The Captain`s Vengeance l-12

by Dewey Lambdin

  "Any left?" Lewrie dryly asked.

  "Well, er… nossir," Mr. Towpenny said, squirming on his rickety chair. "Th' bonfire took a power of it, sir, Flames nigh as tall as a cro'jack yard, an' lots o' smoke t'draw that ship down t'us."

  "Um-humm," Lewrie commented; though picturing his sailors being rescued with their pricks swaying in the wind, short coats over their heads like be-shawled Dago widows… and every last man-jack as drunk as an emperor! 'Twas a wonder their rescuers hadn't backed oars, gone about, and rowed away and left them as a bad bargain!

  "And you've lost your kits, I take it," Lewrie said further, as he paced back to the centre of the room. "Aye, we must do something on that score. The hospital charge you for these new slops you wear? By God, the skinflints! I'll speak to Mister Coote, soon as I am back aboard, and suggest a whip-round… from forecastle, gun-deck, and the wardroom, all, to get you kitted out proper, again. So what pay you're owed won't vanish, and you won't have to sign away your prize money to shore jobbers for a quarter its future worth, either.

  "As far as I'm concerned, you were on active duty all this time, so don't fear pay stoppage in your absence, as well," he further promised. "You did darned well, lads, to keep your discipline and your wits about you, simply to stay alive. Mister Towpenny, be sure that your keeping good charge will be noted, and rewarded."

  "Thankee, sir… thankee kindly," Towpenny said, blushing anew.

  "You'll all be back aboard in a few days," Lewrie told them as he picked up his hat and took a step towards the door. "In the meantime, I'd wish you to try to recall all you can about those so-called privateers who held you. Any scrap of information as to names, places, or gossip you heard… any clues as to where they were headed, as to who they really were. I'm sure Mister Jugg will prove helpful, since he can sort out French or Spanish words that might be confusing, right Jugg?" he prompted, giving that dubious rogue a damned chary glare.

  "Aye, sir," the fellow answered.

  "By the way, Jugg… we sailed as far as Barbados in search of you, of word of you," Lewrie slyly continued. "We rode up to call on your acres in Welsh Hell Gully. You've gotten your mail since coming ashore? No? Rest assured, your wife is well… There's a good crop coming up, and… both your daughter and infant son are in the best of health."

  "Er… thankee, sir," Jugg all but gasped, sitting up straight in spite of his guarded caution, even as he went cutty-eyed to imagine what else Lewrie had learned about him from his fellow Barbadians.

  "And your girl Tess has herself a reddish, flop-eared puppy," Lewrie added with a disarming grin. "Almost house-broke, but it looks t'be early days… I expect you'll hear all about it, in your wife's next letter. Well, I'll see you all later, lads. Keep your chins up, and take no more guff from the hospital staff than you must."

  "Drunk as goats?" Lewrie asked Capt. Nicely, once they had met again in the hospital's cool, north-facing entrance hall.

  "Staggering!" Nicely snorted with wry glee. "Falling-down, jig-dancing, gravel-swimming, talking-in-tongues, raving drunk, they were! Commander Mortimer of the sloop Spritely, which picked them up, was of half a mind to give them two dozen lashes for 'Drunk on Duty,' as soon as he learned they were Navy men! Thankfully, your Bosun's Mate, that Towpenny, had enough of his wits about him to claim the pirates were to blame, for leaving all that rum as a fiendish torture, with nary a drop of water about. Quite a fellow, to keep good order among them so long, given our tars' penchant for running riot and drinkin' themselves blind. Apparently, he found a length of hollow cane washed up on the beach… which was in his care at all times, mind, sir. They scuttled the barrico's top, and each man got two sips off it, as much as he could suck up, three times a day… morning, noon, and night." "Aye, Mister Towpenny's a damned good man," Lewrie agreed. "Though, once they saw 'twas a Navy ship their salvation," Capt. Nicely gaily went on, nigh chortling, "one of the survivors told Commander Mortimer they drank it up quick as they could, before somebody could take it away from them! 'Waste not, want not' is the old adage, ha ha, Captain Lewrie. 'Twas a drunken spree, the likes of which they will most-like remember all the rest of their lives!"

  "And the 'heads' that required a stay in hospital!" Lewrie said, chuckling too. "I'd like to think they learned a lesson, but let sailors get a whiff of alcohol, and it's Bedlam."

