"Well, then…" Nepean drawled.
"I'll take my leave then, sir"-Lewrie cried, leaping to his feet and knowing an exit cue when he heard one-"and coach down to Chatham instanter."
"Just left the graving dock, I believe she has, sir," Mr. Nepean informed him, already digging at a pile of more pressing letters. "A partial crew aboard. Time enough, though, for a slight celebration… and for you to go well stocked in cabin stores, hmm?"
"Aye, sir, I s'pose," Lewrie allowed, wishing he could shift his epaulet to his right shoulder that instant, so he could descend to the Waiting Room and put a nose or two out of joint. "My thanks, sir… my undying thanks. Good morning to you, Mister Nepean."
"And a good morning to you, Captain Lewrie," Nepean had grace enough to say. "Do you remember to see my under-clerk on your way, sir. There is the slight matter of the tax…?"
"Ah, yes," Lewrie soured a bit, taking a look at the stamp upon that precious document. They were dunning him for another two shillings and six pence! "Right, then…"
"How did you put it last time, Captain Lewrie?" Nepean drawled, tweaking him a trifle sardonically. " 'Damme, had I known it was this cheap, I'd have done it long before'?"
"Uhm… aye, sir," Lewrie cringed. "Quite."
He turned to go, then stopped himself, reminded of a vital point which had not been mentioned, but should have been.
"Uhm, Mister Nepean, sir…"
"Uhmm?" Nepean replied, looking up from his papers with a brow cocked in the beginnings of petulant impatience, though not stretched quite so thin as to bark or bare his teeth… yet.
"The matter of my retinue, so to speak, sir. Usually a captain is allowed some of his old hands to accompany him into a new ship."
"Ah, yes." Nepean sighed, abandoning his work, faced with what amounted to a real problem and not a time-waster. He steepled fingers below the vane of his nose, brow creased in thought.
"I've my Cox'n, my clerk, and cabin-steward with me, sir, that's the
lot. Perhaps some hands off Jester could be called away to Chatham? There's my old Bosun, a damned good gunner named Rahl… Yeoman of The Powder now, but a keen-eyed shot as Quarter-Gunner should he take the re-rating. There are some Able Seamen been with me since Toulon…"
"But, Captain Lewrie," Nepean frowned, opening his hands and closing one to a fist, so he could shake an admonitory finger at him, "your last ship now lies at Portsmouth and is reputed to be actively supportive of the sailors' cause. We simply cannot have men such as those spread throughout the rest of the Navy, which is so far free of the taint of mutiny. I know it is the custom and usage that captains have reliable, personally spoken-for men from their last ships, but… given the fragile nature of these current circumstances, I do not see how we may oblige you. 'Pon: my life, I can't."
"I see, sir," Lewrie sighed, crestfallen, and pondering how he would fare, recruiting at Chatham, in a strange town, without a single old hand ashore at any "rondy" to vouch for him. Did he not gather a proper crew in a set period of time, his precious commission document would be so much bum-fodder-they'd assign another new Post-Captain to take his place, and he'd revert to being a Commander, waiting his turn at another sloop of war, if he was lucky. Or stuck at home back in Anglesgreen with all its distasteful, civilian, and domestic doings, fretting crops and Sophie and Harry Embleton, were he not!
"Once aboard at Chatham, you may forward to me a list of names you might recall from previous commissions, Captain Lewrie," Nepean suggested-tossed out like a sop he didn't have to spend much on. "Then, are they still in the Navy, and are they presently aboard ship in an untainted port, we may be able to accommodate you, but…" Mr. Nepean lifted his hands palms up and gave him one of those hopeless and powerless shrugs more commonly seen on rug merchants who'd failed to strike a compromise on price.
"I see, sir," Lewrie sighed, much abashed.
"Ah, but you're such a knacky and resourceful fellow, Lewrie," Nepean said with a purr, which meant he wouldn't lift a finger more to help him in this regard, "and you've taken command of vessels before, where you were too junior a lieutenant to fetch aboard your favourites. I'm sure, once you explain your plight to the Regulating Captain of the Impress Service at Chatham, he will send you such trustworthy hands and petty officers as he has. I will write him at once, and send a copy on to Vice-Admiral Charles Buckner, flag officer commanding at the Nore. 'Twixt the two of them, I am certain you will find proper redress."
