"Very well," Boutwell surrendered, opening the partition door.
A foetid, sick-bed odour struck his senses at once. There lay Captain Braxton, swaddled in every blanket he possessed, tucked in as snug as a baby's swaddles in the thick coverlet, with his dark blue watchcloak and foul-weather tarpaulin atop. Shivering like a drowning victim fresh plucked from an icy shipwreck. His steward was setting out a fresh cedar bucket by the side of the hanging cot, and grimacing manfully as he lifted the used one at arm's length to dump its gruesome contents out the transom sash window, the only one that was left open, and that only for the length of his duty. A sea-coal fire was fuming in a brazier nearby, making the great-cabin's bed space a breath from Hell itself.
"M… more coals!" Braxton managed to say between chattering teeth. "Bloody Jesus, I'm so cold!"
"Sir?"
"W… what… Devil you want, s… sir! Ge… get out! This instant!" Braxton growled from wobbly jaws.
"Mister Boutwell, I must insist the surgeon see him," Lewrie sighed, though not without a measure of secret glee. If Braxton got sick enough, and if official notice of his condition was taken among higher authorities, surely he'd be relieved of his command! Another promising officer, a commander, say, or one of Hood's admiral's flag-captains, would suddenly be "on his own bottom," in a fine frigate!
"He's had the headaches, the sweats yet, Mister Boutwell?" Lieutenant Lewrie inquired.
"Last evening, sir," the clerk informed him. "And you did not think to inform me then, sir?" Lewrie chid him sternly. "Damme, we're talking about a King's Ship, sir. Had we been brought to action by a French vessel, run into another gale… and us, unknowing…! You carry personal, family loyalty too far, sir. You are not an officer who may make such a decision."
"Lieutenant… the second officer bade me-" "And he has no right to conceal anything from me either, sir! An offence worthy of a court martial, I'm bound."
"Mister Lewrie, this mustn't… I mean, surely, you cannot think of…" Boutwell pleaded, though on very shaky ground, now that tables had turned on him. "You have your diff rences, but for God's sake…,!"
"T… toddy!" Braxton whinnied from deep within his covers, oblivious to their spat. "Hot!"
His steward ran to fetch a toddy, stirring in powdered quinine, "Jesuit's Bark," the rob of lemons, hot water… and a goodly dollop of brandy. Eager as Captain Braxton wished to seize it and drain it, his hands shivered so badly his steward had to prop him up and almost spoon it down him, ounce at a time. Lewrie noted that there were several empty bottles loose atop the wine cabinet in the day cabin. The doors stood open, revealing a suspicious scantity. The captain had depleted his personal stores in private, thinking to ward off, or burn out, any onset of fever.
Barrel fever, more like it, Lewrie thought disgustedly. Hearty as he liked his spirits, good as any English gentleman, the sight of a fellow who should know better, gunn'l's awash, was repulsive.
"He'll not cure himself with spirits, Mister Boutwell," Lewrie told the cringing clerk. "You take that right away from him, now, and you will admit the surgeon, at once. Thank God we're in port, and if anybody knows malaria, it's Dons and Dagoes. We may have to send for a physician from shore, if he gets bad enough, and well you know it. Either that or he dies, if Mister Pruden's physick fails us. Quinine and hot water, only. Sugar it to make it palatable, if you must, but no more brandy, nor any other drink. Get out those despatches. They have to go ashore, and they're late enough already."
"You will not…?" Boutwell asked hopefully.
"Let him get back on his feet first, sir, if he will," Lewrie sighed, "but we must deal with your conniving and Lieutenant Braxton's lack of sense later. Now, fetch me those despatches."
"Yes, sir," Boutwell cringed.
"That's 'Aye, aye, sir,' Mister Boutwell! Even the Marines say it. You've been aboard ship long enough to learn our ways, surely."
"Aye, aye, sir," Boutwell parroted meekly, worriedly.
