Reefs and Shoals Read online

  “After that bastard, you’d be right t’suspect,” Lewrie allowed. “Said it yourself, though … I’m so easily pleased,” he japed.

  It’ll be like bein’ married to a parson’s daughter, he thought with a well-stifled groan; and goodbye to fellatio forever!

  For all the innuendos and charges laid during Lydia’s two years of waiting for Parliament to grant her divorce, and what a scandalous bawd she’d been painted, she was surprisingly shy and “conventional”. He could only caress, stroke, and kiss so low down her belly, then no further. She might slide atop him and “ride St. George’s lance” now and again, but anything more outré was right out.

  It was not that Lewrie was a devotee of the outré, but now and then some rare variety, some surprise, was pleasing, he’d found.

  That’s why men keep mistresses, or go to brothels, he thought with a secret grin.

  “Yes, let’s … what do sailors call a nap?” Lydia agreed.

  “They ‘caulk off’, take a ‘caulk’,” Lewrie softly whispered. “Do two sailors board a coach, one’ll ask the other does he prefer to ‘caulk or yarn’: nap or trade stories.”

  “Caulk or yarn, sir?” Lydia asked with an impish tone.

  “Caulk,” Lewrie said with a chuckle.

  Dodged another bullet, Lewrie congratulated himself after some minutes, when her breath against his chest became slow and regular, right at the edge of sleep himself; Ye cheated death, again!

  CHAPTER TWO

  The old George Inn did set the best table that Lewrie knew of in Portsmouth, which made it the favourite destination for those Navy officers who could afford to dine or lodge there, and their mid-day meal was no exception. After a good two-hour nap, a slow and languourous awakening with much snuggling, caressing, fond mutual regardings—and a delightful if conventional bout of lovemaking—Lewrie and Lydia had risen, dressed, and come down to the dining rooms, he with his sash and star of a Knight of the Bath, at her insistence, to dine.

  Hopes for a good salad in mid-winter were moot, but there was a hearty and hot tarragon chicken soup, followed by servings of haddock in lemon and drawn butter, then a course of sliced roast beef, all with roast potatoes and peas, sloshed down with glasses of Rhenish and one shared bottle of claret. Lewrie went for pound cake with cream and raspberry jam, whilst Lydia settled for sweet biscuits and coffee. She was a light diner, Lewrie had noted before, always leaving portions of her dishes un-eaten, and ordering only a few items, not the usual ritual of fish-fowl-swine-roast beef or beefsteak that could take hours to put away. “But I’ve always had a light appetite,” she had explained once, and to Lewrie’s cocked brow when she’d passed on cheese and nuts this time, she leaned over to put her head close to his and said, “You must know, Alan, that I am so easily pleased,” which made the both of them laugh, no matter who else dined with them, or what they thought of their intimate moment.

  “More coffee, sir?” a servant asked.

  “Aye,” Lewrie agreed.

  There was a bustle in the entrance hall as someone new arrived, accompanied by a blast of cold air. It was a Navy officer, a Lieutenant in his early thirties, and a pleasant-enough looking young woman with him, both swaddled in travelling cloaks. Behind them came a civilian servant bearing the woman’s luggage, and a sailor loaded down with the Lieutenant’s. Once the door was shut against the snow, they shucked their cloaks and embraced.

  “A fond reunion, do you imagine?” Lydia asked him.

  “Seems so,” Lewrie agreed. “Hell’s Bells!”

  “Do you know him?” Lydia asked him.

  “No, but his man,” Lewrie told her, plucking his napkin from his lap and dabbing his mouth, ready to rise. “He’s off Aeneas, my son’s ship!” he quickly explained.

  Atop the sailor’s head was a wide-brimmed and low-crowned flat tarred hat with a long black ribbon band trailing down his coat collar. Painted in white lettering on the front of the hat was his ship’s name.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” Lewrie pled, getting to his feet and going to the opened double doors from the dining room to the entrance hall.

  The Lieutenant and his lady—revealed to be husband and wife, once their gloves were off and their wedding bands in plain sight—were lost in joy to be re-united, oblivious.

  “My pardons, sir,” Lewrie began. “Ahem…”

  The young wife spotted him and inclined her head to direct her husband’s attention from rapt adoration.

  “Captain Alan Lewrie, sir. Hope you’ll forgive me for intruding on your moment, but you are off the Aeneas seventy-four, Captain Benjamin Rodgers?”

