Lieutenant Fletcher had returned from Malta with fresh provisions, more war matériel that Tarrant had added to his “absolutely essential” list, the 94th’s dependents, and mail. Lewrie could look shoreward from his stern gallery or the poop deck at almost any hour of the day and see smoke from laundry cauldrons, feminine clothing drying on lines between trees, and children shrieking round the tent lines at play, or running along the beach, and splashing into the surf.
“And how was Mister Fletcher’s voyage, Mister Upchurch?” Lewrie asked the Midshipman who had gone over to Bristol Lass to collect their mail.
“I gathered that he’d rather have carried cattle, or soldiers, sir,” Upchurch said with a sniff of humour, “both are less noisy, or disorderly than the regiment’s wives and children. Less messy, too.”
Mail, now! News from home; at last!
After leaving Portsmouth for Malta, weeks before, Vigilance had sailed into a figurative black cavern, and the ship, and her consorts, had departed Valletta Harbour before a mail packet could arrive with anything for them. Whilst still at Portsmouth, Lewrie had received at least two letters a week from Jessica, his father, family, or long-time friends, but, after departing there had been nothing. Likewise, Lewrie was sure that Jessica must have thought that he had sailed off the edge of the world, for the long “sea letters” he’d written her had been delayed ’til arrival at Malta, and might take weeks more to reach her. He’d sent off another flurry of letters when Bristol Lass went to Malta, in hopes that those made amends, hoping Jessica could inure herself to a naval wife’s lot, so unlike the same-day deliverance of letters sent cross town by footmen, maids, or neighbourhood lads.
Now, he had such a high-piled feast of letters that he didn’t know where to begin, looking for the dates on which they had been dispatched. Was Jessica that orderly? Unfortunately, no, so he just dove in, tearing open the first that came to hand.
“Bisquit sings?” he muttered aloud. “He likes music?”
… the drollest thing, dearest Alan! Do recall that I learned to play a harpsichord which we used at St. Anselm’s, and, quite by chance I was able to obtain one, used of course, but in fine condition for only £60 from your friend Clotworthy Chute’s emporium. Harpsichords are rapidly going out of Fashion, piano fortes are all the rage, but I cannot abide how loud and clangy they strike my ears. It looks grand in the drawing room, and, when I and my lady friends had a tea, we gathered round it to play some songs. Wonder of wonders, Bisquit, Rembrandt, and the kitchen terrier, Bully, came running to sit and marvel. Bisquit, though, began to croon whilst the other dogs shewed less interest. When I stopped, he whimpered and yipped for me to continue! Perhaps it is only your penny whistle that irritates his ears, but he seems quite enamoured of Music, especially the slower Ballads.
“Well, just damn my eyes!” Lewrie said in wonder. “Wish I’d been home t’see that! Wait. Sixty pounds?”
Reading further, Lewrie discovered that Sir Hugo had ponied up more than half the sum, and Jessica had used some of her earnings for the purchase, which prompted him to gawp once more over the idea that his father would be that generous!
In another letter, Jessica described how grand their back garden was progressing, and how she had chosen the flowers to be bedded, the saplings she had had planted, and how lovely the aspect would be when the imported crape myrtles, dogwoods, and cherry trees would be in a year or two when they put out blossoms. She had hopes for some dwarf Chinese magnolias, but London weather, and the pall of coalsmoke, might disappoint her.
… Catherine writes that she was safely delivered of her third Child, weeks before the predicted date round Midsummer Day, a healthy Boy, and that she is now most marvellously Fat!
Who the Devil’s Catherine? Lewrie asked himself, dredging his memory but coming up with nothing.
She was attended by a Surgeon-trained mid-wife, a Male one. I have never heard the like, but he was most Insistent on Cleanliness, and everything went well. With a Baby, and two other Children, their Household is quite Chaotic, so it may be some months before they take leave of the Church at Windsor and coach to London to show him off.
Windsor. Oh, her sister-in-law, and her husband’s in the family church trade, Lewrie thought with an “Aha.”
