Текст книги "Hostile Shores"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lewrie rose unaccountably early for a fellow so fond of snugly warm and sinfully soft shore beds, scrubbed, shaved, and dressed, then breakfasted on two cups of scalding-hot tea, and buttered rusks which he cadged from the kitchens long before the day’s first meal was laid, bolted it all down in a rush, then was off in search of some wheeled transport for Whitehall. The best he found was a two-wheeled dog cart driven by a loquacious Irish pedlar who was willing to abandon his usual spot to hawk his cast-off clothing lines for promise of a shilling.
On the way, the Irishman cheerfully filled him in on the most wondrous event of the previous night. “’Twas a ghost coach, Cap’m, sor, rattlin’ along with a witch at the reins, swear t’God, for how else kin a coach an’ four make its way from Wigmore Street t’Oxford Street, turn down Regent Street, an’ git t’the Swan an’ Edgar, where it drew up nice as anythin’. Ever’body wot saw it swears they knowed a witch drove it, for they all heard screamin’ laughter and evil cacklin’, but when the parish ‘Charlies’ got to it, there was nary a soul aboard! Fackin’ eerie, it wos!”
* * *
All Lewrie’s hurry was for nought, though, for when he got to the Admiralty Office, he discovered an host of others already waiting. He stepped through the archway through the curtain wall, into the wee cobbled courtyard, and found that even the vendor with his tea cart and sticky buns was already there and doing a roaring business with the officers and Mids who had come in hopes of an interview, or the promise of an appointment. There was nothing for it but to go inside, in the process to be cautioned by the surly ancient tiler that “I’d not place much hope innit, Cap’m, sir, for there’s a parcel o’ unemployed before ya!”
Lewrie left his name with a junior clerk, stressing that he was currently a holder of an active commission, and wished to speak with the First Secretary, Mr. William Marsden, about orders for the cleaning of his ship’s hull to make her serviceable for future duties, then looked for a place to sit in the infamous, over-crowded Waiting Room, but all the benches, settees, and chairs were occupied by Commission Sea Officers, the bulk of them Post-Captains with the twin epaulets of men with more than three years’ seniority, some newer-minted Captains of less time in command of a Post ship with but one epaulet on their right shoulders, and a rare Commander or three with the epaulet on the left shoulder. Lieutenants with good sense had already surrendered their precious seats and idly, slowly paced about, striving to appear un-worried, among the Midshipmen whom they had turfed out earlier.
For a rare once, Lewrie had pinned on the star and donned the sash of the Order of The Bath, and as he meandered round the Waiting Room, a Commander sprang from his place at the end of a bench to offer it to Lewrie, who thanked him civilly, thinking that now and then the damned knighthood proved useful, even in this desperate place. There were tales of men, and one Midshipman in particular, who had come to Admiralty each working day for three years running to hunt active sea-going employment!
Over the next two hours, names were called out, and the lucky ones ascended the stairs to the Board Room to receive commissions to a new ship, or new orders for the ones they had. They usually came down with smiles. Lewrie began to note that one particular junior clerk was the one who summoned the officers who left pleased, and another clerk who appeared much less often and caused long sighs of disappointment, usually calling out some officer’s name and only handing over a folded note; for a future appointment, perhaps, or most-likely a rejection. An aged Rear-Admiral who took a seat next to Lewrie, one who did not have a single hope in Hell of employment this side of the grave, told Lewrie with a cackled whisper that said clerk served the Second Secretary, Mr. John Barrow, upon whom Mr. Marsden usually foisted the chore of delivering the bad news.
By the end of the third hour, Lewrie’s arse was numb, he badly needed a visit to the “jakes” to empty his bladder, and he might have gladly killed for a cup of sweetened and creamed tea. He snagged the “happy-making” clerk to inform him that he would be outside for a bit should his name be called, got his hat and boat-cloak from the cheque room, and went out to the courtyard.
Half-past ten of the morning must have been the tea interval for Admiralty drudges, for a great many men in civilian suitings came out to purchase a mug or cup of tea, and something upon which to gnaw, then trotted back inside to more scribbling and copying.
Lewrie got himself a mug with sugar but no cream, and stepped out of the way for the others, quite near two young men who were sipping hurriedly at their teas and sharing a thin Spanish cigarro, what some tobacco aficionados demeaned as a cheroot. They nodded greetings, hoped he did not mind the drifting smoke, then returned to their conversation, most of which was grousing about their superiors and what tasks to which they were put.
