Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

" Charlotte, leave the cat be!" Lewrie called over his shoulder, wearing a supposedly pleased smile of appreciation on his phyz for the drapes. "He's not used to you, and he wants to be left in peace!"

He said it in an exasperated, out-of-his-depth semblance of his best quarterdeck voice, the one he'd use on slow brace-tenders. Which brought forth a whine from Charlotte as she began to blub up, to be so loudly chastised.

"Alan, really…" Caroline gently chid.

"Don't want her eat' half-alive, that's all, dearest," Lewrie tried to quibble. "Aye, they're fetchin' as Hell, aren't they, these drapes? Whatever was I thinkin'… that you'd make a gown of it, in Anglesgreen, and all… "

"Oh, do come out, kitty… Owwwwl Mummy!" was the shriek.

Rrrrowww! It could have been fright; it could have been a glad victory cry. Lewrie could see, once he'd turned his head, his cat making a dash for the stairs, a black-white streak nigh flat to the floor and his legs churning like a Naples centipede. There went another streak in pale blue moire satin and white lace, as Caroline tore off to comfort her "precious little girl." Left with the boys, Lewrie looked over to see Hugh pursing his mouth to blow a fart-like sound with his lips and rolling his eyes. Evidently, Charlotte 's curiosity, and the teary result, wasn't exactly a new thing in their house. And Sewallis surprised him with a world-weary, almost adult sigh of exasperation. And a high-pitched "Hmmpph!" or "Tittch!"

"Girls," Lewrie agreed, hands behind his back, and tipping them both a conspiratorial wink. "They do take a power o' gettin' used to."

Lewrie figured he'd done enough damage indoors for the nonce. It was time to trot, 'til domestic "bliss" was re-established.

"How's your pony farin', lads? And, Sewallis, where're those dogs? Does your mother ever let 'em in the house?"

"Uhm, no… only when they were pups." Sewallis brightened. "We leave them part of the old coach-house. Do you want to see them? Now?"

"Aye, I do. You give your brother, Hugh, one too?" Lewrie joshed, leading them out through the kitchens.

"We share," Sewallis replied most primly.

"No, we don't. They're all his. Don't want a dog anyway. Want a fox kit. Or an otter!" Hugh grumped.

"No you don't, Hugh, not 'round my dogs. Why, they'd tear an otter or a fox to pieces," Sewallis harshly countered as they emerged in the sunshine to walk the old brick path between the kitchen garden and the flower garden. Bustling, careless of where they put their feet, three "men" striving to walk side-by-side… or lead and dominate.

"You'd sic them on 'em," Hugh groused.

"They're beastly… pests and nuisances," Sewallis snapped back. "Would not, but… they're ratty… ugly!"

"They're not; they're not!" Hugh shouted, in full cry by then. "They're pretty! So red and fluffy… or so sleek. An otter could be a playmate, slide into the creek with me…"

"Oh, wager yer mother'd love you slidin' down mud. into creeks," Lewrie scoffed, ruffling Hugh's hair.

"He does already, and Mummy doesn't like it. He knows, but…"

"Boys," Lewrie cautioned. Away so long, he hadn't known they could be at each other's throats. And within a quarter-hour of his return too! And where'd prim little Sewallis, within a quim-hair of being dour as a parson, find bottom enough to boss Hugh about? Or try to anyway. Though Hugh was only eight, he was more than ready for a scrap to the knife-hilt! "Lookee here, lads… let's not you quarrel… my first day home, at any rate. Christ, you two go at each other like this all the time?"

"I'm sorry, Father," Sewallis muttered, much abashed.

"Well, he started it…"

"Ahem?" Lewrie barked, glaring.

"I know where there's an earth, where there's a mother fox, Daddy," Hugh wheedled. "And I've seen otters in the creek, up on Grandfather's new land. By the old tower? We could ride up… oh, once I show you them, you'd let me have a…"

There came a clatter of hooves from the farm lane which straggled off between the new brick barn and the old wattle-and-daub one they had turned into a coach-house. Coming into the stableyard, past their white-railed paddock where the children's pony trotted in excitement…

"Grandfather said I could have one, so…" Hugh prattled on.

Lewrie sighed. Rather heavily, it must be noted.

For here came two riders, back from a morning canter over their modest acreage, drawing the pony to extend his head over the railings and whicker at them, drawing a pack of spotted setters from the older barn, jog-trotting and yipping, with their tails lashing most gaily.

In the lead was a female… his ward since Toulon fell in '93, the Vicomtesse Sophie de Maubeuge, last of her noble line. No longer a frail, tremulous waif, he noted. She rode with an easy confidence, beaming a smile at him… at the world in general… and over her back to the second rider. No longer a delicate little fifteen-year-old, new-come from a convent, Sophie had turned into a spritely eighteen-year-old beauty, with rich red-auburn hair glowing in the spring sunshine, her green eyes alight with an impatient, girlish delight.

Astern, though… in the full fig of his regimentals from the old 19th Native Infantry of the East India Company army, was his own father,… Sir Hugo Saint George Willoughby. Brigadier Sir Hugo!

"Haw, the house! Haw, the new-come!" his father cried, waving his egret-feathered, heavily gold-laced cocked hat in the air. "Alan, my boy! Home at last! Give ye joy!"

"Mademeoiselle Sophie… enchant й! Lewrie called out as she rode up to him.

