A present for you, Captain Lewrie," Lt. Devereux said after he had returned aboard and had taken the salute from the side-party. He held out a knitted wool sack that covered something long and narrow and over four feet long. He was beaming with secret delight.
"What the Devil?" Lewrie muttered aloud as he took hold of it, and felt the hidden object's hardness and leanness. Imagining that he knew what it might be, he stripped off the woolen cover as quick as a child might rip open a birthday present. "Oh, dear Lord, how lovely!"
It was a Pennsylvania rifle, octagonal-barreled, fitted at butt, barrel-bands, and firelock plates with shining brass, the hinged cover to the patch-box in the buttstock also bright brass, and the stock all of a highly polished, ripply-striped bird's eye maple! It was indeed lovely, one of the finest examples of the gun-maker's art that he had ever seen outside of a set of custom duelling pistols; even the plates were engraved so finely that he suspected only a magnifying glass could reveal the detailing.
"Fresh from Philadelphia, sir," Devereux said proudly, "and the work of a master craftsman."
"You've one for yourself, Mister Devereux?" Lewrie asked, lifting the piece to aim at the sky and sight down the long barrel, noting the silver bead on the muzzle's top, and the cut-steel notch sights at the rear, near the fire-lock. "Was this the only one, I'd understand… envious as all Hell, but…"
"One for myself, too, sir, near its twin," Devereux confessed with a little laugh, "and one of lesser quality for every officer and midshipman… as private hunting weapons, ha ha! Two dozen, in all."
"Personal possessions of yon brig's mates?" Lewrie frowned.
"No looting of a prize, sir… part of her cargo. Withheld as uhm… evidence for the Prize Court?" Devereux snickered.
"By God, we have corrupted you!" Lewrie laughed. "But this is magnificent, I must own. Find yourself some coehorn mortars, too?"
"No, sir, but those'll come. Ah, here's Mister Langlie, coming aboard with even better news. I'll let him tell the rest."
Lewrie almost pounced on Langlie, primed to eagerness.
"She's the Sycamore, sir, out of Philadelphia," Lt. Langlie reported, after he'd taken the salute, doffed his hat, and had been given his own covered rifle up from the boat below the entry-port. "A native tree, I s'pose, or the name of an Indian tribe. Her master was wounded, and is still aboard. Rather panicked by the thought of expiring, sir, so he was open to questions… between prayers and pleas for his last will and testament to be taken down, that is."
"Will he live?" Lewrie asked.
"His wounds are more fearful than mortal, sir. Mister Durant is of the opinion that he's more likely to pass over from fret than shot," Langlie chuckled. "He openly confessed that he's been smuggling to the French for some time. With most of their overseas trade curtailed, 'tis a lucrative endeavour, I gather. He also admitted he's run arms to L'Ouverture on Saint Domingue. Now his country is all but at war, any large cargoes or arms and powder would have been suspicious, and expensive, with the United States Navy the best customer, so he made arrangements through French agents in Philadelphia to meet the privateer and transfer her arms aboard his 'innocent' ship."
"What's his cargo, then?" Lewrie asked, absently stroking his new rifle.
"Two thousand stand of arms, Charleville muskets with leather accoutrements, two thousand pairs of boots and shoes," Langlie intoned as he read from a list he pulled from a coat pocket. "One hundred and twenty thousand pre-made cartridges and twist paper, shot and powder for half a million more… four six-pounder Gribeauval Pattern pieces of artillery with caissons, limbers, harness, and the essentials for a battery forge-waggon. Blankets, slop-trousers, cross-belts, shakoes, and other uniform items, bayonets, infantry hangers, and officers' quality swords… most of it recently snuck into Guadeloupe aboard a Frog frigate, sailing en flute, sir. A real treasure trove."
Turning up in Kingston, with that brig astern and the British flag flying over the American, would represent a treasure, a "golden shower" of prize money, Lewrie was mortal-certain.
"There's also an innocent cargo of molasses and sugar, Captain," Langlie went on. "Saint Domingue coffee, tea, and cocoa would have put Sycamore far ahead of the game, once they'd unloaded the arms."
"Just their bad luck, but to our good. This is documented? We have them by the 'nutmegs' about this, for certain?" Lewrie demanded.
"Every bit of it on paper, sir, even the captain's private log. It was well hidden, but not destroyed. Mister Neale, our Master-At-Arms, was part of my boarding party and he and his Ship's Corporals, Burton and Ragster, are old hands at knowing where sailors hide things."
