Making it even worse were the necessary stops every twenty-odd miles to change teams at a posting inn which had spare horses beyond the demands of the regularly scheduled diligence coaches. When there, no amount of grumbling and drumming of feet inside the coach would put any “urgent” into their coachman, so there was nothing for it but to clamber out, stretch their legs, head for the “jakes” to relieve themselves, slosh down some indifferently brewed tea, or sample a pint of the local beer, ale, stout, or porter. If they did not, for certain the coachman did, for which Lewrie had to pay to keep him merry and mellow. By the time they actually crossed the bridge into London, the coachman was so mellow that he began to bawl out songs in a raspy voice, laughing inanely between verses, and got so lost and befuddled that Lewrie had to mount the box with him to steer him to the corner of Duke Street and Wigmore Street, and the Madeira Club, just around six in the evening.
It was raining for real, by then, of course; just pouring down!
“Good ev’nin’ t’ye, fine sir, and I hope ye found th’ journey comf’table!” the coachman shouted down as Lewrie and Pettus gathered their belongings. “Ye wish me services for th’ return, just ask o’th’ publican at th’ good ol’ Three Nuns for Thom Wheeler, an’ I’ll come direck t’collec’ ye, quick’z ye kin say ‘knife’! Huzzah for th’ Navy, I say! Gawd bless ye, ye brave tars! ‘Rule Britannia, Britannia rules th’ waves … Bri-tons never never never shall be’ … someone hold me horses, I gotta get down an’ piss like an ox!”
“Should we help him down, sir, before he dashes his brains out?” Pettus fretted.
“After all he’s cost me, I don’t give a toss,” Lewrie said with a laugh. The coachman’s drunken bawlings had drawn the attention of the Madeira Club’s doorman and desk clerk, who had come out onto the stoop to goggle. “Ah, Lucas!” Lewrie called to the first one he saw and remembered by name. “Captain Alan Lewrie. I will need a room for a couple of nights, and room for my cabin steward!”
“Come in, come in, Captain Lewrie, get out of the rain,” Lucas the desk clerk grandly offered, holding the doors open for them. “We do happen to have a vacancy or two, since Major Baird found a bride, and Mister Showalter is away to his home borough, on the hustings for the next by-election.”
“What?” Lewrie gawped as he shrugged off his boat-cloak inside. “He ain’t elected yet? I don’t know which is more surprisin’, Showalter still standin’ for Commons, or Major Baird takin’ a wife, at last.”
Major Baird had come back from India years before a “Chicken Nabob” with at least £50,000 in profits, or loot, and had spent that long purportedly searching for a suitable mate … when not indulging in “knee-trembler” sex with the orange-selling girls at the theatres, and getting fellated in dark corners with his breeches undone.
“One hopes his new bride is … skilled,” Lewrie sniggered.
Lucas cryptically grinned, knowing what Lewrie alluded to, but a good enough servant to appear unperturbed.
“There is brandy in the Common Room, Captain Lewrie, Spanish brandy I fear, but quite drinkable, as soon as you are settled in your rooms,” Lucas told him as he signalled for a porter to see the luggage abovestairs, “and supper will be served at seven.”
Lewrie’s rooms were second storey, in the back and away from the continual rumble and skreak of waggon and carriage traffic. There was a coal fire laid in the hearth and crackling nicely, with a brass back-plate hot and radiating both warmth and light into the dank coolness of an un-used room. Lewrie sat down on a short settee near the fireplace and tugged his muddy boots off, which Pettus took away for cleaning and re-blacking for the morrow. He handed Lewrie a pair of buckled shoes which did not quite go with snug white undress trousers, but were presentable enough for the clientele of the Madeira Club, and for a fellow who had no plans to be about the town that evening.
“All is ready for the morrow, sir,” Pettus said after brushing the ever-present cat fur from Lewrie’s best-dress gilt-laced coat and hat. The coat was hung on a dresser stand, the hat resting atop the round-topped upper spindle, the sash of the Order of The Bath draped round the spindle, and a fresh silk shirt, pressed waist-coat, and new pair of breeches and stockings arrayed on the shelves below the coat.
“Dress sword?” Lewrie asked, leaning back with his eyes half-closed. Nigh twelve hours in a swaying, jerking, and rocking coach had wrung him out like a dish-clout.
“Oh Lord,” Pettus gasped. “I believe I left it atop your desk, sir, and meant to include it, but … my pardons, sir!”
“So long as we know it’s safe,” Lewrie wearily allowed, waving a hand. “My ev’ryday hanger’ll do. So long as you’re sure ye left it on the desk.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Pettus assured him. “I can see it in my mind’s eye, and once we were in the coach, I thought I had an odd feeling that I was remiss, but … it won’t happen again, sir!”
“As far as I can recall, Pettus, this is the first time ever you’ve been remiss, and that’s a good record,” Lewrie excused. “Don’t take yourself t’task over it. You remembered t’pack towels, and a fine basket o’ victuals, after all.”
“Thank you, sir, and I won’t let you down again, sir. Now, I’ve your ‘house-wife’ laid out on the wash-hand stand, your razor stropped and ready for the morning. Will there be anything else before supper, sir? A pot of tea from belowstairs, or—?”
“No, I think that’ll do ’til morning, Pettus,” Lewrie said as he hauled out his pocket watch from a waist-coat pocket and peered at it. “Last time I lodged here, the kitchen staff arose round half-past five, so have them stir you, too. I think I’ll trust to the staff of the club for the rest of the ev’nin’, and you can get settled in with them and enjoy a good supper and some time off.”
“Very good, sir, and good night to you,” Pettus said, bowing a humble and abashed way out the door.
Most-like, he’ll be kickin’ himself in the arse the next week, entire, and lookin’ at me as cutty-eyed as a whipped hound, Lewrie wryly told himself as he got to his feet. He rinsed his mouth with some water from the wash-hand stand pitcher, brushed his hair into proper order, and went down to the Common Room for some of that brandy.
Lewrie found around two-dozen of the other members of the club gathered by the windows of the Common Room that overlooked the street, whooping and laughing and laying wagers.
“Oh, look, good old Lewrie’s back among us!” Mr. Pilkington, a fellow from the ’Change, and middling in stocks, cried. “Huzzah for the Navy! How d’ye keep, old fellow, and wherever have ye been?”
“Gentlemen,” Lewrie said back with a grin, making a half-bow from his waist. “The West Indies, the Bahamas, Spanish Florida, and playin’ diplomat with the Americans.”
“And none of them scalped you, hah?” Mr. Ludlow, who was big in the leather goods trade, hoorawed. “Come see this, Lewrie. There is a coachee out here, cup-shot.”
“Drunk as Davy’s Sow, I swear!” Pilkington hooted.
“He’s been trying to get back up to his seat, but he’s making a rum go of it,” another crowed in amusement. “There should be a law for people in charge of coaches and waggons being that drunk.”
“All I bought him was ale, beer, and porter,” Lewrie said, crowding to the rain-smeared windows for a better look. “He coached me up from Portsmouth, and he seemed sober enough.”
“Wager you all he’s a bottle of rum stashed up there in the box,” a younger member cried. “Been nipping on it on the sly, all the way.”
“Wager it’s more-like ‘Blue-Ruin’,” one of his fellow clubmen of the sporting sort dis-agreed. “Two shillings on gin, not rum.”
“It’ll be rum, and make it five shillings!” the first exclaimed with a hearty laugh. “What say you, Captain Lewrie?”
“I say someone’ll have t’go out there in the rain to see what he has in the box, if anything,” Lewrie rejoined. “Oh, Christ!”