Troubled Waters

may lead us in future.'

'We will follow him anywhere,' Lt. Gamble said with a taut grin, and his tongue firmly in cheek, 'if only to see what he'll get into, next, ha ha!' Which jest raised a general round of laughter from all the men at-table, but for the dour Mr. Winwood.

'I, ah…,' Urquhart flummoxed, his now-fuzzy thoughts put off pace by Lt. Gamble's smirky comment. 'A toast, may I be so bold… a last one, for the Captain assured me that tomorrow will be a strenuous day… to the gallant Captain Alan Lewrie, and to further Glory and Fame for HMS Savage!'

He raised his glass on high, as did the others, but…

'And to 'Mother' Green's best, sirs!' Lt. Devereux amended. 'Andom Captain's favourites!'

Urquhart gawped once more, mouth agape for a moment, for Mother Green (God rest her patriotic soul!) had made and sold the finest and safest sheep-gut cundums from the Green Lantern in Half Moon Street in London for years, had come out of retirement at the urging of her old clients when the American Revolution had erupted in 1776 to make 'protections' for their officer sons, so they could 'rantipole' Yankee Doodle wenches in perfect assurance of safety, too.

Urquhart also blushed, for did he not have a round dozen from that selfsame source, now manufactured by Mother Green's heirs, down in the bottom of his sea-chest, 'cause one never knew when the chance might arise… not with women of the better sort, certainly, but…?

'The Captain… Savage… and Mother Green!' he proposed.

'Boat ahoy!' came a muffled cry from the unfortunate Midshipman who stood Harbour Watch in the officers' stead. The reply could not be made out as they tossed back their last glass-fuls to 'heel-taps,' but moments later came the faint thud of a boat coming alongside the entry-port, and at such a late hour, too.

CHAPTER FOUR

Alan Lewrie was ready for bed, after a rather succulent supper taken alone in his great-cabins. A whole jointed chicken, dredged in flour and crumbled biscuit, then pan-fried the way his wife from North Carolina had cooked it, a method happily re-discovered when he'd been dined aboard ships of the fledgling United States Navy in the Indies, among officers from South Carolina or Georgia. Fresh garden peas and young spring carrots, intermixed, had accompanied it, supported by a baked potato smeared with mustard, and a basket of dainty shore rolls.

His Cox'n, Liam Desmond, had talked their 'Free Black' volunteer cook, so aptly re-named Cooke, into baking a few apple tarts, as well; all sluiced down with one of the bottles of Cape Town white wines that Lewrie had purchased just before sailing back to England, and a couple of brandies, after, when catching up on the last of the day's unending flow of official paperwork from the warehouses ashore, a chapter or two of a new novel, and a game of chase with a champagne cork on a string with Toulon and Chalky 'til they'd tired of it, had rolled their eyes at him, and had flopped down on the canvas deck chequer, exhausted.

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.'