  "Speaking of, Captain Lewrie," Nicely cooed as they arrived at his waiting coach. "Once you've delivered your delightful tidings to your ship and crew about the fate of their mates, once the sun is well below the yardarm, it would be my pleasure to break out a bottle or two of capital 'cheer'… knowing that officers are as tempted by alcohol as the least foredeck hand. I'd admire did you dine with me ashore."

  "And I would delighted to accept, sir," Lewrie gladly agreed. "Shall we say… seven, sir?"

  "So said, sir," Lewrie replied, laying his hat on his chest. "My, um… grand though it is to get your sailors back, I do wish to extend my condolences upon the loss of your Midshipman Burns," Nicely sobered as they got seated facing each other, and a postillion boy raised the step and shut the door for them. "A lad of connexion to you, was he?" he asked, expecting the usual kinship or "interest."

  Most Midshipmen, "gentlemen-in-training," came aboard as wards to captains, suggested to them by kin or neighbours, direct kin, such as Lewrie's bastard son Desmond was to his uncle, Capt. McGilliveray. But it was a rare lad, and usually a poor'un, sent aboard by Admiralty, especially those from the Naval Academy, as King's Letter Boys.

  "No. No, he was not," Lewrie sombrely said, his sadness quickly returning. "In point of fact, 'twas Sir Edward Charles, your predecessor, who foisted him on me. Culled the West Indies fleet for the worst he could find. Poor lad, he meant well, and he did try, but my God, what a witless goose! For those pirates, or privateers, or whatever they wish t'call themselves, to shoot him for sport, deliberately wing him so he'd take days to die, as if they'd rather stayed to watch his suffering! Like strangling kittens 'fore their poor eyes are even opened! By God, I'd give my right arm t'find the bastards who did that to him. I'd run 'em to earth, did it take a year and a day! And kill 'em slow… tooth for a tooth, eye for an eye, make them suffer! Swear to Christ, I-!

  "Sorry, sir, to become so exercised, but…" Lewrie said as he came back to his senses, noting how speculatively Capt. Nicely eyed him; nose high and one quizzical brow raised. "Do forgive me, but it seems such a bloody, murderous injustice."

  Nicely leaned forward, full of commiseration and true sympathy; of suppressed disgust for the crime, and what Lewrie took for a mutual desire to carve out Vengeance… or Justice. "What little I read from Commander Mortimer's report, Captain Lewrie, I am utterly convinced we… someone!… must pursue those devils. They may have Letters of Marque, but they're nothing more than cut-throats, and pirates, and a scurrilous stain on the honest seaman's trade, even 'pon the dubious good 'name' of privateer! We're knights-errant, d'ye know, sir."

  "Knights-errant, sir?" Lewrie responded with a puzzled frown.

  "There are rules for warfare, sir," Capt. Nicely insistently avowed. "There must be, else all is chaos and depravity. Someone must enforce those rules… We must! Standing armies came to be to replace barbarian gangs of land pirates, navies got formed to protect trade and poor seamen, innocent passengers, from the evil depredations of piracy. Oh, we also project power, fight our King's enemies, but mostly, we go about our lonely occasions, as nobly dedicated to the rule of Law, and the upkeep of Civilisation, as any of King Arthur's questing knights. To be the strong right arm for the helpless, the only enforcers of Justice that the seas know, Lewrie. Aye, we are just like the knights-errant of old, pure of heart!"

  "Aye, sir?" Lewrie mildly rejoined, though stunned by the change in Nicely from being, well… "Nice!"… to what could be taken for a drool-at-the-mouth Turk in a holy, hashish-stoked hallucination!

  Knew he was too good t'be true! Lewrie thought, wondering whether he should get out and walk back; He's ravin' fit t'chew upholste
ry… like he's been got at by the Methodists or William Wither force!

  "I see, sir." Lewrie nodded, as if sagely enlightened instead.

  "Tell me something, Lewrie," Nicely said, leaning forward with a crafty look on his phyz, "could I give you a fair wind towards the pursuit and capture or destruction of these murderous scum, cobble up 'Independent Orders' to fetch 'em in before the bar of justice for all the world t'see… would you be interested?"

  "Oh well, I'd like nothing better, sir," Lewrie quickly vowed.

