At sea, Lewrie got to the point where he hardly noticed it, but a few days ashore, even in such a rancid place as London with all her garbage middens and hordes of people, and the change was noticeable in the extreme. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
There was no steaming pot of coffee or tea, so Lewrie remained wrapped snug in his boat cloak and sat down at his desk, under a swaying coin-silver oil lamp that was putting out its own contribution to the ambient effluvia, and looked over the last bits of mail that had come aboard just before they departed from St. Helen's Patch.
His ward, Sophie de Maubeuge, once French royalty but now penniless and orphaned, had written him a chatty letter, describing how his father Sir Hugo had furthered her introductions in London Society, with the promise of sending him a new oval pocket portrait that "Granpere" had commissioned. Once she had moved away from Anglesgreen-she and his wife Caroline had had a major falling-out, with Caroline even suspecting Sophie and her "faithless, adulterous pig of a husband" with being lovers, if not fellow conspirators to conceal his overseas amours, for a time-Sir Hugo had taken her in, and, to everyone's surprise, had developed quite an avuncular affection for Sophie and her welfare, and her future as an emigre. Now, he positively doted on the girl as she blossomed into a ravishingly-attractive young lady, expressing that he felt beyond "grandfatherly," perhaps had even attained "paternal" sentiments! Lewrie still suspected the old rantipoler's intentions.
There was a letter from his wife, too, in answer to his brief note hastily scribbled at the Guildford posting-house. Caroline was appreciative of what the so-far small share of his Caribbean silver paid out to him had bought to improve their house and middling tenant farm. Lord, it was dry and stand-offish, though, all sums of profits from the farm, and lists of outlays made, with a pointed direction for him to write his children at their new public school, at the least, if such a chore wasn't beyond his ability, before he sailed. And, what was this, she had asked, about rumours of some criminal deed he'd done on Jamaica? What new shame had he brought on his family name; not that it was all that good to begin with… damn him. Had he no consideration for his children's futures, for his long-suffering wife's repute?
There was an encouraging letter from the Trencher family, wife, father, and daughter, which expressed their wishes for his safety and continued success. They didn't have that much new to say about defending his "good name," but assured him that their continual prayers were with him. Their daughter Theodora had offered to send him a package of goods for the betterment of his crew: pocket-bibles, New Testaments, and chapbooks of the newest, most inspiring hymns… along with reams of tracts fresh from the printers, of course. Lewrie looked up from re-reading that letter, speculating most idly (of course) on what sort of figure Theodora Trencher might boast, feeling even a tad risable at the fantasy…'til he saw the framed portrait of his wife Caroline that hung on the bulkhead facing him in the dining-coach. Odd… he'd never noticed the leeriness the artist had captured in her expression, before!
Coughing into his fist, he lowered his gaze to the desk, again, lifting the letter that the Rev. Wilberforce had sent him, wherein he offered much the same sort of spiritual comfort for HMS Proteus's tars, both Black and White. Wilberforce had even proposed placing an eager young chaplain aboard her, his pay and his keep to be supplied by the Evangelical Society! Could the young man he had in mind be able to go aboard before Proteus sailed… could Lewrie "vet" him once he arrived at Portsmouth… and, was he not suitable to Captain Lewrie's complete satisfaction, perhaps there might be time enough for Wilberforce and his associates to select another?
Well, he'd done as Caroline had bid him; he'd written to both of his sons, Hugh and Sewallis, had even penned a loving letter to his little daughter Charlotte… all done into the wee hours of the final night in the inner harbour at Portsmouth, long past the Master At Arms' official "Lights Out" at nine of the evening. Though, what good that letter would do Lewrie rather doubted, since Charlotte was still with her mother, home-tutored, not schooled, and exposed to all the grumbles of his wife and in-laws, who'd never thought him quite "up to chalk."
There'd been that letter from his father, who had mentioned one Sunday after Services, in the churchyard, when the vicar of ivied old St. George's had preached a homily on Sinners, and little Charlotte had so taken it (and other things she'd heard) to heart that she had loudly told one and all present in the churchyard that "my father is a Sinner… and a filthy beast!" His father'd found it delightfully droll at the time, even if Lewrie hadn't, and God knows what poisons had been poured into her ears, since!
Children, well… there had only been a few years on half-pay ashore to get to know them, then the war with France had erupted back in '93, and he was back in Navy harness, and there hadn't been a whole month with them since then. Sewallis, Hugh, and Charlotte had become more the concept of children, just as he had felt himself merely the shadow of a father, and every reunion had presented him with sprouted strangers, and little Charlotte the most unknowable of all. To whom he wrote platitudes… well-meaning platitudes, but no matter how he reminded himself that he, indeed, loved them, he still felt so oddly disassociated.
There came the heavy thud of the Marine sentry's musket on the deck outside, and the cry of "Mister Midshipman Grace, SAH!"
"Enter!" Lewrie called out, sitting up straighter, and shoving his letters into the desk drawer.
"Captain, sir… Mister Langlie's duty, and he wishes to shake out to second reefs in courses and tops'ls. He said to tell you that the winds are moderating, sir," the lad said. Grace, the son of Nore fishermen, who had come aboard a ship's boy in company with his father and grandfather, who had risen to "Gentleman Volunteer" Midshipman once Proteus had been won back from the mutineers. He was upwards of sixteen, now, and shaping well to become an extremely reliable and tarry lad. His grandfather, whom they'd dubbed Elder Grace, was gone, lost to the Yellow Jack, and his father, Middle Grace, was now rated an Able Seaman, and bore the shipboard rate of Captain of the Afterguard, the petty officer in charge of the mizen-mast.
"Very well, Mister Grace," Lewrie said in agreement. "Give to Mister Langlie my respects, and permission. I'll come up, directly." Aye aye, sir.
Lewrie had himself a paternal sigh, then got to his feet, gathered up his hat and mittens, and went on deck, pausing to give Toulon and Chalky a chin and ear rub or two.
At least on deck, the nippy wind was much fresher than what he breathed in his great-cabins, and the Channel was calming, too. Where agitated green rollers and white-spumed crests had been, there were now darker green or steel-grey waves, though the "chops" still made Proteus ride like a brick mason's dray on a cobbled street. Her heel had altered to a mere fifteen degrees from vertical, according to the clinometer by the compass binnacle and chart cabinet, as well.