"Chinese, then, sir?" Alan dropped into the speculations.
"I'd rather hope so," Twigg sighed. "Else it's the Lanun Rovers. Pirates of the Illana Lagoon on Mindanao. Worst of the lot."
"Big praos, pretty well-armed, too. Go off on three-year raiding cruises like Berserker Vikings," Wythy agreed with distaste. "The Spanish can't do a thing with 'em. Last expedition from Manila to Mindanao got cut up pretty bad, so I hear tell. Yes, they could sail or row-they have what amounts to slave-galleys-anywhere they want. South China Sea, Malacca Straits, Gulf of Siam, Gulf of Tonkin and use the port of Danang among the Annamese if they've a mind."
"Bencoolen's done a fair job of suppressing Malay and Dyak piracy off Sumatra and in the Malacca Straits," Sir Hugo mused as lie filled a church-warden pipe. 'The Dutch keep a sharp eye on the seas to the west, I'm told. So, it's either the Chinese, or these Mindanao pirates."
"Perhaps a combination of both," Twigg rasped. "But, once we tangle with them, we'll know. By their weapons. Some booty they've taken from an English ship in their treasure-trove."
"Then we'll know whom to chastise," Captain Ayscough promised. "And chastise them, we shall. To the last root and branch."
"Take a fleet to do that, Captain Ayscough," Twigg said, turning to gaze at his captain. "Hard as it may be on your soul, 'tis not our brief to completely stamp out piracy in these waters."
Thank bloody Christ for that, Alan thought; sounds like one of Hercules' twelve damned labors. And poison arrows? Poison blowguns? Damme if I signed aboard for that, either!
"We're sure it's not the Dutch, nor would the Dutch turn a blind eye to someone encouraging and arming pirates," Twigg added. " Spain? Weak, plagued with problems in the Philippines as it is, their ships as much prey to these savage beasts as anyone. With more to lose, let me remind you. Without the annual treasure galleons, Spain suffers. I'd not expect a lot of help from them, but to sanction piracy? Not them!"
"That leaves the French!" Ayscough harrumphed, clawing the idle port decanter to him and pouring a crystal glass to knock back without tasting. Whatever drove him, Ayscough's hatred for the Frogs was hot as a well-stoked forge.
"Cunning bastards," Sir Hugo rumbled. "Had my fill of 'em in the last bit of the war out here. Helping Hyder Ali and his son Tippoo Sultan, skulking behind the scenes and urging them on to fight us, but never having the nutmegs to take us on in a real fight!"
"Aye, Sir Hugo, you find skullduggery in this world, and I'll lay you any odds you want, it'll be some modern-day Richelieu behind it!" Ayscough agreed hotly, spitting out the name of the old cardinal-schemer like a sour turd he'd dredged up in his soup. "The first to claim their superiority in this world like they're the Chosen People, but they're sneaking, low, vile, torturing monsters under all their silks and lace, their gilt and be-shit manners and their honeyed words! Oh, aye, 'tis sharper than a serpent's tooth, they are!"
"We shall find these pirates, Captain Ayscough, let me assure you." Twigg prophesied grimly, reaching out a hand like a taloned paw to pat the man on the shoulder. "And they will lead us to the Frenchmen behind this hideous plot. Then we'll have revenge enough for all."
After Ayscough had calmed down from his sudden fit, Sir Hugo blew a lazy cloud of smoke at the ceiling and refilled his brandy.
Ah, that's more like my old father, Alan thought-can't stir his arse up without a snifter in his hand!
"So you wish me to supply troops from my pultan, my regiment, for this expedition against the pirates, sir?" Sir Hugo asked.
"Yes," Twigg nodded. "They're low-caste, did you say?"
