Havoc`s Sword

CHAPTER SEVEN

"It was pleasant and delightful,

one midsummer's morn,

when the green fields and the meadows

were buried in corn.

The blackbirds and thrushes

sang in every tree.

And the larks they sang melodious

at the dawning of the day …"

It was a "Make and Mend" afternoon, following the noon meal for the hands. All stores had been laded, the aired sails, hung wind-less and slack, had been furled and gasketed, and an hour's small-arms drill had been performed. Now the crew of HMS Proteus could "caulk or yarn" and tend to their own devices, tailor their issue clothing, shave, wash, and scrub to be presentable at Sunday Divisions, play board games, have an on-decks smoke, do carvings or mere whittling whilst they nattered of this and that, nap or sing, as suited their too-brief freedom.

"The sailor and his true love

were out walking one day.

Said the sailor to his true love,

I am bound far away.

I am bound for the Indies

where the loud cannons roar,

and I'm going to leave my Nancy,

she 's the girl that I adore…

And I'm going to leave my Nancy,

and I'm going to leave my Nancy …"

Even with the duck awnings rigged over the quarterdeck and the waist, it was too warm for chanteys, horn-pipes, or reels, so the hands sang a sad forebitter, with both fiddlers, a boy on the tin whistle, and Liam Desmond droning under them, with his uilleann pipes. Desmond was a cosmopolitan sort, for an Irishman; he'd play the English tunes as readily as any from his own sad island. And "Pleasant and Delightful" was as teary a ballad of love and loss and long partings as anyone could wish for. He was equally open to Allan Ramsey's version of "Auld Lang Syne" roared along with "Hey, Johnny Cope" to sneer at an English general who'd run from Bonnie Prince Charlie back in 1745, with the few Scots aboard, turn up a weepy, lugubrious version of some Welsh dirge, or wheeze out gay horn-pipes with equal ease. He was a treasure.

Lewrie gratefully stripped out of his formal shore-going togs, completely pulled out those offending shirt-tails, and rolled up his sleeves above the elbows. With his neck-stock discarded and the front of his shirt undone, he called for a mug of cool tea from his steward, Aspinall, who brewed it by the half-gallon each dawn on the griddle in the galley; weak, admittedly, given the cost of good leaves, with lots of sugar (which in the Sugar Isles was nigh dirt-cheap) and a generous admixture of the rob of several lemons, also available for next to nothing. Let stand to cool before jugging, it made a fine thirst-quencher.

Though Lewrie did suspect that, once jugged in his large pewter pitcher, his mid-morning libations might be part of the brew from the previous afternoon's. There were some days, such as today, when that decoction could almost stand on its hind legs and toddle.

"Mister Padgett sorted yer paperwork, sir," Aspinall told him. "And there's letters, too, off that packet brig come in yesterday."

"Ah, excellent!" Lewrie enthused, rubbing his hands with false gusto at those tidings. For the last year, no letters from home were good news. And damme, but wasn't there a tidy pile of them, though, all thick and thumb-stained, the outer sheets whereupon the addresses were enscribed, the stamps affixed, and the wax seals poured, were now sepiaed with handling and sea transportation.

No, his official correspondence always took precedence. It was safer that way. The personal could abide for a piece more, after the long passage that fetched them. Whatever new disaster, insult, or calumny they contained were at least five or six weeks old, and any reply to them would take even longer, no matter how scream-inducing.

"Said the sailor to his true love,

well I must be on my way.

For the tops'ls they are hoisted,

and the anchor's aweigh.

Our warship stands waiting,

for the next flowing tide,

but if ev-ver I return, again,

I would make you my bride…

But if ever I return again,

but if ever I return again. …"

"In good voice, t'day, sir," Aspinall commented.

"Did they choose something cheerful," Lewrie grumbled, "I s'pose so." He had to admit, though, that the chorus of rough seamen's voices did have a more-pleasing harmony than usual, detecting the shyly, hesitantly offered basses and near falsettos from his "liberated" ex-slave sailors. The tunes and words were new to them, almost alien, and their command of the King's English marginal, yet his Black sailors had an uncanny ear for harmony. Even their unaccompanied work songs he heard when riding past cane fields ashore had been spot-on, whatever tune it was they'd sung, sometimes hauntingly so.