I am most Envious, dearest Husband. I know that Babies are not placed by fairies under cabbages, but, I had most dearly Hoped that there would have been a Heavenly Result of our Divine Intimacies. And now you are far away Overseas, and that Hope must be put in Abeyance ’til your most-desired Return. I comfort myself with the thought that the Marriage I hoped for since girlhood came at last, and was all the Sweeter for the Delay. So, too, I Trust, that once your grim Duty is done, we shall be Blessed with at least one Child of our very Own, a Boy who shall grow up to be as dashing, handsome, kind, generous, and loving as you, my Dearest, or a Girl who shall be as Impish as me! Dare I wish that she is a better Horsewoman?
Lewrie opened a third letter from Jessica and found that she had dated them, at the top of the first page. That prompted him to open all of them at once and sort them out in chronological order.
You once alluded that your Father was not the most Hospitable man, having grown used to his Solitary Pursuits, and a quiet, ordered Life.
Pray God ye never learn what he solitarily pursues! Lewrie told himself with an audible snigger.
I must own that Sir Hugo initially inspired in me a Dread, being so fierce in visage in his old Age, and so sharp of Tongue even in idle Conversation. Imagine my Surprise, dearest Alan, that Sir Hugo has invited me to dine at his house, escorted me safely when I am required to go to the rougher parts of town, and, in short, has become a doting Father-in-Law, and the Delight of my lady friends when invited to Tea!
Aye, he likes t’sniff round the ladies, Lewrie thought; though he did stand as Sophie’s ‘grand-père’ when she lived with me and Caroline as our ward. Sophie adored him! He can be pleasing, damn him.
Poor old thing, he is now most Vexed by the London Season, for not only is he hosting your Daughter Charlotte, and Governour and Millicent Chiswick, for the Summer, his neighbours have let out their house next door to his, as they did before, and have gone down to the Country, resulting in a constant Din and Bustle of comings and goings. Your Father is of a mind to go down to Anglesgreen, and has suggested that I might accompany him, but, alas, I have much too much to do by way of illustrations commissioned, due by September. Perhaps after?
“‘Poor old thing’?” Lewrie growled aloud. “Mine arse!”
Alan, as hard as I try to form true Fondness for your former brother-in-law, Governour, I find it is a Trial. Millicent, I pity, and do like her, though she has no Conversation and is Awkward in social settings. Governour, though, I find the most Opinonated and Acerbic man, used to trampling over anyone who would hold an opposing Idea!
Got him pegged right, Lewrie thought; He is a trial!
Jessica complained about Charlotte, and how cloying her façade of sweetness was, as if sugar would not melt in her mouth, but there was a snippish, dismissive air about her, and an idle arrogance that sometimes arose, as if she believed that she had been born on equal station with the Quality, and had little patience with people that did not impress her, right off, or be of immediate or future avail.
As her Step-mother I have hosted Charlotte and the Chiswicks to Supper and Teas, my Dearest, and I got the distinct impression that she was dismissive of our Tasteful and Delightful House, and that it did not rise to her Tastes. Despite the press of my Commissions, I did offer to do her Portrait, gratis of course, and shewed her some of my best Work, including your Portrait, and she did sit for half an hour whilst I did a most lifelike coloured pencil sketch (if I do say so myself), but she demurred. And Governour had the gall to suggest that should she desire a Portrait in the future, he’d seek out a Professional! Hah, I say! Hah!
Charlotte and Governour both seem to imagine that I must gad about the mantua makers, milliners, shoemakers as her guide to the latest London Fashion, and then spend my nights chaperoning her to subscription balls and other social Occasions where she may shew herself to likely Beaus, and it is becoming a bit too Much! I would like to like her, be Supportive, win at least a grudging Relationship with your Daughter, but my Lord! I will not, and cannot serve as her “buttock-broker”, as your Father so amusingly termed the Role!
Aye, that’s Governour, and Charlotte, to a Tee, Lewrie angrily thought, disgusted that his former brother-in-law had turned into such a bullying tyrant, and that his daughter, who had once been so sweet and loving, had been raised under Governour’s roof after Caroline had died, the utter ruin of her.
If Charlotte needed a “buttock-broker”, there were plenty of match-makers in London who made their living prancing hopeful young men and women round the town, dressing them, shoeing them, instructing in how to be pleasing, and introducing them to other likely prospects.
