"Well, damme!" he spat, tossing the useless pistol aside and drawing its mate. By then, his target was kneeling out of side on the far side, his arm appearing as he rammed down a fresh load. He popped back up and Lewrie fired. This time, the weapon gave out a sharp bark and the Frenchman fell back with a shrill scream as the top of his head was blown off. "Fire at will!"
His second boat grounded, and the musketmen came running for shelter behind his cutter as four muskets fired. The French sailors were returning fire at a suicidal range.
"Cony, our crew. Steel!" Lewrie snapped. "Witty, give 'em a volley and then join me!"
He drew his hanger as the last of the French weapons popped. "Boarders! Away boarders!"
He went round the bows of his boat and ran straight for them.
Pistols were going off. A Frenchman leaped up with a musket to confront him, but was shot down. Another spun about in his tracks and fell into the surf with a great splash. And then Lewrie was upon his first man. Two-handed, he slashed upward, forcing the man's long musket barrel high, stamping forward with his left foot to get inside the reverse swing of that hard metal-plated butt as it came for his skull, only pummeling his shoulder. A quick downward slash that left him kneeling, and his foe was howling with pain, his belly laid open from left nipple to right hip.
A cutlass came probing from his dying foe's right, tangled in the man's flailing arms, and Lewrie drew back and thrust, taking this enemy in the stomach. Lewrie sprang erect, pushing himself forward to stay close, so Choundas' musketeers could not take a shot at the melee and pick out Englishmen to kill. He was met by a flaxen blonde sailor who was trying to decide if he wanted to finish ramming home a charge in his musket or drop it and draw his cutlass. Lewrie towered over him and cut downward through shoulder and collar bone, bringing a huge gout of blood that shot into the air like a fountain.
There was a volley of musketry, and two of Lewrie's hands went down as they clambered over the boat to get at the Frenchmen. From higher up the beach, there was an answering volley. Choundas had gotten his crew organized and they fired.
Able seaman Witty had taken his hands out to the right flank where they could get a clear shot.
"Pistols, Witty, then charge!" Lewrie howled. "Come on, men! At 'em, Culverins!" Without looking to see how many hands remained he waved his sword and ran for the second French boat.
Choundas waved his men on, too, so no more shots could be fired at his own hands. Those who had fled from the first boat found nerve to turn and join the charge as their gallant captain led them.
They met in the shallows between the boats, up to their knees in water with the light surf surging up to their crotches, and their feet sinking into the swirling sands as the waves lapped in and drew back. Witty's hands were coming in from the shore side, forcing the fight into deeper water. Pistols were popping, and a feather of spray from a near-miss leaped up between Lewrie and the young Frenchman he faced off with.
He's a gentleman, Lewrie thought, seeing the fineness of the young man's smallsword. They crossed blades, and Lewrie was sure of the man's background. He had a good wrist and arm, and quick nerves, meeting a direct attack with a prime movement, going to a high guard over his head at fifth to fend Lewrie off, then swinging under his blade to second before launching a thrust of his own. Lewrie let his left hand go and counter-thrust at the young man's lower sword arm, which was blocked by a marvelously well-executed circular parry to spiral Lewrie's point wide to the left. But Lewrie drew back out of range, two-handing his hanger again, and cut over from left to right, dragging the officer's blade back up to a high fifth position. As he did so, he waded forward to get inside the man's guard, feinting a thrust. The young man's reflexes, learned in an elegant sword-master's salon, made him step back, and he tripped over his own feet, bouyed free of the sand momentarily by the surf. As he came back up, spouting and blowing, flinging stinging salt from bis eyes, Lewrie overhanded a thrust down like stabbing at some fish and speared the young man through the side of the neck. With a gasp of surprise, the man sank once more with bright arterial blood looping and trailing in the sea.
"Vous!" Choundas screamed, beating his breast and striding easily through the surf toward Alan. "Timonier a mois, I think 'e slay ze wrong man in zat alley! En garde! I eat your brains and shit in your skull!"
Lewrie waded shoreward to meet him, to avoid the clumsy fate of the younger officer, sword held at third, waiting for Choundas' first move. It was like an explosion!
Choundas had no grace, no elegance to his swordplay, coming from a rougher school. With howls he was upon Alan with his smallsword swinging like a cutlass. Blades rang, not in beat, but with the rasp of a farrier's hammer, and the shock sang up Lewrie's arm like a bell's echo with each blow. Try as he would to thrust and counter-thrust, to slash with the point and cut over from defensive guards to direct or even indirect cuts, Choundas was always there, quick as lightning, all attack and very little defense of his own.
