That left only the Russian fleet to deal with, and there were signs that the confrontation would be at sea, for the amount of drift ice had been greatly reduced by the arrival of Spring. Surely the thaw had reached Reval and Kronstadt, and the Tsar's warships were now free.
A swift frigate had caught up with the fleet, fresh from Great Yarmouth, bearing orders and mail to the flagship HMS London. Just as soon as the signal flags had been hoisted, every ship had sent a boat to her to collect it. Midshipman Furlow returned in the launch with a large canvas bag, and scampered up the side with it, holding it aloft like a fresh-killed fox at the end of a thrilling hunt as the officers gathered round him and cheered, as happy as the pack of hounds would round the Master of the Hunt. Lewrie's clerk, the unfortunately named Mr. George Georges, the Purser Mr. Pridemore, and his Yeoman took hold of it and quickly sorted it out for distribution at Seven Bells of the Forenoon; when gunnery practice had ended, just before 'Clear Decks amp; Up Spirits' was piped for the rum ration.
Aft, Lewrie quickly pawed through his own small pile of correspondence, the official letters first. 'Victualling Board… Sick amp; Hurt Board… general bumf to all ships,' Lewrie muttered as he tore them open and quickly scanned them, laying them flat in a shallow wood box on his desk once read, not in any particular order, to be dealt with later. There was nothing of urgent import regarding him, just the ship; no orders direct from Admiralty. He could turn to the rest.
'Ooh, shit!' he hissed inward through his teeth. There was actually a letter from his wife, Caroline! She had broken her bitter and aloof silence, wonder of wonders, and written him! Naturally, he would leave that one for the very last, sure it was yet another of her acidic screeds… the sort sure to curdle his mid-day meal, whether he read it before or after dinner. Tentatively holding it at two of its corners, Lewrie laid it back down on his desk-top.
The rest of his personal mail… there was one from his eldest son, Sewallis, and one from the younger, Hugh. There was a bill from a Yarmouth chandler and one from a London tailor. Eudoxia Durschenko had written him-'Leave that'un for the very last,' he muttered-and one from his solicitor, Mr. Matthew Mountjoy. He was about to open it when he caught sight of the senders of a pair of others.
Christopher Cashman, his old friend who'd moved to Wilmington, North Carolina, and had become an American, who'd provided a thoroughly false affidavit for his trial, had sent him a letter! He was about to pounce on that one, when the last really caught his eye.
His barrister, Mr. Andrew MacDougall, Esquire, had written him!
'Oh, shit,' Lewrie muttered again, sure that the combination of letters from his solicitor, and his attorney, portended another dreadful stint in a courtroom. With a grimace on his phyz, he opened it.
In neat Spencerian 'copper-plate' calligraphy, MacDougall told him glad tidings.
Sir, I take pen in hand to deliver unto you the most amazing turn of events, of which I but lately heard; events sure to elicit within you the greatest Joy and sense of Relief, for, your former Accuser, Mr. Hugh Beauman, is no more. The packet in which he and his Wife and Coterie embarked for Portugal to escape the Folly of their Suit against you missed the landmarks when attempting to enter the Tagus River and the port of Lisbon in a great Gale in late January, just weeks after your Acquittal, and was driven aground not half a mile from shore, with great loss of Life, principal of whom was Mr, Hugh Beauman himself.
'And it couldn't happen to a better person!' Lewrie whispered, feeling like leaping to his feet and dancing a little jig of mourning; barely containing a whoop and a guffaw of laughter.
Perishing along with him were several of his perjurious Witnesses among his followers, though his Wife was rescued.
And, as MacDougall had heard it, that icily imperious beauty, now sole heir to the lion's share of the Beauman riches-rivalling the wealth of the famous Walpoles, or so it was said-beyond what profits that went to the elder Mr. Beauman and his wife, now retired in the English countryside, was of no mind to bother with trifles like her late husband's pursuit of Capt. Alan Lewrie's life and honour, no!
