Kings and Emperors

On top of all his frets, there was Maddalena, too.

*   *   *

He had been ashore to deal with the Dockyards for extra blankets and hammocks, just in case Sapphire, Blaze, and Peregrine had to take soldiers aboard and quarter them any-old-how, arseholes to elbows. He had reported to Drummond at the Convent to fill that worthy in on his progress, and how soon his escorts could be ready to sail. And, he had gone to Maddalena’s lodgings to speak with her, perhaps for the very last time.

“If I don’t return for some time, dear girl, or … don’t return at all…,” he had said as calmly and logically as he could.

“Don’t say that, Alan!” she had countered, tears already coursing her cheeks, and laying a finger on his mouth to shush him. “You will come back, you always come back!”

“I’ll do everything in my power to do so, querida, but, if the sea goes against me…,” he had cautioned, shrugging off the possibilities, “it’s a foul Winter, full of storms, and a lee shore all the way there and back. If something does happen, the branch of Coutts’ Bank here has a tidy sum for you, and if you need any help in the matter, go see Thomas Mountjoy and Daniel Deacon. I’ve spoken with them, and they’ll see you right. Your lodgings are paid for through next year, and—”

“I do not care for lodgings, or sums, or…!” Maddalena had rejoined with a visible shudder. “I only care about you, meu querido! Meu amor! You are so good … you have been so good to me, I ca

“I’ve been my happiest with you, too, Maddalena,” he assured her, embracing her more snugly and burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair. “We both know, though, that I wouldn’t be at Gibraltar forever. My Navy has a way of callin’ people away, just when they feel happy, or comfortable, or … snug, I s’pose. We both knew it, goin’ in … didn’t we?” he had tried to tease. “That we could make the best of it ’til that happened, or…”

I don’t much care for thinkin’ of my own death, either, he had thought, pressing even closer to her body, as if the physical act of moving was proof against that.

“How many days do we have, Alan?” she had whispered against his bare shoulder. “You will be busy? Too busy for me?” she had said, making it sound like a plea, not an accusation.

“A day or two, at most,” he had to confess. “Once the other escorts are repaired, I’ll have t’sail with what little I have got. I can’t wait for late arrivals. Duty’s a demandin’ bitch, but there it is.”

“This may be our last time?” Maddalena had whimpered, and he had to nod yes, and she had peered him right in the eyes, so gravely, and had whispered “Then, make love to me, one last time, meu amor.”

And that had been frantic, thrashing, panting, and searingly passionate. There was no bed, no tangled sheets, nothing in this world but the sensation that they floated on a supportive and ephemeral cloud, all of Lewrie’s senses tu

That’s one for the memoirs, he told himself as he lay spent, at last, slowly going flaccid and hating the moment to come when he would have to withdraw.

“My Lord, girl!” he croaked, “Foi extraordinário!”

“Sim, selvagem,” she agreed as he slid to her side to hold her, and rained slow, lazy, lingering kisses on him.

Boom! from the harbour, beyond the balcony, then Boom! again, as steady as a metronome.

“What the Devil?” he had groused, sitting upright and grabbing his discarded shirt to hold before his groin to go see what the noise was all about. He flung one of the double doors open. “Hell, yes!”

There was a frigate standing into port, firing her salute to the garrison commander, a

“If she isn’t comin’ in on purpose, then I’ll have her, no matter!” Lewrie had exclaimed, going back inside to hunt up his clothing. “I’m sorry, Maddalena, but I have t’speak with her Captain. I need her for my escort force, just perishin’ bad!”

“I go with you, Alan,” she had replied, though looking so very sad and disappointed. “I walk you to the landing.”

“I’d love it if you would,” he had told her.

*   *   *

By the time they were both properly dressed and presentable in public, the arriving frigate had come to anchor and had handed all of her sails up in harbour gaskets. Lewrie could see that she had two of her boats down, a small jolly boat for her Bosun to row about the ship to assure himself that all her yards were squared, and a gig that was headed for the main landing stage, and by the look of her passengers, bearing that frigate’s captain ashore to report to General Drummond.

“She may have come under orders t’join me,” Lewrie eagerly said, increasing their pace, “and if Middleton has the other two set to rights, I could be out to sea and on my way by dawn tomorrow!”

He spared a bit of his attention to glance at Maddalena, who was practically trotting to keep up with him, and noted her stricken expression.

“Sorry, my dear,” he told her, “but events are bigger than we are. I have to—”

“I understand, Alan,” she replied, “but I do not have to like it.” She flashed him a brave smile that both knew was a sham.

Lewrie made it to the top of the quay and the head of the landing stage ramp just as the newly-arrived frigate’s gig came alongside the lower stage. He felt a sudden qualm as he clapped eyes on the Post-Captain in the boat, and suddenly wished that he had left Maddalena at her lodgings.

This could be awkward, he thought; I wonder what he thinks of mistresses?

The officer in the boat was getting to his feet and about to step ashore. He was a striking fellow, slim, tall, broad-shouldered, and rather handsome, nigh-dashing it could be said. He paused to exchange words with a Midshipman in the boat’s sternsheets, who pointed at Lewrie as if to make his superior aware of Lewrie’s presence.…

What the Devil? Lewrie thought; Is that…? Can’t be!

The Midshipman dared wave to him, beaming fit to bust.

Awkward, mine arse! Lewrie quailed; It is Hugh! How’s he vote on kept women? This’ll be embarrassin’!

His youngest son, Mr. Midshipman Hugh Lewrie, exited the boat first, following naval protocol; senior officers were first in to boats, but last out. But Hugh didn’t wait for his Captain to step ashore, but came dashing up the ramp from the landing stage shouting “Father, at last!” bubbling over with joy of their rencontre.

“Well, hallo, son, where did you spring from?” Lewrie cried, glad to see him, of course, but caught in a cleft stick. He flung his arms wide in welcome, anyway. “Damn my eyes, but you’ve grown! I almost didn’t recognise ye!”

And that was certainly true, for when he’d seen Hugh off into his first ship in 1803, the lad had been a thirteen-year-old stripling, and here he was five years later, eighteen now, and damned near a man grown, taller and filled out, sun-bronzed and tarry-handed. Hugh had inherited his mother’s hair colour, but years of ocean sun had turned his light brown hair almost blond. He’d gotten his father’s eyes, though, stark grey-blue against a seaman’s tan.

Hugh didn’t come to his embrace, though, but doffed his hat in salute first, to which Lewrie responded in kind, then they met close, heartily shaking hands. If he could not hug him, then at least Lewrie could thump him on the shoulder.