Sea of Grey

by Dewey Lambdin

“Ah, there ye be,” a gruff voice interrupted; most thankfully, to Alan’s lights—how did one disabuse someone of their kin’s veracity?

  “Ah!” Lewrie said, feigning joy. “Mister Hugh Beauman!”

  He offered his hand, recalling that at one time this side of beef, this breeding bull—and his father—had threatened to thrash him in the streets of Kingston and finally had shown him the door, quite firmly assuring him he’d never darken their lives again! Surprisingly, Hugh Beauman took it and gave it a powerful shake of welcome; with a viselike, crunching squeeze, though—just to remind him of his “place!”

  “Lewrie, ah de do!” Beauman bellowed. “Years, wot? All grown up, I see. Stap me, a Post-Captain now!”

  “Last year, sir, after the battle of—”

  “On yer own bottom. Have a frigate, I’d expect? Yes? Good!”

  Like all the Beauman men, Lewrie sadly told himself; they talk in fragments … too busy for polite conversation. Prob’ly begrudge the time wasted, too! The father Beauman he’d dealt with had been the same way, when Lewrie was courting Lucy. For all their wealth, they were “chaw-bacon” with not a jot of ton or style; tenant-tramplin’, fox-huntin’, beer-swillin’ country-puts-the very epitome of that newspaper artist Cruikshank’s droll cartoons of “John Bull” as a testy, drink-veined tub of ale, with the temper of a rutting steer, a poorly educated “squire” to the soles of his top-boots!

  “How’d ye get out here? What fetched ye?” Hugh Beauman asked, sounding a bit suspicious, even after all these years.

  Lewrie was sorely tempted to answer, “By frigate, then by coach,” but wisely forebore. Hugh Beauman, for all his business acumen, didn’t have what one could call an “ear” for waggish wit.

  “Colonel Cashman and I are old compatriots, sir. We met in town and dined together. He invited me to see his regiment.”

  “Ah, ah?” Hugh Beauman said as he took that in, still looking like a man offered a dubious deal. “Never heard that. Must ask, I s’pose.”

  “In Spanish Florida,” Lewrie informed him, with a secretive grin. “Covert doin’s with Red Indians, during the last war, d‘ye see. Neck-or-nothin’ in places, it was. Doubt a man of us got away with a whole skin, once the Dons found us,” he boasted, to discomfit Hugh Beauman.

  “You’ve risen so quickly, Captain Lewrie,” Anne Beauman quickly said, to fill the gaps—and no longer using his Christian name, Lewrie noted, as if to distance herself, or haul their converse back to a politer plane. “And been decorated twice. And is that a wedding ring that I see on your left hand? You must tell us all about it!”

  “Ah!” her husband exclaimed, as a trumpet sang out. “Parade’s on! Later, Lewrie. Come, dear.”

  “’Til later, sir … ma’am,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat, and bowing them away as they ploughed their way through the throng to the raised platform before the pavillion that would serve as the reviewing stand. Lewrie snagged himself another pair of champagnes, in relief, then drifted over to where he could see.

  Sure enough, Ledyard Beauman made a splendid sight on a charger. The horse was a sleek dapple-grey, with the conformation of an Arabian, its saddlery and reins polished, its showy sheepskin pad as white as newfallen mountain snow, and the stiff under-pad so large that it fell almost as low as the flashing silver-plate stirrups; blue, trimmed in real gilt embroidery border, real gilt-lace regimental badge, Roman numerals, and oak leaves. Even silver bit and chains!

  Ledyard, however … .

  “Look! A uniform … wearin’ a man!” some girl said in a very soft snicker behind her fan, before being shushed by the man at her side; it didn’t do to sneer a Beauman … not and be heard!

  Ledyard rode well enough, with his heels well down, as he cantered his charger out and drew his sword to take the salute of officers standing in a rigid row before the troops, now arrayed by companies on the far side of the field. The pace did put his hat—a cocked one as large as a ripe watermelon, all adrip with egret feathers and trimmed with gilt-lace cockade and vane—askew, though. Like leftover style from the ’70s, Ledyard bought them too small to fit over his wigs! A hand that held his sword hilt snuck up to right it as he drew reins to return the salute, eliciting the faintest titter, despite the setting.

  Always was a vain little cox-comb, Lewrie uncharitably thought.

