Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey

"Whatever shall I do?" Lewrie had beseeched.

"Soldier on, buck up! The both of us. I just may've ridden a last time with the local hunt, too. Well, London 's nice this time o' year… top o' the Season, and all. Stock in John Company's doing main-well. May run up a town house, after all. Though I will miss my new bungalow, and the stud…"

"Sorry I ruined your retirement years!" Lewrie had shot back.

An urchin came up with Lewrie's hat, hand out for reward, and Lewrie fumbled a copper from his coin-purse.

"A bluddy pence!" the urchin scowled. "Yer a cheap bashtid… an' a hen-peck!"

"Bugger off." father and son chorused.

The very day of glory, Lewrie had groused as they'd begun a slow walk down the gravelled pathway; a prize frigate sure t'be bought in, a king's ransom for her as my share, real financial security at last, 'stead o dribs and drabs from corrupt overseas Prize Courts paid out years in arrears! What'll this cost me? All, most-like, with kiddies to rear, Sophie to dowry, Charlotte… It'd like to made him weep!

The onlookers had departed, bored with a lame show. His good name might survive the confrontation!

Lewrie had grown up not far from the Park in St. James's Square. He'd learned well the cynical lesson of Society, with all its charade and humbuggery. The world accepted what a man showed, believed an outward, public face. Did one saunter away from such a shaming, languid and unaffected, shrug it off as a minor domestic annoyance, even jape about it, well…! People would even admire his blithe personal

What Men thought-and when you got down to the nub, it was what Men thought that mattered, not women-would depend on his play-acting. Now, did he blub and boo-hoo, act cutty-eyed and overcome, he'd become known as a sentimental cully, one unable to rule his own house or wife, who confessed his affairs, and that would invite sneers and guffawings.

No, no matter how he felt, he'd have to play up bold, the merry

rogue, rake-hell, and "damme-boy"; un-contrite and only a tad abashed! Cynical as Society was, how eager other men enjoyed to see another in their situation escape with a smile upon his lips (and by association be successful at their own failings!), Lewrie was mortal-certain that, did he stay in London long enough, there'd be more'n a few who'd dine him out on his disaster!

Hmmm… disaster, Lewrie had thought; cat-as-tro-phe. Wonder why I don't hurt, bad as yer s posed to? 'Co{I'm a callous bastard? No, that can't be it. Knew I'd trip over my own prick, sooner or later, but… two, three years gone, thousands of miles alee, what was I s posed t'do, live like a hermit monk? This as bad as it gets? Not so bad… yet. Practice my strut? Grin? Put me a bounce on…

Making Easterly, they came to the end of the footpath, where it crossed a carriageway, where Lewrie had frozen in midstep, stumbling against his father's arm as he suddenly realised that Dame Fortune- that fickle whore-wasn't done with him!

"God Almighty!" Lewrie had gasped.

"What the Devil's come over ye?" his father had griped.

"Them… in the coach, yonder. Don't look at 'em, damn your eyes!" Lewrie had warned, which made Sir Hugo peer and glower, as if ready to yank the coach door open, drag 'em out, and challenge them to a duel, instanter, the truculent old bastard! Lewrie had tried to see how the clouds were shaping, count leaves on trees, take up the hobby of bird-watching, anything, looking anywhere but at the coach; as two pinched, high-nosed, top-lofty men had glared back before the coachee whipped up and rattled them away.

"What?' his father had demanded, petulant. "Who were they?"

"One was George John the Earl Spencer," Lewrie had informed him with a woozy sense of impending doom beyond what Caroline had instilled. "First Lord of The Admiralty. T'other was Mister Evan Nepean.., the First Secretary. Them who tell me where t'go and what t'do. My damned… employers!"

"Ah!" Sir Hugo had answered, snapping his jaws turtle-like in asperity. "Well damme, that's a bugger… ain't it."

"Christ, I am fucked, really, really, really fucked!"

"All's not lost. There's always strong drink," Sir Hugo said. "Have I learned a blessed thing in this shitten world, 'tis that wine tends t'soften the blows. Brandy's even better. Aye, brandy's what's called for. What I'd prescribe. Shall we? Mind, you go all weepy in it, and I'll swear I don't know you from Adam."

"Lead on," Lewrie had numbly demurred. "I've seen Disaster in my life. I know how t'bear up."

"Topping!" Sir Hugo had chortled. "Forward, then! We'll need song, mirth, and glee, too. Here's one for ye. Irish. It'll make yer bog-trottin' sailors happy, d'ye learn it! Ahem!

"Oh, there's not a trade that's goin',

wor-rth knowin ' or showin',

li-ike that from Glory growin ',

for a Bowld Soldier Boy!

Whe-ere right or left we go,

sure you know, friend or foe,

we'll wave a hand or tow

from the Bowld Soldier Boy!

There's ain town that we march through,

hut the ladies look, and arch…

through the window panes will sarch

through the ranks to find their Joy!

While up the street, each girl you meet

with looks so sly will cry 'my eyye'!

Oh, isn't he a dar-el-in',

the Bowld Soldier Boy!"

It had worked, Lewrie had to admit. They'd gathered prancing children, as a marching band might, the sight of a trim and elegant old general with the pace and spine of a younger man, with a brave captain by his side, voices raised in praise of Glory and Women. Even sober-lookin', too! People clapped their approval as they paraded off for a public house.

And bedamned-for the nonce-to Dame Fortune!

W illis's Rooms had seen its share of wastrels and rollickers in its time. While their common rooms began serving hearty breakfasts for the industrious sort 'round 7 a.m. the kitchen staff also was ready for those idle layabouts who rose much later or sent down for chocolate, rusks, or toast, too "headed" from a night of amusements to even leave their bedsteads… sitting upon plumped pillows, swinging to sit on the side of the mattress for a proffered chamber pot; and one breath of fresh air once the bed curtains had been pulled back, was about all they could manage.

