"Thank God," he breathed in relief as he shut the door on care and worry and grief, and the demands of Duty. He hung up his own hat and sword belt, not waiting for Pettus to serve him, and almost limped on weary legs and slightly sore feet to the starboard side settee.
"A glass of something, sir?" Pettus asked, looking as clean and natty as if the day had never been, as well-turned-out as a civilian servant in a London club.
"God, yes!" Lewrie enthused. "It's been a long, dry day." And, as Pettus fetched him a refreshing glass of white wine, as Toulon and Chalky, happily resettled amid their familiar environs with the terrifying din of battle long over, leaped into his lap and made glad mews of joy to be stroked and cossetted in peace, Lewrie could relish the homeyness of his cabins returned to normalcy, with every piece of furniture, every chest, chair, and framed picture put back in the right places.
And after a long, dry-mouthed sip of the light white wine, he could even allow himself a long, happy sigh of near bliss. Pettus had the bottle, and topped him back up for a slower, more meditative drink.
"Galley's up, and Nettles will be fetching your supper in half an hour, sir," Pettus told him. "No hope of fresh vegetables or bread from shore, I'd suppose, sir, but he's putting together a celebratory meal, he said to say. Anything I may do in the meantime, sir?"
"I'd admire did you help me get my boots off, Pettus, and fetch out that old, sloppy pair o' shoes," Lewrie decided. "And a fresh pair of cotton stockings. I fear the silk ones I've worn nigh two days in a row are quite ruined, by now."
"Of course, sir," Pettus said, and went to hunt up the shoes and stockings. Once back, he straddled Lewrie's calves and tugged off the boots; sure enough, the silk stockings were laddered with tears. They were fine for formal occasions, and for battle; silk shirts and stockings could be drawn from wounds more cleanly than linen or wool, limiting the risk of anything left in ravaged flesh to fester or go gangrenous, but such protection was too delicate to wear with boots, and too costly.
Once in fresh, clean stockings, and comfortable old loosely buckled shoes, Lewrie slumped into one corner of the settee, throw pillows and cushions rearranged for comfort. He threw one leg up atop the seat, the other resting on the low brass tray-table he'd brought back from Calcutta so many years before, and let out another blissful sigh. On the smaller side tray-table stood the wine bottle, and Lewrie poured himself a third glass, all but smacking his lips in anticipation. Yet…
As he reached over, then leaned back, something crinkled in his coat's inside chest pocket. Oh, Lewrie sadly thought; Arthur's letter.
He withdrew it and broke the wax seal, thinking that the letter was just like Arthur Ballard; folded evenly, meticulously, and the seal forming a perfectly circular blob of wax covering all four corners of the folds which met at almost mathematical exactitude.
Sir (it began) I would beg that you keep this in the strictest of Confidences. I find myself in the very worst sort of personal Contretemps, and, for want of a better Solution, and at the considerable Risk to my career, must inform you that I find it impossible to serve under you as First Lieutenant. It is my intention to request of Admiralty to be relieved of my Position.
Lewrie furrowed his brows in surprise, wondering just what the fellow might have gotten into; gambling debts, the risk of debtors' prison by over-spending? He'd gotten some young woman in trouble? None of these even remotely seemed likely, not with such a straight-laced prig as Arthur Ballard, he could quickly dismiss.
Though we established a somewhat compatible Cooperation aboard Alacrity in the Bahamas, as Time went by, I found myself loath to call it true Friendship, and, by the end of our joint Commission, felt quite relieved to go our separate Ways.
Truthfully, Sir, I hold that you are Reprehensible, and wish most devoutly to have as little to do with you and your Character as naval Service will admit in…
"Bloody Hell?" Lewrie gawped in a very small voice.
Arthur Ballard laid it all out in precise terms; he despised Captain Alan Lewrie, just as he had come to despise Lieutenant Alan Lewrie in the late '80s. Ballard cited his many reasons; recklessness being one of them; a lewd, lascivious, and adulterous nature, another. He blasphemed freely; he'd shot that captured, kneeling pirate in the head at close range with a pistol in front of the cave on Middle Caicos to urge the rest, and that foul Billy "Bones" Doyle, out and free their captives-just as he'd all but murdered Count Levotchkin's servant not a fortnight before! The theft of a dozen Black slaves to man his ship; Ballard knew it was a crime, despite what the court, and all the newspapers and tracts in praise of him, said.
He got that pretty-much right, Lewrie admitted to himself.
But it was Lewrie's rakehellish, adulterous streak that Ballard found the most despicable. Why, he even recalled the name of the Free Black woman Lewrie had rutted with at Clarence Town on Long Island one sultry and boring afternoon, after all these years-even if Lewrie didn't.
Wyannie Slocum, of course! Lewrie thought, surprised; and, just for a bit, remembering rather fondly…
The rumours of Lewrie quickening a bastard son on a rich Greek widow in the currant trade, the rumour of a mistress in the Mediterranean earlier in the war; the scandal of associating with a "painted circus wench," and how shamefully Lewrie had ignored and abused, and been unfaithful to his wife, Caroline, lo these many years, betraying the… "Betraying the Trust of one of the finest women it has ever been my honour to know…," Ballard wrote.
Damme, it could've been Ballard, wrote those bloody letters, not Theoni, if I didn't know better, Lewrie thought, re-reading what Ballard had penned about Caroline one more time, then leaning back on the settee and taking another long sip of his wine.
He never wed, Lewrie recalled; Turned up his nose at every promisin' lass we introduced to him. Betsy… whats'ername? He thought her… all of 'em… too "fly" and "flibberty-gibbet." The way Arthur writes of Caroline, though… Mine arse on a band-box, he was in love with her, all these years! he realised with a start.
Lewrie had always fancied that Caroline could coax Ballard out of his grave and aloof manner, and for several hours loosen up in her, and his own, presence ashore… Arthur would even laugh and smile!
At a subscription ball or party at Nassau, Ballard would actually dance with Caroline-no more than two in an evening, Lewrie recalled; and, oh, he'd be gracious enough to ask other women and girls to dance as well in the course of the night; the dutiful sort of thing one did with the older ladies, with fellow officers' wives, or the unmarried damsels and daughters, yet… he'd never followed through.
Do I go through his sea-chests, do I find a shrine to Caroline? Lewrie wondered; The unattainable, the unrequited… paragon of womanhood, t'his lights. The poor, sad, unloved bastard!
Yes, there was his affair with Tess cited as the last straw for Ballard; that Lewrie would stoop to associating with common trollops, no matter their feminine charms, and imagine such a sordid item reason for a duel of honour, well! And why was he not home in Anglesgreen in his wife's company, anyway? How could he be so dismissive and beastly towards such a splendid lady? Ballard had demanded.
No, Arthur Ballard hadn't had a premonition, as Surgeon Mister Harward had imagined; he'd expected to survive the action, request a posting aboard another ship (perhaps after a brief spell of leave, for medical reasons?) and put Lewrie in his place for good and all.
Coach to Anglesgreen, and place his heart in Caroline's hands, as he always wished he could? Lewrie mused; Surely, in fiften bloody years, he must've met somebody else… given some proper girl a go! Poor, sad, lonely… deluded… prig.
Lewrie finished his glass of wine and stuffed Ballard's letter into a side pocket of his coat, wondering what to do with it now that he had read it. Toulon butted his head against Lewrie's thigh, while Chalky came trotting from back aft with his tail up to rejoin them and mewing for more pets, too, from the litter-box of dry sand stowed in the larboard-side quarter gallery. With a firm nod, Lewrie rose and headed for the quarter gallery himself, in need of relief after three glasses of wine.