Lewrie was forced to give ground, half a step at a time, and the sea swirled higher up his body. From the ankles to his shins to his knees, then to mid-calf.
Captain Osmonde warned me I'd meet a truly dangerous man if I kept this up, Lewrie frowned, recalling the Marine officer aboard his first ship, the one who had taught him the true rough and tumble of steel, and guided him through his first adult duel on Antigua.
Choundas was pressing forward, both of them up to their waists in salt water and being buffeted by the incoming surf. Lewrie swung down and left to ward off a chest cut, felt a leg reach out to tangle with his to bring him down and stumbled right and away, into shallow water. Choundas' sword came arcing up out of the water glistening in the dawn light with water droplets, and he met it high left, the beat of steel on steel forcing his own blade back to touch his left cheek!
A shoulder lunging forward, and Lewrie stumbled again, reaching back with his left hand to steady himself. Falling sideways into the surf, with Choundas splashing forward to tower over him, and a wicked razor-honed blade descending in a powerful two-handed overhead strike!
He got his hanger up to parry at fifth, got his left hand under his hip and swept out with his legs. Cut directly down and forward under the off-balanced Frenchman's blade to clash with the hand-guard!
Choundas reeled back, almost going down himself. Lewrie came up soaking wet with his left leg under him and thrust with all of his might to leap like a porpoise with sword arm extended as rigid as a pike-staff. And missed!
His sword's point went over Choundas' left shoulder as the man ducked. Their bodies slammed together, and Choundas was going over backward, but he hefted Alan high enough over his shoulder to heave him a few feet away, to splash into water deep as his waist!
Drowning! Lewrie's mind screamed as he tried to get his feet under him, tried to fight the rush and shove of another wave. Tried to find a breath of air for lungs thumped empty by Choundas' body!
Lewrie lurched erect, coughing on the water he'd taken in, his eyes burning with salt and his hair streaming down his face.
Choundas! The final thrust! DEATH!
Arm across his chest to defend, sword point held low at prime, the blade pointing down as the thrust came for his throat. A sting on his left hip as the smallsword's point bit him, and he was going over backward again, and could feel Choundas' feet near to his own!
He kicked with his right foot as he landed on his left hand and knee. The heel of his shoe took Choundas in the nutmegs, making him hiss like a serpent! Choundas bent over with the sudden agony, and Lewrie came up with all he had left.
Bright steel and sterling silver came sweeping up from the sea bottom, under Choundas' guard, under his upraised sword drawn back for a killing hack. Salt water streamed in a glittering arc as the hanger swept upward. Choundas flinched back to avoid it.
Lewrie could feel the shock in his wrist, up his arm, as his sword made contact, flicking point-low to point-high following the angle of the razor-sharp edge as he straightened his wrist and turned it. And Choundas was falling backward, his sword hand to his face!
A wave of surf surged high as Alan's shoulders as he got to his knees following that stroke, and Choundas was tumbling about in the water, rolling and tumbling shoreward like a piece of flotsam.
"Don't tell me I actually killed the bastard!" Lewrie gasped in surprise, retching saliva and salt water as he rose to his feet and shuffled onto the beach, sword ready at fourth slightly across his body should Choundas be shamming.
But there was red in the water, pink on the man's shirt.
And when Choundas managed at last to crawl ashore on hands and knees, his sword forgotten, he was screaming. Screaming and writhing like a worm in hot ashes, moaning and whimpering pitifully between his screams and patting his face. Rolling over and over, twitching like a serpent.
"Strike, you bastard!" Lewrie hissed, prodding that body with the tip of his sword. Choundas kicked out with his left leg and hit Lewrie painfully on the kneecap, and without thought, Lewrie slashed down hard into the back of Choundas' left calf, which raised another howl of pain and set him rolling and thrashing again.
"Sir!" someone was yelling. "Sir, we done fer 'em, sir! They struck, sir!"
Lewrie stepped back from Choundas and looked up to see Cony coming toward him, limping from a sword-cut across the outside of his thigh, and blood matted in his sweaty blonde hair.
The beach was littered with dead and wounded, and the most of them French, Lewrie was happy to observe. The rest were sitting in a fearful knot, covered by his men's weapons.
"You failed!" Lewrie crowed at Choundas. "You failed at everything you tried, you bloody murdering bastard! We beat you, understand me?"
"Alan, what's all the shouting about?"
