"You must be very proud of your daughter, sir," Lewrie quickly extemporised, striving for another of his "shit-eatin' grins" and his nigh-perfected smarm. "In her skill, her poise, and talent, that is. I came to offer my congratulations to her, and ev'ryone else, d'ye see, for a most enjoyable show, which I hope my sailors will be able to see, once we reach Saint Helena… ah ha."
This ain't workin', Lewrie nervously considered.
"Hah!" Durschenko Senior barked, not buying that for a minute. His live eye glared bullets, but he did shift his whip to his other hand, and un-handed that dagger!, to at last take Lewrie's hand as if all was forgiven. Giving it a viselike squeeze, so hard that Lewrie felt his eyes were almost ready to water.
"Heh heh heh," Durschenko muttered with a feral, toothy grin.
Lewrie gave back as good as he got, though, clamping down with all the strength he had. Never try that on with a sailor, Arse-lick Artimovich, he thought; nor a swordsman, either, ye old fart!
They stood there, arms beginning to quiver, fingers going numb and white, shuffling closer to each other like two wrestlers looking for an opening to a sudden throw.
"Oh, stoy!" Eudoxia snapped in exasperation, at last, seizing them by the wrists to pull them apart. "Stop that, both of you! The Kapitan is nice man! He mean no harm!"
Don't lay wagers on it! Lewrie thought, wishing he could shake feeling back into his hand without anyone seeing him do it.
"Low bastard… fine gentleman, no difference," Eudoxia cried, "no matters. I never meetink nobody that Poppa do not… oh, tell me what is word?" she flustered, looking to him for aid.
Murder? Lewrie wryly supposed. "Distrust?" he said, instead.
"Da, distrust, spasiba, Kapitan Lewrie," Eudoxia hotly agreed, her eyes glinting as cold as the snowy steppes that had birthed her. She turned to face her father and launched into a rapid, gutturally-garbling bit of foreign "argey-bargey." Durschenko Senior glowered, scowled, gawped, and stamped a booted foot, by turns, leaning back and almost tittering at one point during her harsh tirade, growling and barking like the aforesaid mastiff in the same lingo whenever he could get a word in, which wasn't often.
Other circus people, including those smarmy clowns and mimes, were drawn to their little domestic "tiff," and Lewrie wondered if he could crawl away, unnoticed, for every now and then, Arslan Artimovich would snap his head about to glower and snarl at Lewrie, and everyone in Wigmore's Travelling Extravanganza surely had seen him and Eudoxia "at loggerheads" before. Perhaps, Lewrie dourly fantasised, they had also seen Durschenko lash an interloper away from his precious girl, and were waiting with rising expectations of a good show, perhaps even laying wagers on the outcome?
Their business, now, not mine, Lewrie told himself, giving up all hopes of sporting with the girl, no matter how entrancing. / had a good, hot, freshwater bathe, a fine meal, and the circus was nice, really. Just toddle off? Stand here and look foolish?
For a second, Lewrie wished he had thought to fetch his penny-whistle ashore with him… or knew how to juggle.
The best he could do was manage a semi-dignified departure, if that, he sadly supposed. There was no point in risking being fed to Durschenko's lions at the worst, or being whipped bloody, at the best. Flirtatious and coquettish as Eudoxia was, as welcoming of his attenions, there didn't seem to be a rosy future in it.
Their palaver ended, finally, with a sideways cutting gesture on her father's part, which got his hand off the dagger and a "nyet!"
"Well, I'll take my leave…" Lewrie said, doffing his hat.
"Eudoxia… goot girl, ponyemayu?" Durschenko rumbled deep in his chest. "Keep goot, me. Dosvidanya, bolshoi Kapitan. Goot bye\"
"Understand completely, sir," Lewrie replied, sketching a bow to him. "Ev'nin', Arslan Artimovich. Good ev'nin', Mistress Eudoxia. Hellish-good show," he added, making a finer "leg" to her.
"We see you again at Saint Helena, Kapitan Alan Lewrie," she responded in kind, making a more graceful curtsy than he had suspected she knew how to perform. Dressing robes weren't made for such, though.
"Nyet," from her father.
"Da!" she hotly retorted.
Time t' scamper, Lewrie thought, feeling the need to employ his hat for a fan, at the charms that curtsy had briefly revealed.
He left them, still yammering away at each other, slinking red-faced and feeling like the veriest perfect fool, as he threaded his way through the circus folk.
He could not help looking back, though, when he attained the draperies, to see the father leading Eudoxia away by her elbow, and she turned her head to watch him leave… for one last sight of him? She gave Lewrie a large-ish shrug as if to say, "Well, what can we do?" yet… a second later, began to grin, her mercurial, minx-like impishness returning. She pursed her lips for a distant kiss!
Well, Lewrie thought, lustily stunned past dread; or close to it, anyway; Well well, well well, hmmm!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
To where might they run, Sir Tobias?" Capt. Graves of Horatius asked with a weary note to his gravelly voice after listening to Capt. Treghues expound on why he had decided not to allow shore liberty for their hands, now that they were snugly anchored in James's Valley harbour, at the East India company entrepot of St. Helena.
"Why, aboard an East Indiaman for the better pay, sir," Treghues rejoined in his best "tutor's" voice, as if speaking to a student with all the tired patience required to get through a dull scholar's skull. "Most especially, aboard a home-bound Indiaman, so they may jump ship in England, and desert their bounden duty to the Navy!"
"All of which, sir, anchor here in James's Valley harbour, for the very good reason that the only other possible anchorage where any ship of worth or deep draught may come-to is Rupert's Valley, which is totally uninhabited… for the very good reason that there is not a drop of fresh water to be had, there, sir," Capt. Graves belaboured. "In this anchorage, Sir Tobias, any seaman who takes 'leg bail' could easily be restored to duty by the very simple task of enquiring of, and going aboard to search, any Indiaman before it sails."
Capt. Graves (no kin to the influential Royal Navy Graveses) exhibited reasonably great patience, himself, and, for a tarry-handed and direct sort of old salt phrased his rebuttal slowly, borrowing a formal choice of words usually alien to his nature, Lewrie was pretty sure… but a volcanic simmering was just below the surface.
"Then we could flog them blind, as an example to the others," Capt. Philpott of HMS Stag added, almost tongue-in-cheek.
"The island is thinly settled, Captain Graves," Treghues said, with a thin-lipped aspersion. "All they'd have to do is scamper into the hills, live off the land for a few weeks to wait us out, then come down and sign aboard an India-man."
"The island's thinly settled, sir," Capt. Graves quickly said, "for another very good reason. Compared to Saint Helena, the Scottish Highlands are as lush as Tahiti! Can't farm hills this steep, except for this valley, so there's nought to steal and eat. Every resident of this bleak rock's a member of the militia, and bored to tears, most-like. Raise the hue and cry, and they'd run 'em down in a Dog Watch! And enjoy the adventure, to boot, sir!"