Lanndd… Hhoo!" the lookout on the mainmast cross-trees high aloft shrilled. And this time it wasn't false. Dark cloud-heads that loomed over the horizon could appear solid, and they had been mistaken several times for the tall mountains of St. Helena… just as thunder heads earlier in the voyage had been mistaken for the lonely St. Paul 's Rocks, for Cape Roque. One particularly-solid and seemingly-unmoving storm ahead of the trade's course on-passage for Recife had resembled an island so much that Grafton had despatched HMS Chloe to "smoak" it out, sending her dashing ahead of the convoy, as if Capt. Sir Tobias Treghues might gain undying fame by discovering one of the "long lost" isles described in early Spanish sea-charts, sometimes reported by seafarers ever since… just as "High-Brazil" and its archipelagos were once cartographers' rumours, yet never found where others had reported them. She'd returned hours later, empty-handed.
These hills and mountains were real, though, at long last. They solidified as the convoy butted its slow way towards them against both Trades and current; other clouds scudded behind them as they got near, and even at ten miles rough details of rocks and bluffs and greenery (such as it was) could be discerned on barren, windswept St. Helena.
"Almost done," Lewrie whispered to himself with mounting, yet wary, enthusiasm, as he studied the isle from a perch on the foremast fighting top. "Almost there!"
Soon to be free of Sir Tobias and Lady Treghues? Pray Jesus! A break in their long, very long passage, and the bulk of the escorting warships would turn about for home. And, was God just, Proteus would be one of them.
One more circus performance, then …! Lewrie thought as he put his brass telescope to his eye. It was land, by God; it had to be St. Helena, and not another of those portable mysteries, for this was even in the correct latitude and longitude, for a wonder.
Though he still despised clowns and mimes worse than he ever did cold, boiled mutton, Capt. Alan Lewrie had come to rather like circuses and such. Or, rather, certain circus folk.
Recife had been a friendly port, a wondrous place to break their passage, go ashore, and stretch their legs. Well, for "John Company" sailors and paying passengers, for Navy officers or working-parties under the ships' pursers to fetch supplies… but not for Jack tars.
Treghues had ordered his squadron anchored farther out, so that even the strongest swimmers might be daunted from hopes of desertion, with armed and fully-kitted Marines posted at entry-ports, sterns, and bows, round the clock. Once re-victualled, and glutted with firewood and fresh water, Treghues had allowed the "Easy" pendants hoisted, the warships put "Out of Discipline" for two whole days and nights; aboard-ship liberty, not shore liberty, so the local bumboats could swarm out with their wares-shoddy slop-clothing, cheap shoes, exotic parrots and monkeys for sale, fruits and ades, smuggled spirits… and whores.
What had then ensued had not been a pretty sight, and Treghues and his wife and chaplain had taken shore lodgings to spare their finer sensibilities the sights and sounds of the wild ruts that had followed.
Any sailor with the "blunt" could hire a doxy for a tumble, for an hour or so; those who could afford more could declare to the watch officers that his chosen wench was his "wife," with whom he'd share his food (and whatever extra he could buy from the bumboatmen) and his rum issue with her, plus a fee to her and her "agent" for her loaned charms.
The Surgeon, Mr. Hodson, and his Mate, the exiled former French physician, Mr. Maurice Durant, made what attempt they could to determine the women free of venereal, or other communicable, diseases. The Bosun and his mates, the Master-At-Arms, and his Ship's Corporals searched incoming goods, and the whores' underskirtings, for contraband liquour, but that was a losing proposition, and small bottles of local rum or arrack always got past them.
Watches would still be stood in harbour, and the cry to rouse a division, a watch, usually was no longer "Wakey wakey, lash up an' stow" but "Show a leg, show a leg." Hairy-legged men got chivvied out of a hammock; smooth and (mostly) hairless female legs were allowed to sleep in! Everyone got as drunk as they could afford, danced as exuberantly and sang as loud as they could holler, and coupled in hammocks, or on the deck between the guns, whenever they felt the itch, with a blanket hung from the deck-head for only the slightest modicum of privacy. It sometimes required the Master-At-Arms, the Bosun, and those Marines who weren't whoring or talking-in-tongues-drunk to break up fights over a woman, a parrot, puppy, or kitten, a dram of rum or a suspect run of the cards, dice, or backgammon.
Lewrie slept aboard, but wisely took his gig ashore right after breakfast, and didn't return 'til after Lights Out round nine o'clock. What he hadn't seen he wouldn't have to punish, and would usually hold a rather lenient Captain's Mast, unless relatively innocent sins turned into crimes against the Articles of War.
