"Caroline!" he'd said at last, beaming forced, but total, approval. "It's so different, you look so…! So deuced handsome. Lovely! Surely, I'm the luckiest man in England tonight.
Gawd, come 'ere, you. Let me shew you how much I adore it. So artfully… uhm, artless!"
And to the titters and blushes of the house staff at Willis', her maid's and Cony's smiles, he had taken her in his arms and given her a long, rewarding kiss, right there in the public rooms.
And his fears had been groundless. At the ball, there had been ladies, some with barely a jot of Caroline's sublime face and form, in a la victime mode, some carrying it so far as to look as bedraggled as Irish peasants. And flesh; more flesh bared that night by younger ladies (and high-priced courtesans) than a man might see had he owned a "knocking-shop," all of which inflamed Lewrie's lustful humours.
They'd drunk Frog champagne as if it were a patriotic duty to expunge the last trace from the British Isles, danced together round after round, had circulated 'round the rotunda, talking too loudly, laughing too gaily, greeting old acquaintances. And had gone home, after a midnight collation, for that longed-for "unwrapping."
"It's war!" The rumour began, just about eleven in the morning. The traffic in messengers through the lobby and foyer, up the stairs to the Board Room and offices, increased; and those couriers sent out with despatch cases and bundles of papers were in more haste than was their usual wont. Elderly Admiral Howe made an appearance, almost arm in arm with Lord Chatham, the First Lord, on the way upstairs, whispering and frowning grave, dyspeptic stoicism.
"It's war with the Frogs!" Hopefuls began to gossip, breathless with barely subdued excitement, their eyes bright as famished hounds at the prospect of scraps.
"Heard the latest?" one boasted, as if he had. " France marched into Holland yesterday. Their ambassador's packing his traps. We'll declare by midafternoon. War at last! Employment at last!"
"No, no… 'twas Austria," decried a second officer, refuting that round of news when it got to him. "Prussia, Naples… that last decree from Paris, 'bout supporting republican insurrections anywhere in Europe… they're all coming in as a coalition, 'cause of that."
"Did they march into the Austrian Netherlands yet?"
"It'd be about time, should you ask me. There's their General Coburg, with a real army…"
"Finest in Europe," opined several together.
"… sitting on their hands nigh on a whole year," continued the speaker, "feared of a tagrag-and-bobtail horde o' Frog peasants-led by former corporals, so pray you-'stead o' kickin' their arses out o' their territories a week after the invasion."
"We should have declared when France took Antwerp," another anonymous strategist declared strongly. "Why, we might as well give up the Continental, and the Baltic trade, else. What's next on the Frogs' menu? Amsterdam… Copen-haven… Hamburg?"
Finally a commodore, fresh from the seat of power in the Board Room, came down the stairs, and was almost mobbed for information. He held up a hand to silence their fervent queries.
"The true facts which obtain, sirs…" he announced solemnly. "Very early this morning, His Majesty's Brig o' War Childers, standing off-and-on without the harbour of Brest, was fired upon by French batteries. Word has reached us by the semaphore towers that she was struck several times by heavy round-shot. Childers will come in, to display her damage, and the French round-shot… in her timbers, and upon her decks."
"But, are we at war, sir?" several officers demanded.
"Better you should ask of Lord Dundas, or Lord Grenville, for that, sirs," the commodore rejoined, snippish at their lack of deference to a senior officer, and their lack of decorum. "The Secretaries of State, and the Foreign Office… our Sovereign and Parliament, will best answer." The commodore glared them to silence, harumphed a last broadside of displeasure, settled his waistcoat, and stalked away to gather his things.
"It's come!" Alan Lewrie muttered to himself, feeling a thrill run up his spine to be there, on such a momentous occasion. Secretly pleased, though, to know there would be no more indecision, no more delays. Soon he would be aboard a ship again. The time for half-measures and tentative mobilisation was ended. "By God, it's come!"
"It's war!" a lieutenant nearby cried exultantly, lifting his arms in glee. "Glorious war, at last!"
Lewrie cocked his head to peer at him searchingly, as he and his compatriots pummeled each other on the back and chortled happily. Of course, he was very young, the lieutenant, he and all his fellows in badly tailored, ill-fitting "pinchbeck" uniforms. His sword was a cheap Hamburg, not even ivoried or gilded, with a brass grip sure to betray him and turn in his grasp were his palms ever damp.
Second or third sons, the honourably penniless, with no means of livelihood but the sea, and warfare. For these desperately eager young men, peace had been a death sentence, stranding them miserly and sour on half-pay and annual remittance, perhaps, of less than fifty pounds altogether. But war, now…!
Prize-money, full pay, loot from captured ships, and a chance to practice their sea-craft, to gain advancement… to be noticed at last. Weaned as they were, as Lewrie had been, on personal honour, on "bottom" so bold they'd dare Death itself to display gay courage, risk life and limb for undying fame and glory… ox fall gloriously at the very moment of a famous victory… well, now!
Surely, Lewrie thought; the fools must recall the dangers, the fevers… the rancid food, foul living conditions… storms and peril! They weren't ignorant midshipmen, starry-eyed and joining their first ship! They'd gone months without a letter, years of separation, seen shipmates slaughtered, scattered in pieces like an anatomy lesson at a teaching hospital, hopelessly wounded men passed out the gunports alive to clear the fighting decks, dead sewn up in shrouds… or the permanently crippled amputees, the blind, the…!
'Course, there's more'n a few thought me perverse, for sneerin' at death-or-glory. No one, in his right mind, goes out of his way to die a hero, does he? 'Leastways, I didn't. Not to say that Fortune didn't have her way with me, whether I wished or no. I mean, dead is dead, for God's sake, and what's the bloody point of…
"Lewrie?" A voice interrupted his fell musings. "Would Lieutenant Lewrie be present? Alan Lewrie, Anglesgreen, Surrey…?"
"Here!" Lewrie shouted in a loud quarter-deck voice, putting aside all his foul, ungentlemanly, un-English sarcasms and forebodings at once. "Tomorrow" was here!
"The Deputy Secretary, Mister Jackson, will see you upstairs, Lieutenant Lewrie," an old and ink-stained senior writer informed him. "Would you kindly step this way, sir?"
George Jackson, Esquire's offices were a smaller adjunct to the First Secretary's, on the same floor as the Board Room. Lewrie presented himself, fingers twitching to seize the packet of orders which would be his passport. His Fortune.
"Your servant, sir," Lewrie coaxed, to gain the man's notice.
"Ah? Lewrie, well," Jackson said, barely looking up from the burgeoning mounds of documents on either side of his tall clerking-desk, behind which he slaved standing up. He looked down immediately, though, to cluck his lips over an ineptly turned phrase, perhaps some ink smudge, or a clumsy or illegible example of penmanship. "I have your orders, sir. Hmm… these, aye."
"Thank you, sir." Lewrie beamed, accepting the folded sheaf of vellum which one busy hand extended to him. He opened them eagerly, to see to which ship, what sort of ship, he would be assigned.