Once more, the long time it took to send a letter irked Lewrie painfully, for he had a sudden idea to write Jessica to tell her that such services were available, even if Governour would scream bloody murder to shell out money to some grande beldame, who like as not was a sham, a former brothel keeper, or recruiter for one if fallen on hard times.
He’d write Clotworthy Chute, too, who’d made his own living playing “Captain Sharp” to unwary newcome heirs who came up to London to gain some class. Clotworthy had had platoons of clothiers, hatters, shoemakers, saddlers, horse brokers, carriage sellers, and owners of somewhat fashionable lodgings to which he steered the gullible, and had gotten a share of everything the naive fools had spent. All but the better brothels he’d shown them to; the flinty-eyed Mother Abbesses did not share. Well, a free whore for an hour or so every now and then, but money? Never!
Clotworthy could steer Charlotte, and it would quite droll to the old scamp, and Lewrie, to lighten Governour’s purse, to boot!
He would write those letters, instanter, but, the temptation to read the rest of his wife’s wondrous letters was just too strong, and there were dozens of them still to go. Six Bells of the Forenoon rang and he had nothing else to do ’til his solitary dinner, and no demands from an anchored ship with one watch away on a brief shore liberty, so he picked up the next in the pile and read on.
My Dearest, most Loving Husband,
What an unimaginable Surprise greeted me last morning when I called at your Father’s house! I met your elder Son, Sewallis, who is come up to London to outfit himself for his Promotion to Lieutenant, mere days after receiving the glad news of it, and his posting to a Frigate that he describes as a Fifth Rate 38, the Daedalus, in which he is to be Third Officer! She is to be launched at Deptford within a fortnight, and I, Charlotte, your Father, and the Chiswicks plan to coach down for the day to witness it.
“Well, good for him!” Lewrie said aloud, then explained his son’s promotion to his cabin servants as the reason for his outburst.
One sees merchant ships in the Pool of London every day, but I have never seen a Warship and am looking forward to doing so, so that I can better imagine the life you lead, dearest. Oh, what Joy Sewallis’s arrival caused, and even Governour Chiswick seemed elated, for once.
Soon after Charlotte’s and Sewallis’s initial Elation to be reunited, though, she commented rather sourly that your Sons had both been sent to Sea to rid yourself of Children, and that to do so with the Eldest, and Heir, was especially Cruel; an opinion Sewallis was quick to scotch, explaining that he had joined the Navy by choice, to avenge his late Mother’s Murder by the French, against your Will. He boasted that he had beaten his Brother to it, by Subterfuge. He hinted of saved Money, Letters altered written on Hugh’s behalf. Forgeries? Sewallis’s introduction to the Navy sounds nothing like my Brother’s. You must write and explain it all to me, Dearest.
Be sure your sins will find you out, Lewrie thought, wincing; Forgery seems to run in the family!
He seems a responsible young man, serious, sobre, and of obvious fine intelligence, though rather grave of mien, much like a young Curate who has just taken Holy Orders, though my long Experience with Churchmen may influence my Observation.
He always was, Lewrie remembered; Quiet, bookish, serious, and … rather dull, really. The only things that made him laugh were his setters, and his pony. And for some reason, he was always in competition with Hugh, when it should’ve been the other way round.
For variety’s sake, Lewrie opened a letter from his father next, to get his view of Charlotte’s London Season, and Sewallis’s surprise appearance. Sir Hugo was his usual acerbic self, so much so that his letter was actually amusing. At least until he got to the part where Sewallis’s new uniforms, and replenishment of shirts, neck-stocks, and such, cost much more than the lad had, and Lewrie now owed his father £24/9/8 to repay him for the outlay. Jessica had given him those two scenic paintings she’d done of Sir Hugo’s house at Anglesgreen, and the view of the countryside from its deep front gallery, and he was most pleased with them, and had hung them in a prominent place. Once Sewallis’s ship was launched, he would go down to the country, if only to get away from the bustling, and from the former in-laws’ continual company. Sir Hugo had little patience with the dull vacuity of Millicent Chiswick, sweet and kind though she was, and Governour and his host of loudly voiced opinions on anything and everything. He wished Charlotte the best of good fortune in husband-hunting, though she was a tad young for marriage, expressing a wish that she would become someone else’s problem! Soon!
