H. M. S. Cockerel (9 page)

“But you
are
a bugger, ain't you?” Lewrie countered. “What if we just call for the ‘Charlies' and hold you 'til a magistrate comes?”

“You would not
dare,
sir,” the slim young courtier simpered. “No magistrate would sanction the 'Press in his domain, sir, even were he aware of your presence . . . which awareness I most
sincerely
doubt,” the man shot back, sure of his ground. “Show me your warrant, sir, or confess that your actions this evening have no sanction.”

Damme, Lewrie groaned; a bloody sea lawyer! And, no, we
don't
have a warrant to show. That's why we were successful tonight. Word couldn't get out, and the streets about weren't warned to expect us.

“I
see,
”
the slim aristocrat purred in triumph. “So it will be impossible for you to detain me, d'ye see. Nor summon any local authorities 'pon me. Nor hold me 'gainst my will.
You
alone have authority to detain, to lay hands upon me, sir, but your writ does not extend to your minions. And your bullybucks have
already
laid hands upon me, striven to prevent me from dressing, or departing. That constitutes, of itself, a wrongful-taking . . . for which you, and you alone, are liable before a court of justice, sir.” He was singsonging with glee.

Damme, he's well versed, too! Damn his eyes!

“And I feel it my obligation to caution you, sir, that I am from a
most
influential and powerful City family. With a circle of friends far more powerful than are
yours,
I'd expect, with legal assistance far beyond
your
miserable purse. You are in difficulties enough already. Detain me a moment longer, and whatever befalls you will be a greater measure of chastisement than
ever
you might imagine. Now let me pass, I say!”

He has me by the short hairs, Lewrie gloomed to himself; all he had said was true. He could be bound up in court for months. Oh, the Admiralty would pay his legal expenses, bail him out of debtors' prison if he lost the judgment, and if the fop demanded a huge settlement. But he'd be out thousands over the matter. And he couldn't risk losing every farthing he had.

“You speak for the others, too, I take it?” Lewrie found spirit enough to sneer in return.

“My
dear sir, I care little for any but myself,” the man confessed gaily. “These
sailors
are properly in your limited jurisdiction. They and the rest . . . well, it was dull sport, after all. I will take my man-servant yonder, and depart. Should you have no objections?”

“Get out,” Lewrie grumbled at last. “Get out, and be damned to you, you . . . !”

“Adieu,”
the elegant young bugger smirked, making a “leg” and sweeping his showy, egret-feathered hat across his breast. “
Bonne nuit.
Though
not,
you will understand . . .
au revoir . . . n'est-ce pas?
”

“Sufferin' . . .” Lewrie sighed, slamming his truncheon into his palm, over and over, as the courtier and his shivering “man” departed.

“Aye, 'at stinks, sir,” the bosun muttered sourly. “Nothin' ye could do, else. Not with th' likes o'
him!
”

“He left one of 'em behind, at any rate,” Lewrie observed, as he walked deeper into the orgy chamber to gaze down upon an unconscious form huddled hard up against a cot.

“Well, 'at'un cut up a bit rough, 'e did, Mister Lewrie. Hadta bash 'im a good'un. Gawd! 'Ese pore tykes. Just babes, some of 'em. Wish we
could
go 'fore a magistrate. Local parish might take 'em in, set 'em right, 'fore they gets buggery in their blood.”

“This parish?” Lewrie scoffed, still squirming over his defeat. “What could they do? Already Irish bog-trotter poor. Full of future victims. Can't
have
boy brothels in rich parishes. Like that sneerin' shit, just left? Prays the loudest in his family pew, I'd wager, and plays upright for all to see. Can't take
his
sort of pleasure in a good parish. But that's what the East End is
for,
ain't it?” And I should know, Lewrie shrugged in wry self-awareness. In my early days, I was all over the East End whores, Drury Lane to Cheapside. Least, they were
girls!
And I paid well. Full value and more.

