A Fine Retribution

by Dewey Lambdin

  “I trust that, during our sessions, you will explain what that means, Captain Lewrie,” Jessica teased. “Charley’s new-learned argot is a complete mystery to all of us.”

  “I’ll have you boxing the compass, doing long splices, and taking Noon Sights, by the time you’re done with me,” Lewrie said, laughing.

  At last, they reached the door to the manse, and Lewrie tipped his hat to one and all, bidding them adieu ’til the day of the appointed first session. “And do feel free to bring Rembrandt along. He and Bisquit seem t’have become fast friends.”

  “Then I shall, Captain Lewrie,” Jessica promised, “though I fear for your furniture do they become too exuberant.”

  “No matter,” Lewrie shrugged off. “’Til Wednesday morning, then. I’ll shove myself into full dress, shave close, and try to sit patient.”

  “Warts and all, with a smile, sir,” Jessica replied impishly, “and I’ll not charge more do you show a hand.”

  It was difficult drawing the dogs apart, but Lewrie at last got Bisquit back to his side, doffed his hat one last time, and strolled back down Piccadilly with a jaunty step, letting his dog have a sniff at everything that took his fancy on the way.

  Damme, a well-spent morning! he told himself; And what a fine way t’fritter away my time ashore, in daily company of such a grand young woman! So long as I can keep my hands to myself!

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lewrie paid off the driver of his hired hackney and went up the steps to his father’s front door, lifting the highly-polished brass pineapple door knocker to rap for admission, thinking it hypocritical of the old fart to display the sign of generous hospitality yet be such a grim and begrudging host.

  “Ah, Sir Alan, sir!” Sir Hugo’s butler, Harwell, said as he saw Lewrie into the entry hall. He sounded a tad too chipper and genial for Lewrie’s taste, given his usual cold and aloof welcomes. “Sir Hugo is abovestairs, sir. Shall I see you up?”

  “No need t’bother him, Harwell,” Lewrie said, tucking his fore-and-aft bicorne hat under his arm instead of handing it over. “I gave Admiralty my new address last week, but I was wondering if any letters were delivered here before … the last few days and such.”

  “Hmm,” Harwell replied, mulling that for a long moment. “I do recall that some mail did come for you, Sir Alan.” Harwell went to the side-board, sorted through a thin stack of letters, and found two made out to him. “Here you are, Sir Alan. Been to Admiralty this morning, have you, sir?”

  That much was obvious; Lewrie was in full uniform, right down to his sash and star of knighthood, with the fifty-guinea sword at his hip. Indeed there were two letters for him, both from naval friends, but nothing from Admiralty.

  “Admiralty, aye, Harwell,” Lewrie said off-handedly as he read the senders’ names and addresses. “Pretty-much a good morning wasted. Well. I’ll be going on.”

  “Should I whistle up a hackney for you, Sir Alan?” Harwell offered.

  “No, thankee,” Lewrie told him, somewhat despondently, “I think I’ll walk home. Give Father my regards.”

  “But of course, Sir Alan,” Harwell said as he saw him out the door to the street.

  What’s takin’ the bastards so long? Lewrie sourly thought as he set out down Park Lane; Don’t they know I’m a fuckin’ hero?

  It was much too nice a late Summer day to fret, but fret he did, almost oblivious to the delightful aspect of Hyde Park just cross the way, the richness of the terrace houses along Park Lane, and the grand spectacle of expensive coach traffic, most of them open-topped so the occupants could enjoy the day, and show themselves off. Fine, blooded saddle horses cantered or trotted by, with well-to-do men astride them, or elegantly garbed ladies perched side-saddle, and each passing equipage seemed to jingle in tune with the tinkling laughter of the people in them. Birds sang, there were snatches of music from the park, and even the calls from strolling flower vendors, piemen, and itinerant street merchants were as gay as anything offered in a music hall, yet … it was lost on Lewrie. He might as well have been slogging through a driving downpour, with mud to his ankles.

  Five, almost six weeks had gone by since he’d turned in his last paperwork for paying off Sapphire, and so far his visits to Admiralty had been fruitless, his hours sitting on hard chairs in the infamous Waiting Room a complete and boring waste of time, ended only by a curt note from the First or Second Secretary which said that neither of them had time to see him, and delivered with a sketchy bow and nod from the clerk whom Lewrie had dubbed “the get ye gone clerk” long before.