The Portuguese were neutral in the war against France, and the people of Recife were friendly towards most visiting seamen. Without wartime taxes, and with the higher value of the Pound Sterling, he had gone on a frenetic shopping spree. Fresh, low-tide sand by the barrel for the cats' "necessary"; jerked meats and sausages for their feeding; hard-skinned citrus fruits by the bushel, cocoanuts for their novelty; both local and imported wines to restore his wine-cabinet and his lazarette stores; fresh ink and paper, new batches of candles and oils to fill his lanthorns; a new shirt or two; Christmas presents to ship to Caroline and his children, Sewallis, Hugh, and Charlotte, for he'd not had enough time to do so in London or Portsmouth, and here it was not only past Christmas, but almost two months into both the new year of 1800 and a new century as well!
Lewrie had bought a personal store of Jesuits' Bark, cinchona, just in case of Malaria breaking out after a shore call, along with a box of citronella candles in tiny wooden tubs, that Mr. Durant found useful to defeat the sickening tropical miasmas that had engendered an outbreak of Yellow Jack aboard Proteus when first in the Caribbean in '97. And, when they were anchored near shore, the candles seemed to shoo away the pesky mosquitoes, too, allowing one to sleep at night without diving completely under the bed-covers.
New linen or cotton bedding, too, a spanking-new and more comfortable cotton-stuffed mattress for his hanging bed-cot, since the old one had begun to reek, from both his own sweat and the odd claim laid upon it by Chalky or Toulon, most especially when Capt. Nicely had supplanted him for a time last year.
And, laundry! And hot baths!
At sea, laundry was done in a wood bucket with seawater or part-fresh, part saline, in which the lye soap the Purser, Mr. Coote, sold could barely raise a lather. The freshwater ration was a gallon a day per man, officer or ship's boy, and most of that was used to boil the salt-meat rations or rare duffs or puddings in net bags in steep-tubs in the galley. To rinse, other net bags were used to tow the washing astern in the ship's wake, so clothing smutted and stiff with tar and "slush" stains from the skimmed fat from the galley used on all of the rope rigging to keep it supple, reeking of human sweat and fleshy oils and grease, came back aboard but a tad cleaner, and simply stiff with salt crystals, once they'd been dried. After a while, everyone, from the aristocrat to the powder monkeys, erupted in painful, suppurating salt-water boils. Lewrie included.
Laundry done in boiling-hot fresh water, though, oceans of it, then rinsed and re-rinsed in colder fresh water, churned and paddled, wrung and beaten, then sun-dried on a line of clean rope, could hold the boils at bay for weeks, months, if one carefully rationed changes of underclothes and sheets, and didn't go too potty on fastidiousness!
The officers and midshipmen had decided to go shares on fresh livestock, too, and had asked if their captain might wish to join in. They'd hunted up a nanny-goat with two kids, which could be milked for addition to coffee or tea, so sweet that even hot cocoa didn't require too much sugar stirred in. And, a good kid goat was tender eating as well! They bought chickens and new coops, so they could have eggs at least three days a week, along with a lusty rooster to quicken chicks so the flock would prosper, if the noisy little bastard did his duty. A fat duck or two, some pigs, including a pregnant sow sure to birth some roast sucklings sooner or later, and a bullock for consumption in harbour, and one for later fresh beef.
Even a permanent guard had to be put on the manger under the break of the forecastle, to help the ship's boy who tended livestock-genially known as the "Duck Fucker"-keep the Marine's pet, the champion rat-killing mongoose, from stealing chicken eggs. By now, she was very well-fed on dead rats (which upset the midshipmen's mess no end for taking that source of meat), sleek, and well-groomed, and wore a red leather collar, and the semi-official rank of Corporal, listed in their muster book as Marine M. Cocky.
Then, after a sublime first night ashore's supper of local seafoods, fresh salad, soup, and mango pudding, washed down with a moderate lashing of wine, Lewrie had decided to toddle over to the plaza to take in the show at the Wigmore's circus.
Capt. Weed of the Festival was right; the language problem was insurmountable, so the planned dramas and comedies, and the songs they usually sang in English, had been dropped, but there was still a lot to see, and the performers of Wigmore's Travelling Extravaganza were Jacks and Jills of all trades, able to play any role called for on stage, or flesh out acts in the arena, both aloft and alow.
Lewrie paid his admission, and got a seat several rows back on a shaky set of locally run-up tiers of benches set about an open area at one end of Recife's typically large colonial plaza. Before him, there were two foot-high rings formed by garishly painted wooden boxes, the outer ring about ten feet closer to the audience, the inner ring about sixty feet across. Temporary masts and spars and shear-legs inside the inner ring stood with the aid of rope rigging. Colourful flags flapped in the slight evening breeze, and long strings of cast-off signal flags or small, cheap burgees were hung everywhere a rope could be stretched. Torches or large lanthorns illuminated the inner ring, and the air was heavy with expectation of something out of the ordinary, and the local crowd, half of them children, stirred, squirmed, and chattered. Lewrie made sure that his watch and fob, and his wash-leather coin-purse, were safe in the front pockets of his breeches, for though he wasn't exactly in the "cheap seats," some of the better-dressed Brazilians nearest to him still bore a shifty, pick-pocket's look. At least he was back far enough to be spared the attentions of the damned clowns and mimes!