I fear, though, for my House and Property should I leave for the Country before the Chiswicks depart, for God only knows what ill Use they might make of it in my Absence, and how many of my Servants quit me for a quieter Place due to their many Demands. May this Season end tomorrow one way or another!
There was a letter from his son Hugh, still aboard Undaunted on the North coast of Spain. Hugh related how active that station had become of late, after the arrival of many more warships under the command of Rear-Admiral Sir Home Popham. Not only were French merchantmen still fair game, Popham had instigated a series of landings, going after the chain of semaphore towers, coastal artillery batteries, and small fortifications, and staged cutting-out raids into enemy harbours to take, sink, or burn cargo ships, and setting fire to supplies in the warehouses, and the means of transportation inland. Dray waggons, carts, and even humble hand-carts were put to the torch, and, sad as it was, draught horses, mules, and oxen were shot dead, if there were no partisan bands close by to steal them away.
Naturally, Hugh hadn’t seen Lisbon half as often as he had in the past, for Undaunted stayed at sea months on end, most enjoyable months. Popham was even training some borrowed Army troops to land from transports if a large-scale raid was envisaged, and had boasted that he had come up with a new and novel form of warfare!
God damn his blood! Lewrie fumed; That vain coxcomb read my work, and now he’s claimin’ credit for it? He’ll get away with it, too, he’s gotten more ships than I’ll ever have, the official backing that no one will allow me! God, will he claim he wrote it, too? And every last son of a bitch who’s tryin’ t’blight my career will praise him for it!
“Life’s unfair,” Lewrie growled aloud, “and I need a drink!”
“More cool tea, sir?” Deavers asked from cross the cabins.
“Whisky!” Lewrie demanded. “A full bumper!”
“Ehm … aye, sir,” Deavers replied, going to the wine-cabinet.
Chalky took that unfortunate moment to hop atop the desk with a playful trill, tail whisking in delight to nose, then paw, at the un-tidy pile of opened letters.
“Get out of it!” Lewrie roared in a tone so harsh and out of character that Chalky scrambled in fright off the desk, taking Jessica’s letters down in an avalanche of good bond paper, scattering them over the deck. “Oh, just damn your blood, you clumsy…!”
“I’ll pick ’em up, sir,” Dasher quickly offered, sounding as if he was as cowed as the cat. “Bad boy, Chalky, bad cat. Oh, don’t you be diggin’ at ’em!” For Chalky, over his shock, was pouncing on one, then another, skittering them ever further afield.
“I’ll take ’im,” Turnbow said, scooping Chalky up and holding him against his chest with both hands. Surprisingly, he did not get clawed in a frantic escape attempt; the cat seemed to tolerate being held. His tail did not lash, his ears were not laid back, and he was looking up at Turnbow’s face most calmly. “Think I’ve a way with ’im, I do, sir,” Turnbow cooed.
“Think I got ’em back in order, sir,” Dasher said as he brought the tidied stack to the desk. “By date it was written. Must be wondrous things, letters. Never got one, or wrote one, though I know how. Never had call to.”
“I send me Mum a letter now an’ again,” Turnbow chimed in with a sad shake of his head as he paced round the cabins with the cat in his arms. “Never hear back.”
“Aye, lads,” Lewrie told them, “News from afar can please you, or make you want t’pull your hair out.”
“Whisky, sir,” Deavers said, placing a glass on the desk-top.
“Speck o’ bad news, was it, sir?” Deavers asked in a whisper.
“Not from home, no,” Lewrie confessed. “Though there are people suddenly more successful than we’ve been, doin’ the same things.”
“The raids, sir?” Dasher piped up.
“Aye, the raids,” Lewrie told him, giving them all a brief explanation of what was happening on the coast of Spain.
“Well, beggin’ yer pardon for sayin’ so, sir, but we’ve barely got goin’ yet,” Dasher said with an irrepressible grin. “Soon as we hit our stride, we’ll run neck-and-neck with anybody!”
“I’m glad you’re so confident, Dasher,” Lewrie said, grateful for his naive trust.
If only our next’un hurts the French, and doesn’t make that Don Julio richer, he thought as he took a brooding sip of his whisky.