The French Admiral Read online

  “No, I’ll not turn a lone midshipman loose on the town,” Cheatham said after mulling that offer over. “Where I suspect he’s going, there are lower elements, and you’re a stout enough buck to keep him safe. And sometimes show enough sense to avoid bad situations. Even if our captain . . . well.” Cheatham might have said more regarding their lord and master’s puritanical streak, his sudden aversion to Lewrie that no one had yet found a reason for, but that would have been open insubordination about the officer appointed by the Crown over every aspect of their lives. It also would have been injurious to good discipline, especially said in front of the hands who were now working up a ruddy sweat at the oars.

  “I’ll not let him come to harm, sir,” Alan said sincerely, “or get anyone in trouble. My word on it, sir.”

  “Very well,” Cheatham said.

  • • •

  It had all, indeed, begun innocently enough, like most things that Alan Lewrie had gotten into. They had climbed to the wharf at the tip of the town’s battery, and had made their way to a public house for a pint or two of cool ale. While there, they had discovered the location of the best house that could offer a good meal, had repaired to an establishment named by the publican and had eaten a magnificent dinner such as they had not seen in weeks.

  They shared a middling-sized beef steak that came sizzling from the grill on a pewter platter, split a roast chicken between them, crammed themselves with piping hot local bread made of corn meal and dripping with fresh butter, and had imbibed a bottle each of sinfully good wine, which being a rarity in the Carolinas, was also sinfully expensive. To clear their heads of wine fumes for the main activities of the leave, they had finished off with fresh-made pie and coffee.

  “Anythin’ else, suhs?” the waiter asked them, bringing a second pot of coffee. “A pipe fer ya?”

  “Not for me,” Avery said, wondering what a well set up fellow of approximately their own age was doing not in King’s uniform.

  “Where would one find some sport at this time of day?” Alan asked, opening the face of his silver and gold damascened pocket watch.

  “Ya’ll want sportin’ ladies, ah take it?” the waiter leered, hoping for a better tip. To their nodded assents, he went on, “This time o’ day, most the good houses is closed, suhs. But they’s some guhls ah know jus’ down from the country that’re . . . obligin’ sorts,” he said, tipping them with a wink.

  “Last time I was here I went to a place called Maude’s,” Avery said with his best man-of-the-world air, or a good attempt at one.

  “Army moved onta Wilmin’ton, so did Maude’s, suh,” the waiter told them.

  “Mother Lil’s?” Alan asked, remembering his earlier adventure.

  “Got ruint, suh. Parish didn’t lahk ’em makin’ such a row ever’ naght. Patrols busted ’em up. Ain’t been the same since.”

  “We could always fall back on your widows, Alan,” David said.

  “Not if we have to be back at the end of the first dog,” Lewrie said. “That might do for me, but not for you. Had we several days, an introduction might do you good, but not for such a short acquaintance.”

  “Lady Jane’s, suh,” the waiter said with a knowing leer.

  “I mind a Lady Jane’s that used to be in Savannah,” Alan said, after thinking back on the gossip he had dredged up in his last visit.

  “Tha’s the one, suh. Got a nahce li’l place up the Cooper bank, lotsa pretty young guhls. Two ah toldja ’bout works there. You tell ’em Mayhew said ’twas alright, they treat yuh special, seein’ it’s yer birthday an’all.”

  They decided on the place, paid the bill, and left Mayhew a shilling for his information and directions. Once out on the bustling street, they had to stick to the shade to avoid the direct heat of the sun, which was as fierce as any latitude they had left. They found the house.

  “I don’t know, Alan,” David said, mopping his streaming face with a handkerchief. The house was far away from the main town environs on the banks of the Cooper River, a planter’s mansion gone to seed from the early days of the colony, now surrounded by ramshackle warehouses, empty piers, and scabrous cottages and shacks crammed together any old how. The yard was overgrown with weeds and once-trimmed plantings gone riot in the sultry climate. The house itself needed some porch repairs and a good coat of paint.

  “Well, it’s not Drury Lane,” Alan said, noticing how commercial the neighborhood looked, and also how quiet and abandoned in the worst heat of the day. “But then it’s not Seven Dials, either. It’s your birthday, David. Mayhap there’s other places further back in town, but the closer we get to the port, the more the chance for the pox.”

