praiseful comment on 'The Mouth of the Nile' playing at the Covent Garden Theatre in honour of the 1798 battle and Adm. Nelson, or conversation, about the overly melodramatic 'Pizarro' in Drury Lane, had been received with odd pursings of mouths, much as if Lewrie had lifted a cheek and shot off a 'cheeser.' To his earnest hosts and hostesses, the only good thing about 'Pizarro' were the moral lessons of the drama. Lewrie wasn't sure what those were, exactly-slaughtering umpteen thousands of Inca pagans, spreading Christianity with fire and sword, and raking up mountains of gold and gems was a good thing? That being a Spanish conqueror resulted in final tragedy, as opposed to, say, Clive of India, who'd done pretty much the same thing, but was so thoroughly British that he came home smelling like Hungary Water in comparison? Or was it the new fashions and colours that 'Pizarro' had sprung upon a drab London winter? Purple, yellow, puce, and scarlet, along with spangled hair nets and fifteenth- century hats as big and floppy at throw-pillows (or exaggerated French berets) for women? Anyway, it was only the stylish, the 'flash,' and the young sybarites who sported such togs; pointedly not his hostesses, who were as staid as throw-backs to Cromwell's Puritans.
The first night right after his acquittal, there had been his former officers to roister with, but they had departed the day after, back to HMS Savage at Torbay, taking burly Landsman Jones Nelson with them, for he sorely missed his fellow Black mates and felt lost without them. Next to go, not a day after, was Aspinall!
'Em, sir, ah…,' Aspinall had stammered, red-faced, that morning. 'I wonder could I raise a point with ya, Captain Lewrie.'
'Aye,' Lewrie had said over his cocoa and jam (the last time he had had personal service in his rooms at the Madeira Club). 'Say on.'
' 'Tis me mother, sir,' Aspinall had explained, all but wringing his hands. 'The people she does for, they've been most generous, an' lenient with her, th' last few years, sir, but her ailments ain't gettin' better. My sister, Rose sir… she's in service with another household, an' can't see to her as she should, so… well, I've alla my prize- money, an' I've thought I could purchase a wee place f'r all of us… make her last years comfy, in a place of her own, d'ye see, sir? I woz wond'rin'… might ya write Admiralty for my Discharge on fam'ly grounds, sir?'
'You'd leave my employ as well?' Lewrie had said, stunned and feeling sudden loss; Aspinall had been with him damned-near forever, and where would he get a cabin servant, steward, and cook as good as Aspinall? Someone as understanding and 'comfortable'?
'Fear I must, sir,' Aspinall had gloomed. 'Same thing, really. I'm that sorry t'let ya down, sir, an' I'll stay on 'til ya finds yer new man, but…'
'No no, Aspinall,' Lewrie had assured him. 'I'll look around. For a while, I may depend upon the staff at the Madeira. I'll write Admiralty at once. Humph. 'Tis good odds Hell'd freeze over before they wish to employ me, in future, so I doubt I'd need anyone with so many skills as you possess. But… whatever shall you do to earn a living, Aspinall? Prize-money's fine, but it won't last forever.'
'Uhm nossir,' Aspinall had related, a lot more cheerfully, 'I know a man in th' publishin' business, int'rested in my journals, an' those songs I collected aboard ship… along with amusin' anecdotes 'mongst the lads, an' such. He thinks we can sell a lot of them to lads intent on volunteering'.'
Aspinall and his publishing partner had been a bit more aspiring than that; was the first volume successful, there were plans for a guide to a world of useful sailors' knots, along with a companion book on the making of sennet-work 'small stuff' into rings, bracelets, necklaces, and doilies, the sort of things that sailors wove for loved ones in their off-duty hours or 'Make and Mend' Sundays. All lavishly illustrated, of course, for Aspinall had always been a dab-hand sketch artist, saving the cost of hiring one. There'd be a guide to the various parts of a ship, the standing, and most especially, the running rigging that controlled the sails… all an eager lubber needed to find his way through the mysterious world of the sea and its arcane language, for there would be a lexicon of all the former and current slang and jargon decyphered for the complete neophyte!
