“I do know that the Dutch had shoved hundreds of guns in both forts, Mister Marsden,” Lewrie went on to fill a sudden uncomfortable silence, “both iron and bronze cannon, of heavy and medium calibre, for defence to seaward, and lighter guns against troops. At least, I do recall that they were still there when I was there, long after Lord Keith, Captain Elphinstone then, first took the place.”
“Uhmhmm,” Mr. Marsden at last said, leaning forward to dip his pen in an ink-well, “where do you lodge when up in London, Sir Alan?”
“The Madeira Club, at the corner of Duke and Wigmore Streets, sir,” Lewrie told him, sensing that the interview was over, whether he’d been successful or not.
“I will send you my decision shortly, Sir Alan,” Marsden promised, still looking glum and dubious. “We cannot keep you hanging on tenter-hooks and idle in town whilst the Fleet is denied the use of your frigate,” Marsden said as he finished scribbling the address on a scrap of paper.
“That would be most welcome, sir,” Lewrie told him, preparing to rise and depart. “Either way, clean bottom or foul, I am sure that Channel Fleet will soon find Reliant useful, unless—”
“Captain Home Riggs Popham may find your ship, and your previous experience, useful as well,” Marsden said with a vague-looking smile. “It is he who is to hoist his broad pendant and command the expedition.”
Marsden briefly pursed his lips in a wee moue, as if the choice of officer commanding had not been his. “The fellow who devised the signal flag code. A clever fellow.”
That didn’t sound like much of a recommendation, either.
“Oh!” Lewrie said, perking up. “I served under him briefly, in the winter of 1804, when we made that attack on the port of Calais with catamaran torpedoes and fireships!”
That was not much of a recommendation on Lewrie’s part, either, for the experimental expedition had been a shambles. The few catamaran torpedoes loosed on wind and tide had failed utterly, with only one of them actually exploding, and that nigh miles away from anything that could have charitably been called a real target, and the one fireship had swanned about like a hound on a dozen scents at once before blowing up harmlessly. Perhaps the French had enjoyed the show, and their brief respite from utter boredom.
“Yayss, I do now recall that you were seconded to experimental trials with torpedoes,” Marsden drawled in sour amusement. “A damned foolish idea, those. And, did you enjoy working with Popham?”
“A most inspiriting man, sir,” Lewrie replied, “just bung-full of ideas, and energy.”
“Oh, yes!” Marsden archly agreed, with a grimace. “Energetic, enterprising, and a most mercurial fellow, is Captain Popham. As industrious as an ant hill, just brimming with new ideas. He makes one wonder how he keeps all his balls in the air at the same time, like a juggler at a street fair. A rather un-orthodox man. Who knows what he’ll pull out of his hat next.”
What the Hell have I talked myself into? Lewrie wondered.
“Well, sir,” Lewrie said, getting to his feet, “thank you again for seein’ me, and I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”
“Good day to you, Captain Lewrie,” Marsden said with a parting smile, if only to be gracious, “and look for my decision by letter at your lodgings.”
Whether he knew that Reliant would be seen to or not, whether he would get orders for Cape Town or the utter dullity of the blockade with a foul bottom, Lewrie put a confident grin on his face for the benefit of those still idling in the Waiting Room. He trotted down the stairs to reclaim his hat and cloak with a spry and cocky show of glee and energy. He doubted that Marsden would have a decision to send him by the end of the day, so he might have time to do some brief shopping to supplement his kit and his personal stores.
There was another letter that he was even more eager to recieve. Now, if only Lydia Stangbourne had not yet left for Portsmouth, there was a chance that he might have a supper companion tonight, and perhaps much, much more!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
That lascivious hope lasted just long enough for Lewrie to pop into the Madeira Club and ask the desk clerk if there had been a reply to his morning note to Lydia’s London residence. There was, indeed, but it was merely a folded-over piece of scrap paper, written in an awkward scrawl in pencil, which stated that Miss Lydia had departed for Portsmouth the previous morning and did not say when she would be returning, signed by someone who claimed to be the family butler, and if it was written in English, his name looked to be Gullyfart or Cully’s Tart. The desk clerk, when consulted, could not make heads or tails of it, either; his best guess was Cuffysdart.
“Is there anything else for me?” Lewrie asked, deflating.
“Just the one, sir,” the clerk told him.
That’un was properly wax-sealed and written in an elegant hand, on good bond paper, to boot. Lewrie had sent a note round to his father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, to inform him that he was in town. Not that Lewrie really cared a fig to see the old fart, but it was what one did to be sociable, and remain in the will … assuming that the old lecher didn’t turn dotty in his head and squander all he had on whores and courtesans and race horses.
He was almost (but not quite) disappointed to discover that his father had other plans for the evening with an intriguing lady just new-come to London. Sir Hugo did not propose an alternate time for him to call, unless he was long in London, and didn’t have to rush back to his ship right away. Sir Hugo was sure he would understand.
I surely do, Lewrie thought in a foul humor; I can always count on my father … he’ll let me down every time!
He slouched into the Common Room and flung himself down into one of the leather wing chairs near the fireplace, wondering what he could do. He ordered American whisky from the steward who came to his side, but there was none available; would Spanish brandy suit, or might he settle for a Scottish whisky? Lewrie stuck with the brandy.
As intently as he’d peered at every passing coach-and-four that had been bound to Portsmouth on the road the day before, he had missed sight of Lydia’s equipage. How irked might she be to arrive, after dark and in a nippy drizzle, most-like, to find that no set of rooms had been booked for her at The George Inn, their usual trysting place, for the very good reason that he hadn’t gotten confirmation that she would be coming down? How even further irked might Lydia be to send word to Reliant and learn that he’d dashed off to London, leaving her to her own devices—without even leaving an explanatory note to mollify her!
It ain’t like we’re married or anything like that, Lewrie told himself, his mood becoming a tad anxious; I’ve not even given her “a packet o’ pins” as promise for anything! By God, though, if she ever speaks t’me after this, I’ll get an ugly ear full!
He considered hiring a coach that instant and dashing back to Portsmouth, no matter the perils of a night-time journey, but … no. He had to stay in London, bide close to the Madeira Club ’til he got word from Admiralty, whichever way that decision would go.
A damn good night t’get blind drunk! he concluded with a sigh, and waved his empty glass at the steward for a top-up.
* * *
Needless to say, his next morning was more than a tad blurry. After breakfast, and nigh an entire pot of hot, black coffee, Lewrie spent his time writing letters. Firstly, he penned a grovelling “forgive me” to Lydia to her Grosvenor Street house, explaining as best he was able why he had had to dash off. With no news from Admiralty, he then wrote letters to his sons, Sewallis and Hugh, who were at sea, Sewallis still most-like on the French blockade, and Hugh and his ship, as he’d learned, with Nelson in pursuit of that Frog Admiral Villeneuve and his large French fleet, its location still unknown.