The King's Marauder (8 page)

*   *   *

“Ah, Captain Lewrie!” Mr. Giles chummily barked as he entered the Common Rooms, making a bee-line for the fireplace and rubbing his cold hands. “Been to Admiralty, I see. How did it go?”

“Early days, sir,” Lewrie said, coming out of his dour reverie to find that his brandy glass was empty, perhaps had been for some time. “As uncomfortable as the Waiting Rooms are, I think I’ll only pop in once a week, and wait for a letter to come.”

“Quite right!” Giles declared with a firm nod. “Appearing anxious doesn’t work well in business, either. Gives the other fellow the upper hand, what?”

“Seen Showalter, yet, Mister Giles?” Lewrie asked, getting to his feet.

“Not yet, but he’ll be along, unless there’s a call for a division in Commons this afternoon,” Giles said, smiling almost angelically as he flipped the tails of his coat up and put his bottom close to the fireplace’s heat. “Aahh!”

“I thought to ask him where that symphony he liked was playing,” Lewrie said. “Perhaps the desk clerk knows, if Showalter’s runnin’ late. I’ll go change into
mufti.
”

“Lord, one hears so much more Hindoo slang hereabouts, these days,” Giles carped. “So many younger folk coming back
nabobs,
simply stiff with grand earnings. Must be a way to sell the Hindoos proper shoes … now there’d be a killing! Sandals … hah!”

“See you at supper, Mister Giles,” Lewrie said, departing for the stairs. He trooped up slowly, not due to any infirmity, but lost in gloomy thoughts which had arisen now and then since he’d departed Reading, and the Stangbourne estate.

What a hellish waste of a good woman,
Lewrie ruefully thought;
Givin’ up on London, and all her symphonies, plays, and such? Samuel Johnson said a body who’s tired o’ London is tired o’
life!
No more love, no more pleasure, ever again? It’s like she’s been got at by Hannah More, or the bloody Baptists! It’ll be soup kitchens in the stews, and good works, next.

He had to question himself, though, on whether he had ever truly loved her in the permanent, ’til death did them part, sense. At best, he could confess to a powerful fondness, and dammit all … Lydia had never looked more lovely than she did when she rejected him! More desirable, more fetching … than if she had said yes to his proposal.

She
rejected
me!
he gloomed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next fortnight passed most lazily for Lewrie, with rounds of shopping for a few new articles of uniform, and some additions to his civilian clothing, and social calls on people he knew and liked, some he knew but slightly distrusted, such as one of his old school chums who’d been expelled with him, Clotworthy Chute, his father at last, and people whom he thought might be useful, such as Peter Rushton’s brother, Harold, who held a position under the Secretary of State at War. One never could tell when Harold might give Admiralty a nudge.

His old steward, Aspinall, had made enough money off his books to buy into the publishing house which put them out, was now happily married, and was still keeping his mother and his sister, Rose, in a snug house of their own, retired from domestic service, and Lewrie had spent a pleasant afternoon with them.

He looked up the maker of his Christmas fowling piece, and his gunsmith shop, and ended up purchasing a brace of long-barrelled pistols in the same over-under configuration.

And, there were the music halls, the galleries which displayed new paintings and sculpture. He didn’t need to buy any, but looking was a good way to kill an afternoon. There were plays and farces in Covent Garden and Drury Lane theatres, and the public gardens where he could idly ogle young women after a supper on the town. He could hire a saddle horse and go cantering round St. James’s Park and Hyde Park on the rainless mornings. He could walk from one end of the Strand to the other, to keep his leg fit, and peer into the bow-window shop displays. And, after that fortnight, Lewrie was surprised to discover that the city’s delights were beginning to pall, as if
he
was growing tired of London, perhaps even tired of
life?

He still made his weekly visits to Admiralty, and ran into Lt. Geoffrey Westcott a time or two, who had decided that a once-a-week call was to his advantage, too, which allowed them to have a decent dinner together before going their separate ways for another week.

*   *   *

“Off to Admiralty this morning, are you, sir?” Hoyle, the club manager, cheerfully asked as Lewrie got himself fitted out with his hat and boat cloak in the ante-room.

“If it’s Wednesday I must be, Mister Hoyle,” Lewrie japed back.

“All success to you, sir,” Hoyle rejoined. “Now, don’t forget that Mister Ludlow will be hosting card night this evening, with hot punch and sing-alongs.”

