Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain
They'd had arguments before, but Lewrie felt that this one would be memorable. So surprised was he, so betrayed by his usually supportive and admiring wife, he felt that he could only blush with shame; for she was right on the nail-head with her accusations!
"Four years on the land, you could have at least made an effort to learn the farm's ways… to uphold and aid me," she fumed, now looking bleak and haggard in her quiet rage. She stomped past him to shut the door so the servants or children couldn't hear. "But you didn't. You played at it! And as soon as Admiralty sounds their bosun's pipes, why off you scuttle to wear King's Coat, again, so you can stalk about your quarterdeck, relishing it!"
He would have told her that they were rightly termed the bosun's "calls," but thought better of it immediately.
"It's what I am, Caroline," Lewrie said with a sigh. "It's who you married, mind… a Sea Officer of the King and…"
"Yes, you are," she sighed in turn, leaning on the door as if exhausted past all contemplation of future improvement. "And a glad one… you know you are. Glad to sail away to who knows where; glad to be free of your familial responsibilities. Glad to wallow in gore and shot, expose yourself to danger, 'til it catches up with you some day… so long as you can chase after… glory! Gone so long, so far, thinking a letter every rare now and then, a pack of 'pretties' from a foreign port, atones for your absence!" she hissed.
"Dearest…"
"No thought for the ones you leave behind," she continued, hands to her face to daub her tears. "Now your war isn't the short one you thought when last you left us… is it, Alan?" Caroline jeered. "God knows, another year or two perhaps. God save us, another five, ten? Another three-year commission, before we see you for a bare month, or less, before the next one, and the next one… and…! Damn you, and damn the Royal Navy, just…!"
Her anger broke in a flood of weeping, wrenching sobs that shook her frame, made her shoulders shudder. She lifted her apron's hem to swab her inflamed face, and Lewrie at last could step forward to scoop her into his arms, offer mute comfort and sympathy. He rocked her, as if dancing from one foot to the other, laid her head on his shoulder, and stroked her long, lean back-afraid to say a word more for now.
At last she made a sniffle, drew a deep breath, and sighed in resignation. "How soon then?" she asked, in a wee girlish voice into his shirt collar.
"My reply off by afternoon post," Lewrie speculated-gently. "Depart by first light tomorrow, I fear. I really am sorry, dear'un. You don't know how sorry. Our joys together… us and the children… you're not the only one who misses peace and normalcy. Tranquility."
"Do they say where you're to go?" she asked, clenching back at him, her face cooler against his at last.
"I rather doubt Portsmouth or Plymouth are in any mood for new ships to commission at the moment," he dared to scoff. "First, up to London… then perhaps the Nore or Great Yarmouth. Some port close to home, I'd suspect, with the French and Dutch fleets threatening us. I doubt it's to be a foreign station, not for a year or better most-like," he told her, leaning back a bit, emboldened by her resignation to meet her eyes once more.
"So… not too far, or long, a separation?" Caroline softened, leaning back herself, for a tiny crumb of promise.
"Perhaps even close enough to get home every month or so," he said with a shrug. "Can't count on it, but… when winter comes down, if I'm still home-ported, the weather'll bind me in harbour for weeks at a time. We could have you and the children down to visit. School can go hang for a bit, or fetch their tutor along…"
Aye, that's the way, m'girl, he thought; perk up game, as you always do! Put the best face on it.
"Care to lay a wager with me, dearest?" he joshed, feeling he was now on safer ground. "Lay odds with me, hmtn? I win, and I get you… with no tykes underfoot… just the two of us, for hotel weekends."
"And what do I win if you're wrong, Alan?" she queried, still dubious, but much closer to an amused grin than she had been.
"Why, you get me, m'dear!" he promised, "a joyous romp, so you may do what you will with me, have your beastly way with me!"
"Oh, you're incorrigible," she sighed. But, Lewrie noted, this time it was a teasing sigh. "I s'pose we should begin packing you."
"Let's both pack… Hell's Bells, let's all pack, Caroline," he insisted, all come over with inspiration. "The overseer can deal with the farm for a few days. We'll all go up to London, perhaps beyond to my new ship, 'til I'm settled aboard."
"Alan, I can't abandon the farm work, not now, not…" Caroline balked, but with a pensive, almost eager sound, as if considering it.
'Course you can!" he rejoined quickly. "Extend the times we have together by a fortnight at least! The boys are out of school; you'll be free of my pesky father for a while… and when was the last time Sophie saw London? Do her good to see more of the world. Other likely young lads, hmm? Turn her head? Gawd, that'd be four birds or more with one stone, hah? Let's do, love! I'm to be made 'post,' so we deserve to celebrate!"
