“What the Devil?” he had groused, sitting upright and grabbing his discarded shirt to hold before his groin to go see what the noise was all about. He flung one of the double doors open. “Hell, yes!”
There was a frigate standing into port, firing her salute to the garrison commander, announcing her presence, wreathing herself in powder smoke.
“If she isn’t comin’ in on purpose, then I’ll have her, no matter!” Lewrie had exclaimed, going back inside to hunt up his clothing. “I’m sorry, Maddalena, but I have t’speak with her Captain. I need her for my escort force, just perishin’ bad!”
“I go with you, Alan,” she had replied, though looking so very sad and disappointed. “I walk you to the landing.”
“I’d love it if you would,” he had told her.
* * *
By the time they were both properly dressed and presentable in public, the arriving frigate had come to anchor and had handed all of her sails up in harbour gaskets. Lewrie could see that she had two of her boats down, a small jolly boat for her Bosun to row about the ship to assure himself that all her yards were squared, and a gig that was headed for the main landing stage, and by the look of her passengers, bearing that frigate’s captain ashore to report to General Drummond.
“She may have come under orders t’join me,” Lewrie eagerly said, increasing their pace, “and if Middleton has the other two set to rights, I could be out to sea and on my way by dawn tomorrow!”
He spared a bit of his attention to glance at Maddalena, who was practically trotting to keep up with him, and noted her stricken expression.
“Sorry, my dear,” he told her, “but events are bigger than we are. I have to—”
“I understand, Alan,” she replied, “but I do not have to like it.” She flashed him a brave smile that both knew was a sham.
Lewrie made it to the top of the quay and the head of the landing stage ramp just as the newly-arrived frigate’s gig came alongside the lower stage. He felt a sudden qualm as he clapped eyes on the Post-Captain in the boat, and suddenly wished that he had left Maddalena at her lodgings.
This could be awkward, he thought; I wonder what he thinks of mistresses?
The officer in the boat was getting to his feet and about to step ashore. He was a striking fellow, slim, tall, broad-shouldered, and rather handsome, nigh-dashing it could be said. He paused to exchange words with a Midshipman in the boat’s sternsheets, who pointed at Lewrie as if to make his superior aware of Lewrie’s presence.…
What the Devil? Lewrie thought; Is that…? Can’t be!
The Midshipman dared wave to him, beaming fit to bust.
Awkward, mine arse! Lewrie quailed; It is Hugh! How’s he vote on kept women? This’ll be embarrassin’!
His youngest son, Mr. Midshipman Hugh Lewrie, exited the boat first, following naval protocol; senior officers were first in to boats, but last out. But Hugh didn’t wait for his Captain to step ashore, but came dashing up the ramp from the landing stage shouting “Father, at last!” bubbling over with joy of their rencontre.
“Well, hallo, son, where did you spring from?” Lewrie cried, glad to see him, of course, but caught in a cleft stick. He flung his arms wide in welcome, anyway. “Damn my eyes, but you’ve grown! I almost didn’t recognise ye!”
And that was certainly true, for when he’d seen Hugh off into his first ship in 1803, the lad had been a thirteen-year-old stripling, and here he was five years later, eighteen now, and damned near a man grown, taller and filled out, sun-bronzed and tarry-handed. Hugh had inherited his mother’s hair colour, but years of ocean sun had turned his light brown hair almost blond. He’d gotten his father’s eyes, though, stark grey-blue against a seaman’s tan.
Hugh didn’t come to his embrace, though, but doffed his hat in salute first, to which Lewrie responded in kind, then they met close, heartily shaking hands. If he could not hug him, then at least Lewrie could thump him on the shoulder.
“It’s been too damned long, Hugh, a dog’s age and more,” Lewrie told him, smiling widely, even as he dreaded the consequences to come.
“Aye, it has, sir,” Hugh eagerly agreed, then turned serious as he sensed his Captain behind him. “Ahem, my pardons, Father, but, do you allow me to name to you my Captain … Captain Richard Chalmers of the Undaunted frigate. Captain Chalmers, sir, allow me to name to you my father, Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, of HMS Sapphire.”
At least he sounded proud to do so.
“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Captain Lewrie, and the very man I was ordered to seek out,” Chalmers said in a forceful baritone, chin up, and doffing his hat in salute.
“Honoured t’make yours, Captain Chalmers,” Lewrie said back, “and from what I’ve read of your exploits in my son’s letters, a man after my own heart.”
Hugh called him a high-minded sort, too, Lewrie recalled; whatever that means. Here comes the embarrassin’ part.
He turned to include Maddalena, plastering a grin on his phyz and striving to make a bold showing.
“Captain Chalmers, son, allow me to name to you Miss Maddalena Covilhā,” he began. “Miss Covilhā, allow me to name to you Captain Richard Chalmers, of the Undaunted frigate, and my son, Midshipman Hugh Lewrie, also of the Undaunted.”
That’s enough, no explanations, he thought, waiting for the reaction.
Before they had attended the supper ball to welcome General Sir John Moore to Gibraltar the year before, Maddalena had fretted over her social graces, and had sought out a tutor. Her curtsies, and her address to them were perfectly refined. “Captain Chalmers, Midshipman Lewrie, I am pleased to make your acquaintances, gentlemen, though I fear it will be of a brief nature, given the urgent matter which brings you to Gibraltar.”
Captain Chalmers tried to hide a scandalised frown, looking as if he knew for certain what Maddalena was, and did not appreciate being introduced to a doxy. Hugh stood and nodded with his mouth open, an uncertain smile on his face.
What, she’s a cundum stuck to her hair? Lewrie groused to himself; Are my breeches buttons undone? Aye, he’s high-minded for sure!
“Miss Covilhā,” Hugh hesitantly responded, doffing his hat to her in involuntary courtesy. “You … ehm … are…?”
“Portuguese, young sir,” Maddalena said with a sweet and disarming smile. “There are many of us here at Gibraltar, who fled the French invasion.”
“Ah, Portuguese, aye,” Hugh flummoxed, casting a startled look at his father.
“But, I delay you gentlemen,” Maddalena went on, bestowing one more smile on one and all. “You must prepare to sail to rescue brave General Sir John Moore and his gallant army, and there is no time for the social niceties. With your permission, I will take my leave of you, sim?”
By God, an English girl presented at Court couldn’t do that better! Lewrie thought with pride, and surprise of her diplomatic skills.
“Miss Covilhā,” Lewrie said, sweeping off his hat and laying it upon his chest as he made a leg to her. “Meu amor,” he silently mouthed to her, though, with a brief, impish smile. His bow prompted the others to follow suit, no matter what they thought of her.
“Gentlemen, Captain Lewrie,” Maddalena said, dipping them all a departure curtsy, low, long, and with a graceful incline of her head. As she looked up at last, she mouthed “Fofa” to Lewrie in a shared jest; “Sweetie!”
“Well, what’s first on the menu, sir?” Lewrie asked Chalmers in a sudden, business-like tone. “Firewood and water, provisions from the dockyards, or will you wish to speak with General Drummond to be apprised of the latest information regarding the mess the Army’s got itself into?”