'Bread and circuses,' his father, Sir Hugo, griped sotto voce as a servant took his hat, cloak, and walking stick. 'Bad as a Roman raree show, I swear. Necessary, I s'pose, but… what flummery.'
'Bloody Hell!' Lewrie exclaimed, dignity and serene confidence bedamned, as he turned over his own hat and cloak, and caught sight of a bevy of Navy men waiting for him with bright eyes and smiles. 'How the Devil did they dredge you up? Just damn my eyes!'
For there stood officers and men from old HMS Proteus, those who had turned over into his latest ship, the Savage frigate, and had been there off Portland Bight the night of his 'crime'-Lt. Adair, his former Second Officer; Lt. D'arcy Gamble, Third into Savage, then a Midshipman; Sailing Master Mr. Winwood; Midshipman Grace, even Coote, the Purser; along with all seven surviving sailors of the dozen he'd absconded with! The only man missing was Anthony Langlie, then First Officer of Proteus, and now Commander Langlie, and in command of HMS Orpheus, a brig-sloop of his own.
'Savage put into Torbay to re-victual on the Second, sir,' Lt. Adair gleefully explained as he pumped Lewrie's 'paw' in joy, 'and up pops an order from Lord Saint Vincent, aboard the flag, before we got the kedge anchor down. Captain Wolters wasn't keen on it, but, here we all are, sir, ready to testify on your behalf. No delay, really, with the weather foul in the Channel, and at least a fortnight's work to put the ship right.'
'Gentlemen… lads, I'm damned glad t'see ye, damned glad… and not just for your testimony, hey?' Lewrie enthused, shaking hands with one and all. 'Dry, read affidavits are one thing, but your tales in your own words'll be quite another, my barrister tells me. You've met my father, before? And, here comes Desmond, Furfy, Aspinall, and Jones Nelson. Old Boys' Week, ha ha!'
His Coxswain, Liam Desmond, and his big mate Patrick Furfy, Lewrie's longtime cabin servant and cook Aspinall, and the very big Black sailor (most recently his personal bodyguard) Jones Nelson had come into the hall, so it really did become a grand reunion.
Introductions had to be made all round, from Lord Peter, who had precedence, down to the burly Irishman, Furfy. Then there came Lewrie's barrister's clerk, one Mr. Sadler, who was forced to play his usual role of coughing into his fist and 'aheming' to beat the band to herd Lewrie down the hallway to the proper courtroom. 'Sir… sir. Captain Lewrie? Ahem. Mister MacDougall suggests we should be entering… ahem?'
'Right, right then,' Lewrie finally had to allow. 'My pardons, Mister Sadler, and we'll be going. Lead on, do you please.'
The long and heavy table set aside for Defence Counsel was piled high with octavos bound in 'law calf' the colour of pie crust, with a large easel standing off by the far wall, and something framed nearby, currently covered, and as big as a bed sheet.
'Joy of the morning, Captain Lewrie!' his young Puck of an attorney declared, spreading his arms wide, and swirling the black legal 'stuff' robe he wore. Mr. Andrew MacDougall, Esquire, stood about four inches shy of six feet, plump, round, and moon-faced; no amount of dark cloth could make him appear sober; nor did the stiff white peruke with three tight horizontal side-curls and out-standing ribbon-bound queue that jutted from the nape of his neck over his generous dark blond hair. MacDougall might have come extremely well recommended, but Lewrie still thought of him as the merest boy, who should still have been playing pranks at university.
Talented, aye, Lewrie allowed to himself; successful with past cases, but… 'tis no skin off his arse does he fail. It's just one more court appearance… notorious enough t'make his name either way.
And it rather irked Lewrie that the stout young whelp was all but ready to cut capers, or do a horn-pipe of glee.
'Good morning, Mister MacDougall,' Lewrie felt fit to reply. 'I trust we'll both be smiling when the day's done… ow! Damn!' for he had stubbed the toe of one of his gilt-trimmed Hessian boots against a large wood box placed under the table.
'I am completely certain that we shall, sir!' MacDougall replied. 'Now, more than ever,' he added, rocking on the balls of his feet and bestowing upon his 'brief' a 'sly-boots' smile.
'What?' Lewrie enquired with a scowl of some confusion. It was his life on the line; for a second he could conjure that the box under the table was reserved for his head after they lopped it off, hanging bedamned. 'You know something I don't?'