"That's satisfactory, sir… thankee," Lewrie told him, though it wasn't in the least satisfactory-in normal times.
"Well then, Captain Lewrie," Nepean said, "allow me to wish success to His Majesty's Ship Proteus… and to her new captain then. May all good fortune attend you, and her, sir."
'Long as I just go! Lewrie snickered to himself.
"I'll see what I can 'bout success, sir. Good day."
CHAPTER TWELVE
They'd stayed in London that whole day and the next, for there was so much to see to: visit his solicitor Mr. Matthew Mountjoy to arrange funds and inform him of his new situation; hunt up Aspinall and Padgett; shop for cabin-stores as Nepean had suggested; attend to getting his epaulets shifted. New stockings in both cotton and silk, a new stock or two, a new dress shirt or two; cases and small kegs of wine, brandy, and such, and other foodstuffs specially prepared for a Sea Officer's life at Fortnum Mason's, shopping at Frybourg And Treyer's in the Haymarket. And shopping with the children, shopping with Caroline and Sophie… it was a hellish sudden outlay. But fun. Mountjoy had been happy to inform him that another Ј900 had come in from the Mediterranean prize-courts, less taxes and deductions, less prize-court fees, and his own; a tidy sum to be sure, and half of it gone in a twinkling, but the rest enough to keep his family with real style for at least another five years!
They'd taken in a military parade in Hyde Park, listened to the bands and cheered, attended the theatres in Covent Garden and in Drury Lane, eaten out both evenings, gotten a spell of decent weather on the first night and strolled Covent Gardens, and danced. The second night there'd been a subscription ball to celebrate the up-coming nuptials of King George's daughter Charlotte, the Princess-Royal, to the German Prince of Wurttemburg. Caroline had been glowing in a spanking new gown, with some of Grannie Lewrie's jewelry and some of that loot which Alan had brought back from the Far East in '86; some of it they loaned to Sophie for the two evenings. Both were as be-gemmed as any royal, and Lewrie had nigh worn out his shoes in dancing almost every dance with them.
Though after her second turn 'round the chalked floors of that huge salon, Sophie had had all the male company she might have wished, all eager to make the acquaintance of the intriguing young woman who had danced with the naval officer with the medal on his breast. She'd been coyly ecstatic, hiding her eye-rolling and her little chirps of glee behind her fan when on the sidelines, yet archly imperious and seemingly uncaring for even the handsomest partner upon the floor.
There'd not been much sleep that evening to be sure, what with dancing 'til nearly one, a cold collation with champagne after, then a coach-ride back to Willis's, and Sophie simply had to laugh out loud, purr, or titter (and damn' near shriek! at times) over her success with Society, with her and Caroline chortling over the night 'til all hours.
Lewrie awoke after a brief four hours of sleep a tad dry-mouthed from all the champagne and wines he'd taken aboard, woke to a bustling as loud (it seemed) as a 12-pounder being hauled 'cross the deck to run-out position, as their household went about packing up for the coach trip to Chatham. Everything in a rush, a search for mis-placed shoes, hats, and last night's fineries which had been flung "will-he, nill-he," the slamming of chest lids and the patter of children's feet at a scamper, too excited to; be shoved into proper clothing. Andrews was there with the sea-going stores stowed away aboard a hired cart, and Padgett was there, shyly avoiding being trampled. Aspinall was back and eager to re-prove his worth, whetting Lewrie's razor on a strop, frothing up shaving soap, proffering a towel, a bowl, and pitcher of hot water on the wash-hand stand… babbling away a mile-a-minute as he got out that fresh shirt and stock, blacked Lewrie's best shore-going boots, and stood ready to shove him into order once he'd sluiced his admittedly thick head, face, and neck, shaved himself half-raw, and slugged down a single cup of chocolate.