And what enthusiasm he had for Maggie had been born abed with her. How else was there a Little Will in swaddlings, now, if not for prйnuptial passion? Being a practical, commonsensical sort, Bosun's Mate Will Cony knew from long experience that sailors will usually be sailors, far from home, with months between letters or news. Maggie almost kenned that, as any seaman's wife should. As they said on the lower decks… "shouldn'ta joined, if ya can't take a joke!"
Still, he'd always believed that Lewrie would be more discreet than that. He'd even spoken disparagingly of officers who carried a mort to sea, parading before the love-starved, lust-surly "people" what they could not have. If the little sauce-pot had that much influence on him, though…
"She is, that!" Knolles commented, rather wistfully. "Well… Mister Cony. Ahem. Carry on."
"Aye, sir." Cony chuckled, knuckling his forehead in salute, knowing he'd been dismissed. Knowing that Knolles had said too much to an inferior, and was seething inside for being so open.
"Dot de guhl th' cap'um woz s'sweet on, Will?" Andrews asked, once Knolles had walked away. "De one ya toi' me 'bout?"
"Aye, that she be. 'Ope she don't spell trouble. For him, or us." Cony shrugged.
"Law, Will!" Andrews guffawed, his teeth brilliant against the dusk of his skin. "It be th' same'zit always woz, bock in de Wes' Indies, durin' de 'Merican War. Jus' a whiff o' quim, not de whole garden. Cap'um, he lose his head ovah de ladies, now'n 'gain. But, he nevah lose it fo' long!"
"Mister Cony, make 'em hop to it\" Midshipman Hyde called to them, snappish and still fretful. And more than a little scandalized.
"Aye, Mister Hyde. Hoppin', this instant," Cony answered as he withdrew his bosun's pipe from a chest pocket of his waistcoat by its ornately plaited lanyard. "Messenger, aft t'th' capstan-head!"
"You, too, Andrews," Hyde added.
"On me way, t'de quawtah-deck, yassuh, Mistah Hyde, uhuhh!" the coxswain replied, falling back on a West Indies slave patois in subtle mockery, to rejoin the hands of the after-guard, who would tend sheets, halliards, lifts, and jears on the mizzenmast. "Right, lads. Tail on, weak-lin's. De strong men'z walkin' de capstan fo' ya."
"Canne do 'at, Cox," a landsman asked, perplexed. "Jus' 'ave 'isself a lady, all t' 'is own? Any why cain't we, I asks ya…"
" 'Cause he be de cap'um, an' you ain't, Cousins!" Andrews told the fresh-caught lubber, steering him away from a standing back-stay to his proper post on the mizzen tops'l jears. "Law, ye be so dumb, I lay odds ya thought dey call 'im de 'Ram-Cat' jus' 'cause he be fond o' de kitties, didn' ya, Cousins? Haw haw!"
Once at sea, Lewrie quit the deck, after Jester was well clear of Europa Point, and reaching easterly on a beam wind, the galley funnel fuming once more to simmer up a late supper.
Aspinall took his hat to hang up, as Lewrie hesitantly went aft to his day-cabin, suddenly feeling like an intruder in a strange salon.
There was a slanging match going on, with much hissing, spitting, and a noticeable nimbus of stress-shed fur, as the litter mates, Toulon and Phoebe's kitten-now half-grown to an almost calico white-and-tan-got "reacquainted." Toulon on the desktop, pawing the wine cabinet in threat, as her cat cowered atop it, looking over the edge, hunkered up and snarling, trilling deep in her throat between nervous chop-licking.
"Take no guff off the ladies, Toulon -that's the way," Alan muttered as he opened the cabinet doors to pour his own drink.
"Sorry, sir, but I wasn't goin' nowhere near 'em, long as they're in a snit," Aspinall apologized.
