“You could take that to Drury Lane, Mister Peel!” Lewrie congratulated, even briefly applauding him; languidly, spiritlessly, like the “better sort” of theatre-goer in London. He rose to his feet and pulled his watch from his fob pocket, opened the face…
Four Bells of the Day Watch chimed from the forecastle belfry—two in the afternoon, which conformed to what his watch told him. He closed the face of his watch and slipped it back into its pocket.
“Let me ask you something, Mister Peel,” Lewrie requested. “I asked you once before, but…you and Mister Pelham got access to the French signals books, somehow. You know rather a lot about who’s who on Guadeloupe, and Choundas’s inner circle. Is there a spy, or a conspiracy of agents on the island? Do you really…own people close to the Directory in Paris, too?”
“And what did I say, when first you asked, sir?” Peel smirked, come over all superior and inscrutable again. “That I could not tell tales out of school, was that how I put it? What do you think?”
“That your department has the place riddled with spies,” Lewrie declared. “Were you afraid my suggestion might expose people you had in place already? Was that why you rejected it out of hand? And so dismissively?” he wearily accused, their spat still rankling.
“My apologies for being brusque, sir,” Peel said with a bow in his direction. “Truly. Aye, there is some small shred of truth in your surmise that not all the French on Guadeloupe are resigned to the success of the Revolution. Less effective or informative as we wish, nor as widespread as we could hope, but…I am relatively sanguine that whatever false spoor we lay for Choundas to follow, it will not lead too close to our true operatives. Do we actually lose one or two minor players, well…that’s the cost of doing such business. Regrettable, but…there you are.”
“Dear Lord,” Lewrie gawped. He’d thought Peel cold-blooded before, but…that took the cake.
“Well, then,” Lewrie declared, rising energetically. “Lots to do, and the hours too short, as usual. We’ll up-anchor and sail down to Roseau. Deliver our prize to the Court, now they’ve her manifests and such…land our prisoners with ’em. Then,” he concluded with an anticipatory wince, “we’ll get under way, ’bout dusk.”
“Sorry,” Peel queried in surprise, “get under way, did ye say? Wherever are we bound, this time, sir? I’d thought…”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Lewrie blurted out in a rush, as if to trample Peel’s objections with his news, “The Yankees are missing some merchant vessels, and are sailing to go look for them. After I told ’em about Choundas and his four raiders bein’ at sea, they swore they would run them down, too, but think they might need a spot o’ help.”
He gave Peel a rapid thumbnail sketch; Peel’s mouth gaped open wider and wider, the more Lewrie explained to him.
“…so we’re t’sail with ’em,” Lewrie concluded, “with three ships to make up almost a proper little squadron, and sweep the seas as far South as Caracas. Might scoop up the odd Don or Dutch trader as well, ye never can tell, Peel. More prizes’d suit, don’t ye…?”
“But!” Peel spluttered, turning nigh plum-complexioned. Both of his hands were squeezed into bone-white fists as he fought to hold in his sudden rage. “But…!”
“Like we discussed, don’t ye know,” Lewrie insisted. “When you got so ‘both sheets aft’ on whisky. We’d go south, and McGilliveray and Sumter would scout with us. Well, now we’ve Oglethorpe along, as well, and…you agreed to it, do you recall,” he quickly pointed out.
“Lewrie, you…!” Peel squawked. “Damn…my eyes! Foreign Office…Maitland! Lord Balcarres, and Pelham, all their cautions! Keep the Yankees at arm’s reach, half a foe, and…and you just up and decide to, on your blo—At your own whim! Spur of—”
“After gaining your agreement, Mister Peel!” Lewrie pouted.
“Damn y—Dammit, Lewrie!” Peel retorted, raising his fists as if ready to take him on, barehanded. “You just can’t—”
“Our prisoners’ll see all three men o’ war, two American and one British, sail together, Mister Peel, and they’ll dread the chance there’s been an alliance made against ’em, but news of it hasn’t got to ’em, yet. That’ll give Hugues and Choundas something to bite on! Drive ’em bug-eatin’, slung into Bedlam mad! Mad enough to lash out and declare real war on the United States, then we get ’em as allies, and whoever managed that wins himself a knighthood, and…”
Peel lowered his fists, exhaled long and hard, nigh to a death rattle, and dropped his head. He jerked out his chair and sagged into it, cradling his face in his hands, fingers kneading his temples.
