"Aspinall, heat me up a bucket of fresh water," Lewrie told him. "And hunt up that bar o' soap. We're to shine tonight. Or else!"
Boats crews in neat, clean, matching slop-clothing took them to the quays, landing them in strict order of precedence. Carriages waited to bear them townward to what Lewrie took for a medieval guild-hall of a place, a towering, half-timbered Germanic cuckoo-clock horror of a building, simply dripping with baroque touches, right down to the leering gargoyles at the eaves and carved stags and hunting scenes round the doorway, with sputtering torches in lieu of lanthorns to light the street and antechambers. He expected one of those bands he'd seen in London, so loved by his Hanoverian monarchy, whose every tune sounded very much like "Oomp-pah-pah-Crash/bang." That or drunken Vikings!
A very stiff reception line awaited them, made up of civilian, military, and naval members. The men glittered in satins or heavy velvets or gilded wool, no matter how stuffy it was, with sweat running freely to presage the expected rain. The women… Lord, he'd never seen such a fearsome pack of chick-a-biddies, all teeth and teats, all bound up pouty-pigeon-chested in lace-trimmed gowns as heavy as drapery fab-! rics, with double or even triple chins declining over scintillating brilliants, diamonds or pearl necklaces. Everyone's hair was powdered to a tee, pale blue or starkest white, and how he kept from sneezing his head off during all the bowing and curtseying, he couldn't fathom.
"Permittez-moi, m'sieurle capitaine Charlton,j'ai Vhonneure… pre-sentez-vous, le burgomeister, uhm… le maire …" An equerry said with a simper, a suppressed titter and a languid wave of his hand.
"Thought they were Germans," Rodgers muttered from the side of his mouth. "What's all this Frog they're spoutin'?"
"Court-language, sir," Lewrie whispered back. "Prussians and Russians, looks like the Austrians, too. Can't bloody stand their own tongue. Not elegant enough, I s'pose. Ah! Madame Baroness… oui, baroness? von Kreutznacht, enchante. Simply enchante!" He bowed to a particularly porcine old biddy who sported a rather impressive set of whiskers and moustache under all her powders, paints, rouges and beauty marks. She resembled a hog in a tiara.
"M'sieur le Capitaine, uhmm…!" She tittered; or tried one, at any rate. She had a husky voice as forbidding as a bosun's mate, and was about five stone too heavy to be seen tittering. She offered her hand, and Lewrie pecked dry lips on the back of it, looking for a spot free of jewelry or liver-spots. He heard the clash of heels in the line, the double-snap of bootheels thrummed together, combined with a short bow from the waist. He didn't think he'd try that, no matter what they thought of his manners.
"Swear to God," Fillebrowne grated between bared teeth in a rictus of a grin. "But that last 'un, sirs… she oinked at me."
"Which 'un?" Rodgers asked him, now they were down among those lesser lights of the receiving line. "Oh, the baroness, Fillebrowne?"
"Aye, sir. Her. A definite oink."
"That sound lascivious, Lewrie." Rodgers smirked. "D'ye think?"
"Oh, quite, sir!" Lewrie replied gayly. "Were she merely being polite, 'twould have been more a husky grunt. But, an oink, now…!"
"You lucky young dog, sir!" Rodgers wheezed softly. "Not a dogwatch ashore, an' a baroness throwin' herself at ya. Oinkin', an' all! Damme'f I ain't envious, sir. Mind, ya might strain somethin', puttin' th' leg that far over. But think what a tale ya'll have t'tell, sir."
"Handsome and dashing sort, such as yourself, Commander," Lewrie could not resist cruelly jibing, "must surely expect to be oinked at."
"Uhm," Fillebrowne commented, his eyes slitted in well-hidden anger over Lewrie's barb, "hah, sir!"
Supper was an ordeal. The four British captains were seated in a sea of Trieste 's finest, far apart from each other, and pent in with people who could not, or would not, speak a word of English. The linen, china, centrepieces and silverware were gorgeous enough, and there were nigh a whole platoon of servants in livery, one for every two diners, a la Russe. It was a heavy feed, though: potato soup, very greasy goose, a bland fish course that resembled mullet, the salad wilted, dry and fleshed out with what Lewrie took to be grass clippings. Roast venison, jugged hares, a whole roast hog, all made the rounds before it was done, topped with gargantuan, toothachy piles of sweets. And with Trieste 's finest tucking in like they'd just come off forty days aboard the Ark!
Finally, after circulating amid the coffee, chocolate and tea drinkers, after listening politely to some untalented musicians and a male soloist doing some incomprehensible (and stultifyingly boring) lieder in German, they were allowed to ascend a wooden staircase for the first floor and were ushered into a smaller chamber, where they were delighted to find cheese, biscuit, shelled nuts and port waiting on a bare-topped mahoghany table.
"Welcome to the gun-room, gentlemen," their host said with an anxious smile of welcome. "Or as close as you'll find, this side of Portsmouth." And he said it in English, with a Kentish accent!
"Major Simpson, my thanks, sir," Captain Charlton said with some pleasure as he was shown to a seat near the head of the table and was presented with the port decanter and a goodly-sized glass. "The major, had you not already gathered from the receiving line introductions," he said to the others, "is the senior naval officer here in Trieste. One of the most senior navy officers of the Austrian Empire, rather."
"That's true, sir," Major Simpson replied. "Oh, there's a man over the Danube flotilla senior to me, but…" He was nigh preening. "Do allow me to name to you, sirs, my officers…"
It was von Something-umlautish-von-Glottal-Stop something other. Half the officers wore the same pale blue breeches, waistcoat and cuffs that Simpson sported; the rest were from the Liccaner or Ottochaner regiments of Border Infantry, who formed the Austrian Marine Corps, dressed in tobacco-brown coats with sky-blue cuffs, breeches and waistcoats.
Major George Simpson, Lewrie soon learned, was the genuine article, an authentic Royal Navy officer, one of those thirtyish lieutenants of ill-starred fortune when it came to patronage, prize-money or promotion. The Russians, Turks, every foreign power with hopes to build a navy had hired them on to smarten up their own landlubberly officers and crews. Christ, the Russians had even taken the Rebel John Paul Jones to lead their Black Sea fleet at one time!
"Can't tell you what a joy it was, to see a proper squadron of British ships come to anchor, sir," Simpson told them. "You'll be in the Mare long… or is this simply a port-call?"
"We'll be operating out of the Straits of Otranto, mostly, sir," Charlton told him. "With the odd patrol to sweep up French or French-sponsored mercantile traffick. And to cooperate with your Emperor… Franz Us squadron 'gainst the French. Lend you every assistance to ready your ships for any future action which may occur this season? Urge Admiral Sir John Jervis, our new commander-in-chief in the Mediterranean, to write to London on your behalf, anent supplies, arms and such. Ships and crews, hmm?"
"Now, that would be wondrous fine, sir!" Simpson exclaimed, and translated that news in German for his compatriots. "The annual naval budget, d'ye see, is rather limited of late. Austria 's a land power, mostly. Keep control of the Danube River, and protect Trieste. A lion's share of the military budget goes to the army up on the Rhine, or over in Piedmont and Lombardy. Every little bit is welcome."