Once in the street, he turned and looked up at the front of the inn, to see Theoni framed in the windows of the room they had shared. She had fetched a four-arm candleholder to the sill, one that he didn't recall being lit when he'd departed, that illuminated her as well as the footlights of a Drury Lane theatre.
He waved widely, blew her that required kiss, which she played at catching and pressing to her own lips, then suggestively sliding it down to her heart, her face half-crumpled 'twixt glee and agony and so bravely bearing up. Her morning gown was parted, revealing amberish candlelit, and ample, bosoms…
Damme, if I ain't ready t'cry off sailin' and go nufбle 'twixt those beautiesjust one more time! Lewrie speculated, feeling the fork of his crotch tighten. Gawd, she knows me too well, already, what sets me goose-brained .. . witless for it!
One final wave, a doff of his hat and a "leg" made in congй and he had to turn away and tramp off quickly… before he was tempted to rush back and chuck his active commission!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hoy, the boat!"
"Proteus!" the bow-man called back, showing four fingers to indicate the size of the side-party for a Post-Captain, causing a scurry despite the fact that his return was known to the half-hour. Bosuns' calls shrilled, booted Marines thundered on cold oak decks, bare tars' feet pounded on the ladders, and icy hands slapped musket stocks, as a well-drilled ship's crew mustered to greet him.
As Four Bells struck, Lewrie took a moment to admire his ship, now that he was close-aboard her starboard side. Dawn had made her a shining jewel of fresh paint and linseed oil, of gilt trim and tarred rigging, her yards crossed to mathematical perfection, and fresh as a new-minted guinea. Even up close, she was just about perfection, now that she was out of the yards and back on her own bottom.
Lewrie stood, swept back his boat cloak, and tucked his sword behind his left hip so it wouldn't tangle between his legs, then clung to a side-stay of the hired boat as it nuzzled up to the ship's side by the main-chains, the boarding-battens and man-ropes of the entry-port. Judging the slight roll and toss of both boat and ship, he timed a leap and made it on the first try, nimbly ascending the side, with but only the merest twinge of weakness in his now-healed left arm as he gained the deck, fresh-scrubbed and holystoned nigh to parchment whiteness, and still damp from the crew's predawn labours, about the time he had drunk his last cup of coffee with Theoni, ashore.
Swords were flourished, boots stamped, muskets were presented, and the calls sang like eagles on high as he stepped in-board, safely on his own decks once more, and doffing his hat to the side-party and his gathered crew, who stood on gangways or in the waist with their hats in hand, their heads bared in their own salute. Some still chewing?
"The hands have eat, Mister Langlie?" he asked.
"In the process, sir," his First Lieutenant responded.
"My apologies for arriving in the middle of their meal, then, and pipe them back below, 'fore it goes cold on 'em. I take it that the galley is still hot?"
"Aye, sir."
"Then I'll have a pot of coffee," Lewrie briskly said, clapping his mittened hands together. "I've a chest and two bags to be got up."
"I'll see to it, directly, sir," Langlie vowed.
"Everything else in order for sailing, Mister Langlie?"
"Aye, sir. Last despatches came aboard just after you went off for shore, last afternoon," the darkly handsome Langlie said, smiling.
"Very well. Dismiss the hands back to their breakfasts, and I will be aft and below, 'til… Six Bells, at which time we'll get her underway. Carry on, Mister Langlie."
He went down the starboard ladder from the gangway to the waist, then aft into his great-cabins, past the Marine sentry; past the dining coach to larboard and the chart-space to starboard, the two dog-boxes where his clerk and his manservant slept, and into his day-cabin where an iron brazier/stove tried its best to banish the cold, its belly stoked with sea-coal and kindling.
Aspinall took his hat, cloak and sword, and his mittens, while Lewrie rubbed his hands over the brazier, thinking that if Admiralty were of a mind to punish him by shooing him off someplace very far overseas, he could at least be thankful that it would be someplace warm!
Riddled with malaria, cholera, and Yellow Jack, but warm! Lewrie chortled to himself. After a futile moment of trying to thaw out, he went aft to his desk, to survey the pile of official despatches bound in canvas and wax-sealed ribbons, his last personal correspondence…
Nope, nothin' new, he thought with a tired sigh. He had tried to call upon Lord Spencer and Mr. Nepean at Admiralty, but had been informed that those worthies had nothing particular to say to him, hence he had not been admitted. A letter had come from them, urging him "… should there be no pressing delay in your affairs, to repair at once to Sheerness to supervise the refit of your ship."
And once in Sheerness, the dockyard officials had been dilatory in supplying his wants, while other letters came down from London that urged a quick return to sea, and slyly asking "whyever not, already?"
Oh, it was harsh! Admiralty was miffed, not for his "affair" or morals; officialdom was miffed because he had had no control over his wife in public! On such things were careers unmade.
If he wished Proteus repainted, it would be at his own expense, though he had written one of those letters asking "… with the supply of paint on hand, Sirs, and the meagre budget allotted for the task, which side of the ship do you prefer that we paint?"
That had not warranted a reply, which was fortunate, for Admiralty was not known for its sense of humour, and any answer would have been a harsh censure, perhaps his relief and replacement as captain!
Finally, orders had come aboard, for the West Indies! Sealed orders, most intriguingly not to be opened 'til he had weathered Cape St. Vincent off Spain 's Sou'west tip, had also accompanied them.
Since the war started in 1793, Prime Minister William Pitt and his coterie had shoved troops and ships into the Caribbean, eager for possession of every "sugar" island. It had cost the lives of 40,000 soldiers and seamen, so far. Once Fever Season struck, regiments and ships' companies could be reduced to pitiful handfuls in a trice!
No matter Lewrie had prospered there in his midshipman days, he had gone down with Yellow Jack in 1781, and had been damned lucky to survive it, even if every hair on his head had fallen out and he had turned the colour of a ripe quince! He was safe, therefore, unable to catch it again, but his hands…?
Whilst Proteus was being re-rigged and re-armed, he had studied every anecdote, every official report he could lay his hands on anent service in the West Indies, looking for any clue as to why some ships
hadn't suffered catastrophic loss, while others turned to ghost ships. He had spoken to Mr. Shirley the Surgeon and his mates, but even they were pretty much clueless.
It was "bad air"-Mal-Aria-the miasmas that rose from the soil of tropic lands at night, but they could not seal every port and hatchway, not without smothering or roasting the "people" in their own sweat and exhalations. They had requested assefoetida herbs to make sachets through which to breathe "bad air," but had been told that such would come from their own pockets, like much of a naval surgeon's stock of medicines, no matter the terms of the recent mutinies that required Admiralty to issue them free.