King, Ship, and Sword

'And the French are more than welcome to Saint Domingue,' Lewrie stuck in. 'Toussaint L'Ouverture and his generals're killin' Frogs by the ship-load, even if the French did capture the old bugger and rout his men. They're still givin' General Leclerc fits in the jungles… ambushin' anything smaller than a brigade. That and Yellow Jack-'

'Of late, Addington's added Holland and Switzerland to our objections,' Sir Hugo continued, 'and Piedmont in Italy. Bonaparte'll get Malta ten years from now, if he pulls his armies out and lets the Dutch and the Swiss alone, and Bonaparte can't agree t'that. He's dead set on riggin' up all these damned republics, with his eyes on all of Europe, eventually. It's comin', Alan me son, it's comin', for sure.

'And, if it's as much joy t'you as it was t'me,' Sir Hugo added with a grin, 'there's word that General Leclerc, Bonaparte's brother-in-law, died of a tropic fever on Saint Domingue. People also told me that there's a General… or Marshal… Victor with a large army in Holland… Batavian Republic!' his father spat, 'ready t'sail for the Indies. Perhaps Bonaparte will end up killin' as many French soldiers as Henry Dundas did of ours when he was Secretary of State at War, ha!'

'That'd be lovely,' Lewrie wolfishly agreed. Before, his hatred of the French was personal, limited to only a few individuals he'd met and opposed face-to-face. Now, though… it was 'damn 'em all, root and branch,' with Napoleon Bonaparte at the top of his list.

'Horse Guards rarely talks with the Admiralty,' Sir Hugo drolly said, 'but there have been some discussions I've been made privy to… some folderol over increasing the size of the Royal Marines for duties at sea with the transfer of a battalion of foot to the Navy, doled out in platoons per each ship. Heard anything from the Navy yourself?'

'About another active commission? No,' Lewrie had to tell him. 'Dear as I wish it… give me something to do again.'

'You very well may, soon,' his father attempted to assure him. The old rascal had risen to Major-General and the senior military officer to the Lord-Lieutenant of Surrey for a brief time during the Nore and Spithead naval mutinies, when for a time it had looked as if French Jacobin revolution would come to England, too, and he'd done the Crown yeoman service in 1797. Retired he might be, but he was still on the Army List, and he still had good connexions, so… perhaps he was not being kind. Not that Lewrie could remember too many instances in their spotty past when Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby had been kind! Only if it didn't cost him tuppence! Lewrie not-so-fondly thought.

'Another matter…,' Sir Hugo said, after finishing his ale and waving for another. 'Hugh's nigh thirteen, now. If the war begins again, I might be able to wangle him his 'set of colours' with a good regiment… Ensign, first. Bit young for a Lieutenant… though, there are a fair number o' twelve-year-old Captains, if their parents have enough 'blunt' to purchase their commissions. Can't make Brigadier, or higher, if ye start late, ye know.'

Lewrie delayed his answer by paying attention to his ale. They had spoken of this before, years ago, and after the funeral, before Hugh and Sewallis had had to return to their public school.

'I want to kill Frenchmen, father,' Hugh had said in a shudder of barely controlled emotion, tears at the corner of his eyes. 'If we ever fight them again, I wish to go to sea, like you, and kill as many of them as ever I may!'

And even Sewallis, his usually subdued and quiet first-born, had evinced stony-hearted anger, had whispered 'Amen to that!' and stated his desire to avenge his mother. 'Blood for blood,' he'd whispered.

'A good shot, a decent swordsman, and possessed of a splendid seat,' Sir Hugo reminded Lewrie. 'Intelligent and daring is our Hugh. Active… a keen sportsman? Make a grand officer. Hmm?'

'He wants t'be me,' Lewrie told the old rogue. 'He'd prefer to be a Midshipman. When answering all those letters of condolence from my fellow captains and such, I requested they keep Hugh in mind, should they get a ship, in future. Thankee for the offer, but… his heart's set on the Navy. So he can kill a shit-pot o' Frogs, he said.'

