The King's Marauder (2 page)

A younger fellow on the opposite side of the fireplace dropped his masking newspaper and rose to his feet with a smile to offer his hand. “Grand to see you, again, sir. Bless me, but do I note that you no longer have need of your walking stick? Capital!”

Showalter had at long last won himself a seat in the House of Commons, a couple of years back, and was quick to inform Lewrie with some glee that he’d just been re-elected by an even greater majority on the hustings. Lewrie recalled that Showalter had spoken of being married with children long before, but still lodged at the Madeira Club when Parliament was in session, leaving wife and children back in his home borough.

“It took a bit of doing, but I finally got strong enough to do without, thankee,” Lewrie informed him, looking about for a seat close to the fire. One of the club’s waiters in breeches, a livery-striped waistcoat, and white apron, came over at once, dragging another leather wing-back chair for him, and taking his order for a wee pot of very hot tea, with a dollop of rum.

“Healed up and fit enough to seek a new ship, are you, sir?” Mr. Giles good-naturedly asked. “Well, that’s grand. Can’t allow a fellow such as yourself to be idle and out of the game for too long.”

“My thoughts exactly, Mister Giles,” Lewrie agreed as his tea was quickly fetched to him. “What’s been acting in London in my absence? Anything good at the theatres?”

“Well, I’m not all that much a patron of the stage,” Showalter told him, “not like our former member, Major Baird, haw!” he added, pulling a face. Before he had finally found a suitable wife, Major Baird had haunted Covent Garden and Drury Lane, in search of covert, upright, and oral sex from the orange-selling theatre girls. “I favor the symphony, myself, and I heard a good’un two nights ago. That Austrian fellow, Beethoven? He named it the
Eroica.
It plays through the month…”

“Dedicated to the Corsican Ogre, Napoleon Bonaparte,” Giles grumbled, working his mouth in distaste, “damn his eyes.”

“
Re
-dedicated to Admiral Nelson, as the programme declared when I attended,” Showalter corrected. “And rightly so.”

“Amen,” Lewrie agreed, thinking that he would take it in.

“And, Baird’s still a member, though he don’t come by half as much as before,” Giles supplied. “A man needs good company and a fine meal every now and then, finer than what his own household can offer, I’d expect. Get away from wife and kiddies?”

“Pilkington is still with us,” Showalter told Lewrie. “Still as much a Cassandra as ever. Gloom, doom, and the ruin of trade.”

“Perhaps not a
true
Cassandra, sir,” Giles quibbled. “Mind, she was always
right
in her dire predictions, quite unlike Pilkington.”

“The Berlin Decrees have Pilkington nigh-wailing and wringing his hands,” Showalter said with a laugh.

Mustive missed somethin’ in the papers,
Lewrie thought;
What the Devil are the Berlin Decrees? Should I admit my ignorance?

“I recall readin’
something
of ’em in the papers,” Lewrie carefully said with a dismissive shrug. “After Christmas, I think?”

“Yes, after Napoleon finished off the Prussians,” Mr. Giles said, nodding in agreement. “The Ogre said he’d make economic war as well as the regular sort against us. Now he’s taken most of Europe and set up his so-called Confederation of the Rhine, he decreed that every port under his control will deny any British goods, and forbid anyone in Europe to have truck with us, cutting us off from any and all of
their
goods.”

“Yes, and any neutral ship that’s put into any of our ports to be inspected for contraband, he’ll seize,” Showalter huffily stuck in. “The nerve of the man! If the Americans, for example, obey our Orders In Council and call in Great Britain first, they’ll be banned to land their goods in Europe. If they sail direct for the Continent, despite us,
our
Navy can seize them, so God only knows what the neutrals will do. Caught ’twixt the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, what? I
did
hear that the Americans might just embargo all European trade altogether!”

“Tosh!” Lewrie exclaimed. “Sharp-practised Yankee merchants to just give up
trade?
That’s inconceivable.”

So
that’s
what it’s all about,
he assured himself.

“It’ll never work, you know,” Mr. Giles pooh-poohed. “There’s Portugal, there’s still the great trade with Russia, with us getting all her hides and timber, Sweden and her iron ore, there’s our goods going to the United States, and so many ports still open to us in the Mediterranean … and, our avid and able smugglers.”

“And the Danes,” Showalter reminded them.

