King`s Captain

'Balls of brass too.'

'The very one,' Sir Hugo quite cheerfully agreed. 'I brought our Yeomen Militia up t'London, got brigaded with some Kentish regiments and got the brigade when the first'un fell off his charger… howlin' drunk. Man can't handle his drink surely can't handle his troops.'

'First I've heard.' Lewrie found cause to snicker, despite continuing fears that a tragic shoe was about to be dropped. 'Though that tipple was as important to the Army as gun-oil.'

'Bit of a muddle for a while,' Sir Hugo preened on. 'One damn' regiment went surly on us near Woolwich… some others traipsed into camp with only half their muster. Rot, sir! Radical, Republican rot, worse'n ever I'd imagine in England! But we put it right, stiffened the Tilbury forts' garrisons, reclaimed some ships that had mutinied … up the Thames… marched down to Sheerness and put spine in the town. Damme, though!' Sir Hugo wheezed in pleasing reverie, 'missed the sight on the King's birthday, Alan! Everyone firin' th' hundred-gun salute… mutineers, too, damn their eyes… made the ramparts at Garrison Point collapse! One gun would've done it, and thank God we never had t'cannonade the mutineers for real!'

'But it's over, now,' Lewrie said, sipping at his own champagne and feeling impatience to get past the 'pleasantries.'

'Almost. Some courts-martial still a'waitin'. Hellish docket, d'ye see. That Parker fellow went for the high jump. After that, we marched off for home. Got presented at court, my way back through the City, when the Thanks, and the promotion, came. 'His Nobs' the King, he thinks high of you… that letter you wrote him.'

'He does?' Lewrie could only gasp.

'Well, those whores of yours became, ah… 'certain loyal and patriotic women of Sheerness,' but… all in all, he thinks you're th' knacky sort. Never hurts… when he's in his right mind, that is.'

'Well, well…!' Lewrie had to gasp again and sit down.

'Now… about personal doin's…' Sir Hugo said, sobering and cocking his head at Aspinall, who was puttering and hovering.

'Aspinall, do you go on deck, for a while. My father and I wish to chat private for a spell,' Lewrie bade, tensing once more.

'Damme, never saw ye as a ship captain, Alan… in the Far East, the best ye had was a dog's manger for quarters,' Sir Hugo said, as he peered about appreciatively, not innocently though-there was a tad too much of the smirk to his face for that. 'Navy lives right well, I must say!'

' 'A poor thing, but mine own,' ' Lewrie quoted, shifting uneasily in his chair.

'Fine, quiet… damn' near stylish place t'put the leg over any willin' mort, I'm bound.' Sir Hugo leered on. 'Damme!'

Toulon, attracted by Sir Hugo's idly swinging, highly polished boot, had come to greet the new face; he leapt into Sir Hugo's lap and swished his tail right-chearly, reaching up to bat at those glittery gold epaulets with their tantalising gilt cord tassels.

'Nice, kitty…' Sir Hugo glowered. 'Now, bugger off!'

Damned near cross-eyed in perplexity, and with a tiny 'ummph' of disappointment, Toulon did, though Sir Hugo hadn't moved a muscle.

'Father, what…?'

'Always were fonder o' quim than yer av'rage feller, I recall,' Sir Hugo frowned, studying his son over the rim of his glass. 'Mad for it, from yer first breeches.'

'Right, so…?' Lewrie attempted to bluff.

Christ, who blabbed? was his panicky thought though; and just which 'liaison' of mine was blabbed about? Did Sophie, that … !

'Just after Caroline fetched Sophie and your kiddies back to home, there came this damn' letter. Damn' good hand, expensive paper… one o' those catty things from 'a concerned friend.' Someone hates ye worse than Muhammadans hate roast pork!'

'What the Devil d'ye mean, someone hates me?' Lewrie flummoxed.

'Lots of people hate me, I'd expect… God knows why! Whatever did it say, then?'

'The court takes note ye didn't try t'deny it straightaway,' Sir Hugo quipped, looking coolly amused.

'Well, how can I do that when you've yet to tell me what-the-bloody-Hell's-in-it?' Lewrie snapped back.

'It described, ah… yer 'diversions' in the Mediterranean. A certain sham Corsican countess, no more'n a common whore, named Phoebe Are-tino?'

'Oh!' Lewrie felt the need to gasp again. 'Shit!'

It was out at last! Lewrie had himself a deep draught, going icy inside.

'Then, t'make matters worse, some Genoese mount, Claudia… however d'ye say it…' his father prompted, scowling.

'Mastandrea,' Lewrie croaked, 'Claudia Mastandrea, but she was secret government business, a French spy, and…!'

'And you were ever the patriotic sort.' Sir Hugo felt the need to cackle. 'Court also takes note ye know the lady in question. Knew, rather… biblically. And the worst part…'

'Worst?' Alan sighed. 'Jesus!'

'Last year, when your ship was in the Adriatic,' Sir Hugo went on relentlessly, 'you rescued some Greek piece, a widow once married to a Catholic Irish trader… in the fruit trade, it said?'

'Currants,' Lewrie weakly supplied without thinking.

'Right, then… sweet currant duff.' Sir Hugo sniffed, as if it was all a titanic jest. 'Took her t'Lisbon 'board yer ship as a cabin guest… Saw more of her in Lisbon too, 'fore she took passage to her in-laws in Bristol. Yer nameless informer knew all that, her new address… and the fact that when the Widow Connor turned up on their doorstep, she was 'ankled.' ''

'What!' Lewrie yelped, his features paling whey-ishly, and just about ready to tear his hair out in consternation. 'What? Preg… no! We, I… that is, uhm…!'

'Thought I taught ya th' value o' good cundums, Alan, me dear,' Sir Hugo sighed, worldly-wise, as if disappointed in him. 'Venetian or Dago made, were they? Hard t'find at Lisbon? When I was hidin' from creditors in Oporto, they surely were. Damn all Romish countries and their meddlin' priests…'

'P… pregnant?' Lewrie could only splutter. 'Impossible, for I had three-dozen of Mother Green's best, I assure…'

God, he thought though; that first night, we didn't! Too mad for it, right after I rescued her from the Serb pirates! One bloody, incautious night, just the once…? That was simply too unjust!

Despite his predicament, for a glad second or two, he recalled summer-sheen sweat and slippery bodies, going at it like stoats, quiet whimpers instead of wee screams, so her son could sleep through it in his hammock… God, at least four bouts or more!

August, that'd been-Theoni had taken ship from Lisbon in October and wasn't showing then! He caught himself counting the months on his fingers.

'Fine thing t'master… mathematics,' his father commented, in a hellish-pleased humour, as if scoffing a cully who dared to be half the man that he was. 'Mistress Connor was delivered of a healthy boy, your informer says… Papist baptised, though. Alan James Connor, do ye see. Hellish coincidence… ain't it.'

'Dear Lord,' Lewrie said, topping up their glasses.

'Bein' in trade an' all,' Sir Hugo sneered, 'the Bristol branch of the Connors can add too, and knew there was no way their dead son could've quickened her, so… her new in-laws truckled her right out, soon as she bloomed. The damn' foreign chit, and what can ye expect of Dago trash? Damme, the Connors must be rollin'in 'chink' t'have such touchy morals… never could afford 'em, me. But Mistress Connor has her dead husband's half-share o' th' currant trade, plus a good claim on their share, with a wolfish lawyer. She lit in London, livin' just as high as any righteous widow. Your