“Hmm, rather racy for the Madeira Club, ain’t it?” Lewrie asked with a brow up.

“To end at eleven, sir,” Hoyle said, “
sharp,
for the benefit of the older members, of course. It improves the attendance at the supper, and the sale of spirits,” he added with a sly look.

“Next ye know, we’ll be gamblin’ and lettin’ ladies in,” Lewrie speculated. “The new Cocoa-Tree, perhaps?”

“This club, sir?” Hoyle scoffed. “We’ll never be that woolly. Lewis, summon transport for Captain Lewrie, would you?”

*   *   *

Might be a nice way t’end the day,
Lewrie thought as he alit from a hired one-horse coach and paid the driver;
Pity I don’t have my penny-whistle with me. A few shillings fluttered on cards, take on some hot punch, and sleep in late, tomorrow. God knows, I’ve nothing
better
to do!

He suffered the cheery abuse from the tiler, chequed his hat and cloak, and looked up one of Secretary Marsden’s clerk to make his presence known, then searched the Waiting Room for Westcott.

“Here, sir,” Westcott said, waving him over. “I’ve managed to save you a seat, and today’s
Gazette.
”

“Mornin’, Geoffrey,” Lewrie said, sitting down. “And how are you, today?”

“Main-well, all considered, sir,” Westcott said with a pleased look and a brief flash of a toothy grin. “Topping, in point of fact.”

“One of our members, Ludlow … recall meeting him?” Lewrie said. “Doesn’t
make
things, but he’s big on the ’Change in the trade of leather goods, is hosting a card and punch party at my club this evening, and the supper will feature several game pies and a saddle of venison. Interested?”

“Oh, that sounds tempting, sir, but I fear I must beg off. I have other plans,” Westcott said with a grimace of disappointment to miss such a feast.

“Your landlady?” Lewrie teased.

“Ehm, no sir, not tonight,” Westcott cautiously admitted with a sly grin. “There’s a very fetching young seamstress I met when having some new shirts run up.
Most
 … promising.”

“Just remember the Saturday mess toast, Geoffrey,” Lewrie cautioned. “Sweethearts and … landladies … may they never meet.”

“One in Southwark, t’other in the Borough,” Westcott quipped with a wink. “I’ve already read this half of the paper. Want it?”

They passed the next two hours comparing news stories and palavering their opinions, good or bad, on what they’d read. They went out for tea and some fresh air in the courtyard, then returned.

“Captain Sir Alan Lewrie?” one of Marsden’s clerks called out. “Is Captain Lewrie present?”

“I’m here!” Lewrie cried back, chiding himself for sounding too eager, and shooting to his feet as if stung.

“The First Secretary wishes to see you now, sir,” the clerk said.

“Wish me luck, Mister Westcott. We may be onto something good,” Lewrie muttered, then went to the bottom of the stairs to follow the clerk. The clerk opened the door to Marsden’s office and ushered him in.

“Good morning, sir,” Lewrie said to the First Secretary.

“Ah, good morning to you, Sir Alan,” Marsden said back, looking haggard and worn. He had been in the job seemingly forever, and the years had taken a toll. “Do sit, sir.”

“Thankee, sir,” Lewrie replied, plopping himself down.

“Ahh, hmm,” Marsden said with a long sigh. “I note that you are no longer employing a walking stick, Sir Alan?”

“Over the winter, sir, I’ve worked my way to complete health,” Lewrie told him. “I could dance a jig if you need proof of it.”

“No, no, that will not be necessary,” Mr. Marsden said with a brief chuckle. “I will take your word for it. It is well that you are fit and ready to return to service.”

“Avid t’do so, sir!” Lewrie assured him.

Marsden leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his chest in thought.

“Gad, what a disreputable business,” Marsden began. “Might you have read anything anent HMS
Sapphire,
Sir Alan?”

“No, sir,” Lewrie had to tell him, trying to recall the ship’s name, and what sort she might be.
Must be a
new
frigate,
he thought.

“She had just come out of the Chatham dockyards and a complete re-fit, and has only been back in commission for a little over seven months,” the Admiralty’s First Secretary began to explain, “and is at present anchored in the Great Nore to re-victual. Unfortunately…”

Mr. Marsden sat back forward to slump over his desk and worked his mouth as if he had just bit into something vile.

