Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Trade

"And, when they see you, Lewrie… should they, that is to say," Twigg added, his acidic aspersion dripping, "I adjure you to display a proper gravitas suitable to your station, and circumstances. One might even practice righteousness in a mirror… though I doubt you're that familiar with it. Play-act a 'tarpaulin sailor,' perhaps, all blunt, and tarry-handed. Rehearse responses of wide-eyed honesty to the most probable questions they might put to you… a list of which I'll send round… damned short responses, it goes without saying. Do you give your… saucy nature free play even for a moment, such as your last, witless fillip, and I assure you that you're truly lost."

A short turn north in James Street, a tack westerly to Wigmore Street, and they were at last arrived at the corner of Duke Street, and Twigg drew them to the kerbings before a splendid converted mansion that now boasted a discreet blass plate by the entry that announced the place as the Madeira Club, Lewrie's father's "gentlemen's hotel."

"Hellish-fond of their ports," Twigg said with a sniff. "Sup in. Do not stray to your usual low haunts," he brusquely ordered as Lewrie mast-thankfully alit on solid, un-moving, ground. The doors opened and a liveried porter came down the steps to help carry his traps. "I will be in touch with you, anon. And for God's sake, Lewrie! Have yourself a good, long bathe, sponge your uniform, or purchase a new'un. You are as filthy as a Thames-side mud-lark!"

With that to cackle over, Twigg whipped up and away, leaving Capt. Alan Lewrie muttering under his breath, and slowly dribbling road-slime on the sidewalk.

R ighteousness came rather easy to hand at the Madeira Club, for most of its lodgers and guests were of the very same sort of "made men" whom Twigg had disparaged over dinner at his Hampstead bungalow, newly rich or at least moderately well-to-do off steam engines, the mills and manufacturies that had sprung up due to the war's demands, expanding overseas trade despite said war, and clerks and functionaries returned from India or other colonies as "chicken nabobs," worth ?50,000 at the very least, even some "nabobs" and "gora-nabobs" with nouveau riche fortunes of ?100,000 or more, even some few who could nearly be called by the new-fangled term "millionaire." Even with his Spanish silver, Lewrie was a piker compared to most of them. After he let drop that he was a friend of Sir Malcolm Shockley, Baronet, one of the club's founders and major investors, though, once he declared that his father was Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, the other founder, he was welcome enough there. Serving officers, in the main, holders of King's Commission, were not expected to be anything but middling-poor, so he was forgiven! And if he wasn't exactly a paid-up official member, he surely would be, soon.

God, but they were an earnest lot, though! Early to bed, early to rise, no loud noises after ten in the evening, their wagers on card games in the so-called Long Room never ventured much above a shilling or two, and every meal was preceded with a prayer. Alan Lewrie had to give his father credit, though, when it came to the victuals, and most especially to the contents of the wine cellar. If one had no valet or manservant to assist, a gentleman could trust the staff to fill a role temporarily, and with all the quiet, unobtrusive competence of the best private mansion's staff.

The maidservants, of course, were homely, old trullibubs.

The chariot ride did require Lewrie to purchase a complete new uniform at his old Fleet Street tailor's; whilst there, he also got a rather drab and sober civilian suit, imagining that if the city's bailiffs were on the lookout for a Capt. Lewrie, RN, they might not look twice at a natty fellow in mufti, as the East India Company officers put it. And, if he appeared to be sober, grave, and righteous before his potential patrons in unremarkable (but well-cut) clothes, it might go a long way towards furthering his cause. Lewrie didn't imagine that prim Clapham Sect and Evangelical Society sorts would care very much for "flash" on their own backs… or on their penitents, either. With his fellow lodgers' attires to go by, Lewrie thought he'd made a wise move.

"That's the question, d'ye see, Captain Lewrie," one member told him as they sat side-by-side in matching leather chairs before a cheery fire one night in the Common Rooms. After a hearty supper, and two bottles of smuggled French cabernet sloshed down, Mr. Giles, who'd made his fortune in the leather-goods trade, had turned nigh-gloomily voluble in his maunderings, to which Lewrie, in his new "sober" guise, was forced to listen, nod, and make the appropriate "ah hums" and "I sees."

"What t'do with sudden wealth, sir," Mr. Giles said with a sigh, as if ?250,000 was an intolerably sinful burden. "To spend and get and waste it on mere pleasures and fripperies, as most do, when presented with a windfall, an un-looked-for inheritance? Why did God intend for me to prosper, and not others? Thankee for the port, sir… aahh! If one ponders it a bit, one sees that wealth hidden under the proverbial bushel basket, greedily squirreled away, benefits no one. The Lord may mean for us to make ourselves comfortable, but not showy, then use His rewards for our hard work and diligence to the benefit of others, d'ye see. To be useful, of avail to improve others' lots…"

Mr. Giles was a Methodist, and a Utilitarian.

"Treat the sick," Lewrie surmised, "feed the poor, all that."

"New hospitals, yes sir," Mr. Giles replied. "Work-houses, and parish poor-houses to relieve the unfortunate, the orphans, the widows. Good works among 'em, too. Not outright charity, though. Schools for the lower classes, so that they learn honest trades, thrift, sobriety, and obedience to the laws of the realm-"

"Chastity…" Lewrie stuck in, feigning an agreeable air.

"Oh my, yes, Captain Lewrie!" Giles heartily agreed. "As well as cleanliness in their persons and habitations, and the way they live their lives. Now, Mister Putney, yonder…" Giles said, indicating a sallow stick of a fellow who looked as if an entire host of tropical diseases had had fun playing with him, "was the Collector of, uhm… some Indian city or province… Sweaty-Pore, or some such like that. Came home with an hundred thousand pounds, and what's the very first thing he did with it?"

Found a better physician, was Lewrie's best guess.

"Donated two thousand to tract societies, to spread word of new morality throughout London and Portsmouth, ha!" Giles boasted, clapping a palm on the wide arm of his leather chair-which act resulted in a waiter fetching them both a fresh bottle of the house's trademark Madeira, which wasn't exactly what Mr. Giles had in mind, but was welcome nonetheless.

"And the poor academies and Sunday schools, I trust, teach them to actually read those tracts?" Lewrie asked, smiling congenially, but bored about to tears and wide yawns. "All improving, and… useful."

"Exactly, sir, exactly," Giles chummily agreed. "Now, our Major Baird is also a 'graduate' of our Indian possessions," he said, indicating another well-tanned man in his thirties in a "ditto" suit of such starkly unrelieved black that Lewrie had taken him for a "dominee." "I heard he only came off, of late, with thirty thousand, mostly in looted pagan baubles, tsk tsk." Lewrie wasn't sure whether Mr. Giles was sad that Maj. Baird hadn't piled up loot by the keg, or had had a bad run of luck at plundering the poorer rajahs. "Invalided out of East India Company's army, sad t'say for him, poor fellow, but before he departed, I'm told he donated enough to hire a C. of E. chaplain to minister to the needs of the native soldiers in his regiment. He and his Colonel held Sunday Church Parade, rain or shine, and succeeded in converting a fair number of heathens to the Lord, before coming Home. In the market for a wife is Major Baird, at present, and I'm certain that the Good Lord will reward his efforts a thousand-fold, by steering his steps to a most suitable and companionable match, of a like mind."