"And what they made off with, God only knows… or cares, with all this on our plate," Lewrie chortled. "And the rifles were part of the cargo?"
"Ordered specifically, sir. L'Ouverture's people are mad for 'em. Yours, sir… do you look close, you'll find it engraved with Toussaint L'Ouverture's name, sir. It was to be a present to one of his generals, a man named Dessalines."
"God almighty!"
"We also found three men aboard whose certificates are 'colourable,' sir," Langlie told him. "As English as Bow Bells, and with so obvious a set of frauds, they were pathetic. Should we press 'em, sir?"
"But of course," Lewrie said with a sly grin. "I'll not turn up my nose at volunteers… willing, or no. Muster 'em on the gun-deck, and I'll have a word with 'em. We're making sternway onto the shores of Saint Thomas, and need to haul off. The wind's veered half a point North'rd, and we're on a lee shore. Might have to sail all the way to the western end of the island, then beat back to pick up Catterall and our boarding party…"
"Excuse me, sir," Mr. Winwood suggested, coming to his side and looking to Lieutenant Devereux expectantly. "With the wind veered so, it would be possible to stand back down this Leeward Passage, here, with the wind almost abeam, and be off Ram Head in less than two hours. I, uhm… I must say, Mister Devereux, those are dashed handsome rifles."
"You are welcome to take your pick from the lot, Mister Winwood. As a private, personal hunting weapon," Devereux assured him.
"And a handsome gesture, too!" Winwood actually enthused, come over all a'mort with greedy pleasure.
"Our prize is secure and in good order, Mister Langlie?" Lewrie asked him. "No troubles from her crew or mates?"
"Secure, sir, and ready to proceed. The crew disarmed and our Bosun, Mister Pendarves, and trusted hands to back him up in guarding them," Langlie confidently stated. "Very little real damage done."
"Very well, gentlemen. Let's get under way back down the Leeward Passage. We know it, now, and I know when I've stretched my luck in unfamiliar waters for the day. Better the Devil you know, hey? And not an inch to loo'rd this time. Hmmm… stern kedge anchors readied for dropping, just in case this pass holds a last surprise… right?"
Lewrie reluctantly surrendered possession of his new rifle into Andrews's care, then went down the starboard ladder to the waist where three seamen stood hang-dog, awaiting their fate. Lewrie put his hands in the small of his back and faced them. One, the youngest, hopefully a teenaged topman, stared back fearfully, eyes blared and swallowing in shuddery gulps. One stouter, older fellow dared glare back at him in a sneer. The third, a lanky-lean man in his middle thirties, couldn't meet his eyes, but darted his glance about or found the grain of wood deck planks intriguing, his flat, tarred hat pulled low over his brow.
"Well, lads, you're caught, fair and square," Lewrie told them. "False certificates so badly done, if you paid more'n a shilling each for 'em, you got swindled. What names you use? Your own, or aliases?"
The young one, at least, perked up to that statement, glancing at the sneering man in alarm for a second.
"Don't signify," Lewrie went on, naming himself and his frigate. "You're runnin' from debtor's prison, termagant wives, or whatever, I don't care. We've had fevers, and we're short-handed. You're British, no matter how you protest it. You all wish to be 'John Bull' or 'Billy Pitt,' so be it, 'cause I've more need of you than the authorities back home. 'Tis becoming a tradition aboard, for people to take new names when they sign on. The pay's less than merchant service, but the rations are fair measure and decent quality. We don't flog unless you're a total bastard, and as you've seen this morning, we're lucky with prize money. A man… a boy, could do worse. How much is that Yankee captain owing you?"
"N-nigh on twelve pounds, sir," the youngest said in a shy voice. Merchant captains were infamous for "crimping" off their crews near the end of a voyage; when met by a Royal Navy vessel In Soundings of home waters, they'd gladly give up all but the merest few required to work into port, and pocket their pay-sometimes with connivance with officers of Impress Service tenders.
"I'll screw it out of him, and it's yours, lad," Lewrie vowed, "and pay a willing volunteer the Joining Bounty… no matter which name he puts down in ship's books. Oh, it'll go to pay for what kit you don't have, but we'll fetch your sea-chests aboard so you'll have most of what you need already, and save a bit with our Purser, Mister Coote. He's a fair man, can you believe that of a 'Nip Cheese.' So, what's it to be? Volunteer and make the best of it, or be pressed, and begrudge me to the end of your days?"
