A King`s Trade

CHAPTER EIGHT

The row house fairly shouted Respectability, though in a muted, subtle way; "shouting" would have been thought too "common" or enthusiastic by its owners, perhaps. The terrace of row houses was a relatively new development outside; once one was in the entry hall, however, it was obvious that materials from older, razed houses had been re-used, for the entry's panelling looked to be authentic Jacobean Fold woodworking, the immense and intricately carved marble staircases had the sheen from many hands and feet over a very long time, too well-crafted to be sent to the scrapyard. The tables and such were of a heavier, past-century style, too, and the framed paintings and mirrors were gilt-framed in a Baroque style. Bright new red, blue, and buff Axminster or Winton carpets covered the usual black-and-white chequered tile floors, and ran up the staircase to cover slick, worn spots on the treads. The house of a serious collector? Lewrie wondered, taking in the statues in the recesses, the noble Greco-Roman busts on plinths; the house of a rich merchant or banker, or someone titled?

A balding old major-domo in sombre black livery took their hats, cloaks, and Lewrie's sword, then ushered them abovestairs without more than a begrudging word or two. Once up, he opened a glossy wooden set of double doors and bowed them into a parlour-cum-library done in much the same You-Will-Be-Impressed decor, but for the massive walls of bookcases from floor to ceiling on two sides; more new-ish, bright Turkey carpets on glossy wood floors, a world globe on a stand in one corner about a yard across, a heavy and ornate old desk before the windows and surprisingly bright and cheery (though heavy) draperies; a desk stout enough for Cromwell and an entire squad of fully-armoured Roundheads to have fought upon, if they'd felt like it. There were several wing chairs and settees, done in brighter chintzes, on which sat some very Respectable and Seriously Earnest men and women, who stared at the newcomers like a flock of vultures waiting for "supper" to go "toes-up" and die.

"Sir," Mr. Twigg intoned with suitable gravity, and a head bow.

"Ah ha," a slim older man seated behind the desk replied, as he rose to his feet. His coat was a sombre black, too, though enlivened with satin facings and lapels, a fawn or buff-coloured waist-coat, and new-fangled ankle-length trousers instead of formal breeches, slim-cut, and light grey. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I name to you Mister Zachariah Twigg, late of the Foreign Office, and his protege, Captain Alan Lewrie…"

Hell if I'm his protege! Lewrie irritatedly thought.

"… man of the hour, and sponsor of human freedom," he heard the fellow conclude.

"Hurrah! Oh, hurrah!" a young lady cried, leaping to her feet and clapping her hands, all enthusiastic Methodist-like, which sentiment was seconded an instant later by all the others present, who stood and began to applaud him, making Lewrie gawp, redden in confusion, and almost start out of his boots. Then, to his further amazement, damned if they didn't begin to sing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" (not at all well or coordinatedly, mind), but, they sounded genuine in their approval. Lewrie decided that lowering his head and coming over all modest was called for, and considered scuffing his boot toes might not go amiss, either. What the bloody Hell? he thought, though.

"Though there are troubling aspects, indeed, to your feat, sir," the fellow behind the desk said as the song (mercifully) ended and he came to where Lewrie stood, "it is an exploit which I, and many others, wish to become commonplace, in future. Allow me to shake you by your hand, Captain Lewrie." Which he did, so energetically that his long, wavy hair nigh-bobbed as he took Lewrie's paw in his and gave it a two-handed pumping. "William Wilberforce, sir… and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Erm… well, thankee, sir," Lewrie managed to say. Wilberforce wasn't half the glum ogre he'd imagined; and, for a Reverend, he dressed in the latest fashion, with the help of an excellent tailor, too!

