The King - Dewey Lambdin

"There are some niggling… uhm…" Lord Sydney posed, "ramifications anent our relations with the Spanish crown regarding this expedition. Violation of their territorial waters, for one. Violation of their sovereign sanctity ashore. Some remuneration paid, sub rosa I need hardly inform you, to their Viceroy-General in Manila, to help restore that native village, one would assume."

"Should the moneys ever find a way of trickling down through their Viceroy's fingers," Lord Howe smirked, cracking his bleak and patrician visage for a brief moment.

"Fortunately, there was hardly any mention of the incident in the… uhm… American public notice from the crew of that whaler we freed," Lord Sydney continued. "That… nation… has more on its rebellious little mind than taking time to be in any way grateful for the lives and freedom of some of its… uhm… citizens. Gratitude to their mother country is in rather short supply on that side of the Atlantic, and most likely shall be, for a generation to come."

"Whilst gratitude here at home, for the heroes of this venture, shall have to be rather thin as well, sirs," Lord Howe intoned, turning in his chair to see if Lord Sydney had anything further to add. Lord Sydney inclined slightly towards the older admiral, allowing him to proceed. "By God, sirs, had we leave to print your reports in the Marine Chronicle or the Gazette, it would be an eight-day wonder! The populace would chair you through the streets! However"-here he sobered once more, and settled back into a strong resemblance of the rebel General George Washington suffering an acute attack of gas-"for diplomatic reasons, none of this may ever see the light of day. I fear, Captain Ayscough, that the inestimable credit due you, Lieutenants Percival and Lewrie, shall never be adequately expressed by a grateful Crown, or an equally grateful Admiralty. Until such time as another war occurs with France, any word of this glorious expedition of yours must never pass your lips, not even to your dear ones."

"I… that is, we, completely understand, milords," Ayscough nodded sternly. "And obey your strictures without question, it goes without saying."

"There shall be no public commendation," Lord Sydney smirked, "but that does not mean there shall be no expression of pleasure for your valiant deeds. Name the reward dearest to you, my good sir, in reason, and we shall endeavor to please."

"An adjudgment by Droits of Admiralty in the matter of prize money, milords," Ayscough said quickly. "Not for my own gain, let me assure you. But for the ship's people. Most especially for those widows left without succor. I believe the reckoning of what we took at Spratly, and at Balabac, was in excess of five hundred thousand pounds, assigned as Droits of the Crown. Even an eighth of that for warrants, petty officers, able and ordinary hands would reward them for all their magnificent courage and loyalty, even when they didn't know what we were doing out there."

"Nothing for your officers or yourself?" Lord Howe queried.

"Active employment, naturally, milord." Ayscough reddened, feeling ashamed to even dare ask for anything for himself. "The heartfelt cry one would hear from any Sea Officer."

"And do, daily, belowstairs," Admiral Hood stuck in with a short bark of amusement. "By God, Captain, your concern for your people is perhaps even more commendable than any deed you've wrought the past two years! Well said, sir. Damn well said!"

"I believe it would be impossible to deny such an aspiring and courageous officer the opportunity to ply his profession," Lord Howe assured him. "Active commission it shall be, sir, a Fifth Rate frigate at least! And your personal selection of first officer."

"Lieutenant Percival, sir," Ayscough said quickly.

"Make it so, my dear Stephens," Lord Howe told his principal secretary, who was scribbling away at the end of the table.

It would have been nice for Ayscough to have wanted a share of all the booty they'd taken from the Lanun Rovers, Lewrie thought as the praise was heaped on their shoulders. It would have been nice for him to have included his poorly paid officers in that request for reward.

But Lewrie was not as rankled as might have been his usual wont. His father had been one of the first into the chieftain's personal lair, and had emerged dripping diamonds, rubies, pearls and emeralds, with his bearer, Chandra, grunting under the strain of a small chest of more loot. What Ayscough reported as captured, thence to be given to the Crown as their exclusive Droit, was only about two-thirds of what had actually been there, the rest shared out among the sepoys and officers of the 19th Native Infantry.

Before Telesto had sailed for England from Calcutta, he'd had one final supper with his father. Lewrie had regretted that Draupadi, Apsara and Padmini were no longer in his father's employ, but the loot had restocked his bibikhana most wonderfully well, and it had been the grandest send-off he'd ever had. Sir Hugo had handed over certificates worth enough to pay off his creditors back in England. And, as a final parting fillip, had given Alan a little present or two as well.

A reddish gold necklace set with diamonds and rubies, heavy and showy enough for royalty. And a triple strand of pearls with matching earrings, bracelets and rings fit for a queen. He hadn't had a chance to have them appraised by a Strand or St. James' jeweler yet, but he was sure he was at least five thousand pounds richer.

"And for you, sir?" Lord Howe asked. "Lieutenant Lewrie?"

"Hum?" Lewrie said, coming back to earth from his monetary musings. Come on, you toadying wretch, think of something to ask for, a reward you really desire! No, he countered; ask for something noble-sounding, or they'll know you for the greedy swine you really are!