All in all, it was rather enjoyable. There were fire-eaters or sword-swallowers, bareback riders who performed acrobatics while their mounts cantered or loped about the inner ring, strongmen billed as Hindoo jettis who drove nails with their fists into wood, or broke stacks of bricks. Human pyramids of acrobats, jugglers who threw knives back and forth, people who went aloft above the "boarding net" to twirl on taut vertical ropes, or leap from one swing to another. There was a rope-walking act, followed by dancing and trick-performing bears, Fredo and Paulo of his recent acquaintance.
In the slim outer ring, there were parades of animals, though Lewrie did think that the zebras more-resembled the four burros he had seen aboard Festival, docked-tailed and mane-shorn, and tarted up with soot and chalk stripes. There were performing dogs, a rooster who did a dance (even if his iron dance floor had been heated beyond endurance, Capt. Weed had told him). There was a horse who could add, subtract, or multiply, a camel race (with the baby camel chasing them, ridden by a monkey in a red vest and turban), followed by an eye-patched scrawny man with a whip who worked a pair of mangy old lions, and went so far as to put his head in one's mouth, which set the locals into paroxyms of fear; followed by trained parrots which could play fetch from children in the crowd, if shown a matching item first.
And, the clowns and mimes, of course, as entre actes, whacking each other with pig bladders or whatever fell to hand, who also worked a troop of monkeys for all they were worth, and that right-lewdly, too. Though that seemed to go down better with the mostly Catholic audience than Lewrie might have expected.
Earlier on, Jose had made a second appearance as a knife-thrower, with both the brassy wee redhead "actress" and the little blonde as his assistants, or targets on a huge revolving wheel; he could even do it blindfolded-or so it appeared, at least.
And, there was "Eudoxia," the raven-haired wench who had caught Lewrie's eye the first day aboard Festival. She'd assisted with a dog act, been one of the bareback riders, all in garish, revealing costume, but, her final showing put all those in the shade. Out she came in a scanty outfit to do a solo turn. She wore a spiky, glittering tiara of what looked to be old sword tips and too-big-to-be-real paste gems, all that atop both her own hair and a black wig of tight-curled tresses so long they reached her arse, and looked like old ropes. Eudoxia had on a sheer upper garment, a hip-length, one-shouldered Greek chlamys, sheer enough to show off her silver lame corset (that did wonders for lifting her breasts, and Alan Lewrie's libido!), skin-tight breeches, and knee-high suede boots, with a large, recurved Asian horn bow and a sheaf of arrows. "… cruelly h'exiled. Princess Eudoxia, ladies an' gentlemen!" Daniel Wig-more cried by way of introduction, pausing to let a locally-hired gentleman translate for him. Wigmore had more gilt lace, silver chain mail, and brass buttons on his bright red coat than a dozen generals were authorised. "… h'escaped from th' myster'yus steppes o' th' Roosias!… wif th' blood o' h'ancient Parthians, Scythians, an' Cossacks in 'er 'ist'ry! Daughter o' th' fabled h'Amazon female warriors wot shot their arrers from th' walls o' Troy, h'itself, fightin' fer ol' King Priam in th' h'Iliad 1 I gives ye that h'archer par excellence… that most beautiful an' deadly, 'oo revenged 'erself on them 'oo slew 'er own true love wif 'er silent steel… h 'Eudoxia!"
It started slow, but built right craftily, Lewrie thought. She began with regular straw-stuffed canvas targets, but then progressed to playing cards, candle flames to snuff, large rings flung aloft, which she snapped a beribboned arrow through. Locally-gathered, expendable, pigeons released from wicker cages didn't stand a chance as they fled towards the far end of the plaza, even right overhead of the audience! The wee blond "actress" turned up with a canteloupe on her head, and that got skewered, too. Then a grapefruit, then an orange, finally an apple, a la William Tell!
For the piece de resistance, a gaudily caparisoned white horse trotted out into the inner ring, and Eudoxia gave a great shriek, and ran after him, springing and rolling astride, and proceeded to perform her art on targets from horseback, too: seated upright, kneeling atop her mount, standing, even scissor-legged along her horse's side, and shooting from below his belly, from under his neck! "Eudoxia" finally drew rein after squarely hitting the ace of spades on a playing card at the full gallop, then reined back her horse so hard that he skidded to a halt on the plaza's stones, to rear and prance, pawing the air with his fore hooves to a tumultuous applause, as the small band did a triumphant fanfare, and, over the roar of the crowd, uttered a howl of victory that the Portuguese might mistake for an Amazon or Cossack phrase, but which to Lewrie sounded suspiciously like "Sic semper tyrannis!, " before she wheeled away behind the gaudy sailcloth draperies that screened the performers and beasts from view.
