Just as Lewrie was about to enter, though, a snowball smashed into the back of his cocked hat, knocking it off his head, and he spun about, looking for the culprit, ready to scoop up a slushy handful and retaliate with a well-packed, icy "stinger" of his own.
"Damn my eyes, that's…!" he gawped. "No, couldn't be." He got a glimpse of a young woman in a fur-trimmed green cloak, a hint of raven-coloured hair under the hood, before whoever it was disappeared round the corner of a building into the busy Strand. For just a fleeting second, he wondered if it had been Eudoxia Durschenko.
No, couldn 't be her, he told himself as he entered the doors to hand over his hat, cloak, and sword belt to a servant. Though whoever had hit him had done it square, right in the centre of the up-turned back of his hat, and Eudoxia had been raised to be a crack shot with a firearm, or her recurved Asian bow. Circus cross the Thames, we were talkin' of it, and any impish young miss with dark hair, I'd take for Eudoxia. Coincidence. Besides, hurt as she was in Cape Town when she found I was married, I'd more expect an arrow 'tween my shoulder blades!
MacDougall was an enthusiastic regular once he had discovered a new place to dine, and evidently had given this new chop-house quite a lot of his custom, the last few months or so, and, in his line of work brought people he represented, as well, who most-like became regulars, too… assuming they hadn't been hung or imprisoned. That explained the grand table they were given, right by one of the fireplaces that was stoked and drawing so well that waves of heat could be seen coming from it in airy ripples, and air could be heard whooshing in the flue; it was almost medieval with all the brass and dark, polished oak walls, the overhead beams and stout tables and chairs.
Lewrie unbuttoned his coat lapels before sitting down, away from the waves of heat; some things could be over-done, and he didn't wish to be one of them by the time they had fed.
"Hot drinks all round?" MacDougall heartily suggested. "Mulled wine or hot cider? Punch, or candled brandy?"
"Mulled wine for me," Lewrie declared, as did Burgess. Sadler went for chocolate and brandy, obviously a man with a sweet tooth.
"Now, before we order, Captain Lewrie, I must tell you my good news," MacDougall said with a cherubic, impish smile worthy of a Puck, and rubbing his chilled hands together in joy. "We now possess all the affidavits and depositions necessary for your defence, sir, including a letter from your old friend, former Leftenant-Colonel Cashman, now of Wilmington… North or South Carolina, I can never keep which is which straight… stating that your Black volunteers intended to run away to sea as true volunteers, along with a dreadful account of how harsh were their lives had they not. Since he was a rueful slaveowner for a time himself, his account is most emotional, and compelling. I intend to have it read, just before putting your surviving Black sailors up to testify, so they may expand upon Cashman's…"
"Then you'd better grow wings, or learn t'swim like a seal, if that's yer intent, Mister MacDougall," Lewrie all but yelped. "I'm no longer in command, and Savage has a new captain. For all I know, she may have already completed re-storing, and sailed for God knows where!"
"Hmm, that'll never do," MacDougall fussily prosed on, once he'd gotten his lower jaw back in place from a ghastly-looking gasp. "Good God above! Well, has she departed, we'll simply have to get her back, that's all there is to it. I'll have a word with Admiralty, get Twigg to toddle over there and use his influence. Failing that, the lack of live witnesses could be grounds for a continuance 'til their return."
"What?" Lewrie barked, astonished. "Mean t'say, I could wait months… 'til next Hilary Term t'get this settled? Is she ordered halfway round the world, it might he years 'fore she's back!"
You silly, bloody, civilian sod! Lewrie silently fumed; I knew ye sounded too good t'be true, ye… Tom-Noddy! Just trot over and ask Admiralty t' whistle up a frigate? I'm good as hung… swingin' and danglin7 Don'tye know there's a war on, ye ignorant… Gawd!
"Alan has allies in Commons, and Lords," Burgess said with a hopeful sound, somewhat akin to whistling past a graveyard to Lewrie's ears. "A bit of pressure from politicians might help."
"Exactly so, sir," MacDougall rejoined, sounding like a fellow clutching straws, too. "Wilberforce and his people, as well, who are in both Houses of Parliament, may employ their interest and patronage links with the Navy. They must be… oh, what is the military term for it, Mister Chiswick?"
"Mustered, sir?" Burgess eagerly supplied.
"Lashed aloft," Lewrie sourly muttered under his breath, after he had gotten his breath back.
"Mustered. Exactly," MacDougall perked up, as though this snag was but a minor quibble, soon to be amended. "Ah, our drinks are here! I dare say, though, that, foul as the weather has been, there is a good possibility that Captain Lewrie's ship… former ship, is still tied up in port."
Civilians/ Lewrie fumed some more, aghast at the fellow's lack of knowledge; and wondering, did the Beaumans prevail, could he have a quiet minute alone with the man, so he could strangle him to death; he must think we don't go t'sea in snowstorms, when it's too cold, or wet!
"Even without Captain Lewrie's Black sailors, there are the former body-servants of the Beaumans," MacDougall blathered on after he had taken a sip or two of his hot, brandy-laced cider. "They can tell the court horrific tales of how badly they were treated. Why, with any luck, they might have known some of the volunteers themselves, if they ever visited that particular Beauman plantation on Portland Bight, and may speak for them and their motives in 'stealing themselves' and seeking freedom in the Royal Navy."
"Uhm…" Now Burgess was doubtful, and was about to explain the vast gulf 'twixt house slaves and field slaves, and the prejudices the well-dressed, well-fed, and lightly worked house servants held about their darker, more helpless kind. Burgess matched eyes with Lewrie, a fellow who had also seen real slavery in action. The arrival of a man in a blue apron and the house's unofficial livery with the slate menu bearing chalked-in specials interrupted him.
"Oh, good!" MacDougall exclaimed chearly. "They have both the venison and the jugged hare today. Capital!"
Lewrie felt like lowering his head to the tabletop and banging away 'til he knocked himself temporarily senseless; that, or the urge to spend the rest of the day, and the evening, amassing a ragingly good drunk!
"Uhm, perhaps a dab of haste might be, ah…? Lewrie hinted. "Oh, right. Sorry, Mister Sadler, but I will make it up to you. Do return to the office and write out a special plea for those members of Captain Lewrie's crew to be kept handy for their appearance before the Lord Justice," MacDougall instructed, turning very business-like. "We have the names and ranks already, from the depositions and witness list. Copy to Admiralty, copy to Lord Justice Oglethorpe, and a copy to Mister Twigg. Fast horse to Portsmouth with the orders to stay in port as soon as you receive them, mind. Twigg will be grand help in that."
"Yes, sir," Mr. Sadler said with a resigned sigh, then finished his hot drink, wiped the cocoa froth from his upper lip, and arose to reclaim his hat and greatcoat and gloves.
"Even if she sails, 'twill be the fault of the Admiralty that I cannot present my complete defence," MacDougall gaily said, "and solid proof will be at hand that the Lord Justice issued an order for her to be held. A continuance will naturally be granted, instanter. Now… how does the turtle soup all round sound to you, sirs?"