He was in his nightshirt, the coverlet and top sheet of his hanging bed-cot turned down, and was just about to roll into that bed that was wide enough for two (and a sure eye-opener for any senior officer who espied it) when there came the sharp rap of a musket-butt on the deck without his cabins, and the loud cry from the Marine sentry of "Vis'tor fer th' Cap'm… SAH!"
"Enter," Lewrie cautiously replied, not without an eye towards his weapons rack, for if the Beaumans had landed in England, and had laid charges against him, it could be someone from a Lord Justice, or one of those new-fangled Police Magistrates, come to arrest him!
Thankfully (perhaps) it was only a lone, rather weedy-looking civilian who entered the great-cabins, hat in hand and blinking his eyes as he took in his surroundings; surely a civilian fellow who'd never been aboard a ship of war, by the way he bore himself so mouse-shy and curious. Lewrie noted, though, that he bore under his arm a leather portfolio of a very pale dye, what attorneys jokingly called "law calf." Lewrie looked even sharper towards his weapons rack.
"And you are, sir?" Lewrie had to demand at last, putting on a stern "phyz" with one quizzical brow raised.
"Beg pardons," the pale-skinned civilian all but stammered as he came forward. "But, am I speaking with Captain Alan Lewrie of the Savage frigate?"
"Of course you are, sir!" Lewrie snapped, appalled at such an inane question. "Your boatman brought you to Savage, not the Victory."
"Beg pardons," the weedy fellow reiterated; though he didn't look daunted in the least. "Allow to name myself to you…"
"Aye, that'd help," Lewrie drawled, summoning up as much dignity as one could when clad in a loose-flapping nightshirt and his bare feet.
"George Sadler, sir… clerk to Mister Andrew MacDougall, Esquire, in London. Your barrister, sir?"
"Aye, Mister Sadler? And what is so urgent that he sent you down?" Lewrie enquired, with one hand hidden behind his back with his fingers crossed, and a sudden cold and empty fear-void in his innards.
"News has come from Jamaica, Captain Lewrie," Sadler announced as he opened his "law calf " brief and withdrew a sheaf of documents. "The Beaumans haven't landed in England, then? Not yet?" "No, sir. Not yet. Word of proceedings instituted on Jamaica have, however, come. Along with most-helpful information anent them provided by, ah… a certain friend of yours from the Foreign Office on Jamaica… a Mister James Peel?"
"What sort of proceedings, sir?" Lewrie asked.
"Why, your trial, Captain Lewrie," Mr. Sadler said, wide-eyed.
"I haven't even been charged with anything yet!" Lewrie barked.
"Oh my, but you have, Captain Lewrie," Sadler sadly told him as he referred to his sheaf of documents and allowed himself a pleased little "Aha!" as he found the pertinent one, which he held out in offering for Lewrie to take. "Charged, I fear, with the theft of a dozen slaves, and tried in the High Court at Kingston, Jamaica, nearly six months past, found guilty, and are sentenced to be hung."
"What?" Lewrie spluttered. "How can I be tried if I wasn't…?"
"In absentia, Captain Lewrie," Sadler replied, much too calmly, and with a wee shake of his head over Lewrie's lack of knowledge of the intricacies of the law. "It happens all the time, when a felon flees the jurisdiction of the-"
"Flee, mine arse!" Lewrie roared. "I sailed away under naval orders! Got 'em in my desk, t'prove it, by…! Mine arse on a band-box\ Of all the… shit, shit… shit!"
He sank onto his leather-padded chair behind his desk, feeling badly in need of another brandy, some civilian clothing, and a ticket for overseas. Wonder if the Yankee Navy's in need of experienced men? he shudderingly thought; see one o'their consuls, get a certificate o'citizenship, and huzzah, George Washington!
"Under the circumstances, Captain Lewrie, Mister MacDougall is in need of your presence in London, as soon as possible, he told me to relate to you," Sadler went on; legal cases and trials were his work-a-day experience, mostly piles of paperwork to him, and the personality of the accused was of no matter; nor were the accused's feelings! "He also told me to assure you that the informations supplied by Mister Peel, including a complete copy of the trial transcript, reveal a most 'colourable' proceeding. He is certain that perjury was committed… though, to determine the full nature of that, it is vital that he speak with you in person, sir."
"I was… what is it called?" Lewrie managed to say from a dry throat; one that he massaged to see if a hempen noose was already about his neck. "What's the legal term for…?"
"Falsely convicted, Captain Lewrie," Sadler said with a simper of esoteric amusement for a second. "Though the informal term would be 'framed.' I fear you must come up to London at once, sir."
"Oh, bugger!" Lewrie bemoaned. "I just can't leave my ship at the drop of a hat, the Navy'd have my 'nutmegs' off, relieve me of my command, whether I request leave, or not, just…! Couldn't MacDougall simply sue for more time?"
"Believe me when I tell you that time is precious, sir," Sadler said with a negative shake of his head. "Your poor relationship with the Beaumans, and their brutal and vengeful nature which you described to my employer in letters, must be fleshed out by direct questions put to you, before the Beaumans and their representatives arrive and lay the charges, the verdict, and the sentence before a court. This can't be done by post, any longer."
"Christ shit on a biscuit," Lewrie muttered under his breath as he rose and headed for his wine-cabinet for a restorative glass of something… any spirit that fell first to hand. "The bastardsl"
"They seem to be, sir," Sadler primly agreed, with a longing eye on the squat bottle of brandy that Lewrie dug out. He brightened as Lewrie waved the bottle in his direction and fetched out a second glass. "It would appear that we, meaning your legal representatives, have received the transcript, and the verdict, beforehand of its being laid before a Lord Justice in King's Bench, where all criminal trials are held. Which happy fact will allow us perhaps enough time to find flaws in your trial, which may result in the sentence being ruled null and void, and a second trial held here, or your being acquitted."
"Really?" Lewrie piped, with a faint glimmer of hope.
"And, until your foes actually arrive, and are allowed to lay the sentence of death before a Lord Justice, you will remain a free man, Captain Lewrie," Sadler assured him (sort of) as he accepted the glass of brandy and did, for a weedy sort, a manly job of drinking off half of it at once. "And there is the matter of which law term will have space on its docket before an evidentiary hearing… before you are brought to dock, that is to say…"
"Damme, I could be at sea long afore that!" Lewrie gleefully cried. "Out of reach of…!"
"Though, sir… perhaps under a death-sentence," Sadler had to point out. "Until we may challenge the result of your trial, and stay its execution."
"Ba-ad choice o' words, Mister Sadler," Lewrie said, blanching. "Bloody-bad choice o' words!"
Christ, am I fucked! Lewrie thought to himself; think o' going to Sophie's and Langlie 's wedding with this hangin' over me! Shit! Did I say "hanging "? Now th' bastard's got me doin' it!