The Americans he’d met when a callow Midshipman during the Revolution had struck him as leery of a central government with too much power, of a large standing army at the beck and call of potential tyrants or despots … in that regard, at least, Americans and Englishmen were of one mind. They’d much prefer a sea-going batch of “Minutemen,” what they called their casual, volunteer farmer-soldier militias, to the high cost of a formal fleet.
“Perhaps an American navy’s more palatable, puss,” Lewrie told his cat, now stretched nigh-boneless across his lap. “Out of sight and no threat ashore. ’Less they smash up the taverns.”
American trade had grown like mildew in his dirty shirts, though. Merchant ships under their peculiar “gridiron” striped banner were seen on every sea these days, trading with anyone despite the war, belligerent or neutral, and admittedly bore a fair portion of British goods. As neutrals, they were raking in the “blunt” with both fists. He was advised that American merchantmen could be encountered in the Indies in large numbers, even entering Spanish ports on Cuba and Puerto Rico, and he was to follow a wary but “hands-off” policy unless he suspected any contraband going to French or Spanish ports.
Lately, though, their old friends, the French, had turned a new leaf in their dealings with America. French trade was practically nonexistent due to the Royal Navy, but even so, the Frogs were now stopping and searching American ships for “contraband,” requiring them to produce not just passenger lists and manifests, but lists that showed the names and nationality of officers and crew, roles d’éguipage or else. America and Great Britain had recently signed a treaty that had settled some border disputes in the Pacific Northwest, and disputes at sea about exactly what “neutral” really meant, and that treaty had piqued the French even more. They had renounced the American notion that “free ships make free goods,” a clause of their own Treaty of Amity and Commerce with America in force since 1778! France had stated that, henceforth, they would treat neutrals in the same manner that England did … whatever that meant. If American ships carried cargoes to or from England or her allies, and lately even if they carried goods to or from France and her allies, they were subject to search and seizure. The British ambassador to the United States had estimated that nearly 200 ships had been taken in the Caribbean alone since 1796!
It was all part of an ongoing plan to bully, threaten, cajole, coax, or bribe the United States into war on France’s side. French agents had been tampering with American domestic politics for years, in point of fact, even after “neutral” American merchant ships had both fed and clothed them in the early days of their Revolution, when crops had failed year after year, and France was rocked by internal revolts against the Jacobin republic.
Now, the advisories said, France had declared that any American ships caught carrying any British goods were “bonne prise” and prey for their warships and privateers.
Worst thing t’do to a Yankee Doodle, Lewrie thought; hit him in the coin-purse!
Engraged at last, so the British ambassador had written, those Americans were rushing to finish six large 5th Rate frigates that had been started in ’94 and ’95, and patriotic public subscriptions were being solicited in every seaport from Maine to Georgia to buy and arm, or quickly build, a United States Navy.
The advisories hinted that America might even declare war upon the French, and ally themselves with Great Britain! So captains were warned to do nothing to discourage such a declaration, perhaps find a way to encourage such a move. They could always use another ally, and one with nautical experience and knacky skill—as shown by the privateers in the last war, at any rate—would be more than welcome. An ally that did not need vast bargeloads of silver to prop them up, like the Austrians and Prussians and Neapolitans did during the time of the so-called First Coalition in 1793, would be doubly welcome!
So American merchant ships must be protected from privateers or French cruisers, but on the other hand … !
British trade and the Navigation Acts were still in force, and American ships that overstepped the boundaries of their “cooperation” had to be stopped and searched, at the same time.
American vessels could still use their neutrality to trade with the Dons in Cuba, Puerto Rico, and Santo Domingo … but contraband and martial cargoes were not allowed, on the other hand?
Americans could trade with the French on Hispaniola, in Saint Domingue, if they wished to risk it, but on the other hand, the export of arms, monies, and agents to British colonies on American ships was to be stopped?
Good God, the newborn United States Navy (so said his orders) would share the private signals books with Royal Navy warships, and an American naval presence in the Caribbean was expected shortly, but … they’re not yet allies, nor are they yet at war with France, so give all aid and assistance, but joint operation as co-belligerents, out in the open for all to see, was to be avoided, unless there was pressing need for quick action?