  Twenty-nine years in “King’s Coat”, and I can’t remember bein’ on half-pay this long ’tween ships! he groused to himself, though he knew that was an exaggeration.

  There had been a spell just after the formal end of the American Revolution when he’d been at sixes and sevens, but back then, he’d been eager for shore living, and high-cockalorum, revisiting his wastrel and rakehell pre-Navy youth in his London haunts. From 1789 when he’d paid off little Alacrity and come home with Caroline and his increasing brood from the Bahamas, ’til the French declaration of war in early 1793, he’d not been unduly bothered by so long a period ashore, since there was peace, a new and unfamiliar life as a farmer on rented land, and no reason that he could have imagined that would ever recall him back to sea.

  There were a few months spent at Anglesgreen between the Jester sloop and his appointment as Post-Captain into the Proteus frigate, of course, but those months had breezed by.

  No, the longest he’d spent ashore was after paying off Reliant in 1806, a whole winter healing up from the leg wound he got off Buenos Aires, and that had nothing to do with his competence, or his value to the Navy. Now, though … what was the delay? Lewrie could not imagine why he was not offered a new command and active commission. It was not a prideful boast for him to admit that he was somewhat famous.

  His initial welcome at Portsmouth to pay off Sapphire, his first appearance at Admiralty afterwards, and the acclaim he’d gotten from fellow officers present, his reception at the Madeira Club, the Cocoa Tree, and invitations to dine at several gentlemen’s clubs since, and the praiseful newspaper accounts, had been most gratifying. When he’d first attended St. Anselm’s with the Chenerys, Jessica’s father, Reverend Chenery, had announced his presence among the congregation, to their gladsome, nigh hero-worshipping applause, and they’d all but mobbed him outside right after, as if Admiral Nelson had risen from his tomb at Westminster Abbey and made his appearance!

  Gratifying, aye, all of it, a mark of honour, success at his profession (even if, in his idle youth, he’d never have put one foot aboard a ship if given the choice!), and the gilded laurel leaves of glory upon his brows after which every gentleman officer strove!

  That most recent acclaim had felt especially pleasing, since he stood close to Jessica Chenery as he was mobbed, noting how glowing she was, even as he “pshawed”, deflected some of it to her brother Charley, and tried to be suitably modest. And, as the elders of the parish had drifted off, younger people of Jessica’s closer circle had come forth to meet him, a blizzard of names and faces; girlhood friends and their husbands, for all were now married but for Jessica and one rather drab spinster. Sly glances ’twixt the young ladies and Jessica seemed to question if “He was the One”, or so Lewrie imagined by their squeals.

  Don’t get smug, he chid himself, recalling the day, though he’d enjoyed it immensely. Damme, is all London full o’ whores? he asked himself a moment later as he finally took better note of his surroundings, for there were over-done, tawdry young women strolling along either side of Park Lane, flirtatiously twirling their parasols, tossing their hair, and making a swishing show of their fine gowns, even in early afternoon.

  He nodded to passersby, touching the front of his hat in reply to the gentlemen who made a like gesture, flashing brief smiles to the ladies with them, all of which put him in a slightly better mood. When he’d left his father’s house, he’d intended to walk
the whole way home, as if donning a hair shirt like some rabid monk who’d flog himself, but he began to reflect how very far a walk it would be, and regretted his choice. He stopped at the corner of Pitt’s Head Mews to look about and take a deep breath of the fresher air from Hyde Park, cocking an ear to sounds of birds, children playing criquet, rounders, or tag close by.

  Well, he admitted to himself; maybe some time ashore, with no responsibilities, ain’t all that bad. For a while, anyway. Summer in England, in London … ah!

  “Well, hallo sir,” a roughed and made-up strumpet gaily said, “by yourself, are you? Want some comp’ny, do you?”

  He gave her a quick looking-over and decided to laugh her off.

  “No, thankee, not today, girl,” he told her, “but the best of luck to ye. Hoy, cabman!” he shouted to a passing hackney that held no passengers.

  *   *   *

  “Dare I ask how things went at Admiralty, sir?” Pettus enquired as he took Lewrie’s hat and sword.