  “Aye, I am, sir. Allow me to name myself to you, Captain. I am Robert Stiles. My wife, Judith,” the officer replied. She dropped a passable curtsy. “We came in just yesterday afternoon, from the Brest blockade. Do you know Captain Rodgers, sir?”

  “Happy t’make your acquaintance, Mister Stiles, Mistress Stiles. Captain Rodgers and I are old friends, but more to the point is the fact that my son Sewallis, is one of your Midshipmen.”

  “Oh, Mister Lewrie, aye!” Lt. Stiles said in a gush, laughing. “Forgive me for not making the connexion at once, sir. He’s one of ours, right enough, right Carter?” he said to the sailor who’d borne his shore-going traps.

  “An’ a fine gennulman ’e be, sir, is Mister Lewrie,” the sailor assured him. “As smart as paint,” he added with a grin and wink.

  “Glad t’hear it,” Lewrie said, a bit relieved. “I’ll attempt to get in touch with Captain Rodgers, at once, treat him to a shore supper, perhaps go aboard to see Sewallis. Thankee, Mister Stiles, and I apologise again for interrupting you and your wife. My very best wishes for a long and joyous stay in port!”

  * * *

  “The officer is from your son’s ship?” Lydia asked once he was seated with her again, and getting a warm-up of his coffee.

  “Aye, he is,” Lewrie happily told her. “God, I haven’t seen Sewallis since May of 1803, and damned few letters from him in the meantime. Haven’t seen Benjamin Rodgers, his captain, in a dog’s age, either! The Adriatic, in ’96!” I must buy him at least one supper, with lashings of champagne, and hang the cost. He’s mad for the stuff. Won’t sail without a dozen dozen bottles in his lazarette store, ha ha!”

  “And treat your son to something better than salt meats, too?” Lydia asked, looking a touch sombre.

  “Of course!” Lewrie declared, his head full of plans.

  “Captain Rodgers knew you early on, I think you said. When … when your wife was alive,” Lydia continued, fiddling nervously with a coffee spoon. “Perhaps I should not be present when … if they’ve kept up with the papers. I might bring bad feelings.…”

  He peered at her gravely, taking a long breath, then reached to take her free hand. “Lydia, I don’t give a damn what they’ve read or what they’ve heard. I’m done with mourning Caroline’s passing, and I’m fortunate enough to have met someone new who’s become dear to me. I’m not the sort t’sneak about, or shove you into an armoire ’til company’s gone, either. We’ve nothing t’be ashamed of.”

  Well, in certain circumstances, I have! he remembered; Mostly the sneakin’ about bit.

  “You’ve become very dear to me, as well, Alan,” Lydia told him with a fond, almost shy smile. “If you wish me to meet them and be with you, then I shall. Gladly.”

  “Such a grand lass!” Lewrie congratulated her.

  * * *

  “Know who that was?” Lt. Stiles was telling his wife once they had gone above stairs to their temporary lodgings. “‘Black Alan’ Lewrie, the one who was tried for stealing slaves to crew his ship, and got away with it! A real fighting frigate captain, knighted and made Baronet last year. The ‘Ram-Cat’, some call him. Oh, he’s made a name for himself!”

  “The ‘Ram-Cat’?” his wife asked, puzzled.

  “For the scrapping way he goes after England’s enemies. Or for keeping pet cats since his first command.” Lt. Stiles breezed off.

&nbs
p; “Well, which is it?” Mrs. Styles asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s the scrapping,” her husband answered.

  * * *

  “I’ll write a quick note,” Lewrie was planning. “Two, really, and find a bum-boat t’bear ’em out to Aeneas. Or, long as I’m there, I might as well go out to her and see ’em both, first! If Benjamin has any fresh stores aboard, or the pedlars get to him quick enough, I might even get dined aboard.”

  “So, you may be gone ’til dusk,” Lydia speculated, “and not be back ’til tomorrow morning? Since you cannot be out of your ship at night?”

  “Oh, well, there is that,” Lewrie said back, deflating. “You would be twiddlin’ yer thumbs, with the weather too foul for shopping. Not that shopping in Portsmouth’s got a jot on London, hey?”

  “Surely there are art gallerys that feature nautical paintings,” Lydia mused. “Something realistic depicting a frigate, to remind me of you when you’re gone. And realistic enough to allow me to lecture Percy on every detail,” she added with a mischievous grin and another impish wrinkle of her nose. “He’s bored me to tears with the details of cavalry saddlery, fodder, and Army drill manuals!”