“Double-dealing hypocrisy!” Lewrie felt like shouting in anger, as he leaned over his sleeping cat to scan his orders once more.
And, to top all, he was to be on the lookout for Spithead and Nore Mutiny deserters, Royal Navy deserters, or British merchant tars who had taken service in American vessels to avoid the Impress Service, and their proper duty in the Royal Navy … even though American ships were already ready to fight over the demand for a rôle d’équipage by the French, listing crewmens’ names and national identities?
Most especially, he was to seek out specific persons, listed by name and description, who had served in the Hermione frigate in these waters, those who’d mutinied against a Captain Pigot, murdered him in his bed, murdered officers, mates, and midshipmen, then sailed her off to a port on the Spanish Main and sold her as “prize” to support themselves … even were they aboard American merchantmen or warships?
Were any found, they were to be taken aboard, bound in chains on the orlop or in the bilges, thence to be taken “ … with all despatch” to either English Harbour, Antigua, or Kingston, Jamaica for court-martial and later hanging … whichever was closer.
“Troll for pregnant, female sturgeons, too?” he whispered.
God, give me reasonable orders! he gravelled to himself; fetch home the Golden Fleece, sweep out the Augean Stables … something like that. Somethin’ do-able, for pity’s sake!
He lifted Toulon from his lap and deposited him on the desktop before him, the cat grumbling and arching as he turned to go aft for a whiff of fresh air. The transom sash-windows were open a touch, letting in brisk cool air, after weeks of tight-shut “fug.”
Close-up, he now took note of how the panes were splattered with dried salt, and half-misted on the outside with a dull grey film of sea salt crystals … given his mood, he could almost mistake it for smears of congealed pork fat. He rubbed his hands together, disliking how the air felt so coolly humid and … greasy! Of how humid-oily-clammy his skin felt under his clothes.
“This cruise will turn t’shit,” he muttered softly.
It would be more “war on the cheap,” more sleaziness, one more hefty dollop of semi-covert underhandedness, where, he foully suspected, his every step must be circumspect … else he’d finally find the one “slick” one that tumbled career, repute, and income to Perdition!
“Aspinall?”
“Aye, sir?”
“A glass of claret, if ya will.”
“’Fore Noon Sights, sir?” Aspinall dared to query, surprised.
“Aye.”
CHAPTER TEN
The difference that a couple of weeks made was amazing, running before the Nor’east Trades, sometimes with the winds large on the starboard quarter, sometimes right up the stern, and “both sheets aft.” In what seemed a twinkling, the horizon expanded, the scudding gloom overhead lifted, parted, and turned cerulean blue, swept by mares’ tails in faint, cloudy tracings. The seas no longer churned like washtub suds, but rolled in majestically long periods, spattered with choppy smaller waves that bro
ke and parted against the hull with the sounds of elated sighs, no longer hammering or threatening.
And the sunrises, and sunsets!
Magnificent orange suns, presaged by a faint streak of grey on the horizon, burst like bombshells, painting the eastern skies amber, shading to dusty rose-red or the palest yellow for a brief minute or so, and one could feel the day coming, racing across the ocean faster than any frigate could ever swim, or wing-churning sparrow fly, as the warmth spread outward, westward, as if the doors to a lush garden had been flung open, and hands and officers and mates standing Quarters to greet any nasty surprises at dawn could smile with relief for Proteus to be alone once more, and with a small measure of delight at Nature’s glories.
And the sunsets, at the end of a long day of work or gun drill, late enough now to fall in the Second Dog watch after the crew’s mess, brought off-watch hands on deck to peer forward, westward, to savour a sight that most, in their coal-smoked, foggy, and rainy towns, hamlets, or villages had rarely seen. Great, towering cumuli, shading off to pearlygrey or charcoal, were speared by sword-blades of golden light, the sun golden-red, surrounded by roses ahead; and a soft, blue-grey gloom astern, in which first stars could be made out, swept closer by the minute to overtake their ship as it surged over the sea with a sibilant hissing, the tops’ls painted gilt, or a gleaming parchment hue.