  After a bit of martial palaver, Ledyard spun his horse about on the off-hand foot, and walked it back to the front of the review stand. A small band of fifes and drums struck up “British Grenadiers,” and at a command from Cashman, the first company on the right, the grenadier company, began to wheel about in lines four ranks deep.

  “Shape main-well,” a grudging commentator allowed.

  For all the little that Lewrie knew of drill and marching, they did, indeed, seem to know what they were doing, as good or better than the Anglesgreen yeomanry that his father drilled on the village commons on Muster Days. For a mob of the usual drunks, failures, ne’er-do-wells, and no-hopers that armies tended to recruit, and given the smaller and “scummier” pool of volunteers to be found in the islands, they marched in straight lines, with no one staggering; all in step, and all their muskets sloped at the same exact angle.

  They wore ankle-high shoes, well blacked, with tan cloth gaiters, or “spatterdashes,” buttoned up to mid-thigh over dark tan breeches, not the usual white, with matching waistcoats beneath the usual red tunics, though Lewrie thought their red was more wine-red than scarlet; with buff turn-backs at the rear hems, and buff coat facings, trimmed with yellow-outlined buttonholes of red and blue. And their hats were not cocked hats, newfangled shakoes, or narrow-brim civilian hats, but were wide-brimmed, soft slouch hats, turned up on one side.

  He grinned in recognition; hats like those had adorned the Loyalist Volunteer North Carolina regiment in which his future brothers-in-law, Burgess and Governour Chiswick, had served in the Revolution. He had discovered the practicality of slouch hats for keeping off both sun and rain at Yorktown, during the Franco-American siege.

  Lewrie also suspected that hats like those were much easier to “sneak” through brush and jungle, making less noise, did Cashman really mean to “hunt men” on Saint Domingue in bushwhacking fashion, matching stealth-for-stealth with the rebel slave soldiers under L’Ouverture.

  And their arms; a private soldier stood guard near the rope line by the reviewing stand, and Lewrie sidled over to study it and enquire, in a whisper, from the soldier’s right-hand side.

  “Fusil, sir … fifty-four-caliber ball,” the man muttered back from the corner of his mouth, eyes still rigidly to the front. “They’s acc’rate, they is. Colonel Cashman, ’e h’insisted on ’em.”

  “I would expect nothing less than the best from Colonel Cashman,” Lewrie told him, making the soldier stiffen his back a bit more in his pride, and dare to grin, despite the solemnities.

  More accurate than Brown Bess, aye, Lewrie thought. I used one, and I liked it. More range than a plain musket, too. I still have one hangin’ on the wall in …

  He cringed, wondering how long it had taken Caroline to remove any sign that the smaller side parlour had once been his, and his alone. The captured swords, the ship model that his Jesters had made for him?

  The regimental pipes, fife, and drum band struck up a tune, “The Black Bear,” and swung out from the far right of the formed companies, with the King’s Colour and the Regimental Colour party behind them, to troop the colours before the men, an ancient custom of recognition, so that they would know their colonel’s place, and their own, in any battle’s confusion. Once the band returned to its place, some orders of the day were posted by the adjutant, before the call came to “Pass In Review” … without the mass mutter of “Up yours, too” that sometimes could be heard from British troops on parade, Lewrie noted.

  Company by company, the regiment marched past the reviewing stand, with Ledyard Beauman swiping his sword to his chin in salute to each; band, the grenadier company, then eight line companies, lastly
the official light company of skirmishers, though Cashman had trained them all for skirmish order. Finally, a two-gun battery of light horse-drawn artillery pieces, no better than 4-pounders, trotted past, and it was done. The companies drew up at their starting points across that stubbly field, to the cheers and applause of the assembled guests.

  “Men!” Ledyard cried, rising in his stirrups. “Men o’ the Fifteenth West Indies!” It came out rather thin, and probably didn’t carry far, not like a “quarterdeck” bellow, Lewrie could sneer, as he tipped his champagne glass to them. “Creditable showin’, I say! Day or two more, and we’re off to Saint Domingue! Bash those murderous rebels, haw! Colonel Cashman, dismiss the troops, sir! And a tot of rum for all! All, d’ye hear, hey?”

  “’Talion …” Cashman said, in a proper baritone roar.

