CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Good morning, Captain Lewrie," the day porter greeted him as he entered the club the next morning, giving him a chary, cutty-eyed look as he took his things to hang up. "Breakfast will be served the top of the hour, sir… there's to be pork chops and smoked mullet, fresh up from Sheerness."

"Umph" was Lewrie's sleepy comment. "Thankee."

"Coffee or tea in the Common Room, sir," the porter advised, to a man who looked badly in need of either.

"Morning, all," Lewrie nodded to his fellow lodgers gathered by the table of pots, cups, and saucers. "Mister Giles, Major Baird… Mister Pilkington… Showalter."

Pilkington was the club's Cassandra, sure that Trade would end, and the economy go smash, due to this Baltic business; Showalter was still angling for a seat in Commons, next by-election on his home hustings, and courting monied supporters like a street-walker; Mr. Giles was hellish-devout, and big in the leather-goods trade and tanneries, whilst Major Baird, their "chicken-nabob" come back from India with a fortune of at least Ј50,000, was still searching for a suitably proper wife… or oral sex in the loge boxes at the theatres.

Yet all eyed him as charily as they would a naked drunk at the altar of the local parish church. Know too damned much about my business, Lewrie thought with a wince and a sigh; and where I was, damn 'em. There were some askance glances, some whispers and mutterings, making Lewrie wonder were his breeches buttons done up proper, or was a used cundum dangling from a coat pocket.

Frankly, it had been a damned sad night. Tess had noticed his moodiness and tetchiness, and had tried to jolly him out of it…'til she'd learned the reason for his detachment.

She'd sat up in bed, a quilt and the coverlet wrapped round her, and her arms about her knees, with a pensive look on her pretty face.

"Ye'll not come t'me no longer, Alan me dear?" she'd said with a hitch in her voice, and a swipe at her eyes with a fist. "Sure, am I too expensive? Is that it?"

"No, Tess, it's not the money… though I'm not a rich man, not really," he'd tried to explain, practically curled up around her, with all the pillows under his shoulders and head.

"That dark-haired girl ye were with, then? D'ye wish ya were with her, the more?"

"Not if I wish t'live!" he'd said with a wry laugh, explaining Eudoxia Durschenko… and her fierce father. "There's no one else I wish t'be with… ye know I'm married, no matter how badly that has turned out. She and I…'tis distant, now. Might improve…?"

"Dear man, 'tis rare, the single man who comes here," Tess said with a wry look and a toss of her hair, a stab at a smile before she turned pensive again. "I know how men are… how well I know, and how the world is. I just hoped… '' She broke off and lowered her head to her knees, shielding her face with the spill of her hair.

"That I could take you under my protection?" Lewrie softly asked, reaching out to stroke her head. In answer, she looked up for a second and jerkily nodded yes, before burying her face again.

"There's a fellow, though…," Lewrie had posed. "The slim man with me in the coffee-house? Peter Rushton, Lord Draywick. He's rich as Croesus, and… he asked about you. I don't know." Lewrie sighed and shrugged lamely. "Really rich. Mad t'find where you were. Devil take me, but… I told him. He's very amusing."

"He ain't you!" she'd whispered, her urge to cry out muffled, and a bit sniffly, as if she wept.

"But he could get you out of here, Tess… with grand lodgings of your own. But the one fool t'deal with, not…," Lewrie told her.

"Hmph!" was her comment on that.

"Did I have it in my power… was I free t'do so, I'd get you out of here," he swore. "And… not just t'have you to myself."

"Ye really care that much about me?" she'd asked, lifting her head, brushing back her hair, and swiping her eyes free of tears once again. "Aye, I do wish someone would, sure. 'Tis not the life they promised back in Belfast."

"Some procurer?" Lewrie had asked.

"I got in a speck o' trouble," Tess said, sitting upright, and smoothing the coverlet over her thighs. "We weren't shanty-poor, like most in Ireland… but, poor enough for all th' children t'know they must make their own way, soon as they could." Another wry smile, or a rueful quick twist of her mouth that could pass for one. "Mum an' Da was just scrapin' by, an' without th' rest of us workin' and sendin' 'em sixpence th' month, they'd haveta sell their loom an' go on th' road, beggin'. Got me a place, a good'un, I thought, tattin' lace… I'm clever with me hands, d'ye see, an' quick. And Mum an' Da taught me readin' an' cypherin', so I had me numbers, an' that's why I thought th' feller who run th' shop moved me up. I was makin' ten shillin's a month, an' sixpence sent home was no bother a'tall! An' that with me room an' board all found. 'Til th' feller who run it, well… ye can guess why he paid me so well."

"How old were you, then?" Lewrie had asked, dreading her answer.

