The French Admiral (46 page)

“That was good of you, young man,” the mother wept, plying at her eyes with a fresh handkerchief.

“It was the least I could do, ma'am,” Alan said modestly, feeling truly modest for once in that emotion-tinged room. “There were several of my sailors left behind as well, too hurt to be moved without causing them more suffering.”

“We must confess,” Caroline began again, “that the fight to save our boats was a spirited engagement of the most desperate neck-or-nothing nature, and only by the utmost bravery and pluck did we prevail, though whatever joy we had in a final victory over the Levellers and their allies, the slaves of a Catholic King, could not assuage the grief of losing so many fine men and neighbors. The bearer of this particular copy of our letter, Alan Lewrie, we recommend to you, and trust that you shall show him what you can of Carolinian hospitality and gratitude.”

Alan made much of his teacup and looked down at the carpet as his pride began to scratch at him; false modesty be damned, he thought he had been pretty good back there during their adventures.

“As a comrade in our distress, we have not, in a cause replete with leaders and fighters suitable for commendation and emulation, seen the like in our mutual experience,” Caroline read. She looked up at him with such a smile and such a fetching rise of her bosom that Alan could look nowhere else but directly at her. “To him, we owe our very lives. Were it not for his sublime courage, even in the times when things looked blackest, his canny knowledge of the sea and its navigation, we would now be prisoners of war, or worse. He knew no exhaustion, no sense of gloom, no defeatism, and brought us out of bondage like Moses fetched his Israelites. He . . .”

She had to stop and take a deep breath or two, and lift a handkerchief to her own eyes before continuing. “He is the finest comrade in arms we have ever had the privilege to know, and can only conjure you to share your gratitude at our good fortune with him.”

Damme, that's a pretty high praise for a toadying little shit like me, Alan marveled. Now when was I canny and optimistic? I can't remember anything like that. Still, have to remember, this letter was penned by one of the coldest murthering black-hearted rogues I've ever seen.

“God bless you, Mister Lewrie,” the mother bawled, rising to give him a hearty hug, some slobbery kisses on the cheeks, and pats on the back that stung right through his wool uniform and waistcoat. He had to help her back to her chair before she swooned, then got pawed by the old man as well, who could not rise, and Alan had to bend down to receive the elder Chiswick's benison. The black mammy had at him next, and it felt as if he was trying to wrestle his way out of a bear-baiting pit. Caroline hugged him and wept on his shoulder, swearing he was the finest Christian in the world, and he got a chance to take a circumspect survey of her charms, which seemed a lot nicer than his first impressions.

“I cannot pretend to understand military or nautical matters,” Caroline said, stepping back from him but keeping her slim hands tight on his sleeves, “but you kept my brothers alive and got them out safely, and I shall forever be indebted to you.”

“And we shall regard you as fondly as any member of our family,” Mrs. Chiswick said in a high, fruity voice, to which her husband lent his vociferous agreement with so many “hear hears” he sounded like the Vicar of Bray in a Parliament back-bench.

“We have something, finally, for which we give thanks,” Chiswick senior roared heartily. “There's a tom turkey much too fat for his own good strutting the yard. We should roast the gentleman before he's one hour older. Mother, where are our manners? There's two dozen of claret in the pantry, is there not? Tell Old Mose to fetch a couple out! I want to take a glad bumper or two with this young fellow.”

Once again, Alan got the impression that something was wrong, for the happy mood dissolved in an instant, the mother going for her handkerchief again, the black maid piping her eyes, and Caroline had to go to her father and cosset him into a calmer mood. Alan looked about the room. There was no pantry, no sign of a crate bearing even a bottle or two, and most definitely there was no black male servant named Old Mose, or he would have been in the room to hear the news with Mammy. Alan got the impression that Sewallis Chiswick was living in some dreamland in the past, before they had been burned out by their own cousins and run to Wilmington with what little he saw in their rented lodgings, and those were damned poor, at that.

“But I want to take a glass with the lad, Caroline,” Mr. Chiswick whined in a pet, and Caroline gave Alan a stern look, touching her lips with a finger and shaking her head slightly.

“Mr. Chiswick, under any other circumstances, I would be delighted to accept your hospitality. I have not had a good roast tom since I left London nearly two years ago, and normally I'd not say no to a glass,” Alan replied, rising, “but, my captain only allowed me a few minutes ashore to see you, and I must not allow even the most charming surroundings, and company”—he bowed slightly to the mother, which made her chirp with some remembered coquetry, and to Caroline, who was nodding as though he was a good pupil to say his lesson so well—“to detain me from my duties. Perhaps in future, before the town is evacuated, we could visit again, if you would be so gracious as to receive me.”

“Of course we shall!” Mr. Chiswick laughed. “Damme to hell if we shan't, young sir, or my name ain't Chiswick. We may not have been the biggest nabobs in the county, but no one could say that we did not set a fine and merry table. You come back and see us again, soon. You can see George. He'd like you. Wants to be a dragoon or a hussar, but . . .”

“I would enjoy that immensely, Mister Chiswick, sir,” Alan said, feeling his clothing crawl with embarrassment for them.

“He's out riding now,” Mr. Chiswick said proudly. “Damme, what a seat that boy has, and such a way with a horse. I've told him the Navy would be surer, but what can you do, eh? Perhaps you could speak to him.”

“I would admire that, sir,” Alan replied, backing for the door. Jesus, get me out of here before we all die of mortification. The old fart's gone barking mad, he thought to himself.

He said his good-byes and got out into the hall as quickly as decent politeness would allow. He then had to plow through the herd of snotty children who had gathered to watch his departure and who ran shrieking for the porch as he emerged from the lodgings.