"Willy Toffett, sir, and I'll volunteer, then," the teen said with a relieved smile. "Main topman, I was."
"And you, sir?" Lewrie asked the second, who still glared, but with a resigned and bitter air of helplessness.
"Press me and bedamned," he gravelled, halfway surrendering to Fate, but determined to go game. "And put me down as Toby Jugg. With two 'Gees,' " he almost snarled, but with a sardonic smile to excuse it-
"Your choice, then," Lewrie allowed. "Rating?"
" 'Twas an Able Seaman, aboard Sycamore."
"Then Able you'll be rated, here, with the extra pay that goes with it," Lewrie promised, though that did nothing to mollify the man.
"Had a woman and girlchild on Barbados," Toby Jugg groaned. "Never see 'em again, now. Poor as church-mice and…"
"Your Joining Bounty could be sent on to them," Lewrie hinted.
With tears beginning to well in his eyes at the thought of not seeing his woman and daughter for years, his face clouded and taut, he nodded his assent, still unable or unwilling to accept his lot. A man who might have been pressed before, Lewrie suspected, unwilling to give his right name for fear of punishment for desertion.
"And you, sir?" Lewrie asked the third, who still could not meet his eyes except in brief, darting glances.
"Ships is ships, I reckon," the man said with a defeated sound. "Aye, I'll sign on, volunteer. Me name's George Gamble, and I was an Ordinary Seaman…" he muttered in a Midlands "Mumbletonian" accent.
"Landsman, ya were," Toby Jugg snorted in derision, "and cack-handed, at that, ya lubber!"
Gamble raised his head and hat brim high enough to glare daggers at his "shipmate" for a second. "Damn' captain cheated me, he did! I'm rated Ordinary, and well ya know it. Just 'coz he already had all the seamen he needed, and too cheap t'pay me due ratin', was the reason."
"Coulda signed aboard another ship," Jugg quibbled as if Lewrie wasn't there.
"Oh aye, an' me broke as a convict, and all me pitiful advance gone t'pay off me crimpin' landlord for his rat-hole lodgin's-"
"Some other time," Lewrie interrupted "We'll try you as an Ordinary Seaman, Gamble. I'm Landsman-Poor, at the moment. Do you have any certificates from past captains to show your rating?"
"Uh, nossir. Lost 'em 'tween ships, or somone stole 'em whilst I was sleepin' ashore."
"Sold 'em for drink, more like," Jugg scoffed.
"Enough!" Lewrie snapped. "You'll volunteer, Gamble?"
"Aye, sir… s'pose I'll haveta," the man replied, ducking his head again.
"Very well, then. Once we've a way on her, see the First Lieutenant, Mister Langlie, and he'll enter your names in our ship's books, then draw your issues from the purser," Lewrie told them, pleased that all but one of them seemed docile. He suspected that Gamble might be a King's Bad Bargain, and nothing better than a Landsman, after all; from the sound of his former shipmate, and the simpery grin on the young Willy Toffet's
face as they had their little tiff, he suspected that Gamble might end up making more enemies than friends among the crew, by shirking duty. But Bosun Pendarves and his mates, with their starters, could light a fire under his shifty, idle arse.
He returned to the quarterdeck as Proteus began to pay off from fetched-to to larboard tack, and began to gather way for a reach down the Leeward Passage to Pillsbury Sound. Lt. Langlie had reduced sail, since there was no more need for "dash" to catch a prize. The winds were cooperating, too; veered to Nor'east-by-North, and weakening as the morning warmed. There might be two or three hours more of gentle sailing before the tropic heat created stronger gusts, and fresh veers or backings. By then, they could be back off Ram Head and beyond, in deep water and miles from any shores or shoals.
"Deck, there!" a lookout called down as Proteus neared the mouth of Pillsbury Sound. "Smoke round the headland, four point off the weather bows! Small boats under sail, too, d'ye hear there?"
The smoke was as thin as a pipesmoker's for a minute or so, then quickly became a belching gush of darker, thicker smoke on the far side of Ram Head, flame-driven upwards by a catching conflagration. Lewrie began to worry and fret about the safety of his boarding party. It had been too long for the French to have fired the ship to prevent seizure, but hours too late for Catterall to have done it, he thought.