"The Nineteenth Native Infantry are mostly Bengalis," Sir Hugo informed them. "Not a bad lot of scrappers, though. No brahmin, no kshatriya and damme few vaishya caste. If any were, they were damned poor merchants, 'cause they came into the battalion with nothing but the clothes on their backs. No, they're almost all sudras. Serfs. Ryots or zamindars at best. Well, needs must in wartime, when we recruited anyone. And I suspect I've an Untouchable or two lurking 'mongst 'em, but that don't signify, long's they may form line and fire three volleys a minute. There's even some Goanese, some half Portugee mixed in, from our being down south toward the end of the war out here. No, they'll go across the kala panee for you and not worry about breaking their caste. When and where do you need 'em, sir?"
"A half-company now aboard Telesto for our voyage. The rest transferred to Bencoolen on Sumatra, to place them closer to the action until we need them."
"A damned unhealthy place," Sir Hugo replied, shivering.
"My God, where out here ain't?" Alan muttered. "Yih achcha jaga naheen, eh, Mister Wythy? Like you said this morning."
"Sicklier'n most, young sir," Wythy assured him.
"Yes, sicklier in fever, heat… and in morals," Sir Hugo went on. "Anyone sent there is sure to be peppered to his eyebrows with the pox. Regiments serving there go down like flies. Pox, drink…"
And just when did Father ever worry about morals, Alan thought.
"The death rate among even native levies is nothing short of extermination, sirs," Sir Hugo complained. "Not to mention the effect the utter anarchy of Bencoolen exerts upon troop discipline. Had you the Brigade of Guards in Bencoolen, you couldn't put a half-battalion on parade fit for a day's march a month later, and those'd be so raddled and debilitated, so mutinous, you'd not be able to turn your back on 'em for a second."
"I'm sure your colonel would disagree with me, Sir Hugo," Twigg replied, his voice calm and reasonable, but Alan had seen that thin-lipped asperity often enough to know he was on the verge of an explosion. "Besides, what good do your troops do us if we needs must return to Calcutta to fetch 'em on short notice?"
"We do not have a colonel for this regiment," Sir Hugo admitted. "He died. Of cholera. And for your information, the Nineteenth N.I. is only six companies, only a little better than a half-battalion to start with. It was never more than a one-battalion regiment, anyway."
"The hell you say, sir!" Wythy burst out, covertly restraining his senior partner before Twigg blew up at being sassed.
"As I said, we saw a lot of action down south against Hyder Ah' and Tippoo Sultan," Sir Hugo told them. "We suffered more than our fair share of casualties. And when the war ended, more than a few of my men 'cut their names' to take their small pensions. I doubt I could muster three hundred men this moment, including officers, the band and the color-party. And that, sir," Sir Hugo huffed with a cruel grimace at Twigg's discomforture, "is why this battalion was made available to you. We are all that may be spared. Trouble west and north in the Oudh, trouble with the Mahrattas west and south. Trouble on every border of the Bengal Presidency. If you transfer us now, with no chance to recruit, well…"
Sir Hugo blew a smoke ring, which seemingly mesmerized Twigg.
"We're fit for garrison duties only, now, and there's not money enough to flesh us out. Send this battalion to Bencoolen at its present strength, equipped as we are, and one might do my sepoys a better kindness by simply shooting them here in Calcutta," Sir Hugo related with a sad smile. "We've one foot in the grave already. For what you want to do, we're a broken reed. At present, that is, sir."
"Well, damme," Twigg sighed at last, leaking air and authority like one of that Frenchman Montgolfier's hot-air balloons. "Would it be possible to recruit the Nineteenth here in Bengal before we sail?"
"Assuredly, sir!" Sir Hugo beamed. "There is the matter of pay for the men, though, the joining-bounty. Uniforms, muskets. And if we become a full-fledged ten-company battalion once more, the Nineteenth would have need of a colonel once again."
That last made Twigg smile bleakly. Even after being ordered by the East India Company to comply with Twigg's desires, Sir Hugo was angling for a promotion to lieutenant-colonel! Alan raised his brows at what his father was hinting at. No one else on the face of the earth would have the utter cock-a-whoop gall to do it, he thought!
"What have you now, Sir Hugo?" Twigg inquired.
"A grenadier company, light company and four thin line companies, Mister Twigg. Had to combine a few to even field that."