"Some of your admirers, Captain Lewrie, and the leading lights in the movement to eliminate the scurrilous institution of slavery in every British possession, not merely in the British Isles , which we've already accomplished, thank the Good Lord… Reverend Mister Clarkson… Mistress Hannah More…"

The faces and names went by in a mind-muddling rush, too many at once for Lewrie, though Mistress Hannah More was another surprise to him… she might look him up and down like taking measure of a rogue, with her lips as pursed as Twigg's, but she was, in the main, a rather handsome woman, not half the infamous and forbidding "Kill-Joy" he'd imagined, either. Though granite and ice did come to mind as he made a graceful "leg" to her, getting a coolly-imperious curtsy back.

"… host, Mister Robert Trencher," Wilberforce said, passing Lewrie on to a stout but handsome man in his late fourties, another of those who espoused the latest London fashions, in brighter suiting than one might expect from a run-of-the-mill "New Puritan."

"Your servant, sir," Lewrie said, taking the offered hand.

"Nay, Captain Lewrie, 'tis I who hold that I am your servant," Mr. Trencher heartily replied. " 'Twas a risky business, but commendable, most commendable! And I shall be pleased to do everything in my power to see that you should not suffer for it. Ah… allow me to name to you, sir, my wife and daughter. Captain Lewrie, Mistress Portia Trencher. My dear, Captain Alan Lewrie."

Time to make another "leg" as Mrs. Trencher, a fetching older woman in shimmery grey satin, curtsied her greetings in proper fashion, and state that he was her servant, as well.

"… Captain Alan Lewrie, my daughter, Theodora. My dear…"

The young lady, no more than nineteen or twenty, Lewrie guessed, had no patience for staid, languid "airs." She bobbed him a very brief curtsy, but also reached out to take both his hands in hers, fingertips gripping fingertips, and her grip trembling but strong.

"Your servant, Miss Trencher," Lewrie dutifully tried to say, noting that this Theodora was the very same lady who had leaped to her feet, cheered, and clapped him.

"I echo my father, Captain Lewrie," she nigh-breathlessly gushed, "for in gratitude for the bold step you took to free so many who cried out for rescue from abominable cruelty, it is I who are yours… your servant, I meant to say! Delighted to be!" she exclaimed, a higher blush rising to her face over her hapless innuendo, in what was obviously a rehearsed speech of welcome.

Careful, old son! Lewrie chid himself, feeling lusty stirrings in his groin; Let go of her, now. Hands t' yourself…

He took a half-step back and lowered his hands to break free of her fervent grip, taking note of her parents' stern cringes over her enthusiasm; her parents taking note of his own "chaste" reticence and surprise at her departure from the normal graces, he also hoped! One more bow of his head, which let Lewrie take a better peek at her.

God Almighty! he thought. For young Mistress Theodora Trencher was the very personification of elfin beauty! She stood not a whisker above five feet, two inches, in her soft-soled "at-home" slippers, very slim and wee. Her hair was a dark brown that was almost raven, curled with irons, and banged over a well-shaped, thoughtful-looking brow; a firm jawline and sweetly tapering chin, but with very full mouth, and lips he was sure would be eminently soft and kissable…! She did not wear the artifice of cosmetics, and had no need of them, for her complexion was the epitome of English "cream," and her eyes, huge at that moment in enthusiasm, were the most intriguing, and rare, violet!

"I really did very little, Mistress Trencher, though I am grateful for your good opinion," he responded, with a dash of gruff, "sea-dog" modesty, as Twigg had rehearsed him. He managed to tear his eyes away from gawping at her impressive bosom; the newest women's fashions evidently allowed even the Respectable to sport low necklines, and her "poonts" or "cat-heads" could not be faulted! Turning to her parents, he added, "Part of it, I must confess, was need, d'ye see. The Fever Isles are hard on European sailors, and we'd had a bad bout of Yellow Jack aboard…"

Even with his back to him, Lewrie could feel Twigg cringe and slit his mouth, for him to blurt out that his actions were anything less than humanitarian and selfless!