  “Well, we could knock,” David said, “and if we don’t like what we see, we can leave.”

  “Amen to that,” Alan said. “If nothing else, we can get something cool to drink. I feel ruddy as a roasting pan.”

  They went up onto the porch, plied the heavy door knocker, and half a minute later the door was opened by a large black houseservant.

  “Lady Jane’s?” Alan asked, when it was evident that Avery’s tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth at the sight of the man and his bulk.

  “It is, suhs. Yo early. Come on in, why doncha?” the black servant said in a menacing deep voice. “Ah’ll fetch the miz’ress.”

  “Well . . .” David said, hesitating still.

  “Y’all kin have sumpun’ cool whal ya waits, suhs,” the man offered, opening the door fully and waving an arm toward the interior.

  That decided Alan, at any rate. He stepped through the doors into the dim coolness of the house, shut up against the searing heat of the day. It had a musty smell, as all closed houses do, overlaid with a redolence of perfume and drinks spilled in the dim past, the faint scent of bedchambers used for sport so long that the sweat and the juices had clung to the wallpaper and drapes. Smells like a bawdy house, alright, he told himself.

  David followed him in, and they were steered into a receiving salon to the right, a room of more than usual seediness. The furnishings were worn and rickety, the walls stained by rain or seepage, and the paint peeling in places. The thread-bare velvet drapes were closed tight against the light of day, and a table candelabra burned, livening the gloom and attempting to hide the shabbiness with a romantic aura.

  “Ah ’spec yo young gemmuns cayah fo some wine whal yo waits,” the black man said from the doors, and disappeared into the hallway, leaving them to their own thoughts.

  “What will the tariff be, do you expect?” David asked, removing his cocked hat and fanning himself with it, eyeing a place to sit but not trusting the snowy whiteness of his breeches seat to the dubious condition of the upholstery.

  “Nothing near a duke’s ransom, I’d expect.” Alan laughed. “Still, we have six candles burning in midday, and good beeswax, too, not country-made tallow dips. Must do a damned good trade here.”

  “But not over a crown?” David asked, fingering his purse.

  “I sincerely doubt it. Here now, we split our meal, but it is your birthday after all. Let this be my treat,” Alan offered.

  “Done,” David said quickly, which dispelled all his doubts of the establishment. “Like Tom Jones of fiction, you show a generosity of spirit.”

  “But get into more mischief,” Alan said.

  Their hostess appeared at that moment, an older woman crowned by a pale blue wig adorned with false flowers and effigies of songbirds, her face boldly painted white, as was fashionable in years past. One cheek sported a large beauty mark, and her lips glistened with red paste. She was dressed in a morning gown in contrast to the care with which she had attended her toilet.

  “Young genl’men, ah swear y’all took me unawares, callin’ so early, ” she gushed, sweeping into the room in grand, fluttery style. “How good o’ y’all ta think o’ mah humble li’l establissement. ”

  “You are Lady Jane?” Alan asked, bending deep in a bow before taking her hand and bestowing a kiss. “A young man named May
hew made us aware of your services as we were dining.”

  “Such a darlin’ boy, as are y’all, o’ course,” she said in reply. “Do be seated now an’ take yore ease. Mose shall fetch us some . . . oh, here he is as ah speak. Do have some wine with me, though ’tis early in the day for mah usual practice.”

  The servant had donned a red coat tailored from some cast-off army uniform but now sewn into civilian splendor with many brass buttons and gilt appliqués suitable for livery. He set down a tarnished silver tray on the table between them and uncorked a bottle of hock, which he poured into three glasses that at least looked reasonably clean.

  “An’ y’all’re from the harbor garrison, mah dears?” she asked.

  “Off a frigate, ma’am,” David answered, a bit shy still.

  “An’ just in from a deprivin’ spell o’ sea duty.” She smiled.

  “Aye, ma’am,” Alan said, sipping his wine. It wasn’t what he’d put on his own table, a little acrid on the tongue, but still potable. Seeing that David was shy, he led off by introducing themselves, told the mistress that it was David’s birthday. “So you see the reason for our visit, Lady Jane. Mother Abbess, we come for sport.”

  “An’ how old would ya be on this August day, David Avery?” Lady Jane asked, making a jape as to the date and the month.

