Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey

"Don't know much about the 'wealthy' or the 'wise,' though," he pointed out, his voice deep and gravelly. "Nobody with a lick o' sense would get out o' bed so early, nor sail off to the West Indies, if…"

Nor take such a hellish risk as this! he chid himself, and not for the first time since the week before, when Theoni had breezed into Sheerness and announced her presence! Madness, sheer madness!

She rose on tip-toe to kiss him, as if to stifle any objections he might have voiced, her slim arms a vise about his neck, her breasts heavy and hot against his shirt and waistcoat.

"But you must," she said more soberly, after a long moment. "I will write you! I'll write daily… long reams of letters, what you call 'sea letters'!"

"As shall I," he found himself promising in return; such vows were easy at pre-dawn partings, though fulfilling them was a different story… depending on the excuses of Stern Duty once back aboard his ship, with its ocean of minutiae.

"Oh, I can hardly bear it!" she whimpered, going helpless and slack against him, forcing him to hold her tighter. "So few days we've had… hours, really!"

"But rather nice hours," Lewrie muttered in her hair.

"And when you return, there must be many, many more!" she vowed with some heat. "Nothing will keep us apart then. It would be unjust if… No matter how things fall out, I'll…"

"I know, Theoni," Lewrie cooed back, both hands now sliding up and down her slim back, from her hips and wee bottom to breast-level, to hoist and fondle…

There came a rap upon the door.

"Damn!" Theoni fussed, stepping back and quickly gathering her dressing gown over her bed-gown and morning wrap, and scowling crosspatch for a second before vigourously brushing her hair into order.

"Enter?"

" 'Ere fer yer traps, sir," the manservant chearly said, bustling in with a boy servant in his wake. "Sailin' t'day, are we, Cap'um?"

"Aye," Lewrie replied, hands guiltily behind his back, quarterdeck fashion; as if to say, "I never touched her, honest!"

"Just th' one wee chest, an' these two soft bags, sir?"

"Aye, that's the lot," Lewrie answered.

"A fine mornin' t'set sail, Cap'um sir. Clear skies, an' fair winds," the manservant nattered on. "Does yer gig come t'fetch ya, or should I whistle ya up a boat, yer honour?"

"A hired boat would suit, thankee," Lewrie told him. "I'll be down, directly. T'settle the reckoning, and…"

"Rightee-ho, then, sir… Missuz Lewrie," the servant said as he doffed his battered tricorne to them and departed with the luggage.

Ouch! Lewrie thought with a wince; salt in the wound, why don't ye, ye clueless bastard!

When he turned red-faced to Theoni, though, he noted that she was

amused, smiling to herself in the mantel mirror as she fiddled with the long reddish-chestnut curls at either side of her neck.

He slung his hanger through the sword-frog on his belt and took up his boat cloak to swirl about his shoulders, gathering his cocked hat and a pair of wool mittens… the ones that Caroline had knitted for him! His mouth made a tiny tic of ruefulness.

"There… think I'll pass muster?" he asked, once his hat was firmly clapped upon his head.

"Always, dear Alan," Theoni assured him, smiling even wider as she came to his side once more, flinging her warmth against him, kissing a'tip-toe. "The handsomest… most fetching… bravest… and cleverest… hungriest Sea Officer in all Creation!" She even managed to giggle between compliments and teasing, coy kisses.

"All my love goes with you," Theoni whispered at last, going all earnest, staring him directly in the eyes.

Crikey, what else can ye say t'that? he asked himself; it's jive thousand miles or so, two years at least… well, hmm.

"And all of mine remains with you, my dear," he declared, though quickly burying his face in her lush hair and the hollow of her neck to nuzzle, savour and groan a semblance of agreement.

It ain't a total lie, he qualified to his conscience; had I not wed so young, not met Caroline, before her, Theoni'd be…

No matter her suspicion that he was lying like a rug, that made her seem to purr with contentment, to cuddle close and sigh happily.

"I am yours completely, Alan," Theoni softly swore. "Forever. Now go!" she suddenly ordered, playing at pushing him away. "Go beat the entire French Navy. Win the war all by yourself, then return to me… soon!"

"I'll work on that," Lewrie said with an honest laugh, letting her go as she played up brave for him, even essaying a playful pat on her rump, a love swat. No, his hand lingered; so soft and wee!

"I'll watch from the window. Blow me a last kiss, give me one last smile and wave," she demanded.

