Sea of Grey l-10

by Dewey Lambdin

  And how quickly he could get to him to complain!

  Before the confrontation could get more serious, there came a discrete rapping upon the great-cabin door and the stamp of a Marine boot. "First Awf'cer… sah!"

  "Enter!" Captain Blaylock testily barked.

  In came the unfortunate lieutenant that Lewrie had spurned at Proteus's entry-port just nights before. With his hat under his arm, he looked a thin-haired, half-bald, and long-suffering sort, frazzled by his onerous duties and, Lewrie suspected, just about done in by a constant diet of Blaylock's dung on his plate. A short session with the man was bad enough, but to serve under him, day after day, watch-and-watch…?

  "I've a reply from General Maitland, sir," the lieutenant said.

  "Well, out with it, man. God's sake!" Blaylock "tsk-tsked."

  "The general's compliments, sir, and he desires that we begin to land troops and supplies, at once, sir. He adverted me to use the word 'urgent,' Captain."

  "Well, then! But Mister Duncan… in which order, hah?"

  "The, ah…" Lieutenant Duncan stammered, consulting a list, "newly arrived troops, under long arms, and with full field packs and ammunition issue, at once, sir. Musket ammunition and 'specials,' that'd be what he called caltrops, sir, second… with field artillery and teams, caissons and limbers, and munitions, third. Rations are to be last, Captain."

  "Well, then," Blaylock said, stroking at the top of his wig. "There it is, then, gentlemen. To horse. Or rather to boat, haw!"

  "Uhm… there is also a note from Captain Nicely, sir," the lieutenant added as Blaylock rose to his feet.

  "Indeed!" Captain Blaylock rejoined with an offended snort.

  "Here, sir," Duncan said, shoving the folded note at him and acting hangdog, but eager to get away, sure there would be reason to flee. All this intrigued Lewrie's curiosity, who stood with his hat under his arm, shamming respectful deference, but aquiver to escape as well-just as soon as Blaylock's sudden dyspepsia was explained. A Post-Captain senior to Blaylock, this Nicely… and from the sound of it, no friend of his; some rivalry, he wondered?

  Blaylock's rosacea bloomed like Caroline's spring gardens, and the man actually growled like a wakened bear!

  Oh, this must be good! Lewrie told himself; Some 'dirty' passed on, from one vengeful bastard to another.

  Blaylock crumpled the note into a tight wad, so hard his fingers turned white, and his mouth and eyes pinched in rage; he could ram the note down a musket barrel for wadding, so fiercely did he work it.

  "Captain Lewrie, I'll thank you to return to your ship and get your boats back here, instanter," Captain Blaylock snapped. "I will brook no delay, no dawdling or sky-larking, hear me? You are to land Colonel Beauman's regiment on the town beach, north of the quays, and God help you do you shilly-shally."

  "Aye aye, sir, directly," Lewrie parroted off from long usage, bowing from the waist like a German and stalking for the door. The unfortunate Lieutenant Duncan took the opportunity to flee, as well, using the excuse of mustering the side party to render him honours.

  "Bad blood, is there?" Lewrie casually asked, once on deck.

  "Of long standing. They were once midshipmen together."

  "Oh, good as a Scottish feud, then. Campbells and MacDonalds," Lewrie tossed off with a grin of sudden understanding. "There's more than a few still eager for my liver. Those compatriots of my youth? "

  "Well, sir, success has a way of attracting the envious," Lieutenant Duncan told him with a shy smile, one almost of open adoration!

  Damme, is my name that well known? Lewrie asked himself: Am I some sort of paragon to emulate? Mine arse on a band-box!

  "I wish to apologise for being short with you the other night," Lewrie told Duncan, feeling the need to sound "noble" of a sudden. "It put you in a bad patch. But then… I suspect you already know what that feels like, hmmm?"

  "Oh aye, Captain Lewrie," Duncan had the sudden temerity to agree, in a faint whisper. "I, uhm… gather that Captain Nicely should have fresh orders for you as well, soon as you're done, sir."

  "Ah… any hint you may share with me, Mister Duncan?" Lewrie cajoled, hoping against hope that this Nicely hadn't had the same idea about using Proteus as an armory or reserve barracks.

  "Out to sea, where you're the best use, sir," Duncan said, with a tired but wistful expression, "but, you didn't hear it from me!"

  "I quite understand, and thankee, Mister Duncan. For not saying a bloody word," Lewrie beamed, offering his hand.