"Hey?" he said, swiveling to see Captain Chiswick coming down the beach, leading two spaced ranks of his troops. His hat was gone, his sword was slimed with blood and he winced with each step, but he was whole. "Bloody Hell, where did you spring from? Took you long enough."
"Were you impatient for my arrival, dear Alan?" Chiswick said with a rasp of gunpowder in his throat. "Had to clear this damned eastern palisade first. Had a busy morning, have you?"
"Tolerably busy, yes," Lewrie replied. Now that the fight was over, now that they were safe in the hands of the sepoys of the 19th Native Infantry, he could allow his usual weakness to creep over him as he loosed the awful tension of mortal combat. A moment later and it was all he could do to stand.
"Much hurt?" Chiswick inquired anxiously after wiping his sword clean and sheathing it to come to his side.
"Pinked in the hip," Lewrie allowed, sinking down on his haunches to let Cony undo his breeches and take a look at it.
"Not deep, sir," Cony assured him as he laved it in the sailor's universal nostrum, fresh seawater. "T'ain't bleedin' much, neither, so 'e didn't get ya nowhere vital. Make ya stiff fer awhiles, sir. Could I 'ave yer breeches, sir, I could bind it Er if ya got a clean handkerchief in yer pocket, sir, I could fother a bandage over'n it fer now."
"The bandage, Cony," Lewrie said with a shaky laugh. "Damned if I want to go back aboard bare-arsed."
Chiswick dug into his tailcoat pocket and offered a small silver flask, which Alan drank from gratefully. "Urn, a lovely brandy you have there, Burge. I was half-expecting some of that corn whiskey I remember from Yorktown. Are those bloody pirates beaten yet?"
"Slaughtered like rabbits," Chiswick assured him with a harsh laugh, which made Lewrie look up at his face. There was something odd about Chiswick now. Some new-found brutality he hadn't had when they'd put him ashore the night before.
"And how did your regiment fare?"
"Main well," Chiswick replied, shrugging and taking a sip of brandy himself. "I got my light company in a hellish predicament. Shot my bolt a bit too soon and had to melee with the bayonet. But the boat-guns cleared the way for us, and your father sent reinforcements to our flank. We lost about fifty dead and wounded, it looks like. Fourteen of them from my company, I'm sad to say."
"Sorry to hear that."
"Aye, they were damned good lads," Chiswick added, nodding and getting to his feet. They could hear the pipes skirling as the regiment took the village at last, and the guns fell silent. They could also hear the braying of Lt. Col. Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby as he issued some new command and laughed at something that amused him.
"Seems I'm still blessed with a father," Lewrie smirked.
"Here, what's the matter with this bugger?" Chiswick demanded, toeing Choundas in the ribs, which brought on another bout of howls. "Hmm, hamstrung neat as any Indian'd do a straying slave. He'll be a 'Mister Hop-kins' from now on, if I'm any judge. Don't take on so, you bloody bastard. You'll hang before it heals!"
Chiswick used his foot to roll Choundas over.
"My word!" Chiswick gulped.
"Kill me!" Choundas pleaded in a harsh whisper. "Kill me!"
"Our captum done fer 'em, sir," one of the sailors boasted.
Choundas had taken the hanger's edge across his lips, and the hard steel had knocked out several teeth-knocked them out, or cut them out, for the upper gums were laid open on the right jaw. The right cheek was pared back to show the chipped bone beneath, and the nose was hanging free on the right side. Choundas' right eye teared blood from the slice that had chopped it in half like a grape. And a ragged patch of eyebrow and forehead hung open, matted and gory with clotted blood and sand.
"Well ain't you the pretty young buck, now, Captain Beau-Nasty?" Chiswick drawled, once he had gotten over his shock. "I say, Alan, you do bloody nice carving when you've a mind. Remind me to have you for supper next time we have roast beef!"
"Kill me!" Choundas croaked. "Messieurs, je implore…!" Chiswick drew a pistol and checked the priming. "No!" Lewrie shouted, reaching up to put a hand on Chiswick's wrist. "Leave him the way he is. Let him live with it."
"Yes, I suppose Mister Twigg'd prefer a hanging at that," Burgess sighed, putting the pistol back into his waistband.
"I think he'd prefer M'seur Choundas go back to France as he is," Lewrie replied. "As a warning. An example of failure. Of what the next bastard'll get should they dare cross our hawse in future!"
"Well," Chiswick nodded, seeing the wry sense to it, "s'pose he could always do himself in later."