Dear God, it simply wouldn't do to saunter off with a last kiss, no matter it was all a sham! He swept her into his arms once more, to devour her mouth with his, to slither his hands beneath her gowns, for her warm flesh.

"Now that's a. proper sailor's good-bye!" he cried, breaking away and all but sweeping his boat cloak 'round his body like an actor making a grand exit, stage left. "Good-bye, Theoni. Anything I can fetch you from the West Indies?"

"You!" she quickly announced, smiling and chuckling, even if she was again at the edge of hot tears. "As hungry for me as when you left me. Oh, perhaps a coconut or two. Well. Good-bye, my dearest Alan… safe voyages.…"

"Adieu, " he declaimed by the door, ready to sweep out after his congй, hat on his chest, and the other hand on the doorknob. It need not be said that Captain Alan Lewrie, RN, knew a good moment for escape when he saw one!

"I've already paid the inn their week's reckoning," she said.

"Err… uhmm, well, then…" he flummoxed. "Thankee, for all you've done for me! Encore, adieu, ma chйrie amour!"

"Bonjour, mon amour… mon vie!"

He tromped down to the public rooms, made a production of shivering at the cold, of studying the barometer, and japing with the two servants as he stepped outside into the dread chill, stamping his feet along with them as they trundled his chest and bags in a wheelbarrow toward the quays, and a hired rowing boat.

Once in the street, he turned and looked up at the front of the inn, to see Theoni framed in the windows of the room they had shared. She had fetched a four-arm candleholder to the sill, one that he didn't recall being lit when he'd departed, that illuminated her as well as the footlights of a Drury Lane theatre.

He waved widely, blew her that required kiss, which she played at catching and pressing to her own lips, then suggestively sliding it down to her heart, her face half-crumpled 'twixt glee and agony and so bravely bearing up. Her morning gown was parted, revealing amberish candlelit, and ample, bosoms…

Damme, if I ain't ready t'cry off sailin' and go nufбle 'twixt those beautiesjust one more time! Lewrie speculated, feeling the fork of his crotch tighten. Gawd, she knows me too well, already, what sets me goose-brained .. . witless for it!

One final wave, a doff of his hat and a "leg" made in congй and he had to turn away and tramp off quickly… before he was tempted to rush back and chuck his active commission!

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hoy, the boat!"

"Proteus!" the bow-man called back, showing four fingers to indicate the size of the side-party for a Post-Captain, causing a scurry despite the fact that his return was known to the half-hour. Bosuns' calls shrilled, booted Marines thundered on cold oak decks, bare tars' feet pounded on the ladders, and icy hands slapped musket stocks, as a well-drilled ship's crew mustered to greet him.

As Four Bells struck, Lewrie took a moment to admire his ship, now that he was close-aboard her starboard side. Dawn had made her a shining jewel of fresh paint and linseed oil, of gilt trim and tarred rigging, her yards crossed to mathematical perfection, and fresh as a new-minted guinea. Even up close, she was just about perfection, now that she was out of the yards and back on her own bottom.

Lewrie stood, swept back his boat cloak, and tucked his sword behind his left hip so it wouldn't tangle between his legs, then clung to a side-stay of the hired boat as it nuzzled up to the ship's side by the main-chains, the boarding-battens and man-ropes of the entry-port. Judging the slight roll and toss of both boat and ship, he timed a leap and made it on the first try, nimbly ascending the side, with but only the merest twinge of weakness in his now-healed left arm as he gained the deck, fresh-scrubbed and holystoned nigh to parchment whiteness, and still damp from the crew's predawn labours, about the time he had drunk his last cup of coffee with Theoni, ashore.

Swords were flourished, boots stamped, muskets were presented, and the calls sang like eagles on high as he stepped in-board, safely on his own decks once more, and doffing his hat to the side-party and his gathered crew, who stood on gangways or in the waist with their hats in hand, their heads bared in their own salute. Some still chewing?

"The hands have eat, Mister Langlie?" he asked.

"In the process, sir," his First Lieutenant responded.

"My apologies for arriving in the middle of their meal, then, and pipe them back below, 'fore it goes cold on 'em. I take it that the galley is still hot?"

"Aye, sir."

"Then I'll have a pot of coffee," Lewrie briskly said, clapping his mittened hands together. "I've a chest and two bags to be got up."

"I'll see to it, directly, sir," Langlie vowed.

"Everything else in order for sailing, Mister Langlie?"

"Aye, sir. Last despatches came aboard just after you went off for shore, last afternoon," the darkly handsome Langlie said, smiling.