"Two boats, sir, under lug-sails," Langlie prompted, turning his attention closer in. "Ours, I do believe."
"A point of lee helm and close them, then, Mister Langlie."
"Aye, sir. Quartermaster, helm alee one point."
Within half an hour, Lewrie could feel a true sense of relief, and one of accomplishment, too, for the boats were theirs, and in the ocular of his glass, he could make out faces and put names to them in quick inventory, realising that every man jack he'd disembarked would return safe and sound, and with no sign oн blood or bandages to mark any wounded, either.
Lieutenant Catterall was standing up in the stern-sheets of his boat, whooping and hollering, waving exuberantly as Proteus and her prize brig fetched-to once more. Catterall pointed astern, threw out his chest proudly, and polished his fingernails on the white facings of his uniform coat, beaming fit to bust.
His boat swung round to the starboard, lee entry-port, where he was first up the man-ropes and boarding-battens to give his report, taking the salute due him from the side-party offhandedly, and almost swaggering as he doffed his hat.
"A Frog privateer, right enough, sir," Catterall boasted, "the Incendiare, she was called. Quite apt, now she's lit up like a pile of winter deadfall, haha! Crew of ninety, all told, before she struck the shoal, and mounted eight six-pounders." He related the important facts of her demise; for captured privateers, the best most crews would receive from a Prize Court would be "head and gun money," mere shillings paid out for each crewman and each piece of artillery. "No prisoners, sorry t'say, Captain. She was well and truly stuck on the rocks 'til the Final Trump, and nigh awash aft, when we gained her. The Frogs had departed in their own boats for the island. But they were in such a rush they abandoned all her paperwork. Not her Letter of Marque, sorry, but her box of correspondence in her master's cabin. There's more than enough proof of her being a privateer. Why it took me so long before we lit her off, and headed back to sea, d'ye see, sir? Since I can make out French rather well…"
"Oh, aye!" Langlie muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.
"Well, I do, Anthony," Catterall objected, "though I don't say it well as I read it. I decided that goin' over her with a fine-tooth comb for documents'd be best. Glean some insight into what the Frogs are intending, where they operate, and such."
"Exactly as I would have, Mister Catterall," Lewrie praised him. "Good, quick thinking, that. Let's get your party back aboard, first, get the boats a'tow aft, then we'll discuss what gems you may have discovered. Enough of import to please Admiral Sir Hyde Parker and his staff-captain, one would hope?"
"Er, aye, sir!" Catterall replied, taken all aback for a moment to be the object of praise, instead of the odd grudging grunt of acceptance, and a muttered "carry on."
"No hope of salvage, though?" Lewrie had to ask.
"Smashed all to pieces up forrud, sir, her keel snapped in two abaft her forecastle, and half her knee timbers and planking spraddled or gone, to amidships. Just hangin' on the shoal, she was, sir. Sorry."
"No need. She's out of business, and her crew's marooned ashore on a rarely visited island," Lewrie said with a shrug. "They can sail over to Charlotte Amalie and be interned, but it'll be months before an exchange can be arranged through the local French consul. The prize we took more than makes up for it. And… do you talk sweetly to Lieutenant Devereux, perhaps he'll gift you with one of the items he captured off her. 'Tis something you'll drool over, trust me."
"Oh, ah… well, sir!" Catterall said, beaming at a good day's work, and glancing about greedily for a sight of the Marine officer.
The boarding party was coming aboard then, sailors and Marines tramping the starboard gangway and the after ladder to the waist, with their arms removed from bandoliers and baldrics, ready to be put back in the arms chests. They were crowing over their own deeds, getting chaffered by those who'd stayed aboard as to who had had the best adventure, or had accomplished the greater deed.
"You new men," Lieutenant Langlie ordered, "assist Mister Tow-penny at leading the boats aft to their towing painters."
Lewrie was standing by the rails and nettings overlooking the waist, just about to clap his hands together with satisfaction, when he glanced down. One of his recently "volunteered" hands, the one who went by George Gamble, looked up, aghast, his mouth dropping open and his tanned face paling in shock, darting a look at Mr. Towpenny, who stood on the inner edge of the starboard gangway over his head, still burdened with cutlass, pistol, and musket as part of the boarding party.
"Hennidge?" Mr. Towpenny exclaimed of a sudden, just as aghast. "Martin Hennidge?" he added, this time scowling, the name spat out in loathing. His musket came up quickly.
