here has already strummed with her, then I won’t go over a shilling.”
Alan tipped his wineglass and spilled it on the table. Keith did the same and they both rose together. “I shall speak for both of us, sir,” Keith said, almost grinding his teeth. “Such billingsgate about a fine young lady we would never drink to, even if she were unknown to us. That you slander a lady of our acquaintance is a shameful example of your lack of wit and manners. I trust your regiment is not known for it.” Keith kept a firm hand on Lewrie’s wrist as he spoke after seeing the flush of anger on his face.
“Good night, sirs,” Keith finished, almost dragging Lewrie off for the door. “Come on, damn you! I am ordering you, lieutenant to midshipman, not as your friend, you little idiot!” he whispered.
“I should have known the Navy would go all pious on us,” Wyndham sneered, flinging his wineglass at them. “Tawdry lot of Bartholomew Babies! Aye, drag his cowardly cooler out of this place before he might have to blaze with me. What he says he did, and what he really did, are two different things. Just like the Navy—” Wyndham guffawed.
“Warren, I am ordering you to sit down and shut up!” the captain said, grabbing Wyndham’s arm while the other lieutenants and ensigns looked on.
“Are you calling me a coward, sir?” Alan turned abruptly and shook off Ashburn’s hand.
“Talk of the wine table is no reason for meeting,” the little ensign said. “I am sure Warren does not really mean—”
“Don’t tell me anything, Ames!” Wyndham snarled.
“Being ill-received by the young lady in question is no reason to provoke a duel, either,” Ashburn said. “Perhaps his pride is pinching him. Let’s allow him to sleep it off, shall we?”
“Fuck you, you cod’s-head!” Wyndham said. “Yes, I think that Mister Lewrie is a coward! A coward and a liar and a man-fucking Molly, just like everybody else in the Navy is a bugger in disguise—”
“Warren!” from the ensign named Ames.
“And I think his precious Lucy Beauman is a poxy whore…”
“We n
eed to meet, sir,” Alan replied icily in the shocked silence that followed Wyndham’s accusations. The onlookers gave a groan, whether of pain or delight it was hard to tell.
“Alan!” Ashburn barked in his best quarterdeck voice.
“No, Keith. There’s been enough,” Alan said, stepping back up to the table. “I, sir, consider you a piss-proud cully. You’re a butcher’s dog with no nutmegs for a real fighting regiment. You’re a bastardly gullion with a Cambridge fortune, and a great damme-boy with your fellow bucks, but you’re the pig-ignorant git of a threepenny upright…”
Alan had always been able to wound with the choice word, and he must have stung something in Wyndham’s background. The young man blazed up and, without thinking, slapped him hard across the face.
“Excellent,” Lewrie said. “A slur on my character, a slur on the innocence of a young lady, and striking a gentleman. The sooner the better, as far as I am concerned, sirs.”
“You will witness that he scoured me beyond all temperance,” Lieutenant Wyndham declared. “Captain O’Boyle, I request that you arrange this for me.”
“I must talk to the major, Warren,” O’Boyle muttered. “But I’ll tell you you’re a God-cursed fool for doing this.”
“Lieutenant Ashburn, would you negotiate for me?” Alan said.
“Aye, and what weapons would you prefer, Mister Lewrie?”
“Naval cutlasses,” Lewrie decided after a long moment.
“That’s no weapon for a gentleman to use. Why don’t we blaze?” Wyndham sneered.
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