"Commander Lewrie, enchant й, aussi." She laughed, as he offered to take her reins and a hand to steady her. She swung off of her side-saddle, slipped her stirrup-foot, to jump-slide to the ground as graceful as a landing dove, almost squealing with glee. "You are home at last, m'sieur. La, the house has been on the pins and needles for the first sign of your coming. Welcome home, good sir! Welcome home!"

He embraced her, accepted a chaste peck on his cheek.

Three years has done her wonders, he thought. When he'd left, there'd been a girl bereft of fortune, title, family, her intended, and his own family, so sunk in grief that she could barely raise her voice above a mournful whisper, and possessed of the most fractured English. Now, though… but for a lilt, a turn of phrase, there was a girl who had the confidence, the poise and grace, and the easy, unaffected joy of any country-raised young English lady of the squirearchy who never had known any other style of living, or country.

The groomsman, a new face to Lewrie after the old one, Bodkins, was taking the reins from him, reaching out for the reins of the other horse. Then down sprang his father.

Shorter than he'd remembered from the Far East. How odd, Lewrie thought. White-haired now, thinner on top. Liver-spotted, by a dissolute youth. Damme, a dissolute bloody life! Yet still erect as a gun's ramrod, with the Damme-Boy twinkle of old in his eyes.

"My boy! My dearest boy!" Sir Hugo crowded, offering his arms for a paternal hug. "Ten damn' years it's been! Come ye here!"

And a very merry hello t'you too, Lewrie thought, with a weary sigh; you wicked old fart! He plastered a glad grin on his countenance and suffered to be embraced. Embraced his father in return, wondering all the while if Sir Hugo's elation to see him was a ruse… that he secretly was poor as a church-mouse, and this was the last port of refuge for a scoundrel.

Damme, never knew him t'be gladsome…'cept when he was needy o' something! Lewrie thought, as he was pounded on the back most heartily.

"Good to see you too, Father. Damn' glad," he lied, rather well, he thought. But he'd had a lifetime of practice by then.

T he next few days were heaven, Lewrie thought. For starters, he got introduced to the dogs so they would not think of him as an entree whenever he wished to walk outside about his own lands. He re-met the pony (without getting nipped), remade acquaintance with his favourite horse, Anson, which whickered in glee to see him once again. They ate in the new, large dining room that night, in the light of those dolphin-and-trident, silvery-brass candelabras he'd bought in Venice before the hurried evacuation of the Adriatic, then spent a lively evening in the salon, opening the latest gifts for the children, for Caroline and Sophie, from Lisbon. Sipping on a fruity, nutty sherry he'd found in-cask from Oporto too. They'd played some tunes, Caroline to her flute, Sophie to the harpsichord, and he on his "tin-whistle" flageolet, and finally getting a compliment or two on how much he'd improved-though anything better than bird-squawks could be considered an improvement after all those years of practice.

After a tad too much wine, they'd at last retired, were lit up to bed, to a real, soft, and welcoming-unswaying-bedstead crisp and sweet-smelling of scrupulously clean linens, still redolent of a faint floral sachet and the soap in which they'd been boiled. Toulon had found a refuge at last, in their bedchamber, and had crept out of hiding for a frantic quarter-hour of reassuring "wubbies," much to Caroline's amusement.

"So much like the early days, my love," she whispered fondly, slid into bed with him and lying close at last, after brushing out her hair. Toulon was fair-taken with her too. "You… me, so completely alone and private." She chuckled, scrubbing Toulon under his chin and chops. "And old William Pitt to pat and purr us to our rest. Or…" she added in a huskier voice, "sull up on the fireplace bench whilst…"

"Sull up, Toulon, there's a good puss," Lewrie growled.

And once the last bed-side candle had been snuffed dark, it was much like their first, nervous "honeymoon" night at the coaching inn on the way to Portsmouth, as Caroline could finally welcome him home, in her own, inimitable fashion, which fashion left him damned near purring-drained and dreamless.

The next day, they'd coached to St. George's Church for Easter Sunday services, turned out almost regal in their springtime best; and most dignified, Lewrie had thought. Caroline had worn her new gown and bonnet, which had been most fetching; Sophie de Maubeuge too, looking ethereally lovely and being ogled by the young men of the parish; the children adorable, clean and unruffled (for a rare hour or three), and Lewrie and his father tricked out in their best uniforms-Lewrie with that gold St. Vincent medal clapping on his waistcoat buttons and a spanking-new gold-bullion epaulet on his left shoulder, his dark-blue coat stiff with gold lace which hadn't gone verdigris-green from salt air, yet. The whole family, primly a-row in the same rented pew box.

It had been a joy afterwards to greet his brother-in-law, Governour Chiswick, and his lovely dark-haired wife, Millicent. They'd had an heir at last, and Millicent bade fair to present him with a second by late summer. Serene, settled country squire was Brother Governour by then-stout and getting stouter, halfway towards resembling the satirical artist Cruikshank's depictions of John Bull. And where had the panther-lean, rope-muscled side of North Carolina colonist beef Lewrie had known at Yorktown gone, he wondered?

Mother Charlotte Chiswick was there, now living with Governour and Millicent as a doting granny, a bit stooped and myopic, with hair gone white as lamb's wool. And Uncle Phineas Chiswick himself, got up in his best-though he looked as if he'd shopped for clothing in William Pitt the Elder's last term in office. Lewrie had been struck dumb to see the miserly old bastard chortle and whinny with bonhomie, clap Brigadier Sir Hugo on the back, and he almost pleasant for once!