'What would you say to the notion of the dockyards threatening to stop work, is their pay not doubled, Lewrie?' the Earl gravelled.
'Doubled? I-'
'And, that a delegation is bound to London to press those demands upon me?' Admiral Jervis rumbled on.
'At the very least, I'd sack the lot of 'em, my lord,' Lewrie told him, angered that, at such a critical time, the already well-paid dockyard workers would threaten a walk-out and cripple the fleet still hurriedly fitting out for battles in the East.
'My thoughts, exactly, sir,' the Earl St. Vincent fumed, with a grim smile on his face that Zachariah Twigg might envy. 'Them, and any who abetted them… the organisers and conspirators, to boot!'
'Damned un-patriotic of 'em, I must say, my lord,' Lewrie said.
'And damn Sir Andrew Snape Hamond, into the bargain, for all of his laxness, that this matter should ever arise,' Admiral Jervis fumed on. 'I should bring Troubridge in to replace him, could I do so. To work round him at the very least.'
Admiral Sir Andrew Snape Hamond had been Controller of the Navy since ' 94, in charge of all the various Navy Boards that supervised the dockyards and contractors supplying the Fleet. Lewrie had heard that Hamond had spoken up for him after Proteus had returned from the South Atlantic, getting him his larger frigate, HMS Savage, so quickly after, yet…
Glad Hamond ain't my real patron, or I'd not have a single hope of another ship, Lewrie thought.
'You know something of the work of the dockyards, Lewrie?' the Earl enquired. 'Their management, or accounting?'
'Only to be at the receiving end of their… 'largesse,' ' Lewrie admitted with a bleak smile, and the smile was forced, for he felt a sick feeling that whatever employment 'Old Jarvy' might offer wouldn't be an active commission into a frigate, but a pen-and-ink shore post, about which he knew next-to-absolutely-nothing, and was sure he would be an utter disaster at. Cobblers, stick t'your lasts, Lewrie thought; even if it's a damned narrow one. Civilian clerks'd be cheaper… or copyists under Nepean and Marsden.
'Who was that young rogue who wrote the Board,' the Earl mused with the slightest hint of frosty humour, 'complaining of how little paint his ship had been allotted? 'Which side of the ship do you wish me to paint, sirs?' he asked, ha!'
'I can't recall, my lord,' Lewrie replied, 'though everyone I know wished he'd been that bold.'
'No matter, then,' the Earl said with a sigh. 'I will enquire, Captain Lewrie. You have made for yourself an enviable reputation in the Navy… at sea, at least, hmm? In these parlous times, for you to be pent ashore on half- pay I consider a waste. I make no promises for the immediate future, mind, but…'
'I am grateful for your good opinion, my lord, and for keeping me in mind,' Lewrie said, knowing a prompting departure line when he heard one. He got to his feet and delivered a bow. 'I will take no more of your time, sir, and thankee, again, for seeing me.'
Even as he reached for the door knob, there came a knocking and the bustling entrance of the dismissive, hard-faced under-clerk with a sheaf of papers, and an urgent 'Out of my way' look on his phyz to claim the First Lord's attention.
Oh well, at least he saw me, Lewrie thought as he steeled himself to clomp down those stairs to the Waiting Room with a confident and self-assured air; perhaps a faint smirk in parting for the others who cooled their heels with even less hope of employment than he.
Now, what the Hell do I do with the rest of the day? he asked himself; The week, and the next?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alan Lewrie discovered that, populous as London was, it might be possible for him to have spread himself a rather bit too wide about the town, when, in need of stationery, ink, and sealing wax, and upon shopping in the Strand one February morning, he ran into more people than he cared to know… at one time, and in the same one place, at least.
'Alan, me old!' Lord Peter Rushton, an old school chum, expelled at the same time from Harrow as he, came striding along the sidewalk in the opposite direction, with that ever-present amanuensis of his, that seemingly honest 'Captain Sharp' Clotworthy Chute… another old chum from Harrow who specialised in fleecing the naпve and unwary new-comes.