"Very well. Dismiss the hands back to their breakfasts, and I will be aft and below, 'til… Six Bells, at which time we'll get her underway. Carry on, Mister Langlie."

He went down the starboard ladder from the gangway to the waist, then aft into his great-cabins, past the Marine sentry; past the dining coach to larboard and the chart-space to starboard, the two dog-boxes where his clerk and his manservant slept, and into his day-cabin where an iron brazier/stove tried its best to banish the cold, its belly stoked with sea-coal and kindling.

Aspinall took his hat, cloak and sword, and his mittens, while Lewrie rubbed his hands over the brazier, thinking that if Admiralty were of a mind to punish him by shooing him off someplace very far overseas, he could at least be thankful that it would be someplace warm!

Riddled with malaria, cholera, and Yellow Jack, but warm! Lewrie chortled to himself. After a futile moment of trying to thaw out, he went aft to his desk, to survey the pile of official despatches bound in canvas and wax-sealed ribbons, his last personal correspondence…

Nope, nothin' new, he thought with a tired sigh. He had tried to call upon Lord Spencer and Mr. Nepean at Admiralty, but had been informed that those worthies had nothing particular to say to him, hence he had not been admitted. A letter had come from them, urging him "… should there be no pressing delay in your affairs, to repair at once to Sheerness to supervise the refit of your ship."

And once in Sheerness, the dockyard officials had been dilatory in supplying his wants, while other letters came down from London that urged a quick return to sea, and slyly asking "whyever not, already?"

Oh, it was harsh! Admiralty was miffed, not for his "affair" or morals; officialdom was miffed because he had had no control over his wife in public! On such things were careers unmade.

If he wished Proteus repainted, it would be at his own expense, though he had written one of those letters asking "… with the supply of paint on hand, Sirs, and the meagre budget allotted for the task, which side of the ship do you prefer that we paint?"

That had not warranted a reply, which was fortunate, for Admiralty was not known for its sense of humour, and any answer would have been a harsh censure, perhaps his relief and replacement as captain!

Finally, orders had come aboard, for the West Indies! Sealed orders, most intriguingly not to be opened 'til he had weathered Cape St. Vincent off Spain 's Sou'west tip, had also accompanied them.

Since the war started in 1793, Prime Minister William Pitt and his coterie had shoved troops and ships into the Caribbean, eager for possession of every "sugar" island. It had cost the lives of 40,000 soldiers and seamen, so far. Once Fever Season struck, regiments and ships' companies could be reduced to pitiful handfuls in a trice!

No matter Lewrie had prospered there in his midshipman days, he had gone down with Yellow Jack in 1781, and had been damned lucky to survive it, even if every hair on his head had fallen out and he had turned the colour of a ripe quince! He was safe, therefore, unable to catch it again, but his hands…?

Whilst Proteus was being re-rigged and re-armed, he had studied every anecdote, every official report he could lay his hands on anent service in the West Indies, looking for any clue as to why some ships

hadn't suffered catastrophic loss, while others turned to ghost ships. He had spoken to Mr. Shirley the Surgeon and his mates, but even they were pretty much clueless.

It was "bad air"-Mal-Aria-the miasmas that rose from the soil of tropic lands at night, but they could not seal every port and hatchway, not without smothering or roasting the "people" in their own sweat and exhalations. They had requested assefoetida herbs to make sachets through which to breathe "bad air," but had been told that such would come from their own pockets, like much of a naval surgeon's stock of medicines, no matter the terms of the recent mutinies that required Admiralty to issue them free.

Empirically, fresh-boiled water was sometimes safer than water kept for weeks in-cask, and water taken aboard in the tropics was best if placed in fresh-scoured casks, and taken only from a clear-running stream. Mr. Durant had suggested going a bit more inland for water, to get above the usual wells or streams where cattle or horses drank, to avoid taking on the obvious turds, but even he didn't think that would aid in avoiding malaria or Yellow Jack. Cholera, perhaps, he had concluded, with a mystified Gallic shrug.

Lewrie had even queried his Coxswain, Andrews, once a slave in a rich Jamaican plantation house, about malaria and Yellow Jack as he had seen it when growing up.

"Wuss in mos'keeter time, sah," Andrews had puzzled, "when it's so hot an' still, an' th' air's full of 'em. I heered some ships don't get took so bad, do they stand off-and-on, nor anchor on a lee shore, but…" A mystified black man's shrug was nigh to a French one, one could safely deduce. For God's sake, every safe harbour in the Indies was in some island's lee!