"Fifteen," Tess said with a slight sniff and a shrug. "Before, I was workin' th' looms with Mum an' Da, but where we'd get enough to eat, all of us t'gither, was th' problem, so I had t'go out on me own. Like th' poor pig farmer'd say when th' corn runs short… 'root, hog, or die,' d'ye see," she said with a mirthless little laugh.

"How long ago was that?" He had his fingers crossed.

"Two year ago," Tess told him. "Th' feller promised more pay, an' he come through with a bit of it, an'… he wasn't that bad a man. 'Twas his son was th' real devil, him an' his friend, brought in t'manage, who took advantage of th' fetchin' girls in th' shop, an' when his father lost int'rest in me for a new-come, that was when it got bad on me, an' I schemed t'git outta there. That's when I got in th' trouble."

So she's seventeen, round the age when a lot of poorer girls get married, Lewrie thought with a sense of relief. He put an arm out to her, and she gratefully slid into his embrace, cuddled up next to him. "What sort of trouble?" he asked.

"What sorta trouble ya think a girl gets into, with two randy lads takin' turns with her, 'bout ev'ry night?" Tess scoffed, sounding bitter, and a bit amazed by his seeming naпvetй. "I caught a baby an' was gonna be turned out with nothin' but me wages paid 'til the end of the week, so… I dipped into th' cash-box, an' I run t'Belfast where I didn't think they'd find me."

"The babe?" Lewrie pressed, stroking her back.

"No one'd hire a pregnant girl, an' th' parish churches were no help, either," Tess continued, ignoring his question. "Just wanted me t'move along t'th' next'un, so I wouldn't be a burden on their Poor's Rate. Finally…'bout the time all me money's gone, an' I hadn't et in nigh a week, I met this flash feller, who promised he'd take care o' me… did I let him fetch me t'London, where he promised me th' Moon, do I go on doin' what I'd been a'doin' fer tuppence. 'Til I begun to show too much, that is," she frankly admitted, with a wry moue. "Got me a mid-wife, he did, but I never saw it, th' day after. He swore he put it in th' mercy box in th' door of a parish church, but… next thing I know, he's sold me t'Missuz Batson."

"Sold you?" Lewrie gawped.

"Feller'd spent a lot on me keepin', an' th' birthin' an' all," Tess pointed out. "Then there's what she spent on me, all the dresses an' such t'get me started… hairdressers an' makeup, an' teachin' me t'speak right an' be charmin'?" Tess had said with a grin, as if it was the accepted way of the world. "Don't rightly know how much she paid him, but she says I've worked it off, an' only have her now t'repay.

"I've even laid a little by for meself," she'd naпvely boasted, "an' sent a little t'Mum an' Da, like before. And sent them bastards at th' lace-works all o' what I stole, so they can't have me took up, can they? Mean t'say, I've made rec… recompense. 'Twas more than ten shillin's, an' they hang people who steal that much. In th' main, I'm doin' alright." Tess had decided.

"For now, but…'tis a hard life," Lewrie had commiserated.

"Nary so bad as most," Tess had said with a little chuckle as she'd snuggled closer to him. "Did I come t'London, just another poor girl, I'd'a ended a maid'r tavern girl, not makin' ten pound a year, an' maybe gettin' room, board, an' one gown an' pair o' shoes at Boxin' Day… an' still be took advantage of, for nothin'… a shillin' at best!" Tess had said with a derisive snort. "No, Mother Batson's is a good place, for now. Soon as I pay back what she spent on me, I'm to get a third o' me earnin's all for meself, she says! Then I can come an' go as I please, maybe get a place o' me own… without dependin' on a feller like yer Lord Draywick, nor any man."

"And do what?" Lewrie had asked her.

"Why, th' same as I do now," Tess had declared, looking up at him askance, as if he was daft, giggling a bit. " 'Til I've raked me up a pile o' 'tin' t'invest in th' Three Percents. Who knows? I could remove t'another town an' open a ladies' shop o' some sort, and turn respectable as anythin'. Find me a decent feller… a clerk or a farmer, an' might even marry. Someplace where no one'll know what I did, before."

"So… even though you don't like the life, and do want to get out of here… you'll stay with it?" Lewrie further asked, confused by her initial sadness, then her blunt acceptance.

"What else is a poor lass t'do, Captain Alan? Tess had countered. "It's not that hard a life, though it's a hard world," she'd said in conclusion, then had groped under the covers to stroke his nudity. "Well, if I can't convince ye t'take me under yer protection, there's th' rest o' th' night left us. If you're int'rested, o' course…," she'd coyly whispered. "Do I not see ya again, I'd wish a last grand night t'remember ya by, ya darlin', impressive man…"

"Oh, darlin', ye're own self," Lewrie had responded, passion rekindled in an eyeblink, hands caressing, lips kissing from her neck to…

"Seen the papers, Captain Lewrie?" ex-Major Baird enquired as he sidled up to get a refill of hot tea. "Thought they might be of interest to you."