“You need t’be leashed, I swear you do, Lewrie,” he weakly said. “Leashed and muzzled, like a…Oh, I thought I was prepared to deal with you, thought I had your measure years ago. Twigg, he warned me t’keep you on a taut rein, but…!
“Think of the possibilities!” Lewrie beguiled.
“Think of the disaster,” Peel said with a sorrowful groan, “if it all goes bust.”
“Now really, Mister Peel,” Lewrie countered. “What could possibly go much wrong with chasing after French warships?”
“The mind boggles,” Peel croaked. “Damn…my eyes, Lewrie, but you’ve done it to me…again! Lord, what’ll Pelham say!”
“Well, I must go on deck and get us ready to sail,” Lewrie told him, more than eager to get away, back on his quarterdeck where he was completely in charge. Where Peel wasn’t, in point of fact.
“Don’t know as I can trust you outta my sight that long,” Peel almost whimpered. “Leashed and muzzled, like a dancin’ bear…” He sounded almost wistful at that image.
“Later, Mister Peel,” Lewrie said, scooping up his hat and coat and making his escape. Once on the quarterdeck, he passed the word for Lt. Langlie, to apprise him of their sailing. As he waited for him to appear, there came the sound of a mug clanking off a bulkhead. Later followed by another, and, perhaps, the sound of flung furniture.
“He’s takin’ that well,” Lewrie could but suppose.
Book Four
“Maturate fugam regique haec dicite vestro;
non illi imperium pelagi saevumque tridentum
sed mihi sorte datum.”
“Speed your flight and bear this word to your king;
not to him but to me were given by lot
the lordship of the sea and the dread trident.”
—AENEID, BOOK I, 137–139
PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lieutenant de Vaisseau Jules Hainaut relished pacing his small quarterdeck as the sun threatened to rise in the East. Like a proper and salted sea officer his hands were clasped in the small of his back in imitation of the aristo captains and lieutenants he’d served when he’d been a humble seaman. As was the custom in all navies, he could pace, or strut, alone up to windward facing the Trades and the soon-to-be-risen sun, savouring the shivery damp coolness that was so welcome before the harsh warmth of the usual tropic day.
He rocked on the balls of his feet, enjoying the creak of those bright-buffed boots on his legs, and fiddled with the hilt of his precious smallsword. The name Hainaut was sure that he had made for himself was going to be the talk of the entire colony, figuring prominently in the despatches back to Paris and the Ministry of Marine, too…no matter how derisive his more-experienced fellow officers aboard La Vigilante had been towards him. Her new capitaine, Lt. Pelletier from Capitaine MacPherson’s corvette, had been highly dubious of his appointment into La Vigilante as his Second Officer, almost openly sneering at him for being a dilettante more suited to odious shore duties, as well as the catch-fart to such a bloody-handed ogre as Choundas. Even the midshipman, now Acting-Lieutenant Digne, the Third Officer, had seemed to mock and disdain him; jealous of not being named second-in-command to his friend Pelletier, Hainaut had thought.
Well, he had shown them what he was made of with an unaccustomed show of diligence and nautical skill, with saucy courage in the ta
king of their four prizes, and his willingness to come aboard this captured schooner, Mohican, as a prize-master when they had begun to scrape the bottom of the barrel for enough people to man them all, with a sham of energy and even unselfish generosity, and he had mostly won them over.
This schooner Mohican, and her near-twin that sailed not a mile alongside her, the Chippewa, were fine vessels—fast, handy, and sea-kindly for all their outlandish rigging and their steeply raked masts. Their valuable cargoes notwithstanding, Hainaut was sure that Mohican and her sister would make magnificent commerce raiders, if bought in and converted to men o’ war under Choundas’s control, not as privateers under Hugues. Not so large that either demanded a senior officer in command, too.