“Mister Lewrie,” Caroline said, coming out of the rooms and shutting the doors on that pathetic scene. Her eyes were wet with tears. “I must apologize to you. He has been getting better, but the excitement was too much for him, I fear.”

“You don't have to apologize to me, Mistress Chiswick,” Alan offered. “Burgess told me what happened to your plantation and to your brother George. I am heartily sorry. Better men have broken under the hurt and the strain. My own captain recently went through a debilitating experience himself.”

“Thank you for humoring him, though I don't know if that is the best course in the long run.” She shuddered, dab-bing at her eyes. With a single deep breath that took all her concentration to inhale and hold, she calmed herself and gave him a quick, sad smile.

“I clean forgot this,” Alan said, digging for a small purse.

“I could not accept that, Mister Lewrie,” she said as he hefted it.

“'Tis not from me, Mistress Chiswick,” he told her truthfully. “Burgess and Governour finally got paid what was due since they marched from Wilmington, and they sent this in my care once they knew I would be putting in here for certain. It will help you to set yourselves up in Charleston once you get there.”

“Charleston?” she asked, taking the purse from him finally. “I do not understand.”

“Wilmington is going to be evacuated. The naval stores will be loaded up and taken off, and the garrison goes south to Charleston. After Yorktown, there aren't troops enough to protect the place. All loyal subjects who wish to go shall find shipping, before a Rebel force marches against Wilmington.”

“How soon?” she asked, perplexed.

“We begin tomorrow,” Alan said. “We hope to empty the town in ten days. If you need any help with packing or arranging transport to the wharves, send me a note to the
Desperate
frigate and I can provide some hands and a boat for you and your household.”

“Oh, God, this is so cruel.” She sagged in defeat against the doorjamb. “When the Rebels take everything and set up their wretched republic, where will we light? What will be left for us?”

“They haven't won it yet,” Alan said, as if trying to boast.

“Have they not?” She laughed without glee. “If Cornwallis and all his troops are taken and Wilmington is evacuated, then how long before a Rebel force descends on Charleston as well? Then where do we go?”

“For someone who does not pretend to understand military matters, that is an astute observation,” he said, trying to piss down her back, and also expressing a real admiration for her perspicacity. Damme, she's not half intelligent! he thought in wonder. That won't get her a husband, either, poor tit.

“One can only listen to the menfolks and glean what one can from their discourse, though half of it goes right past me, I fear,” she said, backpedaling into the traditional woman's role.

“I recollect Burgess saying you had family in Surrey,” Alan said. “If things really turn that sour, you could go home to England. Surrey is a pretty place, gentle and peaceful, full of sheep now, but wonderful farm country still. Lots of fine houses, where a young lady such as yourself would make the very devil of an impression.”

“
This
is our home, Mister Lewrie,” she told him directly, standing back erect from her slump. “My grandparents sleep in Carolina. And every step we take forces us further away from our land and our heritage. Forgive me, but this is hard on us.”

“I shall do everything in my power to help you make the process easier, Mistress Chiswick,” Alan told her. “Governour and Burgess saved my bacon a couple of times as well, and I could do no less for them and theirs.”

“God bless you, Mister Lewrie,” she said, perking up a bit. “I truly believe that the Lord above has sent you to aid us in our time of troubles.”

If He has, He's a devilish sense of humor to pick me for your deliverer, Alan thought to himself, but he shrugged modestly in answer.

“Please do come again, Mister Lewrie,” Caroline said, putting on a smile which lit up her face, making Alan notice for the first time that she had the funniest little underlining folds of skin below her eyes, a fault that made her eyes seem incredibly merry. “Daddy isn't always lost in the past, and we do so want to repay you with whatever little we still have to offer, if only to feel part of a family for a short while after so much time at sea, away from your own.”

“I would appreciate that more than you know, Mistress Chiswick,” Alan told her. He took her hand and held it for a moment, but she leaned forward and bestowed a sisterly kiss on his cheek, gave his fingers one slight squeeze, and went back inside.

Alan regained the street and shambled back down Dock Street over the brow of the hill and stood looking down the road towards St. James and the handsome houses that reached almost to the wharves. He waited to digest what he had seen and heard at the Chiswicks. They had opened their home, such as it was, to him, and he felt an odd longing to go back and take advantage of their hospitality, painful as it would be to see the old man maundering through an evening, waiting for him to open his mouth and say something inane.

“I've never been part of a family,” he muttered. “So what's the point now? Probably be bored shitless in an hour. If Governour or Burgess were there, 'twould be a different kettle of fish. The old man's gone Tom O'Bedlam, and his wife ain't far behind him, even on her best days. The girl's the only attraction, and she's so . . .”

He was going to say “pitifully gawky,” but the word “handsome” swam to the fore instead, which thought made him shake himself all over.

One thing for certain, he needed a drink after all that familial bumf, so he betook himself down to Market Street and entered an ordinary. He considered a brandy, but didn't think that was the thing to have on his breath when returning to the ship, so he settled on an ale. He stretched his legs out by the fire to warm himself from the damp winds that chilled the street, noting how the locals shied away from him and stopped conversing so loudly as long as a man in King's uniform was in sight. The ordinary was attached to a chandler's next door, and after finishing his beer, he wandered in. Foraged over as the countryside had to be, there was a goodly selection of foodstuffs present, a sure sign that the prices would be high, bespeaking Rebel connections inland.

“Need anythin', sir?” the publican asked, clad in the universal blue apron that seemed so homey in this alien and hostile land.

“Do you mind the refugee house on Dock Street, across the hill?”

“Aye, I knows it well, sir. Send a lot o' trade up here.”

“I'd like to send something to one of the families.”

“Ah, the Henrys, I expect.”

“No, the Chiswicks.”