A King`s Trade

company.

'I am certain you are right, Captain Lewrie,' the Flag-Lieutenant at last agreed, though nowhere near happy about his hero being slurred. 'As I said, I do believe we have concluded our business. May I congratulate you on your return to England, and humbly wish you success in all your future endeavours.'

'Whatever those may be,' Lewrie said with a smile, rising at the same moment as the other officer. 'You've heard nothing of any foreign expeditions that need a stout frigate, or…?'

'Not for me t'say, sir… though, with that Frog general, that Bonaparte, just returned to France, there still may be some actions to be taken to clean up the Mediterranean, again. Malta 's still in French hands, half of Italy, the Adriatic, and the Ionian Islands… my word, Captain Lewrie! You may very well end up serving under our Nelson one more time!'

Lewrie was about to blurt out that he'd met that little prick, Napoleone Buenaparte, back at the siege of Toulon, too, but, after a quick second forebore; the Flag-Lieutenant had already looked at him askance for a braggart, once. He didn't wish to leave the impression of a Falstaff-no matter that flag-lieutenants had no say in things, a Port Admiral's ink-spotted clerk most especially, still there was a chance that an off-hand remark might linger.

'I'll call upon Captain Saxton, then, and thank you for all your help, sir,' Lewrie amiably said, bowing his way to the door.

A brisk stroll 'cross the sprawling dockyards took him to the Commissioner's offices, where he found half a dozen officers waiting ahead of him, got told that an appointment could be made for the next day, but his ship's needs could be addressed, had he the requisite ream of chits and documents handy.

'A total refit will it be, Captain Lewrie?' a weary clerk asked with a total lack of enthusiasm as Lewrie produced a thick sheaf from his haversack, as the waiting captains smirked among themselves.

'Just done at Halifax… stores, mostly,' Lewrie replied.

'Thank the Good Lord, then, sir,' the clerk brightened. 'I may work you in tomorrow at… shall we say nine, sir?'

'Nine it'll be, thankee,' Lewrie quickly agreed. 'Fresh mail for Proteus.. . stuff not yet handed over to the packet, yet. Might there be any? And, who do I see about it? Lewrie… Ell-Eee-Double You… Arr… Eye… Eee. Proteus …' he said, as the clerk penned scribbles in a ledger-sized book atop his waist-high desk.

'Post storage is down the hall to the right, 'cross the yard to the red-brick building, and there you are, Captain Lewrie.'

'Ah! Fine, then. See you tomorrow!'

He left the offices, went down the hall, crossed the yard, was presented by a row of red-brick buildings, but found the one that had a 'Post-Boy' gridiron flag flying atop it, and entered.

'Not much, sir,' a grimy, very old clerk finally told him, with a limp canvas sack in his hands, after a thorough rousting through the dusty shelves and hundreds of similar bags. 'Sign here, sir. Then on this line… then this 'un,' the mail-clerk croupily required, whilst coughing up a lung on the thick fug of coal smoke from a badly drawing fireplace.

Lewrie thought of going back aboard Proteus with the sack still bound, of receiving dire news in the privacy and safety of his great-cabins… where he could rant, weep, scream at the unfairness of it, toss back several reviving brandies, and plot a solo escape overside in the wee hours, but a most dreadful curiosity took him. After years in the Royal Navy, he'd been drilled to paw over the stacks of mail at once to separate the official from the personal, then open and read the official, first; he'd been whipped as a Midshipman for not adhering to that nautical custom, so…

Near the piers was a lacklustre coffee-house, where Lewrie knew the brew more-resembled dish-water, but an establishment where a chap could sit and sip in relative anonymity… were one not a Nelson, of course, whose phyz was on everything from portrait prints to ale mugs, by then. Once there, he could sort out anything horrid addressed to him, and mull over his prospects… or a new career as a brothel-master in Calcutta!

'Oh, wait one, sir!' the grimy old clerk called out before he'd laid hold of the office's doorknob. 'Thought there woz somethin' come in I should' a put in th' sack,' the fellow said, shuffling over to the pigeon-hole racks and mumbling to himself. 'Come in 'is very mornin', it did, now where'd I, ah! Here ye go, Cap'm Lewrie, o' the Proteus frigate! Sign here, sir, ye'd be so kind. An' here… an' here.'

'Thankee,' Lewrie numbly said, taking note of the creaminess of the paper, the heaviness and expense of the bond, as he turned it over and over in his hands, fresh, crisp, new-mailed corners still intact, and not a jot of smut from being transferred from pillar to post… except for the clerk's coal-sooted fingers, of course. It was sealed with a large blob of brown wax, which wax topped and cemented two wide bands of black riband together. Grim-lookin', Lewrie shudderingly told himself; grim as a death-notice! And, whoever had sent it didn't trust to mere wax to seal the flapped-over paper's corners to keep the contents private, but had bound it north-south, then east-west, to boot! A seal had been pressed into the wax, but it was one he thankfully didn't recognise. It wasn't Admiralty, and thank God it wasn't from a Crown Court, not even a barrister or solicitor!

To hell with tepid dish-water! Once outside in the cold airs, he sat Proteus's mail sack at his feet and tremulously pried open the seal and ribands, unfolded the flaps, and…

Sir

Upon receipt of this letter, copies of which have been despatched to all major naval seaports where you could be expected to call, you will, AT ONCE, attend me to discuss a matter which may, are you not expeditious, redound to your utter peril and ruin. My address is enclosed, and I shall make my self available to you at any hour you are able to arrive. But, be quick about coming to London!

Z. Twigg

Twigg, Oh Christ! Lewrie quailed with an audible groan; What'd I ever do t'deserve his company, again? Oh, yes… that. But…!

Old Zachariah Twigg, that cold-blooded, murderous, dissembling, smug, and arch old cut-throat, that malevolent Foreign Office spy! Had not James Peel said he'd retired, at last; so what good could Twigg do him? 'Matter which may redound to your utter peril…,' which meant that some word of his slave-stealing had gotten to England, but no one 'official' had taken notice of it… yet! They might not if Twigg still thought it secret, and could do something about it.

Oh, but Lord, he'd thought himself shot of Foreign Office plots and errands: with his last time paying for all; Guillaume Choundas in American chains, his every scheme scotched; the former French colony of Saint-Domingue's new masters, the ex-slave armies, isolated, unarmed, and un-reenforced by Paris, and sure to wither and fall into British hands, sooner or later; those French Creole pirates from Spanish Louisiana slaughtered, a raft of stolen Spanish silver recovered, and simply a grand scheme scouted out for a future invasion of that crown jewel of the Mississippi River, the city of New Orleans, delivered to his superiors at both Admiralty and Foreign Office, and getting shot in the process, to boot!

Wasn't that enough? Lewrie appealled to the heavens.

For, did the hideous old Zachariah Twigg still own the 'interest' to get him off, Lewrie would owe the skeletal bastard his soul; nothing got done without incurring a heavy debt in English Society. And, that meant that Lewrie would never be rid of neck-or-nothing schemes!

Worse, yet! Much as he heartily despised that noisome schemer, Twigg, he'd be forced to grovel, lick his boots, buss his blind cheeks, fawn, swallow shite and proclaim it plum duff, and pretend to be…

Nice to him!