"Mister Motte, the Quartermaster, you can hear him there doin' the solo part, sir," Aspinall went on. "He says it come from the '60s, it did, when our Navy invaded Cuba in the Seven Years' War."

"Umhmm," Lewrie said with a nod over his paperwork, a tad irked, and peering owlishly at Aspinall's interrupting maunderings.

Aspinall took the cue, and ambled back into his day-pantry with a damp dish-clout in his hands. There to sing along under his breath, Just loud enough to make Lewrie twitch his lips and furl his brows.

Damn his hobbies! Lewrie gravelled to himself; first 'twas rope work and sennet, now…

"Then a ring from off her finger, she instant-lye drew, saying hake this, dearest William, and my heart will go, too'.. . "

"Bloody hell," Lewrie muttered. "Aspinall?" he called.

"Sir?" A small, chastened voice, that.

"It's 'make and mend.' Do you wish t'join the hands up forrud and sing, 'tis your right. I'll have no need of you for a while."

"Er, thankee, sir, and I'd admire it," Aspinall cried, hastening out of his pantry, and his apron, to dash forward to the door that led to the main deck, an ever-present notebook and pencil now in hand so he could jot down the words and annotate the tunes' notes. _v

"Hmmpfh," Lewrie sniffed, tetchily relieved. "Peace an' quiet. Ooff!"

No sooner had Aspinall departed than Toulon, his stalwart black-and-white ram-cat, now grown to a muscular one-and-a-half stone, hopped into his lap.

"Well, damme," Lewrie softly griped. "And why ain't you caulkin' the day away… the way your tribe's s'posed to, hmm? Missed me, did ye? There, there, ol' puss, yes, yer a good'un. Rroww?"

Toulon braced himself on his hind legs to get right up against his face and rub cheeks and chin against him, play-nip at his chin and paw his collarbone for attention, grunt-mewing most-plaintive. It took a good ten minutes to cosset him, and then Toulon became a heavy, hot, and furry chest plaster which he had to stroke one-handed, and read his naval letters with the other. Toulon closed his eyes and couched his large head on forepaws high under Lewrie's jaws, all a'rumble and now a'bliss, his wee breath tickling at the hollow of his master's throat.

"You're not going to sleep, there, d'ye know," Lewrie chid him.

"Mmrrf." Damn' nigh petulant, and "I will if I've a mind."

The official "bumf" done at last, Lewrie set the last enquiry aside and eyed the pile of personal letters. Padgett, his clerk, had already written up replies for him in answer to the business matters; they merely awaited his signature. Getting to the quill and inkwell, shifting Toulon, though, would be the very Devil after his two days of absence. Lewrie sidled in his chair, squirming and reaching out with his right hand to haul in a fat personal letter without waking Toulon, fingers scrabbling cross the desk…

"Mmarr." You heartless bastard, the ram-cat fussed as he was deposed. He was suffered to arch, slit his eyes, yawn, and curl about in his master's lap as Lewrie at last got both hands free with which to break the seal on a missive from his father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, and unfold its several sheets. His, at least, were safe to read.

"Does he displease, you can eat it later," Lewrie promised his cat, who was already eying the crinkly paper with some interest.

"My dearest wastrel son," Sir Hugo's epistle began.

"I must really be in trouble back home," Lewrie deduced. "Still, rather."

"Greetings and Salutations to you, avidly gathering the flowers of the sea, far off in the Caribbean! I trust your Flowers, meaning to say, prize-moneys, blossom nicely, and that your Constitution, ever a Corinthian 'weed's' hardiness, continues to Thrive. Pardon, pray, any discontinuity to this letter, but, the most momentous News having just arrived, I needs must convey it straightaway as the first item of interest, my previous first page be hanged.

"On the first day of August, your gallant Admiral Nelson hunted an elusive French Fleet to its lair in Aboukir Bay in Egypt, and in an action that spanned nigh eight hours, took, sank, or burned every damned one of them, their massive flagship L'Ocean, and their plucky Admiral de Brueys (or some such-like Frog spelling!) consumed in a Twinkling when she was blown to Atoms! All London, all Britain, is agog!"

"Good Christ!" Lewrie breathed, in awe, in instant pleasure… and in a tiny bit of pique to be swinging at his anchors, or cruising fruitless upon a pretty but empty sea, and to have missed it! Nelson. The man had such hellish luck.