"My dear Burgess," Lewrie chuckled, "the way this poor wretch's luck is going, he'd probably miss with a pistol to his skull! Failure has a way of staying with you, don't ye know." There was a dull boom that sounded across the harbor, making them turn to look seaward. A cloud of smoke wreathed Culverin as she sat higher and dryer as the tide ran out. But coming into the bay was a frigate.
"Almighty God!" Lewrie snapped, getting to his feet and doing up his breeches. "Cony, get the hands back to the boats. We have to defend our ship!"
"Almighty God!" Lewrie snapped, getting to his feet and doing up his breeches. "Cony, get the hands back to the boats. We have to defend our ship!"
"Flag, sir," Cony said instead. "T'ain't Frogs, sir." "What are they?" Chiswick asked.
"Well, Goddamn, I do believe it's a Spanish ship of war!" Alan blurted as the white-and-gold flag curled out lazily.
"Bet they're going to be mightily displeased with us," Chiswick prophesied. "Poaching in their private preserve and all."
"Back to the ship, anyway. Burge, I trust I'll see you later. After Captain Ayscough and Mister Twigg talk their way out of this."
"Think you they can, Alan?"
"Burgess, Twigg is half a politician," Lewrie replied, smiling. "He can talk his way out of anything!"
V
Chapter 1
The Board Room at the Admiralty was blessed with a huge fireplace trimmed in wooden carvings of navigational instruments. Tall candles lit the chilly chamber against the gloom of a late February afternoon. As they huddled in front of the fireplace, lifting the tail skirts of their uniform coats to warm their frozen backsides, Lt. Alan Lewrie studied the white-and-gilt ceiling, the light-toned wood paneling and the parquet floors.
He'd only been inside the Admiralty once in his life, back when Shrike had paid off in '83, and then only to the first floor, to cool his heels for hours in the infamous Waiting Room before going to the basement to wrangle for even more hours with a clerk in a tiny monk's cell of an office, perched on tall stools to stay out of the two inches of water that had seeped in from a recent Thames flood. All to balance the ship's books and military inventory.
"Ahem," Captain Ayscough grumbled as the double doors opened and two elderly officers entered. First was Admiral Lord Howe, First Lord of the Admiralty, followed by Admiral Sir Samuel Hood. In their retinue were several civilians. Lewrie was amazed to learn during the introductions that they were Secretary of State Lord Sydney, and the first Secretary to Admiralty, Phillip Stephens. They took their seats behind a long table, and Ayscough, Percival and Lewrie were seated on the opposite side.
"We have read your report with great interest, Captain Ayscough," Lord Howe stated. "The lieutenants' journals as well. With not only great interest, but, may I be the first to say so, great admiration for your energetic prosecution of this matter in the King's name."
'There is also, milords, gentlemen," Lord Sydney added, "the report from Mister Zachariah Twigg, as regards the… uhm… political matters beyond the purely nautical and military scope of your recent expedition. The gentleman commends you and your officers in the most forthright manner, captain. For your zeal and enterprise, sagacity and competence. In fact, his only regrets or recriminations are the unfortunate demise of his fellow Crown… uhm… emissary, Mister Wythy, in Canton. And the untimely arrival of that Spanish frigate at Balabac Island. Had that not occurred, we might have been out and gone before any civilized nation could ever learn of our presence in those waters, assuring us total secrecy, start to finish, and then the book could have been closed shut on this affair forever."
"Well, the French know of it, milord," Admiral Hood scoffed. 'To their detriment, even if the Dons did free Choundas and his men."
"There are some niggling… uhm…" Lord Sydney posed, "ramifications anent our relations with the Spanish crown regarding this expedition. Violation of their territorial waters, for one. Violation of their sovereign sanctity ashore. Some remuneration paid, sub rosa I need hardly inform you, to their Viceroy-General in Manila, to help restore that native village, one would assume."
"Should the moneys ever find a way of trickling down through their Viceroy's fingers," Lord Howe smirked, cracking his bleak and patrician visage for a brief moment.
"Fortunately, there was hardly any mention of the incident in the… uhm… American public notice from the crew of that whaler we freed," Lord Sydney continued. "That… nation… has more on its rebellious little mind than taking time to be in any way grateful for the lives and freedom of some of its… uhm… citizens. Gratitude to their mother country is in rather short supply on that side of the Atlantic, and most likely shall be, for a generation to come."