"Indeed, sir? I was informed…" Rev. Wilberforce said with a wary sniff. "Had we not, though, sir," Lewrie quickly extemporised to save himself, "there'd have been no vacancies for the escaped slaves. The Admiralty frowns on captains who recruit, or accept, volunteers above the establishment deemed proper for a frigate of Proteus's Rate, even to the number of cabin-servants and ship's boys allowed, unless they are paid from a captain's purse. They're jealous of every pence spent on rations, kits, clothing, shoes, and what not.

" 'Tis said, sir," Lewrie concluded, striving to recall what a pious expression looked like, "that the Lord moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform. The slaves' prayers, and mine, coincided nigh miraculously." "Amen!" Theodora seconded.

"Just as Admiralty has broken captains who cheat the Exchequer by overstating the number of their crews, despite losses to desertion and death," Mr. Twigg informed all present with a knowing and casually world-wise air (even if he was glaring daggers at Lewrie), "who pocket the lost hands' pay, and connive with the Purser, who will sell off the un-issued rations and slop goods, Reverend, ladies and gentlemen, just as often as they would one who over-recruits."

"Well… shall we be seated and have tea?" Mr. Trencher suggested, waving his guests to the settees and chairs about the parlour. Twigg practically snagged Lewrie by the elbow and led him to a settee too short for more than two, looking as if he'd love to hiss cautions, but couldn't. As they sorted themselves out, waiting for the ladies to sit first, Lewrie took happy note that he'd have a grand angle on the fetching young Miss Theodora, who dipped her head most gracefully, exposing what a fine and swan-like neck she had above her lace shawl.

"Or, might Captain Lewrie and Mister Twigg prefer refreshments more stimulating than tea?" Mrs. Hannah More enquired with a wary cock of her head.

Playin' fast an' loose with the Trenchers' hospitality, ain't we? Sly witch! Lewrie spitefully thought, though answering her with another of his "special modest" grins, a shrug and shake of his head.

"As we say in the Navy, ma'am, the sun is still high over the yardarm, for me," he replied. "Tea would be delightful."

The next hour passed much as Twigg had warned him; they asked careful questions as to his motives, how his "theft" had occurred, and what sort of fellow was his fellow-conspirator, ex-Col. Christopher Cashman. Was he a spiritual man, and just when had his revulsion of slavery arisen? In his new enterprises in the United States, was he a slave-owner there, or…? And, more to the point, when and where had the (so far) noble Capt. Lewrie developed his own detestation?

So he told them of his first experiences in the Caribbean, back during the American Revolution; of the fugitive Yankee slaves who had run to British-held towns and garrisons, seeking the freedom promised should they aid the Tory cause.

"I was at Yorktown during the siege," Lewrie related, addressing Mrs. Hannah More, his most-insistent and most-dubious inquisitor, "in charge of a weak two-gun battery of landed guns… only a Midshipman, then. For labourers and help loading the guns, we had several runaway slaves. We were all on short-commons, we ate the same rations, slept in the redan together, kept watch and drilled together, with the same chance of being killed in battle, did the French and the Rebels attack.

"Well… they stood a worse chance, 'cause they faced lashings, a return to their chains, being lynched or shot, if we lost… which we did, and, I fear, some of them did suffer such fates, for very few of them escaped before the Lord Cornwallis's surrender, and it shamed me, ma'am… the way they looked at me, the veriest boy Midshipman, as their saviour, and I could do nothing, in the end," he told them.

Damned if they didn't, and damned if I didn't, Lewrie took pause to recall; And every bloody word of it the Gospel Truth!

"And you were made prisoner. Captain Lewrie?" Mr. Trencher asked.