Though details were scanty, his father waxed most rapturous on "what little he knew. The French had landed on Malta and had taken it from the decrepit and corrupt Knights of St. John, who had held it as their feudal fief since the Crusades, cutting the Mediterranean in two and giving the Frogs a base from which to oust Admiral Jervis from those seas for a second time. Ah!

"That wee Frog you spoke of, that crude Corsican upstart by name of Napoleon Buenaparte (or some such) led their army. Why the Devil a French expedition went to Egypt, God only knows. It ain't like they'd march from there to Bengal. Had I been in command, it would have been Sardinia and Sicily, my next conquest, but the tiny bastard is French, ever an over-vaunting and gasconading Race, are they not; hence, as Unpredictable and Inexplicable as so many young misses!"

"Yer grandfather's found himself a new dictionary, puss," Lewrie cynically confided to his cat.

"Bless me, but were you in England at this time, and did but go out in Publick in uniform, you'd not be able to buy a drink for a fortnight, Alan," his father went on. "Nor would you suffer to set foot on the ground, for being 'chaired' as lustily as a Member 'pon Hustings at a by-election. And, I dare say, even your poor wife Caroline, so hotly set against all things Nautical, might (for a brief respite, mind!) be more Forgiving and Charitable towards you."

"Hmmph," Lewrie muttered. "That'll be the day."

The second page had a great deal crossed out, as though the news had interrupted earlier thoughts; and Sir Hugo too abstemious to waste a fresh sheet of highly taxed paper on his own son.

His father had completed his London house, and was now ensconced on Panton Street, convenient to Drury Lane and the theatres, Covent Garden and the Haymarket, his haunts of old. And the comely women of the "commercial persuasion" should he get the itch. Hired an excellent man to run his acres at Anglesgreen; had taken on suitable house servants; had furnished the town house deuced well (if he did say so, himself) at a reasonable expense, thankee, with the proper style suitable to a semi-retired general officer of some means-having made the recent acquaintance of Lewrie's erstwhile admirer, Sir Malcolm Shockley, Baronet, who had put him in the way of several new investment opportunities beyond his shares in East India Company, etc…

"… though I must own that Lady Lucy, his wife, is a horrid coy Baggage, little better than a common strumpet," his father groused, at long distance. "Both times I've dined with them, both times I've dined them in in return, her slippered little toes have nigh stroked my boots Raw. What you saw in her, in your early days, I quite understand, and admire your Taste, in point of fact, for she is the most fetching Mort, but you may thank your lucky Stars you and she formed no permanent Congress, else you'd have worn her 'horns' since '84! Poor

Shockley! So unobservant to her doings-as most men are, thank God, for I in my green youth (and you in yours, no error) both profitted from 'abandoned' women.

"Hard though it may be for you to feature it, and hard as it is for me to admit, sorely tempted though I am to give her a Tumble, there is her Husband, a most decent Fellow, and the very idea of abusing his Trust and Hospitality quite rightly daunts me. Notwithstanding losing immense profits from our mutual Enterprises, d'ye see! Pecuniary fear of Loss is not my only motive, however. Besides, I've a new one, hired by the half-evening who bears a passing likeness to Lady Lucy, new-come from Leeds, of most fetching Aspect, and (or so I speculate) as ripely blessed, and of similar pleasingly round Dimensions, not above twenty, who avails when fantasies anent Lucy come upon me."

"Oh, good for you, ye old beard-splitter," Lewrie groaned.

His father had been round to see Theoni Connor and Lewrie's by-blow, Alan James Connor, too, reporting that he was now a pretty little lad of two, toddling and prattling. Theoni sent her love, o' course.

"By the by," Sir Hugo gushed onward, "that gentlemen's Lodgings I proposed, with Sir Malcolm Shockley's eager backing once I had laid out the Particulars and Advantages to him, is now open. We obtained a rather fine 1st Rate residence, only slightly gone to seed. Upon your safe return (pray God) to England, you will be in awe.

"It sits on the corner of Wigmore St. and Duke St., just off and convenient to Oxford Baker Sts., thus easy to find, with dependable carriage service, and convenient to Govt., Finance, etc. It takes the entire corner, in point of fact, quite a palazzo, now set up for fifty with all the desired Amenities; common room, reading room, dining, etc. I myself, lacking my Panton St. house, would be tempted to engage a set of rooms, and, needless to say, should you and Caroline not have Reconciled by your return from foreign Service, you will be assured of a most lavish roof over your head, all at a tidy discount for kin, ho!"