Lt. Hainaut had, as soon as he’d moved his sea-chest and traps aboard Mohican, determined that he would be her captain. He had at last nagged, hinted and cajoled himself away from Choundas, the damned crippled monster! and by fetching in such booty, this Mohican would be his permanent escape, his route to the fame, glory, and profit he wished—he would!—win in future. A year or two and any odium from having been Choundas’s “creature” would be forgotten, and…
“Dawn, m’sieur,” the older petty officer who now stood watches as a temporary quarterdeck officer announced as the sun finally burst above the eastern horizon. Lt. Hainaut crossed to the helm to take a peek at the marvellous book he’d found in Mohican’s great-cabins, that tabulated true sunrise and sunset to longitude. He juggled the book and the sea-chart, grunting in satisfaction as he noted that they’d made a decent distance to weather during the night, just that tiny bit farther East, and a safe haven in Basse-Terre or Pointe-à-Pitre. The casts of the knot log added up to an impressive sum of Northing, too. Hainaut set the book and the slate aside and stepped off their probable course with a pivoting brass divider and a ruler. Unless they ran into foul weather or roaming enemy warships, their entire “convoy” of prizes and raiders would make a triumphant landfall at Guadeloupe in three more days. The two corvettes, Le Gascon and La Résolue, with their much greater hold capacities, and the stores with which to keep the seas for months, still prowled down South nearer the Spanish Main, Trinidad and Tobago, to “show the flag” to their dubious allies the Spanish and Dutch and put iron back into their sagging spines as well as to take prizes. They would not return for weeks more, perhaps. For now, it would be this prize, these ships and their successful captors, that would arrive first to win the cheers from Guadeloupe…and earn the most in the Prize Court with all the valuable and tasty goods they bore.
“Very well,” Hainaut said at last. “Time to send the lookouts aloft, Timmonier. And tell the cook he may start breakfast.”
“Oui, m’sieur Lieutenant,” the temporary second-in-command said in reply. Hainaut was irked that he had yet to address him the way he wished, as capitaine. Some, it seemed, needed more convincing than others. Hainaut turned away and strode aft to the taff-rails, to stand atop the transom lockers and grip the starboard lanthorn for a better view astern, taking a moment to enjoy how straight and true was Mohican’s wake and how narrow the creamy-white road she cut over the sea was. Fine in her entry, slim in her moulded breadth, yet wide enough to carry cargo and be “stiff,” even beating to windward. Whatever the Americans had done when forming her body below her waterline let her slice through instead of bully the waves.
She must be mine! Hainaut fervently thought again. He felt he would die, did he not keep her as his own, this rapier-quick and épée-slim marvel.
“Glass,” he demanded over his shoulder, his right hand out to take the telescope when it was fetched to him, without looking to see if he was being obeyed. But of course he was, instantly.
There was La Vigilante, well hull-down and perhaps eight or ten kilomètres back, shackled to their slowest and dowdiest pair of prize trading brigs. Lt. Houdon’s big brig, La Celtique—another of his odious master’s conceits to honour his damnable “blood”—and three prizes were perhaps a mile or more astern of La Vigilante, but, being a much less “weatherly” pack of square-riggers, were rather far down alee. Mohican and Chippewa, even under all plain sail, had out-raced them all since sundown.
Hainaut’s stomach rumbled with hunger as he lowered his glass, and hopped down from atop the transom lockers. Mohican was positively crammed with good things to eat on her long passage back to her miserably cold home port. Her manger held dozens of chickens, six pigs, and four sheep, and the hens laid enough eggs for a four-egg omelette for his breakfast. There were still loaves and loaves of fresh bread aft, with strong, piquant South American coffee beans by the gigantic sack. He’d have fresh, unwormed cheese, a whole pot of coffee, and a chicken breast with his eggs, brightened with fresh-ground Spanish pepper, with first-pressing turbinado sugar, with over-sweet goat’s milk to whip into the eggs, to make his coffee elegantly au lait, with luscious jams and pearly-dewed fresh butter to smear on light-toasted bread…!