"No, sir. Two boatloads of light infantry, North Carolina Loyalist troops, I and my few hands, were blown downriver while trying to ferry the army across York River. Got stranded on the mud shoals down Guinea Neck, the morning of the surrender. We sheltered at a tobacco plantation, a slave plantation, 'til we could re-work our barges so we could sneak out to sea and escape. The orders were to abandon all but British, or White, troops, d'ye see… the horrid conditions that the plantation slaves had to stand, their near nakedness… pardon…"

"Fought their way out, 'gainst a company of Virginia Militia and a company of French troops from Lauzun's Legion," Mr. Twigg added with a sage nod of his head, to boot. Lewrie snapped his gaze to Twigg; he didn't know that anyone but the participants knew the details of that long-ago horror. "Nigh a week on the Atlantic, before being picked up by one of our warships. Might have sailed all the way to New York if he had had to. A most resourceful and determined man is our Captain Lewrie… even as a mere boy of a Midshipman," Twigg ended, bestowing on Lewrie a most-admiring grin, one which Lewrie was sure was costing his soul a pinch or two. But, it was a welcome diversion, one that went down well with all present.

"Then… in '86,1 was in the Bahamas," Lewrie continued, "in command of a ketch-rigged gun-vessel, Alacrity. A Lieutenant, finally. There was a James Finney, there… known as 'Calico Jack,' like that pirate, Jack Rackham. A war hero, a successful privateer, and a merchant of great fortune… made by continuing privateering against every trading ship, under any flag, even British. He was very big in slaves. Practically owned the Vendue House at Nassau, and always had what they call 'Black Ivory'… 'cause he was pirating slave ships on their way to the Americas, murdering the crews, and selling the Africans off, as well as the re-painted, re-named, re-papered ships. With official connivance, sad t'say. We raided his secret cache of goods, his lair, on Walker 's Cay, finally, and found the bones of nigh an hundred pirated slaves too old or sick to auction off… some still bound in coffles by their chains, after they were murdered. Some not," he grimly said. "Evidently, 'Calico Jack' and his cut-throats thought it a waste to let perfectly good chains and manacles be buried."

"Broke up the pirate cartel," Twigg stuck in, again, with even more (faint) praise, "and pursued Finney right into Charleston harbour in South Carolina, recovered what the brute had looted from the most-prominent island bank, and captured the last of his minions for trial, and righteous hangings, at New Providence. Put a very permanent end to 'Calico Jack,' as well, didn't ye, Lewrie?"

What doesn't he know about my doings? Lewrie gawped to himself, half-turning on the settee to see Twigg's eyes all steel-glinted.

"Well, 'twas personal by then, Mister Twigg," Lewrie admitted. "After Finney'd tried to seduce or assault my wife while I was at sea."

"And," Twigg drawled, looking back at the others with a smile on his phyz that was almost beatific, "made the man pay for his brute importunity by his own hand." That made 'em gasp and shiver!

"By personal experience with Captain Lewrie, I may also relate to you that his own Coxswain, any captain's most trusted aide, is also a runaway Jamaican house slave by name of Matthew Andrews," Mr. Twigg further informed them, once they got over their vicarious thrill. "He has been with him for years, and most-like had a great influence upon Captain Lewrie's views on the despicable institution of slavery."

"My word, sir," that Mr. Clarkson exclaimed, "I am certain we were unaware of the depth of your feelings upon this head."

"A house slave, ladies and gentlemen," Lewrie said for himself, "better fed, clothed, and sheltered than field hands, one might even say pampered, to some extent, yet… Andrews risked three hundred or more lashes, or the noose, to flee it, and be a whole, free man."

Hang on a bit, Lewrie suddenly thought; he might as well have, for his brow and face were already furrowed with some sort of intensity. Do I really despise slavery as much's I'm protesting? Well, mine arse on a band-box, but I really think I do!

"Don't rightly know what his name was before," Lewrie admitted, suddenly of a much cleaner soul, relieved that he was not completely playing a role to save his neck, "lest his old owners spot him and try to haul him back, I s'pose. Won't even tell me, just in case, but…"

"And your man Andrews, your newly rescued Negroes," Wilberforce enquired, "has any attempt been made to see to their souls, Captain?"