“What about the charts, then, Jemmy?” one of them asked the other. “Dalrymple won’t be happy if our office has to pay for them.”
Lewrie knew that Mr. Alexander Dalrymple was the Hydrographer of the Navy, for the very good reason that it was to that worthy that Lewrie had mailed the up-dated charts and soundings that Lt. Tristan Bury had made of Bermudan waters, just before Lewrie had dragooned him into his little anti-privateering squadron in the Spring.
“Well, he’s in charge of charts and such,” the other breezily said between quick puffs on the cheroot before handing it over. “Even if Admiralty doesn’t print its own. The Board’s decided that all the troop transports, and the Lieutenants assigned to each one, must have them … the Cape of Good Hope, and the separate charts for Table Bay, and Cape Town, Blaauwburg Bay, Saldanha Bay, even Simon’s Bay on the other side of the Cape. If the hired-on transport masters want their own copies, they can buy them, but Admiralty will foot the bill for our people. Now, which office gets the bill, that’s the question!”
“We’ll be dashing all over London to purchase them, or pay for rush jobs to have them printed,” the fellow from the Hydrography Office bemoaned. “Then, we’ll have to amend them all with the latest soundings and hazards! By hand! When will Marsden let us know?”
“His Majesty Head Clerk Swami said the Board will tell him by mid-afternoon … just in time to ruin your evening, hah hah!”
“Gentlemen,” Lewrie intruded, putting his stern face on. “You may believe that discussing what sounds like a secret expedition to Cape Town is safe, here behind the curtain wall, but you never know who might be listening. The matter is better mentioned safely inside the building, if at all.”
“Sorry, sir, we didn’t—,” the young fellow whom Lewrie took to be a junior scribbler in William Marsden’s office said with a shocked look.
“Well, I doubt the tea vendor or the newspaper boys are Dutch, so it might be alright,” Lewrie allowed, giving them a reprieve, and a grin. “Upon that head, though … there is an expedition planning to capture Cape Town from the Dutch? I was there several years ago, and took the opportunity to hunt and ride all over the town and its environs, over to Simon’s Town on False Bay? When you speak with Mister Marsden, pray do you mention to him that Captain Lewrie of the Reliant frigate, who’s waiting word for an interview, may prove useful to the endeavour, hmm?”
“Captain Lewrie and the Reliant frigate, of course, sir,” the young clerk replied, nodding as he committed that to memory. “I shall as soon as I am abovestairs, sir. And, thank you for your caution … about the, ahem.”
“It always pays t’keep mum about official business outside of work hours,” Lewrie congenially agreed, shrugging off the young man’s thanks. “His Majesty’s Government has an organisation to root out any enemy spies, or people who’d profit by givin’ ’em information. You’d be surprised how many they discover.”
The two clerks finished their teas, took their last puffs from the cheroot, and the one from the Hydrography Office pinched the lit end, stubbed and scrubbed it on the sole of his shoes, and stowed it away in a waist-coat pocket for later. A last “good day” and they went back inside to their scribblings and filings.
Now, let’s see if that gets me invited up to the Board Room, Lewrie thought, feeling particularly clever for a rare once; and urgent orders for a hull cleaning!
* * *
Business was suspended for the mid-day meal. Mr. William Marsden trooped down the stairs and breezed out the doors for his dinner with his gaze fixed on the middle distance, acknowledging no one, else some uniformed mendicant on half-pay attempted to catch his eye for a brief word, which would turn into a queue of them. Lewrie followed the herd that left the Waiting Room, to seek his own dinner, but he didn’t go far. Only three blocks away, near Charing Cross, there was a chop-house, a cut above the riskier two-penny ordinarys, where the meat on one’s plate or wood trencher could be cat, dog, rat, or dead horse—and none of them too fresh, either. No one had died of the chop-house.
For six pence he got a pint of ale, a beef pasty which actually tasted like beef even if it was ground, half of a roast potato, and a glob of currant duff. Quite satisfied, and with no immediate sign of food poisoning, he returned to the Waiting Room a bit earlier than the rest, snagged an upholstered chair near the stairs, and scooped up a discarded copy of The Times to while away the rest of the afternoon.