“What say we let 'ese litt'lest beggars go, Mister Lewrie?” the bosun almost begged. “Coupla cabin boys, 'eir sort'd not be missed f'r long, no with s'many volunteers. We take 'em in, sir, all they get is caned, then discharged, anyways. T'other tykes, well . . .”

“Aye, Bosun, turn 'em out,” Lewrie decided, unable to look the quivering, fearful children in the eyes. “Tongue-lash before they go, though. Put
some
fear o' God in 'em. But we take the rest with us.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Lewrie went to the last, unconscious, civilian by the cot. He rolled him over with his foot, hoping for signs that he might yet be a seaman, subject to impressment. And his pitifully weak writ.

“Well, damme!” he gasped, as if butted in the solar plexus. It had been years! 1780, if it was a day! That last bitterly cold morning when the naval captain and his brute of a coxswain had come for him, in his father's house in St. James's, to drag him off as an unwilling midshipman. There, lying at his feet in enforced “repose,” was the bane of his adolescent life. Even with a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, a livid bruise on his cheek and blood matted in his lank, sweaty blond hair, the bastard appeared to be sneering, in truncheon-induced sleep! No, there was no mistaking the rail-thin, haughty, thoroughly despicable face of his half brother Gerald Willoughby. His backgammoning, windward-passage-preferring, butt-fucking sodomite Molly of a half brother.

“Oh, God . . . thankee, just!” Alan whispered with sudden glee.

How many nights he'd swung in his hammock aboard
Ariadne,
his first ship, with silent tears of rage coursing his cheeks, wasting all that precious sleep with schemes of revenge on all who had connived to push him off, a hopeless, clueless victim, to sea.

His father, for Alan's inheritance he'd hoped to steal; their solicitor Pilchard, who'd forged and swindled in the cause; his icily beautiful half sister Belinda, who'd lured him to her bed so he could be discovered “raping” her; even the parish vicar who'd been duped into being witness to his alleged crime.

Most especially, this taunting, cruel, sneering, troublemaking, back-stabbing, lying, canting, sneaking, arrogant swine!

Lewrie's ardour had at last cooled, though he had relished news of them. By '86, off for the Bahamas, he'd almost put them out of mind. He did learn, though, that Pilchard had been arrested long before, for forgery, theft and huge debt; and if he hadn't done a “Newgate hornpipe” on the gallows, then he was a prime candidate for the first convoy to New South Wales, now England had once more a place for those doomed to be “transported for life.”

Belinda . . . their mutual father'd robbed her and Gerald of
their
dead mother's inheritance, too; run through every penny, and hadn't got his hands on Alan's, so they'd been turned out, penniless. He'd heard she made her living on her back. He'd even seen her listed in the new gentleman's guide to Covent Garden whores . . . a high-priced courtesan, in the latest edition.

Gerald, well . . . they didn't publish guides for what he did. He had survived, after a fashion; toadying, fawning, conniving and scheming to ingratiate himself with every member of his peculiar “tribe” in London, to sponge off others' largesse, so he could still make a grand show about town in the latest fashion, in the best circles. As long as he allowed other men of his stripe to ride him.

Lewrie almost giggled as he took in how low Gerald had fallen in the years since he'd last heard of him. A stupendous comedown, if this establishment was the best he could afford to frequent. Or the meanest strait he'd been reduced to, as a market for his fading wares. Getting buggered for sixpence, instead of guineas.

There was a carefully folded pile of civilian long clothing he took to be Gerald's. Lewrie knelt to examine them. He still sported silk stockings, yes, but they were raveled above the knees and darned where they'd run. His shirt boasted a puffy lace jabot, but the rest, which the waistcoat would hide, was a faded, much-mended horror from a ragpicker's barrow. The seat of his pale blue velvet breeches was worn shiny, his once-elegant satin waistcoat had patches of bullion and silver embroidery missing. And his hat! Gerald had been rather keen on fashionable hats. Gerald's wine-coloured beaver was greasy with too much past sweat, table oils, hair dressing, and stained by overlong exposure to the elements.

