“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 SIXTEEN
“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? Pâté 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 ironstrapped 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 frien’. 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,” Cashman informed him. “Took the liberty of orderin’ for us, do you not object. Specialité de la hôte. You’ll love it, I assure you.”
“So what are we havin’, then?” Lewrie asked as the wait
er 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 remoulade, 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 crème fraîche 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?” Cashman 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 remoulade. 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 … enchanté,” 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.”
“Dearer than what Jamaican chandlers ask?” Lewrie frowned.
“’Bout half, I’d think,” Cashman told him, pausing to savour a bite. “Hard to believe they’re Samboes … ain’t it?”
“Who? Our hostlers?” Lewrie asked.
“Them … and our servin’ girls,” Cashman told him, winking.
“They are?” Lewrie said, amazed. “But they look so …”
“Petits blancs need love, too, Alan,” Cashman drolly snickered. “Most real Whites’ve fled to Havana or Charleston, even New Orleans.” He seemed delighted by Lewrie’s surprised look. “Those who stayed are mostly half-castes … brights, fancies, quadrons or octoroons, what are lumped into the catchall term Mulatto, hereabouts. Some of them owned plantations, sent their children to school in Paris before the war. Rich as the grands blancs … richer! But that don’t signify, either. ‘Tis pure White blood, the guinea-stamp round here. Remember I told you how the French divided folk by grades of White or Black? There’re one hundred and twenty-eight diffrent gradations—s’truth! Get into marabous and sacatras, maybe three-quarters or more White, and you couldn’t say one way or t’other, even in broad daylight. But even a sang-mélé, with one part Black blood to a hundred-twenty-seven White, is still a Sambo to them. Vivienne an’ Henriette, they’re high marabous, maybe low sacatras. And still get the short end of the stick, ’cause their folks weren’t rich, or landed, or much of anything, ’cept imitation petits blancs. And the worst part for them is …”
Cashman paused for dramatic effect, and a sip of his wine.
“The real darkies off the fields, the ones in L‘Ouverture’s regiments, think the same way about ’em, d‘ye see,” Cashman said, with an air of grim foreboding. “They look too White for one camp, but they’re too … tainted with the tar-brush for t’other. Lovely place, Saint Domingue, ain’t it,” he sarcastically drawled.
“So what happens to ‘em, if Port-Au-Prince falls to L’Ouverture and his laddies?” Lewrie asked.
“World turned upside down,” Cashman tossed off, as if it were no worry of his. “The too White’ll get knackered, and all the rest’ll be allowed to kowtow and join up with L‘Ouverture. Make their salaams, bang their heads on the floor, and live—on the bottom of Society, mind. And a poor’un it’ll be, you mark my words. Take ‘em a century t’turn this island back to a payin’ proposition. Jean-Pierre, well … by God, but this is a marvelous remoulade, don’t ya think, Alan?”
“Aye, ‘tis,” Lewrie agreed, a trifle impatient for Cashman to complete his statements, though. “But what about ’im?”
“Oh, he’ll most-like have a schooner lined up for a quick getaway,” Cashman speculated with another blase shrug. “Does he stay, he might do alright … ‘less they scrag him for profiteerin’, when other folks were starvin’. God knows which side’ll do that … L’Ouverture’s as an example, or them that starved, for revenge. Now, does he cut an’ run with all his goods and money, he could set up fresh in the United States. Savannah, Charleston, New Orleans … they all have so-called Creole citizens … under ’Polite’ Society, o’course. Take the lightest girls along, and reopen a bordello? Some o’ them could lie like Blazes, and swear they were grands blancs all the way back to Adam … pass for White, d’ye see. Ah, our omelettes!”
In came Jacques and the girls to remove the now-empty plates, recharge wineglasses, and deliver steaming “piss-runny” French style egg dishes—with more subtle bumping and lingering touches.
Lewrie studied Henriette more closely. The only hints of difference he could discern were a slightly olive cast to her flawless complexion, and very full lips. Her dark red hair, though curlier, did not appear to be hennaed, and her green-hazel eyes would not have been out of place in the Germanies.
“Somezing is wrong, M’sieur Capitaine Lewrie?” she asked, feeling the int
ensity of his scrutiny; perhaps resenting it as a prejudice on his part, he wondered?
“In no way, Mademoiselle Henriette,” he answered, smiling more broadly, adding a touch of “leer” to dispel her wariness. “I was just captivated … utterly dumbstruck … by how lovely you are.”
“You are too kind, m’sieur,” Henriette purred back, her lashes fluttering most fetchingly as she leaned down a bit, allowing a promisingly soft breast to compress against his epaulet. “But delightful to hear.”
“You do not object?” he dared to tease.
“Mais non, Capitaine Lewrie,” Henriette replied, lowering her eyelids. “A poor girl always enjoy the compliments.”
“And you, Henriette,” Lewrie muttered, leaning back in his seat to look up at her from even closer. “Are you kind?”
“La, I can be très kind, Capitaine Lewrie,” she whispered, all but in his ear, letting her loosely gathered hair brush his shoulder. “If you wish, that is,” she added, with that secret smile that women make when being sultrily coy. “You would like, n’est-ce pas?”
Hell’s Bells, we’re doin’ it on the table? Lewrie wondered to himself, as he caught sight of Cashman and Vivienne from the corner of his eye; Kit already had his wench in his lap, one hand groping about up her skirt, and sharing a soul kiss with her.
He turned back to Henriette, who wore a leer of her own after seeing what was transpiring across the table. Lewrie gently reached up and took hold of her chin to steer her lips to his, enfired by her warmth and the womanly aromas beneath her exotic, flowery perfume.
“Very much … very bloody much.” Lewrie chuckled deep in his throat, feeling her lips grinning against his mouth in agreement.
“Later, mon cher?” Henriette silently sounded against him.
“Later, cherie … plus tard?”
“Certainement, cher Alain,” she breathed against his cheek, a moment before Vivienne gave out a yip as Cashman play-spanked her on the bottom and shooed them out.
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