  "T'will be Halifax, I was told, that will be stripped for guns and gunners, our Marines and…" Duncan continued, eagerly taking the offered hand and shaking it with joy; though with a sad and disappointed look on his face. "The curse of old 'liners', I fear, sir. Never so exciting as being appointed to a frigate."

  Of course, every aspiring young officer yearned for place aboard frigates and sloops of war, where the independent adventures happened; though Lewrie did wonder if Duncan was as guileless as he looked, and whether he was slyly wangling for a berth aboard Proteus, should any of his present officers die of battle or fever. Given the joylessness of life aboard Halifax under Captain Blaylock, though, Lewrie decided that Stroke-Oar on Tom Turdman's Dung Barge would be a distinct improvement!

  Hell, leave him something, he's been helpful, Lewrie decided.

  "So many men sent ashore, though, Mister Duncan," Lewrie continued, "they'll need a capable officer. As I was, at the siege of Toulon in '93. A grand opportunity for an aspiring man to make his name."

  "There is that, though, isn't there, sir?" Duncan said, his mood brightening in an instant. "I am senior…" he mused, all a'scheme.

  And Blaylock despises you, Lewrie thought; much like old Captain Braxton on Cockerel hated me. That's how I got my 'chance' ashore, at Toulon - he wanted t'see the back o' me.

  "A grand chance for glory, and official notice," Lewrie encouraged. It was the honourable, the courageous thing one had to say when a man like Duncan was seconded to command a neck-or-nothing endeavour; instead of "Gawd help yer mis'rable arse." That simply wasn't done!

  Grand chance o ' dyin ' with a pitchfork in yer belly, more like, Lewrie imagined; if things ashore have gotten that desperate.

  "It will be, won't it, sir?" Duncan decided aloud, putting the good face on it, despite his own qualms-and if he didn't have any qualms, Lewrie would have considered him daft. "Why," Duncan joshed, "a few more chances like this'un, and I could end as famed as you, sir!"

  "Oh, don't do that, Mister Duncan." Lewrie pooh-poohed the idea, breezing it off, as a properly modest "hero" was supposed to do. "The hours are horrid, you can't keep clean, and it's damn-all hard work! Far too much for a lazy-bones like me. But… the very best of good fortune go with you, if you have the honour to be appointed ashore."

  "Thankee, Captain Lewrie, thankee indeed." Duncan chortled, now in high fettle, his saggy hound-dog eyes alight and crinkled in joy.

  The bosuns' calls were twittering, Marines were stamping boots and slapping muskets about, so Lewrie doffed his hat to them all and turned his back out-board to descend the man-ropes and boarding battens, gazing at Duncan's face and wondering if he should have thrown in more than a trifling note of caution.

  For Lewrie had the queasy, fey suspicion that he had just shaken hands with a dead man, who would dare too much in pursuit of fame.

  Just as long as it ain't me! he gratefully told himself.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bloody chimera," Christopher Cashman said with a growl of disappointment. "Always looks better from a distance. Gotten worse, since last I was here, too."

  Before the French Revolution had begun in 1791, Port-Au-Prince had been the second richest town in Saint Domingue, trailing the main port of Cape Francois-"Le Cap"-by only a few livres. Now it was sadly fallen, no longer the lively and cultured town of music and arts, of operas and farces, and grand balls. Frankly, it was a cesspit. The few stores still open sold only the barest necessities, with most shelves bare and
the prices exorbitant. There were too many refugees down from the countryside, and many of those closed stores were now converted to housing, if they hadn't been commandeered for Army use. Even the grand pastel-stuccoed mansions that Lewrie had seen out at sea resembled tumbledown, long-neglected hovels in the worst stews of London 's East End; centuries-old manses turned to anthills of tiny rental lodgings, some going for a penny a night for a pallet on a bare wood floor. And many bore chalk marks denoting that a certain company of a certain regiment lodged there, with the smaller houses bearing a number around 8 or 10, showing how many troops could be barracked.

  The reek of garbage, of human wastes, was even stronger ashore, and the kerbside gutters were stained with it, the channels down the middle of those faeryland boulevards could run brown with ordure when it rained. And it rained a lot in Saint Domingue.

  "Like Venice," Lewrie supplied to their conversation, "pretty to look at, but Dung Wharf once you get into the canals."

  "Oh for the sailor's life," Cashman drolly sing-songed, "why, th' places I been, an' th' things I seen, cor blimey! Tyke New South Wales, f'rinstance… kangaroos as big'z dray 'orses… eat men up whole, an' spits h'out th' bones, 'ey does!"