  “Comp’ny!” the captains chorused the preparatory order.

  “’Talion, right wheel to column of companies, at the halt!”

  Ledyard Beauman did not wait for his troops to wheel about and march off to their tent lines; he tossed his reins, assuming that some orderly or groom would be there to take them, being the sort who went through life having things there when he needed them. He took several tries at stabbing the tip of his expensive “hundred guinea” sword into its elegantly trimmed scabbard before getting it right, then swung one leg over and sprang down … not without a rub at his fundament, from spending time in the saddle. Rather claw-like, that was.

  Maybe his arse itches, Lewrie thought, draining one of his champagne flutes. Making an experiment, Lewrie tossed the glass over his shoulder, and was amazed to see a liveried servant catch it in mid-air.

  Hell’s Bells, it works! he marvelled.

  As if those murderous rebel slaves on Saint Domingue had already been crushed, Ledyard was swarmed by his rich neighbours, hangers-on, toadies, and those who most-like owed him money or favours, and Lewrie had himself another covert sneer, then toddled off for a “reload” of champagne.

  Now there was a long set of tables set up as a buffet, inside that vast pavillion, laden with dainties, so far covered with a gauzy material, or fanned to keep the flies off by slave women behind it, all done up in wildly colourful sack-gowns and head cloths, marked by snow-white bib aprons. Once the fawning was done, and the regiment’s officers returned, there would be a minor feed, and despite his earlier meal, Lewrie found himself looking forward to “grazing” on fresh and spicy shore food. He was deterred from an anticipatory stroll to see what was to be offered, though.

  “Surely you recall Mister Lewrie, Ledyard,” he heard Anne gush as she led her brother-in-law over, “just a boy of a lieutenant, then. Captain Lewrie … you remember Ledyard.”

  “But of course I do, Mistress Beauman,” Lewrie answered, having a “gush” of his own of false pleasure. “Ledyard, so good to see you! My congratulations on your regiment, and its performance. Good as the Guards Brigade in London.” He extended his hand, forcing Ledyard to take it, though with an involuntary wince. “I’m certain that General Maitland will be pleased to be re-enforced by such a unit … and that jumped-up poseur, General L’Ouverture, will have cause to run away and hide!”

  “Well! Yes, haw haw!” Ledyard brayed, after giving it a rather longish think, blinking in un-looked-for delight. “Damn’ white o’ ye I must say, Lewrie, damn’ white. Maul those murd’rin’ scum! Go right through ’em like a dose o’ salts. Lose their cocky airs, up against British infantry, wot?”

  “And pray God soon, sir,” Lewrie replied, giving Ledyard his due as his putative senior officer.

  “Well, then! Hum … uhm,” Ledyard hemmed, having run out of polite conversation, and with his eyes cutting towards the food and drinks. Anne Beauman tossed Lewrie her sympathy, with a weary arching of her brows, and Lewrie responded in like sympathy for her having to tolerate such a boorish clan for so many years.

  “The best of fortune attend you and your troops, then, sir,” Lewrie said, preparing to free himself. “I’ll just look up old Cashman, then.”

  “Know him, do ye?” Ledyard asked, engaged by Lewrie’s presence again, and looking a touch more leery than pleased by that news.

  “Oh, for years, sir. Here at his invitation, in fact.”

  “Talented feller … organised, uhm …” Ledyard Beauman said, musing aloud as if pacing behind an office desk, weighing the benefits and disadvantages of a pending deal. “Unorthodox, o’ course, but just what we need, hey? Aggressive, uhm … a fighter, wot?”

  He squinted at Lewrie, as if trying to convince himself of Cashman’s suitability to lead his regiment anew; or re-convincing himself in the face of disquieting new evidence to the contrary.

  “The very best, sir,” Lewrie assured him.

  “Mmm-hmm!” Ledyard answered, as if tasting a tangy dessert.

  “Take my leave, then. Colonel Beauman … Mistress Anne,” he said, bowing his way off, and wondering why it was that every encounter with Beaumans made him begin to chop his sentences to the bare bones in the same pidgin that they used.

  Lewrie snagged two more champagnes, then sidled his way through the throng of guests entering the tent, against the current, ’til he stood outside, beyond the rope-line, waiting for Christopher Cashman as he rode up on a fine chestnut gelding, trailed by his two mounted majors and the pack of company captains, lieutenants, and ensigns who were on foot, but eager for the party to begin.

