Havoc`s Sword

me, Colonel Cash-man?' he said, fetching out his own red leather bottle of heady-smelling dark rum, from which Cashman gratefully sucked. Geratt insisted on a tincture of laudanum be mixed with the rum, in a small silver two- dram cup.

'God, their poor family, though,' Hendricks sadly intoned.

The rum (rather a lot of it) and the laudanum availed Kit most wondrous. Within minutes he was on his feet again, his pain muted and his colour back. Lewrie, Andrews, and the man-servant packed their paraphernalia and began to assist him towards his waiting carriage, a last gracious adieu said and conge made to the referees and surgeons for their good offices.

'Well, damme,' Kit sighed, gritting his teeth as they shoved him to a seat on the coach's rear leather bench. ' 'Twas such a good shirt, too… the most cunning lace-work, and all. That shit was so cross-eyed 'foxed,' I didn't think he could even hit the ground in one shot, much less…'

'Your shot was a good'un, though, and he's done for, so put it down to blind beginner's luck,' Lewrie said, tucking the rolled cape and other stuff to either side of him to bolster him from sliding back and forth. 'Three, four days o' Hell, he has t'look forward to. You did good work, Kit.'

Lewrie's last sight of Ledyard Beauman (a wolfishly satisfied one, thankee!) he was curled up and gasping like a landed fish, agony beginning to course outward from his wound with each pulsing beat of his heart, the raw fire in his belly stoking hotter and hotter as the numbness that follows wounding wore off. Belly wounds were fatal and inflicted the sufferings of the Damned before the victims departed the Mortal Coil. Cashman should have been cackling with glee over his long-awaited victory.

'Won't be much joy at our breakfast, Alan, sorry,' Cashman said. 'Might cry off, just go home and…'

'You can't, and you know it,' Lewrie countered, still fussing, with the man-servant's assistance. 'Laudanum, rum, and brandy on your empty stomach? A hearty breakfast's the best thing for you. And in public, where you put on the proper airs, else folk'll think that he's succeeded at something for once in his miserable life.'

They'd made reservations at a very public tavern in Kingston to show off and crow.

'You know the drill… modest joy, stern duty done. Sad wonder at his baseness, add that'un,' Lewrie babbled. 'The fewer details, the better… 'no questions, please, it was just too egregious.' Make 'em ask of Hendricks and the surgeons. Hell, make 'em call upon the Beaumans if they wish to swoon o'er the sordid details!'

'Will you all quit fussing over me?' Cashman carped, squinting at Lewrie, half-amused and half-rankled to be so cosseted. 'I am nowhere near a piteous… dodderer!'

'Just wanted yer great arse wedged in,' Lewrie complained as he suddenly left off and took his own seat, 'so yer coachee don't rattle ye half t'death 'fore we get to the tavern, you fool.'

'Alan,' Cashman said softly, reaching out to touch him on his knee, 'had I come close t'losin' such a fine friend as you, I'd most like fret a little, too.' He chuckled, laughing off such a frank admission between two English gentlemen.

'Well, there it is, then,' Lewrie grumped back, immensely glad that he, and the world, still had Kit Cashman to make it a vivid place. 'All in?' he called, leaning out the coach window. 'Right, then, let's whip up and go. I must own I'm famished, and…'

'Wait!' Cashman suddenly demanded, leaning forward, wincing at the effort. 'Just for a bit! There… ye hear it?'

Suspension straps creaking as Andrews and the man-servant took seats by the coachee or at the postillion bench at the rear, the stamp and whuffle of the team, the jingle of bitts and reins.

'What? Oh…' Lewrie asked, but heard the answer.

Ledyard Beauman's pain, as they moved him in a litter from the beach to his family coach, sounded inordinate. Surely, he was still curled up like a singed worm on his side, legs drawn up, arms crossed low on his stomach as if cramping from too many green apples.

Ledyard Beauman was thinly, femininely, keening and screaming.

'Ah!' Cashman said, beaming, most happily sleepy-eyed from laudanum and liquor, but suddenly hugely content. 'Damn my eyes, but did ya ever hear such a pleasin' sound, yer whole bleedin' life?'

CHAPTER FOUR

Of course, Kit Cashman couldn't resist the celebration. Breakfast had been laid on at Baltazar's, the discrete and elegant Kingston eatery, at tables on the raised section overlooking brick-enclosed fountains, trellises, and herb gardens. Kit's friends, former officers of the 15th who inclined to his cause, and well- wishers made it a jolly affair, with many toasts made and drunk, and champagne cups had sloshed about like so many watering cans might flood those herb gardens and small lawn. There was food; Lewrie was pretty-well sure of that… but no matter how comestible, and welcome by that hour of the morning, the victuals were definite also-rans. Fried eggs, tatty hash, fletches of bacon and small chops, heaps of thick-sliced toast, and the requisite butter and jams, had first been heartily swallowed, but had later become more akin to party favours, or missiles to be flung or trampled.

The nigh-White waitress, a local who always seemed to serve Cash-man whenever he and Lewrie had dined there, was in attendance, more as a guest than a servitor, half of her time spent lolling in Kit's lap, shrieking and guzzling, bussing and petting the hero of the hour, with her ornate hair unwinding rather fetchingly.

More girls of the town, most 'no better than they should be,' began to turn up as the morning drew on towards 9:00 a.m., and it looked fair to becoming one of those all-day celebrations, with Baltazar's reserved and shut to public custom 'til next noon. Fine for Kit, but he had duties.

After two last fortifying cups of black coffee, drunk standing by the common room bar, he reclaimed his sword and hat and departed, sure that he wouldn't be missed 'til tea-time… if then.

On the short (but a bit unsteady, thankee!) stroll to the dock, Lewrie and Andrews felt the eyes of the town bore into them, heard the faint hum-um of whispered conversation. Some sounded scandalised, but more than half seemed secretly pleased, yet too daunted by Beauman wealth and influence to cheer them openly. However the news had come, by fast rider or forest drums, the outcome of the duel seemed known as soon as they'd clattered into Kingston!

All this public notice made Lewrie check to see if his breeches flap was buttoned more than once as they threaded the last gawping clot of fellow officers, merchant captains and crewmen, stevedores and servants on the stone quay just in front of The Grapes; some glaring at him so severely he expected to be called out as he waited for his gig to arrive.

'Done for two of 'em, 'e did!' Lewrie heard one of his oarsmen off his own boat whisper, beamingly jubilant. And how the devil news of the cock-up had reached the ship before he did, he had no way of knowing!

'Welcome back aboard, sir,' Lieutenant Adair crisply said, his smallsword drawn and held before his face in salute as Lewrie climbed aboard HMS Proteus and took the on-deck crew's salute amid a trill of bosun's calls.

'Mister Adair,' Lewrie said, with a brief nod to his Third Officer, now confirmed and possessed of his commission, no longer an acting lieutenant; putting his mute 'Captain's Face' back on. 'Thankee, sir. Dismiss the side party, and return the hands to their duties.'

'Message from the flag's come aboard for you, sir,' Adair said, coughing into his fist.

'Oh, damn,' Lewrie said, wincing at that news. He was nowhere near sober enough for official doings. Did Admiral Parker abhor duelling? Or did he loathe affairs of honour turning into Cheapside shootouts? Either way, the summons boded ill.

' 'Twas a lieutenant fetched it, sir,' Adair informed him.

Worse and worse, Lewrie thought; not a Middy's errand, but…