"And artillery?" Alan asked. "Two six-pounders, I'd imagine?"
"At present, yes, son," Sir Hugo replied, eyeing him with a quirky, bemused expression that had his dander up. Son, indeed!
"We might need more'n that," Wythy opined. "If we're gonna go up against pirates ashore."
"Ship's artillery, with suitable carriages," Twigg agreed.
"Excuse me, sir," Lewrie interjected. "The pirates will live in jungles, around lagoons with lots of sand? Then better we have lighter guns, on light carriages. Three- or four-pounders. Perhaps even some two-pounder swivels. Or do we expect stone fortresses to be battered down? In that case, some heavy guns would come in handy."
"Yes, more artillery. Light guns."
"Something like Gustavus Adolphus' light horse-artillery guns." Sir Hugo pondered, going for the brandy decanter again. "Easier to man-haul through swamps and jungle. I'd suspect a full battery, six pieces, too. Half battery for each wing should we encounter a whole village of pirates. But that would take skilled gunners. More than are available here in Bengal. Most of the native artillery's a poor joke, and the good artillerymen are mostly English. Already spoken for, I might add. I could procure the guns and carriages, and I might find natives who've been around cannon. It would help immensely, though, if some of your gunners could be seconded to my command. To train and stiffen my lads."
"I couldn't spare many," Ayscough squirmed. "Why, if we're to trail our colors looking for pirates, or run up against these French privateers, we'll need every skilled man on my great guns! Surely, Mister Twigg…"
"We could consider it, Sir Hugo," Twigg allowed, and Lewrie thought he could hear the man's teeth grinding all the way across the table. "Now, how long do you think it would take for you to raise the Nineteenth Native Infantry to full-strength, and train them properly?"
"Well, should Hastings approve the expense this very instant, I'd expect I could put ten companies in the field, well-trained as an English battalion, in four months. More like six, really, if you want 'em steady," Sir Hugo informed them.
"Damme, sir, I thought we were to be given full cooperation by 'John Company,' " Ayscough carped. "We need trained troops now, do we not? Better we should go back to this fellow Hastings and tell him the Nineteenth won't suit! Surely, there's another unit that could take ship earlier than that. We could find these buggers in the next two months, and then we're hamstrung without sufficient force!"
"Caste, Captain Ayscough," Twigg snapped. "This lot are the only ones available who could cross the 'black water' without breaking their bloody caste."
And, Alan suspected, Twigg couldn't even dare go back to see this Hastings fellow over at Fort William. He had requests from the Crown in his pocket, not orders. From his fellow midshipman, Keith Ashburn, whose family was high up in the East India Company, he had learned long ago that out here in the Far East, and most especially in Indian matters, "John Company" was a law unto itself. Right now, they had a lot more on their plate than this one expedition, no matter that it was East India Company ships being taken as well as country ships. They'd much prefer a navy of their own than have to run to HM Government for help, or let Parliament get a fingerhold on their affairs. What aid Twigg had been offered, unsuitable as it was, was all he was going to get from the Company nabobs. And Sir Hugo knew it!
"And then," Sir Hugo went on blandly, "there is the matter of how much all this is going to cost. Arms, uniforms, accoutrements. Pay. Passage to Bencoolen with all rations and supplies. What's more, just who exactly pays for it, Mister Twigg?"
"Partly from Crown funds," Twigg harrumphed, looking like he'd been robbed at knifepoint. " 'John Company' will contribute their fair share. And"-here the grinding teeth could be imagined once more-"partly from the proceeds we gain in our guise as merchants."
"Well, if all's been approved so far"-Sir Hugo smiled once more-"then I'd better be about beginning, shouldn't I? If we are agreed, in all particulars, hmm? The Nineteenth to recruit to full muster. Light artillery to be procured, and carriages built Troops to be trained for action somewhere in the Far East. Transport to be provided to Bencoolen once they're ready. Of course…" He paused.
"Yess?" Twigg drawled out, his face flushing with restraint from mayhem upon Sir Hugo's grinning phyz.