  “Nothing worth speakin’ of, Pettus,” Lewrie told him, going into the front parlour for a quick look-see at the canvas on the easel where Jessica Chenery had made her first pencil outlines. Chalky awoke, did himself a long stretch or two, yawned, and meowed a welcome, then came off the now-padded window seat for a more personal greeting. Lewrie quickly peeled off his uniform coat and handed that to Pettus before it got coated with fur, and scooped his cat up for some pets, which the cat quickly grew tired of; he hated being carried about.

  “Want something, sir?” Pettus asked.

  “A tall, cool ale, I think,” Lewrie decided. “I’ll be in the drawing room, irritating Chalky.”

  “Yes, sir, coming right up,” Pettus said with a rueful grin, for whenever Lewrie’s ships had drummed Quarters for battle or live-firing practice, it had been he who had carried Chalky down to the quiet and safety of the orlop, and still bore a few scratchmarks.

  Upstairs, Lewrie plumped himself down on the settee and put the cat aside so he could tug off his boots, then slouch into a comfortable sprawl, quite unlike the edge-of-the-seating, erect posture expected in proper company. Wiggling fingers tempted the cat back into his lap to be stroked and jaw-rubbed.

  Lewrie looked about the formal drawing room, which no longer struck him as alien and new as it had been when the furnishings had been delivered. Even the damned drapes of heavy, pattern-embroidered chintz in pale blue-grey, which Jessica and Madame Pellatan had helped him select, seemed fitting, a natural choice, and … nice. Even homey!

  It really is a pleasant house, Lewrie admitted to himself; and it don’t stink like a ship. I should be satisfied.

  Most unlike ship-board living, he could bathe in hot water three days a week (no need to get too carried away!) and could shave daily without balancing himself against rolls and plunges, could dress in underclothes and shirts free of salt crystals, washed with soap that would foam, fresh-smelling from a drying line. He could sleep on bed linens just as fresh, changed and laundered weekly, upon a deep feather mattress just soft and yielding enough.

  Sleep! He could sit up with a good book and a flask of brandy or aged American corn whisky ’til ten or so, and retire for a complete night’s rest, with never a thud of a sentry’s musket, a bellow that Midshipman Hen-Head reports Lieutenant Jingle-Brain’s duty, and a request for him to come to the quarterdeck after a haggard two hours’ slumber.

  Then, there was food. No salt-meat junk touched his plate, no rock-hard ship’s bisquit graced his bread barge, with or without the proverbial weevils that some chewed up regardless, claiming that “a man can’t get enough meat!” Did he wish fruit, fresh vegetables, or salad greens, there was always someone crying his goods in the street right outside, and his fish course was always fresh from the Billingsgate market (well, fresh-ish!), not salt-cured and stored right aft in the fish room where rats and roaches dined as well as the crew.

  I could stand this … for a while, at any rate, he assured himself as Pettus arrived with his ale.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Madame Pellatan does not chaperone you today, Miss Jessica?” Lewrie asked as he saw Jessica and her brother, Charley, into the front parlour the next morning, along with their cocker spaniel.

  “Not today, Sir Alan,” Jessica replied, removing her gloves and bonnet. “She and other French émigrés breakfast together at least once a fortnight, and spend the day, really, reliving better times.”

  “What a shame,” Lewrie said, not meaning a word of it. The woman got up his nose with her affectedly elegant airs.

  “I hope Charley will not be too bored, watching me work, and you … play-act a plaster figure,” Jessica said with a winsome smile and a glint of amusement in her eyes.

  “There’s the dogs,” Charles Chenery said with a shrug of duty to be borne. “And there’s some books … if you do not mind, sir?”

  “Mostly educational, nautical, all that,” Lewrie told him. He’d unpacked some of his books and placed them either side of the fireplace in the parlour. There were other books still in chests, but not the sort he imagined would go over well; novels for the most part, and all of them of a prurient nature. Not the reading matter to show off to a young lady, or a minister’s son! They really would have best been left at his father’s house, to join that lecher’s lacivious collection.

  Rembrandt and Bisquit re-introduced each other with sniffs, yips, and a gallop down the hall, and Chalky decided that the top of the table in the dining room would be quieter.

  “Now, Sir Alan,” Jessica instructed as she took a seat behind her easel with dark chalk in hand. “Turn your head a bit more to the right … there. A slight smile, as you requested. Ehm, perhaps a wee bit less? Fine,” she said, sticking out her left hand with her thumb up.

