“Well, I s’pose a man could do worse, sor,” his Cox’n said with a wince at the mention of the word. “Marryin’, though … Gawd! Who’d have a poor sailor f’r a husband?”
“Maggie Cony,” Lewrie teased.
* * *
Each morning, Lewrie forced himself to go a furlong more than the day before, and in the afternoons, after a fortnight, he added a walk about the property, down to the stables and barns, the paddocks and pens, and out to the edges of the cleared land round the house. Bisquit was his company on those strolls, eager for new scents, and a thrown stick … even if the dog did sometimes confuse Lewrie’s walking stick for a toy a time or two, tugging at it to encourage their game. Bisquit would also get distracted by the squirrels or rabbits, but he was, in the main, a good dog and always loped back to Lewrie’s side when called.
What to do with the hours between the trip to the village and the stroll, though? Lewrie had all his personal weapons, and in his father’s office-library there were enough firearms to field a dozen soldiers, so he added shooting competitions near the foot of the hill to the South, down near the rill, with a rise beyond that as a back-stop. Muskets, fusils, fowling pieces, Hindoo Moghul jezzails, blunderbusses, and all sorts of pistols were tried out, and even Jessop and Pettus and Yeovill became passable marksmen.
He could have gone hunting in the woodlots, had there been any game worth shooting. He was no longer a Chiswick tenant, denied fish or game which all belonged to the landlord. He was the son of a freeholder on his father’s acres. Furfy, though, quickly found the rabbit warrens and snared a few each week, and Jessop got rather good at potting squirrels with a fusil musket.
When it rained or snowed, though, Lewrie had little to occupy his time. He would read by a crackling fire, with Bisquit drowsing by Lewrie’s chair, or across his feet, and Chalky, his cat, nodding close to the grate, or spraddled cross one arm of his chair, always with one wary eye out for the dog’s doings.
On one of his strolls down to the stables, he saw the junior groom hefting gallon pails of water in each hand, and lifting them up and out to show Fowlie how strong he was, and Lewrie got two of them and filled them with rocks, increasing the weight until he could hold them out and pump them over his head, or swing them back and forth, and found that when he crossed heavy naval cutlasses with Desmond or Furfy, his blade felt no heavier than a butterknife. Needless to say, his footwork at cutlass drill still was lacking.
* * *
Harvest festivals, church ales, and supper dances came round, and Lewrie did get invited to some, even Sir Romney Embleton’s and at Governour’s house a time or two, but he still had need of his walking stick and did not dance, still had need of Peterkin the ambler horse, hot, steamed towels to wrap, round his thigh, and willow bark teas at least twice a day.
The village’s surgeon-apothecary hired by Sir Romney Embleton, Mr. Archer, came to cheek up on him every now and then, and he had offered laudanum to ease Lewrie’s aches, but Lewrie declined. By November, the aches were not all that bad, and only came when he over-extended himself.
Christmas came and went, and Lewrie had Fowlie return the ambler to his owner, Mr. Doaks. He could manage Anson, again! With more exercise, the horse had become more biddable to go at a walk, and when he was put to the trot or canter, it didn’t hurt at all.
At long last, one morning a few weeks before Easter, Lewrie led Anson all the way to the village, on his own feet without need of his walking stick, with Bisquit frisking along with him.
“Good mornin’, Will … Maggie,” he said as he and the dog breezed in. “Good mornin’, all.”
“Mornin’ to ya, sir!” Cony chirpily greeted him. “We’ve some fine ham f’r yer breakfast this mornin’. And, I reckon yer dog’ll be wantin’ a slice’r two, as well.”
“Here, Will,” Lewrie said, handing him the walking stick. “I’ve no more need of it. Ye can hang it over the fire, or use it for kindlin’. I hiked all the way, today,” he boasted. “Oh, I’ll ride back, but only ’cause it’s perishin’ cold this morning,” he added after he’d taken a seat at his usual table.
“Huzzah, sir!” Will Cony crowed. “I told ya walkin’ it away’z th’ cure for ya. Wot Mister Archer’d call ‘thera’ … good for ya! Ya ready t’go up to London an’ Admiralty, soon’z the weather breaks, I’d expect?”
“The first dry day we get, aye!” Lewrie assured him. “Hey, pup! Want some fried ham? Yes? Ah, you’re a good ’un!”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Good luck, sir,” Pettus said as he helped Lewrie into his boat cloak and handed him his hat in the Madeira Club’s anteroom.
“Not much’ll come of this first visit,” Lewrie told him, shrugging off too-high hopes. “All I can manage will be t’let ’em know I’m still alive, healed up, and available. I’ll probably be back before mid-day. But thankee for the good wishes, anyway.”
It was another breezy and nippy morning, and Lewrie had the club porter whistle up a one-horse hack. He could walk all the way, but damned if he would!
Lewrie alit and paid off the coachee in front of the arches of the curtain wall at Admiralty, then hitched a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked into the courtyard. It looked to be the typical busy morning, for the courtyard was full of slowly pacing officers and hopeful Midshipmen, and the tea cart was doing a thriving business, in sticky buns and sausages, handing out mis-matched mugs and cups as fast as they could be filled.
“Top o’ th’ mornin’, sir,” a grizzled old tiler rasped at him as he approached the doors. “Though I wouldn’t get me ’opes up too ’igh, Cap’m. ’Less ye come at their biddin’, ye’ll ’ave a long wait, an’ there’s ’underds in there waitin’.”
“Morning to you, too,” Lewrie said with a faint smile of remembrance. For as long as he could recall, the tilers at the Admiralty were a surly, nigh-insulting lot, former Bosuns or Bosun’s Mates who had become un-maimed Greenwich Pensioners, and old fellows who took great joy in bossing officers about. He was almost back in service!
Lewrie checked his hat and gloves and boat cloak with the porters, and faced the infamous Waiting Room, which was elbow-to-elbow full, with nary an empty chair to be seen. With so many warm bodies there, the Waiting Room gave off its own particular heat, and smells faintly tinted with salt, tar, and sweat. It must have rained sometime in the wee hours, for Lewrie could also discern the odour of wet wool. Damned if it all smelled … nautical!
He plastered a calm smile on his face to show confidence, and slowly paced the room ’til he spotted one of the First Secretary’s, Mr. William Marsden’s, clerks.
“Good morning, sir,” Lewrie said, trying to recall if this one was the “Happy-Making” clerk or the one who dealt with the disappointed. “Captain Sir Alan Lewrie. I wonder if you might see this letter to the Secretary for me, informing him of my availability?”
“Of course, sir,” the clerk agreed, then broke away to go up the stairs to the offices above.
Right after his hike all the way to the village on foot, Lewrie had penned a letter to Mr. Marsden, saying that he would be coming up to London, in hopes of an interview. This letter would tell Marsden that he was in town and … waiting.
He managed to find a seat after a minute or two, thanks to one very young Lieutenant who thought it a good idea to surrender his to a senior officer who just might be taking command of a ship in active commission, and in need of his skills. He even gave up his copy of the Tatler!
The magazine proved handy. No matter how long he’d been in the Navy, no matter how many officers he’d served with, there never was a one of them in the Waiting Room that he knew in the slightest when he was there. Lewrie determined that he would sit and read ’til the mid-day rush for dinner, then depart with the throng and go back to the Madeira Club for an afternoon nap.
I might skip tomorrow, Lewrie thought as he turned pages; Else I look as desperate as those gammers over yonder.