Hostile Shores (19 page)

“First Off’cer, SAH!” the Marine sentry announced.

“Enter!” Lewrie bawled back, beyond frustrated, by then.

Lt. Geoffrey Westcott came in and approached the desk, a touch warily, taking a cue from Lewrie’s tone.

“Rescue me, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie demanded. “Take a cat. I can only deal with one at a time.”

“Here, Chalky,” Westcott said, grinning. “Come nip a finger.”

He sat down in a chair before the desk and lifted the younger cat into his lap, which made Chalky flatten his ears, leap down, and run off to the dining coach to sit and furiously groom, insulted beyond all measure.

“How are our brethren in the Army, sir?” Westcott asked.

“Eager t’win their spurs, and gallop through the entire Dutch army,” Lewrie said sarcastically. “Cavalry, by God! I met some of the officers, and I swear they’re as dense as roundshot. Yoicks, tally-ho. The Thirty-fourth was raised round Shaftesbury—”

“I’ve friends from Shaftesbury,” Westcott said with a knowing nod, and a brief, feral grin, “though none of them are dull enough for cavalry.”

“Their Colonel, Laird, raised and paid for them himself,” Lewrie went on, “designed their uniforms, armed them with old-style straight Heavy Dragoon swords and Paget carbines, like Viscount Percy did his regiment. But, I doubt there’s a professional soldier among ’em, from the horse-coper to the top. Must’ve made some of his money back from sellin’ officers’ commissions.”

“Well, all we have to do is get them there, and after that, it will be up to whichever General appointed,” Westcott said.

“I was in the middle of
tryin’
t’write orders to the transports’ masters, but for the cats,” Lewrie told his First Officer. “We will up-anchor in the morning, at the start of the Forenoon, and fall down to Saint Helen’s Patch. If there’s a good wind, we’ll stand on, but if there’s not, we’ll come to anchor and wait for one. Warn the others to arrange their last-minute necessities from shore, and make sure the Purser knows.”

“Mister Cadbury believes he has everything in hand, but for one or two bullocks for fresh meat, the first few days at sea, sir,” Westcott replied with a shrug. “And the wardroom’s needs are met.”

“Before I have Faulkes make fair copies, I wonder if you would aid me in draughting the orders … see if there’s anything I might miss,” Lewrie asked, shoving the papers towards Westcott, and brushing Toulon to one side of the desk with his arm. Toulon flopped on top of his arm to weigh him down and began to rumble.

“Happy to oblige, sir,” Westcott agreed.

“Tea, with some rum, sir?” Pettus offered.

“Sounds delightful, thank you, Pettus,” Westcott perked up.

“And a second cup for me,” Lewrie added.

“Hmm,” Westcott mused after going over the first two sheets of paper. “I do wonder, sir, if we have to signal changes of course, subject to the weather. It’s not as if they’ll just plod along astern of us and follow our every move.…”

*   *   *

The orders were thrashed out by half-past Noon, and Westcott departed. Faulkes got to copying, and Lewrie’s mid-day meal arrived, a hearty chicken and rice soup, a middling-sized grilled beef steak with hashed potatoes and some of the black-eyed peas purchased in Savannah in the Spring, brought to spicy life with Yeovill’s stash of sauces, accompanied by brown bread and butter, and a decent claret.

The cats got their own shredded beef, spare rice, and hashed potatoes gravied with dollops of chicken soup in their bowls at the foot of the table, after making a great, adoring fuss over Yeovill when he entered and served out their shares. They came to nuzzle and rub on Lewrie once Pettus cleared his plate, then made for the settee for a long afternoon nap.

Faulkes brought the copies for Lewrie to look over, then folded them and sealed them for one of the Midshipmen to deliver. Whichever one it was, he would be getting wet, for the rain continued, heavier and steadier, and looked as if it would continue all through the afternoon and night.

Lewrie poured himself a fresh cup of tea, minus rum, from the sideboard, and went back to his desk. At last, he could look over his personal mail and respond to some of it. There were some bills from a London shop or two, for which he wrote out notes-of-hand to be redeemed at his solicitor’s, Mr. Matthew Mountjoy. There was one from Peter Rushton, an old school friend from his brief stint at Harrow before being expelled for arson … not only expelled but banned from the grounds forevermore, upon risk of arrest! That’un would be newsy and chatty!