As her horse dropped to all-fours, though, she swept the upper tip of her bow across the audience, stiff-armed, and ended aiming at Lewrie! A salaam-ish bow from the waist from the back of her horse, then a very wide grin, and she blew kisses to everyone, with a final one again directed at him, and a vixenish, impish smile, to boot!
Well, then! he thought; Well, well, well, hmm! Wink's as good as the node Though…
As he'd suspected, there had been visiting back and forth from one plodding ship to another, on days when the winds and seas weren't up, and Festival had indeed drawn more than her fair share of callers. Proteus had spent half her time close under Grafton's lee, close under the slow Festival, too, though unable to partake of an hour of two of diverting amusement, probably so Treghues could keep a damn' wary eye on the both of them! By telescope, Lewrie had noticed that civilians off the Indiamen had gone aboard much tenser than they departed. All callers had been warmly greeted, and the female members of the troupe had always been the first to welcome them, and the last to see them off.
Perhaps she really was a whore-transport! Lewrie had sniggered; Pays for new costumes… atones for poor salaries, and damme if those camels and "zebras" o' theirs don't need a lot o' fodder!
Now, as he paid only half his attention to the magic act which followed the girl's performance, the rational half of his mind warned him that Eudoxia, or whatever her name was in real life… Mabel, or Peg most-like, from Liverpool?… might be a well-used strumpet, but… that other moiety of his higher faculties kept nudging him with an elbow to remind him that he was the owner of a round two-dozen sheep-gut cundums of Mother Green's very best construction, purveyed in old Half Moon Street, and English, by God, the finest in the world, and in the end, if she was for temporary hire, then her socket-fee, no matter how steep, would be more than worth it with a body so slim, her legs so long, lean, and shapely, "cat-heads" so bountiful, and so athletic and strong a ride that he very likely might only half-survive it! No commitments, no embarrassing entanglements, no…!
His sane moiety pointed out that, surely, "Eudoxia" might have a lover or protector among the circus or theatrical troupe, already, someone jealous, hulking… someone like Jose, perhaps, who'd proved his skill with knives, who had wild beasts to sic on him, someone who might pester him to death with clowns, if nothing deadly fell to hand.
No matter, he felt… "Invited."
And, damme, lam curious /he told himself; What harm in that?
So, now without a certain amount of trepidation, lest he'd misunderstood the wench's broad gestures, he alit from the stands once it appeared that the night's entertainment was winding down, and casually ambled, as innocently as he might, over towards the circus's screened-off area, even going so far as to stick his hands into the pockets of his breeches, most un-officer-like, and attempt to whistle a gay air to disarm the squinty looks he was getting from the thickly-muscular "Hindoo strongmen," and some equally strong and daunting sailors off Festival, who did double duty as roustabouts and guards over Wig-more's property. He could reassure himself that he still owned a watch, and a full purse, if nothing else!
Before he got quite to his destination, though, the curtained-off backstage area erupted performers and beasts, out to take a final parade and their last bows from an adoring audience, and he ended up standing there looking foolish. A minute later, he felt even more of a Cully as smarmy, slick-looking local young gentlemen and pretenders came stroking their mustachios and leering, with flowers in hand, on much the same mission as his!
Oh, bugger this! Lewrie scowlingly thought, feeling hot under the collar, and even more embarrassed to be lumped in with such sprogs. He turned away and shaped his stroll out towards the empty end of the vast plaza, towards the fountains, statuary, and such, when…
"Cap'm Lewrie!" Daniel Wigmore gaily called out, as the torches and lanthorns were doused, and the tinny little band strangled their last notes and fell silent. "Why, bless me soul, Cap'm sir, but 'ow'd ye h'enjoy me show?" Wigmore came bustling up through the departing crowd, beaming and bobbing at one and all to take bows of his own from them for a successful performance.
"Why… I thought it was simply capital, Mister Wigmore, sir, and I dearly wish my sailors could come ashore to witness it!" Lewrie cried back, stopped in his tracks and removing his hands from his pockets to doff his cocked hat. "Enjoyed it immensely, especially…"
" 'Owever not, then, sir?" Wigmore wondered aloud as he came up and not only doffed his own huge, Austrian-style fore-and-aft bicorne, adrip with gilt lace and egret plumes sufficient to stuff a large and fluffy pillowcase, but stuck out his hand for a hearty shake. "Fetch 'em ashore t' next night's performance, why don't ye?"
"Ah, that'd be up to our Captain Treghues, Mister Wigmore, and he'll not allow shore liberty, not in Recife, at least," Lewrie said. "Perhaps at Saint Helena, which is more a garrison than a civilian, and desertible, liberty port. My lads'd relish that, aye, sir."