"Uhm… the night they came aboard, sir," Lewrie said, with a feeling that his soul-washing had been very temporary, for he was now back to tip-toeing 'cross a fakir's bed of nails. "I hope that no one thinks this a presumption, but… 'tis customary for new hands to doff their civilian clothes, go under the wash-deck pump, and get bathed, be rid of fleas and such, before being issued slop-clothing. Well… our Sailing Master, Mister Winwood, a most devout Christian, thought it much like baptism, d'ye see. At his suggestion, each chose a new name for ship's books, as if they had been baptised, or christened."

They ate that fact up like plum duff, with many a pleased, prim simper or shared smile, and softly whispered "Amens."

"Proteus doesn't carry a chaplain, sorry t'say," Lewrie added. "Only line-of-battle ships, admirals' flagships, generally do, with the charge to minister to a squadron's, or a fleet's, spiritual needs, and are paid either by Admiralty for their services, or are supported by a devout senior officer, and, as I'm sure you're aware, the pay isn't all that grand… the same rate as an Ordinary Seaman, with so many groats per hand in the crew atop that. Hardly ever see a chaplain on a ship below the Third Rate. Mister Winwood, therefor, is my chiefest aid at Sunday Divisions. We hold a form of Divine Services… Morning rites with a Collect or two, as specified, a suitable Epistle, perhaps even a brief Homily, and, of course, rather a lot of hymns. No Sacraments, of course! Though," Lewrie just had to add, feeling free enough for a bit of waggishness, "right after the final hymn, we do issue the rum-ration at Seven Bells of the Forenoon. But, totally secular and Navy, you understand."

"But, are your Negroes cabin-servants, waiters, and such, or do you employ them as sailors, Captain Lewrie?" Mr. Trencher asked him.

"Sailors, Mister Trencher," Lewrie firmly stated. "Most, rated Landsman, like volunteers or pressed men un-used to the sailors' trade. In gun crews, waisters at pulley-hauley, aye, the older ones. One is a dev… an outstanding cook, I must admit, but that was his plantation trade. Our five youngest, though, do go aloft, are rated Ordinary Seamen… spry topmen, sure t'be rated Able Seamen in a few years… oh, and one young fellow's a crack shot with a musket or Pennsylvania rifle. And, they're all drilled in musketry, cutlasses, pikes-"

"They have fought, under arms?" Mrs. Hannah More intruded, with a slit-lipped squeamish look at the image of armed Negroes, not merely freed Negroes. Was that too much equality for her, too soon?

"But, of course, ma'am!" Lewrie replied, surprised by her fret. "They must, if they're to serve in the Royal Navy. They have, indeed, and hellish-well, too!" he boasted, though wishing he could un-say the "hellish" part. "Like any English tar must, to serve his King, and to uphold the honour and liberty of his ship… to aid their shipmates in time of peril, whether storm or battle, ma'am. "Shipmates…" Lewrie prosed on, only thinking himself half of a fraud, "paid the same, garbed the same, fed and doctored the same as each other, swing elbow-to-elbow in their hammocks belowdecks… you may see such for yourself aboard any ship in the Navy, for Free Black volunteers are everywhere. In the Pool of London this very morning in any merchantman you'd care to board…"

"Oh, we've seen them!" Mistress Theodora exclaimed, one hand on her mother's arm. "Those poor souls dismissed their ships between one voyage and the next… those horrid captains who turn them ashore to save money 'til they're needed, again. They live as hand-to-mouth as the poorest unemployed Irish. What did that brute call them, Father, that disparaging…?"

"Ah, erm… 'Saint Giles Blackbirds,' dear," Mr. Trencher managed to say, waving a hand to excuse getting even close to commonness, or Billingsgate slang. "Where they gather, mostly… Saint Giles."