And, there was one from Lydia.

“Oh, Lord,” Lewrie muttered half to himself, feeling wistful and anxious at the same time, turning the sealed letter round in his hands before breaking the wax seal to unfold and read it.

Once
Reliant
had been turned over to the civilian yard, he had gotten a week in London, lodging at the Madeira Club again, coaching to the West End to call upon her. They had
courted
!

Paying suit to Lydia had involved a nightly round of going out, to dine at the fashionable clubs like White’s, Boodle’s, Almack’s, and the Cocoa-Tree, seeing the latest plays in the Covent Garden theatres, and, on a sudden whim, going to Plumb’s Comedic Revue in Drury Lane to see the show of that false Sir Pulteney Plumb (only overseas did he claim that title) and his French wife who had been a chorus girl with the Comédie-Française in Paris. It was their quick-change costuming and theatrical talents that had spirited Lewrie and his late wife, Caroline, from Paris to Calais in a variety of wigs, clothes, makeup, and guises, escaping the clutches of Bonaparte’s police agents who’d been set to assassinate them. It had not been the Plumbs’ fault that Caroline had been shot and slain with a bullet meant for him, and he found that their show, with the clowns and scantily-dressed dancing girls as
entr’actes
, was quite enjoyable and highly amusing.

There were art shows to see at Ranelagh Gardens, subscription balls where anyone could purchase tickets and dance without anyone looking down their noses at Lydia. There were symphonies to attend, and concerts, and music halls where rowdier tunes could be heard.

Eudoxia was down from the country and Lydia’s brother Percy was up from his cavalry regiment stationed to guard the coast in Kent, so they attended most events as a foursome. They were almost cloying in their turtledove and open mutual affection; they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and spent a lot of time gazing into each other’s eyes and laughing over things that passed between them silently and unknown to anyone else. All in all, they were highly amusing, even when Eudoxia took Percy sweetly to task when they entered the Long Rooms at the clubs to do some light gambling; seeing her watch him like a hawk would a field mouse to dissuade him from wagering too deeply.

They dined in at the Stangbournes’ Grosvenor Street house, and entertained themselves at cards or music. From her time as an
ingénue
actress and singer with Daniel Wigmore’s Peripatetic Extravaganza, a combination circus-theatrical troupe-menagerie touring group, Eudoxia could sing well, though Lewrie discovered that Lydia could not, despite tutoring by the most accomplished musicians throughout her girlhood. She wasn’t all that good at the harpsichord or new-fangled
piano forte,
either. Percy could fiddle away like mad, effortlessly, and Lewrie had fetched along his penny-whistle and had been pronounced “not all that bad”, but, poor Lydia … she
adored
music, from simple country airs to Haydn, Handel, and Mozart, but was grieved that she would be forever denied the ability to play.

Well, at least she loves t’dance, and does
that
well,
Lewrie reminisced. Lydia might wear her bored, languid, and imperious face at the slower, more formal dances, but could turn girlish, bouncing, and almost whoop with delight doing the faster country dances.

Being a foursome, all in all, though, hardly ever just the two of them together, had turned the courting into a guardedly celibate affair. They had embraced, kissed, panted, yearned (Oh, how Lewrie had yearned!), but they had not had those promised nights at Willis’s Rooms or any other clandestine lodgings. Riding in the parks, shopping for civilian clothes for him, new books to read on-passage (none of those salacious, for a change, either!), it was all so very
public
!

“Wooing,” he muttered. “What a horrid-sounding word. Woo. Woo woo. Woo hoo.”

Lewrie hadn’t wooed any girl or woman, or couldn’t recall doing so since he was breeched! Flirting with a single aim was a different kettle of fish, and he’d been good at that since his father, Sir Hugo, had gifted him with his first dozen cundums, and cited the sage advice of Lord Chesterfield that “pleasure is now, and ought to be your business”, a motto that the both of them had followed.

It was not so much the frustration and denial that bothered him, but the sheer
novelty
of a seeming chastity that had him bemused and all-a’mort. Oh, he liked Lydia Stangbourne, and not merely because she had struck him as un-conventional from the first instance, and an obliging lover in the second; not because she came from a wealthy family, either. As he had told her early on, he was comfortable, and didn’t have any designs upon her share of the Stangbourne fortune, nor in any need of her standing dowry of
£
2,000. Stung as she’d been by her first, brutal marriage, and the scandal of Divorcement, she had liked him for
not
trying to win her hand, and Lewrie, in turn, had liked her for how they could play lovers without a
hint
of commitment.