"Aye, that'd bulk th' gate, 'sides th' few poor sodgers stuck h'out there wif nary a di-wersion," Wigmore happily agreed, the sound of silver coins dropping into his receipts sack in his mind's fantasy. "Why, there must be 'undreds o' th' buggers, ah ah!" he purred, with his hands rubbing greedily together. "Promise me, Cap'm Lewrie, ye'll do all ye may t'git yer sailors, allyer sailors, an' them off t'other warships, ashore so'z we can h'amaze 'em, an' I'll give yer officers an' ye free h'admittance, h'often'z ye'd like!"
"That'd be grand, too, Mister Wigmore," Lewrie told him, "and, at Saint Helena, you'd be staging your plays, as well, so, did Captain Treghues allow, we might even be able to attend several nights… one night the circus, the next a comedy, the next a drama, or opera, or, in this case, what they call an operetta. I was quite taken with how your performers filled so many roles. Surely, what they may do on a stage would be even more interesting, revealing such a well of talent, so to speak. Does, erm… Eudoxia, for instance, or whatever her real name is… play dramatic roles, as well?"
I sound like a "Country-Put" sniffin' round a Pimp.'Lewrie chid himself, feeling a burn rise up from his collar once more; like a young buck tryin' t'sneak backstage at Drury Lane!
"Why, h'Eudoxia h'is 'er real name, sir," Wigmore declared with a wry squint of understanding at him, "th' 'princess' part's a bit of a stretch, but she did come from somewheres 'round th' Greek or Turkish 'Ellespont… s'truth! 'Er King's h'English h'ain't all that good t' play h 'important talkin' parts, but she goes down well when it come to supportin' roles, h'at comedies an' such… chorus singin', and, wot we calls in th' trade the h'ingenue. Like 'er show, partic'lar, Cap'm Lewrie?" he asked with a knowing nod and smile.
"Most impressive, indeed," Lewrie confessed, reddening more.
"Why, ye should tell 'er 'ow much ye were h'impressed!" Wigmore exclaimed, all but taking Lewrie by the elbow to steer him towards the tentage. "Come backstage wif me, an' we'll do that this werry minute!"
"I'd be, ah… delighted!" Lewrie agreed, much took quickly to make it sound casual, so he amended, "if that would be no imposition on your performers' privacy, o' course, ah…"
Wigmore looked at him most disbelievingly, damn' near goggled in point of fact, as he led him past the hopeful, leering local senhores and into the backstage area. And, knowing the goal of Lewrie's wish to "congratulate" his performers, took his own sweet time getting round to the object of Lewrie's quest. Lewrie was, perforce, made acquaintance with the horses; the parrots, who made use of his shoulders and arms for roosting branches; the terriers of the dog act, who found the permanent scent of cats on him equally delightful; a joyful rencontre with Fredo, and his brother Paulo (once the dog pack had been forcibly removed), both of whom seemed devilish-glad to see him, again; and both mother and baby camel, which involved rather a great deal of slobbers.
Hello to Jose, hello to almost everyone; a handshake with that eye-patched skeleton who made the lions perform, though without having to ruffle any lion fur, for those beasts were already back in a stout iron cage, gnawing on what little was left of their earlier supper.
Finally…
"An' surely ye remembers our darin' h'archer, Cap'm Lewrie," Wigmore said with a sly simper. "H'Eudoxia, darlin'… ye recollect Cap'm Lewrie o' th' Proteus frigate, wot stopped us?"
"Da, I do… yes," Eudoxia purred, cocking a brow at him as if to ask what took him so long. The scanty outfit and wig were now gone and she sported a thin silk dressing robe belted at the waist, looking as if she'd had a quick sponge-off right after the final parade. Her own hair had been brushed back into a single long mane, and the garish makeup she'd worn in the ring had been removed, as well. No cosmetics of a more conventional nature had replaced it, either; even so, Eudoxia appeared nigh-flawless, fresh-scrubbed, with her natural colour still high from her satisfaction with her performance, and her excitement at being in the public eye for a bit.
There was no curtsy or bow; she stuck out her hand man-fashion to shake with him, catching him in mid-"leg," forcing Lewrie to shift his hat from his right hand to his left to respond in kind, and finding her grip surprisingly strong, her slim fingers tautly lean.
"Your servant, Mistress Eudoxia," Lewrie said by rote.
"You are havink parrot shit on your shoulder, Kapitan Lewrie," she said, instead, reaching for a damp towel to sponge his coat, with an impish grin on her face; which kindness and care for his appearance required her to step overly close to his left side. With her in flat slippers, Eudoxia's chin was just below the point of his shoulder; shod in shoes with fashionably, and sensibly, low heels, she might stand within two or three inches of his own height of five feet nine. Looking larboard at her work, her face seemed solemn, but her eyes glittered and crinkled with well-hidden glee.
"Very kind of you, Mistress Eudoxia," Lewrie told her. "Normally sponging off my coat would involve cat fur."
