Sea of Grey

by Dewey Lambdin

  He squared away his hanger, the set of his waistcoat, and shot the cuffs of his best broadcloth uniform. In the lee of the mountains, Port-Au-Prince was a stifling place, even at mid-morning; humid, steaming, and the air wet dish-clout close.

  “Right, then … let’s be doin’ it.”

  “Ah, Captain Lewrie, so good of you to join us,” Captain George Blaylock said with a patently false purr of welcome, though peering at his watch rather pointedly before snapping it shut with a tiny smile of satisfaction.

  Halifax had still been under way, the two merchantmen had nigh run down his gig as they had swanned about seeking anchorages close to shore, where they could still have room to swing—and a much shorter row for their boats to ferry troops and supplies to land. At the last, Andrews’s boat-crew had had to row like the Devil was at the transom to catch her up, shortly after she had anchored and fired her own salute.

  “A glass of something, Captain Lewrie?” Blaylock offered, waving a hand at a wine-table.

  “Bit early in the day for me, sir, thankee,” Lewrie replied.

  It was not too early for Colonel Ledyard Beauman and his staff, who had travelled on Halifax, it being the most spacious. Christopher Cashman was the only one of them who sipped cold breakfast tea from a china cup, looking impatient to get his troops ashore, whilst the two majors, and the adjutant, a young sprog of a Captain by name of Sellers, and a nephew of Ledyard’s, Lewrie had learned, indulged in a decanter of claret.

  “My word, what sort of ‘sneakers’ the Navy takes in, these days,” Captain Blaylock tittered, turning his head to share the laugh with the others.

  Lewrie’s neck began to burn; to be compared to a “sneak,” one of a carousing crew who didn’t keep up his alcoholic intake at the same rate as the rest, and feigned his participation! When, by God, he had kept up with the best of ’em in his youth! Still could, he was sure.

  Blaylock was a sour little stick of a man, a greying minnikin, as spare and reedy as Commodore Horatio Nelson, though possessed of a much deeper voice from one so lean. He wore a short, tightly curled tie-wig even in this heat, his face and hands tanned woody-brown from thirty years of sea duty, and a complexion flushed with rosacea or some such rash; perhaps too much drink, Lewrie uncharitably thought, asking himself if the entire West Indies Fleet was solely and utterly peopled by hard drinkers.

  “We’ve sent ashore for orders, Lewrie,” Captain Blaylock said, as he waved—no, shooed!—Lewrie to a wing-back chair. “Asking when and where General Maitland wishes us landed, and in what order.”

  “Can’t clutter up the piers,” Ledyard Beauman commented. “Make all sorts of confusion. Take our time, hey? Not ’til needed.”

  “What poor excuses for quays this harbour boasts are too busy already,” Captain Blaylock added. “But what can one expect from the idle French. Good enough for them, I s’pose. You’ll hold all of your boats, Lewrie, ’til we tell you when and where to come fetch and land.”

  “Tell Maitland what we’ve brung,” Ledyard opined, legs stretched out, and all but resting on his spine in his chair, his glossy boots that rose above his knees, dragoon fashion, gleaming. “Know best what he needs, first. Artillery or shot … loose powder … cartridges?”

  Lewrie caught Cashman’s frown of disapproval, no matter it was carefully veiled in the presence of his “betters.”

  “In my experience at Toulon, sirs, I’d imagine that cartridges for the troops already here would best suit,” Lewrie blandly stated. “If not at the quays, then there are several stretches of beach, would serve the purpose. Cartridges, pre-bagged powder for his artillery … one company could be employed to pile and tote, then guard—”

  “At that debacle, were you?” Captain Blaylock snapped. “What a bloody muddle, it was.”

  “Aye, I was, sir. Were you, as well?” Lewrie asked.

  “No, I was not, sir,” Blaylock said with a petulant little moue. “Utterly ruined by the timidity of our so-called allies, the Spanish, by putting too much trust in the French Royalists. Admiral Hood was … hah! Hood-winked!”

  “Good’un, sir! Capital!” Ledyard Beauman haw-hawed.

  “Hood-winked,” Captain Blaylock repeated, so taken with his jape that he could not resist, “by gasconading boasts of fealty from French anti-Jacobins, was the way I heard tell it. The Dons’ admiral, ready to trade fire with Hood over who held the right to command? Lost out and sailed away. And not six months later took hands with the Frogs, against us! Pah!”

  “Out-gunned, out-manned, and under-supplied, though, sir,” Alan Lewrie pointed out after the growls of past betrayal and prejudice had subsided. “Generals Dugommier and Bonaparte held the high ground and all the cards.”

  “Oh, tosh!”

  “Much the same terrain, when you look at it,” Cashman piped up, in a cagey sort of voice. “A seaport with a small perimeter of level ground … surrounded by heights. Too few troops to push out into the countryside ’thout getting cut to ribbons, and outnumbered nearly ten to one. Too few troops to defend a larger perimeter. Too few guns, at the moment, to break a determined assault, sirs?”

  Lewrie allowed himself a tiny grin of agreement at the stress that Cashman used; were he this General Maitland, he was certain that ammunition and more field guns would be his greatest demands. Now!

  And yes, now that Kit had brought it up, Lewrie realised that a strong comparison could be made between Toulon and Port-Au-Prince; it explained the fey feeling he had experienced whilst ghosting shoreward, that prickle of wariness and uncertainty. The situation was much the same, too, with a British force surrounded, almost besieged, by enemy troops in much greater numbers. Did it turn out the same, was there to be a massacre of the innocents, as had happened when Hood had quit the place, and the Republican French soldiers had waded out into the water to shoot and bayonet the thousands who could not find room aboard the departing ships … ?

