
Lewrie had known the Beaumans since 1781, off and on, and, no matter they were as rich as the Walpoles, they were so "Country-Put," so "Chaw Bacon," they could make the crudest John Bull country squire gawk and sneer. Dog-slobberin', huntin', shootin', fishin', tenant-tramplin', slave-whoppin', arrogant, brute, and boorish as they come were the Beauman men (and God help their womenfolk) with thousands for Publick show, yet penny-pinchin' miserly in private. Overbearing and loud, un-grammatic and blasphemous (well, so am I, Lewrie admitted to himself!), and so used to getting their own way, all the time, that it was ludicrous to think that Hugh Beauman, the very worst of a very bad lot, would just fold his tents and steal away, after coming so close to getting his revenge!
Zachariah Twigg and his "unofficial" little private battalion of watchers, noters, spies, and bully-bucks (both male and female) served the Crown damned well, and God only knew how many foreign agents were crab-food, downriver. Had it come to that stage? Lewrie wondered; So what? Good for him, but didn't he leave it just a bit late? Native chiefs, rebel rajahs… it ain't like Twigg t'hold off so long.
Lewrie involuntarily looked about to see if anyone was watching before sketching a finger across his throat and shrugging a question best left unsaid in a court of law.
"Oh, Lord no, Captain Lewrie, nothing like that!" Mr. MacDougall wheezed with good cheer. "They have absconded… coached off to Yarmouth to board the Portugal packet… out of reach of a King's Bench warrant for perjury, and laying a false prosecution."