"Uhm?" Lewrie replied, snatched from his sad reverie.

"The dockyards… the Navy dockyard workers," Baird chortled. "They had the nerve to send a delegation to town, demanding their pay be doubled, and Lord Saint Vincent sacked the lot of them, yesterday."

"Well, damn my eyes!" Lewrie exclaimed (rather a bit too loudly for the "Respectable" waiting for breakfast). "He said something like that would be his reaction. Good for 'Old Jarvy'!"

"Sent out orders for anyone who contributed to their trip, and anyone who joined in what he termed illegal combinations to be sacked, as well. The gall of the greedy… to threaten to walk out, just as our Navy is faced with another threat. Well, they got what they deserved."

"Hear, hear!" Lewrie heartily agreed.

"Ahem… gentlemen," the head butler intoned at the doors to the dining room, "breakfast is served."

"You spoke with Lord Saint Vincent?" ex-Major Baird enquired as they queued up to file in and take seats.

"A few days ago… looking for a ship," Lewrie told him, taking a bit of joy to be known among the powerful. "I was at the battle back in '97. Followed Nelson when he countered the Spanish van, and met Admiral Jervis, after. At least he remembered me, but nought was promised. We'll see. Ah, mullet kippers!"

He was famished, for he and Tess had fallen asleep just a bit after midnight, and had not sent down for their usual cold collation. A pork chop, a couple of kippers, two slices of fatty and crisp bacon, with two fried eggs and a heap of fried diced potatoes, and even the brown bread was cut two fingers thick, and nicely, crunchily toasted, wanting only slavers of butter and currant jam.

Didn't even linger for coffee or tea when I left, Lewrie thought with a guilty wince at his cowardice. All that had needed to be said had been said; had he found a way to slip out before she woke, he just might have, but…

"Excuse me, sirs… uhm, Captain Lewrie," the day porter said in a soft voice, leaning close to his chair, "you've a letter from Admiralty, Captain Lewrie, and there's a messenger awaiting your reply."

Ho… ly shit! Lewrie thought with a start, and a sudden flood of warmth; And just thankee Jesus!

"You gentlemen will excuse me?" Lewrie said, tossing aside his napkin and sliding his chair back. Frankly, it felt rather good for the other lodgers to goggle at him and speculate in muted whispers as he stepped out into the central hall, and broke the wax seal upon the creamy bond paper, and read it.

Sir,

You are required and directed to report to Admiralty as soon as possible following receipt of this letter, here to declare your immediate availabilty to take upon yourself the charge and command of His Majesty's Frigate, Thermopylae, now lying at Great Yarmouth. A brief written response pursuant to your acceptance of this posting, returned to us by Admiralty Messenger, should precede you. I am, sir,

Sir Evan Nepean,

1st Secty to Admiralty

"You're bloody-damned right I will!" Lewrie whooped with glee, practically bounding for the front desk, and the spare pen and ink. A quick scribbled "Yes!" and a glance towards the young messenger who stood with his hand out, and Lewrie was headed for the cellar stairs, where he hoped Liam Desmond and Patrick Furfy were loafing.

"There ye are, my lads!" he cried, spotting them both chummily seated near the warm cooking fireplace and griddle stoves, devouring their own breakfasts with gusto. Furfy froze with a length of kipper in his mouth. "Round up all my chests from the storage down here, and the garret, and see I've all the keys handy. We've got a ship!"

"Huzzah!" Desmond shouted. "D'ye hear, Pat? We're goin' back t'sea, and about time, too!"

"I'll go dress, and be back in a few hours," Lewrie quickly told them. "Before nightfall, there'll be a power o' shoppin' to do, so you two look lively now!"

"Wot's 'er name, sir?" Furfy called to his captain's back as Lewrie hustled back up the cellar stairs.

"Thermopylae!" Lewrie shouted over his shoulder. "A frigate!"

"Wot'sorta name's Therm… whativer, Liam?" Furfy asked his compatriot once Captain Lewrie had gone.

"Why, ye great, ignorant spalpeen," Desmond chid him as he cut two slices of bread for a last fatty-bacon sandwich, " 'twas a famous battle from long ago, or a famous admiral o' some sort o' th' Greeks or Romans. Iver hear th' English name a ship fer anythin' else? Get a move on, Pat… lash up an' stow, me lad, for sure as God made th' green apples fer a good purge, we're off t'th' Baltic with all o' th' others!"

"Gonna fight th' heathen Roosians, arrah!"

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