“In retrospect, her Captain, and her First Officer, turned out to be exceedingly poor choices,” he went on after a long sigh. “Both men are well qualified and highly experienced, but … they just would not, or could not, rub together. Perhaps it was some
contretemps
from their pasts, something personal, perhaps their families were at loggerheads, there’s no knowing, but … they have gone and shot one another in a duel!”

“Shot?” Lewrie exclaimed. He’d served under several superior officers whom he would have
gladly
shot or strangled, but only in his fantasies. “Her First Lieutenant challenged his own Captain to a duel? That’s a court-martial offence … like the leader of the Nore Mutiny, Parker, once challenged Captain Riou. A hangin’ offence if his Captain died.”

“No, ’twas the other way round,” Mr. Marsden sadly imparted. “
Sapphire
’s Captain was so wroth with her First Officer that
he
issued the challenge. He could have preferred charges for gross insubordination, or let the fellow ask for a transfer, but no. I name no names, but both gentlemen are known for being rash, intemperate men, of the strictest discipline and the touchiest senses of honour.”

“So, who swings for murder, then, sir?” Lewrie asked. “Duels ain’t kindly looked upon, any longer.”

It used to be that just any old place would do, a barn, an open field, or glade in a grove of trees, even the public gardens in London. Nowadays, though, gentlemen with especially hot grievances would have to coach to Scotland or Wales, sail to Ireland or someplace on the Continent so they could cross swords or blaze at each other, and avoid a criminal charge. “Respectability” had reared its ugly head, again!

“Neither!” Marsden scoffed. “The bloody damned fools only managed to
wound
each other, sufficient to put them flat on their backs for several weeks … depending upon whether sepsis sets in, and once on their feet, both shall face courts-martial, and the ends of their respective careers, do I have anything to say about it. And I do, so long as I hold this office.

“So, Captain Lewrie,” Marsden said, peering closely at him. “I have a ship in need of a Captain, and you are in need of a ship and an active commission. Will you take her on?”

“Aye, I will, sir,” Lewrie quickly assured him.

“Her Second Lieutenant is more than capable and
could
be advanced, and you may find that one of
Sapphire
’s Midshipmen could be made an Acting-Lieutenant for the nonce,” Mr. Marsden said, more jovially and making notes on a scrap of paper.

“Might I ask the date of her Second Officer’s commission, sir?” Lewrie enquired.

“Ehm … Lieutenant Harcourt is, ah … why?” Marsden paused in his search for that information.

“Might I put forward a man of my own choosing, sir? I know it is only granted to very senior officers, but…”

“Such an honour I believe your excellent previous service would allow, sir,” Mr. Marsden cautiously seemed to agree, “but, is the said officer immediately available, or might his transfer from his current posting cause too much delay…?” He lifted his hands and shoulders in perplexity.

“My choice, Mister Marsden, would be my former First Lieutenant from my last ship,
Reliant,
Mister Geoffrey Westcott,” Lewrie told him. “We’ve worked very well together, the last three years and more. And, as for his availability, he’s seated belowstairs in the Waiting Room seekin’ an appointment this very instant!”

“Oh, well!” the First Secretary exclaimed, perking up considerably. “That would be capital. If you vouch for his good qualitites, then that is good enough for me, and the Navy.”

“I did recommend him as more than due a command of his own, sir, but … bird in hand, all that?” Lewrie said with a smile.

“So, your Lieutenant Westcott would be amenable? Excellent!” Mr. Marsden said, beaming. “How soon might you imagine you could go aboard and take charge of her, sir?”

“Hmm … all my shipboard furnishings, and some men from my retinue are at my father’s country house down in Surrey, sir. I can get a letter off to them today, but I have no idea how long it will take them t’pack up and arrive at the Nore. Is there any urgency in getting
Sapphire
back to sea, sir?” Lewrie asked.

“Well, under these despicable circumstances, no,” Mr. Marsden said after a long moment with his head laid over to one side in deep thought. “She has not yet received fresh sailing orders. Most of her time in commission has been spent in three-month cruises in the North Sea and the Baltic approaches, but that could change. I expect that are you able to go aboard and read yourself in within the next fortnight, that might be sufficient. In the meantime, I will send orders down to Sheerness to announce the arrival of a new Captain and First Officer, and for her Second, Harcourt, to continue victualling, and keeping her crew exercised, ’til you arrive.”