"Whilst gratitude here at home, for the heroes of this venture, shall have to be rather thin as well, sirs," Lord Howe intoned, turning in his chair to see if Lord Sydney had anything further to add. Lord Sydney inclined slightly towards the older admiral, allowing him to proceed. "By God, sirs, had we leave to print your reports in the Marine Chronicle or the Gazette, it would be an eight-day wonder! The populace would chair you through the streets! However"-here he sobered once more, and settled back into a strong resemblance of the rebel General George Washington suffering an acute attack of gas-"for diplomatic reasons, none of this may ever see the light of day. I fear, Captain Ayscough, that the inestimable credit due you, Lieutenants Percival and Lewrie, shall never be adequately expressed by a grateful Crown, or an equally grateful Admiralty. Until such time as another war occurs with France, any word of this glorious expedition of yours must never pass your lips, not even to your dear ones."
"I… that is, we, completely understand, milords," Ayscough nodded sternly. "And obey your strictures without question, it goes without saying."
"There shall be no public commendation," Lord Sydney smirked, "but that does not mean there shall be no expression of pleasure for your valiant deeds. Name the reward dearest to you, my good sir, in reason, and we shall endeavor to please."
"An adjudgment by Droits of Admiralty in the matter of prize money, milords," Ayscough said quickly. "Not for my own gain, let me assure you. But for the ship's people. Most especially for those widows left without succor. I believe the reckoning of what we took at Spratly, and at Balabac, was in excess of five hundred thousand pounds, assigned as Droits of the Crown. Even an eighth of that for warrants, petty officers, able and ordinary hands would reward them for all their magnificent courage and loyalty, even when they didn't know what we were doing out there."
"Nothing for your officers or yourself?" Lord Howe queried.
"Active employment, naturally, milord." Ayscough reddened, feeling ashamed to even dare ask for anything for himself. "The heartfelt cry one would hear from any Sea Officer."
"And do, daily, belowstairs," Admiral Hood stuck in with a short bark of amusement. "By God, Captain, your concern for your people is perhaps even more commendable than any deed you've wrought the past two years! Well said, sir. Damn well said!"
"I believe it would be impossible to deny such an aspiring and courageous officer the opportunity to ply his profession," Lord Howe assured him. "Active commission it shall be, sir, a Fifth Rate frigate at least! And your personal selection of first officer."
"Lieutenant Percival, sir," Ayscough said quickly.
"Make it so, my dear Stephens," Lord Howe told his principal secretary, who was scribbling away at the end of the table.
It would have been nice for Ayscough to have wanted a share of all the booty they'd taken from the Lanun Rovers, Lewrie thought as the praise was heaped on their shoulders. It would have been nice for him to have included his poorly paid officers in that request for reward.
But Lewrie was not as rankled as might have been his usual wont. His father had been one of the first into the chieftain's personal lair, and had emerged dripping diamonds, rubies, pearls and emeralds, with his bearer, Chandra, grunting under the strain of a small chest of more loot. What Ayscough reported as captured, thence to be given to the Crown as their exclusive Droit, was only about two-thirds of what had actually been there, the rest shared out among the sepoys and officers of the 19th Native Infantry.
Before Telesto had sailed for England from Calcutta, he'd had one final supper with his father. Lewrie had regretted that Draupadi, Apsara and Padmini were no longer in his father's employ, but the loot had restocked his bibikhana most wonderfully well, and it had been the grandest send-off he'd ever had. Sir Hugo had handed over certificates worth enough to pay off his creditors back in England. And, as a final parting fillip, had given Alan a little present or two as well.
A reddish gold necklace set with diamonds and rubies, heavy and showy enough for royalty. And a triple strand of pearls with matching earrings, bracelets and rings fit for a queen. He hadn't had a chance to have them appraised by a Strand or St. James' jeweler yet, but he was sure he was at least five thousand pounds richer.
"And for you, sir?" Lord Howe asked. "Lieutenant Lewrie?"
"Hum?" Lewrie said, coming back to earth from his monetary musings. Come on, you toadying wretch, think of something to ask for, a reward you really desire! No, he countered; ask for something noble-sounding, or they'll know you for the greedy swine you really are!
"Well, there is the matter of Midshipman Hogue, sir," Lewrie began, shifting in his chair. "It would be a hellish come-down for him to revert from acting lieutenant to one more midshipman, milords. If there is an examining board to sit soon, I assure you he could pass it. And were there an officer's berth come available, I know it would please him no end should he gain it."
"Acting lieutenants made on foreign stations have no need to sing for their supper," Hood stated. "Consider him a commission officer."
"And I would desire him aboard my ship, milords," Ayscough added. "As the least senior officer, to season him properly."
