"You," Twigg replied, tilting back his head to gaze down that long nose of his, looking as if he was having difficulty stifling his chortle of glee. "You're a much easier man to extol at long-distance, Lewrie, with none of your warts and peccadiloes on public display! It is foreign waters for you, me lad. At sea, where I believe you once told me… or Peel… either of us, it don't signify, that you did not get in a tenth the trouble you did ashore. 'Out of sight, out of mind,' whilst your allies at home strive mightily to put a gloss upon your valiant repute, hmm? Very far away, for an extended period of time, where, one may hope, you garner even more-glorious laurels with some laudable achievement 'gainst England 's foes. That'd go down nice, did you-"
"You said you'd already spoken to people at Admiralty?" Lewrie said. "So I s'pose that's in-hand, too?"
"I fear you've no time to dilly-dally, Lewrie," Twigg assured him, still simpering in a most haughty manner. "No recontre with the little wife, no visiting your children. Not even time to drop in on Sir Hugo for a brief meal…"
"No loss, there," Lewrie sarcastically said; it wasn't so much the active dislike of his sly sire that had dominated his early years-people who "press-ganged" one into the Navy in the middle of a war and stole one's inheritance had a way of fostering distrust!-but, more a leeriness that, no matter Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby's new repute, fortune, and "rehabilitation" in Society, one should keep one hand on one's coin-purse at all times, and reject any proposed investments!
"Twigg, you're smiling like you already know where I'm going," Lewrie sullenly accused.
"Perhaps," Twigg slowly and cagily drawled back. "I will allow that it will not be back to the Caribbean. And… weeks from summons to court," he mystifyingly added. "Good God, sir… you should now be doing handsprings or Saint Catherine's wheels. Are you not grateful?"
"I am, but it's the way you…!"
"Were I you, I'd gather my traps from the Madeira Club at once, and book a seat on the 'dilly' to Portsmouth, instanter," Twigg went on quite blithely. "Make haste to return aboard your frigate, before your new orders beat you there, and the Port Admiral takes notice that you've been absent rather a bit too long for one still holding active commission and command. Well, perhaps I might run you down, myself, in my chariot. Much faster than a diligence-coach…"
"Ah, no… thank you!"
"Or, does Sir Hugo wish to have a brief bit of time with you," Twigg drolly continued, "he could drive you to Portsmouth in his. He purchased a chariot and team, recently, d'ye know. We race, when we have the time to weekend at my country house. They're all the crack, haw haw!"
"I'd rather walk," Lewrie bleakly replied, with a shudder.
BOOK II
"I, bone, quo virtus tua tt vocat, i pede fausto,
grandia laturus meritorum praeiia! Quid stas?"
"Go, sir, whither your valour calls you. Go, good
luck to you!~to win big rewards for your merits.
Why [do you] stand there [still]?
Horace, Epistles II, 11, 37-38
CHAPTER NINE
Anyone looking for me, Mister Langlie?" Lewrie asked, once all the honours had been rendered to welcome him back aboard. He tried to make it sound like a casual enquiry, not a furtive fret.
"We've heard nothing from shore of any note, sir," Lt. Langlie crisply reported as Lewrie's shoregoing traps were borne below by his steward, Aspinall. "Beg pardon, sir, but… in your absence, I felt that a few days 'Out of Discipline' mightn't go amiss, and allowed the hands 'board-ship liberty. Once the water butts had been scrubbed and scoured, and the hoys fetched us fresh."
"Good thinking," Lewrie commented, his mind elsewhere, kneeling on the quarterdeck to stroke his affection-starved cats, which had come scampering to the starboard gangway at the very first tweetles of the bosun's calls. "No one knifed, poxed, or run?"
"Poxed, I could not say, sir," Langlie replied with a chuckle. "A few fist-fights and drunken rows over the doxies, of course, but no runners. Erm… I also sent ashore to the yards for spare spars and Bosun's stores, replenished our salt-meat and biscuit, and indented for live animals, so… Proteus is stocked with the full six months' worth of supplies, Captain," he reported, with a touch of pride.
"Very good, Mister Langlie," Lewrie congratulated, looking up at him, then rising to his feet, now that Toulon and Chalky had had their immediate fill of "wubbies." "I apologise that London required me to be away longer than I expected. In my absence, you've done well… as you always do. Of course, I expected no less, after our years of being thrown together," he tossed off with a grin.
That's enough praise, Lewrie thought; don't trowel it on! Else, it'll go to his head.
"Once I've gone below and changed into working rig, bring me the indentures and all to sign," Lewrie said. "Any more mail come aboard?"
"Some, sir. Yours is on your desk," Langlie told him, as they began to stroll towards the ladder to the gun-deck. "When in the City, sir, did you discover where our future orders might take us. sir?"
"Nothing definite, no," Lewrie cryptically informed him. "Damn, lads! Give me space in which to walk, will you?" he said to his cats, which thought it their "duty" to closely escort him down the ladderway, weaving back and forth from one riser to the next. "Pray God they do not come immediately. No time for shopping, and my personal stores are in need of re-stocking, too. Quite unlike the wardroom's… hmm?"
"We're all quite… happy, sir," Langlie rejoined, laughing. "I vow the Purser's actually done us proud… for a change."
Lewrie quickly changed into dark blue slop-trousers, a worn old waist-coat, and his plainest, and heaviest, uniform coat, for the great-cabins were chilly, and the two cast-iron stoves did little to heat the space. Evidently, Aspinall hadn't slept in his quarters temporarily, or lavished Lewrie's limited supply of coal on himself whilst he was away-good, honest lad!
Bills, which Lewrie read over, then addressed to his solicitor in London, Mr. Matthew Mountjoy; official documents opened first, of course, but they were nothing demanding-most were fleet-wide announcements of changes in admirals', captains', and lieutenants' lists, some new soundings taken of far-flung coasts or harbours, of more interest to Mr. Winwood, the Sailing Master, than to Lewrie, right off.
Hardly any personal correspondence, though, Lewrie broodingly noted as he sat slumped at his desk in the day-cabin. A mocking note from his father, Sir Hugo, was the most recent, japing him on staying at his Madeira Club; something brief from Lord Peter Rushton, wishing him joy of his return to England-nigh indecypherable, of course, in his own hand. Peter might've included cheerful words of how he would do what he could in his cause in the House of Lords, since Lewrie did manage to make out a reference to having spoken with Mr. Twigg, but it was hard going without a magnifying glass and a Sanskrit or Arabic dictionary.
Slam! went the Marine sentry's musket butt on the deck without the great-cabins' main-deck doors. "First Off'cah, SAH!" he bellowed, all full of piss, vinegar, and temporary officialdom.
"Enter," Lewrie called out. Lt. Langlie ducked under the deck beams and door frame to come in, bearing a thick-ish bundle of paperwork, just as Aspinall bustled in a second or so behind him with his coffee-pot.