  And of course he did, for such fervent avowal was pretty much what one was supposed to say. It must here be noted, though, that he also fervently speculated that wherever those pirates had run, there also might be his missing prize. There was the matter of how embarrassed he'd be, did the world learn how he'd lost her, and had spent two whole months chasing a will-o'-the-wisp.

  Had those pirates sailed off to Pensacola, Mobile, or New Orleans, there probably wasn't a hope in Hades of winkling them out without the use of an entire naval squadron and an invasion force to capture or reduce any forts guarding their lair, but… did he cruise off those harbours long enough, surely they'd stand out to sea for another piratical cruise, where he could nail them and punish the one, or all, who had perpetrated those cruelly useless murders… poor Midshipman Burns's, the most especially.

  "Aye," Lewrie said, with some heat and at least a scrap of hope that such a feat could be accomplished.

  "Good," Capt. Nicely crowed in gentle triumph, leaning back on his coat seat with a satisfied grin. "Good! You're still of the mind that your man Jugg might have had a hand in it?"

  "Jugg, well…" Lewrie said, frowning. "No, sir. I no longer think he instigated it. But I'm still convinced that he knows more about the people involved that he'd admit. Short of torture."

  "We must 'smoak' him out, then, Captain Lewrie." Nicely beamed. "I will put my mind to it, get in touch with a few people currently in port who own knowledge of the Spanish Louisiana and Florida colonies, and might be of avail to our quest. I do believe within a fortnight we could be on their scent. Do you not object, sir, I know one well-connected fellow who could dine with us tonight, so our campaign may begin at once. A tradesman."

  "A tradesman, sir?" Lewrie asked, sharing an English gentleman's regard for people who actually handled finances, money, and goods.

  "A merchant adventurer, so 'tis said, rather," Capt. Nicely added. "A Mister Gideon Pollock, who works as the principal agent for the Panton, Leslie Company trading firm. Big in the Indian trade inland in the Americas. Pack trains and canoe expeditions. Pollock is head of Panton, Leslie's affairs at New Orleans."

  "A British firm that trades with the Dons, sir?" Lewrie gawped.

  "His name arose, once your hands were fetched in, and aroused curiosity in, um… certain quarters," Capt. Nicely guardedly explained.

  Mine arse on a band-box! Lewrie thought, with a sinking feeling in his nether innards; But he don't mean somebody like Peel, or does he? What in Hell have I agreed to? Certain quarters, mine…!

  "Not made the man's acquaintance myself, yet," Nicely blathered on. "Though he comes well recommended, and his firm has, ah… proved very useful, in a most quiet way, to the Crown's interests in the Americas." Nicely tapped the side of his nose to assure Lewrie that it was covert and sometimes skullduggerish. "This Pollock fellow is reputed to be quite the neck-or-nothing sort when among the savages and brute settlers. Supper should prove int'resting, if nothing else, what?"

  "Oh aye, sir… mirth, joy, and bloody glee, sounds like."

  BOOK TWO

  Trinculo: The folly of this island! They say

  There's but five upon this isle. We are three

  Of them. If th' other two be brained like us,

  The state totters.

  – The Tempest, Act III, Scene 1

  William Shakespeare

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was not often that Capt. Alan Lewrie, RN, actually sat down to dine with tradesmen; nor, did he suspect, did Capt. Nicely, amiable though he was towards seemingly everyone with whom he came in contact. Tradesmen, even those engaged in managing one's personal finances, like his solicitor back in London, Mr. Matthew Mountjoy, the people at Coutts' Bank, his shore or prize agent, well… they weren't exactly gentlemen, were they, even if they were an hundred times wealthier than their customers.

  Dining with tradesmen was not so much a downward social step as it was running the risk of being dunned sometime 'twixt the fish course and the cheese and port. Most "gentlemen" stayed in debt to tradesmen of their acquaintance; a number fled like Hell at the sight of 'em.

  Mr. Gideon Pollock, however, turned out to be a most congenial and informative table companion, not that he had a chance to eat much.

  And, so far as Lewrie knew, he didn't owe the man a farthing.

  No, "nice" as Capt. Nicely was, as solicitous to Mr. Pollock as he behaved, it was more a working supper than a social occasion, with Pollock "singing for his supper" almost from the start. Pollock had no gossip, no books or plays or ear for music to discuss; what he did discuss involved the fetching of charts and maps, of sketching with his fork's handle or a well-honed pencil stub, as he laid out the situation anent Spanish Florida and Spanish Louisiana.

