Proteus ghosted into harbour on tops'ls, jibs, and spanker, and wreathed in gunsmoke from her salute that only slowly drifted leeward on a mild breeze. There were several two-decker 74-gun 3rd Rates anchored near the north shore, but none flew an admiral's broad pendant or looked even close to being a flagship. Frigates, sloops of war, brigs, and hired or captured warships below the Rates were two-a-penny, though, presenting a pretty problem as to where Lewrie could find room for his ship to anchor, and swing.
Why so many in port? he wondered to himself: don't they know I need room? Don't they know there's a war on?
"There's a guard-boat, sir… waving a jack at us," Lieutenant Langue pointed out. "I do believe he's showing us an anchorage."
"Well, thank God for small favours. Come about onto the wind, and steer for him, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said with a well-concealed sigh of vast relief. "Do not run him over, sir. It's bad form."
"Ya gig's ready, sah," his Cox'n Andrews informed him from his left side. "Ya don' mind, sah… I'll bring de boat off, oncet you step ashore, an' keep an eye skinned t'come fetch ya when ya done."
Lewrie frowned and turned to look at Andrews, who was "sulled up like a bullfrog," ducking his head and his eyes darting as cutty as a bag of nails-looking six ways from Sunday-in embarassment.
"Something wrong with a drink ashore, Andrews?" he teased.
"Be sumptin' bad wrong, do my old master see me, Cap'um, sah."
"Oh, that's right, you ran from Jamaica. But surely, so long ago…"
"Woll, he alius liked Spanish Town more'n Kingston, true, sah, but him an' his neighbours, dey was a hard set, sah. Hold grudges as bad as dem Serbs an' Turks back in de Balkans. D'ya not mind, sah, I don't wanna take no chance o' gettin' took up, again."
"Remind me to have my clerk Padgett forge you a letter of manumission from a master… in the Carolinas, Andrews," Lewrie decided. "For the other Black hands, too, just to be safe."
"Law, thankee, sah!" Andrews said with a wide grin of relief on his phyz. "Dot'd be hondsome-fine, sah!"
"After all, forging runs in the family." Lewrie chuckled. "But 'til we've proper, uhm… 'certificates' ready, aye, bring the boat back to the ship, and I'll hire a bum-boat for my return."
"Aye aye, sah."
Proteus found her anchorage, rounded up to slither on windward for a piece, her fore-tops'l flat a'back to brake her progress, until the very last of her way fell off and the helm went helpless. At that moment, the best bower anchor dangling from the larboard cat-head was let go to splash into the water, and the hawser paid out then snubbed after a run of half a cable, to see if the anchor would hold. With a faint jerk and groan, Proteus came to a stop, her voyage over.
"Hello, the boat!" Lewrie called down to the guard-boat that had been so obliging. "Where am I to report to Admiral Parker?"
"His flagship's in the careenage, sir!" the midshipman in the boat's sternsheets called back. "His staff captain keeps office at Fort Charles, for now!" he added, pointing back at the tip of the Palisades, the natural breakwater mole that made Kingston such a calm anchorage in most weathers, with the Blue Mountains lying in the harsh Nor'east, where most hurricanes blew their fiercest early winds. Lewrie looked in that direction, using a telescope to see if anyone had hoisted the usual "Captain Repair On Board" code flags. No, nothing. For the main base of the West Indies Station, Kingston maintained what could only charitably be termed as "peacetime" activity.
"Very well, sir, thankee!" Lewrie shouted down.
"I'm going that way, sir!" the midshipman offered. "Would you care to be rowed over?"
"Aye, that'd suit admirably. Come alongside!" Lewrie agreed.
"Thank de Lord," he heard Andrews whisper sotto voce.
"Don't feel too relieved, Andrews… you may have to come and fetch me back, then take me ashore to the civilian part of town. You scamp, you."
"Mebbe you'd speak t'Mister Padgett afore ya go, then, sah? He get dem certificates started?" Andrews countered, still looking wary.
"Dear Lord, what a lack-wit!" Captain Sir Edward Charles said, after Lewrie had filled him in on his meeting with the hapless Lieutenant Gordon of the United States Treasury Department cutter Trumbull. "If he's an example of what we may expect to meet in the near future, then God help them. In such a small service as their Treasury, or the new navy of theirs, surely only their very best and most experienced officers would gain commands. Unless they simply have none, o' course."