  “Seventeen, ma’am,” David said.

  “La, ta be that young again,” Lady Jane said. “Ah b’lieve ah have just the girl for you. Of a good family from up-country, cruelly orphaned bah Rebels. She is new ta our callin’, so ya will be gentle with her, ah trust, young sir?”

  “Oh, indeed, ma’am,” David gulped.

  “An’ fer you, Mister Lewrie?” the abbess asked. “What sort o’ girl excites yer humors? Or shall ah just ask mah ladies ta come down an’ join us so you can make yer selection? Ah only have the five at present, but ah kin assure you they are all above average in comeliness, an’ none so jaded nor low-bred as ta displease the most discernin’ taste.”

  “Aye, fetch ’em down,” Alan said, shifting on the settee.

  Lady Jane tinkled a bell on the table and, minutes later, a bevy of young women entered the room in morning gowns thin enough to exhibit charms that could be theirs for a fee. David was paired with a young girl named Della, a petite blonde who indeed seemed a homeless waif—fortunately a most womanly young waif. They sat down together and Mose fetched more glasses. Alan looked over the rest of the party and settled on a brunette with a sleepily sultry expression and long, slim limbs.

  “Ah urge y’all ta linger over yore pleasures,” Lady Jane said as the rejected girls went back to their rooms. “We us’lly ask a guinea for mah ladies, but . . . since this is such a slow day for trade, and David’s birthday, let us say . . . ten shillings each? Plus whatever gratitude ya may wish t’extend t’mah darlin’s here?”

  “And the wine?” Alan asked, having been caught by hidden additions to the tariff in his past experience with knocking shops in London.

  “Say a bottle each, another two shillin’s, mah dears.”

  “My treat,” Alan said, laying out two crown pieces on the table.

  “Take joy, mah dears,” Lady Jane said, sweeping up the money and rising. “Ah shall have Mose fetch yore wines. If there is anythin’ else y’all require, ya have but ta ring.”

  Alan was led to a small bedroom over the house’s side porch that had a balcony of its own. The windows were open for a breeze and the gauzy drapes stirred in a soft river wind. Once in the room he shucked his coat and removed his neck-cloth. His girl, named Bess, came to him and kissed him gently, playing the innocent at first, but warmed up quickly when he embraced her and began to fondle her firm buttocks and hips. The servant arrived with a bottle and two glasses, interrupting them. Alan almost kicked him out the door and shut it.

  Bess poured them each a glass of hock, then arranged herself on the narrow bed, parting her morning gown to reveal splendid legs.

  “Ya been long in the King’s Navy?” she asked as he undressed.

  “Too damned long,” he laughed, removing his waistcoat. “You been long with this Lady Jane?”

  “Too damn’ long,” the girl smiled back with honest amusement.

  “I’m off a frigate,” he told her as he kicked off his shoes and began to undo his breeches. “The Desperate, twenty guns, just put into port this morning,” he went on, intent on his prize lolling on the sheets. Once in his birthday suit, he slipped into bed beside her and they embraced once more, and she began to moan expertly at his touches, shamming high passion at once, “Oh, mah chuck, oh, ya make me tangle all over.”

  “Here, how long do we have?” Alan asked.

  “This ain’t no hop-about place,” Bess said throatily as he kissed her shoulders and neck. “No rush, ah reckon. What tahm hit be?”

  “Just after one,” Alan said. “We have to leave by five.”

  “Well, we kin have hours t’gether, then,” she groaned, pawing at him as though she was trying to save herself from drowning. “Mos’ men don’t come hyuh ’til way after dark, hit bein’ so hot an’ all.”

  “Then let’s not play as if we’re on the clock,” Alan said, undoing the last lacings to her bodice. “Let’s spend our hours together trying to please each other, instead of all this sham.”

  Bess smiled up at him, broke off her acting and gave him a hug which almost resembled fondness. She rolled over to fetch their wine.

  “Ah thank ahm gonna lahk ya, Alan,” she said. “Hyuh, have a drank. Le’s do take ouh tahm. Hit happens sa seldom.”

  After that, Bess was pleasantly exuberant in bed, eschewing the normal bawd’s loud performance that could not be credited. She was only seventeen, she told him as they fondled and nestled in postcoital ease, once a virgin in the Piedmont but ruined by soldiers from both sides in the partisan fighting, left behind when her last lover marched off to Wilmington. Whether true or not, Alan found it a better-than-average whore’s tale.

