Stroud's face lit up like sunshine after a quick peek shoreward, turning Lewrie's attention to a gig that was rowing so quick, on a beeline to Myrmidon, that it looked as if all the Hounds of Hell were at her heels. "That'll be our captain, sir," Stroud said, and slunk off out of throwing range, should the confrontation come to it; safely behind the fully accoutred Marines of the side-party. Marines who, Lewrie noted, were so bemused by the impending disaster as to go red in the face and sneak cutty-eyed looks at each other. Whether for a martinet's comeuppance or in commiseration for a good captain who was about to be caught with his breeches down, Lewrie didn't know.
"Ahoy, the boat!" Myrmidon's Bosun shouted the obligatory challenge. "Myrmidon!" The bow-man shouted back with leather-lunged demand, thrusting a hand aloft to show four fingers, no matter how often this ritual would be performed or how familiar her own gig and captain were to them.
There came the thud of the gig against the hull planking, then a soft curse as the bow-man missed the main-chains with his first try with his boat-hook. The rasp of steps on well-sanded boarding-batten timbers, a faint squeak as the pristine white man-ropes, most neatly served with decorative Turk's Heads, took a load, and twisted in the entry-port dead-end holes.
As Commander Fillebrowne's hat came level with the top batten of the entry-port, bosun's calls trilled, muskets were presented and the Marines stamped their booted feet in unison. Swords flashed with damascened dawn light on glittering silver fittings, and Myrmidon's people came to attention, bareheaded, facing starboard.
The officer who appeared on the gangway, doffing his hat to the crew, was not quite what Alan had expected. That he would be younger, in point of fact even younger than himself, didn't come as too much of a surprise. Service aboard a flagship, under the fond care of his doting "sea-daddy" and commander of the fleet, was an achingly envied shortcut to the usual years of plodding that most captains-to-be suffered; the sinecure of the very well connected-or immensely talented and promising, Lewrie reminded himself-was allowed to barely an hundredth of the Navy's junior officers.
No, the fact that Fillebrowne was so disarmingly not abashed by a career-ender for most others, was in fact all but smirking, was the shocker!
Fillebrowne was about Lewrie's height, though leaner, and a touch more elegant, even as hurried and disheveled as he looked. He sported rich, chestnut hair and dark blue eyes. Hair most unseamanlike, that; he'd lopped off the usual plaited long queue at the nape of his collar to wear it blocked over the gold lace, and had shorn it short enough to brush forward over his ears and temples, to lie upon his brow, like the style featured on the busts of Apollo-like Roman youths. It was a modern affectation of the youngbloods, the bucks-of-the-first-head back home, he'd learned from Charlton. Who'd been just about as leery over this new fad as Lewrie was. Fillebrowne was a damned handsome beast, too!
"Welcome back aboard, sir!" Stroud gushed, interposing between them before Lewrie could even raise a hand. "Sir, this is Commander Lewrie, HMS Jester. With immediate orders, sir."
"Commander Lewrie, sir, how do you do? Commander Fillebrowne. But then, you already know that, I must assume. Your servant, sir. Orders, did you say, Mister Stroud? Then I must also assume it means an immediate departure. Pipe 'Stations for Getting Under Way,' Mister Stroud, then report to me aft, once we are ready in all respects."
Damn' smooth, Lewrie thought; a languid tone, a hint of deviltry behind his smile, with his eyes twinkling like the cat that lapped the cream pot! And that bloody "Ox-mumble," like someone'd sewed his bloody jaws shut! Lewrie was more than ready to take a great dislike to this idle fop, who sounded as if his papa owned half a shire, with more titles to choose from than a dog had fleas!
"My abject apologies, Commander Lewrie, for not being aboard to receive you properly," Fillebrowne smarmed on, "but I had a pressing engagement ashore. Will you take a quick cup of coffee with me, sir? Tea? Whilst you discover to me the nature of these mystifying orders?"
With a graceful wave of one hand, a faint touch near Lewrie's arm that invaded his personal space without actually touching-which was an absolute taboo for proper English gentlemen, to actually touch each other unless it was a handshake or they'd known each other for years-Fillebrowne tried to propel Lewrie aft, towards the portal to his great-cabins. As it ordering him to join him aft, as if Lewrie were his junior!
"There'll be no time for that, sir," Lewrie snapped, turning mulish and stubborn, almost ready to plant his feet before allowing himself to be moved. "Your ship has been detached from the Fleet to a new squadron, under Captain Thomas Charlton. He's on his way here right now, and we're to meet with him off to the west, soon as-"
"Old Thomas?" Fillebrowne smiled. "How wonderful!"
Damme, I should have known, Lewrie chid himself; junior or no, I'll have to watch this bastard. He's more lines out than a raveled fothering-patch! Wonder who he doesn't know?
"-as soon as you can scrub her rouge off yer ears, Commander Fillebrowne," Lewrie concluded, putting a telling shot 'twixt his wind and water. "Costly piece, was she?"
Oh, God, that was a good'un, Lewrie exulted to himself; reproof, and a caution 'bout "costly." As in, costly to one's career. His own eyes twinkled, in spite of his best efforts to appear stern.
"Not tuppence, Commander Lewrie," Fillebrowne confessed, quite proudly. "I never pay. Not when there's so many obligin' sorts for free. Must confess I'm much obliged to you for arriving with new orders. Now I may escape this witch's cauldron, without a political scalding."
"Well connected, was she?" Lewrie enquired, thinking that some aristocratic papa would come looking for Fillebrowne with sword in his hand, and family honour and Mediterranean vendetta in his heart.
"God, no, sir, nothing like that." Fillebrowne chuckled. "A vintner's 'grass widow.' Quite tasty morsel, with him off to prune a vine or two on Mount Orello. Nossir, I refer to the lashes Old Jarvy would put on me once he learned the locals don't want us here."
"That's why our troops are still aboard the transport, then?" Lewrie asked, arching a brow again at how nonchalant Fillebrowne was.
"Damme, will you look at that!" Fillebrowne snapped, leaning back with his hands on his hips to peer aloft at the commissioning pendant, which had gone fretful and all but slack. "It's happened just about every bloody morning since we came to anchor here. Winds off the sea die, and these hills block the land breeze 'til two bells of the Forenoon, or so. It appears I can offer you that coffee, after all, sir." Fillebrowne sighed exasperatedly. "I'll scrub off her rouge, aye, and her perfume, and have time for a shave, into the bargain. Better yet, have you eat your breakfast yet, sir?"
"A moment," Lewrie decided. Oxonian fop or not-a shameless rake-hell rogue-Fillebrowne at least sounded like a sailor, not some Whip-Jack sham. He crossed to the entry-port to look down on his boat crew. "Andrews?"