near HMS London and her consorts, about three miles off the Trekroner Fort, and well out of range of its cannon, though there was little expectation that the Danes would resume the contest.
They were beaten, after all; seventeen of the eighteen warships, anchored hulks, or floating batteries had been taken, burned, or sunk in action, and the enemy commander's ship, Dannebrog, had taken fire and blown up with stupendous loss of life well after the artillery duel had ended. Nelson and his squadron had persisted despite the 'General' signal to discontinue the action, and had won, though at great cost in men.
The rest of Thermopylae's day had been spent repairing; re-roving and splicing cut-up rigging, replacing shattered yards and upper masts. The entire ship needed scouring to erase the stains of gunpowder residue… and blood. Vinegar had been used to ease the odours of rotten eggs from the guns' discharges, the coppery reek of splattered gore, and the foetid stench from Mr. Harward's surgery on the orlop.
When the foremast had been 'fished' and banded, the weather decks had had to be re-sanded with bears and bibles. After that, the cannon had to be thoroughly swabbed out and washed down from muzzles to breeching rope cascabels, the truck-carriages touched up with a little paint, and the recoil and run-out tackles replaced in some cases after all the strain and fraying placed upon them.
On top of that, all the ship's boats had been led round from being towed astern, and had spent the entire time since the cease-fire at rescuing Danish sailors from the wrecks of their vessels, taking prisoners, then cooperating with the crews of Danish rowboats in transferring their dead and wounded ashore to the hospitals in the city.
Alan Lewrie had been busy, too, visiting aboard HMS Amazon to attend Capt. Riou's brief funeral, then conduct his own rites for the seven officers and men who had died from Thermopylae's complement, then see to his wounded, some of them in a bad way after amputations, and sure to join the Great Majority, and their slain shipmates, in a few days.
In his gig, he had had to report to Lord Nelson aboard, Elephant, then to Sir Hyde Parker aboard London, and there had been no time for food or drink, or a chance to catch his breath, it seemed, since they had dropped anchors. Finally… finally, the sun was down, and there were no more demands upon him or his crew. A harbour watch was set on deck, with the usual lookouts posted at bow, stern, and both gangways. Marines in full, freshly cleaned kit stood sentry posts to prevent desertion, though it made no sense given a three-mile swim to a hostile shore. It was simply what the Royal Navy did when anchored.
Captain Alan Lewrie touched the brim of his hat in casual salute and nodded with a grin to Marine Private Leggett, who stood guard by the door to his great-cabins, receiving a musket salute, and a shy hint of a grin in reply as he entered his quarters.
'Thank God,' he breathed in relief as he shut the door on care and worry and grief, and the demands of Duty. He hung up his own hat and sword belt, not waiting for Pettus to serve him, and almost limped on weary legs and slightly sore feet to the starboard side settee.
'A glass of something, sir?' Pettus asked, looking as clean and natty as if the day had never been, as well- turned-out as a civilian servant in a London club.
'God, yes!' Lewrie enthused. 'It's been a long, dry day.' And, as Pettus fetched him a refreshing glass of white wine, as Toulon and Chalky, happily resettled amid their familiar environs with the terrifying din of battle long over, leaped into his lap and made glad mews of joy to be stroked and cossetted in peace, Lewrie could relish the homeyness of his cabins returned to normalcy, with every piece of furniture, every chest, chair, and framed picture put back in the right places.
And after a long, dry-mouthed sip of the light white wine, he could even allow himself a long, happy sigh of near bliss. Pettus had the bottle, and topped him back up for a slower, more meditative drink.
'Galley's up, and Nettles will be fetching your supper in half an hour, sir,' Pettus told him. 'No hope of fresh vegetables or bread from shore, I'd suppose, sir, but he's putting together a celebratory meal, he said to say. Anything I may do in the meantime, sir?'
'I'd admire did you help me get my boots off, Pettus, and fetch out that old, sloppy pair o' shoes,' Lewrie decided. 'And a fresh pair of cotton stockings. I fear the silk ones I've worn nigh two days in a row are quite ruined, by now.'