  “You’d go out in this raw chill? You’d catch your death!” he objected.

  “And you won’t risk the same?” Lydia scoffed. “Go then, and I’ll see you on the morrow. I’ll dine in alone this evening. And I will tuck myself in with a good novel. And sleep by myself,” she said as she leaned closer, her lips curled in secret amusement. “Though I will confess that that will not be as warm, or as blissful, as that nap of ours.”

  “I wish I could kiss you this instant,” Lewrie told her in a hoarse mutter, after a quick peek round the dining rooms.

  “One to warm you just before you go out into the cold,” Lydia promised.

  “With expectations of more, tomorrow,” Lewrie wished aloud.

  “Most assuredly,” she vowed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Well, damme!” Captain Benjamin Rodgers boomed as he barrelled up to the starboard gangway and entry-port of his two-decker Third Rate to greet an un-looked-for arrival. “Will ya look at who turns up? I haven’t clapped eyes on ya in ages, and here ya are. Hallo, Alan, and how the Devil do ya keep?” he hoorawed taking hands with his old compatriot from the Bahamas between the wars, and the Adriatic.

  “Main-well, all considered, Benjamin, and how the Devil are you? It has been too bloody long!” Lewrie beamed back. “You’re lookin’ … prosperous, and fit as a hound.”

  “The word you’re looking for is substantial, ha!” Rodgers said, slapping his girth. Even as a young, up-and-coming Commander in 1786 at Nassau, New Providence, Benjamin Rodgers had been a stoutish fellow, and even years of sea duty had not managed to lean his physique. He’d been as dark-complexioned as a Welshman, with thick and curly ebon hair … hair which now was salted at the temples beneath his cocked hat.

  “A sight for sore eyes, no matter,” Lewrie assured him.

  “Let’s go aft and get out of this bloody raw wind,” Rodgers insisted. “What say ya to a glass or three of hot punch?”

  “I say lead on, soonest!” Lewrie laughed.

  Once out of boat-cloaks, hats, swords, and mittens, and warming their hands and backsides near a Franklin-pattern iron stove, Rodgers let out a slow whistle. “Knight of the Bath?” he said, jutting his chin at Lewrie’s sash and star. “I may have to bang my head on the deck in kowtow. When did that happen?”

  “Last Spring,” Lewrie said with a grimace. “S’posed t’be for a squadron-to-squadron fight off the coast of Louisiana, but it’s my belief that it was for Caroline. Some cynical bastards used her murder t’stir up war fever. This is the reward. I don’t like wearin’ it.”

  “Then why do you?” Rodgers asked, cocking his head over.

  “A lady’s insistence,” Lewrie told him, heading for a leather-covered chair by the settee grouping.

  “Life does go on,” Rodgers said, joining him. “Punch, Dugan,” he called to his cabin servant. “Truly, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to Anglesgreen and attend her funeral, but I was too far off when I got word of it. God, I can picture the two of you to the life, newlyweds at Nassau. What a grand house she made of that gatehouse cottage off East Bay. She was a grand girl, and damn the French for killing her.”

  “Your letter was most comforting, all the same,” Lewrie replied. “Did you ever marry?”

  “Aye, I finally did!” Rodgers boasted, pointing to an oil portrait that was hung above the sideboard in his great-cabins dining coach. Lewrie turned to peer at it, discovering an image of a pert-faced and blue-eyed woman with masses of dark brown hair. “Susannah and I met in Reading, just after I paid off my last ship after the Peace of Amiens, and hit it right off. Imagine, a ‘scaly fish’ like me, well into my fourties, turned ‘calf-eyed cully’ over a lady of twenty-seven, but … it’s been grand. We even have a boy, he’s two, now. I’ve even had to re-learn dancing, can you feature it, haw?”

  “I’m glad for ye, Benjamin,” Lewrie was quick to say. “Though, it’s hard t’be a father in our trade. Or a husband, either.”

  “Miss her and little Ben something sinful,” Rodgers confessed in a soft voice. “Ah, the punch! Scalding hot, I trust, or I’ll have ya at the gratings, Dugan.”

  “Scaldin’ ’ot, sir,” his servant said with an easy grin.