"Well…" She hesitated, head cocked to one side, and swishing her long tail of hair under her mob-cap. A sly smile sprang to life. "Whyever not, then? Yes, let's!" And she sprang to her wardrobe to open it for likely gowns suitable to impress.
And thank bloody Christ that mellowed her! Lewrie thought.
He sat on the foot of the bed to sort the rest of the mail, as she measured a dress against her. Bills, mostly tiny sums, he noted; and thank God for that, else they'd not be able to afford a diverting jaunt to the city. More "prize-money deposited in his Coutts's account by his solicitor, Mr. Mount-joy, aha! But a tithe of what he'd really reaped so far, but more than enough to offset their sudden lunatick excursion and tide the farm over for the rest of the year's needs.
"Bloody Hell!" he barked, of a sudden.
"Yes, it's much too plain," Caroline agreed, misunderstanding his meaning and hanging the last gown she'd tried back in the wardrobe. "Though you needn't take such a harsh tone as to…"
"No, Caroline, look!" he insisted, bounding from the bed. "The scales are gone from our eyes, as it were. This bill from a milliner, a Mistress Cowles…"
"Quite cunning, dearest, and not really that expensive really," Caroline continued to apologise. "Sophie, Charlotte, and I only ordered one apiece for spring."
"Ah, but it's not a bill, love…'tis a billet-doux,/" Lewrie cried, waving it at her. "Wondered why a local bill needed wax seals. It's really from Harry Embleton… suggesting an actual assignation."
"Let me see that!" Caroline demanded, fresh fury in her voice; thankfully for Lewrie, none directed at him for a change. "Why, the conniving… hmph! See if she has our trade in future! I know she's been at her shop quite often lately, but… I hardly expected Sophie to exhibit such back-alley guile. The thoughtless, headstrong chit!"
"Like that Frog novel, Les Liaisons Dangereuses," Lewrie scoffed, more than glad for Caroline to be on other ground. "Lovers passed letters easier than… gas!"
"And what would you know of such scandalous scribbling… Alan?"
"Well, I heard tell…" he waffled, turtling his neck into his collar once more. "Men talk, don't ye know… in the gunroom," Lewrie gruffly, most off-handedly, added.
"I shall speak harshly with her about this," Caroline promised. "All this time I thought her sweet and naive, but now…! Warn that young miss I'll have no lies or dangerous folderol in my household! Surely she must have sense enough to see that he's so bad for her, or any true Christian young lady! I really must put my foot down in this instance… bring her up short before she…"
Uh-oh! Lewrie thought in sudden panic; and when cornered like a rat, accused of foolishness, she 'II turn and bite back and blab about Phoebe Aretino and me… for jingle-brained spite! There's an end to Domestic Bliss, by God!
"Caroline, she's but a child still," he cooed instead, going to embrace his wife to cosset her out of another pet. "Besides, do we accuse her, act as if we don't trust her, we will lose all the affection she's developed with us, and she'll practically run to Harry. Or the first human-lookin' substitute. All the way to Gretna Green, hey? The first hedge-priest or false-justice that'd wed her to a charming rogue? No, dear, that's not the way! I must… insist!"
Beg, would be more like it! he told himself in a fret.
"Use my father. Sophie finds him amusing, calls him Granpere. Some of his rough, uhm… sagacity about men might be of more avail," he urged. "God knows, he must be good for something! She needs soft, insistent, and loving… motherly, paterfamilial… advice. Guidance."
She stared at him for a long moment, her hands and that damned billet-doux limply hung together on her belly. He felt a need to see to his fly-buttons, his neck-stock, under such close inspection.
"Alan, you continually amaze me," she said at last, forming her fondest grin, that furrow disappearing, and the riant folds below her eyes acrinkle. "You're right, of course. Harsh words and accusations… once hurled… can never be recovered-or forgiven."
" 'Least said, soonest mended,' " Lewrie dared breathe in relief.
"Where do you get your insight, being so much in the company of sailors, my dear?" She actually snickered, coming to give him a grateful hug and a peck on the lips. "I'd feared her head being turned by Harry… he is rich, and she is not… we are not."
"Un-used to household drudgery, though she tries to accommodate your wishes… from love and gratitude, m'dear," he tacked on, "with sisterly, dare I even say, uhm… daughterly obedience? She's come to love you… us, after all."
