Aspinall and his publishing partner had been a bit more aspiring than that; was the first volume successful, there were plans for a guide to a world of useful sailors' knots, along with a companion book on the making of sennet-work "small stuff" into rings, bracelets, necklaces, and doilies, the sort of things that sailors wove for loved ones in their off-duty hours or "Make and Mend" Sundays. All lavishly illustrated, of course, for Aspinall had always been a dab-hand sketch artist, saving the cost of hiring one. There'd be a guide to the various parts of a ship, the standing, and most especially, the running rigging that controlled the sails… all an eager lubber needed to find his way through the mysterious world of the sea and its arcane language, for there would be a lexicon of all the former and current slang and jargon decyphered for the complete neophyte!
It had been with some measure of surprise, and a great deal of reluctance, for Lewrie to wish Aspinall and his family well, offer to write Admiralty that very day, obtain his Discharge and final reckoning of his pay, and, to be gracious, offer his name as a subscriber to all the future works; even pen a recommendation to introduce the first one… assuming the use of his name would not drive purchasers away from it.
Wife reclused from him, in high dudgeon, in Anglesgreen down in Surrey, and his daughter Charlotte clinging to Caroline's skirts, and her spites; Sewallis and Hugh both back at their public school now Hilary Term was begun and Christmas holidays were over, and busy with their lessons; his brother-in-law (the one who'd still talk to him) Burgess Chiswick was head-over-heels in love, newly affianced to the lovely (and rich!) Theodora Trencher, and also busy with his newly purchased Majority in a foot regiment… the only people left to Lewrie from family, in-laws, or contemporaries in the Navy was his slyly Irish Cox'n, Liam Desmond, and Desmond's old comrade, the simple but strong Patrick Furfy-neither of whom could butler, valet, or even boil a pot of water, far as he knew of their civilian skills.
Both those worthies, much like his cats Toulon and Chalky, did seem more than happy to remain with him, for several very good reasons; firstly, they were not presently at sea, and could stay warm and dry for a change; secondly, the quality of their victuals beat Navy issue food all hollow; thirdly, there were thousands of pubs and taverns in which to slake their thirsts, and at Lewrie's expense; and, fourthly, said taverns were in London, where there were women by battalions for them to ogle, flirt up, and serve Jack Sauce, or manage to put the leg over, by finagling or the offer of a shilling or three.
And London was so full of theatres, music halls, exhibits and pleasure gardens, and street rarees that Desmond and Furfy likely felt they'd gained the sailors' paradise, "Fiddler's Green," where every lass was comely and obliging, the music never ceased, rum and ale flowed round the clock, and publicans never demanded the reckoning!
Stout fellows, in the main, the both of them, but… like his cats, they weren't good conversationalists… they weren't Aspinall.
CHAPTER SIX
The Admiral Boscawen Coffee House, at the corner of Oxford Street and Orchard Street (site of the present day Selfridge's) was just the sort of warm and cozy place that Lewrie needed after a brisk stroll from the corner of Duke Street and Wigmore Street. There was a blue-aproned lad to take his hat, cloak, and walking stick, a man to see him to a table of his own, not too far from one of the two blazing hearths, and yet another young man to fetch him his first cup of coffee with cream and sugar. Before toast, butter, and jam could be fetched, there were piles of newspapers from which to choose, as well, and Lewrie, who had been rather busy at saving his arse the last week or so, was glad to find some back numbers so he could catch back up with the latest doings.
"Brown bread fer toast, only, sir… sorry t'say," the waiter apologised after laying a plate before Lewrie. "Th' Lord Mayor's gotta down on white bread, 'long with the Crown."
"It's been banned?" Lewrie had to gawp.
"Bad harvest, they say, sir," the waiter said with a shrug. "Th' war, an' all. Anything else, sir?"
"Not for the moment, no," Lewrie told him. At least there was still more than enough fresh butter, and a full pot of lime marmalade. Truth to tell, Lewrie rather liked brown bread, so the ban on fine white bread was not much bother. He was hungry enough, by then, to chew sawdust. And the coffee was decently hot, for a rare wonder; which was one reason why he preferred the Admiral Boscawen.
In The Times, there was a reprint of the King's address to the closing session of Parliament on New Year's Eve, which had featured King George escorted from the Presence Chamber by both Admiral Hood and Nelson to the throne, and Lewrie stopped chewing long enough to read:
"The detention of property of my subjects in the ports of Russia contrary to the most solemn treaties, and the imprisonment of British sailors in that country, have excited in me sentiments in which you and all my subjects will, I am sure, participate…"
Far from English waters most of the previous year, off the foe's shores in the mouth of the Gironde River, and weeks from fresh papers from home, he'd missed most of the dust-up with the Danes.
British and Danish warships had tangled in the Mediterranean in the summer, the Danes insisting that their convoys and independent merchant ships were not subject to stopping for inspection for contraband that might aid the French. A Danish frigate, the Freya, had traded a few shots off the English coast later on, striking her colours to protect another small convoy.
Just before Christmas, the Danes, Swedes, Russians, and even the mostly land-locked Prussians, who had hardly a navy or merchant marine to speak of, had resurrected their former Armed Neutrality, which they had insisted upon (none too strenuously!) during the Seven Years' War and the American Revolution. Russia had gone even further, seizing nigh three hundred British merchantmen in their ports, and force-marching nearly a thousand British captains, mates, and sailors off to the wilds of Siberia, just as winter was coming on.
"… if it shall become necessary to maintain against any combination the honour and independence of the British Empire, and those maritime rights and interests on which both our prosperity and our security must always essentially depend," the King had further declared, "I enter no doubt either of the success of those means which, in such an event, I shall be enabled to exert, or the determination of my Parliament and my people to afford me… ''
A later edition of The Times told that "the public will learn with great satisfaction that Lord Nelson is about to be employed on a SECRET EXPEDITION and will hoist his flag in the next few days. His instructions will not be opened until he arrives at a certain latitude. We shall only permit ourselves to observe that there is reason to believe his destination is to a distant quarter, where his Lordship's personal appearance would preponderate over the influence of the intrigues of any Court in Europe."
Lewrie scoffed to himself, with an audible snort; Mine arse on a band-box! Not now it ain't! Some news writer needs to be shot! It's the Baltic for certain… even if he can't take his dear Emma, which thought make Lewrie smirk.
Those prim and newly righteous hosts and hostesses of his were down on Horatio Nelson, just promoted to Vice-Admiral of the Blue on New Year's Day. He'd been jumped from the eleventh of fifteen Rear-Admirals of the Red over senior men, and even if his rash actions had won the Battle of Cape Saint Vincent, even if he had destroyed a whole French fleet at the Battle of the Nile, then captured Malta, that was grumbled over, not cheered, for Nelson was not quite… Respectable. Not enough for them, anyway.
Nelson was carrying on an affair (grand, to some; infamous to others) with Lady Emma Hamilton, doting over her like a calf-headed cully in "cream-pot love" right out in public, and with her doddering old husband, Sir William Hamilton, by their side. Lewrie had heard he snubbed his long-suffering wife, Fannie, leaving her to trail behind like a maidservant. At an Admiralty supper back in November, she had sat mum, watching her husband spoon and gush over the bouncy, buxom Emma's every word; she'd shelled some walnuts for him and put them in a glass, which Nelson had so brusquely brushed aside that the glass had been broken, and it couldn't have been blamed on his blinded eye.