"Indeed, they evince such heart-warming gratitude whenever some of us circulate among them with clothing," Mrs. More piously said, in a righteous taking, "or provide a hot-soup kitchen for sustenance once their few pence are lost to vice, to drink, to… the sort of debased women who… well," she said with a grim roll of her eyes. "They're, dare I say, avid to receive our improving tracts and penny Testaments. It is quite encouraging to witness the thirst they have for the Good News of the Gospels. Why, I could even conjure that in every glad eye, one may actually see the spark of uplifting enlightenment blossom! In point of fact, when we lead them at hymns, their simple, joyous expressions put the lie to the contention that Negroes are forever bound into darkness and savagery. I fancy them budding saints in their patience, their eagerness to please, and improve themselves… with God's help, of course… and ours," Mrs. More primly, and firmly, concluded.

"And, do you sense the same patience, gratitude, and, dare we say, budding saintliness in your own Negro sailors, Captain Lewrie?" Mrs. Trencher asked.

"They do sing better than most of my crew, ma'am," Lewrie said. "Though… I fear that that French scribbler, Rousseau, had it wrong, when it came to the nobility of the simple savage. Whether still back in Africa, or dragged unwilling to Civilisation, by Civilisation, men, women and children are pretty-much the same, at bottom, the wide world over."

Why, you damned heretical cynic! Lewrie could imagine he could hear them all say; they certainly pruned up and sat back, at that.

"Some will drink too much, and try to smuggle rum aboard during a shore liberty, or when anchored in harbour," he explained. "Some are clever, some are dull… the same as us. The younger ones will cock a snook and be playful imps, if they can get away with it, the same as my Midshipmen or powder monkeys. Some serve chearly, some will always be bitter they've traded one form of slavery for another, just like any Navy or merchant sailor aboard any ship, in peace or war, even if they are paid regular, and get some prize-money to hand. All get homesick and lonely, now and again… miss loved ones, wish to have loved ones, someday, somewhere.

"I'm sorry, but I've never met anyone even close to saintly in the Navy, and very few might earn such an appellation ashore, either, ladies and gentlemen," Lewrie told them in measured tones. "Negroes or Swedes, or British, it doesn't signify. They aren't saintly, nor are they child-like; they fit no playwright's cast of sympathetic characters, for each one's different, an individual. Aboard my frigate, they're… Proteuses. All of a piece, but each one a unique piece of the whole. When this war ends, and they're turned loose on their own devices, who knows what they'll make of themselves, but, for the meantime, they're… my crew."

"And quite right, too!" Miss Theodora piped up, ready to clap her hands, again. "Full equality!"

"Even if enforced," the Rev. Wilberforce commented, musing on all that Lewrie had said. "Well, I think… and I believe I am safe in saying for all of us, Captain Lewrie, that what you have related to us this morning has been enlightening… as to your motives, and what sort of man you are." He arose, leading the others to their feet.

It sounded very much like the interview was over and he had not won enough of them over. Well, there was the girl, but…

"There is the grave matter that what you did officially might be termed theft of chattel property," Wilberforce went on, "and property is the heart of Common Law, but… could it be intimated that you intend to offer the Jamaica Beaumans perhaps a modest recompence to assuage their rancour…"

"The Jamaica Beaumans hold too hot a grudge against Lewrie for even a princely sum to soothe them, sir," Mr. Twigg countered. "That would be for a court to determine, and, as I said when I first placed the matter to you, a court is the absolute last resort for Lewrie's cause, the very first for the Beaumans."

"Because you duelled," Mrs. More sniffed with disgust.

"Because I seconded Colonel Cashman, ma'am, and they cheated," Lewrie corrected her. "It was that, or allow my best friend get shot in the back. I'd not have that stain on my honour."

He could see another vicarious thrill cross their features at the image of Lewrie as a duelling man, a "killing gentleman," even if they did profess to abhor the deadly practice. At least it was done among the "better sorts," not the scurrilous poor and the riff-raff! And, if one intended to be Respectable in this new England these Reformers wished to make, honour went with Respectability.

