Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Trade

"I am sure the rumours are indeed scurrilous, and baseless, my good sir," Lewrie pretended to growl in support of Nelson's fame.

"Lady Emma gambles, sir," the Flag-Lieutenant bleakly sniffed.

"Uhm, aye, as I recall…"

"Gambles to excess, sir. And a woman who wagers like a man is utterly lost, " the junior officer primly stated, all but wringing his hands that his paragon would even associate with such a woman.

Never been to Bath… have ye? Lewrie drolly thought. Seeing in which quarter the wind was blowing, Lewrie decided to trim sails to suit. "She came from low degree, don't ye know, sir… an actress for a time, so I heard. Mistress to Sir William Hamilton's own kin for a bit… bought off him as token for gambling debts. Bedded, risen in foreign societies, then only properly married years later. A dancer au naturel, hey? Would've done her scanty-clad 'impressions' for the Hellfire Club, she'd been old enough."

And wouldn't 't Father have loved that! Lewrie happily considered.

" 'Tis a pity, though, sir, that Lord Nelson cannot be more discerning of the company he keeps," the Flag-Lieutenant fretted. "A man so high-minded and intent 'pon defeating the King's enemies might not even be aware of what people in England might construe from, ah…"

"Lie down with dogs, at Admiralty Orders, mind," Lewrie said to comfort the older fellow, who most-like would serve out his years as an humble "catch-fart" to shore-bound admirals, never pace a quarterdeck, and could but savour vicarious joy from newspapers that cited his hero, "and one cannot help but rising with a flea or two."

And, haven't I just! Lewrie told himself, recalling all those sordid duties he'd performed for King and Country in the company of an host of "foreign hounds." Though, some of them had been handsomer than others, and delightful temporary company.

"I am certain you are right, Captain Lewrie," the Flag-Lieutenant at last agreed, though nowhere near happy about his hero being slurred. "As I said, I do believe we have concluded our business. May I congratulate you on your return to England, and humbly wish you success in all your future endeavours."

"Whatever those may be," Lewrie said with a smile, rising at the same moment as the other officer. "You've heard nothing of any foreign expeditions that need a stout frigate, or…?"

"Not for me t'say, sir… though, with that Frog general, that Bonaparte, just returned to France, there still may be some actions to be taken to clean up the Mediterranean, again. Malta 's still in French hands, half of Italy, the Adriatic, and the Ionian Islands… my word, Captain Lewrie! You may very well end up serving under our Nelson one more time!"

Lewrie was about to blurt out that he'd met that little prick, Napoleone Buenaparte, back at the siege of Toulon, too, but, after a quick second forebore; the Flag-Lieutenant had already looked at him askance for a braggart, once. He didn't wish to leave the impression of a Falstaff-no matter that flag-lieutenants had no say in things, a Port Admiral's ink-spotted clerk most especially, still there was a chance that an off-hand remark might linger.

"I'll call upon Captain Saxton, then, and thank you for all your help, sir," Lewrie amiably said, bowing his way to the door.

A brisk stroll 'cross the sprawling dockyards took him to the Commissioner's offices, where he found half a dozen officers waiting ahead of him, got told that an appointment could be made for the next day, but his ship's needs could be addressed, had he the requisite ream of chits and documents handy.

"A total refit will it be, Captain Lewrie?" a weary clerk asked with a total lack of enthusiasm as Lewrie produced a thick sheaf from his haversack, as the waiting captains smirked among themselves.

"Just done at Halifax… stores, mostly," Lewrie replied.

"Thank the Good Lord, then, sir," the clerk brightened. "I may work you in tomorrow at… shall we say nine, sir?"

"Nine it'll be, thankee," Lewrie quickly agreed. "Fresh mail for Proteus.. . stuff not yet handed over to the packet, yet. Might there be any? And, who do I see about it? Lewrie… Ell-Eee-Double You… Arr… Eye… Eee. Proteus …" he said, as the clerk penned scribbles in a ledger-sized book atop his waist-high desk.

"Post storage is down the hall to the right, 'cross the yard to the red-brick building, and there you are, Captain Lewrie."

"Ah! Fine, then. See you tomorrow!"

He left the offices, went down the hall, crossed the yard, was presented by a row of red-brick buildings, but found the one that had a "Post-Boy" gridiron flag flying atop it, and entered.

"Not much, sir," a grimy, very old clerk finally told him, with a limp canvas sack in his hands, after a thorough rousting through the dusty shelves and hundreds of similar bags. "Sign here, sir. Then on this line… then this 'un," the mail-clerk croupily required, whilst coughing up a lung on the thick fug of coal smoke from a badly drawing fireplace.

Lewrie thought of going back aboard Proteus with the sack still bound, of receiving dire news in the privacy and safety of his great-cabins… where he could rant, weep, scream at the unfairness of it, toss back several reviving brandies, and plot a solo escape overside in the wee hours, but a most dreadful curiosity took him. After years in the Royal Navy, he'd been drilled to paw over the stacks of mail at once to separate the official from the personal, then open and read the official, first; he'd been whipped as a Midshipman for not adhering to that nautical custom, so…

Near the piers was a lacklustre coffee-house, where Lewrie knew the brew more-resembled dish-water, but an establishment where a chap could sit and sip in relative anonymity… were one not a Nelson, of course, whose phyz was on everything from portrait prints to ale mugs, by then. Once there, he could sort out anything horrid addressed to him, and mull over his prospects… or a new career as a brothel-master in Calcutta!

"Oh, wait one, sir!" the grimy old clerk called out before he'd laid hold of the office's doorknob. "Thought there woz somethin' come in I should' a put in th' sack," the fellow said, shuffling over to the pigeon-hole racks and mumbling to himself. "Come in 'is very mornin', it did, now where'd I, ah! Here ye go, Cap'm Lewrie, o' the Proteus frigate! Sign here, sir, ye'd be so kind. An' here… an' here."

"Thankee," Lewrie numbly said, taking note of the creaminess of the paper, the heaviness and expense of the bond, as he turned it over and over in his hands, fresh, crisp, new-mailed corners still intact, and not a jot of smut from being transferred from pillar to post… except for the clerk's coal-sooted fingers, of course. It was sealed with a large blob of brown wax, which wax topped and cemented two wide bands of black riband together. Grim-lookin', Lewrie shudderingly told himself; grim as a death-notice! And, whoever had sent it didn't trust to mere wax to seal the flapped-over paper's corners to keep the contents private, but had bound it north-south, then east-west, to boot! A seal had been pressed into the wax, but it was one he thankfully didn't recognise. It wasn't Admiralty, and thank God it wasn't from a Crown Court, not even a barrister or solicitor!

To hell with tepid dish-water! Once outside in the cold airs, he sat Proteus 's mail sack at his feet and tremulously pried open the seal and ribands, unfolded the flaps, and…

Sir

Upon receipt of this letter, copies of which have been despatched to all major naval seaports where you could be expected to call, you will, AT ONCE, attend me to discuss a matter which may, are you not expeditious, redound to your utter peril and ruin. My address is enclosed, and I shall make my self available to you at any hour you are able to arrive. But, be quick about coming to London!