There is also something else working in such situations, as it does in prisons today; harsh conditions make harsh men of the survivors. Some might have developed a taste for the sense of power and control over the weak, meek, and obedient.
Whatever the reason, Sodomy in those days was always a worry for officers to stamp out; but, when it's one of the officers who is homosexual…! As I write this in late October 2006, Masterpiece Theatre on PBS is running William Golding's To the Ends of the Earth, from his trilogy of the same name, and the very first episode deals with the death of a parson who might have been weak, certainly naive, who dared go into the fo'c'sle to preach the Gospel, but ended up drunk and sodomised by some of the sailors, and one of the officers aboard was there to witness it, and possibly urged them on, resulting in his dying from the shame. Was he a willing participant, or not? Blame the victim as a "Secret Molly," he brought it on himself, and get out the brooms, to whisk it out of sight, and out of mind!
I've always felt a sympathy for James Kenyon, from the first two Lewrie novels in which he appeared; shoved off to sea by his family to "make a man of him," then dismissed from their cares; banking his life in a naval career at which he's rather good, yet… tiptoeing in dread of being found out, and having to play the hairy-chested, upright man, the bluff Jack Me-Hearty expected of a Sea Officer and "tarpaulin man."
Everyone in the eighteenth century was two-faced; one projected one's Public Face, a carefully crafted creation that pleased Society, and a Private Face, when the shoes were kicked off, the neck-stock undone, and one could cuss, spit, and belch. There was an odd character named Col. Hanger, a British Army officer who sometimes wore his uniform, sometimes civilian suitings, and sometimes ladies' dresses and hats. Make fun of him, and he'd challenge you to a duel, and most-like slice you into ribbons! He, as a member of the Squirearchy, in an honourable profession, was merely thought "eccentric," and delving into his private doings was almost always fatal with that gingery, testy bastard.
In later Victorian times, eccentricity became a British staple; they may still be able to bottle and export it, even in our Politically Correct era. There were many respected men who were alluded to as "perennial bachelors." What'd that mean, huh? Something caught at Oxford?
Kenyon is more to be pitied than despised; throw in the power of command, and a long-ago acquired dose of the Clap, which was all but incurable in those days, and throw in it turning into Tertiary Syphilis so that the Publick Facade and the Private Face become confused, and he really had no choice but to hope to die in harness, before getting caught in the act, revealed as a sinful fraud, cashiered, and "branded" in Society. There still was such a thing as Shame in those days.
For those who still think me a bigot, let me advert to you what another of my tee-shirts says: "I'd Rather Be Historically Accurate Than Politically Correct." If one writes historical novels, one has to accept, not condemn, how people felt and thought in the chosen period, warts and all, their prejudices and detestations, with no sugar-coating or glossing over… no cop-outs such as Mel Gibson's The Patriot, where his Black farm workers, when taken away by the British, swear that they aren 't slaves, they just work for him… uh-huh. Like that could happen in South Carolina in 1780! Other than that, I still think it was a helluva movie.
So, here we are, with Alan Lewrie removed from command of his frigate, twiddling his thumbs alone through the holidays, and sweating bullets in dread of what will happen to him in court. The Beaumans, distanced though they are out past Islington, are still capable of getting at him, hot as they are for his heart's blood. There's Caroline, now utterly estranged from him, despite their attempt at reconciliation. And, of course, there's Lewrie's penchant for getting into some sort of trouble when idled ashore, and his near-idiocy when it comes to women that he must squelch.
Will he follow good advice and keep his breeches buttons chastely done up? Or, will he trundle cross the Thames to Southwark to see the circus just once more, take in those new dramas and comedies that Eudoxia mentioned.
Might he, in a truly benevolent and avuncular spirit of charity, instruct the delectable and exotic Eudoxia Durschenko in proper English grammar, spelling, and syntax? Will he be found with his head missing in Vauxhall Gardens, reeking of lion piss?
What do you think? Right, so do I.