  He walked out to meet Cashman, offering up the freshest glass, sure that Kit was going to need it.

  “Well, how’d you enjoy the parade?” Cashman beamed down at him as he drew rein and accepted his reward.

  “Capital. On your part, at least. They look splendid,” Lewrie truthfully told him,

  “Aye, they’re a grand bunch,” Cashman gruffly agreed, showing pleasure over his “good show,” and with a hint of “rough love” for his troops. “Though they’re the usual scum who’d go for a soldier. Gutter sweepin’s and harbour trash, e’en poorer a lot than you’d find in England, mind. Hard men, though. Tough enough to stick it, no matter what comes.”

  “Met Ledyard,” Lewrie casually told him. “Had a word or two.”

  “Aye, and?” Cashman asked, one brow up.

  “Kit, old son … I do b’lieve you’re fucked.”

  BOOK TWO

  Quod genus hoc hominum? Quaeve hunc tam barbara morem permittit patria? Hospitio prohibemur harenae; bella cient primaque vetant cansistere terra.

  What race of men is this? What land is so barbarous as to allow this custom? We are debarred the welcome of the beach; they stir up war and forbid us to set foot on the border of their land.

  AENEID, BOOK I 538-541

  PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO “VIRGIL”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Oh, for God’s sake, quiet! Still!” the luckless Lieutenant Wyman shouted to the arriving boats, bare minutes before Eight Bells.

  “Nottingham Ale, boys, Nottingham Ale,

  no liquor on earth is like Nottingham Ale.

  Nottingham Ale, boys, Nottingham Ale,

  no liquor on earth is like Nottingham Ale!”

  That was the starboard watch’s answer to his demands. They had commandeered the poor bum-boatmen who had rowed them offshore from town, had made the oars beat like birds’ wings, raising bow waves and leaving creamy wakes. But once close-aboard Proteus, they had commenced rowing round her, bound and determined to savour their last bottles of wine or beer, and not end their precious shore liberty ’til the last watch bell had struck Midnight!

  “You lovers who talk of your flames, darts and daggers,

  with Nottingham Ale ply your woman but hard,

  for the girl that once tasted will hopelessly stagger,

  and all your past suff’rings and hardships reward!

  You may bend her and twist her, and do what you list her.

  You’ve found the right way o’er her heart to prevail …”

  “Sounds very much like that bastard Irishman, Desmond,” Midshipman
Adair commented.

  “Aye, he’s a fine voice, that ‘fly’ lad,” Lieutenant Catterall said.

  “Let her take a glass often, there’s nothing will soften

  the heart of a woman like Nottingham Ale! Ohhhh …

  Nottingham Ale, boys, Nottingham Ale …!”

  “Desmond!” Lewrie barked, leaning over the quarterdeck bulwarks in nothing more than breeches and a shirt, hastily pulled over but not stuffed in. “You sing the last bloody verse, and you’ll be late reportin’ back aboard, me lad! The lot of you! Now pipe down and fetch-to alongside the larboard entry-port! You’ve five minutes, by my watch!”

  “Muster the Marines, sir?” Lt. Catterall asked.

  “Lord, no, Mister Catterall,” Lewrie demurred, looking up from his pocket watch. “Though from the look of ’em, a cargo sling’d suit. I doubt there’s a full dozen who can still keep their feet.”

  “Can you not keep order with your crew, sir?” an aggrieved post-captain aboard a two-decker moored nearby bellowed through a speaking-trumpet. “Can you not, I will! You’ll stop all that cater-wauling, or I’ll send over my Marines and deem it a mutiny t’be suppressed!”

  The larboard watch, wakened from their innocent slumbers below, had come up on deck to jeer and hoot from the gangways, some with glee, and some sounder sleepers with anger and threats.

  Lewrie could make out a spectral figure on the stern gallery of the 74-gun Third Rate, someone in a white nightshirt bearing a shiny brass speaking-trumpet that also caught the glinting moonlight.

  “Darnme, the man’s even wearin’ a tasselled nightcap,” Lewrie muttered with a groan, turning for his own speaking-trumpet. “No need, sir! They’ll be aboard, and quiet, shortly!” he shouted across.

  “You doctors, who more executions have done,