Then there were his former officers and sailors to surround him, to clasp hands or knuckle brows, and, before the Sir Samuel Whitbreads and Sir Malcolm Shockleys, Lord Peter Rushtons, and fiery-eyed Abolitionists seized upon him, his Cox'n Desmond and his mate Furfy, Landsman Jones Nelson and the rest of his Black sailors hoisted him up and bore him in triumph from the courtroom; out through the double doors into the hallways to the massive entry halls (someone had enough wit to gather up his hat, sword, and boat-cloak) and outside to the steps overlooking the street, where people took up "Hail, the Conqu'ring Hero Comes" and "Three Cheers and a Tiger." Where, with his sheathed sword in one hand and his hat hastily clapped far back on his head, Lewrie felt free enough-free!-to wave with his right hand to all in sight, and "Huzzah!" right back at them.
Hope they get me to a carriage quick, though, he had to think; Someone's got my cloak, and it's perishin' damn' cold!
BOOK 1
Juno:
Tellus colenda est, paelices caelum tenent.
Juno:
I must dwell on earth, for harlots hold the sky.
– LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA
CHAPTER FIVE
I'm the wrong sort o' hero, Lewrie thought with a yawn as he tossed back the covers at the fashionable hour of 10 A.M., a gentlemanly time to rise just a few years back. He hurriedly slipped his feet into a pair of ankle-high bearskin slippers, slung a floor-length dressing robe about his body, and dashed for the ebbing fire in the grate of his room at the Madeira Club.
Proper heroes got a servant to intrude-damned quietly!-to lay fresh kindling and sea-coal in the fireplace, so they could sleep in well-earned peace 'til noon, and awake in a toasty-warm chamber, too! Lewrie was certain. Proper heroes were not lodged amidst the earnest and dedicated, either; the sounds of early risers stamping about, taking their ablutions, opening and slamming chest lids, opening and slamming doors on their way belowstairs to the dining room for a hellish-early breakfast-clattering their shoes and boots on the steps and greeting each other with cheery bleats, to boot!-had made Lewrie's attempts at sleep all but impossible, since before 8 A.M.
The right sort of British hero (someone like Horatio Nelson, say) would be roused to the accompaniment of a steaming cup of coffee, cocoa, or tea, with buttered toast and jam, or rusks, too; but Lewrie saw no signs of such luxuries, and doubted ringing for their fetching would result in their prompt delivery. The kitchens and dining room closed at nine, not to open again 'til dinnertime.
Nelson'd be roused by Emma Hamilton's tits, too, Lewrie sourly thought as he "whizzed" away into the chamberpot. He gave the cooling bed a fond look for a moment; now the morning stampede of Respectable gentlemen was done, the lodging house would be quiet enough for a nap 'til the dining room re-opened, but… he'd made a late night of it, was dearly in need of sustenance, and, at that moment, could have killed someone for a cup of coffee. After a shave and a perfunctory wash-up, he threw on his civilian suitings, pulled up his own boots, tied his own stock, and grabbed hat, boat-cloak, and walking stick, and headed for a warm and cozy coffee-house.
It wasn't that his recent fame (or notoriety, if one prefers) denied Lewrie of a hero's panache. It was the sort of people with whom one was invited out to dine. Oh, there were a few cheerful souls from Parliament, in Commons and Lords, eager to have him in, but, in the main, the bulk of the invitations he had received the last week were of the grim, dour, and "Respectable" stripe, to whom a witty comment, a double entendre, or a glass of wine above strict necessity would be simply appalling. Abolitionists, social reformers, anti-hunting and anti-gaming enthusiasts; those grimly intent upon the eradication of prostitution (in London, for God's sake!) and the reclamation of the "poor, soiled doves" engaged upon it; those who fretted and wrung their hands over the sad lack of morals, the absence of evangelising among England's sailors, soldiers, and Marines. Why, there had been people who'd seemed in possession of all their wits, at first, earnestly dedicated to the eradication of Demon Rum, Ruinous Gin, and Soul-Sucking Brandy, and so enthusiastic about their Noble Cause as to appear quite fanatical.
For the last week, Lewrie couldn't even leer at a promisingly bulging chest, admire a graceful neck, or ogle a fetching female face. Not if he wished to maintain the good will of those who'd paid all his legal fees, he couldn't! A praiseful comment on "The Mouth of the Nile" playing at the Covent Garden Theatre in honour of the 1798 battle and Adm. Nelson, or conversation, about the overly melodramatic "Pizarro" in Drury Lane, had been received with odd pursings of mouths, much as if Lewrie had lifted a cheek and shot off a "cheeser." To his earnest hosts and hostesses, the only good thing about "Pizarro" were the moral lessons of the drama. Lewrie wasn't sure what those were, exactly-slaughtering umpteen thousands of Inca pagans, spreading Christianity with fire and sword, and raking up mountains of gold and gems was a good thing? That being a Spanish conqueror resulted in final tragedy, as opposed to, say, Clive of India, who'd done pretty much the same thing, but was so thoroughly British that he came home smelling like Hungary Water in comparison? Or was it the new fashions and colours that "Pizarro" had sprung upon a drab London winter? Purple, yellow, puce, and scarlet, along with spangled hair nets and fifteenth-century hats as big and floppy at throw-pillows (or exaggerated French berets) for women? Anyway, it was only the stylish, the "flash," and the young sybarites who sported such togs; pointedly not his hostesses, who were as staid as throw-backs to Cromwell's Puritans.
The first night right after his acquittal, there had been his former officers to roister with, but they had departed the day after, back to HMS Savage at Torbay, taking burly Landsman Jones Nelson with them, for he sorely missed his fellow Black mates and felt lost without them. Next to go, not a day after, was Aspinall!
"Em, sir, ah…," Aspinall had stammered, red-faced, that morning. "I wonder could I raise a point with ya, Captain Lewrie."
"Aye," Lewrie had said over his cocoa and jam (the last time he had had personal service in his rooms at the Madeira Club). "Say on."
" 'Tis me mother, sir," Aspinall had explained, all but wringing his hands. "The people she does for, they've been most generous, an' lenient with her, th' last few years, sir, but her ailments ain't gettin' better. My sister, Rose sir… she's in service with another household, an' can't see to her as she should, so… well, I've alla my prize-money, an' I've thought I could purchase a wee place f'r all of us… make her last years comfy, in a place of her own, d'ye see, sir? I woz wond'rin'… might ya write Admiralty for my Discharge on fam'ly grounds, sir?"
"You'd leave my employ as well?" Lewrie had said, stunned and feeling sudden loss; Aspinall had been with him damned-near forever, and where would he get a cabin servant, steward, and cook as good as Aspinall? Someone as understanding and "comfortable"?
"Fear I must, sir," Aspinall had gloomed. "Same thing, really. I'm that sorry t'let ya down, sir, an' I'll stay on 'til ya finds yer new man, but…"
"No no, Aspinall," Lewrie had assured him. "I'll look around. For a while, I may depend upon the staff at the Madeira. I'll write Admiralty at once. Humph. 'Tis good odds Hell'd freeze over before they wish to employ me, in future, so I doubt I'd need anyone with so many skills as you possess. But… whatever shall you do to earn a living, Aspinall? Prize-money's fine, but it won't last forever."
"Uhm nossir," Aspinall had related, a lot more cheerfully, "I know a man in th' publishin' business, int'rested in my journals, an' those songs I collected aboard ship… along with amusin' anecdotes 'mongst the lads, an' such. He thinks we can sell a lot of them to lads intent on volunteering'."