Mr. Marsden returned, again acknowledging no one, and stomped up the stairs to his offices. By two in the afternoon, after another trip to the “necessary” and two more cups of courtyard tea …
“Captain Lewrie?” the “happy-making” clerk called out at last. “Captain Alan Lewrie? Is Captain Lewrie present?”
“Here, sir!” Lewrie replied, shooting to his feet.
“If you will follow me, sir?” the clerk bade. Smiling! That Lewrie took for a good sign.
* * *
“Ah, good afternoon, Captain Lewrie … Sir Alan, rather, I was not aware of your knighthood,” Mr. William Marsden said quite genially from behind his desk, waving a hand to steer Lewrie to a chair.
“Good afternoon to you, Mister Marsden,” Lewrie replied as he sat down and tugged at the set of his waist-coat. “Thank you very much for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Before having you in, I had my clerks look up your latest reports on your Bahamian doings, and the privateering situation which you were despatched to deal with,” Marsden said, carefully leafing through a file folder to scan the pertinent reports he’d sent in to Admiralty before leaving for home. “Settled most satisfactorily, it would seem … for the short term, at least. One may only hope that Captain Henry Grierson applies himself to the task with a determination equal to yours. It is quite disturbing, however, to read your last despatch in regards to his squadron’s arrival, and the panic that ensued. As for him ordering you to strike your flag and surrender the ships of your squadron to his command, I am most perplexed as to why he took that action. Do you have an explanation, Sir Alan?”
“He found me impertinent, Mister Marsden,” Lewrie baldly said, “for pointing out what a lame jape his arrival was, and insisted that his arrival made my squadron moot. Since he thought me so impertinent, he had enough Post-Captains to form a court, so…,” Lewrie said with a weary shrug, then added, “He’s distant kin to Lord Melville.”
“Ah,” Marsden replied with a knowing nod, and a grimace. “At any rate, your initial request for an interview involved a request for dockyard services, I believe?” Marsden went on, referring to a note scribbled on scrap paper by one of his clerks.
“Reliant was taken out of Ordinary in April of 1803, sailed in May when the war resumed, and has been in continuous service in West Indies or semi-tropical waters since, sir,” Lewrie explained. “She is badly in need of a hull cleaning. We’ve been able to keep up with the usual wear-and-tear, and rot, above the waterline, but she is weeded and slow. By next May, she should be due a total docking and re-fit, but … with a careening and cleaning, the replacement of any coppering that might have sloughed off, and some fresh white lead, she can still give good service beyond next May.”
“Extending your command into her, and your active commission,” Marsden sagely nodded, his face stony, giving nothing away.
“I will confess that I do wish to keep her, sir,” Lewrie told the sceptical fellow, “to keep my officers and crew together as long as possible. We’ve done grand things together, discipline is so good that we rarely ever have to resort to the ‘cat’, and have not had any desertions, even anchored in American harbours. We both know that that is damned rare, and did I have my choice, when the time comes for her to enter the dry dock, I would love to see us all turned over into a new ship, entire. My people are that good, sir!”
“The mark of a good captain,” Marsden said with another firm nod, then turned to Lewrie’s request. “You told one of my junior ink-spillers that you were familiar with Cape Town, Sir Alan?”
“I dare say that I am, sir!” Lewrie quickly assured him.
I do dare say, Lewrie told himself; I’d dare say anything to get what I need!
“A brief breaking of your passage at the ‘tavern of the seas’?” Marsden asked with faint good humour.
“I was part of the escort to a ‘John Company’ trade to China, a few years back, when I had the Proteus frigate, sir,” Lewrie eagerly laid out in hopes that he could convince Marsden that his experience was vital. “We tangled with a brace of French frigates as we stood off and on Cape Town in the night. We were stern-raked and had our rudder shot away, so we had to put in and try to find a replacement. We were there for more than a month, sir. Landed our badly wounded to a shore sick bay in a rented farmhouse halfway up the Lion’s Head, buried some ashore, and took a train of bullock waggons over to the beached wreck of an East Indiaman that mistook False Cape for the real’un in a gale, and hired local divers and artificers t’salvage her rudder before the wreckers at Simon’s Town got away with it.
“During all that, I got a chance to know the lay-out of Cape Town quite well, too,” Lewrie went on, “and hired a local hunter for a guide. We rode up North, into the hills above the lesser bays…”
For the life of him, he could not remember the names of all the places that those clerks had tossed out!
“… got familiar with the land about the town to the East and the South, as well, sir,” Lewrie said with a confident but false grin.