"Notice he don't offer t'put me up under his own roof, catlin'?" Lewrie softly scoffed. "Nor free, either, the old miser."

He interpreted Toulon's blink and ear-flick to mean "ain't it a miserable shame."

Unfortunately, his father had had little progress to report when it came to making Caroline see sense. She was not going to pursue any Bill of Divorcement; quite rightly they had both surmised that it would be too expensive a proposition, with too much public shame attached… and too much enforced contact with her old, spurned beau, Harry Embleton, who, as her Member of Commons, would have to present the Bill in London. At least Caroline had sense enough to avoid that otter-faced fool!

There had been, by last report, no further "dear friend" notes sent her, for the simple reason, Sir Hugo concluded, that he was at sea, beyond the reach of that anonymous gossip's spiteful ken, and all his previous peccadilloes had been revealed. Supposedly.

"You are, I trust," his father had snidely penned, "if not keeping your breeches buttoned, at least possessed of enough Caution to not flaunt any of your Venereal doings in Publick, hmm?"

"As if you ever did," Lewrie grumbled. "Swear t'Christ, did he get to Heaven, he'd tip Saint Peter the wink, and ask where the whores kept! Ha… knew it, the old rogue."

For there had followed an entire paragraph touting the advantages of "balancing one's humours" with the whores, and never squiring one out in the daytime, or to any function where one's peers in Society might remark you-hardly the thing for an English gentleman, married or no, much less a Serving Officer, etc., and etc.

"Taught his granny t'suck eggs, too, most-like," Lewrie groaned some more. He'd heard that particular lecture at least once a month, since he'd pinched the bottom of his first pubescent scullery maid at thirteen. "Never admit paternity, were there fifty before you," Lewrie sing-songed under his breath, "never lose yer head over any coy slice o' mutton… think o' yer family's good name. Oh. Right. We never had one." He snickered, reaching for his mug of cool tea.

His father's letter was discontinuous, at that, for he'd left the worst news, and three matters of the most import, 'til the last. First was the matter of young Miss Sophie de Maubeuge, his ward. She had fled Anglesgreen for London, and was now living with his father, serving as mistress (in the innocent sense, his father quickly assured him!) of his new town house!

"Caroline has gotten it into her head, and clings to the Opinion despite all Protestations to the contrary, that you and poor wee Sophie were at one time, she cannot settle upon which, intimate!" Sir Hugo informed him. "Aboard that French frigate you sailed out of Toulon, in Lisbon before you packed her off to England, in some stolen moments during your two short shore leaves since this war began, it don't signify to her. Either, or all, feature in her Accusations, depending upon the day of the week, and, had I not known Caroline's sweet Nature before, I would be forced upon an initial Acquaintance now to be convinced she was Tetched! Level-headedness and her usual kind Demeanour quite fly her, once she gets on the Topic. Needless to say, it all created such an impossible Situation for poor Sophie, such glares and frowns, such harsh and quibblesome Speech, finding so much fault with even the simplest domestic tasks, that Matters came to a Head several weeks ago. There were shouts, Accusations made, Refutations offered yet dismissed, to the point that Sophie packed, summoned a coach, and turned up on my doorstoop un-announced, reduced to Tears and Whimpers, and I could not deny her Shelter, as I am certain you will understand. So suddenly denied any Freedom in Anglesgreen, so isolated to the farm as she was, Sophie has at last recovered her cheerful Equanimity, and now quite relishes going about the City with me."

"Now that must cramp his style!" Lewrie cynically hooted.