Lewrie jerked his head back to look at Gamble, who started like a deer at a dog's barking, quickly lashing out to seize a musket from a seaman who'd been idling with a messmate, the butt on the deck, and one forearm draped casually over the muzzle as a hiking stick. Gamble scampered forward, musket at port-arms, and using it as a bludgeon to either hand to clear his way!
"Mutineer, sir!" Mr. Towpenny cried, putting his musket to his shoulder as if to aim. "One of the Hermiones! Knew him years ago, I did… know him anywhere!"
"Proteuses, seize that man!" Lewrie barked.
"Keep back!" the fugitive sailor shrieked, spinning to face the crew and levelling his musket to point at them from his hip. "Leave me be, or by Christ I'll shoot at least one o' ye! Keep back, I say!"
He swung the muzzle back and forth, frantically, daunting the few hands who had obeyed Lewrie's order. He climbed the larboard companionway ladder near the focs'le belfry to the gangway, near the larboard anchor cat-heads.
"Sir!" the seaman who had lost his musket called up. "Sir! 'At musket ain't loaded!" Mister Catterall wouldn't let us back aboard wif one!"
Lewrie tipped the sailor a wink, drew his sword, and took off at a quick trot down the larboard gangway. "Give it up, Gamble, or whatever your name is!" He forced himself to look stern and menacing, sure that the joke would soon be on their "armed" mutineer.
Hennidge looked down to his piece, used one hand to make sure it was at full cock again, and raised it, aiming at Lewrie's heart.
"Won't be taken, I won't! Back, ya tyrant, or I'll kill you, if it's the last thing ever I do!" Hennidge cried.
"Murder another officer, would you?" Lewrie snarled, sword extended and almost within reach of the muzzle. "There were ten slaughtered aboard Hermione … in their beds! Those not enough for you, Hennidge? Thrown overside, still alive but bleeding, even the wee midshipmen who pleaded for their lives. Have a hand in that, did you? Did you, you traitor?"
"An' all of 'em torturin' devils!" the man shot back, jabbing at Lewrie as if his musket had a bayonet to keep him back out of reach of his sword's tip. "They all deserved what they got, and more! Officers, God above! You're all monsters! Navy, merchant…!"
"The Spaniards didn't treat ya right?" Lewrie taunted, parrying with his hanger, forcing the sailor backwards. "No shower o' gold for handin' 'em a British frigate? No commission in their navy, no reward for you? Drop that musket… now! It's over. Nowhere to go…"
He grazed his sword blade down the musket barrel and forestock, threatening to slash the man's left wrist and fingers if he kept proper hold of it, forcing him back against the bulwarks, with no place to escape, sure that this made a great raree-show. "Give up!" he roared in the man's face.
Leap and lunge! Left hand round the muzzle to lever it up and away, right fist smashing his hanger's hilt and curved hand-guard into Hennidge's nose, making it explode in crimson, eyes crossed in pain!
Left knee into the crutch as he bulled forward, for good measure!
Give, before ya get! Lewrie snickered to himself.
As Hennidge dropped to his knees, Lewrie stepped back a pace and yanked hard to tear the useless musket away. Hennidge found breath to howl, right hand still clawing to keep his weapon by the fire-lock and one finger inside the brass trigger-guard, and… BLAM!
"Holy shit!" Lewrie screeched, flinging away the hot muzzle from his left hand. "You bastaren" he added, raising his sword and bringing the hard pommel down atop the man's head for sheer spite, as the spent powder smoke wreathed round his head and shoulders.
From sheer terror, Lewrie coshed him on the head again!
Sailors and Marines were beside him in an eyeblink to take hold of the mutineer and drag him toward the companionway to the gun-deck.
Fat lot of help you shits were! Lewrie fumed, gasping fit to a swoon, and his bowels dangerously loose; Unloaded, hey? Mine arse on a bandbox! Why, he could've… killed me! Aye, make a great show, now he's out cold! Pitch in, and look organised… if not brave!
"I'll have that sonofabitch in irons… double irons, at once, Mister Catterall!" Lewrie roared, once he'd got his breath back, picking on the first officer he spotted within easy reach. "Someone check my cabins for the list of descriptions of Hermione mutineers we were told to look out for. See Mister Padgett, my clerk, quickly now!"