“Allô!” a lookout precariously perched on the main-mast tops’l yard shouted down. “Attention! Three…strange…sail…alee! Two points off the larboard quarter, and approaching quickly! Allô?”
“We see them!” Hainaut screeched back, even before he mounted the transom lockers once more and swung his telescope in the indicated direction.
Oui, there were three of them; two full-rigged ships and a brig! They were bounding along under every stitch of sail, “all to the royals” fore-and-aft stays’ls flying, and steering almost across the Trades, to the East-Sou’east…thundering up from the dark leeward horizon as if to pass ahead of La Celtique’s group of prizes…ahead of his own ship, La Vigilante, and her group, too!
“Allô!” the mainmast lookout cried once more. “I see…flags! They are warships! Two frigates, and a brig o’ war! One is anglais, and two are…americain!” the lookout yelped in consternation.
“Together?” Hainaut cried, just as disconcerted as the lookout. “Americans and the British, together? Mon Dieu, merde alors, have the Amis declared war on France?”
There came a faint, muffled cheer from belowdecks, from their prisoners who had once owned and sailed Mohican, as the lookout’s cry worked its way down to the fore-hold where nonplussed French sailors, just as amazed as Hainaut, guarded them, now stunned to garrulousness and loose lips.
“Someone go shut those scum up!” Hainaut shouted, for want of a better idea at the moment. “This prize can go into Basse-Terre with no survivors and no one the wiser if they keep that up, tell them!”
“What shall we do, m’sieur Lieutenant?” the petty officer asked from below him, standing by the transom lockers.
“Do?” Hainaut replied. He might have meant to sound angry, and properly indignant, but it came out more as a question, too. “What can we do?” he finally snarled, after chewing on his lower lip. “We have barely enough hands to man this prize and guard our captives…there are only six cannon aboard, and those half-rusted. We must…uhm, place discretion above valour. Much as it pains me, of course, Timmonier.”
“Of course, m’sieur,” the older petty officer replied, sounding just the faintest bit disgusted, despite the horrible odds. “We must run for port, oui.”
“Choundas and Hugues must know that the Americans and ‘Bloodies’ work together against us, now, Timmonier,” Hainaut claimed, striving to make it sound like an honourable, but reluctant, duty.
“Oui, m’sieur.” Stiffly and coolly, blank-faced obedient.
“Hands aloft to…no,” Hainaut flummoxed, thinking to deploy the cross-yard tops’ls for more speed, but perceiving that they were already on the eyes of the wind. “Maintain course, Timmonier. Signal Petty Officer Manon on Chippewa to stay close up with us and hold his course. At least two of our prizes will make port. And our terrible information. Take heart, m’sieur. Not all our profit is lost, hein?”
His senior petty officer did not look as if the retention of a pittance of their expected prize-money would satisfy him, but he did as he was bade, turning away with t
he sketchiest of hand salutes.
La Vigilante surely would be lost, Hainaut thought as he went forward to the helm and the compass binnacle cabinet. He waved off the ship’s boy who had come to snuff the night lanthorn, long enough to produce a Spanish cigaro from a waist-coat pocket and lean into the cabinet to puff it alight off the flame. Lt. Pelletier would not come ashore to bolster his reputation with praise, alas. Pelletier and Digne would be exchanged, sooner or later, but that might be months in the future. In the meantime, though, whatever he, Jules, would say would be Gospel.
A modest and self-deprecating description of his own part…with a praiseworthy display of anger that he could do no more to save them, perhaps a show of shame that there was nothing he could do, and play the part of the innocent man who chides himself as guilty…hmmm. Hainaut thought that would redound to his continuing good credit. Well-meaning people would surely clap him on the shoulder and say that he had no reason to scathe himself. Mere bad luck, n’est-ce pas? And, Hainaut calculated, with even more capable officers in British or American prison hulks, there would be more ships in need of captains than there were men to command them. Mohican surely must be his, after all!
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