Shoes had been dispensed with, suffocating blue wool jackets so welcome in March were stowed away except for Sunday Divisions. Shirt sleeves were now rolled above the elbow, loose slop trousers gathered above the knees, collars spread wide and placket buttons undone for a breath of cooling air, or a greater exposure to the healing rays of a benign sun. Shirts were rarely worn at all, for many doffed them despite the Surgeon Mr. Shirley’s warnings about sunburn and the cost of butterbased salves that would be deducted from their pay if they appeared lobster-red at Sick Call.
Officers and senior warrants, now … some dignity was demanded, though Lewrie did allow them to dispense with cocked hats and uniform coats. Proper breeches, clean shirts, and neck-stocks were de rigeur. And stockings and shoes. It was only during the Second Dog that they could undo their stocks, roll up their sleeves, and savour the cooling winds ’til full sundown, before heading aft and below to the gun-room for their own suppers, at the change of watch.
Pipes would glow on the darkening deck, as the smokers had the last taste before heading below, off-watch, or taking station for the eight-tilmidnight. Fiddles, fifes, penny-whistles, and the soft hums of Desmond’s uillean pipes would sound every sunset, unless it rained, and crewmen would dance hornpipes or slip-jigs, sometimes for competition between eight-man messes, sometimes between larboard or starboard watches, to see who was the best. Country-dance tunes would jerk and tootle more urgent paces, more exuberant turns on the decking, and the men might pair off by twos to practice for future shore leaves in the islands, or perhaps to whimsically recall better times before they’d taken the King’s Shilling and gone to sea.
Bedding was dry now; clothing did not have to be wrung out to be donned. Every third day or so, there would come a mildish squall, with lashings of warm, welcome rain, creating a scurry for all hands to rig canvas sluices to catch it in empty casks, to trap enough for a cask to be scrubbed clean of the slick, brownish growth that eventually would infest them, turning reputedly fresh water pale brown and semi-opaque. Stubs of soap would appear, along with salt-stiff, sweat-stiff shirts and trousers to be spread on the deck, scrubbed furiously while the rain lasted (sometimes only minutes), then thrashed or slapped or wrung out, then hung up to dry after the rain had passed. A bit more than a few might strip naked and pound the smuts from the slop clothing they wore at that moment, or merely stand wide-armed, mouths open and turned up like hatchling birds waiting to be fed, to be showered cooler and cleaner.
All in all, HMS Proteus was a happy ship. They had been paid, just before departing Sheerness, the usual six months of arrears made good, and the wonders of the West Indies were still to come, if they were allowed ashore to sample the foods, the ale-houses and taverns … and the women. Their days were filled from sunrise to sunset with the usual labours, such as re-roving the rigging, tautening the standing stays every other day, one side at a time after wearing from larboard to starboard tack off the wind, when the lee side would have a little more slack to work with; taking down the storm-canvas and stowing them below, after the sailmaker and his crew had patched, darned, and sewn frayed seams; hoisting aloft and bending on the lighter, everyday set of sails. And, of course, there were the unending drills during the Forenoon Watch; running-in, mock-loading, running-out, and firing the great-guns, carronades, and swivels, with a weekly live shoot at a jettisoned keg or chicken coop; cutlass drill and boarding pike drill to keep their skills sharp and give them some additional exercise; a turn at live musketry at over-side targets, even practice with horrid Sea Pattern pistols that were only considered accurate when jammed in a foeman’s belly and triggered off; striking top-masts to the deck in quick order, then hoisting them back aloft, preparing for the day when a raging West Indies hurricane might overtake their ship, and the topmasts would have to be lowered for survival—or the day when enemy fire might dismast them, and victory or defeat might hinge upon how quickly spare top-masts and spars could be deployed.
