Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Trade

In an evil way, it went without saying.

L ewrie had to bite the lining of his mouth to keep a tranquil face on, as Mr. Twigg exhausted his highly-amused outburst; he eased off from red-faced brays to napkin-covered "titters," thence at last to a top-lofty and nose-high sardonically-superior air of very faint humour-lordly chuckles of the arrogant kind, which more suited Mr. Twigg's usual nature.

"Oh, Lewrie…" Twigg finally drawled, after a restorative sip of wine. "Believe me, sir, did I wish you destroyed, professionally or personally, such a nefarious ploy would never be required. All I'd have to do is sit back and watch you do in yourself! Besides… what reason would I have to attempt such… hmm? Merely because your ways of prosecuting the King's enemies now and then row me beyond all temperance?"

"Well…"

"Which they do… now and then," Twigg intoned, with a vicious twinkle in his eyes, as if he enjoyed turning this particular victim on his roasting spit. "Despite the mute insubordination you've shewn me whenever we've been thrown together… your truculent reluctance to sully your hands with underhanded duties that force you to get out of bed earlier than is your wont… or, out of some doxy's bed, more to the point… I have always been more than amply-gratified with the results you achieved, and have expressed my satisfaction with you, and your methods of fulfilling my aims, to your, and my, superiors following our ev'ry assignment.

"Secret reports, of course," Twigg added, with a casual wave of his free hand, the sort of gesture that put Lewrie in mind of someone tossing tidbits overboard to the sharks. "Bless my soul, must I have gushed? Does your long-held enmity arise from a lack of vocal praise? Was I remiss in not patting you on the back… or the top of the head? Would a box of sweets make up for it?" Twigg posed facetiously.

"Damn my eyes…!" Lewrie began to say.

"No matter what you've thought over the years, Lewrie, I admire your good qualities," Twigg stated as he reached for his knife and his fork once more. "On the, other hand, your good qualities have at times been rather damned hard to find, but…"

A mouthful of food, a cock of the head as he savouried it, then a palate-cleansing nibble of bread and a sip of wine followed Twigg's admission.

"I will confess that my sense of duty, and urgency in the fulfillment of that duty, might have given you the impression that you're little more than an occasionally borrowed gun-dog of doubtful lineage," Twigg said on, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. "I have gathered that I sometimes do act more brusquely with others than they might've preferred, but… to use a military simile, it little matters to me do the officers' mess dine me in as a 'jolly good fellow,' just so long as they perform as required to attain success 'gainst our foes."

No J Really? Lewrie thought tongue-in-cheek; Such an out-going and amiable fellow like yourself? Perish the thought!

"Believe me when I tell you, Lewrie," Mr. Twigg continued, now stern-faced and cold, "that people who've displeased me in the past I have ruined, for the good of the country, and, when naval or military force was involved, for the good of their respective services, in the long view. Had I really felt call to ruin you, whyever had I not had you cashiered years ago, hey?"

"Well…" Lewrie was forced to realise.

"Your personal life… such as it is…" Twigg scoffed on, with a leery roll of his eyes, "has no bearing on your public life, or your service to the Navy. Unless you were a drunkard, a rapist, or a brute so heedless and flagrant as to become a public spectacle, and a newspaper sensation. Thankfully, you're rather a mild sort of sinner. You know how to keep your 'itches' scratched with little notice. Sub Rosa, as it were. As an English gentleman should, or he ceases being a gentleman, and then you'd deserve ev'ry bit of your come-uppance."

Lewrie could have little to say to that. He squirmed a little more on his chair, and blushed like a Cully chastened by a very stern old vicar, ready to swear he'd never do whatever it was, again.

"Put me in mind of the Scot poet Robert Burns, you do, Lewrie," Twigg said with a thin-lipped smile and a simper. "Know of him, hey?"

"Aye," Lewrie allowed himself to admit.

"Burns said of himself that he was, ah… 'a professional fornicator with a genius for paternity,' " Twigg quoted with a chuckle.

"Ah-hmm, " Lewrie said, clearing his throat with a fist against his mouth.

"Despite that, Burns wrote simply marvellous songs and poems," Twigg allowed, thawing a little. "Despite your shortcomings, you are an invaluable asset to the Navy, and the Crown, Lewrie, and I'll not let you be 'scragged' over this smarmy jape of yours 'gainst the Beauman family. Not 'til this war is done, and we've wrung the last drop of usefulness from you. You're as much a weapon as any broadside of guns ever you, or anyone else, fired."

"Thank you, sir," Lewrie felt called to reply, with a shiver of relief that someone, no matter how horrid, was on his side. Under the circumstances, perhaps horrid, devious, and brutal aid was just what was needed!

"Besides…" Twigg simpered again. "Watching you twist about in the wind is devilish-amusing… now and then. Eat up, man! Your food's going cold, and 'tis too tasty to go to waste. More wine? See to him, Ajit Roy jee. Bharnaa opar! Fill him up!"

Suddenly in a much better mood, Lewrie accepted more piping-hot rice, more yogurt gravy, more slices of meat, and began to eat, about to rave over the exotic, long-missed, flavours, 'til…

"How to achieve that aim, though… aye, there's the rub," Mr. Twigg mused over new-steepled fingers, with his fierce hatchet face in a daunting scowl. "Stealing those slaves and making sailors out of 'em rather exceeded your usual harum-scarum antics. Left 'em in the shade, as it were."

"You mentioned that Sir Malcolm Shockley might be of some help, sir?" Lewrie dared to suggest, with curry sauce tingling his lips.

"Aye, Shockley. He likes you, and he isn't your run-of-the-mill backbencher in the Commons, either. No Vicar of Bray, is he, nor is he the Great Mute, either. Allied with Sir Samuel Whitbread, and those younger 'progressives' who associate with him. Shockley's not a typical 'Country-Put,' like most of our rural, squirearchy, 'John Bull' Members are… damn 'em for the unsophisticate twits they are. There's wit behind his eyes!"

"Fox, perhaps, sir?" Lewrie chimed in, hopefully

"The Great Commoner?" Twigg sneered. "Following the Spithead and the Nore naval mutinies, the Prime Minister, Pitt the Younger, and the Tories crushed the man. I fear that the formerly-esteemed Charles James Fox is as powerless as a parish pensioner… and has about as many friends. That will be a real problem for you, for most of those who revile the institution of slavery are the same ones who spoke out so openly in praise of the French Revolution in

the late '80s… men like Jeremy Bentham, Doctor Joseph Priestley, Wedgwood, the pottery fellow, Boulton and Watt, the steam-engine men, and the light-headed scribblers such as Blake and Coleridge… even Robert Burns, come to think of it. All the so-called Progressives, what? They run with the same pack. Still, that was ten years ago, and memories fade. No one got round to hanging them for uttering such rot, even if the French made them honorary citizens for their vocal public support."

"But, that was before the Frogs lopped off King Louis's head," Lewrie sourly observed.