'Well then, I'll say no more about it,' Sir Hugo said with a bit of a sigh. 'Least Hugh's future's assured. And Sewallis'll inherit, so more schoolin's more suitable for him. University, perhaps?'

''Ere ye go, sirs!' the fetching new brunette waitress declared as she delivered two heaping plates of steak and kidney pie, and a new round of ale. There was fresh white bread, lashings of butter with it, mashed potatoes with spring peas, and, the girl promised, figgy-dowdy for sweets, after. 'Any o' ye gentlemen need anything, just call out!'

'Public schools're ruin enough for young lads,' Lewrie objected with a growl. 'University's a good deal worse.'

After leaving the Olde Ploughman, Sir Hugo wished to go on out to his estate, and invited Lewrie to join him in his coach. Lewrie agreed to join him, but wished to exercise Anson, so he would ride by the coach instead, perhaps canter on ahead and meet him there.

His father had sent letters on to alert his house staff to have everything ready for his arrival from London. As his coach rolled to a stop in front of the wide and deep front gallery of the low, rambling one-storey bungalow built in imitation of an East India Company cantonment, there was his butler, cook, estate agent, stableman and groom, a brace of gamekeepers, four maids-of-all-work, some ten- or twelve- year-old lads who would assist at anything from the barns to the kitchens, and Sir Hugo's long-time Army orderly and manservant, the one-eyed old Sikh Trilochan Singh. Bows and curtsies, doffed hats, and wide smiles all round as the carriage box and boot were un-loaded, and the horses led off to the stables. Singh saluted and stamped boots, sepoy fashion.

'Better than I thought, what hey, Singh?' Sir Hugo exclaimed in joy over his latest improvements. 'Damme, but the flowerin' bushes and such do make the place attractive.' There were even hanging baskets of some sort of flowers strung from the gallery's overhead porch beams.

The summer wicker or bamboo furniture had been set out on the gallery, along with a couple of rope hammocks, too; both of them large enough to accommodate two people at a time.

Plan t'strum a girl in one of em? Lewrie had to think, grinning as he had a mental picture of a full-moon romp in the nude, neighbours and house staff bedamned. Well, he is set in the middle of all these acres, he told himself; maybe he could pull it off with no one wiser.

'Some o' your cool tea, here on the gallery?' Sir Hugo suggested. 'Must admit, it's refreshin', that notion o' yours, so I took it up.'

'Capital,' Lewrie agreed, taking a seat as the tea was ordered.

'Ah, the country!' Sir Hugo said with a happy sigh, sprawling on a wicker settee and its canvas-covered padding, one booted leg atop a woven cane ottoman, with his neck-stock removed, his shirt collars open, and his coat off. 'I'd love t'spend a whole fortnight, but I've business back in London. No more'n a week, this trip. Later on in the summer, well… might spend a whole two months! Clean air, refreshin' breezes… good horses, and long, open fields, what?'

'Absolutely,' Lewrie had to agree, more by rote than anything else. He got the feeling that there might be one more 'shoe to drop.' His father was not one for small talk or idle invitations-unless he had a good reason for it.

'Yours, when I'm gone, lad,' Sir Hugo reminded him as the cool tea arrived. Trilochan Singh must have been responsible for its brewing, for there were slices of lemon and a pot of light brown turbinado sugar from the first pressings, already ground fine. 'All of it, lock, stock, and barrel. Ever, erm… ever given thought t'removing in here now? Mean t'say… if Hugh's t'go for a sailor, and Sewallis is t'be away at school if you get a ship… well, it's bags roomier than your place. Charlotte's still lodgin' with Governour and Millicent?'

'Aye, but… that was only temporary, while Caroline and I…,' Lewrie replied, then paused, reminded again that there was no Caroline, and never would be. 'If I do gain a new command,' he slowly said, 'it might be best did she board with 'em. I'd pay for her tutor and music teacher and all that, but… that's where she is now. Charlotte has gotten it into her head that…'

He sat up with his elbows on his knees, the cool glass of tea in both hands, squirming in shame to announce that evil rumour.

'There's some say it was my fault Caroline was killed,' he