  He gave himself an involuntary shake, wishing he had taken the offer of a drop of something, after all. For certain, he was suddenly glad that he would be shot of the place, once the stores were landed, and Proteus could get out to sea to serve in the blockade.

  “Samboes don’t have guns!” Ledyard quibbled. “Most of ’em are armed with cane-knives. Few muskets … few shoes, wot?”

  “Our artillery will cut them down in waves, like reapin’ cane,” Captain Sellers chortled.

  “Never even get in musket range,” Major Porter added, “when the grape and cannister’ll lay ’em out long before.”

  “Why we brought along caltrops,” Ledyard Beauman boasted. “It was Cashman’s suggestion, wasn’t it?”

  “Caltrops?” Captain Blaylock enquired, peering at Cashman.

  “Scrap metal, ten pence nails and such, sir,” Colonel Cashman explained with a shrug of modesty. “Colonel Beauman has the right of it … very few of ‘em are shod. Take two and bend ’em together, so however it lands, a couple of points always face up, sirs. Strew ‘em by the hundreds in the long grass before a position, even if a clear field of fire’s been cut, and they’ll tramp right over ’em before they see ‘em. Even a Cuffy’s horny hoof can’t take that. Lame ’em, take ‘em out of the fight … die of lockjaw days later, and take even more t’tend ‘em. Brought enough for our own use, and I know that General Maitland had his quartermasters on Jamaica scour the countryside for scrap iron. Sure t’be umpteen thousands of ‘em, cased up and waitin’ to be landed, soonest. Slows ’em up somethin’ wondrous, sirs.”

  “E‘en through flimsy, worn-out shoes!” Ledyard hooted. “Gad! Think o’ L‘Ouverture, hoppin’ about in his fancy boots after that!”

  “Ooh, merci, ooh sacre bleu, ooh massah!” Captain Sellers playacted in a slurred slave accent, dancing his feet on Blaylock’s fancy rugs and shrilling in “pain,” which made all but Lewrie and Cashman double over with laughter. “Tak’ eet out, I be a goood niggah!”

  “You do not find it amusing, Captain Lewrie?” Blaylock asked, once the impersonation ha
d paled.

  “L’Ouverture and his tag-rag troops have defeated everyone on the island, sir … or so my advisories from Admiralty inform me. I doubt things’ll be quite so easy. They never are, unfortunately.

  “And, long as L’Ouverture fights us, he’s supported by France, recognised by the Directory in Paris as a patriot, sir. To them, and to a great many people in Saint Domingue. They’re better equipped and armed than we suspect, too, sir. From Hugues, down on Guadeloupe, and from the Americans. They’re beginning to make decent muskets and—”

  “Oh, rot, sir!” Captain Blaylock said with a sniff of humour. “We’ve the whole coast bottled up, with the cork hammered home! Not a rowboat could land supplies. No, the Samboes are fighting with what little they’ve gleaned from the pre-war garrisons, and there’s little mineral wealth here, not enough to make iron or steel, nor the ingredients for even halfway decent powder … lead for shot … Before this war began, the rich merchant traders at Rochefort, L’Orient, and Brest preferred selling manufactured goods here, and blocked any attempt to make none but the simplest things, locally.”

  “Good rap, and they crack,” Ledyard Beauman said, nodding with as much sagacity as he could muster. “Nought t’fall back on.”

  “Then how have they maintained their army this long, sir?” Kit Cashman had to ask him. “How has Rigaud and his faction done so, and the grands blancs up at Cape Francois? Good reason for my troops t’be landed as soon as possible, Captain Blaylock … and for old Lewrie to get back out to sea to add to your blockade, soon as we’re ashore.”

  God bless the man! Lewrie thought in soaring thankfulness; like he read my bloody mind! Have to gift him for’t … handsomely!

  “Welll …” Captain Blaylock said, after a long pondering, during which a sly smile had crept upon his phyz. “Perhaps, are we so thin on the ground hereabouts, Colonel Cashman … even more re-enforcments may be needed to hold the perimeter. Long six-pounders, from a quarterdeck or forecastle, might be a welcome addition. Carronades? Easily handled by a small team of gunners, and capable of large loads of grape or cannister, too. Experienced naval gunners, along with some Marines?”

  He turned his head away from the rest, who were nodding along in rote agreement, and cast his lidded gaze upon Lewrie, who plumbed, with a sinking feeling in his innards, exactly where such 6-pounders, carronades, and warm bodies would be found.

  Damn you, ya can’t be that big a bastard! he silently yelped. I best think fast and hard!

  “To the contrary, Captain Blaylock,” Lewrie rejoined, as calmly as he could, “it would seem to me that Halifax has the larger Marine complement, commanded by a Captain of Marines, with two lieutenants as aides. And since she is a very deep-draught ship of the line, surely she could be no assistance in the blockade. You are already en flute, and therefore should hardly miss your quarterdeck and foc’sle guns.”

  “You do, do you.” Blaylock smiled back, his lips and voice as thin as winter ice. “Might remind you, Captain Lewrie”—his gaze fell pointedly upon the single epaulet on Lewrie’s uniform, compared to his pair— “that I am senior officer of our convoy. I will decide.”

  “Just pointing out the most efficient use of what we have at present, sir,” Lewrie said, having to swallow his bile and eat bitter “shite,” though wondering if there was another naval officer ashore, on one of those ships he’d saluted, who could countermand this idea.

  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!”