Mrs. Beauman is reputed to delight in her Widowhood, and the salubrious Clime of Lisbon in particular and in the Society of the English colony in Portugal in general, Purchasing a substantial House in Lisbon, as well as a country Retreat, rather than leasing, and I have it on the best, first-hand Authority from one of our senior Benchers, K.C., of my Lodge, Grey's Inn, who now represents her interests in London, that all Beauman holdings on Jamaica are now put on the market, Mrs. Beauman having absolutely no Desire to return to the Fever Isles, nor (so it is rumoured) any Desire to have any further Association with the quality of Society found there.
My Bencher also informs me that she hopes to invest in the wine and spirits trade in Portugal…
Lewrie did let out a whoop of glee at that point, slapping his desk-top for good measure, loud enough to startle the cats awake from their nap on the settee cushions, and make Whitsell, his little cabin boy, jump and gawk and gulp.
'Good news from home, sir, pardon for asking?' Pettus enquired from the dining-coach, where he was setting out dinner things.
'The very absolute best, Pettus!' Lewrie exclaimed, imagining that, someday, he could drink a toast to his freedom and continued life without fear of further litigation in a fine Madeira from a Beauman vineyard, and savour its taste doubly well! And, why wait? 'Pettus, I'd admire did ye fetch me a wee glass o' port while I go through the rest of my mail.'
'Aye, sir.'
The last half-page of MacDougall's letter was chatty folderol about London doings, the Spring Season, and hints that the Addington government was seriously considering negotiating a treaty of peace with Republican France, and its First Consul, Napoleon Bonaparte, of all the insane things! Just as Adm. Duckworth had taken Guadeloupe! Lastly…
By the by, your Solicitor, Mr. Matthew Mountjoy, has told me that you may find News regarding a certain Lady in the currant trade of Interest. He tells me he shall write you with all the Particulars, but it seems that her recent Scandal, the details of which escape me, has found it necessary to Remove herself, her children, and household to Dublin to avoid the Acrimony.
Allow me, last of all, to congratulate you on the complete Ending of your legal problems anent the Beaumans, et al. If I may ever be of service in the future, do consider me, your most obdt. Srvt…
'Well, well, well!' Lewrie chortled, wondering if Dame Fortune could be any kinder to him! He was about to request a larger glass of port, but before Pettus could even pour the first, two faint thumps in the distance could be heard, which thumps caused a stir on the quarterdeck overhead, which he could hear through the partly-open windows of the coach-top. A moment later and his Marine sentry was bellowing the arrival of Midshipman Plumb.
'Lieutenant Fox's duty, sir, and he bids me inform you that the flagship has made general signal for all ships of the fleet to send a boat to her again,' Plumb announced.
'Very well, Mister Plumb,' Lewrie replied, 'my compliments to Mister Fox, and he's to despatch a fresh crew of his choosing. Keep me informed, what it's all about.'
'Aye-aye, sir!'
Just after his dinner, and with all but Caroline's letter left to read-he was still fearful of that'un!-the launch returned alongside. Not a minute later, Lewrie could hear another excited stir on the quarterdeck, the scamper of feet on one of the gangway ladders, and the sharp rap of his Marine sentry's musket-butt on the deck as he called, 'Midshipman Privette t'see th' Cap'm, SAH!'
'A note for you from the flag, sir,' Privette began, coming to the dining table to hand it over, puppy-eager. 'George, who conned the launch… Midshipman Pannabaker, sir, sorry… heard a lieutenant on London say it was something about the Tsar, sir!'
Lewrie cocked a wry brow at the lad. With his hat under his arm Midshipman Privette's head still sported a gauze bandage where he had been struck unconscious at Copenhagen. The lad was all but panting in excited curiosity.
'Calm as does it, Mister Privette,' Lewrie chid him, 'you aren't to over-exert yourself, our Surgeon tells me, not quite yet. Fluster over this surely can't be good for… Holy fuckin' shit!' Lewrie cried after he'd broken the soft wax seal and read the single-page note, and rose so quickly from his chair that he up-ended it. 'Tell the officer of the watch… who's on?'
'Acting-Lieutenant Sealey, sir,' Privette supplied.
'… that I'll come up,' Lewrie ended, going for his hat. Once on the quarterdeck, he could see that Midshipman Pannabaker, fresh from the flagship, had already imparted his rumour to one and all, for he could see a sea of
