“First Off’cer, SAH!” the Marine sentry announced.

“Enter!” Lewrie bawled back, beyond frustrated, by then.

Lt. Geoffrey Westcott came in and approached the desk, a touch warily, taking a cue from Lewrie’s tone.

“Rescue me, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie demanded. “Take a cat. I can only deal with one at a time.”

“Here, Chalky,” Westcott said, grinning. “Come nip a finger.”

He sat down in a chair before the desk and lifted the younger cat into his lap, which made Chalky flatten his ears, leap down, and run off to the dining coach to sit and furiously groom, insulted beyond all measure.

“How are our brethren in the Army, sir?” Westcott asked.

“Eager t’win their spurs, and gallop through the entire Dutch army,” Lewrie said sarcastically. “Cavalry, by God! I met some of the officers, and I swear they’re as dense as roundshot. Yoicks, tally-ho. The Thirty-fourth was raised round Shaftesbury—”

“I’ve friends from Shaftesbury,” Westcott said with a knowing nod, and a brief, feral grin, “though none of them are dull enough for cavalry.”

“Their Colonel, Laird, raised and paid for them himself,” Lewrie went on, “designed their uniforms, armed them with old-style straight Heavy Dragoon swords and Paget carbines, like Viscount Percy did his regiment. But, I doubt there’s a professional soldier among ’em, from the horse-coper to the top. Must’ve made some of his money back from sellin’ officers’ commissions.”

“Well, all we have to do is get them there, and after that, it will be up to whichever General appointed,” Westcott said.

“I was in the middle of tryin’ t’write orders to the transports’ masters, but for the cats,” Lewrie told his First Officer. “We will up-anchor in the morning, at the start of the Forenoon, and fall down to Saint Helen’s Patch. If there’s a good wind, we’ll stand on, but if there’s not, we’ll come to anchor and wait for one. Warn the others to arrange their last-minute necessities from shore, and make sure the Purser knows.”

“Mister Cadbury believes he has everything in hand, but for one or two bullocks for fresh meat, the first few days at sea, sir,” Westcott replied with a shrug. “And the wardroom’s needs are met.”

“Before I have Faulkes make fair copies, I wonder if you would aid me in draughting the orders … see if there’s anything I might miss,” Lewrie asked, shoving the papers towards Westcott, and brushing Toulon to one side of the desk with his arm. Toulon flopped on top of his arm to weigh him down and began to rumble.

“Happy to oblige, sir,” Westcott agreed.

“Tea, with some rum, sir?” Pettus offered.

“Sounds delightful, thank you, Pettus,” Westcott perked up.

“And a second cup for me,” Lewrie added.

“Hmm,” Westcott mused after going over the first two sheets of paper. “I do wonder, sir, if we have to signal changes of course, subject to the weather. It’s not as if they’ll just plod along astern of us and follow our every move.…”

*   *   *

The orders were thrashed out by half-past Noon, and Westcott departed. Faulkes got to copying, and Lewrie’s mid-day meal arrived, a hearty chicken and rice soup, a middling-sized grilled beef steak with hashed potatoes and some of the black-eyed peas purchased in Savannah in the Spring, brought to spicy life with Yeovill’s stash of sauces, accompanied by brown bread and butter, and a decent claret.

The cats got their own shredded beef, spare rice, and hashed potatoes gravied with dollops of chicken soup in their bowls at the foot of the table, after making a great, adoring fuss over Yeovill when he entered and served out their shares. They came to nuzzle and rub on Lewrie once Pettus cleared his plate, then made for the settee for a long afternoon nap.

Faulkes brought the copies for Lewrie to look over, then folded them and sealed them for one of the Midshipmen to deliver. Whichever one it was, he would be getting wet, for the rain continued, heavier and steadier, and looked as if it would continue all through the afternoon and night.

Lewrie poured himself a fresh cup of tea, minus rum, from the sideboard, and went back to his desk. At last, he could look over his personal mail and respond to some of it. There were some bills from a London shop or two, for which he wrote out notes-of-hand to be redeemed at his solicitor’s, Mr. Matthew Mountjoy. There was one from Peter Rushton, an old school friend from his brief stint at Harrow before being expelled for arson … not only expelled but banned from the grounds forevermore, upon risk of arrest! That’un would be newsy and chatty!

And, there was one from Lydia.

“Oh, Lord,” Lewrie muttered half to himself, feeling wistful and anxious at the same time, turning the sealed letter round in his hands before breaking the wax seal to unfold and read it.

Once Reliant had been turned over to the civilian yard, he had gotten a week in London, lodging at the Madeira Club again, coaching to the West End to call upon her. They had courted!

Paying suit to Lydia had involved a nightly round of going out, to dine at the fashionable clubs like White’s, Boodle’s, Almack’s, and the Cocoa-Tree, seeing the latest plays in the Covent Garden theatres, and, on a sudden whim, going to Plumb’s Comedic Revue in Drury Lane to see the show of that false Sir Pulteney Plumb (only overseas did he claim that title) and his French wife who had been a chorus girl with the Comédie-Française in Paris. It was their quick-change costuming and theatrical talents that had spirited Lewrie and his late wife, Caroline, from Paris to Calais in a variety of wigs, clothes, makeup, and guises, escaping the clutches of Bonaparte’s police agents who’d been set to assassinate them. It had not been the Plumbs’ fault that Caroline had been shot and slain with a bullet meant for him, and he found that their show, with the clowns and scantily-dressed dancing girls as entr’actes, was quite enjoyable and highly amusing.

There were art shows to see at Ranelagh Gardens, subscription balls where anyone could purchase tickets and dance without anyone looking down their noses at Lydia. There were symphonies to attend, and concerts, and music halls where rowdier tunes could be heard.

Eudoxia was down from the country and Lydia’s brother Percy was up from his cavalry regiment stationed to guard the coast in Kent, so they attended most events as a foursome. They were almost cloying in their turtledove and open mutual affection; they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and spent a lot of time gazing into each other’s eyes and laughing over things that passed between them silently and unknown to anyone else. All in all, they were highly amusing, even when Eudoxia took Percy sweetly to task when they entered the Long Rooms at the clubs to do some light gambling; seeing her watch him like a hawk would a field mouse to dissuade him from wagering too deeply.

They dined in at the Stangbournes’ Grosvenor Street house, and entertained themselves at cards or music. From her time as an ingénue actress and singer with Daniel Wigmore’s Peripatetic Extravaganza, a combination circus-theatrical troupe-menagerie touring group, Eudoxia could sing well, though Lewrie discovered that Lydia could not, despite tutoring by the most accomplished musicians throughout her girlhood. She wasn’t all that good at the harpsichord or new-fangled piano forte, either. Percy could fiddle away like mad, effortlessly, and Lewrie had fetched along his penny-whistle and had been pronounced “not all that bad”, but, poor Lydia … she adored music, from simple country airs to Haydn, Handel, and Mozart, but was grieved that she would be forever denied the ability to play.

Well, at least she loves t’dance, and does that well, Lewrie reminisced. Lydia might wear her bored, languid, and imperious face at the slower, more formal dances, but could turn girlish, bouncing, and almost whoop with delight doing the faster country dances.