Alan poked about until he found Gerald's carefully hidden purse, a worn-bare, figured-silk poke. It held a mere two shillings eleven pence. Prompted by past remembrance, he dug into a cracked shoe, delving into Gerald's favourite hidey-hole, and found . . . a single crown. And this was the top-lofty bastard who'd feared going out of an evening unless he could sport at least fifty pounds! He'd thought it ungentlemanly!

Lewrie stood up suddenly as the lank bastard groaned and rolled his head, exposing teeth grayed by the mercury cure for pox. He spun on his heel and fled the room, before Gerald awoke.

“Bosun,” he called, trying to keep his rising malevolent grin in check. “Bosun Tatnall?”

“Sir,” that worthy grunted.

“Seems to me there's nought we may do to shut this horror down. Nothing official, that is, but . . .” Alan began, biting his cheek.

“Burn h'it t'th' groun', sir, that'd suit,” Tatnall scowled.

“Probably a dozen more like it in spitting distance. But, we could do some real good this night, even so,” Lewrie went on. “Can't stay open without its owner, or its star performer up yonder,” Lewrie joshed, almost elbowing the man in confidential camaraderie. “Do you not think that old tripes-and-trullibubs would make a fine volunteer, Bosun? Once you convince him that joining's a sight better than being hanged for a bugger?”

“Oh, aye, sir!” Tatnall agreed heartily. “An' if the' bugger tries 'is ways 'board ship, they'll flay 'at maggotty flesh off'n 'is bones! Cut a feller soft'z 'im like fresh cheese, 'ey would, sir!”

“Pity about that shop door below, too, Bosun. When we left it, it
was
locked, but 'tis a rough location, after all. Pity some criminals from the stew broke in and drank him dry.”

“Oh, aye, sir!” Tatnall concurred again. “A hellish pity!”

“I'll speak to that crimp of ours. He must have friends who'd savour a bottle or two,” Lewrie snickered. “Take our deserters and the owner to the tender. I'll deal with our crimp, and catch you up later.”

“I'll see to 'em, sir, never ya fear.”

And I wonder if that crimp knows where a good tattoo artist may be found this time o' night, Lewrie wondered to himself, hellish happy with the evening's outcome, after all.

Bound and gagged, blindfolded, both muffled and disguised by a filthy sheet, Gerald Willoughby could but grunt, squeal and
attempt
to curse as the tattooist plied his skills at Bridey's knocking-shop. The old drab had bales of castoff slop clothing to garb Gerald in, and the crimp delighted in his smart, newly exchanged gentleman's togs.

The tattooist did complain, though, as he laboured over Gerald's pale, hairless and shallow chest, as the whores hooted encouragement to him, at the poor state of his “canvas,” at the boot-blacking he had to use; at the weak light and the watching crowd as he strove to complete his masterpiece.

It was rather good, though, considering how Gerald behaved, how violently he struggled against every quill prick, the liberal tots they poured down his maw. The rum won out. Toward the end, his thrashings abated, and he rambled gagged snatches of song, before his lights at last went out, and he began to snore.

And once he was thoroughly comatose, Lewrie, the chuckling crimp and their unwitting accomplice Will Cony, delivered Gerald Willoughby, Esq., into the gentle ministrations of the Deptford district 'press tender. There to sleep off his monumental drunk—there to be sweetly wafted down-river to the Nore as an impressed sailor— there to awaken with a shriek of horror to a new life and trade.

Lewrie was mortal certain Gerald no longer had a single influential or fashionable patron who might spring to his aid, so there could be no hope of rescue from without. And from within, Gerald, garbed in slop clothing, and sporting an especially fine (though new) chest tattoo of a rope-fouled anchor, listed as taken by an Impress officer by the name of Bracewaight, could protest until his face turned blue that he wasn't a sailor, to no avail whatsoever. No, his only hope of escape would be to declare himself for what he was.