  “Artists really do that?” Lewrie japed. “I thought that was an exaggeration.”

  “Yes, we really do that, for scale,” Jessica replied with a gay laugh. “Rule of thumb, all that?”

  “Fine ship models, sir,” Charley said from the mantel. “May I?”

  “Of course,” Lewrie allowed. “The first’un is the Jester sloop, my first posting as a Commander. I got her when we evacuated Toulon.”

  And as Jessica firmed up her initial sketches, Lewrie told the tale of how she’d been a French corvette named the Sans Culottes, and the embarrassing jape he’d made to Admiral Sir Samuel Hood at supper, which had resulted in her re-naming. Bung-full of royalist evacuees and British soldiers, Lawrie had fled Toulon in temporary command of a shoddy frigate, the Radicale, but had been pursued and overhauled by two corvettes, one of which had been driven off, and Sans Culottes boarded and taken by the motley men he’d had at his disposal, all fighting for their lives and the lives of their wives and children, who would have been taken back to Toulon and guillotined had they failed.

  “Better Jester … meaning I was a poor comic, than HMS ‘Bare-Ar … ehm, Bottomed’,” Lewrie joked, damning his loose, salty tongue once more. “My wife and I fulfilled my promise to a dying French navy officer, Charles de Crillart, to see his family safe, but only his cousin, Sophie, survived, and became our ward. She would have been Comtesse de Maubeuge, but for the revolution, but now she’s married to one of my former First Officers, Anthony Langlie, and living with his parents in Kent. Three children, now, I believe.

  “And, I got my first cat out of it,” Lewrie added, describing his black-and-white little clumsy, Toulon. “How he got his name, for he was a disaster, too, haw haw!”

  As for his first mistress, Phoebe, who had come away with him on that sortie was best left un-said!

  “Madame Berenice has told us such horrific tales of what life was like during the revolution,” Jessica said, setting aside her chalk for a moment and swiping a loose strand of hair from her face, which left a smudge of chalk on her forehead, to her brother’s amusement. “How monstrous the French are! Everywhere they go, they leave nothing but death and slaughter. Look at Spain, Portugal, Austria, and what crimes they
committed to make their empire. What they did to you, Sir Alan, and your wife, on a casual whim because you angered Bonaparte in what was likely the most trivial way!”

  “We’re right t’hate ’em, I’ve always been told,” Lewrie agreed, “like the Devil hates Holy Water.”

  “This other one, sir?” Charles Chenery asked, lifting down the model of Proteus that Lewrie had just received after a meeting quite by chance with his former barrister, Andrew MacDougall, who’d defended him at his trial for “stealing” a dozen slaves on Jamaica to man his fever-ravaged ship, at a shop in New Bond Street. “And why is there a little Chinaman figure on the quarterdeck?”

  “That’s the Proteus frigate,” Lewrie told him, explaining why he had been put on trial, and why William Wilberforce and members of his society to eliminate slavery in the British Empire had engaged MacDougall. “And that model would have been used in court to prove the witnesses against me were lying like Blazes.”

  That took a more-lengthy tale; of the long-standing dislike ’twixt Lewrie and the Beauman family on Jamaica, and their hatred of Lewrie’s old friend, Christopher Cashman, whom he’d met on an expedition into Spanish Florida to meet with the Muskogee Indians to persuade them to take up arms against the American Rebels on the frontiers; and how Cashman’s settlement on Jamaica next to the Beauman plantations, and service in an island-raised regiment to fight the slave rebellion on the French colony of Saint Domingue, now Haiti, had resulted in a duel, and Lewrie’s role as Cashman’s second.

  “Once the Beaumans’ followers had testified that they could see me, plain as day, on a dark night and on a quarterdeck of a ship night one mile offshore,” Lewrie told them, “with no lights lit, well … Mister MacDougall was going t’step off a scaled distance from the jurors, and dare them t’say who, or what, was on the quarterdeck, then show them that wee mandarin figure, proving their testimony an utter load of … ah, rot. Fortunately, Beauman, his wife, and his minions fled the country before that happened, when they realised that they could be tried for perjury, and MacDougall never had t’use it. It’s a quite nice model, almost as good as Admiralty models.”