And, when all that was done, there was grog, a turn at a water-butt, the galley funnel spuming a partly homesick aroma of wood smoke and boiling meat: the smells of soups or pease puddings as the sun declined, as a country cottage or town worker’s humble lodgings smelled at sundown, when the day’s pay had been collected, an ale or two had been drunk at one’s favourite local pub among fellow workers and neighbourhood friends, at the end of the loose-hipped, mellow stroll on the high street or side lane that led to family, wife … and home.
Weary, aye … mostly satisfied with their lot for the moment, some a trifle “groggy” as usual, each dusk they still had the spirit to open their voices in rough tune, revive the sentimental, lachrymose airs that sailors liked best of all … and sing the sun down.
“Toulon, don’t leave yer mark on the hammock nettings! Sailors have t’sleep on those things!” Lewrie admonished his ram-cat, perched on the canvas-covered bulwark of tightly rolled hammocks, overlooking the ship’s waist. He gave him a neck-tousling pet, then strolled up to the windward side, plucking at his shirt. One more sign that they were in the tropics; the day’s heat that had been welcome at first, was now nigh punishing, more glaring, and the prismatic flashes of sunlight off the sea were now more like a field of too-bright snow that gave everyone a perpetual squint.
Lewrie turned to face inward, once he had taken hold of a mizen stay and given it a tug to test its tautness, taking note of Dowe, one of the quartermaster’s mates serving his “trick” at the wheel. He was an American, the son of a long-dead Loyalist who had fled to Nova Scotia at the Revolution’s end. Dowe lowered his gaze from the draw of the sails and eased his own squint, raising his brows for a moment, which made Lewrie smile. With a face at ease, Dowe showed white, untanned streaks round his eyes and on his forehead that squinting kept as pale as a lady’s thighs … “them raccoon eyes, sir,” Dowe had termed them, Lewrie recalled, making him chuckle, too. He thought he had seen one when HMS Desperate had put into Charleston back in ’81, and he was sure he had eaten a raccoon when besieged and half-starved at Yorktown with Lord Cornwallis’s doomed army. Either way, Lewrie thought the description apt.
“Sail ho!” the main-mast lookout screeched from the cross-trees.
“Where away?” Lt. Wyman yelled back, his hands cupped about his mouth, though that was little help for his thinnish voice.
“One point off th’ larboard bows! Hull down! A schooner!”
“Well, about time, too!” Lewrie muttered, pleased.
They had proved that the ocean was a huge, empty place on their voyage, for even though they had steered Proteus Sou’westerly nigh to the latitude of Dominica, and across the most-used tra
ck for any merchant ships, this would only be the second ship they had encountered. Most merchant masters bore on South from Cape St. Vincent to Dominica’s latitude, then ran it due West—they only had to solve their slight variation in latitude, daily, and calculate longitude by adding up the 24-hour sums from their knot-logs, by Dead Reckoning. And if all else failed them, the cloud-swept peaks of Dominica were the tallest marks in the Caribbean, damned hard to miss for even the most lubberly, cack-handed navigator—like the master of the only other ship that they had “spoken,” a reeking Portugee “blackbirder” laden with a cargo of threehundred-odd slaves fresh from Dahomey, and so creaky and slow it appeared that at least a quarter of those forlorn souls would die before arrival; the damned fool had actually asked Lewrie where, exactly, they were!
Here though, within two days’ sail of English Harbour, Antigua, the presence of local shipping could be expected. English Harbour was a Royal Navy station, a safe place for overseas trade, as well. This schooner, Lewrie surmised, was most-like a local. Schooners were popular craft in the West Indies, fore-and-aft rigged to go like a witch to windward, and “point” at least ten-to-twelve degrees closer to the winds, a desirable trait did one desire to beat back eastward against the unvarying Nor’east Trades. Some adventurous types sailed schooners from as far north as Maine, in the Americas. And schooners made hellish good privateers, too, due to their speed and agility!
“Mister Elwes, aloft with a glass, sir. Tell us what you see,” Lieutenant Wyman snapped.
“Aye aye, sir!” the eager young midshipman piped back, dashing to the rack by the binnacle cabinet to seize a telescope, then scampering up the weather mizen shrouds as spryly as a monkey.
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