"Oh, of that I'm mortal-certain, Mister Twigg," Lewrie replied with a sinking feeling that his indebtedness to the old schemer just kept piling up, to a point that would really put his life on the line, for good and all!
After departing the chop-house, Lewrie ambled back to his club lodgings, stopping at the Admiral Boscawen for coffee to counteract all the toasts and shared glasses that Twigg had proposed. He was in dire need of another good nap, and a thought for supper on the town… somewhere.
I really shouldn't, he chid himself; Surely, there's a whackin' good book t'read, a new play t'see, or… oh Hell, he chid himself.
He went back to the brothel, of course.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Th' top o' th' mornin', Captain," the surly old long-time tiler at Admiralty chirped as Lewrie scurried through the archway passage in the curtain wall, underneath the winged horse statues, and quickly approached the doors. "May I say, ye're an early sort, right enough."
"Morning," Lewrie said with a nod.
"Mornin'! More like th' middle o' th' bleedin' night, sir!" the old fart barked, and wheezed out a laugh. "But, that's th' way it is round 'ere these days, an' God help th' late sleepers. Th' Waitin' Room's nigh half-full a'ready, but go on in, Captain sir, an' th' best o' luck t'ye," the tiler said, swinging a heavy oak door open for him, and tipping his hat. "Mind now, sir… th' jakes ain't been sweetened this early, an' they's no tea comin' 'til close t'nine."
Lewrie checked his hat and boat-cloak and mittens with the closet clerk, then shot his cuffs, re-settled his sword belt and waist-coat, and warily entered the infamous Waiting Room, striving for an air of sublime confidence before his contemporaries.
What a shower o' no-hopes! he thought as he sought a chair or a space on a hard wooden bench. The weather that morning-ten minutes shy of 7 A.M.-was brisk and wet, with a faint misty rain, and it was still cold, though not as cold as the week before. In England, it might as well be called the first harbinger of Spring, the first robin, or first crocus shoot, in comparison.
No wonder so many of the officers and Midshipmen were sniffling, hacking, and blowing their noses into handkerchiefs. There was little conversation, for the very good reason that they were all there to win an active commission, and everyone else was competition for full employment. It also seemed that few of them had served together before, either-complete strangers to each other, as they were to Lewrie. There was no one he knew in the Waiting Room.
The bad'uns are "Yellow Squadroned," and the good'uns are at sea, he sarcastically thought. A harried civilian clerk came trotting by, and Lewrie snagged his attention just long enough to hand him his note.
"A few minutes with the First Secretary… or the Earl, should he be in this early," Lewrie said with a false air of cheery hope.
"Oh, he is, believe me, sir!" the clerk replied with a put-upon and harried expression, before accepting the note and dashing up the stairs.
Lewrie was, in Colonial parlance, indeed "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed." Sober and clear-eyed, after but a single bottle of wine with supper, and a bedtime brandy; bathed, shaved, buffed, and polished fit to blind the unwary, from the toes of his boots to the gilt lace on his coat collar… and with the medals for Cape St. Vincent and Camperdown clinking on his upper chest. He had even eschewed Tess's companionship for two whole nights running, and had gotten a blissfully restful full night's sleep.
He found a seat at the end of a wooden bench, carefully sat down and crossed his legs, giving the dim-looking Midshipman seated at the other end of the bench a cheery nod, and picked up the discarded copy of The Marine Chronicle that lay between them. The Midshipman gulped and nodded back, rather vacantly, and snorted back an impressive dottle of snot that trailed from his larboard nostril. The lad looked to be a born mouth-breather, to Lewrie's lights.
By ten, his air of confidence was wearing a little thin. Others came and went; some lucky few were called abovestairs, but the bulk of them were sent on their way with sympathetic whispers from one clerk, or curt and thin-lipped dismissals from another. The tea-vendor's cart had finally made its appearance in the courtyard, but the "necessary" available for the denizens of the Waiting Room had yet to be emptied, and it stank like a corpse's armpit; the sort of reek that lingered on anyone who risked it; the sort of foul odour that turned fresh-pressed neck-stocks limp and put famished buzzards off their feed.
"Em…," the more pleasant clerk shyly called, making them all shuffle their feet and look up expectantly. The vacant Midshipman at the other end of Lewrie's bench snorted back his last hour's cable of mucus and gulped aloud. "Captain Lewrie, sir? Are you present?"
"Here, my man," Lewrie announced, springing to his feet; with the fingers of his off-hand crossed for luck.
"The First Lord will see you, sir, if you'll come this way."
"Thankee kindly," Lewrie said, absolutely delighted with that glad news; yet… wondering what sort of reception awaited him once he'd gotten into the Earl St. Vincent's presence.
"My lord," Lewrie said, with a bow once he'd been shown into a grand private office.
"Captain Lewrie," Admiral Jervis said, rising from his chair and waving Lewrie to a chair before his massive desk. Lewrie wondered if Lord St. Vincent would stand throughout the length of the interview, or doff his wig above his head, for he had a most peculiar habit of removing his hat and holding it high in a constant salute, whether he addressed a bosun's mate or a fellow admiral. "I remember you, sir."
The good parts, I bloody hope, Lewrie thought.
"I am grateful that you recall me, my lord… and for taking some wee bit of your precious time to see me," Lewrie responded as he sat down. Yes, Admiral Jervis would stand. Lewrie began to rise.
"You and Nelson at Cape Saint Vincent," the Earl St. Vincent said, shoving a hand in his direction to order him to stay seated. "I think you insisted that your ship was pushed to break away and follow Nelson's? Even so, it was a bold gesture… one which checked the Dons' course long enough for the fleet to wear about. I hear you are still bold, Captain Lewrie… though no longer in need of pushing?"
Admiral the Earl St. Vincent, K.B., actually cracked a smile!
He had aged, of course, and gotten stouter. He wore his own hair, now nearly white and receded from a broad brow, still curly and unruly. A broad and long, almost doleful face, with the advancing wattles reflecting his age, and a round little chin, with the characteristic long, almost aquiline nose that seemed to persist among the titled, yet… with heavy-lidded eyes with bags under them that, at the moment, glittered with amusement.
"On my own bottom, my lord," Lewrie replied with a modest grin. "I find I'm much like Goodyer's Pig… never well but when in mischief."
"Notorious, more-like," Jervis commented, turning sombre. "An account of your recent trial and acquittal made its way to me. And of course, you are here, like so many others, to seek active commission."
"Ehm… aye, my lord," Lewrie sobered. "Though I would think it false modesty to imagine myself as a two-a-penny other."
One of "Old Jarvy's" thick eyebrows went up at that statement.
Damme, what a foolish thing t'say! Lewrie chid himself; Now he thinks me a braggin' coxcomb!
"I do not compare myself to a Troubridge, a Pellew, or Nelson, my lord," Lewrie quickly amended.
"Lord spare us another Nelson," Admiral Jervis growled.
"But I do believe that my record as a frigate captain speaks for itself," Lewrie went on. "It has been he… deuced hard to read of the preparations against the Baltic powers, and for the first time since the start of the war in seventeen ninety-three, to not have any role to play in the coming battles."
And what's he got against Nelson? Lewrie wondered; His affair with Emma Hamilton? The scandal? Pray God he don't know the half of me!