  "Well, I rather doubt your prize ship went into port at Mobile or Pensacola,

  Cap'm Lewrie," Pollock said with a chary expression once the reason for their supper had been explained to him. "Other than the small Spanish garrisons, a few priests and government officials, there aren't enough customers for the looted goods or the slaves. And not more than a handful of people with more than two silver escudos to rub together. No Prize Court to adjudge and condemn the ship, either," he said, rubbing the side of his nose, a nervous gesture that he evinced more than once that evening. "Nossir, I'd put my money on New Orleans. There, or Havana. What Spanish 'captain-general' of Florida there is, he's no more than 'governor of the mildew,' the mosquitoes, and palmetto bugs!"

  Mr. Pollock also had a nervous habit of jerking his head up and to the right, now and again, with a wee throat-clearing whinny. It was quite unnerving. That, and watching his Adam's apple bob.

  Pollock bore the complexion of a longtime sailor or huntsman, as creased about his eyes and lips as a Scots ghillie. He was slender and wiry, stood about two inches shorter than Lewrie but appeared to weigh no more than ten stone, and that with his suit and shoes on. He was high-cheeked and lean-faced, with rather remarkably vivd green eyes that seemed to droop at the outer corners, and a nose that put Lewrie in mind of a Welshman or Cornishman; it was long, prominent, and aquiline, with a hook-bump forming the bridge.

  Not exactly English in his speech, either. Mr. Pollock sounded decently schooled, as if he might have been a second or third son from the squirearchy who had strayed from the expected church, law, military, or naval careers, or been "remittanced" overseas to hush up a scandal. He sounded above the station of tradesman but below the idle elegance of a gentleman. Less British, more… American somehow.

  Capt. Nicely had introduced Pollock's firm as being thoroughly British, established in the Colonies long before the so-called French and Indian War, as the Colonials had referred to it. Lewrie imagined that he'd been among the Yankee Doodles, Dons, and French so long that their patterns of speech had corrupted those Pollock had been born with.

  "We have offices in New Orleans, d'ye see," Pollock continued, "and I manage to get up there five or six times a year. Believe this, gentlemen, when I say that anything and everything is for sale in New Orleans. And the Cabildo, the Spanish Government House, could float on the bribes! A thoroughly corrupt people, are the Dons. Not that their ostensible subjects, the original French settlers, were a whit better. It'd be an easy thing to circumvent the Prize Court… Just sail your missing ship over to the south bank

  opposite the town, circulate some flyers-assuming your customers can read, that is!-and open her as an emporium. Once your goods are gone, you sell off the sails and fi
ttings, then the ship herself. The slaves, well… there are itinerant dealers, the caboteurs, who'd meet you at the Head of the Passes and buy them off you, plunk them into their barges, and flog them off in the backcountry, 'thout hide nor hair of them ever appearing where the authorities'd have to take notice.

  "Governor-General Carondelet banned the import of slaves born in the Caribbean in '96," Pollock said, with a rub at his nose and a jerk of his head, an "ahem-ish" whinny, and a tug at his costly neck-stock. "They're sposed to be inspected and certified as genuine Africans, at Havana mostly, but… 'Black Ivory' is 'Black Ivory,' what with planters expanding their holdings. They're switching over to cotton, rice, and sugarcane, and for that the landowners need thousands of slaves."

  "Er… how is it, Mister Pollock, that you, a British subject, come and go into the Spanish possessions so freely?. After all, we are at war with Spain," Lewrie asked, puzzled.

  "Bless me, Cap'm Lewrie." Pollock chuckled over the rim of his wineglass, not without another of those "ahem-twitch-whinnies." "Our firm damn' near keeps Spanish Florida and Louisiana a going business! Without us, they'd have no goods, no arms for their Indian allies, no comforts for themselves! Though merchants from Charleston or Savannah cut into us something frightful, we do manage to hold onto a profitable lion's share, so far. God's sake, sir… surely you don't think that Spanish merchants could do it! No, no, their goods have to come direct from Spain and are far too costly, and the bulk of American colonies neither make or export much of use to Louisiana or Florida.