hours loosen up in her, and his own, presence ashore… Arthur would even laugh and smile!
At a subscription ball or party at Nassau, Ballard would actually dance with Caroline-no more than two in an evening, Lewrie recalled; and, oh, he'd be gracious enough to ask other women and girls to dance as well in the course of the night; the dutiful sort of thing one did with the older ladies, with fellow officers' wives, or the unmarried damsels and daughters, yet… he'd never followed through.
Do I go through his sea-chests, do I find a shrine to Caroline? Lewrie wondered; The unattainable, the unrequited… paragon of womanhood, t'his lights. The poor, sad, unloved bastard!
Yes, there was his affair with Tess cited as the last straw for Ballard; that Lewrie would stoop to associating with common trollops, no matter their feminine charms, and imagine such a sordid item reason for a duel of honour, well! And why was he not home in Anglesgreen in his wife's company, anyway? How could he be so dismissive and beastly towards such a splendid lady? Ballard had demanded.
No, Arthur Ballard hadn't had a premonition, as Surgeon Mister Harward had imagined; he'd expected to survive the action, request a posting aboard another ship (perhaps after a brief spell of leave, for medical reasons?) and put Lewrie in his place for good and all.
Coach to Anglesgreen, and place his heart in Caroline's hands, as he always wished he could? Lewrie mused; Surely, in fiften bloody years, he must've met somebody else… given some proper girl a go! Poor, sad, lonely… deluded… prig.
Lewrie finished his glass of wine and stuffed Ballard's letter into a side pocket of his coat, wondering what to do with it now that he had read it. Toulon butted his head against Lewrie's thigh, while Chalky came trotting from back aft with his tail up to rejoin them and mewing for more pets, too, from the litter-box of dry sand stowed in the larboard-side quarter gallery. With a firm nod, Lewrie rose and headed for the quarter gallery himself, in need of relief after three glasses of wine.
He shut the door, lifted the lid of the 'jakes,' and undid his breeches buttons for a long, easing piss down the metal tube that led past the tuck of the transom directly to the sea. With his buttons re-fastened, he turned to stare out the window panes at the riding lights of the anchored fleet, and the lanthorn-glades upon the waters dancing and sparkling in the dark.
Meditatively, Lewrie withdrew the letter once again and shredded it into tiny bits, letting the fingernail-sized pieces drop into the cat's litter-box. With the small, long-handled fireplace shovel, he stirred the pieces in deep, as if turning grass under a fallow field before Spring planting. Hoping that no 'seeds' would ever sprout from that epistle.
Best leave Lt. Arthur Ballard, RN, a brave and honourable memory to his family, his associates… and everyone else. Courageously lost in the King's Name… and not a jealous, love-sick, and ascetic fool.
'Ah, there you be, sir,' Pettus gaily said as Lewrie came back to the cabins. 'Your supper is here, sir. Can't speak for the quality of the boiled carrots, but the potato hash with bacon is fresher, and there's half one of the gun-room's chickens, with some of your good Cheshire cheese rolled in biscuit crumbles, and toasted. Claret with it, sir?'
'Capital, Pettus,' Lewrie said with genuine eagerness for food, though feeling a pang of conscience to sound too eager, after the death and ravaging of some of his men… of Ballard's passing. He sat down at his solitary place at the head of his dining table and scooted up to his place setting, whipping the napkin cross his lap.
Just as a bowl of portable soup was put before him, he caught a strain of music from up forward on the gun- deck. 'They sound in decent spirits, considerin',' Lewrie commented.
'Oh, aye sir,' Pettus agreed, pouring a new glass of good aged claret for him. 'Earlier, well… you can't keep our tars gloomy for very long, after all, sir. Once they're done grieving, that is.'
Earlier, Desmond had played the dirge-like Johnny Faa while the funeral service had been read, and the corpses-those that had not been slipped out a gun-port during combat-were slid overside from beneath the Union Flag, wrapped in canvas and weighted with shot for sea-burial. As Lewrie had come back aboard round dusk, and the labours to repair the ship had ended, and the crew gathered idle during what was left of the Second Dog, it had been Admiral Hosier's Ghost, an old American air, Katy Cruel, and other gloomy tunes.
Now, though… once the hands had eat, and the mess-tables had been cleared away, Lewrie could recognise a gayer minuet tune called Constancy, the livelier Flannagan's Favourite, and the tune played as they'd stood into action in the morning, The Jolly Thresher.
And by the time that Lewrie finished his soup and started in on his entrйe-with two smaller saucers of everything for the famished cats, the crewmen had launched into One Misty, Moisty Morning again.
One Misty, Moisty Morning, when cloudy was the weather
I met up with an old man, he was clothed all in leather.
He wore no shirt unto his back, but wool upon his skin,
singing Howdye-do and Howdye-do, and Howdye-do, again!
I went a little farther, and there I met a maid…
As it had been in the morning, perhaps only three or four hands took the main verses, whilst everyone else roared out the short refrain, pounding their fists on the mess-tables, stamping their feet on the oak decks, hard enough to make the frigate's timbers shudder.
This maid her name was Dolly, 'twas in a gown of grey.
I was feeling somewhat jolly and persuaded her to stay.
And many kind embraces there, I stroked her little chin,
singing Howdye-do, and Howdye-do…!
'Amazin', really,' Lewrie mused aloud after dabbing his lips and taking a sip of wine. 'After all they've gone through today, the mates they've lost…'
'Like I said, sir,' Pettus reminded him, 'the life of a sailor, or so I've learned in my short time aboard, is hard misery, and short commons, most of the time. They'll take what joy they can, when there's a reason for it… and time enough. After all, sir, it isn't every day they're in a real battle, and win it.' They'll miss their shipmates but… not for all that long… not so long as they're still alive, sir, and able to brag about it.'
'Amen,' Lewrie agreed, perking up at the notion; and how apt it was when applied to the late Arthur Ballard. 'Amen to that.'
EPILOGUE
Sir Valentine: These banish'd men that I have kept withal,
Are men endu'd with worthy qualities.
Forgive them what they have committed here
and let them be recalled from their exile.
They are reformed, civil, full of good.
And fit for great employment, worthy lord.
– WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Danes had thrown in the towel, withdrawing from the League of Armed Neutrality. For a day or two, the British fleet had lain at anchor in Kioge Bay below Copenhagen, then departed for the Baltic to confront the Swedes, but that was anti-climactic. They had gotten to sea with their small squadron, but, as soon as they'd learned how the Danes had been beaten, they returned to port at Karlskrona, pointedly warned by Lord Nelson that it would be better did they remain there, if they knew what was good for them!