"Daughters," his father had marvelled, "in Sophie's case, granddaughter, after a fashion. Somehow I feel that due to my wastrel ways (none of which I truly regret, mind) I might have missed something in Life by not being Engaged in Children's raisings, for young women are quite delightful Creatures to watch blossom. I have always felt Avuncular or Grand-Fatherly anent Sophie's development, for so she calls me Grand-Pere, but, one might almost deem my feelings Paternal, now, when closely engaged with her Welfare, in protecting her from the harshest Aspects of Life… or rake-hells such as me, in younger guise. Rest assured that Sophie only attends the most uplifting and chaste Amusements and Events, with me (of all people!) her guard. Church, Theatre, Concerts, and Galleries, only the tasteful raree shows, dines only with respectable Society, etc. And, do we attend a Ball, Rout, or Drum, her dance partners must pass my Muster, first- and she is home and snug in her chambers at a reasonable Hour. No matter this places upon me a hellish restraint, I feel it is my Duty, in your stead, to…"

"Knew he'd complain a tad, anyway," Lewrie chuckled, imagining how corseted the old whore-monger must be, all for appearance's sake, and for Sophie's future "respectable" marriage prospects. "And he's not touchin' me up for a contribution t'help dress and feed her."

The second grimmer matter concerned his boys, Sewallis and Hugh nigh-imprisoned at their bleakly strict boarding school in Guildford. Despite how involved his father'd been with his new house, his arrangements for his country estate, and gentlemen's club, he had tried to keep in touch with the lads, but had gotten no responses to his letters. When down to Anglesgreen, he had called upon Caroline to enquire how they kept… and had not liked the answers.

The few letters that Caroline had gotten had been vague, filled with what sounded, to his suspicious ears, like rote phrases dictated by the headmaster and headmistress or their few employed instructors. This had occurred shortly before Sophie had "eloped," so Lewrie could understand, in retrospect, that the tensions had already been treacle-thick, which had not improved Caroline's acceptance of his worries; as if any questions he had concerning their welfare was a criticism of Caroline's decision to board them away at an austere public school, or a suggestion that she did not fret over them as a Proper Mother ought!

Sir Hugo had, though, received Caroline's grumpy permission to call upon them on his way back to London, so…

"Imagine it, dear Alan. Up pops I, in full regimental fig, in the grandest equipage going, liveried coachee, postillion 'catch-fart,' and my trusty orderly, Trilochan Singh, in the Grand Parade uniform of our old 19th Native Infantry, silks, sash, tulwar, and turban" his father had described. We caused the most Devilish stir in the Populace as we clattered in and drew rein. Yet when I requested of the headmaster and his wife (a stout and termagant Batter-Booby) to see the lads, I was flatly Refused! Gaudy as we were, one would expect they'd have fallen on me like famished vultures, with an eye towards a lavish donation, and an annual Patronage, but no, not even that! They did not attempt Flattery, did not offer to dine me in or shew off the grounds, and, in point of fact, rather peremptorily wished me off the premises before they summoned a magistrate!

"Oh yes, says I? Indeed, say they. The school maintains a rigid rota from which the students are not to be taken. And what of their free time? I ask. They pray! I was rather brusquely told. What? your sire demanded, are they never allowed off the grounds to a sweet shop? Only under escort by instructors or proctors, says the grim wretch who rules that foul dungeon. A nastier place I never clapped eyes on, and I've seen Hindoo toilets, thankee very much!

"Determining that they were too Righteous to bribe, I cautioned them that I'd return before they could say 'knife,' with your, and my, solicitors, the Chief Justice to my old friend and patron the Lord-Lieutenant of Surrey, and a troop of Yeoman Cavalry, with whom to tear their Pile down round their ears, and clap them in Gaol under suspicion of Abuse of their wards, and it would be King's Bench for the both of them! I further threatened to coach back to Anglesgreen and fetch their Mother, and did they refuse her, I'd whistle up the troopers, and formal Justice bedamned," his father crowed in a "copper-plate" hand.

"And didn't Caroline look the place over first?" Lewrie griped as he got to his feet to fume and pace, deposing Toulon from his lap as if shedding a robe. "Damn my eyes, what was she thinkin'?"

"A gloomier tale never you've heard, Alan," his father went on. "They are, of course, being beaten. Were we not, all, caned in our own school days, and are now the better for it? Corporal punishment breaks intractably wild wills, and Civilises, but I fear that their treatment goes beyond the Instructive, or Necessary. Punishment is doled out for the slightest Infractions; for standing idle, for too much exuberance during their rare idle play hour, for the tiniest error in recitation, for chatting too loudly or happily at mealtimes! All this from adults, mind. What Sewallis and Hugh whisperingly told me passes twixt Elder Boys and their fags is quite another thing, quite exceeding the normal Abuse a New Boy should expect at his first school.