'A most wondrous something, Captain Lewrie!' MacDougall all but chortled, his face dimpled and rosy with delight. 'Word has come to me from Mister Twigg of the Foreign Office concerning your accuser, Hugh Beauman, sir. It seems that he, that frostily handsome young wife of his… his own attorney, and all his witnesses… have decamped!'
'So?' Lewrie said with another frown of confusion. 'Last time they were in court, he turned into his own worst enemy with all o' his bellowin' and threats. His barrister most-like-'
'His witnesses, sir!' MacDougall reiterated, peering at Lewrie as if he were too simple to understand plain English. 'Decamped. Gone like thieves in the night. No longer in London. No longer in England, d'ye see.'
Christ, Twigg's killed 'em? Lewrie just had to imagine. There wasn't any reason that he could see for Hugh Beauman to withdraw his case, short of a dire threat from official circles in H.M. Government, or a gang of hooded assassins to hustle the bloody, bound corpses into the Thames. God knew how many thousands of pounds Hugh Beauman had already spent to discover who'd stolen his slaves, to bring the prosecution before a rigged Jamaican court and justice, pack the jury with his kin and employees, then spend over a year in England, supporting all of his henchmen (paying thousands more to amuse and please that icy blond wife of his, and her passion for shopping, too, by God!) waiting for a court date.
Lewrie had known the Beaumans since 1781, off and on, and, no matter they were as rich as the Walpoles, they were so 'Country-Put,' so 'Chaw Bacon,' they could make the crudest John Bull country squire gawk and sneer. Dog-slobberin', huntin', shootin', fishin', tenant-tramplin', slave-whoppin', arrogant, brute, and boorish as they come were the Beauman men (and God help their womenfolk) with thousands for Publick show, yet penny- pinchin' miserly in private. Overbearing and loud, un-grammatic and blasphemous (well, so am I, Lewrie admitted to himself!), and so used to getting their own way, all the time, that it was ludicrous to think that Hugh Beauman, the very worst of a very bad lot, would just fold his tents and steal away, after coming so close to getting his revenge!
Zachariah Twigg and his 'unofficial' little private battalion of watchers, noters, spies, and bully-bucks (both male and female) served the Crown damned well, and God only knew how many foreign agents were crab-food, downriver. Had it come to that stage? Lewrie wondered; So what? Good for him, but didn't he leave it just a bit late? Native chiefs, rebel rajahs… it ain't like Twigg t'hold off so long.
Lewrie involuntarily looked about to see if anyone was watching before sketching a finger across his throat and shrugging a question best left unsaid in a court of law.
'Oh, Lord no, Captain Lewrie, nothing like that!' Mr. MacDougall wheezed with good cheer. 'They have absconded… coached off to Yarmouth to board the Portugal packet… out of reach of a King's Bench warrant for perjury, and laying a false prosecution.'
'Well, just damn my eyes!' Lewrie barked, too loudly, drawing the attention of every spectator now filling the benches in the court room. 'Gone to Portugal, in this weather? They'll be lucky do they not drown… or get taken by a French man-o'-war. Humph! Couldn't happen to a worse set o' people. The wife, excepted… perhaps.'
'Aye, that would have been a mortal pity,' Mr. MacDougall said with a bemused nod. 'It seems… '' MacDougall added, drawing Lewrie towards the far wall of the richly panelled court room, near the mystifying covered easel, 'that Hugh Beauman was made aware that, should his barrister, Sir George Norman, put him, or any of his witnesses, in the box to testify, they would lay themselves open to some extremely serious charges. Then, once I presented my case in refutation of all their lies… with all your officers and men, and your Black sailors to prove them liars… well, t'would be a genuine wonder did Beauman and his people not wind up in gaol awaiting their own trials. A risk that Mister Hugh Beauman evidently would not take.'
'His attorney, Sir George, might've told him?' Lewrie asked.
'No… I rather doubt that, Captain Lewrie,' MacDougall said as he tapped the side of his nose sagely, and tipped Lewrie a broad wink, lowering his voice even further. 'Sir George Norman is, ah… still not cognisant of the flight of his principals. Though I'm certain all shall become plain to him soon enough, haw haw! And, given the fact that it is not customary for principals to place more than a retainer fee with the solicitor who engages a barrister, with the balance due after the completion of a barrister's duties…'
'Beauman left a huge debt when he scampered?' Lewrie gawped in delight, trying to keep his own voice down.
