At the foot of the bank where Charing Cross ended there were stairs to the riverside-slimy, mucked and erose, and worn down by long usage. As soon as he was spotted, the cacophonous din set in, reminding Lewrie of a hunting pack who'd cornered the fox.
"Oars, oars!" cried the boatmen. "Scullers, scullers, sir! Tuppence!" countered those with smaller dinghys featuring a stern-sweep as propulsion.
"Oars," he answered back, scanning the flotilla and selecting a bullock of a fellow, who sported the crossbelt, brassard and coat-of-arms of the Lord Mayor.
" Whitehall Steps… sixpence, sir," the fellow nodded as he boarded the small craft. "Tide'n wind be fair 'is mornin', sir."
"Hard not to tell," Lewrie commented as he settled himself on a forward thwart, his coin out and ready.
"Aye, aye, sir," the man crinkled a sun-wrinkled smile as he shoved off and shipped his oars in the tholepins. "Young man wearin' King's Coat… canvas packet unner 'is arm… well, sir!"
"You were in the Navy?" Lewrie asked.
"Both th' las' wars, sir. Landsman… ord'nary'n able seaman… 'en gun cap'um…" he related between powerful strokes, seated to his front, knee to knee with Alan. "Quarter-gunner… Yeoman o' th' Powder 'fore 'twas done. Now 'ere come another war. Y'r welcome to it this time, sir. You an' all t'other young'uns. War 'fore th' week's out's my thinkin'. Can't 'llow th' Frogs t'spread 'eir pizen f r long. Folks is stirred up enough a'ready, sir."
"By levelling talk?" Lewrie inquired. His stretch of Surrey might as well have been in China, for all the rumours that missed him.
"Thorn Paine, sir." The old gunner beamed, tipping him a wink. "Rights o' Man. Correspondin' societies. That Thom Hardy feller an' all? Price… Priestley… dissentin' an' such. Learned t'read in th' Navy, I did, sir. Time on our hands so heavy an' all? 'Nough t'know all them Friends o' the People societies' penny tracts is trouble. Wrote in th' same words'z anythin' wrote in France. 'At spells rebels an' combinations, sir. With so many folk outa work, an' wages so low when ya do get work, well… 'ear tell they've plotted secret committees, gone right over t'Paris itself!"
"Widespread, d'ye think?" Lewrie asked, morbidly intrigued.
"Not so much yet, sir. N'r by hard-handed men, d'ye see? Give 'em time, though… never thought I'd see 'at 'Yankee-Doodle' madness took up in a real country!"
"But it doesn't upset you enough to… volunteer, I take it," Lewrie said with a knowing smirk.
The waterman tapped the brassard on his chest which protected him from the Impress Service, and tipped Lewrie another and equally knowing wink. "I ain't thet stupid in me old age, sir!"
He paid off the waterman at the foot of Whitehall Steps, amid a swarm of other boats, of other officers reporting for duty. A walk up Richmond Terrace to thronging Whitehall, a stroll of about one hundred or more yards north up Whitehall, and he was there, before the curtain wall with its columns and blank stone facade between; before the deep central portal which led to the inner courtyard, beneath the pair of winged sea horses which topped the portal.
Admiralty! What a leviathan one single word implied. Ordnance Board, Victualling Board, Sick and Hurt Board, boards for control of ship's masters, of petty officers with warrants, of officers from lowly midshipmen to fighting admirals, port admirals, the Impress Service, HM Dockyards… cannon foundries, clothing manufacturies, pickling works for salt beef and pork, huge bakeries for untold tons of hard biscuit. And rope, tar, seasoned timber, paint, pewter messware, iron and bronze nails, pins and bolts, the copper industry for clean bottoms and defence against teredo worms. Sailcloth, slop-clothing, leather works, sheath knives and marlinspikes, forks to cutlasses and boarding pikes… taken altogether, the needs of the Fleet, and the myriad of suppliers, contractors, jobbers- and thieves-who filled those needs, the Royal Navy was the single largest commercial enterprise in the British Empire. Which meant, of course, the civilized world. And one single word-Admiralty-spanned it all. Just as the Royal Navy would soon span the globe, the most efficiently armed, supplied and equipped military organization known to man. The enormity of the endeavour made even a cynic such as Lewrie take pause.
Until he got to the door, of course.
"Lewrie?" The long-term tiler sighed with a weary, frazzled anas he scanned his admittance list with one arthritic finger, and applied the other index finger's horny nail to ferret between mossy teeth. "Y'r sure they wish t'see ya, then, sir? However d'ya spell that? Doubya-Arr-Eye-Eeh, is it?" The tiler seemed offended that it wasn't some simpler name, perhaps. Or perhaps he was disappointed he had no wisp of fatty bacon left to suck on. Whichever it was, he made an open grimace of disgust. "Aye, y'r listed," he announced at last, almost grumbling with outrage to find Lewrie's name. "Go 'long in, sir. Take a pew wi' th' others, God help ya."
"You have no idea when…" Lewrie began, after heaving a tiny sigh of frustration, anxious to know what hour, or which day, his appointment might be.
"Run outa ideas, summer o' '78, sir, when I took this position," the tiler shot back impatiendy. "There's one lad, midshipman he was, was three full year warmin' 'is backside in yonder. Will-ya-not-go-m, sir-there' s-a-horde-o' -others-waitin'-you-next-yes-yoM, sir!"
Lewrie stifled his retort, knowing it would do him no good, or even begin to penetrate the querulous tiler's thick hide. He entered, left his cloak with an attendant who was even surlier than the tiler, and "took a pew" in the infamous Waiting Room.