"It strikes me as how you shall have a half-company detachment of my light company, sir," Sir Hugo sighed. "And one of my white officers and an experienced native subadar. Perhaps I should recruit to flesh out the existing light company in their absence, and add a second light company for skirmishing, stead of another line company. That will put us over our usual troop allotment, but under the circumstances, it seems reasonable. And in jungle conditions, they might prove more useful. Or do you not think so, Mister Twigg?"
"Do what you think best, within reason, Sir Hugo," Twigg replied, "I cannot profess to proficiency in the arcana of soldiering. But," he said with one of those bleak little smiles, "let us say that we load cargo for Canton, beginning tomorrow. We may be in the Pearl River by the beginning of the trading season, or slightly before, late August. We may stay the entire six months in Canton, we may not, depending on whether we discover the identity or presence of those French pirates who have been preying upon English vessels. We may need your troops earlier than March of '85. So once you have recruited, and trained your sepoys to a fair level of competence, you will take ship to Bencoolen on Sumatra, the problems there notwithstanding, and continue to train in jungle conditions, awaiting our summons. The transport will stay with you, so you might practice embarkation and amphibious landings in ship's boats. I do believe we are agreed in all particulars now, Sir Hugo? And I am sure that your brevet to lieutenant-colonel shall be forthcoming, if you satisfy my desires, hmmm?"
"I believe we understand each other completely, Mister Twigg," Sir Hugo smiled back. Of course they did, Alan thought! His father had just picked Twigg's pockets, gotten himself a boost in rank and had the man over a barrel. Twigg had to give in, or have nothing to fight pirates with. The deployment to Bencoolen was Twigg's only sop to his ego. Sir Hugo would pay that price for everything else.
"This'll be expensive," Wythy sighed. "Thank the good Lord cotton an' opium's dead-cheap. We'll still have a full cargo for Canton."
"Opium, Mister Wythy?" Chiswick asked, breaking his long junior officer's silence. "That's some sort of medicament, is it not, sir?"
"Opium, Mister Wythy?" Chiswick asked, breaking his long junior officer's silence. "That's some sort of medicament, is it not, sir?"
"An' a most powerful one, sir," Tom Wythy beamed. "The Chinee desire it more'n anything we could haul from England. Their mandarins'd cut your head clean off yer shoulders for smugglin' it, but the profit's so great, they can't stop the trade. Ye smoke it, sir, smoke it an' see the dragon! Bliss of heaven in a little pill of it rolled up in a pipe. Hard as life is for the Chinee, they need it. An' once they try it a few times, they need it even more, until they pay any price t' get it. The Co Hong merchants won't touch it, but their creatures or the mandarins'll slip down t' Lintin Island or Nan'Ao an' buy ev'ry scrap we may carry. Pay good silver, too. Taels o' silver… lacs of the stuff. See, 'tis the only goods we have so we may get silver to support the China trade, or we'd bankrupt the Treasury back home, else. Country ships sell opium for silver, the silver goes t' the East India Company for our legal cargoes, and they use the silver t' purchase teas, silks, furniture an' such. We make a profit on the opium, the Company makes money, too."
"Couldn't make a farthing on the China trade without it, Captain Chiswick," Sir Hugo added. "The so-called Celestial Empire turns its nose up at most English wares. Oh, some Berlin goods, some English woolens go down well. Clocks, expensive gew-gaws and toys. But for bulk trade, as I'm sure Mister Twigg will agree, there's little we may offer they would buy. Arrogant bastards."
"Gangetic opium, Bengali and Madrassi cotton from which they weave nankeen," Twigg added lazily, with a wave of one lean hand. "I lay you any odds, sirs, that whatever Frenchmen are behind this nefarious business will be deep into the opium trade as well. So what better cargo for us, the profit besides? The stuff's cheap as dirt, and goes for its weight in silver, damn near. From which profits, we shall outfit Sir Hugo's battalion, and confound the plans of our foes. 'Tis only fitting, if one thinks about it for a moment."
