publican’s blue apron called out once he had come out to see what the noise was about. The lad looked like a younger version of Will Cony, but Lewrie couldn’t recall his name, right off. There were three boys born to the Conys, and Lewrie’s sons had played with them, no matter what his in-laws and Uncle Phineas Chiswick thought of it.
“Little Will, sir!” the lad prompted, beaming fit to bust.
“Good Lord, the spittin’ image of your dad at his age!” Lewrie exclaimed as he carefully levered himself off the bench seat into the doorway of the coach. “Where do the years go? ‘Little’, my eye!”
“Father! Captain Lewrie’s come home!” Little Will shouted over his shoulder towards the half-opened doors. “Come quick!”
Lewrie put his good left leg on the first of the folding metal coach steps, clung to the door to place his sore right one on it, then slowly descended, wincing when he put weight upon his bad leg. Once on the ground, his stout walking stick eased the pressure. Just at that moment, Will Cony came out, began to smile a welcome, but froze, and got a worried look oh his face.
“Dear God, sir, but what’ve the bastard Frogs done t’ya!” Will gasped, coming close as if to give him a shoulder to lean on. “Let’s git ya in outta the cold, and sit ya down with a mug o’ warm ale.”
“Wasn’t the Frogs, Will, but the Dons, this time,” Lewrie said. “And aye, a good chair and a pint of your best’d be more than welcome. Ale for all. Summon the coachee and the waggon driver, Pettus, and I expect they’re in need, too.”
Christ, we could make a passable pair o’ drummers! Lewrie imagined as they went inside. Will Cony’s artificial “board foot” boot shuffled and thumped with each step, right alongside the matching tap of Lewrie’s cane almost made a rubato rhythm!
He shed his hat and greatcoat and took ease in a sturdy wooden chair at a table near one of the fireplaces, letting out a wee sigh of relief from pain. A moment later, though, and Lewrie was struggling to rise as Maggie Cony and the other two Cony sons came bustling out from the kitchens. “La, don’t ye be gettin’ up, Cap’m Lewrie!” Maggie cried. “Lord, but it’s good t’see ye back, hurt or no. Ye remember Thomas and Anthony, little Tony? Well, none of ’em so little now. Ye’ll be suppin’ with us here?”
“I sent word ahead to my father’s place that we’d be arriving, so I expect his house staff’s layin’ on something, but thankee for the offer, Maggie,” Lewrie explained. “I wouldn’t want them to put themselves out for nothing. Now I’m ashore on half-pay, you’ll be seein’ more than enough o’ me, for mid-day dinners, and t’read the papers.”
“A pint o’ the fall ale, sir,” the fetching brunette waitress Lewrie recalled from three years before said, bustling to the table with a tray of filled mugs. “An’ may I be so bold as t’welcome ye back, sir,” she added, with a smile and a brief curtsy.
“Thankee, uh…” Lewrie replied, stuck for another name.
“Why, ye recall Abigail, Cap’m,” Will Cony said, laughing out loud. “She started with us a bit afore ya got Reliant and went away. Don’t know what we’d do without ’er.”
“Ye could pay me more, am I that good, Mister Cony,” Abigail teased before turning away to see to the others at the table.
“So, ya paid her off, at last, sir,” Will Cony said, “an’ what o’ th’ local lads I rounded up for ya?”
Lewrie could reassure him that of the twenty volunteers that Will had recruited from Anglesgreen and the farms around, all but two of them were alive and well, though by now surely parcelled out to other ships in need of crew whilst Reliant went into the graving docks to be substantially rebuilt. It was the way of the Navy, as Will Cony ruefully knew.
“Hated t’give ’em up,” Lewrie admitted. “The local lads might have come aboard as raw Landsmen, but they made fine topmen and
“Little Will, sir!” the lad prompted, beaming fit to bust.
“Good Lord, the spittin’ image of your dad at his age!” Lewrie exclaimed as he carefully levered himself off the bench seat into the doorway of the coach. “Where do the years go? ‘Little’, my eye!”
“Father! Captain Lewrie’s come home!” Little Will shouted over his shoulder towards the half-opened doors. “Come quick!”
Lewrie put his good left leg on the first of the folding metal coach steps, clung to the door to place his sore right one on it, then slowly descended, wincing when he put weight upon his bad leg. Once on the ground, his stout walking stick eased the pressure. Just at that moment, Will Cony came out, began to smile a welcome, but froze, and got a worried look oh his face.
“Dear God, sir, but what’ve the bastard Frogs done t’ya!” Will gasped, coming close as if to give him a shoulder to lean on. “Let’s git ya in outta the cold, and sit ya down with a mug o’ warm ale.”
“Wasn’t the Frogs, Will, but the Dons, this time,” Lewrie said. “And aye, a good chair and a pint of your best’d be more than welcome. Ale for all. Summon the coachee and the waggon driver, Pettus, and I expect they’re in need, too.”
Christ, we could make a passable pair o’ drummers! Lewrie imagined as they went inside. Will Cony’s artificial “board foot” boot shuffled and thumped with each step, right alongside the matching tap of Lewrie’s cane almost made a rubato rhythm!
He shed his hat and greatcoat and took ease in a sturdy wooden chair at a table near one of the fireplaces, letting out a wee sigh of relief from pain. A moment later, though, and Lewrie was struggling to rise as Maggie Cony and the other two Cony sons came bustling out from the kitchens. “La, don’t ye be gettin’ up, Cap’m Lewrie!” Maggie cried. “Lord, but it’s good t’see ye back, hurt or no. Ye remember Thomas and Anthony, little Tony? Well, none of ’em so little now. Ye’ll be suppin’ with us here?”
“I sent word ahead to my father’s place that we’d be arriving, so I expect his house staff’s layin’ on something, but thankee for the offer, Maggie,” Lewrie explained. “I wouldn’t want them to put themselves out for nothing. Now I’m ashore on half-pay, you’ll be seein’ more than enough o’ me, for mid-day dinners, and t’read the papers.”
“A pint o’ the fall ale, sir,” the fetching brunette waitress Lewrie recalled from three years before said, bustling to the table with a tray of filled mugs. “An’ may I be so bold as t’welcome ye back, sir,” she added, with a smile and a brief curtsy.
“Thankee, uh…” Lewrie replied, stuck for another name.
“Why, ye recall Abigail, Cap’m,” Will Cony said, laughing out loud. “She started with us a bit afore ya got Reliant and went away. Don’t know what we’d do without ’er.”
“Ye could pay me more, am I that good, Mister Cony,” Abigail teased before turning away to see to the others at the table.
“So, ya paid her off, at last, sir,” Will Cony said, “an’ what o’ th’ local lads I rounded up for ya?”
Lewrie could reassure him that of the twenty volunteers that Will had recruited from Anglesgreen and the farms around, all but two of them were alive and well, though by now surely parcelled out to other ships in need of crew whilst Reliant went into the graving docks to be substantially rebuilt. It was the way of the Navy, as Will Cony ruefully knew.
“Hated t’give ’em up,” Lewrie admitted. “The local lads might have come aboard as raw Landsmen, but they made fine topmen and
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