A gaggle of passengers came boiling up from below, reeling in another bout of illness, and Alan smiled as they staggered down to the leeward side to spew. So far, his own stomach was showing its cast-iron consistency. And, he realized with a start, his sea legs were returning, those sea legs that in the beginning he had never even had the slightest desire to achieve. "Not so bad once you're in," he mused aloud. "Like Young Jack told his first whore."
Depriving and dull a voyage might be, but it was something he had become somewhat good at. His ability to shrug off the natural reaction to the ship's motion and spew his guts out, or reel like a sot as she pitched and rolled beneath him, was pleasing to his pride. As was his ability to decypher their rough position with the briefest of clues from the coast. And didn't Telesto ride well, he thought. She was a true thoroughbred, properly laden and ballasted, with as much canvas aloft as she could bear for the moment-slicing through those hum-mocking seas with a sure-footed nearness of motion that gave him a thrill of… dare he call it pleasure… with every swoop and rise?
"Damme, this feels good!" he declared to the winds and seas.
His first watch ended at four in the afternoon, and he headed below, face and hands raw with the wind and chill, eager for warmth, for a seat near the glowing stove and a glass of something cheerful. But he was delayed from those simple pleasures by the sight of Tom Wythy, their other "owner."
"A word with ye, Mister Lewrie?" the man beckoned. Since Wythy had been pretty much an unseen presence so far, it was more curiosity that led Alan aft to the doorway to the passage that led under the poop to the super-cargo cabins.
"Aye, sir?" Alan replied, and followed the rotund man into his cabin across the passageway from Twigg's. He hoped he'd get some liquid refreshment, at the least.
"Tot o' rum?" Wythy offered once the door was shut. Wythy took up most of the cabin-he was rounder and heavier than even Mr. Brainard the sailing master, his face hidden behind a thick greying beard, and that in an age when most fashionable men shaved closely. There was a red-veined doorknob of a nose, ruddy cheeks round as spring apples and bright, glittering eyes lost in the pudding face the beard most likely concealed.
"I've made some inquiries about yer little excitement," Wythy told him, rubbing the side of that bulbous proboscis with the side of a thumb as thick as a belaying pin. "Took this long t' get even a fast rider t' London an' back. An' I asked about ashore. That's what's kept me busy an' out o' sight so far, so this is our first opportunity to make our acquaintances. Hope ye'll forgive me that."
"Of course, sir," Alan told him. "And what have you found?"
"Oh, we've stirred up an ant-hill, no error." Wythy grinned, baring a rather sparse, but strong set of teeth-those remaining in his head, at least. "Even caught us a French spy or two."
"So it was the French, sir." Alan enthused at the proof of a devilish conspiracy, the rum racing in his veins and warming his chill belly.
"Nothin' t' do with ye, sir," Wythy informed him, turning the broad smile off. "We winkled a brace o' informers out o' the woodpile, but that was more serendipity. Ye've been a bad boy, Mister Lewrie, 'deed ye have. A very bad boy."
"Was it anyone I told, sir?" Alan cringed, waiting for the thunderstorm of rage he imagined would follow.
"I was thinkin' more o' yer taste for married flesh, Mister Lewrie, not yer indiscretion," Wythy said, glaring at him. "Imagine it for a moment. Us expectin' the worst. Word o' our venture leakin' to our foes 'cross the Channel. No end o' shite-storm as our people trace back every man in the know, ye included, t' see if someone's blabbed in his cups'r whispered in the wrong wench's ear."
"But I knew nothing to 'blab' before stepping on board, sir," Alan replied, springing to his own defense out of long-established habit. He'd gotten rather good at it-had to have gotten good at it-since he'd been breeched. "Sir Onsley only said Burgess Chiswick would be going to the Far East on some vital mission but I had no idea I had any part of it until the old fool… until I received my letter from the Admiralty. And I didn't connect my appointment into this ship with him until Chiswick came aboard, either, sir."
"Ah, but yer patron, Sir Onsley could," Wythy hissed evilly. "What's more natural among gentlemen in their clubs'n t' answer an inquiry 'bout where ye are, lad? Under the rose, as it were. Well, let me say, yer former patron. Sir Onsley's stock 'round Whitehall 's not so high anymore. Find another, 's my advice t' ye."
"But…"
"Had ye not been swivin' with another man's wife, he'd not have set henchmen on ye to kill ye," Wythy drummed out, beating Lewrie on the head and shoulders with harsh words. "We'd not have turned all the south of England arsey-varsey lookin' fer spies, not have spent over a thousand pounds o' Crown money to do it, either. Had ye the slightest bit o' sense, ye'd never been caught tuppin' her in the first place!"
"Lord Cantner?" Alan burst out in a near-screech of surprise.
"Aye," Wythy snarled. "Funny what a man'll stand for, long's he don't have t' be confronted direct. Funny the things a man'll stoop to once he is. Two brace o' murderers, one pair t' Wheddon Cross if ye'd gone there. T'other pair ye and yer man did for, all scum from a rookery who smuggled brandy an' lace for your Lord Cantner from the Continent. Seamen, might o' been in league with Frogs who supplied 'em. First pair come t' Plymouth an' nosed about, asking a lot o' questions. Even tried t' sign aboard this ship. Hah, ye didn't know that, did ye, now? Lucky we were a full complement when they did. Couple o' people in the pay o' the French got wind o' it. Began t' wonder what so many Navy hands were doin' signin' aboard Telesto. Never had a clue, 'less ye hadn't stirred up the waters, Mister Lewrie. Well, we stopped their bloody business. Stopped the business o' those hired killers, too. Dead bodies floatin' in a seaport town'r nothin' much t' get exercised about."
"Jesus." Alan gulped at the calmness with which Wythy spoke of having four human beings dispatched. He took a pull on his tot of rum.
"One o' our people had a little chat with yer Lord Cantner as well," Wythy went on. "Pity ye ain't back in London t' console the poor widow. She's become a dev'lish wealthy widow, of a sudden."
"You… you had him killed?" Alan shuddered.
"Expired on his own, damn his blood!" Wythy spat, as though he would have relished throttling the old colt's-tooth. "Right in the middle o' bein' told we had him dead t' rights for attempted murder. An' how vexed the Crown'd be with him. Apoplexy, they say."
"God's teeth!" Lewrie chilled, raising his tot to drain it dry. Well, at least that was behind him. He'd not have to fear any more attempts on his life from Lord Cantner, anyway, though he wasn't sure as to Wythy's or Twigg's intentions. "Hold on, now, sir. You said that you made inquiries. Did you ask of the Chiswick family? Did you pester them? Did you harm them in any way? By God, if…"
"Discreet inquiries, nothin' more," Wythy assured him. "I'm told the lass's prettier'n springtime. Soft on her, are ye? Well, she an' her family weren't run through the Star Chamber. And, ye'll be happy t' know that little servin' wench isn't truly 'an-kled.' My word, but ye're a busy boy, ain't ye, now, Mister Lewrie? But d'ye see just how much trouble that wayward prick o' yer'n has caused us?"
"Aye, sir," Alan replied, as abashed as a first-term student.
"And ye'll not breathe a bloody word more'n 'pass the port' t' anyone, long's yer aboard this ship. Long as this venture lasts, eh?"
"Indeed not, sir," Alan said, meek as a pup.
"And ye'll not go dippin' yer wick 'less I or Zachariah Twigg give ye leave, now, will ye, Mister Lewrie." It was not a question.
"I should think," Lewrie had to grin, getting his spirit back, "that that would not be a problem for the next six months, Mister Wythy."