"I gathered that most of their experienced naval officers by now are quite aged, sir," Lewrie informed him, "those who won fame back in the Revolution; and most of them were privateersmen, to begin with."
The interview was going quite nicely, Lewrie thought. Captain Charles was Admiral Sir Hyde Parker's staff captain, a most ebulliently friendly sort-big as a rum keg about the middle and twice as stout, with the rosy cheeks and nose of the serious toper. The first thing to be done was to fetch newcome Captain Lewrie a glass of claret, and take up a refill with him to be convivial. They sat in leather wing chairs to either side of a wine-table, not before and behind the massive desk as junior and superior might, like cater-cousins or fellow clubmen.
Lewrie was turned out in his newest and nattiest uniform, run up in London for the December fкte to celebrate Camperdown. The dark blue wool coat was hard-finished and smooth, and perhaps a bit too hot for a tropic day, but a snowy-white silk shirt and equally pristine sailcloth cotton waistcoat and breeches somewhat eased any discomfort that Lewrie might have felt. The single gilt epaulet on his right shoulder, all the buttons, and gold-lace cuff trim was so new, and so well packed away so long, that he fair gleamed. And the two medals hung about his neck had gotten a polish, along with his new Hessian boots with the gilt tassels. Captain Sir Edward Charles's eyes had drifted to the medals several times, in an almost wistful way, since their introduction.
Ain't ev'ry one-winged captain that can boast one medal, Lewrie smugly told himself; much less two! Poor old soul's jealous!
"Within two day's sail of Antigua, was it?" Sir Edward asked as he topped up their half-filled glasses.
"Aye, sir. Mister Gordon told me that Saint Kitts would be one of their 'rondy's,' as would Dominica. American merchantmen will gather there and await escort for convoys, he said, to perhaps as far north as Savannah, in Georgia. He gave me the impression that what few French privateers or warships that had harried their coastal shipping were now scared off by their new frigates, and that the bulk of their losses now take place in the Caribbean. This new naval minister of theirs, termed a Secretary of the Navy, a man name of Benjamin Stoddert, gave Gordon the further impression that he's that eager to make a 'forward presence'… as soon as they have enough ships in commission, of course."
"Well, if Gordon's little cutter was the best they have to show the flag…" Sir Edward smirked over the rim of his glass. "How well-armed was she?"
"Four four-pounders, and a batch of swivels, Sir Edward, and all rough-cast," Lewrie said with a deprecating sneer of his own. "Not two from the same foundry. Old-style touch-holes with powder-filled quills for ignition. That, or port-fires. The muskets and pistols that I saw were a tad rough, as well. Copies of Tower muskets," he said, heaving a tiny shrug. "Though some mates and officers had purchased long-range Pennsylvania rifles, and those were quite well-made and very accurate. We had a little shoot-off, sir. I with my Ferguson breech-loader, and they with their muzzle-loaders."
"Who won?" Sir Edward snapped, "tetchy" of a sudden. "Uhm… they did, sir. Though ramming the ball down a rifled barrel with a lubricated leather patch about it takes forever. I was told that their new Marine Corps will be issued rifles, not muskets. A squad of Marines in each top, with rifles, could decimate the officers of a foe at nearly two hundred yards, maybe even a full cable's range. Then, sir, God help the French, when they meet!"
"Don't hold with such doings, myself," Sir Edward scoffed, now growling with ill humour. "My Marines'll volley from the bulkwarks. Shooting officers, sir,
is un-gentlemanly. Deliberately targeting an officer is abominable! Dishonourable! Might as well cut their throats in their beds! Piratical, barbaric! Just what I'd expect of American manners, morals, or 'honour!' Pack of Red Indians, near-like, sir, in all those deerskin clothes, with feathers-and dung!-in their hair so please you! We'll not have such in this fleet, sir, and I'll thank you to remember that!" The feathers, deerskins… or snipin ? Lewrie had to ask himself. "Never stood and fought in the open, Captain Lewrie, no! They skulked in the bushes and shot from cover, the coward's way! Armed to the teeth, e'en the women and children," Sir Edward querulously carped, in a "pet" over past experiences, Lewrie surmised. "Uncivilised thieves and highwaymen, riotous armed bullies, hah! But never the stomach for a proper battle, and I doubt they've improved, now they're on their own without English law to rein in their chaotic nature. Do we really see American warships down here, I'll lay you any odds you wish, they will skulk in port, fatten off our stores, but leave the hard work to a proper navy such as ours! The French'd eat 'em alive!"