Now, though … after a week and a bit of just being together at innocent pursuits … he felt … what?

Well, just damn my eyes if I ain’t growin’
fond
of her!
Lewrie realised with a wrench;
Christ, I do b’lieve I even
miss
her! What
has
the world come to?

The touch of her hand, the scent of her hair, the merry, adoring glints in her dark emerald-green eyes, the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed at something, or one of his jests. An odd nose, too, a tad too wide front-on, but almost Irish and wee in profile, and the recollection of that made Lewrie smile in pleasant reverie.

My dearest Alan,

I certainly do not wish for you to feel as if our brief Time together in London was to put you on Trial, for that was the farthest thing from my mind.

Words cannot express, however, the utmost Joy your Patience gave me. Your Jests, your Gallantries, your Good Humour in tolerating my Reticence has endeared you to me beyond all Measure, beyond any Fears which I previously held. I have been shamefully out of Temperance over our star-crossed attempts to see each other, and did not intend to behave so stand-offishly, but, with Percy and Eudoxia in Town, I could discover not the slightest Opportunity to show you how warm is my Heart towards you, or how ardent is my Passion, and I beg you to forgive my Foolishness.

How cruel it is, now, that you are bound away on the King’s Business with no Promise of a quick Return, or indeed, a Return at all! As I write this, my very Soul cries out to be with you, and my Eyes are so aswim with Tears that I can barely see to …

“Well, I’m damned!” Lewrie whispered in considerable awe. She had lost her dread of trusting her heart to yet another man who would break it? What was he to make of that? Lydia was a clever and wary grown woman—did she not see that he was a dissembling rake-hell, sure to disappoint her in future? How to respond?

He opened a drawer in his desk and got out his pen, inkwell, and a fresh sheet of bond. Such activity bestirred Toulon to pad over to the desk and meow to announce his presence, and desire. With one leap, Toulon got into his lap, peered over the top of the desk to see what his master was doing, then settled down in the shape of a hairy pot roast, the tip of his tail slowly metronoming, and purring.

“Good old lad,” Lewrie praised him, ruffling his fur and stroking his head and cheeks for a while, then began to write.

October 18th, 1805

Reliant, at Portsmouth

My dearest Lydia,

How gratifying it is to receive your latest Letter. Gratifying and Elating beyond all Bounds, however, are the Sentiments, the Warmth, and Ardour in which you say you hold me! Be strongly Assured that my own Heart swells in wrenching Longing to see your sweet self for just one minute more, even do we share a parting Kiss, a touch of hands, and nothing more. Your sudden Openness to Risk quite astounds my soul, and places me in Dread that I would ever cause you to regret …

“Hang it,” Lewrie whispered to the cat, who looked up at him. “I think she’s come t’love me, Toulon. And, I think I feel the same!”

BOOK TWO

KING:

On, on, you noble English,

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof,

Fathers that like so many Alexanders

Have in these parts from morn till even fought

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.

—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE
,
T
HE
L
IFE
OF
K
ING
H
ENRY
THE
F
IFTH
,
A
CT
III, S
CENE
I, 17–21

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The passage to Madeira was an odd one, quite unlike the last that had taken
Reliant
to Bermuda and the Bahamas in January of 1805. While the prevailing Westerlies in the Bay of Biscay were gusty, they did not vary more than 20 degrees either side of Due West, quite unlike the howling storms and mountainous seas that had raged against their frigate before. The wind direction did not swing capriciously to smack them on the bows and force them to make long boards just to avoid being driven into the rocky angle of the French and Spanish coasts, or force them onto Portuguese shoals. Once out at sea, beyond the Scilly Isles and Cape Ushant, a few days of close-reaching gained them bags of sea-room and hundreds of miles of safety margin from the risk of lee shores. Striding along Sou’-Sou’west or South by West upon a roughly beam wind and a beam sea, even the three clumsy transports could keep up with their escorting frigate, and reel off a satisfactory eight or nine knots from one Noon Sight to the next, making a goodly way.