Lewrie could dab his mouth and lean back in his chair with his port glass in hand, thinking that a meal, a feast, so English, was a topping-fine welcome back to his home shores!

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lewrie rose unaccountably early for a fellow so fond of snugly warm and sinfully soft shore beds, scrubbed, shaved, and dressed, then breakfasted on two cups of scalding-hot tea, and buttered rusks which he cadged from the kitchens long before the day’s first meal was laid, bolted it all down in a rush, then was off in search of some wheeled transport for Whitehall. The best he found was a two-wheeled dog cart driven by a loquacious Irish pedlar who was willing to abandon his usual spot to hawk his cast-off clothing lines for promise of a shilling.

On the way, the Irishman cheerfully filled him in on the most wondrous event of the previous night. “’Twas a ghost coach, Cap’m, sor, rattlin’ along with a witch at the reins, swear t’God, for how else kin a coach an’ four make its way from Wigmore Street t’Oxford Street, turn down Regent Street, an’ git t’the Swan an’ Edgar, where it drew up nice as anythin’. Ever’body wot saw it swears they knowed a witch drove it, for they all heard screamin’ laughter and evil cacklin’, but when the parish ‘Charlies’ got to it, there was nary a soul aboard! Fackin’ eerie, it wos!”

*   *   *

All Lewrie’s hurry was for nought, though, for when he got to the Admiralty Office, he discovered an host of others already waiting. He stepped through the archway through the curtain wall, into the wee cobbled courtyard, and found that even the vendor with his tea cart and sticky buns was already there and doing a roaring business with the officers and Mids who had come in hopes of an interview, or the promise of an appointment. There was nothing for it but to go inside, in the process to be cautioned by the surly ancient tiler that “I’d not place much hope innit, Cap’m, sir, for there’s a parcel o’ unemployed before ya!”

Lewrie left his name with a junior clerk, stressing that he was currently a holder of an active commission, and wished to speak with the First Secretary, Mr. William Marsden, about orders for the cleaning of his ship’s hull to make her serviceable for future duties, then looked for a place to sit in the infamous, over-crowded Waiting Room, but all the benches, settees, and chairs were occupied by Commission Sea Officers, the bulk of them Post-Captains with the twin epaulets of men with more than three years’ seniority, some newer-minted Captains of less time in command of a Post ship with but one epaulet on their right shoulders, and a rare Commander or three with the epaulet on the left shoulder. Lieutenants with good sense had already surrendered their precious seats and idly, slowly paced about, striving to appear un-worried, among the Midshipmen whom they had turfed out earlier.

For a rare once, Lewrie had pinned on the star and donned the sash of the Order of The Bath, and as he meandered round the Waiting Room, a Commander sprang from his place at the end of a bench to offer it to Lewrie, who thanked him civilly, thinking that now and then the damned knighthood proved useful, even in this desperate place. There were tales of men, and one Midshipman in particular, who had come to Admiralty each working day for three years running to hunt active sea-going employment!

Over the next two hours, names were called out, and the lucky ones ascended the stairs to the Board Room to receive commissions to a new ship, or new orders for the ones they had. They usually came down with smiles. Lewrie began to note that one particular junior clerk was the one who summoned the officers who left pleased, and another clerk who appeared much less often and caused long sighs of disappointment, usually calling out some officer’s name and only handing over a folded note; for a future appointment, perhaps, or most-likely a rejection. An aged Rear-Admiral who took a seat next to Lewrie, one who did not have a single hope in Hell of employment this side of the grave, told Lewrie with a cackled whisper that said clerk served the Second Secretary, Mr. John Barrow, upon whom Mr. Marsden usually foisted the chore of delivering the bad news.

By the end of the third hour, Lewrie’s arse was numb, he badly needed a visit to the “jakes” to empty his bladder, and he might have gladly killed for a cup of sweetened and creamed tea. He snagged the “happy-making” clerk to inform him that he would be outside for a bit should his name be called, got his hat and boat-cloak from the cheque room, and went out to the courtyard.

Half-past ten of the morning must have been the tea interval for Admiralty drudges, for a great many men in civilian suitings came out to purchase a mug or cup of tea, and something upon which to gnaw, then trotted back inside to more scribbling and copying.

Lewrie got himself a mug with sugar but no cream, and stepped out of the way for the others, quite near two young men who were sipping hurriedly at their teas and sharing a thin Spanish cigarro, what some tobacco aficionados demeaned as a cheroot. They nodded greetings, hoped he did not mind the drifting smoke, then returned to their conversation, most of which was grousing about their superiors and what tasks to which they were put.

“What about the charts, then, Jemmy?” one of them asked the other. “Dalrymple won’t be happy if our office has to pay for them.”

Lewrie knew that Mr. Alexander Dalrymple was the Hydrographer of the Navy, for the very good reason that it was to that worthy that Lewrie had mailed the up-dated charts and soundings that Lt. Tristan Bury had made of Bermudan waters, just before Lewrie had dragooned him into his little anti-privateering squadron in the Spring.

“Well, he’s in charge of charts and such,” the other breezily said between quick puffs on the cheroot before handing it over. “Even if Admiralty doesn’t print its own. The Board’s decided that all the troop transports, and the Lieutenants assigned to each one, must have them … the Cape of Good Hope, and the separate charts for Table Bay, and Cape Town, Blaauwburg Bay, Saldanha Bay, even Simon’s Bay on the other side of the Cape. If the hired-on transport masters want their own copies, they can buy them, but Admiralty will foot the bill for our people. Now, which office gets the bill, that’s the question!”

“We’ll be dashing all over London to purchase them, or pay for rush jobs to have them printed,” the fellow from the Hydrography Office bemoaned. “Then, we’ll have to amend them all with the latest soundings and hazards! By hand! When will Marsden let us know?”

“His Majesty Head Clerk Swami said the Board will tell him by mid-afternoon … just in time to ruin your evening, hah hah!”

“Gentlemen,” Lewrie intruded, putting his stern face on. “You may believe that discussing what sounds like a secret expedition to Cape Town is safe, here behind the curtain wall, but you never know who might be listening. The matter is better mentioned safely inside the building, if at all.”

“Sorry, sir, we didn’t—,” the young fellow whom Lewrie took to be a junior scribbler in William Marsden’s office said with a shocked look.

“Well, I doubt the tea vendor or the newspaper boys are Dutch, so it might be alright,” Lewrie allowed, giving them a reprieve, and a grin. “Upon that head, though … there is an expedition planning to capture Cape Town from the Dutch? I was there several years ago, and took the opportunity to hunt and ride all over the town and its environs, over to Simon’s Town on False Bay? When you speak with Mister Marsden, pray do you mention to him that Captain Lewrie of the Reliant frigate, who’s waiting word for an interview, may prove useful to the endeavour, hmm?”

“Captain Lewrie and the Reliant frigate, of course, sir,” the young clerk replied, nodding as he committed that to memory. “I shall as soon as I am abovestairs, sir. And, thank you for your caution … about the, ahem.”