"No problem, Aspinall," Lewrie told him, tipping himself a glass of hock. "And what's your name, little girl? Whatever did your mistress name you? 'Spit'? 'Whurdrdrdr,' did ye say?" he yodeled.
A traveling case thumped to the deck, in the sleeping coach. A bustle oн domesticity, accompanied by a pleased humming tune, sometimes breaking into a soft,"half-conscious "la-la'ing."
Good Christ, but I'm such a fool! Lewrie told himself, perhaps for the hundredth time since midmorning. Well, 'tis only till Corsica… bags of time to 'wean' both of us, after.
The military authorities at Gibraltar had been gloating merry about Admiral Lord Hood's siege-work, there. The main harbor, San Fiorenzo, had fallen early on, and just recently, the city of Bastнa had come into British, or Coalition, possession. Now the French were isolated, hanging on by their fingernails at the extreme northern end of the island, in Calvi. The coastline was so well guarded by Royal Navy ships that a fishing smack couldn't sneak in with supplies, or reinforcements; neither could the French hope for a piecemeal evacuation over several nights.
And, to discomfit the Frogs even further, the fleet they'd put together from scattered units in the Mediterranean-or brought back into commission after the Coalition had failed to burn them when they had evacuated Toulon the previous Christmas!-had been countered at sea, rather deuced well! Hood had sailed away from the siege to meet Rear Admiral Comte Martin, and had snaffled the dismal bastard into a sack, in the Golfe Jouan east of Cannes, where he was now embayed and most effectively blockaded; of absolutely no use to the desperate Republican army at Calvi… or anyone else, pretty much.
Toulon interrupted Lewrie's musings, breaking off his own sort of "siege-work" to rub and purr, and meow for attention, which he got at once. Looking up and sneering a lofty "so there, see?" at the cat atop the wine cabinet.
"Only the few days, Toulon," Lewrie promised him. "Oww\"
Piqued, perhaps, Phoebe's calico had taken a defensive swat at him, and had connected on his right ear!
"Oh, merde alors," Phoebe cooed, exiting the sleeping coach in a lacy flutter of feminine finery. "Juliette, elle est ze mйchancetй, ees 'naughty,' oui? … ze trиs naughty jeune fille. I am sorry, mais she ees protec', uhm…?"
"It's my wine she's protecting," he groused, placing a handkerchief to his ear. Damme, he carped to himself; the bitch'z drawn blood!
"Oh, Alain!" Phoebe comforted, taking the handkerchief, and dipping it in his hock, to dab at his ear. "I kees, an' mak'… uhm… a meilleur? Ah, better? Merci. My Englis', ees… better, mais … n'est-ce pas? I kees an' mak' eet better, hein?" she cajoled, swishing her hips and gazing up at him with mischievous, impish eyes.
"Aprиs souper, peut-кtre," he japed in return, any qualms in his head evaporating in another instant.
"Certainment, mon chou," she replied, with a promising grin. And retrieving her cat, Joliette, and keeping his wineglass, to sashay off astern to the crude sofa to sit and stroke her beast down. He poured himself another, and joined her.
Along the way, he got a peek into the sleeping coach, to find that her pitiful collection of luggage he recalled from Toulon before the evacuation had grown considerably. There were now two full portmanteau chests, brimming with yard goods. Not only dresses, but bed linens, coverlets, the wink of pewter. There were unopened crates that had rattled as they'd come aboard-glassware and plates.
"I was surprised, your removing," he began.
"Oh, Alain, to 'ave ze proper establissement pour vous, I mus' buy ze many s'ings!" she explained, looking as if she would be eager to jump to her feet, dash into the sleeping coach, and display all her new possessions like a birthday child. "To take ze suite, wiz furnishings, uhm… ze chair, ze tables, ze bed, oui. Mais, ees ver' empty? So I change rooms, for save you' monnai. An' I buy zose nice s'ings zat mak' eet… familial? More homey? Zo when you are ashore, wiz me, you are non asham-ed."