A hint of action, the chance of more older warships being fitted out and manned, brought out even the nigh-dead; oh, it was a grim mob that Lewrie beheld. There were grizzled Lieutenants in their fourties, Captains in need of crutches in their sixties, all of whom had been on half-pay since the end of the American Revolution, whose uniforms were ready for museum pieces, all sniffing the air like white-muzzled foxhounds who could barely walk anymore… bleating like ancient sheep, all rheumy-eyed, for just one more shot at sea.
Christ, is that what I have t'look forward to? Lewrie wondered to himself, appalled. He had sent his name up to the First Secretary, Evan Nepean, 'round ten of the morning. Rather too quickly for belief a silky-smooth young snotty had called out his name and sought him out with a note of reply in hand. For one brief moment, Lewrie had felt a surge of hope. Even through the flunky's smug smirk.
The First Secretary regrets that pressing matters preclude an interview with you today, Cpt. Lewrie; or in the near future. At any rate, there are no openings in the Fleet at present for a Cpt. of your qualities. Given your single year on the senior Cpt's List and lack of seniority, it may be some time before we may contemplate your active employment.
Polite way o' sayin' it'll be a cold day in Hell, Lewrie thought as he quickly wadded up the note and jammed it into a side pocket of his uniform coat, his face reddening in embarrassment and anger. And that smooth young flunky was still standing there before him, with a faint smirk on his face.
"Waitin' for a tip?" Lewrie harshly muttered. "Bugger off!"
With the eyes of an hundred or more of his contemporaries upon him, Lewrie gathered up his hat and boat-cloak and prepared to depart, his soul smarting… to be gawked at and whispered about behind hands by such a pack of superannuated dodderers and droolers, by failures and drunkards, by fools too lack-wit to pass their Lieutenants' exams, and incompetent twits and no-hopes. Worse yet! To imagine what false sympathy some felt. "Bugger him, more chance for me! Oh, poor fellow… the bastard! Born one, ye know, hee hee!" To be pitied by such a lot!
"Off to a new ship, are ye, sir?" the garrulous old tiler said as Lewrie stepped through the anteroom for the doors to the walled-off courtyard. "Well, I reckon ye'll give them damned Rooskies a good bash on th' noggin, hey, sir? Make way fer a fightin' captain, ye younkers," the old fellow barked at an incoming pack of Lieutenants and Midshipmen. "Part like the Red Sea fer Moses, there, an' git ye in. There's a mob o' others waitin', so don't git yer hopes too high. Standin' room only, an' don't tread on nobody's boot tips, neither, mind, har har."
Equally galling were the smiles and appreciative looks from the many civilians 'round the environs of Whitehall. England might be all alone against France, without allies, and threatened by a fresh set of enemies, the war's length and cost might be wearying, yet… the Navy would set things right, the Royal Navy; aye, the Navy and Nelson! The people who doffed their hats, the ladies who inclined their heads with grins, imagined Lewrie off to save them.
Why else was that naval fellow so grim-faced, and walking quite so quickly? Surely eager to board his ship and fillet anyone who dared challenge Great Britain! Why, the angry stamping of his boots denoted dread determination, egad! See how his hands flex so on the hilt of his sword, and all? Damn my eyes, wasn't he that Lewrie chap, by God? Then God help the Roosians! Maps, and books, just making ready…
Capt. Alan Lewrie, RN (sure to unemployed 'til the dawn of the next century!) fumed his way back to his rooms, blackly contemplating how he might trail Nepean home some dark night and throttle him for his haughty and brusque dismissal; how he'd go about challenging the next sniggerer or smirker to a duel, and how much pleasure he'd find in the skewering or shooting of the fool!
Damn my eyes, there's going t'be a battle, Lewrie furiously imagined; two or three of 'em, if we can take 'em on separately… and I'll not have a part in 'em? Become one o' those… losers? No, I'll not ever! Mine arse on a band-box if I'll haunt the Admiralty, beggin' for scraps like a… stray cur! Christ on a crutch, I've put in twenty-one years, most of 'em at sea, and miserable, too. They don't want me any longer, well… just bugger 'em! Somethin' t'be said for warm and dry, for a change.
Thirty-eight wasn't all that old, he could comfort himself to think; there were naval officers who had actually given up active commissions to sit in Parliament, go into business, enter government service… and make a pile of "tin" off the sops and graft that resulted!
Lewrie imagined that taking Holy Orders was pretty much out for his sort, even a lowly rector's position in a poor parish, with an absent vicar taking the lion's share of the benefice and tithes. Besides, no one would ever believe it of him!
Trade, and Business? Well, he was a skilled mariner, capable of being a merchant master-was "John Company" still grateful to him for saving that convoy in the South Atlantic last year? Captaining an East Indiaman would be pleasant, and hellish profitable, to boot.
Or he could live on his invested prize-money, his savings with Coutts' Bank, and his late grandmother's Ј150 annual remittance, keep rooms (at a family discount) at the Madeira Club, and become an idle wastrel about London. Where one could have a drink whenever…
"Drink, by God," Lewrie muttered under his frost-steaming breath. "I definitely need strong drink… now! Drink, and distraction."
As soon as he attained his lodgings, Lewrie made haste to strip off his uniform and pack it away in his sea-chest, stow his cocked hat in a japanned wooden box, and change into a tail-coat that was all the "crack"; single-breasted and cut to the waist, with wide lapels and M-shaped collars in a newly fashionable black, over a snug pair of long grey trousers, with plain and unadorned black boots on his feet, minus the gold lace trim and tassels he'd wear with his uniform. To become even more a civilian, his black neck-stock he replaced with a cravat woven in blue, gilt, and cream paisley.
Walking stick instead of sword; a thimble-shaped black beaver hat with a royal blue band and short, curled brims; a single-breasted overcoat with triple capes, and he was ready for a good, long, and very un-military dinner, a bottle or two of wine, with port and brandy to follow, and while away the rest of the day 'til it was time to toddle off to the theatre or Ranelagh Gardens.
With the aforementioned restful nap, of course.
CHAPTER NINE
The next week passed in slothful idyll; late risings and lazy days, followed by heady afternoons roaming central London for delightful diversions, followed by even headier evenings. There were public subscription balls, drums and routs, concerts, and even a rare trip to a ballet or opera-all followed, of course, by light midnight cold collations washed down with champagne, and pre-dawn tumbles into bed at the Madeira Club. Not to mention the requisite hangovers.
And while such a rakehell (partially reformed) as Alan Lewrie might have so far tumbled into bed alone, it was a Devilish close-run thing, for London, the greatest city in the world no matter what Frogs boasted of their own Paris, possessed the most impressive collection of fetching young women of every stripe and grade.
Actresses, ballet dancers, orange-seller wenches in the aisles, "grass-widows" abandoned by straying or absent husbands still looking for affection, the handsomest, fetchingest young un-married girls down to search for a suitable husband, some of them coyly eager for a "ride" or two, away from their unaware parents… For a stray male, London was a paradise. And that didn't even begin to count the shop girls and house servants out on a spree on their lone days off, or the ones of "the commercial persuasion," who ranged from costly courtesans and mistresses to the over-made, bright-eyed morts available for a "knee-trembler" in a dark doorway.