It started slow, but built right craftily, Lewrie thought. She began with regular straw-stuffed canvas targets, but then progressed to playing cards, candle flames to snuff, large rings flung aloft, which she snapped a beribboned arrow through. Locally-gathered, expendable, pigeons released from wicker cages didn't stand a chance as they fled towards the far end of the plaza, even right overhead of the audience! The wee blond "actress" turned up with a canteloupe on her head, and that got skewered, too. Then a grapefruit, then an orange, finally an apple, a la William Tell!
For the piece de resistance, a gaudily caparisoned white horse trotted out into the inner ring, and Eudoxia gave a great shriek, and ran after him, springing and rolling astride, and proceeded to perform her art on targets from horseback, too: seated upright, kneeling atop her mount, standing, even scissor-legged along her horse's side, and shooting from below his belly, from under his neck! "Eudoxia" finally drew rein after squarely hitting the ace of spades on a playing card at the full gallop, then reined back her horse so hard that he skidded to a halt on the plaza's stones, to rear and prance, pawing the air with his fore hooves to a tumultuous applause, as the small band did a triumphant fanfare, and, over the roar of the crowd, uttered a howl of victory that the Portuguese might mistake for an Amazon or Cossack phrase, but which to Lewrie sounded suspiciously like "Sic semper tyrannis!, " before she wheeled away behind the gaudy sailcloth draperies that screened the performers and beasts from view.
As her horse dropped to all-fours, though, she swept the upper tip of her bow across the audience, stiff-armed, and ended aiming at Lewrie! A salaam-ish bow from the waist from the back of her horse, then a very wide grin, and she blew kisses to everyone, with a final one again directed at him, and a vixenish, impish smile, to boot!
Well, then! he thought; Well, well, well, hmm! Wink's as good as the node Though…
As he'd suspected, there had been visiting back and forth from one plodding ship to another, on days when the winds and seas weren't up, and Festival had indeed drawn more than her fair share of callers. Proteus had spent half her time close under Grafton's lee, close under the slow Festival, too, though unable to partake of an hour of two of diverting amusement, probably so Treghues could keep a damn' wary eye on the both of them! By telescope, Lewrie had noticed that civilians off the Indiamen had gone aboard much tenser than they departed. All callers had been warmly greeted, and the female members of the troupe had always been the first to welcome them, and the last to see them off.
Perhaps she really was a whore-transport! Lewrie had sniggered; Pays for new costumes… atones for poor salaries, and damme if those camels and "zebras" o' theirs don't need a lot o' fodder!
Now, as he paid only half his attention to the magic act which followed the girl's performance, the rational half of his mind warned him that Eudoxia, or whatever her name was in real life… Mabel, or Peg most-like, from Liverpool?… might be a well-used strumpet, but… that other moiety of his higher faculties kept nudging him with an elbow to remind him that he was the owner of a round two-dozen sheep-gut cundums of Mother Green's very best construction, purveyed in old Half Moon Street, and English, by God, the finest in the world, and in the end, if she was for temporary hire, then her socket-fee, no matter how steep, would be more than worth it with a body so slim, her legs so long, lean, and shapely, "cat-heads" so bountiful, and so athletic and strong a ride that he very likely might only half-survive it! No commitments, no embarrassing entanglements, no…!
His sane moiety pointed out that, surely, "Eudoxia" might have a lover or protector among the circus or theatrical troupe, already, someone jealous, hulking… someone like Jose, perhaps, who'd proved his skill with knives, who had wild beasts to sic on him, someone who might pester him to death with clowns, if nothing deadly fell to hand.
No matter, he felt… "Invited."
And, damme, lam curious /he told himself; What harm in that?
So, now without a certain amount of trepidation, lest he'd misunderstood the wench's broad gestures, he alit from the stands once it appeared that the night's entertainment was winding down, and casually ambled, as innocently as he might, over towards the circus's screened-off area, even going so far as to stick his hands into the pockets of his breeches, most un-officer-like, and attempt to whistle a gay air to disarm the squinty looks he was getting from the thickly-muscular "Hindoo strongmen," and some equally strong and daunting sailors off Festival, who did double duty as roustabouts and guards over Wig-more's property. He could reassure himself that he still owned a watch, and a full purse, if nothing else!
Before he got quite to his destination, though, the curtained-off backstage area erupted performers and beasts, out to take a final parade and their last bows from an adoring audience, and he ended up standing there looking foolish. A minute later, he felt even more of a Cully as smarmy, slick-looking local young gentlemen and pretenders came stroking their mustachios and leering, with flowers in hand, on much the same mission as his!
Oh, bugger this! Lewrie scowlingly thought, feeling hot under the collar, and even more embarrassed to be lumped in with such sprogs. He turned away and shaped his stroll out towards the empty end of the vast plaza, towards the fountains, statuary, and such, when…
"Cap'm Lewrie!" Daniel Wigmore gaily called out, as the torches and lanthorns were doused, and the tinny little band strangled their last notes and fell silent. "Why, bless me soul, Cap'm sir, but 'ow'd ye h'enjoy me show?" Wigmore came bustling up through the departing crowd, beaming and bobbing at one and all to take bows of his own from them for a successful performance.
"Why… I thought it was simply capital, Mister Wigmore, sir, and I dearly wish my sailors could come ashore to witness it!" Lewrie cried back, stopped in his tracks and removing his hands from his pockets to doff his cocked hat. "Enjoyed it immensely, especially…"
" 'Owever not, then, sir?" Wigmore wondered aloud as he came up and not only doffed his own huge, Austrian-style fore-and-aft bicorne, adrip with gilt lace and egret plumes sufficient to stuff a large and fluffy pillowcase, but stuck out his hand for a hearty shake. "Fetch 'em ashore t' next night's performance, why don't ye?"
"Ah, that'd be up to our Captain Treghues, Mister Wigmore, and he'll not allow shore liberty, not in Recife, at least," Lewrie said. "Perhaps at Saint Helena, which is more a garrison than a civilian, and desertible, liberty port. My lads'd relish that, aye, sir."