"Well, sir, even as addle-pate as their Lieutenant Gordon was," Lewrie dared to point out, "they did run a taut enough ship, and they sounded quite eager to prove themselves against the Frogs."
"Ev'ry calf-headed innocent sings eager before his first fight, Captain Lewrie," Sir Edward countered. " 'cause he knows nothing about battle. Let idiots and fools like your Lieutenant Gordon cross hawse with a real French frigate, and then see what tune he sings, hah! No, sir… Americans are too disorganised, too stubbornly individualistic to achieve much. Put a dozen in a room, you'll hear fifteen different opinions! Lazy, idle; twiddlers, who'd rather get drunk on their corn whiskey-a vile concoction!-just enough bottom to 'em to plant more corn, so they can make more whiskey! As money-grubbing as Jews, too. But not a single gentleman, a single educated and civilised man in a thousand to boast of. Barbarians, sir! Ignorant.. . peasants!"
Does he really hate 'em that bad? Lewrie wondered. Or is he just drunk, and ravin'? And how 'in-the-barrel' was he before I got here?
"I s'pose we'll see, Sir Edward," Lewrie said, noncommittally. "This Gordon fellow expected their warships rather soon."
"In hurricane season?" Sir Edward responded, leaning far back in his chair to the point that it almost tipped off its front legs, agape with a mix of horror and amazement on his now-glowing phyz.
"Their Secretary of the Navy, that Mister Stoddert, is of the opinion that really bad storms occur more rarely than people think. I believe Gordon said perhaps no more than once a year, sometimes once in five years, sir. American merchantmen in the Caribbean keep records of weather, and their studies of those records-"
"Told you they were purblind fools!" the staff-captain said with an angry bark. "Well, let me tell you, Captain Lewrie, the Royal Navy has records, too, and vaster experience in the West Indies than anyone else, hundreds of years in these waters, and even we depart the Indies by June, and don't come back 'til late September. Why Sir Hyde's flagship Queen is in the careenage this very moment, sir… to ready her for her voyage to Halifax."
And here I thought it was 'cause the seaweed on her bottom had taken root in the harbour mud! Lewrie thought, hiding his smirk. He'd heard that Sir Hyde Parker was making a vast fortune in prize money in the West Indies, the richest plum assignment that Admiralty could bestow; and that he was doing it the classic way… trusting to others in frigates and sloops of war, to junior officers in hired brigs, cutters and tenders to reap the spoils, whilst the big ships languished at anchor, waiting for a French fleet that might never come, so tight was the British blockade of the French ports.
"Why the other Third Bates are in, outfitting, too," Sir Edward further informed him. He topped up his own glass, but made no offer to do the same for Lewrie's this time. "By no later than mid-June, this harbour will be nearly empty. Then it will be up to the lesser ships on the station to exert themselves in our stead. Tenders to the Third Bates, tenders to the flagship…"
Pets and toadies, Lewrie sneerfully told himself; captains' favourites who can fatten their sea-daddy's purse, and their own. While better men twiddle their thumbs and never see tuppence.
"… hired brigs, captured schooners, and a few frigates, just to keep the French on the qui vive. What is your draught, sir?"
"Umh…" Lewrie said, coming back to the moment, "seventeen and a half feet aft, sir."
"Excellent! Though you'll want to purchase, or capture, a tender, or tow some additional single-masted boats for close inshore work," Sir Edward suggested. "Base out of Kingston, here, so the voyage over to Saint Domingue will be short, when you run low on stores. You may even contemplate landing some stores, sailing lighter, to reduce draught to seventeen feet, or slightly less."
"I see, sir. Most helpful advice," Lewrie replied, realising he was probably the lowest-ranking Post-Captain on-station, and would be staying after the valuable ships departed for hurricane season. Dull blockade work off some French-held port on Saint Domingue, off-and-on plodding back and forth, and nothing worth chasing but for island-built luggers and single-masted sloops. And reefs and shoals, aplenty!
"So Proteus is to patrol close to Saint Domingue, is she, sir?" he simply had to ask, in way of sly prompting for a wider liberty for action… and prize money! "Or shall she have leave to patrol more, uhm… aggressively? "
"Blockade work, Captain Lewrie," Sir Edward told him, sounding almost glad to grind it in, as if he had formed a low opinion of him, in a twinkling. "Get your sea legs in the West Indies, after all that derring-do of yours in European waters," the staff-captain sneered, with a dismissive gesture towards Lewrie's medals. Unfortunately, the hand that he employed was the one that held his wineglass, and he spilled a goodly dollop of it on his own breeches, the wine-table, and his carpet, which was a very fine-mostly pale- Turkey. "Goddammit!"