"That's true, too, love," Caroline gently chuckled. "Sophie is never going to be a 'goodie' housewife. A magnificent hostess, wife, or house-mistress, but… yes. Soft words and sage advice, drop by gentle drop, will I be more suitable. And, your father's cautions given her during their rides and card games. A stiff warning to that colluding Mistress Cowles… a word to Harry. Or should I merely take down my horsewhip, do you think, dearest? Might he get the hint?"
"Perfect, my dear. Well, off to London, all of us?"
"Yes. By first light tomorrow. You write your letters, whilst I pack." She kissed him once more, deeper, with more meaning, before going to the door. "And be sure to reserve us a separate room at Willis's, will you? I mean to hold you to your wager… dear Alan!"
Whew! he thought in relief; can I finesse 'em or not?
"Children… boys! Sophie? Guess what?" Caroline announced.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Like a presaging omen of his new-found prospects, the coach ride up to London had been a cool but sunny delight. The weather had turned off splendid, the roads dried out, but not so dusty they couldn't lower the sash windows of their coach and savour the aromas and sounds of a marvelous springtime, though travelling with children aboard wasn't a thing Lewrie was quite used to. There were times he envied Andrews-up on the driver's seat with their coachee to make room in-board and free of the nonsense. " London!" Charlotte would scream, whenever a new village or town loomed up before them. "Are we there yet?" Hugh would demand… at about every tenth milepost. Sewallis, thankfully, kept his own counsel for the most part, and his lip buttoned, decrying only the most marvelous sights which flickered by as their coach reeled off a goodly clip, almost as fast as one of the new "balloon coaches" which bore the Royal Mails. No mud-well, not much, anyway-flew up to daub them, no herds of geese, sheep, beeves, or turkeys blocked the road so completely they'd have to come to a complete stop…
No, the delays they suffered were for nourishment, for sweets or fruits hawked by pedlars at the kerbs of the towns they passed. And, of course, the inevitable "… Mummy, I have to, uhm… now.1" bawled by Charlotte, sometimes by Hugh. "But, darling, you just, uhm… not a mile back." "I know, but Mummy…!" Hugh, at least, could be taken behind a hedge by the side of the road, whilst the horses got a rest; Charlotte, though… well, that required a proper inn, a proper jakes, a proper escort from Caroline or Sophie with the family's travelling "necessary" bundle. Followed by a sweet, perhaps…?
"Commander Lewrie?" the tiler gawked. "Back again, are we, sir? Aye, sir… on th' list, sir. Workin' ya like a dray-horse, ain't they, sir? In an' out, in an' out. Go-on-in, sir, there's-a-horde-o'-others waitin'…"
And again in a promising omen, his heels had barely cooled in the infamous Waiting Room before his name was called and he was abovestairs to see Nepean once more. And it was personally gratifying for Lewrie to have so many contemporaries in the Waiting Room that day, even some of the renowned fighting captains, peer from their corner coteries of admirers and well-wishers to wonder who he was or why he had the gold St. Vincent medal clattering on his chest as he made his way to the stairs.
"Commander Lewrie, aha," Evan Nepean commented, allowing himself a stab at "glad" welcome. "Do take a seat, sir. You've quite enjoyed a few weeks ashore, I take it?"
"Oh quite, Mister Nepean," Lewrie replied, hat in his lap and his legs crossed. Damme, this is goin' main-well, he allowed himself to imagine. "Though I did take a trip down to Portsmouth to visit my old ship… try to talk the hands remaining out of their nonsense. Wasn't to be, sorry to say."
"Aha," Nepean barked, looking cross. " Portsmouth, did you? I see. And whilst there, sir… did you happen to come across any tracts amongst, your former crew, sir? Of a radical, rebellious nature, which might be to blame for this mutiny?" Nepean suddenly demanded.
"None, sir," Lewrie replied, guardedly. "And on that head, sir, I did enquire. But I was assured by my old Bosun that he'd seen none, and that the, uhm, disturbance was spontaneous-within the Fleet-with no prompting from shore. Though with so many Quota Men, these United Irishmen being 'pressed lately, well… there's sure to be radicals in each draught from the receiving ships. Spirit of the times,,more-like, sir. Known him since '81, sir, and he's truthful as the day is…"
"Hmmm… odd." Nepean sighed, looking disappointed. "We were sure… the Duke of Portland… responsible for hunting down utterers of treason and mutinous, rebellious assemblages. He's agents afoot in Portsmouth, looking into the matter. Done a magnificent job of hounding our Republican schemers. Break up every meeting place, drive them from pillar to post. We'd hopes that the plucking… or the arrest and silencing of a few ranters might defuse this… take away their leadership, d'ye see. Can't expect lack-wit, drunken sailors to hold out for long once the instigators are cast into prison, hmm?"