  "You sound in better takings this evening," Lewrie pointed out.

  " 'Course I do, Alan." Cashman chuckled as they strolled along. "I've all my troops ashore, all my field guns, with five day's rations and cartridges, and something t'do with 'em. Our heroic Colonel's off swillin' in the staff officer's mess, and if God's just, he'll find it so agreeable, the Second Coming couldn't stir him out of it. A chance t'preen with General Maitland, and play dashin' hanger-on with the real soldiers… damn 'is

  eyes."

  "I don't know why I let you lure me ashore," Lewrie said for the third time, puzzling, as he peered into a converted shopfront that was filled with refugee families in stained finery. "The way they're talking, it's the last place I care t'be. Besides, I always get in trouble ashore, d'ye know that?"

  "I promised you a grand supper," Cashman rejoined quite merrily. "And bein' a curious Corinthian, tales of mystery and gluttony won you over."

  "The staff mess'd be safer than traipsing about like this, would it not?" Lewrie asked, noting how dark the night was, and how dimly and spottily Port-Au-Prince was lit, and its formerly grand Parisian system of illumination badly maintained… if at all, anymore.

  "Ah, but only swill served, Alan." Cashman laughed at his reticence. "Most of the officers are English-raised, so they have no idea of good food, no sense of adventure. It's all John Bull, boiled beef and puddin's, and 'Wot's 'is here tripe? Pвtй de foie gras? Wouldn't feed that foreign trash t'me hounds!' You know the sort. Not like us. We have worldly palates."

  "Just so long as I'll have a whole neck down which to swallow," Lewrie said, taking comfort in the two small double-barreled "barkers" in his coat pockets, and the heft of the hanger on his left hip. Just in case, he had secreted a wavy-bladed krees Mindanao pirate dagger inside the left sleeve of his coat, to boot.

  "Been here before," Cashman promised, "and it can't have changed all that much in a year. 'Tis a hard man and wife, runs it. Once you taste their dishes, you'll slit yer own throat… just t'prolong your pleasure. As the Yankee slaves say, it's 'slap yo' mama good.' "

  "Good God," Lewrie had wit to jape, "never have I heard such a 'back-handed' compliment. Back-handed… d'ye see?"

  "God'll forgive you." Cashman snickered. "Ah, here we are." He had directed them to one of those imposing pastel mansions, at the intersection of two boulevards, where a roundabout and fountain stood, though the fountain barely burbled these days, and was mostly green and brown with moss, mildew, and scum. The house was fitted with a rounded wraparound set of balconies on the two upper floors, and the overhangs formed a wrought iron collonade above the ground floor doors and windows, which were barred with more intricate wrought iron grills. Heavy draperies were pulled over the windows, but from within Lewrie could espy the faintest hint of candlelight, though the place seemed to be abandoned.

  Cashman lifted the hilt of his smallsword to rap on the heavy iron-strapped doors, a particular tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. After a moment, the Judas hole swung aside and a glint of light showed from within, quickly covered by a man's eye. A moment later, though, those doors were flung open and they were hurriedly welcomed in.

  "Jean-Pierre… Maman!" Cashman cried in joy, flinging himself upon the swarthy man and woman who stood guard in the tiled foyer with pistols, cutlasses, and a brace of muskets.

  "Ah! Commandant Keet, bienvenu!. Has been so long we see you!" "A Colonel, now," Cashman preened, twirling about to show off. "La, mon dieu… felicitations!" the wife of the establishment cried, hands to her cheeks with joy. "You hunger, oui, you wish wine, as before? Come, you and your frнen'. Nossing but ze best pour vous."

  Swarthier manservants in livery came to take their swords and hats; servants who also bulged here and there with weapons discreetly hidden. They didn't seem to share the joy of rencontre with Cashman, or the sight of Lewrie, either; they wore permanent wary scowls. The swords, Lewrie carefully noted as they were led to a table in a back parlour, were stood against a sideboard, within easy reach should he or Cashman need to grasp them.

  Once seated, the pocket doors were slid half shut on the hall, and he and Cashman had the entire parlour to themselves. From without Lewrie could hear the low hum-um of other conversations in other chambers, a piercing laugh now and then, some boisterous shouts as a toast was made and drunk. Hmmm, some rather high-pitched laughs and words… some women? Things might just be looking up, he thought.

