He told them of fleeing in several sets of disguises, arranged by the other English couple, who had smuggled French aristocrats out to safety from prison or the guillotine, how they had almost gotten to a waiting rowboat on a remote beach near Calais.…
“There were cavalry and police on the bluff above,” Lewrie said more somberly. “We made a mad dash for the boat, but, just as I was hoisting Caroline in, she was shot. She passed away in the boat, not a minute later.”
That drew an aubible gasp and rumble of mutters. Even Grierson was wide-eyed. “Foul murder … Bonaparte a criminal, too … damn the French, root and branch … could be made out, here and there.
“Now, both my sons are in the Navy, Hugh was always to be, but his older brother, Sewallis, was so hot for revenge that I feared that he would enlist as a private soldier, or ship before the mast, did I deny him,” Lewrie sadly said. Truth was, Sewallis had forged his way to sea as a Midshipman! “My daughter lives with one of my brothers-in-law in a little village, Anglesgreen, in Surrey. Though my father has a small estate there, he’s mostly up to London and has little to offer towards a young girl’s raising. Too old, now, to tend to a young’un.”
No, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, damned near a charter member of the old Hell-Fire Club, liked young, so long as the girls were over eighteen, and obliging!
“So, when I received orders to Reliant in April of ’03, I was more than ready to sail against the French once more,” he concluded.
“A toast! A toast!” a youngish gallant cried, standing, and drawing others to their feet. “To the gallant Captain Lewrie, a man of grand adventures!”
Lewrie sat modestly with his hands in his lap to be honoured, bowing his head to left and right, admittedly with his ears burning.
* * *
Once the supper was over, the ladies excused themselves to the parlours for tea whilst the men gathered higher up the table for port, nuts, and sweet bisquits, and more talk of trade and the war. Lewrie excused himself after a while and went out on the front gallery for a breath of air, and to swab his face of perspiration; it had been nigh a steam bath inside, as he had feared, and the dance would be even worse. There were many supper guests who had the same idea, both men and women. Lewrie envied the fact that the women could cool themselves with their fans, something a gentleman could not.
“Your pahdon, sah, but, are you Captain Lewrie?” a liveried Black servant tentatively asked by his elbow.
“I am.”
“Dis note be fo’ ya, sah.”
Lewrie stepped closer to one of the entrance way lanthorns to peel it open and read it, and his face lit up with a feral smile.
My house. Come by midnight.
P
Can this evening be even more perfect? he asked himself.
Inside, the musicians struck up the opening strains of formal airs for the minuet, and Lewrie steeled himself for the ordeal to come. He must squire as many ladies present as he could, from the wife of the Governor-General down to the youngest … with Mrs. Priscilla Frost in the queue, quite happily … without showing any favouritism. It could last for hours, right to the livelier contre-dances. He considered bowing out of those after an essay or two; there must be some shreds of dignity that a Post-Captain in the Royal Navy should show! Besides … the livelier dances would continue beyond midnight.
And he now had someplace else more desirable to go!
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Thank God you’re back aboard, sir,” Lt. Geoffrey Westcott said in some urgency once Lewrie had taken the welcoming salute, a quarter-hour past the beginning of the Forenoon at 8 A.M.
“Has a real French squadron turned up, then, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie asked, with a brow up in puzzlement that a Commission Officer would be up and stirring, and in full uniform, when it was usually the Mids who stood Harbour Watch. He could not help stifling a yawn, for his night ashore with Priscilla Frost had proven to be a strenuous one.
“No sir, nothing like that,” Westcott told him in a confidential mutter.
“Good, for at this moment, a hot kiss or a cold breakfast would most-like put me in my grave … and I’ve had both,” Lewrie said with a wry and semi-boastful chuckle.
“It is Commodore Grierson, sir,” Westcott went on, drawing from Lewrie a groan of disgust. “Athenian has been flying our number and ‘Captain Repair On Board’ since half past Seven. I sent a Mid over to explain that you spent the night ashore, and despatched the rest of them to hunt you down, but—”
“Didn’t know I was spendin’ the night ashore, ’til after the supper,” Lewrie explained, giving Grierson’s flagship a bleak glance. “And, ’tis best that you didn’t know my, uhm … lodgings. The last thing the lady in question needs would be some younker bangin’ on her doors and raisin’ her neighbours’ int’rest in the early hours.
“Nothin’ for it, then,” Lewrie decided, hitching his shoulders. “Desmond? Back to the boat. I’m summoned to the flag. Carry on, Mister Westcott.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Westcott said, doffing his hat.
His Cox’n, Liam Desmond; stroke-oar Patrick Furfy; and the hands of his boat crew had barely secured the cutter below the entry-port, and had just gained the deck, before they had to turn right round and descend again without a “wet” at the scuttle-butts, or a chance to go below for a lazy “caulk” with the off-watch hands in their hammocks.
What the Devil does Grierson want o’ me this early in the morning? Lewrie wondered as he settled himself aft in the boat once more; Whatever it is, I except I won’t enjoy it!
* * *
Commodore Grierson stodd behind his expensive desk in the day-cabin as Lewrie entered, ducking under the overhead beams as he made his way aft to stand before the desk.
“You slept out of your ship, Captain Lewrie?” Grierson began in a frosty tone, as if doing so was a violation of some regulation.
“Aye, I did, sir,” Lewrie replied. “To my recall, ’tis only Channel Fleet that requires Captains to sleep aboard, pending an appearance of a French fleet in the middle of the night. At least, that was the case when I was attached to Channel Fleet. Were you thinking of establishing such a rule, might I ask, sir?”
“No, I was not,” Grierson snapped, furrowing his brows to even deeper wrinkles, as if Lewrie’s attempt at “early morning cheery” was putting him off course. “At least your doing so results in your showing up in more suitable uniform, what?”
“Soon changed, as soon as I’m back aboard my ship, sir,” Lewrie easily confessed, looking toward an empty chair before the desk as if to prompt Grierson to proper hospitality. Commodore Grierson took no notice of his hint; his eyes were fixed on Lewrie’s chest, on the two medals he still wore (the one round his neck admittedly askew!) and on the star and sash of the Order of The Bath.
Damn my eyes, is he jealous? Lewrie was forced to wonder.
“And you enjoyed the supper and ball immensely, I should not wonder,” Grierson went on, raising his glare to Lewrie’s face, again.
“Oh, quite, sir!” Lewrie said with a laugh. “How do the papers in London put it … ‘a good time was had by all’?”
“Hhmmph!” Grierson sneered. “I found the Society of Antigua and the nearby islands crude and dreary, but that of Nassau!… How have you stood such a pack of ‘Country-Puts’ and tradesmen but a cut above privateers?”
“I haven’t really spent that much time in port t’deal with ’em, sir,” Lewrie told him. He doubted if Grierson’s complaint was a stab at finding some mutual understanding; the man was just grousing to be grousing!