It had been with some measure of surprise, and a great deal of reluctance, for Lewrie to wish Aspinall and his family well, offer to write Admiralty that very day, obtain his Discharge and final reckoning of his pay, and, to be gracious, offer his name as a subscriber to all the future works; even pen a recommendation to introduce the first one… assuming the use of his name would not drive purchasers away from it.
Wife reclused from him, in high dudgeon, in Anglesgreen down in Surrey, and his daughter Charlotte clinging to Caroline's skirts, and her spites; Sewallis and Hugh both back at their public school now Hilary Term was begun and Christmas holidays were over, and busy with their lessons; his brother-in-law (the one who'd still talk to him) Burgess Chiswick was head-over-heels in love, newly affianced to the lovely (and rich!) Theodora Trencher, and also busy with his newly purchased Majority in a foot regiment… the only people left to Lewrie from family, in-laws, or contemporaries in the Navy was his slyly Irish Cox'n, Liam Desmond, and Desmond's old comrade, the simple but strong Patrick Furfy-neither of whom could butler, valet, or even boil a pot of water, far as he knew of their civilian skills.
Both those worthies, much like his cats Toulon and Chalky, did seem more than happy to remain with him, for several very good reasons; firstly, they were not presently at sea, and could stay warm and dry for a change; secondly, the quality of their victuals beat Navy issue food all hollow; thirdly, there were thousands of pubs and taverns in which to slake their thirsts, and at Lewrie's expense; and, fourthly, said taverns were in London, where there were women by battalions for them to ogle, flirt up, and serve Jack Sauce, or manage to put the leg over, by finagling or the offer of a shilling or three.
And London was so full of theatres, music halls, exhibits and pleasure gardens, and street rarees that Desmond and Furfy likely felt they'd gained the sailors' paradise, 'Fiddler's Green,' where every lass was comely and obliging, the music never ceased, rum and ale flowed round the clock, and publicans never demanded the reckoning!
Stout fellows, in the main, the both of them, but… like his cats, they weren't good conversationalists… they weren't Aspinall.
CHAPTER SIX
The Admiral Boscawen Coffee House, at the corner of Oxford Street and Orchard Street (site of the present day Selfridge's) was just the sort of warm and cozy place that Lewrie needed after a brisk stroll from the corner of Duke Street and Wigmore Street. There was a blue-aproned lad to take his hat, cloak, and walking stick, a man to see him to a table of his own, not too far from one of the two blazing hearths, and yet another young man to fetch him his first cup of coffee with cream and sugar. Before toast, butter, and jam could be fetched, there were piles of newspapers from which to choose, as well, and Lewrie, who had been rather busy at saving his arse the last week or so, was glad to find some back numbers so he could catch back up with the latest doings.
'Brown bread fer toast, only, sir… sorry t'say,' the waiter apologised after laying a plate before Lewrie. 'Th' Lord Mayor's gotta down on white bread, 'long with the Crown.'
'It's been banned?' Lewrie had to gawp.
'Bad harvest, they say, sir,' the waiter said with a shrug. 'Th' war, an' all. Anything else, sir?'
'Not for the moment, no,' Lewrie told him. At least there was still more than enough fresh butter, and a full pot of lime marmalade. Truth to tell, Lewrie rather liked brown bread, so the ban on fine white bread was not much bother. He was hungry enough, by then, to chew sawdust. And the coffee was decently hot, for a rare wonder; which was one reason why he preferred the Admiral Boscawen.
In The Times, there was a reprint of the King's address to the closing session of Parliament on New Year's Eve, which had featured King George escorted from the Presence Chamber by both Admiral Hood and Nelson to the throne, and Lewrie stopped chewing long enough to read:
'The detention of property of my subjects in the ports of Russia contrary to the most solemn treaties, and the imprisonment of British sailors in that country, have excited in me sentiments in which you and all my subjects will, I am sure, participate…'
Far from English waters most of the previous year, off the foe's shores in the mouth of the Gironde River, and weeks from fresh papers from home, he'd missed most of the dust-up with the Danes.
British and Danish warships had tangled in the Mediterranean in the summer, the Danes insisting that their convoys and independent merchant ships were not subject to stopping for inspection for contraband that might aid the French. A Danish frigate, the Freya, had traded a few shots off the English coast later on, striking her colours to protect another small convoy.