  A waiter in livery and a white bib apron entered, and chatted quite gaily with Cashman for a piece; in patois French, of course, so Lewrie hadn't a clue what was being said, though it looked quite jovial and innocent… innocuous, rather.

  As the waiter departed, Cashman tipped Lewrie the wink. "Old Jacques… wonderful old fellow, he'll take care of us," Cash-man informed him. "Took the liberty of orderin' for us, do you not object. Spйcialitй de la hфte. You'll love it, I assure you."

  "So what are we havin', then?" Lewrie asked as the waiter came back with a magnum of champagne and two crystal flutes. Though it was too much to expect that Port-Au-Prince might run to Massachusetts ice, the champagne was velvety smooth and spritely, from a famous vineyard in France, and much finer than Lewrie might have expected.

  "Grand, ain't it," Cashman said, once he'd had a taste. "Jean-Pierre and Maman always have the best of ev'rything. Before the Revolution sent things Tom O'Bedlam, this was the most exclusive place in town. They're the best smugglers and speculators, too. No one knows how or where they get things, or cache 'em 'til needed, but you won't eat or drink better, were you in Paris itself."

  "Are those smugglers and speculators we hear, then?" Lewrie had to ask, savouring the dry mellowness of the wine. It was miles above any vintage he'd tasted lately, even better than the Beaumans' cellar!

  "Cut-throats, pimps, courtesans… mistresses and their men, or the odd profiteer," Cashman quite cheerfully catalogued, "rogues from the canting crews, successful pickpockets and thieves, rich rake-hells who haven't fled yet. A shifty lot, but they pay well and they're always flush with 'chink.' B'lieve it or not, Alan, with all o' their hired beef watchin' their backs, this just may be the safest place in Port-Au-Prince, and I doubt things'd change, did L'Ouverture march in tonight! Give 'em a week, and he'll be dinin' here, him and his generals. May make more of a mess, stain more napery, but…

  "As to supper," Cashman enthused, changing the subject and refilling their glasses, "we start with shrimp rйmoulade, followed by an omelette au bacon et frommage, followed by spinach salads, before the goat ragout, which is bloody marvellous, by the way, and the roasted coq au vin, with asparagus and other removes. Burgundy, hock, or Saint Emilion Bordeaux, p'raps a Beaujolais with the omelettes, if you like? The sideboard'll groan with bottles. And for dessert, a crиme fraоche over strawberries and cut fruit. You
should see the berries they can grow in this soil!"

  "Thought most of the folk here in town were starvin'," Lewrie said in wonder as the waiter bustled in once more, this time trailed by a brace of serving wenches in fresh-pressed and sweet-smelling sack gowns; one with light brown hair, the other a striking redhead, and wearing their own hair, not wigs, artfully done up in ribbons.

  "They are, but that don't signify if you have the 'blunt' and know your way about," Cashman said dismissively. "There's some that'll always prosper. Ooh-la, Vivienne, you darlin'! Still here, are ya?" Cash-man said, turning his attention to the striking wee light-haired wench, drawing her even closer as she sidled her hip against him and served his rйmoulade. Fine coin-silver utensils magically appeared from a pocket of Jacques's bib apron; more spoons, knives, and forks than an English household might display all at once, prissily set out in bewildering order, either side of their plates.

  "M'sieur, " the redhead purred as she served Lewrie, pressing her hip against his shoulder, too.

  "Mademoiselle… enchantй, " Lewrie instinctively responded with a welcoming purr of his own, and a slow, sly smile. "Comment vous appelez-vous?" he asked.

  "Henriette, m'sieur. Et vous, brave Englis' capitaine?"

  He told her, took her hand and kissed it for good measure, and tipped her a wink before turning to face Cashman.

  "You're going to get me in trouble, aren't you, Kit?" he asked, with a wry grin.

  "Hope you fetched off your best cundums," Cashman muttered back with a smile of his own, this one of beatific innocence.

  "God, this is good!" Lewrie had to exclaim after the maids had departed in a swirl of skirts and hips, and had closed the pocket doors completely so they could dine in peace.

  "Reminds me," Cashman said, daubing at his mouth and sipping at his wine, " 'fore we depart, we'll ask Jean-Pierre for some coffee and cocoa beans. Saint Domingue coffee is as good as anything from Brazil, and their cocoa's sweeter an' mellower, too. Mix it with what ya have already-one-to-two-and you'll think you're in Heaven. It may be dear, what with the crops not bein' tended much since their slaves rose up, but worth it, if they have any."