“How many forts protect Cape Town, sir?” Marsden shrewdly asked.
“I recall but two, sir,” Lewrie replied, “when I was last there, at least. And we had possession of the place. Had no dealings with our Army at the time, d’ye see.”
“Which is … Fort Knocke?” Marsden enquired, taking a moment to peer at another note on his desk. “However one says that. ‘Nok-ah’? ‘Ka-nok-ah’? Bloody foreigners!”
“Both are on the seafront, either side of the town, but I do believe that Fort … whatyecallit … is the one on the Eastern side of Cape Town, closest to the land approaches, sir.”
Lewrie tried to make it sound as if he knew what he was talking about; he hadn’t a bloody clue if that was right and crossed fingers for luck like the un-prepared student he had been at a succession of schools. The way Mr. Marsden peered at him without comment made him feel as if he’d break out in a funk-sweat.
“I do know that the Dutch had shoved hundreds of guns in both forts, Mister Marsden,” Lewrie went on to fill a sudden uncomfortable silence, “both iron and bronze cannon, of heavy and medium calibre, for defence to seaward, and lighter guns against troops. At least, I do recall that they were still there when I was there, long after Lord Keith, Captain Elphinstone then, first took the place.”
“Uhmhmm,” Mr. Marsden at last said, leaning forward to dip his pen in an ink-well, “where do you lodge when up in London, Sir Alan?”
“The Madeira Club, at the corner of Duke and Wigmore Streets, sir,” Lewrie told him, sensing that the interview was over, whether he’d been successful or not.
“I will send you my decision shortly, Sir Alan,” Marsden promised, still looking glum and dubious. “We cannot keep you hanging on tenter-hooks and idle in town whilst the Fleet is denied the use of your frigate,” Marsden said as he finished scribbling the address on a scrap of paper.
“That would be most welcome, sir,” Lewrie told him, preparing to rise and depart. “Either way, clean bottom or foul, I am sure that Channel Fleet will soon find Reliant useful, unless—”
“Captain Home Riggs Popham may find your ship, and your previous experience, useful as well,” Marsden said with a vague-looking smile. “It is he who is to hoist his broad pendant and command the expedition.”
Marsden briefly pursed his lips in a wee moue, as if the choice of officer commanding had not been his. “The fellow who devised the signal flag code. A clever fellow.”
That didn’t sound like much of a recommendation, either.
“Oh!” Lewrie said, perking up. “I served under him briefly, in the winter of 1804, when we made that attack on the port of Calais with catamaran torpedoes and fireships!”
That was not much of a recommendation on Lewrie’s part, either, for the experimental expedition had been a shambles. The few catamaran torpedoes loosed on wind and tide had failed utterly, with only one of them actually exploding, and that nigh miles away from anything that could have charitably been called a real target, and the one fireship had swanned about like a hound on a dozen scents at once before blowing up harmlessly. Perhaps the French had enjoyed the show, and their brief respite from utter boredom.
“Yayss, I do now recall that you were seconded to experimental trials with torpedoes,” Marsden drawled in sour amusement. “A damned foolish idea, those. And, did you enjoy working with Popham?”
“A most inspiriting man, sir,” Lewrie replied, “just bung-full of ideas, and energy.”
“Oh, yes!” Marsden archly agreed, with a grimace. “Energetic, enterprising, and a most mercurial fellow, is Captain Popham. As industrious as an ant hill, just brimming with new ideas. He makes one wonder how he keeps all his balls in the air at the same time, like a juggler at a street fair. A rather un-orthodox man. Who knows what he’ll pull out of his hat next.”
What the Hell have I talked myself into? Lewrie wondered.
“Well, sir,” Lewrie said, getting to his feet, “thank you again for seein’ me, and I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”
“Good day to you, Captain Lewrie,” Marsden said with a parting smile, if only to be gracious, “and look for my decision by letter at your lodgings.”
Whether he knew that Reliant would be seen to or not, whether he would get orders for Cape Town or the utter dullity of the blockade with a foul bottom, Lewrie put a confident grin on his face for the benefit of those still idling in the Waiting Room. He trotted down the stairs to reclaim his hat and cloak with a spry and cocky show of glee and energy. He doubted that Marsden would have a decision to send him by the end of the day, so he might have time to do some brief shopping to supplement his kit and his personal stores.