“Why, the leather trade’s never been better!” Mr. Giles boasted. “Austria, the Russians, as they rebuild their armies, their orders for boots, shoes, and soldiers’ accoutrements have never been higher. Do mark my words, sirs … Napoleon’s much-vaunted Continental System is more-like to result in the utter economic strangulation of France!”

“And, pray God, sir, all Napoleon’s allies,” Showalter gravely said with a firm affirmative nod of his head.

“Wool’s high, too,” Mr. Giles ruminated, looking sage and content. “Mister Meacham … you haven’t met him yet, Lewrie, he’s new to us, from the Midlands … was in town a month ago to contract with agents for foreign buyers of his goods, and was positively
exultant
with the results! So much so that he contemplated opening an entire newer and larger mill, due to the great demand.”

“Almost every member I’ve spoken to here with any ties to the manufacturing or export trade still seems to be doing extremely well,” Showalter contributed with a grin. “That’s not to say that it’ll last, but for now, Bonaparte’s edict is toothless. And, as Mister Giles believes, it’ll hurt the French much more than us. We’ve the whole
world
for our market, our colonial possessions aside, with the largest fleet of merchantmen, and the Royal Navy to protect them. And what do the French have? Blockade, laid-up ships, grass growing on the piers, and grinding poverty.”

The Madeira Club had been founded by Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, Sir Malcom Shockley, and four or five other gentlemen, most of them in trade. Sir Malcom and Lewrie’s father could have joined one of the more esteemed gentlemen’s clubs like Boodle’s, Almack’s—well, in Sir Hugo’s case, that might’ve been a stretch since he had been tainted with the tarbrush of a rogue ever since the Hell-Fire Club had been exposed—but it had been Sir Malcom’s, and the bulk of the original founders’, idea that there must be a place where sober and industrious men who’d made themselves, and made large piles of money in trade and manufacturing, could commingle, lodge comfortably when in London, dine extremely, well, and enjoy a fine wine cellar. Such men might be bags wealthier than the members of the prestigious gentlemen’s clubs, but they were in
Trade,
did not own great country estates, had not attended Oxford or Cambridge, and did not live on their rents and the produce of their lands. It was good odds they would be rejected if they tried to apply.

Lewrie couldn’t have cared less whether they were secret Druids. The Madeira Club offered clean, comfortable rooms, good meals, and a
very
extensive selection of wines—they even managed to stock some of his favourite aged American corn whisky!—and he would be the last person to denigrate someone else because he was not titled or one of the great, landed Squirearchy. His own knighthood and baronetcy was a bitter joke to him, already, awarded more, he suspected, for political ends to drum up patriotism during the run-up to the re-start of the war with France in 1803. Besides, it had cost the life of his wife, Caroline, shot down on a beach near Calais, a shot meant for him, as they had fled Paris during the Peace of Amiens.

Commercial sorts the bulk of the members might be, but most of them were decent company, during the rare times when Lewrie was not at sea and back in London. The only thing that irked him was the demand for proper decorum and quiet in the wee hours. He could
never
bring a woman up to his rooms on the sly, and riotous hoo-rawing, loud music and song, and flung rolls at meals were right out, too! The club members liked to go to bed early, sleep soundly, and rise too damned early for Lewrie’s likes, but …

The tall clock in the entry hall chimed half-past five, seemingly a signal to conjure the arrival of several more members, some of them new to Lewrie, and younger than he. There was a great bustle to doff hats, cloaks, and greatcoats, then rush to the fireplace for a warm-up of hands and backsides. Tea, coffee, and brandy were called for, and swiftly delivered. Lewrie was introduced to the new ones, striving to retain all their names, and was greeted by some of the longer-timed members he’d met before. The newer members, after thawing out, drifted to the tables and seating arrangements in other parts of the Common Rooms.

“Nice-enough fellows,” Mr. Giles allowed in a hushed voice to Lewrie, leaning over towards him. “But, most don’t lodge here, thank the Lord. Our new’uns are a bit too boisterous for me. The club’s changing, perhaps not for the better. Why, next thing you know, we will have women dined in!”

“Ahem,” someone said in a low voice, coughing into his fist. “Captain Lewrie?” It was the manager, Hoyle.

“Aye, Mister Hoyle?” Lewrie replied, swivelling about.