  Other than whoring, she had no trade skills and no regard for the usual servant’s or washerwoman’s wages. The work was easy, the money she got to keep was good, and Lady Jane took care of all her needs. She did not cry penury or guilt like most of the sorrowful stories Alan had heard from rented quim, and seemed content and blasé with the life, as long as her beauty and health lasted.

  “And what will you do when you’re older?” Alan asked her as he stretched naked beside her after another bout.

  “Take me passage ta London an’ open a house o’ my own, ah reckon,” she said with a smirk. “Bigges’ city ah ever seed was Chawlst’n, but ah’d admire ta see London.”

  Alan described his former life and all the pleasures of the world’s greatest city, which delighted her. In the process he touched on why he had been banished to the Navy, and under further careful coaching he bragged on what he had seen and done in the Indies.

  “But whut brought ya hyuh ta the Caralinas?” she prodded.

  “Going north to New York,” Alan said without thinking. “There is a French fleet on the loose under an Admiral de Grasse. We took a Frog merchantman two weeks ago and found out what they’re up to in the Chesapeake or the Delaware, and we’re going to find them and stop them. It was me that found the letters from de Grasse to Rochambeau and Washington.”

  “Jus’ one li’l frigate’s gonna stop ’em?” she teased fetchingly.

  “Whole damn’ Leeward Islands fleet,” Alan boasted. “Ships up from Saint Lucia, too. Fourteen sail of the line. Would have been more, but Rodney took his treasure fleet home and took three ships with him. It’s going to be one hell of a fight when we meet up with those Frogs.”

  “Ya thank that’ll end the fightin’?” she asked. “Six month ago, ah’d’ve been glad ta see people stop akillin’ each other. Nouh, all ya sailors’ll go back ta England an’ the troops, too. That’ll be bad for business. Pooh, ah’ll never save up enough ta get ta London.”

  “But with peace, Charlestown will be bustling again, and there
still will be a garrison,” Alan said, accepting another glass of the wine. It was beginning to taste pleasant, too pleasant, and he vowed to make it his last until the stirrup cup at the door, or they would go back aboard half foxed and Treghues would be furious. “I wager you could get five guineas for your services and go home rich as Moll Flanders.”

  “Jus’ as long as ah don’t never have ta go back ta the Piedmont,” she said, growing a little sad. She snuggled up closer beside him to throw a leg over and hug him close. “God, hit wuz horrible up there.”

  Here comes the sympathy plea, Alan thought sourly. Never knew a whore yet who wouldn’t try to weep you out of more money.

  “I’ve heard tales about how partisan the fighting was.”

  “Not jus’ the fightin’, Alan,” she said into his shoulder. “Iver been upta the back country?”

  “No.”

  “Hit’s this rebellion,” she said. “Won’t leave nobody alone. Ya gotta be fer one side er t’other nouh. Neighbors turnin’ agin each other, burnin’ each other out fer spaht. Rebels aburnin’ out Tories, Tories raidin’ Rebels, the Regulators runnin’ round makin’ people choose the Rebels’re die. An’ when they fight, they don’t take prisoners no more. Maybe some o’ the reg’lar troops still do, but mosta the militia on both sides jus’ shoot ’em all. Iver hear tell o’ Tarleton’s Quarter?”

  “I’ve barely heard of this Tarleton. Cavalry, isn’t he?” Alan sighed, shifting to a more comfortable position in the sticky heat.

  “They wuz a fight at Waxhaws, an’ Tarleton had ’em beat, an’ the Rebels raised white flags fer quarter, but the Legion tore ’em apart anyways and kilt most of ’em. After that, the Rebels started doin’ the same. Hit’s been Tidewater people agin Piedmont, Rebel or Tory, rich agin pore, Regulators agin King’s men—nobody’s safe no more up thar. When Clinton took Chawlst’n last year, hit seemed the safest place. We wuz taggin’ with the Legion, me an’ Momma. Come hyuh where we could be safe, an’ be took keer of lahk real ladies, not Piedmont hill trash. Cayn’t blame me fer wantin’ that, nouh kin ya, ner wantin’ away from all that warrin’?”