The Invasion Year

Christ, half of ’em look like brick-layers, or greengrocers! Lewrie thought in wonder; They handin’ out knighthoods for brewin’ a good beer? That’s how Sam Whitbread got his!

On closer inspection, even those who already wore signs of rank, ladies in tiaras and elegantly clothed men with sashes and stars, were not all that elegant or handsome, either.

At last, the haughty major-domo thudded his five-foot mace on the marble floor and bellowed (elegantly!), “Major-General Sir Hugo Saint George Willoughby, and Captain Alan Lewrie!” That drew no particular note from those already in the hall, though Lewrie plastered a smile to one and all on his phyz and looked the room over. There were thrones at the far end, atop a raised dais, with a cushioned kneeler before it; all adrip with even more gilt, red, purple cloth, with the Union flag, the ancient royal banner, and the flags of England’s subordinate lands, stood up behind. He admittedly gawked.

“If you would come this way, sir, ah,” a plummy Oxonian voice bade. It was Sir Harper Strachan, Baron Ludlow, again, dressed in an even grander suit of court clothes, wielding his mace-like cane, and scowling for a second as he gave Lewrie another of those up-and-down appraisals. “Quite a change for the better, hah,” he decided.

“Harper,” Sir Hugo said from the side, nodding in thin greeting.

“Hugo,” Strachan replied, just as coolly. There was evidently no love lost between them.

“Subalterns together… in The King’s Own,” Sir Hugo explained. “Ah… what memories,” he sarcastically added.

Strachan wriggled his nose and mouth in a petulant manner, then languidly extended an arm to steer Lewrie to a side-chamber.

“Oh, there you be, Lewrie!” Captain Blanding said as he spotted him. “Top of the morning to you!”

“And to you as well, sir,” Lewrie replied, bound for the side-board where a silver coffee pot stood steaming over a candle warmer. At last! After a sip or two of creamed and sugared coffee, he began to feel as if he was back in the land of the aware, and gave an ear to Strachan’s introductions and explanations.

There was a coal baron who would be made knight and baronet, a senior, doddering don from Cambridge who’d written something or other impressive who would be knighted, an unctuous younger fellow who was to be made a baron… from the names and hints he dropped, Lewrie got the impression that pimping for the Prince of Wales was going to be amply rewarded in a few minutes. There was a fellow retiring from the Foreign Office who would also be knighted. Disappointingly, there were no other officers from the Navy. There were none from the Army either, but they hadn’t done all that much but drill, drink, and dance since the Dutch expedition in ’98.

When summoned, once the attendees had had half an hour or so to mingle, they were to queue up in descending order: the pimp, the coal baron, Captain Blanding, then Lewrie, followed by the don and the old Foreign Office ink-spiller. When announced by name, they were to make their way to a particular rosette in the carpet and perform a graceful “leg”-a deep, long one, Strachan insisted (there would be time for them to practice)-then move forward to the edge of the dais before the thrones and stop. Head bowed still, in proper humility when named to the King ’til the Sovereign approached them with the Sword of State, at which time they should kneel on the cushion. Once the rite was done, it was allowed that one might express a brief sentence of gratitude, before rising, bowing again, then walk backwards away from the throne, counting the large rosettes in the carpet ’til they reached the third (where they had begun) and deliver a final “leg.”

“It is not done to break away and turn your backs on His Majesty,” Sir Harper cautioned in a stern, clench jawed drawl. “So long as he is present-”

“Doesn’t that make chatting someone up rather awkward?” Captain Blanding interrupted.

“One may converse with others, turned somewhat towards the Presence, but one must not face deliberately away, sir,” Strachan said in irritation.

“Lask to ’em on a bow-and-quarter line, sir,” Lewrie said with a tongue-in-cheek smirk. A third cup of coffee was doing wonders.

“Oh, good ho!” Blanding said with a happy, satisfied snort.

They could not quite catch what Sir Harper Strachan was saying under his breath, or quite make out the sound of grinding teeth.

“Palace staff will now assist you with your appearances,” Sir Harper gravelled, “should you feel any adjustments are necessary.”

“The ‘necessary,’ aye, by Jove,” Blanding said, peering about for a door which might lead to a “jakes.” He was pointed to a door to one side of the room, and eagerly trotted off.

“Might I assist you, sir?” a catch-fart in palace livery asked Lewrie, a wee minnikin who barely came up to his shoulder.

“Just whisk the bloody hair powder off, thankee,” Lewrie told him. “Think I can manage the rest myself,” he added with a nod at the door, behind which Blanding was urinating as loudly as a heifer on a flagstone floor and humming a gay air.

“Quite so, sir!” the wee fellow happily agreed.

* * *

Once back in the hall, Lewrie got introduced to Mrs. Blanding, the Reverend Blanding, and Miss Blanding; the Reverend Brundish he already knew. The son was already as plump as his father and mother, and affected an Oxonian accent as irritating as Strachan’s. The daughter was somewhat pretty-she had not yet inherited her mother’s slightly raw and rosy complexion. Once the “allow me to name to yous” had been done, Captain Blanding launched into a paean of praise for how Lewrie had been so energetic and clever during their service together, which forced Lewrie to put on his false modesty (a sham at which he was un-commonly good, by then). It appeared that their fusses over his many “Submit” hoists, and all the woes of the convoy, were quite forgiven.

“Such an arduous task,” Miss Blanding piped up, sounding as she chanted. “As daunting as any labour of Hercules, to deal with so many un-co-operative merchant captains.”

“Like herding cats,” Lewrie rejoined with a grin and a wink.

“Or, much like the early years of King David, when he was but a humble shepherd boy,” the Reverend Blanding the younger added.

Oh, Christ, here come the bloody sheep, again! Lewrie cringed.

“First to slay Goliath, then to see his flock to safety, aha!”

“Quite so, Jeremy, quite so!” Chaplain Brundish praised.

“The slaying part was a lot more fun,” Lewrie told them.

“The French, of course,” Miss Blanding said, her cheeks colouring a bit at her daring to speak in company, no longer reckoned to be a child, who should be seen but not heard. “Father wrote us of your bereavement, Captain Lewrie, and, dare I note the satisfaction that the victory over them I would imagine provided you?”

“Well, a touch of mine own back, aye,” Lewrie gruffly answered.

He was saved by his father’s arrival, with a glass of wine in his hands, and it was Lewrie’s task to make the introductions all over again.

“You must be very proud of your son this day, Sir Hugo,” Captain Blanding purred.

“Indeed, Captain Blanding, indeed I am,” Sir Hugo boasted, rocking on the balls of his slippered feet. “Amazed, too, I must own, for I never thought he could direct his boyhood boldness into useful work… but, God help the French, hey? He ever tell you how he was sent down from Harrow, and why? Lord, but he was a caution in those days!”

“Why, no, I don’t believe so, Sir Hugo,” Blanding said, cocking his head to one side.

“My lords and ladies, gentlemen and gentlewomen… the King!” a functionary bellowed, with a thud of his mace.

Way was made to either side of the great hall, like the parting of the Red Sea for Moses; there was a fanfare, an end to the sprightly string music from the court orchestra, and a great deal of deep bowing and curtsying. Heads