There was another letter that he was even more eager to recieve. Now, if only Lydia Stangbourne had not yet left for Portsmouth, there was a chance that he might have a supper companion tonight, and perhaps much, much more!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
That lascivious hope lasted just long enough for Lewrie to pop into the Madeira Club and ask the desk clerk if there had been a reply to his morning note to Lydia’s London residence. There was, indeed, but it was merely a folded-over piece of scrap paper, written in an awkward scrawl in pencil, which stated that Miss Lydia had departed for Portsmouth the previous morning and did not say when she would be returning, signed by someone who claimed to be the family butler, and if it was written in English, his name looked to be Gullyfart or Cully’s Tart. The desk clerk, when consulted, could not make heads or tails of it, either; his best guess was Cuffysdart.
“Is there anything else for me?” Lewrie asked, deflating.
“Just the one, sir,” the clerk told him.
That’un was properly wax-sealed and written in an elegant hand, on good bond paper, to boot. Lewrie had sent a note round to his father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, to inform him that he was in town. Not that Lewrie really cared a fig to see the old fart, but it was what one did to be sociable, and remain in the will … assuming that the old lecher didn’t turn dotty in his head and squander all he had on whores and courtesans and race horses.
He was almost (but not quite) disappointed to discover that his father had other plans for the evening with an intriguing lady just new-come to London. Sir Hugo did not propose an alternate time for him to call, unless he was long in London, and didn’t have to rush back to his ship right away. Sir Hugo was sure he would understand.
I surely do, Lewrie thought in a foul humor; I can always count on my father … he’ll let me down every time!
He slouched into the Common Room and flung himself down into one of the leather wing chairs near the fireplace, wondering what he could do. He ordered American whisky from the steward who came to his side, but there was none available; would Spanish brandy suit, or might he settle for a Scottish whisky? Lewrie stuck with the brandy.
As intently as he’d peered at every passing coach-and-four that had been bound to Portsmouth on the road the day before, he had missed sight of Lydia’s equipage. How irked might she be to arrive, after dark and in a nippy drizzle, most-like, to find that no set of rooms had been booked for her at The George Inn, their usual trysting place, for the very good reason that he hadn’t gotten confirmation that she would be coming down? How even further irked might Lydia be to send word to Reliant and learn that he’d dashed off to London, leaving her to her own devices—without even leaving an explanatory note to mollify her!
It ain’t like we’re married or anything like that, Lewrie told himself, his mood becoming a tad anxious; I’ve not even given her “a packet o’ pins” as promise for anything! By God, though, if she ever speaks t’me after this, I’ll get an ugly ear full!
He considered hiring a coach that instant and dashing back to Portsmouth, no matter the perils of a night-time journey, but … no. He had to stay in London, bide close to the Madeira Club ’til he got word from Admiralty, whichever way that decision would go.
A damn good night t’get blind drunk! he concluded with a sigh, and waved his empty glass at the steward for a top-up.
* * *
Needless to say, his next morning was more than a tad blurry. After breakfast, and nigh an entire pot of hot, black coffee, Lewrie spent his time writing letters. Firstly, he penned a grovelling “forgive me” to Lydia to her Grosvenor Street house, explaining as best he was able why he had had to dash off. With no news from Admiralty, he then wrote letters to his sons, Sewallis and Hugh, who were at sea, Sewallis still most-like on the French blockade, and Hugh and his ship, as he’d learned, with Nelson in pursuit of that Frog Admiral Villeneuve and his large French fleet, its location still unknown.
With nothing else to do, and admittedly hitting his stride with his scribbling, Lewrie wrote chatty letters to his former brother-in-law Burgess Chiswick and his wife, Theodora, the brother-in-law he liked. He wrote to the other one, Governour, who despised him, and his wife, Millicent, again to be sociable. He wrote a separate letter to his daughter, Charlotte, who resided with Governour and Millicent, though he had no idea if she would even read it, or if Governour would even allow her to see it. Then came his former ward, Sophie de Maubeuge, now Mrs. Anthony Langlie. Sophie and his former First Officer in the Proteus frigate were the parents of at least two children by now, and were the most pleasant of his correspondents, were Lewrie given his “d’ruthers”.
With still no word from Mr. Marsden by noon, and with his appetite stifled by the odd rumbles engendered from the night before, he even went so far as to write to Sir Malcolm Shockley and his wife, the twitter-brained Lucy. Back when Lewrie and she had been teens, he’d been head-over-heels with her, but she had been a Beauman, of the Jamaican Beaumans, and nothing good could have ever come from that clan.