"You havink pet cats?"
"Two of 'em… Chalky and Toulon," Lewrie said. "Grand company for sailors, cats. For a captain."
"A lonely think," Eudoxia agreed, stepping back at last. "I am seeink Kapitan Veed liffing alone in… great-cabins, da} Weed, I am to say, not Veed. New to the Engliski, but learnink quickly, do you think, Kapitan Lewrie?"
"Doin' main-well, Mistress Eudoxia… extremely well," Lewrie amended, since "main-well" was an idiom she hadn't yet met, it seemed. "Mister Wigmore says you came from beyond the Hellespont? Turkish, or Greek, or…?"
Her face hardened of an instant, her almond-shaped, almost Oriental eyes slitted in fury, and her nostrils flared; Eudoxia all but stamped a foot! "Turkman, nyet! Greek, nyet!" she fumed. "Ve beink Ukraine people… Cossack, not Mongol, not Tartar! What fool Wigmore know, hah. Not Muslim, but Russian Orthodox, yob tvoyemat!* (*"Fuck your mother.") Come from Volga! East of Volga!"
"The, ah… river, aye," Lewrie said, shrivelling up and shying from her sudden fury.
"Mans who say Cossack be bastard Tartars or Turkman is damn lie they tell!" Eudoxia snapped; this time she did stamp her foot, dainty though it was. "We Christian, see?" She opened the throat of her robe to display a silver cross with an odd diagonal extra bar, showing him the proud top-swell of her breasts, an expanse of flawless skin, and a promising depth of cleavage, too… though Lewrie didn't think that was her intent at the moment.
Why, I'll wager she's that yummy, right down to her toes! Lewrie told himself; Creamy… damn' creamy!
"I apologise for any misunderstanding, Mistress Eudoxia. Maybe I did not hear him right, and I was not aware of your… heritage," he said, red-faced. "Forgive my ignorance of your part of the world, but I've never been near the Volga, in the Black Sea."
"Um, I beink sorry, too, Kapitan Lewrie," Eudoxia meekly replied, looking down and all but biting her lower lip for a moment. "For saying the bad think.. .yob tvoyemat. Pajalsta… please, forgive? It mean to… do something bad vit' your own mother." She half-whispered that, blushing and lowering her gaze again, though finding it a tad funny.
"Would that be with, or without, bells on?" Lewrie asked with a grin. "An English expression, to… go do something to yourself, ye see… with bells on? Of course, you're forgiven, and thankee for a new phrase to add to my vocabulary. Should I ever sail to the Russias… d'ye think I might find it useful?"
"Get you killed," Eudoxia all but giggled, looking up at him, directly, and with all her impishness back. "Is very bad. My poppa hear me say, he beat me."
"Then don't tell him you did," Lewrie leaned closer to suggest, snickering and laying a finger alongside his nose for a sage tap. His experience with foreigners was fairly broad, though he could not claim a working knowledge of any tongue but his own, and he was thankful that flirting with the girl wouldn't require a hired interpreter or a glossary of useful phrases. Her accent, thick as it was, was nowhere near as incomprehensible as that Hungarian officer in the Austrian Navy, Lt. Kolodzcy, he'd been saddled with in the Adriatic back in '96, sailing along "the Balgan goast" in search of "Zerbian pirades," and, "bud ov gourse, ve must fint our-selfs some wirgins"! All delivered with his double heel-click of precise punctilio!
"So… are all Cossacks from the Volga as skilled in archery as you, Mistress Eudoxia?" Lewrie enquired. "I came to congratulate you on your skill, and accuracy. I've heard that Cossacks are superb horsemen, o' course, but my word, I must say that you are possessed of a fine seat, as well."
They hit another language snag, for Eudoxia furrowed her brows at that compliment, and all but groped her slim bottom, peeking over her shoulder to survey her arse.
"On your horse!" Lewrie chuckled in explanation before she took off on another angry outburst. "Excellent riders in England are said to have a 'fine seat'… in the saddle, or, in your case, bareback. How did you learn all that?"
Her hands flew to her mouth for a second as she saw the comedy in misunderstanding his idiom. As her hands came down, she didn't just giggle girlishly, she laughed right out loud. "Oh, that seat! Da, all Cossack learn ridin from babies. Poppa is tea chink me from a little girl. Have brother, but he go serve vit' Czar in cavalry. We beink circus people all my life, I only child left, so he teach me like he teach brother. Poppa do act vit' bow, do shootin vit' guns, too, but act vit' gun is… ex-pen-sive ponyemayu? Unnerstand? Powder, shot,… and, be uhm… need rifle guns…" She frowned, searching for a word, and looking to him to supply it, right-fetchingly coquettish.
"To be accurate, aye," Lewrie supplied.
"Da, the ac-cer-rut," Eudoxia smilingly agreed, waving him to a pair of rickety cane chairs so they could sit facing each other, with a respectable yard between them. "Gun act, be very slow. To re-load? Or must have many rifle guns, cost too much, make not so much money."