"No need, sir," Mr. Towpenny assured him from the gun-deck. "I knew him. You peel off his shirt, here, you'll find two tattoos. He had one on his left upper arm, a Killick Anchor atop a heart. Seen it often enough when we were in Queen Charlotte t'gether, sir. Over his right shoulder blade, there should be a Saint Paul 's Cross, in green ink… protection 'gainst drownin', the tattoo man in Plymouth told him, sir. He's Martin Hennidge, sure enough, I'll swear a Bible Oath to it at a court, Cap'um. And admire t'see him hang for his sins."
Padgett came forward with the list, quickly raked out of the desk drawers aft in his cabins, and the written description, including tattoos, fit Gamble/Hennidge to a Tee.
Lewrie sheathed his hanger and stepped down to the gun-deck as Hennidge was sluiced with a bucket of sea-water and awakened, spluttering and moaning, already fettered and shackled to a 12-pounder shot.
"Sling his sorry arse below on the orlop," Lewrie ordered in a mellower mood. "Bread and water, only. Mister Langlie?"
"Here, sir."
"Our prisoner, and his return to justice, is more important than continuing our cruise," Lewrie instructed. "Once well Sou'east of the island yonder, shape course for Kingston."
"Aye, sir," Langlie replied, a foolish expression of awe, mixed with both relief and joy on his face. "Beg pardon, sir, but that deed was… just about the boldest, damnedest thing, ever I did see! You went for him without a blink, a thought for your safety…!"
Lewrie made the appropriate, and expected, deprecating gestures and clucking sounds, as if it was really nothing much, though all the while thinking: S posed t'be safe as houses. Un-thinking is the word for it! Damme, there must be easier ways t'keep a good name! Got to get aft…fore I squit my breeches!
"Don't quite know, myself, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said with a shake of his head, as if puzzled, heading sternward along the gangway. "Thank God for Mister Towpenny, or we'd have had this man aboard for years, all unknowing. Thought his story was queer, but…" Lewrie shrugged again.
"I'd admire to shake your hand, sir!" Langlie earnestly cried.
"Well, if you must, Mister Langlie," Lewrie answered, trying on a humble chuckle as he took hands with him, keeping a pleasant grin on his face, though he was, by gastric necessity, rather impatient.
"Three cheers for the Captain, lads!" Lt. Catterall yelled, not to be outdone. "Hip hip…!"
HMS Proteus trembled with the strength of their enthusiasm, the cheers almost feral in their intensity. And Lewrie caused a further outburst, when he drew out his pocket watch, noted the time, and said that after such a strenuous and rewarding morning's work, once they'd shaped course for Jamaica, the rum cask would be got up and everyone would "Splice The Mainbrace," with full and honest measure for all.
He did not stay on deck to share rum with them, though. He got the retrieved musket from a Marine private and stepped down to the gundeck to return it to Ordinary Seaman Fawcett, who had lost it.
"Not loaded, was it?" he hissed, almost in the lad's ear, as he leaned close. "Not charged or primed, hey?"
"Oh Gawd, sir, I'm sorry!" Fawcett gulped, eyes abrim with tears and shaking like a leaf. "I thought 'twas, oh Jesus…!"
"You're an idiot, Fawcett! The blitherin' sort!"
"Yessir?" the sailor cringed in dread and sorrow.
"Oh, for God's sake," Lewrie relented, stepping back, his urgent needs denying him a good and proper rant. "Go get your rum, and we'll say no more about it. But, by God you'll never, ever fetched a loaded weapon back aboard, again… will you."
He went up the ladder to the quarterdeck, stiff-legged and his buttocks pinched; struck a "captainly" pose for a second, hands behind his back, then ducked aft quickly. Bounding down the stern ladder to his cabins, he stripped off hat, coat, waistcoat, sword and belt, and dashed into his private quarter-gallery, slamming the door on Aspinall and a welcoming brandy. Even so, he barely made it. Fear, belated or not, worked its way on him better than an enema from Mr. Durant's clysters; so loose, rank, and gaseous that he had to fan the air.
After a moment or two, though, he had to laugh out loud. "God, people get knighted for less, and…!" Captain Alan Lewrie, RN, wheezed, biting on a fist to keep from braying, for all the world to hear.
"Don't know how fame and glory strike other people," he giggled, "but by God, they have an effect on me! Hee hee!"
"Out in a bit, puss!" Mewl Toulon cried, pawing the door.