"Whether you intend to aid Captain Lewrie," Mr. Twigg told them as they began to drift towards the double doors, "or not, his presence in Great Britain will be a hindrance to both his cause… and yours, sirs, madames. I have spoken to people I know at Admiralty, whichever way things fall out, d'ye see. HMS Proteus will soon be departing for foreign waters…"

Thank bloody Christ, and it's about time, too! Lewrie thought.

"… support in the Commons, assisting Sir Malcolm Shockley and his allies," Twigg suggested, "depicting the Beaumans as the epitome of cruelty, greed, and… crude rusticity. Sordid 'Country-Puts' of a brutal and spiteful nature, hmm? Speaking of saints, here's Lewrie and his magnificent list of achievements as a naval hero. Details of which I and my associates may supply you, as we also drop a few hints here and there… in the public press, if absolutely necessary," Mr. Twigg said, with an obvious dislike for newspapers.

Here now, just a tick, you said we'd not become a public spectacle! Lewrie cringed, wishing he could openly disagree to the idea of being… celebrated. And right vehemently, too!

"Else, sirs, else, ladies," Twigg ominously told their assembly, with a stern forefinger raised, " 'tis the Beaumans who will prosper in this affair, and the cause of emancipation in the Empire will suffer a grievous backwards step. Hang property, I say! For this touches more on Morality, and ultimate Justice… not Man's niggling laws. Well, then… we thank you for receiving us so kindly and attentively, and, no matter your final decision, are both most grateful that you allowed us our say."

"D'ye think we did my… 'cause' a damned bit o' good, Twigg?" Lewrie fretfully asked, once they'd been hatted, sworded, caned, and cloaked, ready to re-board their hired carriage, outside. "Damme, we didn't even touch on my involvement with the Saint-Domingue uprisings, respect for Toussaint L'Ouverture's slave rebellion, like we planned to, and…"

"Oh, I think we did, Lewrie," Twigg rather distractedly replied as he clambered into the coach and took seat upon the rear bench, hands crooked over the top of his cane, fingers flexing as his acute mind also churned odds and probabilities, going over what had been presented, as well as what had not been said, for lack of time or the right opening. Lewrie settled in across from him and felt like gnawing on one of his thumbnails as the coach lurched into motion, for Twigg was quite ignoring his presence.

Finally, Twigg's fingers did a last little dance on the handle of his cane, and a sly smile spread across his harsh, ruthless face.

"What?" Lewrie simply had to ask; that smile was just too odd.

"Bless me, Lewrie, but 'til now I never knew just how convincing you can be. Damme, but I am impressed by your seeming sincerity!" Mr. Twigg said with a simper.

"Wasn't a total sham, Mister Twigg!" Lewrie groused. "Mine arse on a band-box, but I do despise slavery. No person with the slightest bit of feeling could do else. The idea of court-martial and cashiering, a criminal trial and hanging, might've made me urgent and… glibber…"

"I don't think that's actually a word, sir," Twigg snickered.

"Damn dictionaries!" Lewrie griped. "With my name and neck on the line, maybe I did do a stellar stage performance to convince those people to aid me, but 'twas not a conversion by indictment, like your common criminal! Slavery makes me queasy, aye, but 'tis not a thing I thought to do anything active about, 'til… it just is, and…"

"What is the saying?" Twigg amusedly said. "That the threat of hanging concentrates the mind most wondrously, hmm? Well, of course most people in England despise slavery, Lewrie, whether they have ever been exposed to its evils, or not. They think, most patriotically, in Arne's song, 'Rule, Britannia'… 'Britons, never, never, neh-ver shall be slaves.' Now, how that squares with suspicion, xenophobia, and the Mobocracy's general hostility towards 'Samboes,' Cuffies, Hindoos, and Lascars if they turn up in this country, well… that's rather hard to say. Englishmen like the idea of emancipation… just so long as they don't have to rub elbows with the results, ha ha! Free as many as you like… just keep them out of England , what?"