Lewrie, unfortunately, felt about as "headed" as any man born, even after rising at a lordly 9 a.m. dousing and scrubbing with a tin of hot water, and receiving a fresh shave from Aspinall whilst he had himself a wee nap. Three gulped cups of coffee had only made him bilious and gassy, with a tearing need to "pump his bilges," much like a dairy cow on hard ground, at least thrice.

"Breakfast, sir?"

"Don't b'lieve I'd manage solids this morning, Aspinall," Alan replied with some asperity, "but thankee."

His father, Sir Hugo, came bustling into the set of rooms, done up in his regimentals, less his tunic, and draped in a tan nankeen and flower-sprigged embroidered dressing gown; face fresh-shaved and ruddy, eyes bright and clear, tail up, and bursting with bonhomie.

"Bloody awful mornin!" Sir Hugo rather loudly informed him. "It is rain, rain, rain. Urchins and mendicants'll drown in this, just you wait an see!

"Hush!" Lewrie begged, squinting one-eyed at that fell apparition, wondering why turning his head resulted in thick, swoony feelings.

"Dear Lord, still 'foxed,' are ye? Out o' practice, I expect. Takes work, d'ye know… years o' conditionin'," his father said with a faint sneer at Lewrie's lack of "training" as he swept back his gown, plucked a chair from the small card table, and plunked himself down… damn' near by the numbers like a military drill, with all the requisite "square-bashing" thumps and thuds of the steel-backed Redcoat.

"Christ," Lewrie grumbled, ready to cover his ears.

"Amateur," Sir Hugo scoffed with a twinkle. "Ah!" he cried, as his swarthy, one-eyed Sikh manservant, Trilochan Singh, entered. The pockmarked bazaari-badmash with the swagger of a raja was the terror of half the goose-girls in Anglesgreen; all Surrey, too, for all Alan knew!

" Namastй,* (*Namastй = Good morning.) Leerie sahib!" Singh barked, at stiff attention with a stamp of his boots, damn near saluting in Guard-Mount fashion.

"Bloody Hell!" Lewrie groaned. "Chalй jao… mulaayam!" † († Chalй jao… mulaayam! = Go away, soft(ly).)

"Ah, ye do recall some Hindi!" his father noted, clapping his hands. "Pay him no mind, Singh. Chaay, krem kй saath, and naashtй kй li-ye for do." ‡ (‡ Chaay, krem kй saath/naashtй kй Rye for do - Tea with cream/breakfast for two.)

"Bahut achchaa, Weeby sahib! Ek dum!" § ( § Bahut achchaa/Ek dum = Very Good! At once! ) Stamp-Crash, About-Turn, Crash-Crash-Crash, Quick March, Crash-Stamp Salute, Baroom, Slam Door!

Lewrie put his head in his hands and laid his forehead on that small table, feeling that whimpering in pain might not go amiss.

"Here, for Christ's sake," Sir Hugo growled, producing a flask of brandy and pouring. "Never heard o' hair o' the dog that bit ye? Decent French guzzle, too. Thank God for smugglers. This'll put the spring back in your step, and clear the cobwebs. Aye… good lad."

Lewrie made "Bbrring" noises, grimaces and gags, but the brandy seemed liable to stay down, and his vision did slightly clear.

"Caroline scarpered, I take it?" Sir Hugo asked, gazing about the set of rooms, noting the lack of children, noise, clutter, and luggage.

"Aye, more's the pity… soon as they got back from the park," Lewrie mournfully informed him, giving him a precis of her letter, too. "Well, damme," his father harumphed. "Thought she had more sense than that. Not that she didn't shew it, anent your finances. At least there's no mention of divorcement. Now, were it I who got such a note, I'd heave a great sigh, cry 'thank God for gettin' off so cheap' then dance off t'me bus'ness. Won't break you, after all… and, there's a sum of prize money still owin' that's yours alone."

"Damn!" was Lewrie's sour comment to that. "She's my wife, not a deal gone wrong, they're my children, not… oh, why bother trying to explain such to you!"

"Aye, I forgot, I'm a callous ol' bastard," Sir Hugo replied as casually as if he'd been told he had grey eyes. "Ah! Breakfast!"

Trilochan Singh entered astern the housemaid, who bore a large tray full of covered dishes, looking like to pinch or goose her, once the tray was safe. Boiling-hot tea was quickly poured, with cream in a small silver plate ewer, and a footed silver bowl of brown West Indies turbinado sugar, pre-pared from the loaf. Aspinall attempted to assist, but was out-bustled by the maid and Singh as they removed the lids to reveal both fried and scrambled eggs, buttered hot rusks, and a choice of sizzly-crisp bacon or sliced roast beef.

Lewrie stared at the repast, pondering and massaging his belly, cautiously inhaling the savoury odours and steams; watching, as his father turned a brace of fried eggs into a soupy mess with knife and fork, spooned up some jam to slather on half a rusk, then dredged it in the eggs and took a bite.

"Only enemies of the Borgias died of eatin'," his father said, chewing and sighing most ecstatically. "Trust me… the greasier the better, in your condition."

Lewrie tentatively allowed his plate to be laden. Hot tea with cream and sugar, well… hmm, well, well! More cobwebs cleared. A taste of bacon… a forkful of eggs, which needed pepper and a lot of salt, he discovered. The roast beef was a tad dry and crusty, perhaps leftovers of last night's fare in the common rooms, but… my my, was that mango chutney in the jar with which to liven it up? Yum! Oh, even better, for here came a dab of fried, diced potatoes… his favourite "tatty hash"!