“My apologies, sir, about your assignment of rooms. The clerk is new, and did not know of your, ehm … infirmity,” Hoyle muttered, all but wringing his hands. “I will see that you’re moved to a lower storey…”

“Not a bit of it, Mister Hoyle!” Lewrie said with a laugh. “I am not the man I was when last I came, in January. I’m fit as a fiddle, and even danced the hours away at the last country ball, so the third storey’s just fine for me. No reason for my man, Pettus, to be shifting my things round.”

“Really, sir?” Hoyle said, eyebrows up in surprise. “Why, that is wonderful … good news, indeed. My congratulations, sir! Do you need anything, though, just let us know.”

“Thankee, Hoyle, and I shall,” Lewrie assured him.

Mr. Giles levered himself up from his chair after Hoyle left.

“Save my seat for me, will you, gentlemen? I will return, anon. And, does the waiter come round in my absence, I’d admire a brandy. I think it’s late enough in the day to indulge. Sun’s under the yardarm, hey, Captain Lewrie?”

“Somewhere in the world, aye, Mister Giles,” Lewrie agreed.

“In cold weather, he’s a permanent fixture by the hearth, is our Mister Giles,” Showalter wryly whispered as the older fellow departed. “And, none too keen on some of the newer members. Why, half of them are
junior
partners in their concerns, not owners. An attorney or three, fellows from the ’Change, even some serving officers. Poor Giles is sure they’ll steal his seat if he’s not careful!”

“Sounds as if things might become more lively round here than in the past?” Lewrie speculated.

“Only partially,” Showalter seemed to mourn, “and that only ’til bedtime for the oldsters. After that, it’s funereal, more’s the pity. At least, the mood’s brighter at mealtimes, and the victuals are still excellent!”

CHAPTER TWO

“Will there be anything else tonight, sir?” Pettus asked after he’d tugged Lewrie’s top-boots off, hung up his suitings, waist-coat and shirt, and handed him a thick robe.

“Don’t think so, Pettus, no,” Lewrie told him. “I think that I have all that I’ll need ’til morning.”

His best-dress Navy uniform was hung up on a rack in a corner, brushed and sponged for his appearance at Admiralty, the coat with the star of the Order of The Bath attached, the blue sash that went with it freshly pressed wrinkle-free, as was his neck-stock and shirt. Snowy white duck breeches awaited the morning, as did a pair of gold-tasseled Hessian boots, newly daubed and brushed. There was a carafe of water with a clean glass atop, for rinsing sleep from his mouth and brushing his teeth with tooth powder. His “housewife” kit for shaving was laid out by the wash-hand stand, and a half-pint glass bottle of whisky stood on the nightstand. The chamberpot was clean and empty, so far, and in all, he was set for the night.

“Six in the morning, sir?” Pettus asked.

“Aye, six, and have a good night, Pettus,” Lewrie bade him.

Once alone, Lewrie poured himself some whisky and went to the chair by the fire, taking along a candelabra so he could at last read one of the London papers, abandoned in the Common Rooms after supper.

The supper, well! As toothsome as his personal cook, Yeovill, prepared his meals, the club’s cooks could give him a run for his money. There had been breaded flounder, sliced turkey with red currant sauce, and prime rib of beef for the main courses, with lashings of green peas, beans, hot-house asparagus, and potatoes, both mashed and
au gratin,
with sweet figgy-dowdy to finish it off, then port or sherry, nuts and sweet bisquits to cap it all off.

Showalter had been right; the company at-table
had
been most lively, witty, and amusing, more so than Lewrie could recall from his earlier stays. Nobody had broken into song, but they could have!

Of course, after supper, a good part of the diners had left to return to their regular lodgings or go about the town to seek their further amusements, or pleasures, and but for a few hold-outs in the Common Rooms, the club had gone quiet once more, with most of the members who lodged off to bed at an early hour. After a brandy by the fire, Lewrie had toddled off, too.

Even with the four candles and the light of the fire reflected off the brass back plate, reading the paper was hard going. He gave it up and went to bed, doffing his robe and quickly sliding under the thick covers, snuffing all but one candle to savour his whisky.

Lewrie did, before pulling up the blankets and coverlet, raise his right leg and look once more at his thigh, grimacing again at the ragged, round, and dis-coloured puckered scar from a lucky long-range shot by a Spanish sailor, made even worse by the rough and un-gentle ministrations of his Ship’s Surgeon, Mr. Mainwaring, as he’d probed deep for the bullet, the patches of cotton duck from his breeches, his silk shirt-tails, and his muslin underdrawers with long pincers gouging remorselessly for the very last thread.