'Of course, sir,' Pettus said, and went to hunt up the shoes and stockings. Once back, he straddled Lewrie's calves and tugged off the boots; sure enough, the silk stockings were laddered with tears. They were fine for formal occasions, and for battle; silk shirts and stockings could be drawn from wounds more cleanly than linen or wool, limiting the risk of anything left in ravaged flesh to fester or go gangrenous, but such protection was too delicate to wear with boots, and too costly.
Once in fresh, clean stockings, and comfortable old loosely buckled shoes, Lewrie slumped into one corner of the settee, throw pillows and cushions rearranged for comfort. He threw one leg up atop the seat, the other resting on the low brass tray-table he'd brought back from Calcutta so many years before, and let out another blissful sigh. On the smaller side tray-table stood the wine bottle, and Lewrie poured himself a third glass, all but smacking his lips in anticipation. Yet…
As he reached over, then leaned back, something crinkled in his coat's inside chest pocket. Oh, Lewrie sadly thought; Arthur's letter.
He withdrew it and broke the wax seal, thinking that the letter was just like Arthur Ballard; folded evenly, meticulously, and the seal forming a perfectly circular blob of wax covering all four corners of the folds which met at almost mathematical exactitude.
Sir (it began) I would beg that you keep this in the strictest of Confidences. I find myself in the very worst sort of personal Contretemps, and, for want of a better Solution, and at the considerable Risk to my career, must inform you that I find it impossible to serve under you as First Lieutenant. It is my intention to request of Admiralty to be relieved of my Position.
Lewrie furrowed his brows in surprise, wondering just what the fellow might have gotten into; gambling debts, the risk of debtors' prison by over-spending? He'd gotten some young woman in trouble? None of these even remotely seemed likely, not with such a straight-laced prig as Arthur Ballard, he could quickly dismiss.
Though we established a somewhat compatible Cooperation aboard Alacrity in the Bahamas, as Time went by, I found myself loath to call it true Friendship, and, by the end of our joint Commission, felt quite relieved to go our separate Ways.
Truthfully, Sir, I hold that you are Reprehensible, and wish most devoutly to have as little to do with you and your Character as naval Service will admit in…
'Bloody Hell?' Lewrie gawped in a very small voice.
Arthur Ballard laid it all out in precise terms; he despised Captain Alan Lewrie, just as he had come to despise Lieutenant Alan Lewrie in the late '80s. Ballard cited his many reasons; recklessness being one of them; a lewd, lascivious, and adulterous nature, another. He blasphemed freely; he'd shot that captured, kneeling pirate in the head at close range with a pistol in front of the cave on Middle Caicos to urge the rest, and that foul Billy 'Bones' Doyle, out and free their captives-just as he'd all but murdered Count Levotchkin's servant not a fortnight before! The theft of a dozen Black slaves to man his ship; Ballard knew it was a crime, despite what the court, and all the newspapers and tracts in praise of him, said.
He got that pretty-much right, Lewrie admitted to himself.
But it was Lewrie's rakehellish, adulterous streak that Ballard found the most despicable. Why, he even recalled the name of the Free Black woman Lewrie had rutted with at Clarence Town on Long Island one sultry and boring afternoon, after all these years-even if Lewrie didn't.
Wyannie Slocum, of course! Lewrie thought, surprised; and, just for a bit, remembering rather fondly…
The rumours of Lewrie quickening a bastard son on a rich Greek widow in the currant trade, the rumour of a mistress in the Mediterranean earlier in the war; the scandal of associating with a 'painted circus wench,' and how shamefully Lewrie had ignored and abused, and been unfaithful to his wife, Caroline, lo these many years, betraying the… 'Betraying the Trust of one of the finest women it has ever been my honour to know…,' Ballard wrote.
Damme, it could've been Ballard, wrote those bloody letters, not Theoni, if I didn't know better, Lewrie thought, re-reading what Ballard had penned about Caroline one more time, then leaning back on the settee and taking another long sip of his wine.
He never wed, Lewrie recalled; Turned up his nose at every promisin' lass we introduced to him. Betsy… whats'ername? He thought her… all of 'em… too 'fly' and 'flibberty-gibbet.' The way Arthur writes of Caroline, though… Mine arse on a band-box, he was in love with her, all these years! he realised with a start.
Lewrie had always fancied that Caroline could coax Ballard out of his grave and aloof manner, and for several