"My son, I strongly suspect that Torture, premeditated, brutal, and fiendish Cruelties are planned and executed nightly," his sire accused. And where are the Instructors, the Governess or Headmaster when such occurs, I ask you? The Academy is not so large, I fear, that they might lightly send down any or all Malefactors; indeed may dread ^suiting the moneyed parents of such little Monsters, or lose so many of the students that their so-called School becomes unprofitable. They already accept those deemed too difficult or thick-headed, the Dregs from other schools, the Dissolute, Incorrigible or High-Flown…"

" 'Tis a wonder I wasn't sent there, then," Lewrie muttered, dashing a hand cross his furrowed brow.

"Even more hellish, Alan, were your sons' tremulous Intimations that such Tortures and Cruelties are dealt out to those averse to submission to late-night Buggery by the older boys…" Sir Hugo wrote.

"Goddammit!" Lewrie yelped, hot to fly home that instant with a sword in hand, and deal out some "Jesus and the Moneychangers" justice on one and all! "My lads, oh my poor lads. What's Caroline put you into?"

"I coached back to Anglesgreen, instanter, once the lads' brief two hours of Liberty were done, and I was forced to deliver them back into that cess-pool of Corruption," his father wrote, "not without the severest warning to Headmaster Headmistress that, were my suspicions borne out, I would have the Law on them, and that Sewallis and Hugh are to be free to write whom they please, when they please, and write what they please. Had I the Authority, I would have snatched them out from that place at once, but, alas, in your absence that is up to Caroline. She was quite Perturbed by my sad relation of the boys' Condition. I fully expect her to do the Snatching. I also spoke with the Vicar at St. George's, cautioning him not to recommend that School to parents of local parish lads, and what the Devil was he thinking when he suggested it to Caroline? Are not Sewallis and Hugh mannerly and quick-witted students, in no need of such strict Chastisements to 'improve' their Wits or Behaviours? I left the old Gooseberry quaking in his slippers, let me tell you, in dread he was sponsoring Buggery. Passing through Guildford once more, I did call upon the Chief Justice and laid my suspicions with him, as well, so we may soon see the end of this so-called 'strict Christian' Academy, once an Enquiry has been begun.

"You must do your part, Alan, and quickly," his father stressed. "Write Caroline, urging her to remove the lads at once, and suggest I choose a better, this time, standing Stead for you whilst overseas on King's Business. Offer to pay fees, which I will cover, for I suspect I am more in the way of Money than you at sudden need. I did offer to stand for their Schooling, Hugh's entry into a good Regiment, and little Charlotte's Finishing, after all, do you not recall? Thence, write also to your solicitor, Mr. Matthew Mountjoy, in London, urging him to draw up a Writ on your behalf naming me as your Voice concerning the boys, strictly limited to the choice of school, and their support in lieu of your presence, of course, so Caroline can have no legitimate Objections to such an arrangement."

Yes, by God, he would, soon as he finished reading the rest of his father's letter.

"… matter which has grieved you since sailing, son," Sir Hugo continued, "is your lack of news from Sewallis and Hugh. Be sure that you stipulate to Mountjoy that the boys must write me, as well as their Mother, concerning their Progress and their Welfare, since I will be partially in loco parentis. In this way, the lads will be able to write Letters to you, addressed to me, and you will be able to direct your Correspondence to them, using my Panton St. address as a Subterfuge, ho!"

That opportunity, to circumvent his wife's spite and hear from his boys once more, was almost cheering enough to mollify his earlier anger at how they had, and might have been, abused!

Even more wondrous, his father further suggested that Caroline was now vulnerable. His final point was that too many things bore down upon her, her fear and shame that she had unwittingly exposed her sons to pain and bestiality, that she hadn't been a Good Mother! Even more vexing had been her wrathful split with Sophie (her unallayed suspicions notwithstanding!), and… her elderly mother Charlotte's health was failing.

It all made, Sir Hugo slyly hinted, the perfect opportunity for him to write her, no matter that Caroline had said she'd burn anything that came with his name on it, unread.

"There is no better time for a Wife to appreciate a Husband than when crushed by Adversity," his father coyly nudged, "when the Weaker Sex, all at sixes and sevens, find need to lean upon her Stalwart Man with his innate inner Strength, and in the face of shared Adversities, 'form square' shoulder to shoulder in wholehearted Mutual Defence of their Children and their Welfare.