"Make it so, Stephens."
"Aye, sir," the longterm servant replied. "Nothing for yourself, Mister Lewrie?"
"Well, there is the matter of my father, Mister Stephens, milords," Lewrie stammered out. " Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby."
"Ah," Lord Sydney replied with a suddenly prim expression, his lips popping together. "Him. You're his… uhm… son, are you?"
"When we left Calcutta, the question of his brevet to colonel of the 19th Native Infantry was still up in the air, milords. And he more than proved his worth, on every occasion."
"He wishes to remain in India, in 'John Company' service?" Lord Howe asked, incredulous that anyone would want such an exile.
"He does, sir. His men adore him. And he… well, whatever his faults, milords, he is a good soldier and a good officer, and he truly does care about the regiment."
"Hmm, s'pose that's best, after all, him to remain out there," Lord Sydney sighed. "I'm told he's cleared his creditors? And there was a Captain Chiswick mentioned in Twigg's report. I assume he is to stay in that regiment as well? A cater-cousin to you, is he?"
"A good friend, milord. We were together at Yorktown. In fact, I shall be going down to Guildford to visit his family next week, to deliver news of him, and some presents for them."
"There wouldn't be a pretty sister, would there, Lieutenant Lewrie?" Lord Sydney teased.
"There is indeed, milord," Lewrie said, blushing for real.
"Active duty, naturally," Hood intoned, lifting a wary brow. Officers of bis generation were extremely leery of younger men who contemplated marriage too early in their careers- they were forever lost to the Sea Service, in their opinion, and even the hint of an imminent attachment was suspicious to that worthy. "I trust, hmm?"
"Active duty, yes, milord, that goes without saying," Lewrie answered quickly. That was the response they expected, much as he wished he were brave enough in the face of this exalted gathering to tell them what he really thought: that if he was truly as rich as he dared hope, they could have his resignation and bedamned to all the nautical deprivation he'd suffered since his father had damned near press-ganged him into the Navy as a midshipman back in 1780! After the last bit, he'd had nearly enough, and no public thanks or fame from it, either!
But that could never be said, he realized. And shaming himself before Ayscough, Hood and Howe by such a declaration was a thing he didn't have the courage for. He could only hope that they would file him away for future employment, hopefully very close to home for a change. Else they'd allow him a few months' shore leave and forget their promises, as great men were wont to do, and let him fester most happily on the half-pay list to the end of his indolent days!
"I once, milords, awarded Lieutenant Lewrie command of a small brig of war off Cape Francois," Admiral Hood said, turning to face his fellows. "The war ended before he could make his mark with her, but he more than made up for it with little Culverin this time. I am convinced he would be wasted in some other captain's wardroom."
Oh, sufferin' shit! Lewrie groaned to himself, aghast that they would send him right back to sea. It was peacetime, after all! The Waiting Room below his feet was crammed to the ceiling with half-pay officers so eager for employment they'd crawl from Whitehall to Limehouse Reach on their hands and knees, in a dog-collar, if they could crawl up a ship's gangway when they got there!
Lewrie's throat was already dry, and he essayed a cough. The artificial soon became the genuine article. Maybe, he mused, if they think I'm going to expire right here in the Board Room from the flux or something, they'll delay it, at least. He dug out his handkerchief and began to bark into it.
"Are you well, Mister Lewrie?" Lord Sydney inquired with some alarm on his face. "A glass of something, perhaps…"
"The change in weather, milord," Lewrie "struggled" to reply. "All this cold and rain here in England, after the tropics…"
He cut that statement off, paling at what they might do about it. Idiot! He could have kicked himself. No! Wrong thing to say, you damned fool! Goddamn their solicitous little hearts, they'll probably ship me right back where I just came from, and think they do me a blessing! Dear Lord Jesus, just a little help here, please?
"A small vessel below the Rates," he heard Lord Howe instruct Mr. Stephens. "In a somewhat healthier and warmer climate than the Channel Squadron, I should think. What do we have at present?"
Pray God they've all sunk! Lewrie hoped, turning a wild gaze on Stephens. Stephens had been first secretary to the Board of Admiralty for years, the Lords Commissioners for the Office of High Admiral, surviving one First Lord after another. More than any other man in England, he was the one who truly had his fingers on the pulse of the Fleet such as no senior officer or appointee had. Stephens executed more administrative power in an hour of scribbling and reading of files than most fighting admirals did in an entire career of bloody battles. He knew of every opening, every promising officer, every fool and every little scandal.