Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

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.

L ike 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?"

"Beg pardon, Mister Nepean," Lewrie countered. "But it was my impression that the sailors did their own scheming… crosspatch or no. I'll grant you, the petitions my old hands showed me were written rather well, which might seem suspiciously like someone wrote 'em for them, but… our tars ain't that child-like, the bulk of 'em. Oh, the total lubbers, the failed 'prentices, and clerks with grudges…"

"You do not side with the sailors' demands, do you, sir?" the secretary posed. "Surely," he purred, come over all suspicious.

Shit! Lewrie sighed; and it was goin' so bloody well. 1I'll be hauled out o' here in chains, next!

"Of course not, sir!" he barked back, laying a thick scowl 'pon his phyz. "And I was most distressed to find my counsel wasted, even with men I'd sailed with for years. Trusted…!"

He almost thought of throwing in a petulant "ungrateful curs!" which seemed to be the common coin lately, but forebade.

"I am gratified to hear that, Commander Lewrie," Nepean said, seeming to relent. He got that quirky "I know something you don't" smirk on his face, thumbed a folder to his right, and drew out a sheet of paper. He held it up to the light to read over just once more, to prolong the suspense. He let out a satisfied wee sniff.

Bastard! Lewrie thought in heat, though posing "just waiting."

"It is my honour to tell you, Commander Lewrie, that our Lords Commissioners have seen fit to offer you the Proteus Frigate."

"And it is my honour to accept, sir… gladly!" Lewrie breathed in relief. "Where is she, sir?"

"At Chatham Dockyard, Lewrie." Nepean deigned to grin, holding out that precious document 'twixt thumb and forefinger. Florid scrollwork in the penmanship, yet legible as block-printing and suitable to the solemnity of the occasion; a square stamp in the upper left-hand corner bearing the seal of Admiralty embossed into the thick paper… and a tax stamp halfway down the left side.