'My lord,' Lewrie cried back with a grin, doffing his hat and making a sketchy 'leg' in answer. 'How goes it in Lord's? Hallo to you, too, Clotworthy. How goes the 'gullible heir' trade?'
'Ninety-five percent dreadful-boresome, and only now and then int'restin',' Lord Peter, who now sat in the House of Lord's (napped there, mostly, during the intolerably long debates), said back.
'Main-well, old son' was Clotworthy's puckish reply as he rubbed his mittened hands together, grinning like an apple-cheeked cherub. 'Main-well, altogether. I see you're still 'anchored,' as it were? So sorry. Though the London Season's been a joy, I'd imagine.'
'I met with the Earl Saint Vincent last week, and it sounded promisin', but…,' Lewrie said with a shrug.
'Em, Alan…,' Lord Peter said with a leer. 'Now you're done with that Greek creature, might you mind did I, ah…?'
'Saw her, did ye?' Lewrie teased.
'At the theatre, before you saw her off,' Rushton said, leaning closer. 'Great God, what tits she has!'
'What'd your wife say t'that, hey?' Lewrie asked, a brow cocked.
'Same as yours, I'd imagine,' Lord Peter haw-hawed. 'Act'lly, I and she prefer sep'rate residences, now there's two male heirs afoot. Christ, who'da thought such a sweet chick'd turn so termagant so quick. Clotworthy here's the right idea… he don't purchase, he only rents for a time. Damme, have you turned hermit on us, Alan? We haven't seen hide nor hair of you since the trial was over. Where've you been keeping yourself?'
'Know ya don't gamble, but we thought you'd turn up at some of the better public clubs,' Clotworthy seemed to complain.
'Well, there's the Abolitionist crowd,' Lewrie began to explain. 'Call a dog like me a good name, and it's risky to lose…'
'Kapitan Lewrie! Zdrazvotyeh! Hello to you!'
'Erp?' was Lewrie's comment as he turned about to see Eudoxia Durschenko alighting from a hired coach a few yards up the Strand, a fur-swathed vision of a winter princess, her lustrous dark hair spilling over the collar of a white ermine coat that reached to her ankles, yet open to reveal a rich dark-red gown.
'Bugger Theoni Connor, I'll take her,' Lord Peter muttered in awe.
'Mistress Durschenko,' Lewrie said, doffing his hat and bowing greetings as she strode up to them, the proper 'graceful glide' bedamned. 'How delightful to meet you again.'
'You do not ride in park in the mornings?' Eudoxia said with a fetching pout as she dropped him a curtsy at last. 'Do not tell me it is too cold for English gentlemen,' she said with a teasing laugh.
'Some Navy business, of late,' Lewrie explained. 'Gentlemen, allow me to name to you Mistress Eudoxia Durschenko, of the world famous Wigmore's Peripatetic Extravaganza. Mistress Durschenko… this fellow is Viscount Draywick, Lord Peter Rushton… and our old school friend, Mister Clotworthy Chute.'
'Ahem!' came a disapproving cough, and there was Eudoxia's papa, the lanky, one-eyed old devil, Arslan Artimovich Durschenko, again.
Lewrie doffed his hat to the old fart, forcing a smile; which courtesy Arslan answered with a sniff of disgust. Knowing the man's distaste for royalty of any country, Lewrie took a little savage joy in introducing him, too.
'Ah! You are the magnificent bareback rider, and archer, from the circus!' Lord Peter exclaimed. 'Saw your performance several times before Christmas, haw haw! Said at the time, Mistress Durschenko was the most amazing of them all, didn't I, Clotworthy?'
' 'Deed ya did, my lord,' Clotworthy assured her. 'Delighted to make your acquaintance, the both of you. And you're the lion-tamer chap, are ya not, sir?'
'Da' was her father's laconic answer.
'We are in winter quarters now, in Southwark,' Eudoxia said in pleasure, 'but still do dramas and comedies.