"Well, there is the matter of Midshipman Hogue, sir," Lewrie began, shifting in his chair. "It would be a hellish come-down for him to revert from acting lieutenant to one more midshipman, milords. If there is an examining board to sit soon, I assure you he could pass it. And were there an officer's berth come available, I know it would please him no end should he gain it."

"Acting lieutenants made on foreign stations have no need to sing for their supper," Hood stated. "Consider him a commission officer."

"And I would desire him aboard my ship, milords," Ayscough added. "As the least senior officer, to season him properly."

"Make it so, Stephens."

"Aye, sir," the longterm servant replied. "Nothing for yourself, Mister Lewrie?"

"Well, there is the matter of my father, Mister Stephens, milords," Lewrie stammered out. " Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby."

"Ah," Lord Sydney replied with a suddenly prim expression, his lips popping together. "Him. You're his… uhm… son, are you?"

"When we left Calcutta, the question of his brevet to colonel of the 19th Native Infantry was still up in the air, milords. And he more than proved his worth, on every occasion."

"He wishes to remain in India, in 'John Company' service?" Lord Howe asked, incredulous that anyone would want such an exile.

"He does, sir. His men adore him. And he… well, whatever his faults, milords, he is a good soldier and a good officer, and he truly does care about the regiment."

"Hmm, s'pose that's best, after all, him to remain out there," Lord Sydney sighed. "I'm told he's cleared his creditors? And there was a Captain Chiswick mentioned in Twigg's report. I assume he is to stay in that regiment as well? A cater-cousin to you, is he?"

"A good friend, milord. We were together at Yorktown. In fact, I shall be going down to Guildford to visit his family next week, to deliver news of him, and some presents for them."

"There wouldn't be a pretty sister, would there, Lieutenant Lewrie?" Lord Sydney teased.

"There is indeed, milord," Lewrie said, blushing for real.

"Active duty, naturally," Hood intoned, lifting a wary brow. Officers of bis generation were extremely leery of younger men who contemplated marriage too early in their careers- they were forever lost to the Sea Service, in their opinion, and even the hint of an imminent attachment was suspicious to that worthy. "I trust, hmm?"

"Active duty, yes, milord, that goes without saying," Lewrie answered quickly. That was the response they expected, much as he wished he were brave enough in the face of this exalted gathering to tell them what he really thought: that if he was truly as rich as he dared hope, they could have his resignation and bedamned to all the nautical deprivation he'd suffered since his father had damned near press-ganged him into the Navy as a midshipman back in 1780! After the last bit, he'd had nearly enough, and no public thanks or fame from it, either!

But that could never be said, he realized. And shaming himself before Ayscough, Hood and Howe by such a declaration was a thing he didn't have the courage for. He could only hope that they would file him away for future employment, hopefully very close to home for a change. Else they'd allow him a few months' shore leave and forget their promises, as great men were wont to do, and let him fester most happily on the half-pay list to the end of his indolent days!

"I once, milords, awarded Lieutenant Lewrie command of a small brig of war off Cape Francois," Admiral Hood said, turning to face his fellows. "The war ended before he could make his mark with her, but he more than made up for it with little Culverin this time. I am convinced he would be wasted in some other captain's wardroom."

Oh, sufferin' shit! Lewrie groaned to himself, aghast that they would send him right back to sea. It was peacetime, after all! The Waiting Room below his feet was crammed to the ceiling with half-pay officers so eager for employment they'd crawl from Whitehall to Limehouse Reach on their hands and knees, in a dog-collar, if they could crawl up a ship's gangway when they got there!

Lewrie's throat was already dry, and he essayed a cough. The artificial soon became the genuine article. Maybe, he mused, if they think I'm going to expire right here in the Board Room from the flux or something, they'll delay it, at least. He dug out his handkerchief and began to bark into it.

"Are you well, Mister Lewrie?" Lord Sydney inquired with some alarm on his face. "A glass of something, perhaps…"

"The change in weather, milord," Lewrie "struggled" to reply. "All this cold and rain here in England, after the tropics…"

He cut that statement off, paling at what they might do about it. Idiot! He could have kicked himself. No! Wrong thing to say, you damned fool! Goddamn their solicitous little hearts, they'll probably ship me right back where I just came from, and think they do me a blessing! Dear Lord Jesus, just a little help here, please?

"A small vessel below the Rates," he heard Lord Howe instruct Mr. Stephens. "In a somewhat healthier and warmer climate than the Channel Squadron, I should think. What do we have at present?"

Pray God they've all sunk! Lewrie hoped, turning a wild gaze on Stephens. Stephens had been first secretary to the Board of Admiralty for years, the Lords Commissioners for the Office of High Admiral, surviving one First Lord after another. More than any other man in England, he was the one who truly had his fingers on the pulse of the Fleet such as no senior officer or appointee had. Stephens executed more administrative power in an hour of scribbling and reading of files than most fighting admirals did in an entire career of bloody battles. He knew of every opening, every promising officer, every fool and every little scandal.