"To opium!" Wythy proposed, raising his glass. "Opium, and lashes of silver!"
Once they had drunk the health of the humble poppy, Twigg rose. "Well, that should do it for this evening, sirs. Sir Hugo, my thanks to you for a splendid repast. Whilst back in England, I despaired I'd ever eat as well as ever I did in India, and your khansamah is worthy of the Great Moghul's. Should you tire of having to beat him when he goes ghazi on you, I'd admire to hire him as my personal cook." Twigg didn't even sound half disgruntled at being had.
"So happy you enjoyed it, sir," Sir Hugo replied courteously, knowing it was pretty much a gilt and be-shit compliment that Twigg was offering his hospitality, a covering for the bile he really felt.
They filed down to the first floor entry hall to reclaim then-hats, swords and canes prior to departure.
"If you travel so well-armed, sir," Sir Hugo seemed to come upon like an idle thought, "your ship Telesto stands a much better chance of making Macao than most. Your talk of opium… to enter better into the spirit of your venture, what would you say to allowing me to round up a few pounds of my own to purchase a few crates, to go with your cargo as well? Full charge on the carrying fee, of course."
"A few crates, aye, Sir Hugo," Twigg smirked, and Alan suddenly realized why his father had seemed so pale and upset by the news about the Indiaman, the Macclesfield, disappearing. He'd probably had a ton or two of opium consigned into her!
But just why should I expect the greedy old fart to not essay every avenue on the way to bloody showers of "blunt," he wondered? Come to think of it, if it's that bloody profitable, I wish I had a thousand pounds to purchase a share of the cargo for myself! It's nothing that evil-it's the backbone of the China trade. Twigg said so himself!
"Bide awhile, Alan," Sir Hugo bade just before he got out the door, "if you may excuse my son returning to the ship, Captain Ayscough. We have much to catch up on."
Oh, shit, Alan sighed inside. I should have known I'd not get away with a clean pair of heels.
Chapter 4
They repaired back to the upper level, to another room that was screened off from the dining area by a carved wood purdah screen that ran the whole width of the huge main salon. Sir Hugo shucked out of his regimentals, doffing red coat, waist-coat, rank gorget and neck-cloth. He kicked off his shoes and dropped his clothes willy-nilly, but there was a bearer there to catch them before they even hit the floor. The white powdered wig with the tight side-curls and short false queue went next as Sir Hugo unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves.
"Make yourself comfortable, lad," he offered. There were no real chairs or couches in this room, so Alan wondered where he could indeed make himself comfortable. Sit on the floor, on the piles of richly brocaded pillows? On the intricate carpets?
Yes, that was where Sir Hugo was seating himself, on a Bengali dhuree rug that held a dozen huge pillows, while one of the younger khitmatgars came trotting in with a folding table support about eight inches high made of ebony wood, and a second servitor fetched a huge brass table or tray (maybe it did duty as both, Alan thought) to sit atop it.
"Oh, for God's sake, take your ease!" Sir Hugo snapped. There, that tone in his voice was more like the scheming, petulant bastard that Lewrie had grown to know and despise. "You must be stifling in that neck-cloth."
The khitmatgars were back with another load of goodies to set upon the tray table. Wine and spirits, clay pipes and tobacco humidor, a bowl of fruit and some candied dates. Even some Persian muck they called halvah. Gauzy, diaphanous insect curtains were lowered over the wide windows to the balcony, whilst from outside…
i
"For God's sake, a band?" Alan grimaced as a set of native musicians hit their stride with something plaintively twanging, ululating, throbbing and thumping on sitars, flutes and madals. "You do live well, I'll allow you that… Sir Hugo."
"Say 'father,' do, Alan," Sir Hugo grunted.
"Mine arse on a bandbox!" Alan snapped back.
"Have it your own way, but sit the hell down and have some wine, at least," Sir Hugo pressed in a reasonable tone.
Alan heaved a heavy sigh and untied his neck-cloth, sank down to sit cross-legged on the cushions and took a glass of claret.