"So, you can shoot as keen with a gun as with your bow?"
"Oh, da\" Eudoxia exclaimed, feckless, not boasting, but merely stating a manifest fact of life. She gloomed up, though, mercurially quickly, and laid her hands on her knees. "Poppa, one night… pan or flint go 'piff!' by his good eye. Cannot do no shootink act, anymore. I beink twelve, I think, when it happen?"
"And you had to take over, to earn the family income," Lewrie surmised, feeling genuine concern, though he did trowel it on thicker, for her benefit. "How terrible for you, Mistress Eudoxia."
"Nyet, not take over, I too little," she corrected him. "Work dog and monkey act, ride bareback horse. Poppa is tendink horses and beasts, but is very little we make, for long time. And, Momma…"
Eudoxia squirmed fretfully on her chair, dropping her gaze, and looking both pensive and a tad angry, too. "She very good singer, and actress, but must help Poppa, too? He lose place, act is over, so… I am fourteen, she run away vit' damned French clown! Is also singer, actor, oh, opera grand, he thinkink! Very handsome, da, think circus and clownink is too low. Boast he be bolshoi opera czar in Vienna or Paris," she sneered, "and Momma run 'way to be opera czarina, too!"
"Damn the French!" Lewrie commented with long-accustomed heat. "Never can trust a one of 'em, I say. The arrogant bastards."
Clowns! he derided to himself; French clowns, worst of all!
"Finally join Wigmore show in Lisbon," Eudoxia related, heaving a heavy sigh. "Begin bow and horse act when I am beink sixteen, after Poppa teach me all he know. Old lion tamer sick and old, Poppa is good vit' beasts, so he learn new act, but very hard on him. Poppa is proud. But…" she said with a fresh smile and hopeful expression, "now we makink the good money, ev'rything is karasho! Engliski, 'bloody fine'!"
"Good for you!" Lewrie said, patting the back of her hand that rested atop her nearest knee. "So, you've been doing your act how many years, now? No wonder that you're so skilled, having honed your craft, your… art, so long.
"Art? Pooh!" Eudoxia spat, figuratively and literally, with a brief scowl. "Is reason Momma run 'way. In letter she leave us, she say must follow her destiny, her art, hah! As for my act, I doink it six years, now. Now, twenty-two."
"You seem to have coped rather well, for all your heartbreaks, mistress," Lewrie responded, "and I'm sorry if my mention of 'art' is a reminder of past sorrows, but…"
"Hurt no more, Kapitan Lewrie," she assured him, smiling back, and twining lean, strong fingers in his, with her impishness returning. "So, you are kapitan of bolshoi… big Engliski frigate, an Engliski gentleman. Must sail the whole world over, so many new places, like we do in circus. Is excitink? Meet many excitink new peoples…?"
"Sometimes it seems just like a circus," Lewrie laughed. "But, let's speak of you, instead. I heard you'd done an entire year along the American coast. How did you like that, wild Indians and such?"
"Oh, is grand, America!" Eudoxia enthused. "Big as all Russia, vit' peoples so rich and clean, not serfs. Not like Russia! Where I get my boots, wild Indian… moccasins, at Savannah…!"
"Ahem!" came a voice near Lewrie's left ear, making him freeze in dread; would he have to pet another new (mostly harmless) creature?
"Here is Poppa!" Eudoxia exclaimed, leaping to her feet, letting go of Lewrie's hand. "Is our lion tamer!"
"Errp!" Lewrie gawped as he shot to his own feet.
The man with the eye patch stood near them, one hand on a dagger in his waist sash, the right holding his whip, uncoiled to the ground. The look on his harsh face could curdle sperm, piss, or strong brandy!
"B'lieve we were introduced a few minutes ago, sir, but I didn't exactly catch your name?" Lewrie smoothly offered, sticking out a hand in hopes the fellow would take it, thus partially disarming him.
"Kapitan Lewrie, of the Engliski Royal Navy, here is my poppa, Arslan Artimovich Durschenko," Eudoxia contributed with all the guilelessness of the righteously innocent, going all giddy-giggly. "Poppa, Kapitan…?" Alan.
"Kapitan Alan Lewrie, spasiba… thank you, I meanink to say," Eudoxia repeated, all but bouncing on her (chaste) toes. "Is proper manners to say Christian name and patronymic, Kapitan, to speak to my poppa."
"Mister Arslan… Artimovich, yer servant, sir," Lewrie said.
"Ummm," Durschenko responded, not even looking down at Lewrie's offered hand, and making that "ummm" rise from deep in his chest, like a bear awakened, grumpy and deadly, from his winter nap. The fellow's jaws flexed and worked from side to side as he ground his teeth, very much, Lewrie thought, like a slavering mastiff eager for his dinner.