He paused to wonder if Lucy was still slipping under the sheets with other men and gulling poor, honest, and upright Sir Malcolm into believing her faithfulness!
Lewrie penned shorter notes to Peter Rushton, now Viscount Draywick after inheriting his childless uncle’s title; and his younger brother, Harold, who had inherited their father’s title of Baron Staughton when Peter had been elevated upwards. Harold, quite unlike his older brother, was level-headed and rather shrewd, when sober at least, and good company when not. Lewrie hadn’t seen him in years, but Peter had gotten Harold a well-paying government post under the Secretary of State at War, where he wielded considerable influence. One never knew who might come in handy when it came to patronage and influence! Lewrie even wrote another, shorter, letter to another old school chum, that nefarious “Captain Sharp”, Clotworthy Chute, who was rumoured to have turned honest and was now big in the antiques trade. Lewrie carefully stressed that he was in town a little time … too short a time for Clotworthy to hit him up for a loan!
By two in the afternoon, and with still no letter for him at the front desk, Lewrie betook himself on a stroll, threading his way through the pedestrian throngs of Wigmore Street, West to Baker Street, then South to the corner of Oxford Street and one of his favourite taverns, the Admiral Boscawen, where he tentatively supped on sliced roast beef, pease pudding, potato hash, and gravy, and was delighted to discover that what went down would stay down, aided along by two pints of ale.
Not quite as bleary as before, Lewrie returned to the Madeira Club, where he yet had no mail, and whiled away the rest of the afternoon by scribbling notes to his old Cox’n, Will Cony, who now owned the Olde Ploughman in Anglesgreen; to his former cabin steward, Aspinall, who was now a published author here in London; and, frankly, got so bored that he even penned letters to his Lewrie cousins at Wheddon Cross in Devonshire, near Exeter.
By the time he had folded, waxed, and sealed the last letter, it was nigh five o’clock, and the club’s stewards and servants were circulating to stoke up the fireplaces and light more candles to welcome the club’s members back from their days on the town. That passable Spanish brandy appeared on a sideboard.
Pettus made his appearance, yawning and shrugging his clothing into order, looking as if he had used his free time to good purpose whilst Lewrie had spent the day alone, and had caught up on his sleep.
“Will you be dining out on the town tonight, sir?” Pettus asked.
“Hmm … think not, Pettus,” Lewrie told him after deliberating. Gloster’s Chop House and his favourite-of-all restaurant in Savoy Street, were both off the Strand, and either were just too far to go at that hour. “I’ll dine in here. There’s little for you to do for me ’til the morning. Enjoy your idleness,” he said with a smile. “I trust they’re feedin’ ye well, and that your quarters are warm and comfy?”
“Oh, aye, sir, quite pleasant, and they feed extremely well,” Pettus told him, “though I do miss Yeovill’s way with spices and—”
“Pardons, Captain Lewrie,” Lucas, the desk clerk, interrupted, “but a messenger just dropped this off for you, this instant.”
“Aha!” Lewrie exclaimed as Lucas handed him a stiff cream bond letter with a large blob of royal blue sealing wax and the imprint of Admiralty. “Wish me luck, Pettus. Thankee, Lucas.”
He tore it open impatiently, but, once he had it un-folded, he paused and hitched a deep breath, expecting the worst.
“Uhmhmm, ‘directed and required … authorised to make such repairs His Majesty’s Dockyard deems necessary’ … Hell, yes!” he cried, thumping his free left hand on the arm of his chair in triumph.
“Good news, sir?” Pettus asked.
“The best, Pettus, the very best!” Lewrie told him, laughing. “We’ll be off for Portsmouth at first light. See Lucas to arrange a coach for us … not that drunken fool who fetched us up! We have orders for our bottom cleaning, and additional orders for the South Atlantic, soon as we can get the ship back on her own bottom and make sail! Hallelujah!”
“I’ll see to it, directly, sir!” Pettus assured him.
“Something to drink, sir?” a steward asked.
“I think I’ll try the Scottish whisky, this time,” Lewrie said. “That Spanish brandy makes me bilious, haw haw!”
Oh Christ, though, Lewrie had to think a moment later; If I’m off to Portsmouth, I’ll miss Lydia again!
