“I don’t know…”
“Whores can be right nice, if they know it’s your first time,” Alan said. “Kind of like the press-gang. If I had to go, why not you, too? Best way is to spend some time with her, have a stoup or two, get rigged properly, bear down and board her, and not have to run for the door after. Take a Dog Watch to enjoy watching her move.”
“God almighty,” Tad breathed heavily, “that would be marvelous.”
“Bloody right it is,” Alan heartily agreed, getting the itch himself.
“Could you do it?”
“I promise I shall.”
They went below for more wine, the only thing that seemed to cool the night. Boggs was snoring, and Leonard had retired to his cabin to do some writing. Claghorne came back down through the hatch and poured himself a drink, preparatory to turning in.
“Shit,” he said, pawing the air.
“Sir?” Lewrie asked. Was it an order, or a comment?
“Bloodsuckers have found us,” Claghorne said, waving off a mosquito. Lewrie heard a whine and looked down to see one ready to perch on his wrist. He brought his other hand down and smashed it, leaving a tiny smear of blood.
“Well-fed little bastard.”
“I’ve seen ’em down on the Spanish Main, thicker’n a Channel fog, and each one hungry as a rolled leech,” Claghorne said groggily. “Seen ’em suck a man white…”
“Aye, Mister Claghorne,” Tad said with an angelic expression that almost made Lewrie snort port up his nose as he tried to stifle a laugh.
“Shows how much you know,” Claghorne said. “But I’m sleepin’ with a net tonight to keep ’em off me. You should, too, if ya had any sense, but I ’spect midshipmen could do with a rash of welts an’ all the itchin’, so we’ll see who caulks down quiet an’ who tosses all night.” So saying, Claghorne took his mug of port and went off to his cabin to slam the insubstantial door.
“Seen ’em suck a man white down on the Spanish Main,” Tad said in a soft whisper, and a fairly accurate imitation of Claghorne.
Eight bells chimed from the belfry, and the ship’s corporal began to make his rounds to make sure that the galley fire was out, and all glims extinguished below decks. The wardroom could keep their pewter lamps burning for another hour, but after more port neither one wanted to stay up and read. Tad Purnell had the deck watch, so he dressed properly and left, and Lewrie turned in, making sure his door was shut tight and that no flying pests lived in his space to disturb his rest.
* * *
It was the next morning while the crew were at Divisions that a boat came out to Parrot, bumping against the hull. A mulatto man in livery stood waiting patiently until the men had been inspected and released back to their morning duties, and their pleasures.
After all the wine, and a night on deck, Lewrie felt that his eyes were ready to glaze over and wished he had had more time in his bed box.
“Mister Lewrie,” Lieutenant Kenyon called. “Could you join me?”
Lewrie crossed to the hatchway to the after cabins, where Kenyon stood with a piece of paper in his hand that had just been handed to him by the mulatto servant.
“I have just been given an invitation to a dinner party this evening at the home of … an old acquaintance of mine, now Sir Richard Slade. He requests that I bring some of my officers as well. Do you think you could be presentable enough to represent Parrot properly?”
“Aye, sir!” Alan assured him most eagerly.
“Good. Purnell as well. Mister Claghorne might be a bit too rough for that sort of company so I shall leave him in charge.”
“I should be delighted, sir.”
“I thought you would be. See to making the gig presentable. We shall go ashore at the end of the First Dog. This could be quite important. Our passengers will be there, as well as the lieutenant-governor and other luminaries from these parts. I hope that you and Purnell are on your absolute best behavior, mind.”
“We shall endeavor to please, sir,” Lewrie said earnestly, but thinking that it would be a splendid opportunity to please himself, and possibly initiate Thaddeus to the pleasures of strumming a bawd.
An extremely handsome coach had met them at the boat landing, and they rode in comfort through the streets of Kingston as night fell. The coach ascended a hill overlooking the army camp north of the town, then spiralled down to a pleasant valley at the foot of the hills that rose to the east into the Blue Mountains.
The house they came to on a shell drive was huge, island-built imitation Palladian but with a veranda all about it. Light gleamed from the front rooms and over thirty carriages already stood in the shadows of the trees.
Once in the foyer Lewrie began to almost purr in delight. There was a large salon aglow in candlelight as large as any he had seen in London. Perhaps the trim work was not as fine, but the drapes and the furnishings were top quality and in impeccable taste. And the salon was crowded with people; civilians in their finery, naval officers in blue and white, army and Marine officers in red, planters in velvet and silk and broadcloth. And women. Women of every imaginable type, done up in silk, lace, velvet, satin and damask, their bell-shaped gowns all trimmed with flowers and embroidered panels, their bosoms hitched up in tight-fitting bodices, lace sleeves and fine wigs. Jewels shone in flattering candlelight, and eyes were already flashing.
The butler introduced them to no special notice from the crowd, which was intent on their own conversations, or the delights of the groaning buffets or wine tables.
“James. How good to see you after all these years,” their host said upon spotting Kenyon.
“Richard,” Kenyon replied. “Rather, Sir Richard, now!”
“Pox on that, it’s still Dick to you,” Sir Richard Slade said. “And who are these two scamps? Yours?” He winked.
“My midshipmen, Dick,” Kenyon said. “Thaddeus Purnell.”
“Not Alexander Purnell’s boy?”
“Aye, sir,” Tad said, surprised.
“Knew your father well, used to do a lot of trading through Bristol.” Sir Richard beamed.
“Midshipman Alan Lewrie.” Kenyon continued.
“Your servant, Sir Richard,” Alan said, making a leg. What a Macaroni, he thought; must be fifty guineas for his duds but he’s too old for them by half …
Sir Richard Slade sported heavy dark blue breeches made of velvet, and an extremely flared coat of powder blue satin, sprigged with fanciful gilt braids and button trim, gilt buttons everywhere, tight sleeves and huge pockets. His waistcoat was gold silk with elaborate floral embroidery. In spite of the heat he wore a huge floured wig. His shoes were even high-heeled in the French style, and his buckles seemed paved with brilliants. Altogether, the image of a man with too much money and not enough clothes sense.
His handshake was also as limp as a dead halibut. Lewrie felt an instant revulsion and wondered where Kenyon had made friends with such a coxcomb. Reminds me of Gerald and all his Molly friends.
“The pleasures of my house are yours, gentlemen,” Sir Richard told them. “James, come, let us catch up on things. It has been too long since we’ve talked.”
“Enjoy yourselves,” Kenyon told them. “Within reason.”
“If you are allowed, why do you not all stay over tonight and accept the hospitality of my home?” Sir Richard asked. “I’ll have Cassius arrange some rooms for you.”
“Aye, but let me send a message to my mate,” Kenyon said. A servant was there in a moment, and another younger boy in livery to steer Kenyon to a study, where he could pen some orders for Claghorne. This left Lewrie and Purnell alone, so they wandered off toward the buffets and the wine tables.
“Odd sort,” Lewrie said. “Knows your family, does he?”