“I will do no such thing!” Stafford growled, looking insulted by the suggestion. “Such is not in my brief. I represent the interests of my country, nothing more, and the insinuation that I would attempt to profit from the situation, I find offensive!”
“Then, upon the best interests of your country, sir, I assume that you will be writing the authorities in Charleston to tell them of this breach of American neutrality,” Lewrie purred on, grinning as he sloughed off the very idea of Stafford feeling offended enough to call for a duel for his “injured” honour. “I will be writing our Consul, Mister Cotton, at Charleston, and our Ambassador at Washington. If you feel your country’s interests have been violated, perhaps you may write Spain’s Captain-General at Havana as well, warning him that his privateers had best leave American ships alone, from now on.”
“I will consider it!” Stafford snapped most stiffly. “Will that be all, sir?”
Lewrie finished his wine and set the glass aside, then rose to his feet. “You may also caution the authorities in Charleston that I fully expect that once the Prize Court has been made cognizant of all the particulars, they will refer the matter to civil court, which will issue a writ against your unfortunate Captain Martin in all British ports.
“That’ll put a rather large crimp in where he can put in to trade in future, but…upon his head be it,” Lewrie said, widening his arms. “I shall take my leave, sir, and good day to you, Mister Stafford.”
* * *
Lewrie returned to Reliant later that afternoon, once the last of his business ashore was done. His welcome aboard from the ship’s crew, summoned to gather on deck and the sail-tending gangways, with hats off, was a lot more boisterous this time. As soon as he appeared above the lip of the entry-port, they raised a great cheer.
“Ah, Mister Cadbury!” Lewrie called out to the Ship’s Purser, summoning him over once the cheers died away. “You’ve stowed our…spoils away securely?”
“Aye, sir,” Cadbury replied, looking glummer than usual.
“I’m thinking that we can issue the beer and all for a penny a pint, and no more than two pints per day,” Lewrie suggested. “With the rum issue atop that, I don’t want ’em staggerin’ drunk on duty.”
“Pints, aye, sir, though…” Cadbury waffled, as if the idea was taking food from his children’s mouths. “Only about half of the ship’s people own pint piggins, d’ye see, sir? I’d have to purchase them from shore, out of my own accounts, and Admiralty won’t—”
“Two hundred officers, hands, and boys, sir, payin’ two pence a day, is one pound, thirteen shillings, and four pence profit to you,” Lewrie reminded him, “with nothing owing for the beer! Each day, sir, and we’ve enough aboard t’last nigh a fortnight. Do your sums, and I think you’ll find it rewarding, hey? You can afford the investment in a few wooden piggins—perhaps sold to those without ’em at no more than a penny each?”
“Well, put that way, sir…” Cadbury said, looking shrewder.
“Very good, Mister Cadbury! I’ll go below!”
Lewrie shucked his dress uniform and all the fripperies, rolled up his shirtsleeves, got help removing his boots, and slipped his feet into an old, broken-in pair of buckled shoes. That was hard going, for his cats urgently wanted to be a part of it.
“Might you be wishing something wet, sir?” Pettus asked, with a sly look. “An ale, perhaps, sir? We’ve already knocked out the bung and driven in a tap.” He looked as if he’d sampled it, on the sly.
“Might need a settlin’ jug, sir,” young Jessop, his cabin servant added, “for all th’ luggin’ about’s made it right foamy.”
“Aye, Jessop?” Lewrie posed. “I note there’s a wee puddle under the tap on the deck. You didn’t sample it, did ye, lad?”
“Me, sir?” Jessop swore, too vigourously. “Never a bit, sir!”
”A pint, aye, Pettus,” Lewrie agreed, going to the collapsible starboard-side settee and its cushions, plunking his feet atop the Hindoo brass table. “Here, lads! Here, Toulon, Chalky! Glad t’have me back, are ye? Ah, that’s my catlin’s!” he cooed as he finally let the cats swarm him, eagerly demanding stroking and tickly “wubbies.”
“Pint of pale ale, sir,” Pettus said, presenting a mug.
Shame t’turn it all over to the Prize Court, Lewrie thought, taking a first, appreciative sip as he gazed with satisfaction at the fifty-gallon hogshead that sat beside the wine-cabinet between two of the heavy 18-pounder guns. There’s more than enough t’go round, enough for Darling’s and Bury’s people, and Lovett’s Firefly, and Ritchie’s brig, to boot.
The loss of several, well, many kegs was easily explainable. There was spillage and ullage, and some kegs and hogsheads could have been damaged when re-taking Santee, which they had found anchored and hidden close to the lee shore of Little Inagua Island, after questioning the crew of Caca Fuego. There’d been no resistance from the five privateers aboard her, but…!
I can even blame it on the Spanish! Lewrie told himself. That they drank it up when they ran short o’ their preferred wine, brandy, rum, and arrack! Though, I never ran across a Spanish beer worth a damn, nor a Spaniard who’d touch the stuff.
He took a second deep quaff and wiped foam from his lips, for the ale did need a settling jug, or a day and a night of resting still.
Eight Bells was struck far forward at the ship’s forecastle belfry, marking the end of the Day Watch and the start of the First Dog. In harbour, the frigate’s working day was done, and the hands were released from duty for an hour or so before their suppers.
Then came the sounds of music, of a flute and a fiddle, and his Cox’n, Liam Desmond’s, uilleann lap-pipes, launching into a hearty reel or jig. Impromptu groups of sailors began singing despite the tune; Lewrie caught snatches of “Come, Let Us Drink About” or “Nottingham Ale,” even some older voices belting out “He That Would an Alehouse Keep” in ragged competition.
The musicians eventually won out, and HMS Reliant began to drum to the stamping of horny bare feet or stout shoes as her people danced atop and around the midships hatchway cover to “The Tenpenny Bit.”
“They sound in fine fettle, hey, Pettus?” Lewrie chuckled.
“They do, indeed, sir,” his cabin steward agreed. “Our Irish lads the more so, when they saw some kegs of Guinness come aboard.”
Lewrie let out a most happy belch, contemplated his mug to ascertain just how a full pint of ale could disappear so quickly, and decided to call for another.
The sun ain’t under the yardarms yet, but…who gives a damn! He could assure himself: And, I think I’ve more than earned it!
Also by Dewey Lambdin
The King’s Coat
The French Admiral
The King’s Commission
The King’s Privateer
The Gun Ketch
H.M.S. Cockerel
A King’s Commander
Jester’s Fortune
King’s Captain