Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Trade

Hardly any personal correspondence, though, Lewrie broodingly noted as he sat slumped at his desk in the day-cabin. A mocking note from his father, Sir Hugo, was the most recent, japing him on staying at his Madeira Club; something brief from Lord Peter Rushton, wishing him joy of his return to England-nigh indecypherable, of course, in his own hand. Peter might've included cheerful words of how he would do what he could in his cause in the House of Lords, since Lewrie did manage to make out a reference to having spoken with Mr. Twigg, but it was hard going without a magnifying glass and a Sanskrit or Arabic dictionary.

Slam! went the Marine sentry's musket butt on the deck without the great-cabins' main-deck doors. "First Off'cah, SAH!" he bellowed, all full of piss, vinegar, and temporary officialdom.

"Enter," Lewrie called out. Lt. Langlie ducked under the deck beams and door frame to come in, bearing a thick-ish bundle of paperwork, just as Aspinall bustled in a second or so behind him with his coffee-pot.

Two cups, and half an hour, later, and there was another twitter of calls from the gangway, the thud of a boat coming alongside, below the entry-port, in the midst of their reading and scribbling. Not one minute later, and Mr. D'arcy Gamble, their smartest and eldest Midshipman, was announced by the sentry, and entered the cabins.

"Captain, sir," Gamble reported with his hat under his arm. "A messenger from shore is come aboard with orders," he said, eyes bright with excitement for new adventures and new horizons.

"Have him in, then, Mister Gamble," Lewrie instructed.

"Aye aye, sir!"

A smartly-dressed and languidly-elegant older Midshipman entered next, all but yawning in boredom with his work-a-day duty, all but sniffing in disdain at such casually, comfortably garbed officers, so unlike himself.

"Captain Lewrie, sir?" he asked, as if he had to be convinced before he would turn over his precious documents to just any "hobble-de-hoy."

"Last time I looked, that would be me," Lewrie said from behind his desk, still seated, taking an instant dislike for the fellow, even if he did see a bit of himself, back when he'd been stuck ashore in the service of the Port Captain of English Harbour, Antigua. In younger days, when he'd appalled himself by actually wishing for another shipboard assignment despite his early loathing for a naval career, he had been just that supercilious, himself, to disguise his delight to be on a warship, even temporarily. "Orders, have you?"

"I do, sir," the young man replied, reaching into a tarred and waterproofed canvas haversack slung from one shoulder, and producing a ribbon-and-wax-sealed letter. "Just come from Admiralty, sir," Mr. Midshipman "Top-Lofty" formally intoned, as if uttering the magic word "Admiralty" made him a grander fellow.

Didn't beat 'em aboard by much, did I? Lewrie mused to himself as he stretched out a hand to accept them; Twigg must be working like a Trojan t'get me out of harm's reach.

"We done, Mister Langlie?" Lewrie asked his First Officer, who sat across from him, legs crossed, in one of Lewrie's leather-covered collapsing chairs, looking eager as a hound when the gun-cabinet was opened.

"Done to a turn, sir," Langlie replied, gathering up the last of his "bumf" into a neat pile; one copy for the ship, one copy for the yards.

"Then perhaps Mister… whatever your name is…"

"Catlett, sir. Midshipman Cat…"

"… would be so good as to bear all these back ashore for us, hey, Mister Langlie? Kill two birds with one stone, seeing as how he is on his way, hmm?" Lewrie dismissively suggested, quite enjoying his brief bit of spite. "Anything else, Mister Catlett?"

"Uhm, nossir," the crestfallen Midshipman replied.

"Well, there you are, then!" Lewrie said with a bright grin as he indicated that Langlie should hand Catlett the paperwork. "Do stay dry as you can, on the row ashore! Wouldn't want 'em smudged!"

"Very good, sir," Catlett intoned, sketched a brief bow, then departed, escorted by an equally disappointed Mr. Gamble, who had been hoping for at least a hint as to their new duties, and destination.

"A 'no-sailor' tailor's dummy," Lt. Langlie softly commented in dismissal of their visitor. "He'll never see the outer channel marks. I'll go, sir, and allow you…"he offered, starting to rise.

"Stay, Mister Langlie," Lewrie objected, waving him back down. "This concerns you as much as it does me," he said, breaking the seal and unfolding the large sheet of paper. He laid it on the desk-top, smoothed the crisp folds flat, and hunched over it under the slightly swaying lanthorn for the best light.

Uhmum, Lewrie thought; "required and directed," and all that… "making the best of your way," uhmum, "with all despatch," he read to himself, frowning over the urgency implied by those stock Admiralty phrases. What in Blazes has Twigg talked 'em into? he wondered.

"Oh, buggery," Lewrie uttered at last. "Mine arse on a band-box! He's not gone barking mad, yet? Holy shit on a…" he griped.

"Sir?" Lt. Langlie hesitantly asked, his brow furrowed.

"Convoy duty, Mister Langlie," Lewrie told him, looking up and sitting back into his chair. "We're to make all haste up-Channel for the Goodwin Sands, meet up with a 'Trade' of East Indiamen, and escort 'em at least as far as the Cape of Good Hope. Saint Helena, Recife in Portuguese Brazil, to Cape Town."

" Africa, sir!" Lt. Langlie enthused. "I've never been there."

"Haven't missed much, then," Lewrie told him.

Africa ! Bloody Africa? Lewrie furiously thought; Is this some sort of galling jape on my predicament? Want me t'turn my Black tars loose, there? Recruit even more, do they, damn their eyes? And damn Twigg, too. It must've been him who suggested it, the sly…!

"Uhm, far be it from me to presume further, sir, but… who is not yet daft, did you say?" Langlie curiously asked.

"Captain Sir Tobias Treghues," Lewrie bleakly said, "Knight and Baronet. One of my old captains in the American war, when I was still a Midshipman aboard HMS Desperate. Prim as a dowager, 'til a Frenchie swotted him in the head with the hard end of a rammer, and turned mad as a March Hare… on his off days… so, God knows what he's like now. Depending on the temperature, the latitude or longitude, what he's eat for breakfast…"

"Grim, d'ye expect, then, Captain, sir?" Langlie asked.

"Far be it from me to slur senior officers, Mister Langlie…" Lewrie gravelled, though recalling that yes, yes he always had, "but, are his wits flown him for a week or two, he can turn into a spherical bastard… a bastard no matter which way ye look at him. Next week, you're in his good books, and couldn't do wrong if you rammed him, on purpose! The Navy must be hellish needful, if he still holds active commission. I'd have thought Captain Treghues had been dismissed, or 'yellow squadroned,' years ago, when he inherited his title and all."

Lewrie took note of Lt. Langlie's "bland" expression; was that worthy trying to keep a straight face, or was he wondering whether his own captain was consistently "up to snuff"?

"Why, next you know, Mister Langlie, Admiralty might even be so desperate they'd offer me command!" Lewrie japed. "The damned fools."

His First Officer responded as junior officers should: grinning and issuing a silent chuckle over a senior's self-deprecating wit.

"Where stands the wind, then?" Lewrie snapped.

"An hour ago, 'twas a 'dead muzzier' from the South, sir, but I did feel a pinch of veer to it," Langlie answered. "By dawn, it could be more Sou'easterly."