Kings and Emperors

Chalky joined him for some “wubbies” and head butts, and he felt comfortable, at last. All the sash windows in the stern transom were opened at the top halves, and the jury-rigged screen door to the stern gallery let in a halfway decent breeze, though some of the thin twine looked in need of re-roving over the nails; Chalky was relentless in his urge to get out onto the stern gallery and its railings to hunt sea birds.

“Midshipman o’ th’ Watch, Mister Hillhouse, SAH!” the Marine a

Lewrie opened his mouth to shout back “Oh, just bugger off!”, but thought better of it, and called back “Enter!” instead.

My officer’s dignity be-damned, he thought.

“Ehm … uh, sir,” Midshipman Hillhouse stammered to find his Captain a’sprawl in a robe. “There has come a signal from Newcastle, sir, an invitation to dine aboard her, at seven of the evening, sir.”

“And I won’t have t’request he send a boat?” Lewrie asked, giving Hillhouse an owlish look.

“Uhm, no, sir,” Hillhouse replied with a smile; though he had not been on deck at the time, he’d been told the tale of Captain Shirke’s embarrassment.

“Very well, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie said, “make the reply expressing my thanks and pleasure to attend.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Hillhouse answered, backing out of the cabins and ducking his head, sure to spread his tale of how he’d found the Captain.

“Damn!” Lewrie spat once Hillhouse was gone. “Just when I get cool, Pettus, and now I’ll have t’dress, again!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It was marginally cooler that evening when Lewrie scaled the side of HMS Newcastle and doffed his hat in reply to the salute from the side-party. The boats from Assurance and Tiger were alongside with his, and he steeled himself for a few more unpleasant hours with Fillebrowne.

“Welcome aboard, again, Alan,” Captain James Shirke said in greeting, and offering his hand. “Well, it’s done. The army is now ashore, and our boring duty’s done, so I thought we’d celebrate.”

“Pleased to accept your kind invitation, Jemmy,” Lewrie told him. “Ehm, just how big a celebration did ye have in mind?” he japed.

“Well, we’ve no musicians, and no half-clothed dancing girls, but we’ll cope,” Shirke promised. “Let’s go aft and join the others.”

Captains Hayman and Fillebrowne were already there, seated, and they rose when Lewrie and Shirke entered. A cabin servant offered glasses of champagne. “Aah!” Shirke said with pleasure as he drank deep of his, smacking his thick lips in delight. “A hot damned day, was it not? Sit you down, gentlemen, sit you down.”

He plunked into a chair himself, took another sip, and called for a re-fill. “I wish I could find a way to rig one of those Hindoo fans in here. Even with the sash windows open, it’s close and warm.”

“A pankah fan, d’ye mean?” Lewrie asked after a sip or two of his own champagne. “You’ve served in the Far East?”

“No, but I met a fellow who had, and he told me of them. A tax collector with ‘John Company,’” Shirke replied. “Came home a ‘chicken nabob’ after ten years in someplace called Swettypore.”

“That was his joke, I expect,” Lewrie said with a laugh. “Every town, fort, and cantonment in India’s just perishin’-hot, and ye sweat like blazes, even after dark. Sweaty-pore.”

“You served in the Far East, sir?” Captain Hayman asked.

“Not officially,” Lewrie told him with a chuckle. “It was ’tween the American Revolution and the start of the war with France, Eighty-Four to Eighty-Six. The French were urgin’ the local native pirates to raid the shipping routes to China, and I was aboard Telesto, disguised as a merchantman t’keep an eye on ’em, and smack the pirates when we could, under direction from some secretive Foreign Office types. Calcutta to Canton and back, round the Spratly Islands and into the Phillipines. Ye don’t need a pankah boy in turban and his breechclout, Shirke. The Chinese and the pirate kings had these big feather fans and servants standin’ behind ’em, thrashin’ away. There’s no need to rig up the ropes and pulleys … though I’m certain the Navy’d have a ‘down’ on you carryin’ a Turk on ship’s books.”

“I would love to hear about that, sir,” Hayman urged. “It all sounds quite intriguing.”

“Old sailors’ tales?” Lewrie scoffed. “We’re here to celebrate, so I’m told, not hear me spin old yarns.”

“Indeed,” Fillebrowne pointedly said, with a throat-clearing sound, then turned to Shirke. “Just what is it we are celebrating, sir? The end of our convoy duties?”

“That, and our release back to our regular posts in the Med,” Shirke a

“We’ll not remain with Admiral Cotton’s squadron?” Captain Hayman exclaimed in surprise, sounding disappointed.

“Once I managed to get aboard the flagship, mind you,” Shirke said, laughing off the embarrassment and causing the rest to laugh with him, “the Admiral told me he’s more than enough ships available to guard the coast, and extract the army should they run into trouble with the French. He’s none too keen on this new ‘Sepoy’ General that London sent down. He gives him good marks for efficiency and organisation in getting his troops ashore, but I gather that he finds General Wellesley to be a very cold and haughty fish, a most rigid and aloof man.”

“Other than Sir John Moore, he’s said to be the best we have, though,” Hayman offered. “I just wish we could have stayed, in case the French came out from Lisbon or Rochefort, and we’d have had a hot action.”

“After Trafalgar, I doubt the French have any stomach for ventures at sea,” Shirke said with a shake of his head. “Thank your lucky stars, sir, that you’re not called to idle all the way down to Lisbon under reduced sail, and barely under steerage way, playing the army’s right flank. It’s a nasty lee shore, and if foul weather blows in on the Westerlies, you could be hard aground and pounded to pieces.”

“And bored to death,” Lewrie stuck in.

“Hear, hear,” Fillebrowne seconded.

“Besides, sirs,” Shirke said with a crafty, sly look, shifting in his chair, “Admiral Cotton as good as told me that he doesn’t want us. The French and Russian ships at Lisbon are his, and his alone, and he means to have them, come Hell or high water, and we’d dilute the share-out of the prize money when he takes them!” Shirke barked in laughter as he told them that. “There may be as many as eight Russian ships of the line anchored in the Tagus River, and there’s a fortune just waiting to be reaped.”

“Hmm, would they be Good Prize, though, I wonder?” Lewrie objected. “Russia ain’t exactly at war with us, unless their boy Tsar, Alexander, has gone as mad as his predecessor. Mean t’say, he shut down all trade with us t’make Bonaparte happy, but—”

“The Russians did send London some official note from Saint Petersburg,” Fillebrowne interrupted, sounding superior and dismissive. “Though people I know in Government have assumed that the Tsar is merely posturing to please Bonaparte, without presenting an actual declaration of war. A top-up, if you please,” he said to a servant.

“Just because he and ‘Boney’ met on that raft at Tilsit, in the middle of the river, doesn’t make them bosom companions,” Shirke said, scoffing. “If France didn’t have Spain and Portugal on their plates at the moment, they might have a go at him! And, we all know by now that Napoleon Bonaparte’s word is worthless. If I were the Tsar, I’d sleep with one eye open.”

“He’ll not be satisfied ’til the whole world’s his,” Hayman agreed. “The man’s rapacious!”

“That’s the second time today I’ve heard that word,” Shirke said with good humour. “Admiral Cotton used it referring to you, Captain Lewrie. S’truth! And don’t look so amazed.”