H.M.S. COCKEREL

Chapter 8

Their idyll in Naples ended soon afterwards. A formal treaty with the Kingdom of Naples and the Two Sicilies was signed, with Lewrie proudly witnessing the ceremony. But then on 14 July, he was hustled off to sea with more urgent despatches. Captain Braxton was making a miraculously speedy recovery, so there was no need to send him ashore, nor would a sea voyage threaten that recovery, the Italian physicians assured him after a final call on their patient.

And that voyage back to the Fleet went quickly, in good weather and brisk, invigorating winds. Cockerel scudded along like a migrating goose, winds on her larboard quarter, sails set "all to the royals," slicing the seas with the elegance of a rapier.

"How dare you!" Captain Braxton spat at him. "How dare you put such nonsense in the log, Mister Lewrie!"

"I wrote no more than the truth, sir," he replied resignedly.

"Truth?" Braxton hooted. "The truth is not in you! You're out to destroy me, sir. My entire family, all our careers! It's all mendacious tripe. For tuppence, I'd…!"

He made as if to seize the offending pages and rip them out, but stopped. There was no expunging the brutal facts, none that would not represent a greater crime in the Admiralty's eyes. Captain Braxton had no recourse. Furiously, he realised that Lewrie knew that.

"Now that you are well again, sir," Lewrie offered as a sop, "I doubt the matter will come up."

"Oh, not this commission, damn you!" the bitter old man snarled.

"Signal from the flag, sir!" Lieutenant Scott shouted down the skylight from the quarterdeck. "They acknowledge our 'Have Despatches' and send us 'Captain Repair on Board.'"

"Very well, Mister Scott!" Braxton bellowed in exasperation.

"Sir, are you that hale?" Lewrie asked. "To scale a 1st Rate's sides? It's only been a day since you resumed-"

"Your consideration for me is touching," Braxton snorted. "By God, sir, Admiral Lord Hood demands Cockerel's captain, not you! And her true captain he shall have." Braxton lifted the weighted packet and reached for his hat.

"Would you at least let me brief you on what 'you' did ashore, sir?" Lewrie offered, trying to make some amends, at least. "Were he to question you about the despatches-"

"I met our ambassador, delivered despatches and got more from him, then sailed instanter," Braxton sneered, bustling for the doors. " Naples is in. What more is there to say? Now we have two weak allies 'stead of one. Thank you, but no, Mister Lewrie… I require no more assistance from you! You've my gig ready? Good. Get out of my way."

"Very good, sir," Lewrie replied, crisply. 'Least I tried, damn yer eyes; and if Admiral Hood catches you in a lie, God alone help you. It's no skin off my backside.

But Captain Braxton evidently did not put a foot wrong. He was aboard Victory for about fifteen minutes, then came sculling back with even more bundles. He didn't drop like a leaf from her side and drown himself, didn't dodder. By sheer willpower, he scaled Cockerel's side and took his salute, though he looked white-faced and pinched once he attained the gangway, swaying more than did the deck.

"Mister Lewrie, there's mail for us. Distribute it," he said, weakening fast. "I'll be in my cabins." And he staggered away.

"Aye, aye, sir!" Lewrie cried, all but pouncing on the discarded mail sack.

Mail-word from home! How rare it was to get it. Ships went down in storms, taken by privateers, and precious letters with them. Months, a year behind, they were, even under the best of circumstances. All too often they arrived at the wrong place, chasing the erratic and unknown movements of a squadron. Or might reach the squadron, but moulder in the mail sacks for months, held for independent ships. And that capriciousness worked both ways, for both senders.

Lewrie had letters from India, from his father, and from Burgess Chiswick, his brother-in-law, a captain in his father's regiment. They were over a year in transit, round Good Hope to the Admiralty, then to Anglesgreen, then… There was information from his bank, his solicitor, from creditors. Those he set aside for later.

And a bundle from Caroline and the children.

In the privacy of his narrow cabin he opened the earliest dated letter, hoping the salt, rain, tar smudges and mildew hadn't ruined what she had written:

My dearest Husband,

We are all so immensely proud of you, far off in our King's Service. Your spring letters came at last, delighting us. Yet how immensely Hard is my continuing burden of Loneliness, how oft…

Bloody Hell, he groaned, tearing up a little as she described her own tears. He gazed at a miniature portrait, a rather good copy of the one hanging in their entry hall.

God help me, I'm such a bastard, he thought. A hound! Rakehelling about, back to my old ways. Putting the leg over just any new piece that crosses my hawse, no matter my… well, she was a rather good bit o' batter, wasn't she, that Emma? Oh, I'm such a low hound, though, to… I feel so guilty! I mean, I should feel guilty…

Hold on, though…

Hmmmm!

He recalled the free black woman, the widow he'd met in Clarence Town, in the Bahamas, after six months of exile in the Out Islands. A single afternoon of rutting, because he'd been so very lonely, too long separated from Caroline… didn't recall her name, but she had been so bloody good at lovemaking, and at restoring his spirits.

Mean t'say…! Shouldn't I feel… abject? Or something?

He felt the urge to measure his pulse, to see if he was human. Oh, well…

The children missed him sorely, he read on; Sewallis has a new tutor and is learning his letters. There was scrawled proof of that in the margins-but it was early days as to what they spelled. Hugh left a thumb-print and an even shakier X, his mark. Charlotte was now on solid foods, toddling about, taking her first steps and out of her swaddles at last. Mistress McGowan, Caroline had dismissed; she'd simply gotten too dictatorial about running the entire household. There was a scandal about Maggie Fletcher, the vicar's daughter's maidservant, Maudie Beakman jilted by the same man who'd…

The planting season had gone well, and the weather bid fair for a bountiful harvest. And old William Pitt had passed over.

"Oh, damme…" Lewrie sighed bitterly.

/ do not know how to tell you this, beloved, but Pitt is gone. Once you went to sea, the poor old dear began to fade. Lord, how sad he also seemed, prowling the house and grounds, as if in search of you, ever-napping in your chair alone, upon items of your clothing were they left out, and crying piteous ly for attention, demanding explanation of your absence. He climbed into my lap his last afternoon, as I sat and knitted bythe garden. He played with some wool, then curled up and went to sleep, and I sensed, somehow, that I should not disturb him, no matter the distraction. He woke, looked up, put one paw to my breast, and then he lay back down, uttering one last trill…

"Oh, Pitt!" Lewrie cried, dropping the letter to his lap, tears in his eyes for certain now. "Poor old beast. Poor old puss! Least your last years were peaceful. Chickens to chase… Catnip and cream, good scraps…"

God, you inhuman bastard, he scathed himself. No remorse for cheatin' on your wife… yet you cry over the death of a stupid cat\

"Maybe it's all of a piece," he muttered throatily, covering his face with a dirt-stiffened towel so no one else would hear as he wept. Very possibly, for all.