"So…" Lewrie warily said, wondering just where Mr. Twigg was going with his prosing. "You're saying, then…?"

"That once this matter becomes public, almost everyone in the British Isles… minus those actively engaged in the slave trade and colonial trade, it goes without saying… will adore you for what you did, Lewrie. Do the Beau-mans dare sail here to press their charges in court… as they simply must, if you are allowed to be faced by your accusers, as the law requires… I fully expect them to be greeted at the docks by hordes of the Outraged Righteous… with the further addition of the idle, drunken, and easily excited Mob, of course."

"There'll be a trial, you're saying," Lewrie responded, with a groan and a sigh. "I'd hoped…"

"I fear there must be, sooner or later," Mr. Twigg said with a shrug, his eyes alight, making Lewrie feel as if he felt that it was no skin off his back if Lewrie got pilloried and dunged, or carted off to Tyburn. "But, only after such a public spectacle as to poison any jury empanelled, from Land's End to John o' Groats. Public sentiment will uphold you, and spit upon the Beaumans, and slavery. I do imagine that, 'twixt Wilberforce and his strident associates, and what covert efforts I and my associates may contribute, public sentiments may be played like a flute. But for one potentially harmful distraction…"

"Which is?" Lewrie asked, one eyebrow up in wariness.

"You," Twigg replied, tilting back his head to gaze down that long nose of his, looking as if he was having difficulty stifling his chortle of glee. "You're a much easier man to extol at long-distance, Lewrie, with none of your warts and peccadiloes on public display! It is foreign waters for you, me lad. At sea, where I believe you once told me… or Peel… either of us, it don't signify, that you did not get in a tenth the trouble you did ashore. 'Out of sight, out of mind,' whilst your allies at home strive mightily to put a gloss upon your valiant repute, hmm? Very far away, for an extended period of time, where, one may hope, you garner even more-glorious laurels with some laudable achievement 'gainst England 's foes. That'd go down nice, did you-"

"You said you'd already spoken to people at Admiralty?" Lewrie said. "So I s'pose that's in-hand, too?"

"I fear you've no time to dilly-dally, Lewrie," Twigg assured him, still simpering in a most haughty manner. "No recontre with the little wife, no visiting your children. Not even time to drop in on Sir Hugo for a brief meal…"

"No loss, there," Lewrie sarcastically said; it wasn't so much the active dislike of his sly sire that had dominated his early years-people who "press-ganged" one into the Navy in the middle of a war and stole one's inheritance had a way of fostering distrust!-but, more a leeriness that, no matter Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby's new repute, fortune, and "rehabilitation" in Society, one should keep one hand on one's coin-purse at all times, and reject any proposed investments!

"Twigg, you're smiling like you already know where I'm going," Lewrie sullenly accused.

"Perhaps," Twigg slowly and cagily drawled back. "I will allow that it will not be back to the Caribbean. And… weeks from summons to court," he mystifyingly added. "Good God, sir… you should now be doing handsprings or Saint Catherine's wheels. Are you not grateful?"

"I am, but it's the way you…!"

"Were I you, I'd gather my traps from the Madeira Club at once, and book a seat on the 'dilly' to Portsmouth, instanter," Twigg went on quite blithely. "Make haste to return aboard your frigate, before your new orders beat you there, and the Port Admiral takes notice that you've been absent rather a bit too long for one still holding active commission and command. Well, perhaps I might run you down, myself, in my chariot. Much faster than a diligence-coach…"

"Ah, no… thank you!"

"Or, does Sir Hugo wish to have a brief bit of time with you," Twigg drolly continued, "he could drive you to Portsmouth in his. He purchased a chariot and team, recently, d'ye know. We race, when we have the time to weekend at my country house. They're all the crack, haw haw!"

"I'd rather walk," Lewrie bleakly replied, with a shudder.