  “And, I doubt ya got yourself rowed out this far in the bloody blizzard just t’see me,” Rodgers laughed. “It’s your son, too, I’d wager.”

  “Right in one,” Lewrie agreed. “Is he aboard?”

  “Sent him off with the Purser and a working-party about three hours ago, so he should be back soon,” Rodgers said, blowing on his tall china tankard, cupping its warmth against his hands.

  “How’s he doing?” Lewrie asked, doing much the same as Rodgers with his own tankard. “Shapin’ well, is he?”

  “Oh, he’s settled in satisfactorily,” Rodgers told him. “Once he found his sea-legs. About in the middle of the pack … some older, some younger than he is. A dab-hand at mathematics, sun sights, celestial navigation. He can reef, hand, and steer as well as any.”

  “Bags sharper than me, most-like,” Lewrie japed, thinking that his old friend’s assessment of his son’s nautical prowess and progress was grudging at best; as he had feared, Sewallis might not be suited to the rough-and-tumble of the Royal Navy.

  “Best way to describe him’d be … earnest,” Rodgers went on between tentative sips of hot punch. “Earnest and diligent, attentive to duty, as smart as paint, all told. Has a mind like a snare trap, and learns quickly. Once he’s learned something, he’ll not forget it, either. A bit sober-sided.”

  “He always was,” Lewrie said, “Reticent, sometimes. Shy?”

  “Well, if my Mids pulled a prank, he’d be the last I’d suspect of it,” Rodgers hooted. “The one that schemed it, more like. He ain’t a sky-larker, like most of the lads his age. He strikes me as a lad closer to one ready to stand for his oral exams, a Passed Midshipman. Bless me, he ain’t idle, nor possessed of your sense of humour, but … he’s the dependable sort. Give him charge of something and it gets done. And the ship’s people respect him, and obey him chearly. That goes a long way in my book, and damn the likable ones.”

  “Sounds like he’s prosperin, then,” Lewrie concluded.

  “The lad’ll most-like never tell a good joke, but prospering?” Rodgers said with a chuckle. “Aye, right nicely, I’d say.”

  “I’m glad t’hear it,” Lewrie said, smiling at last. “And from a man I trust t’tell it straight, too.”

  “A lady made ya wear your baubles?” Rodgers prompted. “It’d be about time ya dipped back into life after … ya know.”

  “Met her at Saint James’s Palace, the day it happened,” Lewrie told him. “Rather complicated, really.…” And he made a grand tale of meeting Eudoxia Durschenko and her one-eyed father off Daniel Wigmore’s circus ship, how Viscount Lord Percy Stangbourne had
met her in London and had decided to woo her, how Eudoxia had spoken so highly of how he’d saved their bacon on a return convoy from Cape Town, and how Lord Percy had dashed up to meet the fellow who’d saved his “intended”, dragging his sister along to greet the new Knight and Baronet.

  “Shit on a bisquit!” Rodgers exclaimed. “You’re a Baronet, too?”

  “King George was havin’ a bad day,” Lewrie explained. “There were a couple o’ baronets made before me; he’d picked up someone else’s glasses, or … it stuck in his head, and out it popped. I thought it would be corrected, but the senior palace flunkies said that the Crown don’t make mistakes, so there!”

  “Swear to Christ, Alan, but you could fall into a lake of shit and come up with a chest full o’ guineas,” Rodgers whooped. “So the lady, Lydia, insists ya wear your honours? All the way from London?”

  “Ehm … she coached down to Portsmouth a few days ago,” Lewrie confessed. “We were dinin’ at the George when I saw your Lieutenant Stiles and his wife, and a sailor with them with the ship’s name on his hat, and … here I am.”

  “Going to wed again?” Rodgers asked, looking happily expectant. He’d found wedded bliss, after all his years as a bachelor and—like all who had, and as a good friend to boot—was eager to rope others in,

  Like a slum missionary, Lewrie cynically thought; He’s found salvation, and won’t let ye go ’til ye’ve enlisted, too!

  “Early days,” Lewrie hedged, busying himself with his tankard. “Lydia, ah … was married once before, so she may be shy of touchin’ a hot skillet a second time.”

  “Ah, a widow, is she? Any children?” Rodgers asked.

  “Divorced,” Lewrie had to admit.

  “Uhm. Ah!” Rodgers replied, his face becoming a puzzle.

  “No children,” Lewrie offered, with a hopeful note.