"She speaks true, sir… no fraud," an older gentleman informed him from closer to the fire. "This bloody war's the fault. The Chinee trade, and all our silver going to India and China?" He sneered.
"Very well," Lewrie nodded to the girl, accepting the imitations for real currency and slipping her a true ha'penny for service rendered.
"Been away too long, sir," Lewrie commented, cocking a brow at his interlocutor. "Fightin' this… bloody war."
"No business of ours, sir, what happens on the Continent, or what happens to Frogs, Dons, and Dagoes. Mean t'say, sir, what's our good English Channel for, hmm?"
"Long as those Frogs, Dons-perhaps even some of those Dagoes- have navies, sir"-Lewrie bristled-"it is our business! What do you think we did at Saint Vincent? Broke up one part of a combination with an eye for our invasion, sir. If not of England, then of Ireland…"
"Ah, to defend ourselves, aye, sir!" the older fellow chirped most happily. "Ain't that right, Douglas?" he asked his partner at their table, a cherubic old country squire-ish sort. "I'd not be averse to a million pounds being spent on our defence, sir. But not a groat more should go to Austria, Prussia… It's their problem, isn't it? So they should spend their treasure if they think they need a war against the French. Blockade the French, keep their navy reined back. Keep their armies from overseas adventure, aye, sir. But… that's as far as we ought go before the country's bankrupt. Emulate the words of Washington… first president of the United States, sir… when he warned, 'Beware of foreign entanglements.' '
"All very fine, sir"-Lewrie sniffed archly-"for a powerless and isolated nation 'cross the seas… too impoverished to aspire to an empire. But lookee here, sir… no matter which government France has, they've always hated us; we've always hated them. Give 'em licence to conquer the rest of Europe? Dragoon all Europe into their fold and they'll be across that Channel of ours and at our throats. And what's the eventual cost of that, hey?"
Damme, never heard the like, and from an Englishman too! Lewrie fumed. Was the man a bloody Quaker, too meek to raise a hand to guard his own throat? Or one of those "Rights of Man" Levellers?
"You're new-come, sir, I'll warrant," the cherubic-looking old fellow who went by Douglas pooh-poohed. "Back from our most expensive 'wooden walls,' hmm? You've not seen the suffering, sir. Nor felt it yourself. Thousands more Enclosure Acts, farmers thrown out of work or off the land… industry," he sneered, "dragooning thousands into the mines and mills, sir. High wages, aye, but high taxes too, so that no one may make the living one made three years past. Price of grains gone through the roof, yet farmers such as myself barely breaking even e'en in a bumper year! Taxed to death, we are…"
"Hear, hear!" several other gentlemen growled in agreement. "You'd trust to a French occupation… to lower your taxes!" Lewrie sneered aloud and was gratified to hear an even larger, more vociferous chorus of "Hear! Hears!" from those of the opposing camp.
"You malign me, sir!" the angelically white-maned Douglas said, rearing back and suddenly looking as fierce as an old but game Viking Berserker. "Never the French! Rather, a reforming of our…"
The first older gentleman laid a restraining, cautioning hand on his friend's coat sleeve. "You mistake our motive, sir."
"Nay, sir," Lewrie snickered. "I meant to malign you actually." Which won him a rowdy round of cheers, the thumping of tankards or fists on the tables from the more patriotic topers. Lewrie had himself a deep draught from his fresh brandy in celebration, knowing that the old fellow could glare fierce but would never press to cross steel with him or "blaze" with pistols. He could be as nasty as he wished to be! It looked to be hellish-good sport to berate the pair of them as un-patriotic.
I'm off duty-an half-pay "civilian, "for the nonce, he reminded himself; no more "firm but fair"! Damme, I ain't been free to be me malicious old self in a month of Sundays!
"You have your opinion, sir," the first man said, much subdued. "We have ours. Do you spend time ashore, you may change yours."
"I very much doubt it," Lewrie began. But they were leaving, the first gentleman almost shaking " Douglas " to force him to keep mum. They gathered their capes and hats from the "Abigail" by the door and departed for cheerier taverns.
His shot at amusement over, Lewrie took another sip, heaved up a shrug, and reached over to their table to snag the newspaper they'd abandoned in their haste to depart.
Now this'll be a rare treat, he thought; reading a newspaper which hadn'tbeen smudged nigh-illegible by an hundred previous hands, one which wasn't water-stained, rat-gnawed, folded and crinkled to the fragility of a yellow onion peel. And containing information newer than a month past!
"Ahem, gentlemen," one of the inn-keeper's assistants announced from the double-doors to the dining room. "We are now serving." Those doors were thrown open, and a heady steam wafted out, so tempting that Lewrie's mouth began to water. A first shot at home-cooking, a proper English meal-course after course of his old favourites, he hoped as he rose quickly. A glutton's delight to welcome him back to all which he'd fought for-a glad repast worthy of the Prodigal Son's return!
He crammed the newspaper into a side pocket of his coat, sprang into action, and beat several slower feeders into the dining room! At the first sight of that groaning sideboard, laden with roasts, steaks, chops, savoury fowl-and a pudding the size of a capstan head-Alan consigned the pleasures of political nattering quite out of his mind!
CHAPTER THREE
Wartime hadn't thinned the Waiting Room, Lewrie noticed, once he had left his cloak with an attendant. No matter those hundred ships of the line, those hundred frigates, sloops, brigs, and such which required every officer still sound in wind and limb… there were indeed a horde of others waiting. Rear-Admirals and Commodores… rather old fellows no higher in seniority than the Blue Squadron, he imagined, though some might have slowly clambered up the seniority list to the Red… because they'd outlived their contemporaries. Some positively doddered! There were Post-Captains blessed with both epaulets, denoting more than three years had passed since their promotion and at least one active commission at sea. They… the most of 'em… looked healthy enough to sail on the King's business, including junior captains with only one epaulet worn on the right shoulder. A mixed bag, that lot; some spry, healthy, and young, pacing impatiently. Others who looked old enough to be their fathers, plucked by dire need from a sea of lieutenants at long last, those men who'd had no hope of command, of promotion, for they were the unfortunates who were ever at the wrong place at the wrong time, had no patronage or "interest," and had never been chosen to serve aboard ships where they could shine in the eyes of an influential man of flag rank.
The same could pretty much be said for men of his own grade, with the epaulet on the left shoulder-the Commanders in the room. They either were too young to be so fortunate or looked too old and worn-out for the rank, the ones who'd go down on their knees and thank God for a "bloody war or a sickly season," as the old mess-toast went.
He had no eye for the many hopeful lieutenants and midshipmen in the Waiting Room. The Devil with 'em, he thought, competition! A lap or two about the room, looking for a seat, revealed no officer of his personal acquaintance.