Dewey Lambdin - King`s Captain

"No casualties… and no damage," Sir John mused heavily. "I do declare. Good, though. Good. 'Tis been a bloody-enough day."

"Well, for the Dons, much worse, sir," Nelson prattled on. "I must think they suffered ten times worse than us. You've been aboard the prize-ships, seen…"

"Aye," Sir John grunted, clapping one hand behind his back to pace himself back to his usual taciturn grumpiness. "So you may sail off towards Cadiz and 'smoak' the dispositions of their remaining warships, sir?" He directed this to Lewrie.

"Aye, Sir John," Lewrie said automatically. "Though… we are a tad worn down, sir. I was hoping to careen her, re-copper her bottom. A short spell in port before…" Should I doff my hat to him too?

"You've been in commission since… Captain Calder?"

"Three years, this month, Sir John," Calder supplied, off the top of his head.

"We shall make other arrangements then," Sir John said, almost mournfully. But instantly there was a twinkle in his eyes. "Lewrie, today is Valentine's Day. I shall make you a present. Remain under my lee 'til I send you written orders."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"And, well done, Lewrie. Damn' foolhardy, but well done."

"There was a lot of that going round today, sir. I think it must be catching," Alan allowed himself to jape.

"… called the San Nicolas my 'Patent Bridge for Boarding First Rates,' ha, ha!" Nelson could be heard to titter in his high voice. "Up and over, without a pause, 'board the San Jose, d'ye see."

Lewrie cocked a chary brow at that statement; Nelson was never a shy man when it came to taking acclaim-he'd seen that preening side to him before. And he most-cynically suspected no one had called it that yet- Nelson had made it up himself. For his vaulting vanity!

Damn' fool! Lewrie sighed. Never knew when to stop troweling it on!

Servants were sporting trays of drinks 'round, and Lewrie snagged himself one and took a welcome sip of a very good claret. Old Jarvy's best, he imagined, saved for a rare occasion such as this.

"By the by, Commander Lewrie," Captain Calder purred, stepping over to him. "Just before this little set-to, we received some mails for the fleet. I do believe, should you speak to our First Officer, he has yours ready to hand."

"Mail, sir!" Lewrie enthused. It had been weeks since he'd had news from home. "I can't think of a single thing more to make this day any more perfect."

"Uhmm… is that some cat hair on your coat, sir?"

Nearly nine o'clock of the Evening Watch and almost time that all glims and lanthorns were doused for fear of fire in the night hours. Even a captain had to heed the Master At Arms. There was still time, though, to race through just one more letter from his wife, Caroline, back home in Anglesgreen, then give them all a slower, more loving perusal the next morning.

He swiveled and craned under the swaying overhead lanthorn for the most light at his desk, idly stroking a sleeping Toulon, atop the attractively crinkly discard pile of other mail from chandlers, tailors, bankers, and such, tucked up all Sphinx-like.

… has purchased three hundred acres of Land, talked of

running up a manse, just by the old ruined tower

where long ago we pledged our mutual Love…

Lewrie flipped back a page or two, looking for a clue. Was this some new botheration from Harry Embleton or his father, the baronet? That was Chiswick land, just by his own rented acres, land he stood a chance to inherit (his brother-in-law, Governour, for certain) once old Uncle Phineas Chiswick went "toes up" (and, pray God, soon!). Phineas would never sell a three-hundred-acre tract off whilst living and would likely find a way to tuck it in his coffin and hoist it off to Perdition with him! Just for spite! In fact, he'd rather die than give away a single blade of grass to a passing drover's goat! Ah…!

… to England, and has been making the most

perfect Hooraw in the village since. And he

now lodges on Us, until he discovers suitable

quarters; which, as I am certain you understand,

Dearest, has caused no end of Upset…

Must be further back, Lewrie puzzled. If her brother, Burgess, had returned from service with the East India Company army, Caroline would be over the moon with joy, would never express reservations, even if he came back sick, lame, or bankrupt! More like, he could lodge with Phineas and his mother in that drab pile, with Governour and Millicent at their new house.

"Now where the deuce…" Lewrie grumbled half-aloud, sorting out the fronts and backs of the hefty letter. There came the crisp clang of two bells up forrud, the stamp of boots, and a musket butt from the marine sentry at his main deck door, almost at the same instant.

"Master At Arms, sah! Reports 'darkened ship,' sah!"

"Christ on a crutch!" Lewrie yelped.

"Sah?"

"Very well… carry on then… Jesus!" Lewrie barked back.

… the proper Respect and Deference due your

sire, and most of all, Dearest, that tender

Consideration I feel bound to show Brigadier

Sir Hugo as my father-in-law, though, until his

un-looked-for arrival, we had never met.

"My bloody father!" Lewrie muttered. "Aye, dark, alright. Dark and gettin' darker!"

I pray you, though, Alan, should you have any

suggestions as to how to finesse this matter,

I beg you write at once and tell me… what shall

I do with your father?

Load those pistols I left in my study was Lewrie's first thought; send to the blacksmith's for a gross of chastity belts was his second. Then-best yet- run!

Non equidem invideo; mirror magis; undique totis

usque adeo tubatur agris.

Well, I grudge you not-rather I marvel;

such unrest is there on all sides in the land.

– The Eclogues, I, 11-12

Virgil

It should have been a glad day. Yet to Lewrie it seemed to be one of infinite sadness. Though the harbour waters were sparkling and glittering, the skies were fresh-washed blue, stippled with benign and pristine brush-stroked clouds; the sun was bright; and the day was just warm enough to be mild, yet not hot enough to be oppressive; and gulls and other seabirds swooped and dove and hovered with springtime delight… it was his last day. The morning he surrendered command of HMS Jester.

Admiral Sir John Jervis's Valentine's Day "present," following the Battle of Cape Saint Vincent, was a quick dash into Lisbon for two days Out-of-Discipline, an aboard-ship revel with the Portugee whores and something approaching a monumental drunk for all hands. And once the last doxy had been chivvied ashore, the last smuggled wine bottle tipped overside, and the last thick head had returned to normal use, they had stripped Jester of top-masts, stores, and artillery for her first careenage since Leghorn, the middle of '95. Tons of weed, slime, and barnacles had been sluiced, swabbed, chipped, or fired off her hull; and what little they could do to replace missing copper sheets, or tar over and paint over, had been performed before re-floating her, giving her that long-delayed "lick and a promise" above the waterline, before re-stocking her, re-arming her, and setting her masts up anew.

It was only then that Lewrie could announce to his men that they were off for Portsmouth to de-commission; off for Home and England! And Jester's decks had rung with whooping cheers and tears of joy!

He'd wished he'd known sooner; four hands had trickled off from the working parties, entered on ship's books as "Run." Had they known earlier that Jester was bound for England, they might have stayed on to see their families again and collect the pay owed them, which was nearly eighteen months overdue, which, given the times and the Navy's slack accounting system, was actually a little better-than-normal delay.