Sea of Grey

Christian and Classical preparation for the civilian, country gentry life, if not a career in the clergy; which decision Sir Hugo had deemed a mortal-pity in his letter, decrying the waste, of Hugh at least, who was so suited for a military or naval career.

Caroline had portrayed the school differently, of course, and spitefully implied that it was the least expensive she could discover that still held the acceptable ton for Hugh and Sewallis's entry into Society; that they could no longer count upon 'their oft-absent, and indifferent Father' in his 'meanness' to fund a better schooling.

Their new school was small, she'd written, but not too far away, in Guildford, and was run by a renowned and respected High Church rector and his equally virtuous wife, well recommended by the Reverend Good-acre.

'… at least your Sons will grow up in proper Fear of the Lord, under a strict Christian tutelage that imparts modest and humble Moral Behaviour, even if you were deprived of such, sir. Sewallis and Hugh, I vow, will never emulate you!'

And, to his greater sorrow, Caroline no longer thought that any purpose would be served by any correspondence from him, nor would they be allowed the distraction of writing back. His sons had greeted that edict with much wailing and weeping, she had confessed, but '… the least said, soonest mended,' and 'out of sight, out of mind.' I know that boys shed their Grief after a Season, unlike girls. After a time, the rigours of Education, the distractions of games and healthy sports would engross their interests, making your memory an eminence gris, one best left unseen and un-thought of. Hence, sir, sooner or later quite justly Forgotten, as all Ogres merit!'

Damn, but that felt so unfair! Right, so he'd strayed; rather like a rutting bull run from his pasture, admittedly, but… to turn his children against him, actively encourage their hatred, break their hearts and send them weeping and snuffling, just for spite and revenge, well… that was simply too much! Lewrie shook his head in sorrowful wonder that his sweet and gentle wife, who made such a 'do' about the works of Christian charity and forgiveness, would go so far as to seem a Medea, who would slay her children to get her own back against that bootless Jason!

Poor little tykes, was his first thought; Wonder what this will cost me, was his second.

In comparison, the thick packet of letters from Theoni Connor, one for every week he'd been gone, were a drink oн cool water, ambrosia of the Olympian gods, rather than the gall and dirt that Caroline had offered up. Oh, they were so chatty, so informative about her doings, how her firstborn Michael was sprouting, and how much joy their son Alan James Connor provided her, now that he was toddling and beginning to babble almost comprehensible words! Scandals in Society (in which theirs didn't signify, thankee Jesus!), political rumours from supper parties among the powerful, notice of naval actions farther afield from his own bailiwick…

And firm, devoted, fond, and teasing Love!

Most especially, the non-judgmental kind of Love. To her lights he was still a Paragon, a Hero, her own True Blue Heart of Oak, one who could do no wrong, and '… though we may never dare show our Affection in Public, yet every night I clutch my pillows, proud to be your Amour, dear Alan, and sometimes find it hard to eschew a ringing Declaration of the fact of Us to one and all, and bedamned to their disapproval.'

You just keep up that eschewing, old girl! Lewrie thought, with a groan or two for the consequences, squirming some more in his chair, groping at his crutch in remembered fever, and thinking that he should write her back, instanter, to warn her about that anonymous scribbler so eager to ruin his life. Sooner or later he could find a target for his bile closer to home, and heap calumny on her, as well.

But it was so hot and still, and he was so very tired and worn down to a nubbin by his cares, that any task involving anything more of him than slouching and brooding felt quite beyond him at the moment.

Faintly, he heard groans from up forrud and below on the mess-deck. There came a retching noise, a weak 'Oh God, save me!' from one of the sick or dying, he knew not which, as one of the fevers caused a sailor to void his stomach.

There was nothing he could do to help them, he now realised in grim sorrow. Durant's citron-tar fumes would avail, or not, and only

God would decide-it was beyond him. All he could do was bide his time 'til the next death, the next drear funeral, the next grief.

He closed his eyes, lolled back his head, and tried to nap, to find at least a little mindless, temporary escape in unaware sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Now it was fourteen hands dead and buried.

Proteus still lay immobile from her best bower and stern kedge anchors, moored seemingly forever in a Slough of Despond, days after the ships of the line had departed to 'summer' on the North American Station at Halifax; taking with them hundreds upon hundreds of whole, fit, and healthy sailors, their crews made up to full capacity or even beyond-sailors Lewrie would have happily killed for, just for some of them, the merest pittance of re-enforcement.

Was there a single bright spot to their situation, Mr. Durant had provided it; for the liberal use of smouldering, guttering citron candles and hot tar and citron oil pots seemed to have cut the number of new men infected almost to nothing, even still moored near the miasmic Jamaican shore, which should have been a ready source of new infection.

Oh, there were still over fourty hands sick or staggering weakly on light duty as they mended, and of those sick, Durant expected at least five or six more to succumb, mostly to Yellow Jack, which was a much more pernicious disease. The bulk of the crew who had gone sick had caught malaria, which was manageable with chichona bark extract; a man could live with malaria, despite the unpredictable recurring bouts that would follow him the rest of his days, Hodson and Durant had assured him.

The Surgeon could no longer assure Lewrie of anything; he was the thirteenth corpse to be laid to rest ashore, wearing out his strength in caring for others. Cox'n Andrews had expressed the thought that Mr. Shirley had perished of shame and guilt, for not being able to do more, or save more.

That had presented Lewrie with a vexing problem, of explaining to Durant that his warrant as Surgeon's Mate was predated by Mr. Hodson, making him senior, and earning him promotion to Acting-Surgeon instead of Durant. Durant had taken it with seeming good grace, disappointed though he was. Hodson was risen from a doctor's apprentice before he joined the Navy, whilst Durant had been a trained and certified doctor in France before the Revolution and the Terror, educated even beyond the usual, damned-near as well as a university educated Englishman who could merit the prestigious title of 'Physician,' and be addressed as a 'Doctor' instead of the 'Mister' of a mere surgeon. Lewrie had tried to assure him that it was the perverse way of the service, not a slur upon his nationality. Mr. Durant had squinted his eyes in the faintest expression of pain-Hell's Bells, perhaps in frustration, or simple bitterness in the face of British prejudice-and had said no more.

'I assure you, Mister Durant, my reports to superiors mention your stalwart efforts, your acumen, and your dauntless fervour, along with your countering sweet miasma theory with the citron oil extract,' Lewrie had stressed, almost going to his knees to beg his pardon, 'and I know who is the better man, but damned seniority rules me, else I'd name you in charge this instant, sir! The staff-captain…'

Durant had merely shrugged philosophically once more, then gone forward and below, and Lewrie was sure that he'd lost him. As if one more thing could go wrong.

Aye, the staff-captain, Sir Edward 'Bloody' Charles, too! When Lewrie had taken his reports over to Giddy House and Fort Charles, he had found a new source of worry and aggravation! This time, there had been no 'chummy' glass of claret for him, no clubman's wing chair.

'Captain Blaylock describes you pretty-much as I expected you to turn out, Captain Lewrie,' Sir Edward had