Early as it was, all the chairs, benches and sofas were taken by commodores, by post-captains, by commanders. Lowly scum such as he had perforce to stand, and in the draughtiest corners at that, as far from the fireplaces as rank and dignity would allow.
So much for a long nap, he sighed to himself. Without children to cock an ear to, he and Caroline had spent a night so passionate it rivaled their first days together as man and wife. And they had gone far past the point at which they might usually crash to sleep in utter exhaustion. He no longer held that thirty was exactly the dotage he'd feared. Truth to tell, he was quite proud of himself and his prowess, his endurance. But he was now paying for it. Once still, and hemmed in in the frowsty-warm Waiting Room, he was almost asleep on his feet, held up by the press of other nodding men's shoulders.
Except for the boisterous, Old Boys' Day jocularity which the rest displayed; the hummumm of an hundred men conversing, punctuated by cock-a-whoop laughter, calls of welcome, the "damn my eyes if it ain't…!" greetings of shipmates long separated, whether they'd despised the person greeted or not, after three years' commission elbow to elbow. And the clatter of scabbards as both clumsy and adroit slowly paced the room, tangling and untangling, taking or giving way. He dry-swabbed his face, shook himself, and made his way towards the steamy aroma of hot tea, gladly willing to kill for a cup.
"Mister Lewrie, sir!" cried a cheerful voice.
"Damn my eyes," Lewrie called back, "if it ain't Hogue! A commission officer, now. How d'ye keep, hey?"
"Main-well, sir," Lieutenant Hogue blushed. "And you to thank for my promotion, I learned." His former midshipman was aglow with fondness.
Damn right you should thank me, Lewrie thought smugly.
"Did it yourself, sir," he pooh-poohed, though. "Your service did it. When they gave us Culverin, and we fought the Lanun Rovers in the Far East." Lewrie took care to say that loud enough for others. The Waiting Rooms were no place to show lickspittle meek before one's peers. Now there was almost war with France, their covert work could be revealed. "Put paid to Choundas and his pirates. Where are you bound? Do you know yet?"
"Third Rate 74, sir," Hogue boasted. "Only fourth officer, but… I'm off to Chatham on the next diligence coach. And you, sir?"
"Just arrived, so I've no idea yet. Time for tea, though, my lad?" Lewrie offered. "Warm your ride in the 'rumble-tumble,' hey?"
But Lieutenant Hogue had no time. And, an hour later, there was one more old acquaintance; Railsford of the old Desperate, a captain now.
"Damn my eyes if it isn't Lewrie, ha ha!" Captain Railsford cried, pumping his hand vigorously. "Heard about your last commission. The very merriest time you must've had in the Bahamas… all those pirates? Me? Hydra, down to the Nore. Finest frigate ever I laid my eyes upon. Damme, wish I'd known you were available, I'd have requested you. But, I already have a first lieutenant. And you are getting senior-ish."
"Oh, well. I understand completely, sir," Lewrie grinned back, though he was crestfallen. Another three years under Railsford, fine seaman, well-disposed friend and mentor, would have been a joy.
"And Captain Treghues, sir?" Alan asked, merely from curiosity.
"Inherited the title last year, I believe. Married well, too, into the Walpoles. Cadet branch, but…!" Railsford enthused. The Walpoles were one of the Great Families, who pretty much ran England through influence and married-in minions. "Got a seat in Parliament out of it, too. Captain Lord Tobias Treghues, Baron. Sure to make rear-admiral soon, with those connexions."
"Is he still…?" Lewrie simpered, screwing a knuckle to the side of his forehead.
"Occasionally daft as bats? Hmm, let's say, now he's risen so… a tad eccentric." Railsford chuckled softly. "And that only on odd humid days. Well, my fondest wishes for your continued good fortune, Lewrie… but I must dash. Write to me."
An hour, another slow circumnavigation of the Waiting Rooms (and two cups of tea) later, still with no seat, he ran into another "old shipmate," of a sort.
"Sir George," Lewrie said hesitantly, anxious though he was to see a familiar, if hated, face. Sir George Sinclair was now a rear-admiral. He turned a hostile, aquiline glare on the interloper who'd dare trifle with his valuable, and selective, attention.
"Alan Lewrie, Sir George. Desperate? Antigua… '80… '81?"
"Aye, yes." Sir George replied frostily, his eyes glazing over with subh'me disinterest. "I remember you." It sounded more like a threat. "Still at it, are we, Lewrie?"
Alan imagined he could hear talons being stretched, hard chitin claws being honed. "Uhm, aye, sir."
"And you recall my nephew, Forrester, do you not?"
Oh, damme! Lewrie sighed, defeated and eager to run. The round post-captain hovering over Sir George's shoulder was that selfsame porcine glutton, that bane of his midshipman days, Francis Forrester. He hadn't gotten any trimmer. But he was a post-captain, despite his being dense as a kerbstone. It helped Lewrie's flagging confidence to recall that his fellow midshipmen had once painted Forrester blue as a Druid, and pissed in his shoes at every opportunity. Forrester's expression, however, told Alan that his memory of his days in the cockpit berths was just as keen… if not quite so fond.
"Much senior, are you, Lewrie?" Forrester grunted.
"Bottom half, I would imagine, sir." That "sir" was wrung from him with the greatest chagrin. Last he'd seen of Francis, he'd been a paroled prisoner after Yorktown, exchanged on the Bonetta sloop to New York, his career in pieces. God, how he'd risen, though!