There were a couple of tall candelabras made of brass between them, elaborate things fashioned from the arms and bodies of Hindoo gods and goddesses-thank the Lord most of 'em had eight or ten arms to hold that many candles. Off to either side, there were shallow charcoal braziers, now fuming with sandalwood incense amid some other aromas.
"Keeps the mosquitos away," Sir Hugo yawned. "Sandalwood, citron and patchouli. Christ knows what else. Better not to ask."
"If I'm delaying your retiring…" Alan offered, impatient to go.
"Not at all. I can still keep up with the young bucks of the first head." Sir Hugo smiled lazily, puffing on his pipe once more.
"You always could, I grant you," Alan agreed. "But then, you were damn near a charter-member of the Hell-Fire Club back in your early days, weren't you?" he concluded with a suitably arch sneer.
"And when did you become a regular churchgoer, my boy?" Sir Hugo replied. "God, if I only had penny to the pound of all the blunt I spent bailing you out of trouble, I'd still be a rich man!"
"Wasn't my caterwauling got you in debtor's prison," Alan sulked. "Wasn't me damn near press-ganged me into the Navy so you could lay your hooks on the Lewrie fortune."
"And how is Grandmother Lewrie these days? Mistress Nuttbush now?"
"Alive and kicking, spry as a pup."
"Her kind always was harder to kill than breadroom rats."
"Sounds like you considered it."
"Now you do me too much injustice, Alan m'dear." "Oh, please!" Alan said, starting to rise, but Sir Hugo reached out and put a restraining hand on his arm.
"Bide awhile, son," he said, and for once, he sounded as if he was begging. Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby never begged. Alan made up his mind to stay for a while longer, if only to see him beg again.
"How can you call me son?" Alan shot out, sure of his superior position over the older man for the first time in his life. "Aye, you sired me, that's true, but when it came to being a father to me, you had your chance, and all I ever got from you was a cold shoulder, a snarl now and then. I wasn't a son, I was an investment! Your hole-card to take the Lewrie trick once 1 was of an age to inherit and granny passed over. And soon as it looked like happening, you packed me off with that crimp Captain Bevan and had me off at sea, so I'd never even know there was a Lewrie family to inherit from! You told me my mother Elisabeth was a whore, dead at my birthing, that I had no family other than you, God pity me! You and Pilchard forging documents left, right and center to get what you wanted…"
"Needed's more like it," Sir Hugo confessed with a deprecating shrug and a sip of his brandy.
"Yes, you always needed money," Alan pressed on harder, trying to get a rise out of him, to puncture that slightly sad, but maddeningly calm demeanor. Damme, he thought, does the old bastard truly not have a sense of honor to shame? "And there was Belinda and Gerald, their inheritance you squandered before they came of age, too. How was your marriage to the Cockspur widow, your second wife?"
"Bloody depressing most of the time. She was a termagant twit." Sir Hugo chuckled slightly, and gave Alan a rueful grimace and a shake of his head in less than fond remembrance. "And how are Belinda and Gerald faring?"
"What the…" Alan was rendered incapable of cogent speech by the man's sang-froid. "As if you care!"
"You're right, I don't, but I thought it would satisfy my curiosity about them," Sir Hugo replied, tippling another sip of brandy. "Bloody awful children, right from the start."
"Yet… yet, you treated them as the rightful heirs, and me as the barely tolerated… bastard!" Alan barked. "Well, Goddamn you!"
"Of course I did. Agnes' bloody sisters were still alive to plague me, and to all intents and purposes, you were the little bastard, the by-blow of a youthful indiscretion. You wanted for nothing. What else did you desire? A damned pony and cart?"
"Yes, yes I bloody well did!" Alan howled with rage. "I wanted"-Alan was so full of rage, of tears, that he had to get out of the place before he killed the man!-"I wanted a father! I wanted a mother!" He shot to his feet to flee.
