King, Ship, and Sword

could get him aboard a warship captained by one of your friends. What Interest and Patronage is all about, after all.'

Fellow captains who like me? Lewrie asked himself; I can count them on the fingers of one hand!

'Another year and he's twelve,' Sir Hugo further speculated. 'More school'd just ruin him-'

'Ruined me!' Lewrie barked sarcastically.

'And one can't make General or Admiral if ye start late,' Sir Hugo pointed out. 'Something t'think about. Hope ye don't mind.'

'No, not really. I just worry what Caroline'll make of it when they open their presents,' Lewrie said. 'Perhaps the Army's best for Hugh. She's rather a 'down' on the Navy, 'cause o' me, and won't much care t'see him followin' in my footsteps. And it don't look like our Army's ever going to do all that much overseas, after the shambles we made of it in Holland a while back. Re-take French and Dutch colonies all over again in the Indies, aye, but… '

The British Army, in concert with the Russians during a brief alliance, had landed in Holland, but had been muddled about like farts in a trance had been confronted with regular French troops for the first time, and had been humiliatingly beaten like a rug and run out of the country with their tails 'twixt their legs.

As for re-taking West Indies colonies… it was never the risk of battle that could worry Lewrie as a father; it was the sicknesses that had slain fifty thousand British soldiers and officers since 1793. The Indies-East or West- were not called the Fever Isles for nought.

'Gad, ye'll be chilled t'th' bone, th' three of ye!' Sir Hugo shouted to the boys, who had given up on snowballs and had gone for tackling each other and heaping armloads of snow over heads and shoulders, breaking off just long enough to chase Charlotte and make her screech. 'Hot cocoa at Dun Roman! Leave off and saddle up!'

And off they went to Sir Hugo's estate, and his eccentric home with its wide and deep porches all round. It had been a Celtic dun, a hill fort, once in the early-earlys, then a Roman legionary watch- tower, then a tumbledown ruin, which Sir Hugo had incorporated into one corner of his home-site, and partially re- furbished; his folly some called it, like the architectured grottoes some very rich landowners had erected in their gardens, lacking only a hired hermit to make them authentic. Moated, once, outer fosse wall restored, though most stone work blocks had gone to make the foundation of Sir Hugo's house. The boys found it the very finest play-fort that any lad could wish.

When it was Phineas Chiswick's land, I courted Caroline there, Lewrie painfully recalled as they topped a rolling rise and the broken-toothed tower came into view; spread a blanket outside the fosse… chilled our wine bottles in the stream… kissed her the first time. Where'd all that go? Oh, right. I'm a bastard… in more ways than one!

'Last one t'th' door's a Turk in a turban!' Sir Hugo shouted, spurring his mount, and they were off, snow, slush, and turf spraying from their horses' hooves, and all, Charlotte included, hallooing and whooping with happiness-'til she came in last, of course, was dubbed that Turk in a turban, and got all sulky again.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Respectability had altered the celebration of Christmas, even in Alan Lewrie's times. Gangs of drunken revellers invading a house, led by the Lord of Mis-Rule and bought off with food and drink, were not much seen any longer, even in tumultuous, unruly London. The old custom of church 'ales' in which every communicant in the parish, wealthy or poor, honest or otherwise, drank and supped together were things of the past in all but the most rural places, mostly reduced to a supper hosted by landowners for their own cottagers and labourers, more of a post- harvest celebration than a religious one.

So the Lewries, the Trenchers, the Chiswicks, and several other families, direct kin or long-time neighbours, spent Christmas Eve at Uncle Phineas's, with gay dancing right out and carols and hymns round the harpsichord replacing merriment. Mostly due to the fact that Phineas Chiswick would not pay for musicians, and held that too much gaiety anent the Birth of the Saviour was irreligious and unseemly. There was not enough wine to enliven things, anyway, or wash down their mediocre supper.

They coached home round ten in the evening, gathered about their own harpsichord, and sang and played livelier airs on their own, with Lewrie on his penny-whistle, Charlotte scraping away on her small violin, Sewallis strumming a guitar, and Hugh making odd notes on his recorder. There was hot chocolate, with scones and jam to make up for the supper, and… from the kitchens the competing sounds of Liam Desmond and his uilleann lap-pipes, the thudding of Patrick Furfy on a shallow bodhran drum, and someone on the fife.

'Sounds like they're havin' a good time,' Lewrie said as their last passable effort at a carol came to a merciful end. 'Let's have my lads in for tune or two, and a glass of something.'

Mrs. Calder, who had been rocking and knitting in silent disapproval in the corner, gave a faint snort and looked to her mistress to scotch such nonsense.

'They're servants, my dear,' Caroline pointed out, making her 'my dear' sound strained and forced, said only for the children's sake.

'Who'll attend church with us tomorrow morning,' Lewrie countered, 'whom we'll gift the day after on Boxing Day, and… Desmond and Furfy are sailors, dearest… my sailors. Mistress Calder, I would admire did ye fetch a bottle of brandy and sufficient glasses, as you summon them to the parlour.'

'Very well, sir,' Mrs. Calder replied with a stiff nod, putting away her knitting as if she'd been commanded to set out drink for the Devil himself.

His wife and her chief housekeeper might not have approved, but Lewrie and the children enjoyed the improvement. Sewallis and Hugh learned a 'pulley-hauley' chanty or two, and got instruction on how to do a hornpipe dance, then a bit of clogging Irish step-dance, at which the burly Furfy was surprisingly light-footed. The cook and her husband, the scullery girl, Charlotte and Caroline's maids, and the maids-of-all-work (who'd been nipping at a bottle of their own on the sly) got into the spirit of things too and wanted to dance, which required Lewrie and Caroline to play some lively airs to accommodate them. It was nigh eleven before Lewrie uncorked the brandy bottle and began to pour all round.

'Tomorrow, we'll be prim, proper, and serious,' Lewrie told them, 'and surely inspired by the vicar's homily, but tonight… on the eve of our Saviour's birth, let us count our blessings. All charged? May I and my wife wish you all a very Merry Christmas. Now… 'heel-taps' and then to our rest!' They all lifted their glasses and drank them down to the very last drops, glasses inverted at the last to show that 'heel-taps' had been attained. 'Good night, all, and thankee for the merriment.'

The children were hugged, hands were shaken, Charlotte kissed and wished sweet dreams, then all were herded upstairs by the sour Mrs. Calder-sure to hiss and take all joy from the previous hours before they were all tucked in for the night.

'Not sure I like that woman,' Lewrie grumbled as he poured himself another glass of brandy. 'Stiff as that'un we had years ago… Missuz McGowan, wasn't it?'

'You disapprove of my choice of housekeeper, or governness, do you?' Caroline snapped. 'It is my house, after all… my housewifery, year in and year out, but for the few brief spells you allow us from the Navy. I am quite satisfied with Mistress Calder's management of both house and children… else the boys would be as wild as so many Red Indians… as wild as you, sir!'

Merry bloody Christmas t'you, too! Lewrie thought with a groan, his nose in his glass; this ain't workin'. Never will, most-like. I might as well lodge in London at the Madeira Club 'til Hellfreezes up.

'The boys are only home 'tween school terms, these days,' Lewrie pointed out. 'And Charlotte ain't the wild sort, Caroline. She's more in need of tutorin' at dancin' and music than grim discipline.'

The glare he got could have shattered boulders.