"No matter how slender a Reed that husband be (and I think we both know how Irresolute and Inconstant we Willoughby/Lewrie men turn out to be, God help our trusting Womenfolk) it is their Nature to look to Men for aid. Dispirited as Caroline is this moment, do you intend a Reconciliation someday with your good wife, then strike whilst the iron is hot, using your utmost Subtlety! Nothing too abrupt or promising at first, mind. Cajole her, with no Recriminations for her Foolishness, with no sudden Vows or Wishes for Renewal. But then I very much doubt that you are in need of advice when it comes to cossetting the Fairer Sex, ho!"

"Oh yes, I do!" Lewrie bewilderedly confessed to his empty great-cabins, and his nettled cat. "Ev'ry man does. And did ye ever have any advice, why the Devil didn't ye share it when I needed it?"

He plumped down in his desk chair once more, exhausted by fear and anger, by outrage. How to pen that letter to Caroline, posing stern and capable, and "reliable and trustworthy," he couldn't even begin to conjure. It would be implausible to beg her forgiveness… and much too soon to do so, too. He could not chide her for a brainless chit for being gulled by the vicar's advice, either.

And when you came right down to it, did he wish to reconcile?

Hmmm…

He had to give that one a long think, turning his chair to face Caroline's portrait hanging in the dining-coach; done back when she was a newlywed in the Bahamas in '85 or '86. Dewy fresh and pretty, with her features unlined, but for the natural merry folds below her eyes; long, silken light brown hair worn long and missish under a wide-brim straw bonnet…

T'wasn't all looks, or beauty, though… And damn being a sailorman! He was gone for a year or two, sometimes an entire three years commission, and people and things never were the same as they were when he left. Children sprouted taller, into the most amazing creatures, totally alien to who they'd been before, as strange to him as feathered savages in the Great South Seas. Wives…

Had be been a landsman, even a tenant squire with even a modicum of ability to work a farm (or appear as if he even tried!) he knew things would have been different between them. There would have been no shock of rencontre, at the changes. They would not have mellowed apart, too "set in their ways" for coping with life as independent agents, but would have slowly, gradually adapted to each other, so that such changes never came as a security-shaking shock of recognition. They would have aged… together!

And, most importantly, living cheek-to-jowl with a goodly wife, standing "watch and watch" with a woman so sweet and intelligent, and compatible as Caroline, it was good chances he'd never have strayed.

Well, perhaps now and again, but 'twould've been rare. Really.

Lewrie was certain that Caroline was still more than enough for him as a mate; hadn't he deemed her perfect marriage material once he and she had re-met in England in '84, long before they'd wed? Before that anonymous scribbler had exposed his overseas doings, hadn't they proved their mutually pleasing compatibility after each separation and re-adjusted to each other, caught up? So happy and light-hearted, so easily sociable and teasing, so much of the same mind… wasn't she the same spriteiy but serious, level-headed but adoring girl he'd wed?

Reconcile? Aye, he did wish it!

Could he shed Theoni Connor, though, and their bastard son? Almost completely, yes, though he did owe her an obligation. But, was a complete break called for, then so be it. Theoni was well-off in her own right, with no need of his financial support, or wish to bruit her boy Alan James Connor in genteel society as a bastard.

He suspected, though, that as long as the war went on, and the Admiralty had need of him (despite their qualms), once reconciled, he would be right back at sea, years and thousands of miles gone, putting into strange… "harbours," as all true sailors did, sooner or later.

Could he actually amend his roguish ways?

Sadly, he rather doubted it; or doubted such a vow surviving an entire year, unless he spent his time completely out of sight of land. He knew by then his own nature… and a lewd'un, it was, he was man enough to confess… to himself, at the least.

He eyed the larger stack of letters, all from Theoni. No! His solicitor, and Caroline, now took precedence. He scooted his chair up to the desk and stretched for paper, quill, and inkwell.

Mountjoy, then the boys, then lastly that vital epistle to Caroline. Well, to his father, thirdly, to give thanks for his ministrations and advice. Which thought gave him shivers! Caroline, last.

"Gawd," he said with a wondering sigh. "All this, and Choundas, too. Well, just thankee Jesus for all this bounty."