"Oh, what a pity, sir…'bout the rug," Lewrie said, making a charitable grimace, instead of the angry scowl he felt like showing.
"Best pair, dammit," Sir Edward seethed, trying to swipe at his drenched thigh, setting that dangerous glass down, at least… but he flung droplets from his hand with an idle shake that spattered Lewrie in turn. "Oh, bugger!"
"Actually, Sir Edward, I did a few years in the West Indies in the Revolution. Started out here, in '80. So I wonder if the best use of Proteus is…" Lewrie slyly attempted to wheedle.
"Damned puppy!" Sir Edward screeched of a sudden, glaring back at him. "Don't like your orders, do you? Presume to talk me out of 'em, will you? In debt, are you? That eager for prize money?"
"Never, sir!" Lewrie declared, with his best "righteous" face on. "Proteus is fast and nimble, and does draw seventeen feet, sir. I was merely wishing to point out that a shoal-draught brig or large schooner would better serve close-in, whilst a frigate might stand farther offshore, to better interdict ships attempting to smuggle arms into Saint Domingue. And be better placed to intercept the odd French warship. As you say, in a few weeks our strength in the Indies will be reduced 'til the end of hurricane season, and fewer ships will have to cover a vast area, so it struck me that the most, uhm… efficient use of all our vessels is necessary, so-"
"Teach your granny to suck eggs, would you, sir?" Captain Sir Edward Charles fumed back, still mopping himself with a pocket handkerchief. "Know better than your superiors, do you?" "Absolutely not, sir, why-!"
"Specific orders will be draughted and aboard your ship by the end of tomorrow's Forenoon, Captain Lewrie. Good day, sir."
"Very good, sir," Lewrie answered, quickly quaffing the last of his claret and getting to his feet, his face now an inscrutable public mask. "Uhm… there is still my courtesy call upon the Admiral. Do you think…?" he enquired in an innocent tone, trying to salvage his odour, thinking that, should he make a favourable impression upon Sir Hyde Parker, what harm he'd done himself with this quarrelsome drunk could be cancelled out. And those orders changed!
"Our admiral is a most busy man, Captain Lewrie," Sir Edward intoned, "eng
aged with weighty matters anent the war, and his additional duties as prime representative of the Crown in this part of the world. Most busy. Some other time, perhaps," he concluded, not without a malicious simper to his voice, and a top-lofty twitch to his lips. He did, at least, rise to his own feet to steer Lewrie out, though more than a trifle unsteadily.
"Thank you for receiving me, sir," Lewrie was forced by manners to say, just before the double doors closed in his face, and the muffled cry for a manservant to come swab up the mess reached his ears-ears that were burning with rage!
Damme, but I mucked it! he chid himself as he stomped down the corridor, all but leaving gouged hoofprints in the gleaming tropical mahoghany boards; never argue with a drunk! One who holds powers over you, especially! If my luck's not out, mayhap he'll be half-seas-over by teatime, and so foxed he'll forget I was ever here!
"Arrogant old bastard!" he muttered under his breath. "Must keep his manservants up all night, washin' the wine and the vomit from out his wardrobe! Not sayin' he's so ignorant, he doesn't know how to pee, but I'll wager there's more'n a time or two his breeches are yellow, and his shoe-buckles 're rusty! God!" he spat aloud. Cautiously.
And it wasn't as if Sir Edward Charles was likely to stand tall in repute, either, he groused to himself; he was a staff-captain, not the flag-captain of the fleet. A drunken stumbler a pistol-shot shy of being "Yellow Squadroned," a jumped-up senior clerk left ashore by his superiors to shuffle papers for the real fighting captains!
He found a black servant tending to a laving bowl and a stack of towels just by the wide double doors that led out to the courtyard and coachway, a luxury for officers and civilian visitors who wished to swab off perspiration and cool themselves before reporting to superiors. Badly in need of a cooling-off, Lewrie set aside his hat and plunged his hands into the water, sluicing his face and neck several times, wishing that he could bury his head in the bowl until he blew bubbles, or just up-turn it over himself 'til his choler subsided.
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