Troubled Waters

sang right out, pounding his fists and swaying from side to side.

'Now from France, we get brandy, from Jamaica good rum!

Sweet oranges and ap-ples, from Portugal come!

Add the good old hard cider that England con-trols…

Give me the punch-ladle, I'll fath-om the bowl!'

Even Capt. Cheatham joined in the chorus, getting into the spirit of things, as their spirits and flavourings were being mixed and the hot water was fetched, and they all swayed as they loudly sang along.

'I'll fathom the bowl, I'll fathom the bowl…

Give me the punch-ladle, I'll fath-om the bowl!'

EPILOGUE

On the most exalted throne in the world,

nothing but our arse.

Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The early afternoon was overcast and cold, requiring Lewrie to button the lapels of his uniform coat doubled over to trap what little warmth he had, and huddle inside the folds of his voluminous and heavy boat cloak, with the collar turned up to the base of his cocked hat so the light, but cutting, wind along the Strand didn't freeze his ears off as he, along with his barrister Mr. Andrew MacDougall, his clerk Sadler, and his brother-in-law Burgess Chiswick, paused in their stroll from Whitefriars Street to a chop-house in Savoy Street, near the Thames.

Normally, the walk was not all that difficult, but for the fact that it was two days before Christmas, and the Strand, the finest shopping district in the civilised world, was infested with hordes of people out to obtain their turkey, their ham or goose, new suitings and gowns ordered weeks before in which to preen at routs, drums, balls, holiday 'at-homes,' and Divine Services. Children by the thousands, noses and gloved fingertips pressed to large bay windows of stores to drool over the toys displayed, were underfoot as thick as roaches round a butter-tub, hopping, skipping, shrieking, and tittering in boundless expectations, and, when their parents weren't looking, practicing ice-sliding on the sidewalks where old snow had melted, then frozen overnight to a delightful slickness. Some imps without parental supervision, the usual street urchins, also practiced their aim with snowballs at the odd passerby, and all their parties' coats bore white smudges from successful hits… though Lewrie, MacDougall, Burgess, and Sadler had given as well they got.

Rich, titled, working class, the working or idle poor, criminal and honest, all were out looking for presents, alighting from coaches, embarking into coaches walking afoot as densely crowded as corn rows, and could not help but jostle each other, now and then… which was just topping-fine for the pick-pockets and snatchers.

'Aha, there they are, sirs!' Sadler cried, clapping his mittened hands together as they paused before Somerset House, where crowds briefly gathered__ children, mostly-to gawp at the 'Erato Guns.' Parents stood by impatiently, for the most part, allowing their offspring a brief 'edifying and patriotic experience,' before dragging them off so they could be about their errands and gift-buying. There was a temporary wooden plaque, a brace of soldiers to guard the cannon, but that didn't stop young lads from crawling all over them, so thoroughly that not a speck of new snow remained atop the barrels or truck-carriages, as they peeked down the un-tompioned muzzles, pretended that they were loading and firing them, and competing in which lad could go Boom! Bang! or Pow! the loudest, while impatient governesses or dads tapped their toes.

'Let us see them,' Sadler pled his employer, dashing across the street to paw them over and marvel for a moment or two.

'Seen 'em,' Lewrie laconically said.

'Seen odder in In'ja,' Burgess said, chuckling.

'Just clapped-out old naval pieces, sure t'burst with a proper charge down the bores,' Lewrie added, feeling hungry.

'An outstanding feat of arms, e'en so, Captain Lewrie, thanks to you,' Mr. MacDougall congratulated, his own eyes alight though he would not lower his dignity to go cross the street and gawk. 'Though you do not receive your proper credit for their taking. Were I an officer in the Navy, I'd sue.'

Commodore Ayscough had been right; their victory in the Gironde, minor though it was, had been blown all out of proportion in the papers. The Marine Chronicle, the Times, the Gazette had printed the official report released by the Admiralty, writ large on their front pages, as if it was as grand a triumph as the Glorious First of June, the Battle of Cape St. Vincent, Camperdown, or the Nile. And, Ayscough's canny prediction of how such news could enthuse the populace had proven true, as well. After seven years of unending war, new and higher taxes on a whole host of new items, the scandal of paper fiat money, soaring costs for just about everything, a couple of lean crops, and a dearth of good news from overseas, Britain needed cheering news, and the bulk of them had pounced upon it as eagerly as they would their Christmas gifts.

Unfortunately for Lewrie, though, who needed a deed to bolster his own odour with potential jurors, the papers had taken Lord Boxham's account as the senior-most officer involved, and Lewrie's name was mentioned in that report just once, in connexion with delivering Marines and armed sailors from Lord Boxham's ships, under command of his officers, to take the battery, with the brief assistance of cannon fire: 'HMS Savage, 36, Capt. A. Lewrie, provided brisk fire upon the battery until our parties were ashore and well engaged.'

'A career ender, that, Mister MacDougall,' Lewrie said with a wry laugh. 'Doesn't matter, really. Other senior officers sent their reports to Admiralty, so they know who authored the plan. Besides, if such a suit were possible, I doubt I could afford it, and, do I call a titled Rear-Admiral a liar in public, it'd be more a cause to duel than go to court.'

'I only hope that some artist paints them before they're taken from public view,' Mr. Sadler bemoaned once he rejoined them, feeling very patriotic at the moment. 'Even a coloured wood-cut print. Won't that anger Bonaparte over in Paris, does he see a copy, ha ha! English lads capering all over his precious artillery, huzzah!' Sadler exclaimed enthusiastically, peering at the captured pieces as if he wished to paint them forever in his mind.

'Thumb in his eye, Mister Sadler, thumb in his bloody eye,' Mr. MacDougall cackled in like joy. 'Well, shall we go on, sirs? I must own to feeling more than a tad peckish, and the chop-house awaits.'

They continued their walk, reaching the crossing of Bow Street and onwards towards Cecil Street and Fountain Court, nearing Savoy Palace… but, even before reaching the chop-house, the aroma of food and cookfires wafted off the Thames, forcing Sadler and Lewrie to hasten their steps towards the river, the piers, and the landing stages.

'Frost Fair, sir!' Mr. Sadler gaily declared. 'The ice is not so thick as I recall when I was a lad, but the Frost Fair will likely go on forever. Just like England, is it not, sirs? A delightful tradition of an English Christmas!'

There before them, below the edge of the empty quay, the Thames was frozen over from one bank to the other, thick enough for carriages and sleighs to cross it, avoiding the toll for London Bridge, ruining the Lord Mayor's Christmas. Pedestrians plodded carefully over thick ice, or practiced their ice-sliding games, too, adults as well as children. Along with the wonderful scents from the many cooking booths or gaily coloured pavilions, the light, cold breeze brought them sounds of music, of cranked hurdy-gurdies, brass bands, of shrieking children and the snorts of