Dewey Lambdin - King, Ship, and Sword

"She's Caroline's, body and soul, lad," Sir Hugo said, "onliest child still at home, and lappin' up her anger 'bout ye like it was my chocolate. How's yer happy rencontre with her goin', anyway?"

"Much like a winter's day," Lewrie had to scoff, "short, dark, and dirty. I'm in a guest chamber. We talk… of nothing, mostly. Thank God for house-guests and the children, else ye'd be measurin' me for a coffin. She acts jolly, but that's only 'cause of the Trenchers and Burgess's comin' marriage. Zachariah Twigg did coach down to explain things whilst I was in the Baltic, but there's no sign she took any of it to heart. Too much to forgive, really. And too American-raised. An English wife of our class'd be more realistic."

"Don't lay wagers on that," Sir Hugo said with a sour cackle. "Women are women, no matter where, or how, they're raised. She's sense, though. There's her place in Society and the children t'consider. Oh, speakin' of… what'd ye get the children for Christmas?"

"What?" Lewrie gawped at the shift of topic. "More slide sets for their magic lantern… a new doll for Charlotte… assumin' her bloody dog don't shred it like the others… some French chocolates, now we're tradin' again. Bow and arrow sets, toy muskets and pistols, some more lead soldiers and a model frigate… and a half-dozen oranges each. Why, what'd you do?" he asked, fearing the worst.

"Well, an open-backed doll house for Charlotte," Sir Hugo said, looking a touch cutty-eyed, "a castle, really, and for the boys… swords."

"Swords?"

"Small-swords," Sir Hugo said on. "It's time for them to learn the gentlemanly art of the salle d'armes, and there's a skilled man I know from my first regiment, the King's Own, near their school who can instruct them. Do ye not mind payin' half his fee, they should be taught… Hugh especially, since we both know he'll most-like end choosin' either the Navy or the Army for his living."

"Well, I s'pose…," Lewrie muttered, seeing the sense of it.

"Started you early, I did, and swordsmanship came in damned useful to you," Sir Hugo stated. "Hugh shows promise with the sword, and he's both a decent shot and has a hellish-good seat. He's spunk, and intelligence-"

"Didn't get it from me," Lewrie said with a snort as they both turned to watch all three children in a rare moment of glee, tossing snowballs at each other and running in circles.

"Grant ye that," Sir Hugo wryly jested. "As I said long ago, I still have connexions at Horse Guards, and could have him an Ensign or Leftenant in an host of good regiments. Or, with your renown, you could get him aboard a warship captained by one of your friends. What Interest and Patronage is all about, after all."

Fellow captains who like me? Lewrie asked himself; I can count them on the fingers of one hand!

"Another year and he's twelve," Sir Hugo further speculated. "More school'd just ruin him-"

"Ruined me!" Lewrie barked sarcastically.

"And one can't make General or Admiral if ye start late," Sir Hugo pointed out. "Something t'think about. Hope ye don't mind."

"No, not really. I just worry what Caroline'll make of it when they open their presents," Lewrie said. "Perhaps the Army's best for Hugh. She's rather a 'down' on the Navy, 'cause o' me, and won't much care t'see him followin' in my footsteps. And it don't look like our Army's ever going to do all that much overseas, after the shambles we made of it in Holland a while back. Re-take French and Dutch colonies all over again in the Indies, aye, but… "

The British Army, in concert with the Russians during a brief alliance, had landed in Holland, but had been muddled about like farts in a trance had been confronted with regular French troops for the first time, and had been humiliatingly beaten like a rug and run out of the country with their tails 'twixt their legs.

As for re-taking West Indies colonies… it was never the risk of battle that could worry Lewrie as a father; it was the sicknesses that had slain fifty thousand British soldiers and officers since 1793. The Indies-East or West-were not called the Fever Isles for nought.

"Gad, ye'll be chilled t'th' bone, th' three of ye!" Sir Hugo shouted to the boys, who had given up on snowballs and had gone for tackling each other and heaping armloads of snow over heads and shoulders, breaking off just long enough to chase Charlotte and make her screech. "Hot cocoa at Dun Roman ! Leave off and saddle up!"

And off they went to Sir Hugo's estate, and his eccentric home with its wide and deep porches all round. It had been a Celtic dun, a hill fort, once in the early-earlys, then a Roman legionary watch-tower, then a tumbledown ruin, which Sir Hugo had incorporated into one corner of his home-site, and partially re-furbished; his folly some called it, like the architectured grottoes some very rich landowners had erected in their gardens, lacking only a hired hermit to make them authentic. Moated, once, outer fosse wall restored, though most stone work blocks had gone to make the foundation of Sir Hugo's house. The boys found it the very finest play-fort that any lad could wish.

When it was Phineas Chiswick's land, I courted Caroline there, Lewrie painfully recalled as they topped a rolling rise and the broken-toothed tower came into view; spread a blanket outside the fosse… chilled our wine bottles in the stream… kissed her the first time. Where'd all that go? Oh, right. I'm a bastard… in more ways than one!

"Last one t'th' door's a Turk in a turban!" Sir Hugo shouted, spurring his mount, and they were off, snow, slush, and turf spraying from their horses' hooves, and all, Charlotte included, hallooing and whooping with happiness-'til she came in last, of course, was dubbed that Turk in a turban, and got all sulky again.

Respectability had altered the celebration of Christmas, even in Alan Lewrie's times. Gangs of drunken revellers invading a house, led by the Lord of Mis-Rule and bought off with food and drink, were not much seen any longer, even in tumultuous, unruly London. The old custom of church "ales" in which every communicant in the parish, wealthy or poor, honest or otherwise, drank and supped together were things of the past in all but the most rural places, mostly reduced to a supper hosted by landowners for their own cottagers and labourers, more of a post-harvest celebration than a religious one.

So the Lewries, the Trenchers, the Chiswicks, and several other families, direct kin or long-time neighbours, spent Christmas Eve at Uncle Phineas's, with gay dancing right out and carols and hymns round the harpsichord replacing merriment. Mostly due to the fact that Phineas Chiswick would not pay for musicians, and held that too much gaiety anent the Birth of the Saviour was irreligious and unseemly. There was not enough wine to enliven things, anyway, or wash down their mediocre supper.

They coached home round ten in the evening, gathered about their own harpsichord, and sang and played livelier airs on their own, with Lewrie on his penny-whistle, Charlotte scraping away on her small violin, Sewallis strumming a guitar, and Hugh making odd notes on his recorder. There was hot chocolate, with scones and jam to make up for the supper, and… from the kitchens the competing sounds of Liam Desmond and his uilleann lap-pipes, the thudding of Patrick Furfy on a shallow bodhran drum, and someone on the fife.

"Sounds like they're havin' a good time," Lewrie said as their last passable effort at a carol came to a merciful end. "Let's have my lads in for tune or two, and a glass of something."

Mrs. Calder, who had been rocking and knitting in silent disapproval in the corner, gave a faint snort and looked to her mistress to scotch such nonsense.