"You had a mother!" Sir Hugo roared, getting to his feet and seizing Alan, who struggled to get away. "She died. And, God help you, you had me for a father, such as I was." "You told me she was a whore!" Alan screamed. "She was!" Sir Hugo screamed back. "Know why I ran off with her jewelry in Holland? Because I caught her in bed with another officer of my regiment who'd made the crossing with us after we eloped!"
"You lying hound!"
"You've only heard your granny's side, boy!" Sir Hugo ranted. "How sweet and innocent she was. How I seduced her for her money and left her without a penny. Well, let me tell you, if she'd lived, I'd have lost count of how many times she'd have put cuckold's horns on me. God help me, I'd be here in India after all, 'cause it'd be cheaper'n trying to get a bill of divorce through Parliament! I might have ended up on the gallows for killing her and her latest! Do… you… under
stand… me… you little… jingle-brains?"
The last was punctuated with some massive shaking that almost loosened Alan's teeth in his head each time his jaw snapped shut.
"Elisabeth could be the sweetest, liveliest, most alluring damn woman ever I did see, Alan," Sir Hugo relented at last, easing his tone and his grip. "But I found out I couldn't trust her out of my sight! Oh, we went to Holland, yes. Her daddy Dudley Lewrie cut her off without a farthing. So we lived on my Army pay and what little was left of my family estate after my elder brother got through with it. Mortgaged to the bloody hilt! And do you really think I wanted to enter the Army when I was sixteen? Like bloody Hell, I did! I didn't get much of a choice, either."
"But that doesn't excuse…" Alan almost sobbed.
"I know, son, nothing excuses it," Sir Hugo shuddered. "I've treated you like dirt your whole life. Thought I was doing well by you, by my own lights. And nothing's going to make up for it. But I'd like you to at least understand me. If you're going to despise me to the end of time, then at least do it for the right reasons, if nothing else."
"You miserable bastard!" Alan hissed, on the verge of weeping, of falling on his father's shoulder and crying his eyes out. Either that or fetching a curved tulwar, a Persian sword, off the wall and hacking his head off. Sir Hugo put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a soft pat-perhaps as close as he would ever get to empathy or comforting.
"Thomas de Crecy," Sir Hugo muttered heavily, turning away. "Good, honest, cheerful, unfailing Tommy. My fellow officer in the 4th. 'Twas him arranged the minister and all for us to wed."
"Aye, I remember," Alan said with a snort and a hiccup. "But it was a false justice married you. I guess he didn't know you needed real clergy. Just a sham to get her into your bed!"
"No need of that, Alan," Sir Hugo replied, grinning. "Elisabeth had the shortest pair of heels of any girl I'd ever seen. We'd already been bedded. And I want you to know this, laddy. I loved her so dearly I was totally besotted. Money be damned, I really did want her to be my wife! Ah, but Tommy de Crecy knew what he was doing. Came over to Holland with us, brought my last installment of Army pay. Stayed with us in the same town, to see us through until Elisabeth's family came 'round and accepted the marriage. Do you see what he had in mind?"
"No, frankly," Alan replied, blowing his nose.
"Well, there we were, rapidly running out of money, 'cause your grandfather Dudley Lewrie was tighter with a shilling than a Maltese pimp, and he'd never admit the match. But there was always good old Tommy. Tommy, with his little loans. Tommy with his lord's purse. Tommy with his kind-hearted generosity!" Sir Hugo turned somber, and just a trifle angry, even after all these years as he related this. Or, as Alan suspected, he was a consummate actor and was putting on a sublime theatric.
"You mean he was the one caught in bed with her?" Alan asked, dubious still.
"He'd wanted her all along, aye," Sir Hugo grumbled, and bent over the tray table to pour them another stiff refill of brandy. His face was older, heavier, lined; the skin mottled by years of too much drink, too much tropic sun in the last few. The fine shock of light brown hair was receded, and there were liver spots on the exposed scalp. And, Alan noticed as hepoured the spirit, so were the backs of his hands. Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby was no longer the fashionable buck of St James' Place, White's, Almack's. He was a slack old man, or near enough to it not to matter, gone ropey and croupey.