Chapter 3
"Sir William will see you now, Lieutenant Lewrie," the major-domo informed him with the lofty, nose-high air common to all clerks to important men. Lewrie rose from his comfortable chair, shot his cuffs, settled sword and waist-coat, and followed the mincing twit into the presence of his betters.
"Sir William, Your Excellency, allow me to announce Lieutenant Lewrie, Royal Navy… of the Cockerel frigate, sirs. Lieutenant Lewrie," the flunky said smoothly, with a grandiloquent gesture towards the two elegantly garbed gentlemen, chummily seated to either side of a massive marble-topped desk. "Sir William Hamilton, His Britannic Majesty, King George the Third's ambassador-plenipotentiary to the Court of the Kingdom of Naples and the Two Sicilies. Further allow me to present you to His Excellency Sir John Acton, Baronet Prime Minister of the Kingdom of Naples and the Two Sicilies and to His Majesty, King Ferdinand the Fourth."
"Sir William, Milord Acton… Your Excellencies," Lewrie began, making a deep bow and leg to them, hat over his heart. "It is my honour to convey to you, Sir William, most immediate despatches from Admiral Lord Hood."
And thank God for malaria, he thought, smug over this opportunity to make the acquaintance of important people, thankful for a chance to "sport showy." And doubting if Braxton could have pulled it off with as much innate grace. He stepped forward and laid his canvas-wrapped, tape- and riband-bound sealed packet on the vast expanse of pale grey marble. He was glad to be shot of them, frankly; they were weighted with grape-shot, and were the very Devil to carry for long.
"Ahum… hah," Sir William began, drawing the bundle to him and cutting the tapes with a desk knife, after assuring himself that seals had not been tampered with. "And where is our illustrious Admiral Hood at present, Leftenant Lewrie?"
"We departed Gibraltar a week ago, Sir William. The fleet was at that instant putting to sea. Twenty-two sail of the line. Our orders were that we might rejoin off Cape Cicie or Cape Sepet… somewhere off Marseilles or Toulon." He had had time to glean that much from the separate set of orders, also weighted and marked for captain h.m.s. cockerel's eyes only. Under the circumstances, he'd had to look at them!
"You are rather junior to command a frigate, I am thinking," Sir John Acton commented as Ambassador Hamilton read his despatches, humming to himself, his ancient patrician face creased with flickerings of concern or satisfaction, by stages.
"I am merely first officer, Your Excellency. I regret to say that my captain, Captain Howard Braxton, was… uhm, detained aboard by ship's business. Else he should have-"
"Really," Sir John drawled, lifting one expressive brow. "Such would have been unthinkable when I was at sea. A captain, entrusted with matters of such import, and he fails to present himself, sends a junior in lieu of himself? Pardon, but I have never heard the like."
Sir John Acton sounded English, sort of; he was fluent, but his voice had a more Mediterranean lilt to it, a subtle shading, a lack of true English syntax and usage. Perhaps from long custom among Dagoes, Lewrie thought.
"You served in the Royal Navy, did you, milord?" Lewrie asked, to finesse the subject.
"Ah, no, I never had that honour, sir," Acton sighed wistfully. "I speak of my time as an officer in the French Navy."
Bloody Hell, Lewrie gawped! And this… Frog!-well, he's an English baronet-half-a-Frog is sittin' in, spying, hearing all, at the side of an English ambassador? What sort o' business they do, in Naples?
"Uhm, hah…" Lewrie flummoxed.
"I alarm you, sir?" Acton all but simpered. "I was born of English parentage, but in France. Naval matters… diplomatic duties… I am regretful to say, I have never been in England. I served also with the Tuscan and the Neapolitan navies as well, before rising to the office of prime minister here in Naples. Tell me, Lieutenant Lewrie, did your gallant Lord Hood also entrust you-your captain, pardon-with any messages to His Majesty, King Ferdinand the Fourth?"