"You must be very proud of your daughter, sir," Lewrie quickly extemporised, striving for another of his "shit-eatin' grins" and his nigh-perfected smarm. "In her skill, her poise, and talent, that is. I came to offer my congratulations to her, and ev'ryone else, d'ye see, for a most enjoyable show, which I hope my sailors will be able to see, once we reach Saint Helena… ah ha."
This ain't workin', Lewrie nervously considered.
"Hah!" Durschenko Senior barked, not buying that for a minute. His live eye glared bullets, but he did shift his whip to his other hand, and un-handed that dagger!, to at last take Lewrie's hand as if all was forgiven. Giving it a viselike squeeze, so hard that Lewrie felt his eyes were almost ready to water.
"Heh heh heh," Durschenko muttered with a feral, toothy grin.
Lewrie gave back as good as he got, though, clamping down with all the strength he had. Never try that on with a sailor, Arse-lick Artimovich, he thought; nor a swordsman, either, ye old fart!
They stood there, arms beginning to quiver, fingers going numb and white, shuffling closer to each other like two wrestlers looking for an opening to a sudden throw.
"Oh, stoy!" Eudoxia snapped in exasperation, at last, seizing them by the wrists to pull them apart. "Stop that, both of you! The Kapitan is nice man! He mean no harm!"
Don't lay wagers on it! Lewrie thought, wishing he could shake feeling back into his hand without anyone seeing him do it.
"Low bastard… fine gentleman, no difference," Eudoxia cried, "no matters. I never meetink nobody that Poppa do not… oh, tell me what is word?" she flustered, looking to him for aid.
Murder? Lewrie wryly supposed. "Distrust?" he said, instead.
"Da, distrust, spasiba, Kapitan Lewrie," Eudoxia hotly agreed, her eyes glinting as cold as the snowy steppes that had birthed her. She turned to face her father and launched into a rapid, gutturally-garbling bit of foreign "argey-bargey." Durschenko Senior glowered, scowled, gawped, and stamped a booted foot, by turns, leaning back and almost tittering at one point during her harsh tirade, growling and barking like the aforesaid mastiff in the same lingo whenever he could get a word in, which wasn't often.
Other circus people, including those smarmy clowns and mimes, were drawn to their little domestic "tiff," and Lewrie wondered if he could crawl away, unnoticed, for every now and then, Arslan Artimovich would snap his head about to glower and snarl at Lewrie, and everyone in Wigmore's Travelling Extravanganza surely had seen him and Eudoxia "at loggerheads" before. Perhaps, Lewrie dourly fantasised, they had also seen Durschenko lash an interloper away from his precious girl, and were waiting with rising expectations of a good show, perhaps even laying wagers on the outcome?
Their business, now, not mine, Lewrie told himself, giving up all hopes of sporting with the girl, no matter how entrancing. / had a good, hot, freshwater bathe, a fine meal, and the circus was nice, really. Just toddle off? Stand here and look foolish?
For a second, Lewrie wished he had thought to fetch his penny-whistle ashore with him… or knew how to juggle.
The best he could do was manage a semi-dignified departure, if that, he sadly supposed. There was no point in risking being fed to Durschenko's lions at the worst, or being whipped bloody, at the best. Flirtatious and coquettish as Eudoxia was, as welcoming of his attenions, there didn't seem to be a rosy future in it.
Their palaver ended, finally, with a sideways cutting gesture on her father's part, which got his hand off the dagger and a "nyet!"
"Well, I'll take my leave…" Lewrie said, doffing his hat.
"Eudoxia… goot girl, ponyemayu?" Durschenko rumbled deep in his chest. "Keep goot, me. Dosvidanya, bolshoi Kapitan. Goot bye\"
"Understand completely, sir," Lewrie replied, sketching a bow to him. "Ev'nin', Arslan Artimovich. Good ev'nin', Mistress Eudoxia. Hellish-good show," he added, making a finer "leg" to her.
"We see you again at Saint Helena, Kapitan Alan Lewrie," she responded in kind, making a more graceful curtsy than he had suspected she knew how to perform. Dressing robes weren't made for such, though.
"Nyet," from her father.
"Da!" she hotly retorted.
Time t' scamper, Lewrie thought, feeling the need to employ his hat for a fan, at the charms that curtsy had briefly revealed.
He left them, still yammering away at each other, slinking red-faced and feeling like the veriest perfect fool, as he threaded his way through the circus folk.
He could not help looking back, though, when he attained the draperies, to see the father leading Eudoxia away by her elbow, and she turned her head to watch him leave… for one last sight of him? She gave Lewrie a large-ish shrug as if to say, "Well, what can we do?" yet… a second later, began to grin, her mercurial, minx-like impishness returning. She pursed her lips for a distant kiss!
Well, Lewrie thought, lustily stunned past dread; or close to it, anyway; Well well, well well, hmmm!