Sea of Grey

by Dewey Lambdin

  The bulk of it was dry, boresome, and innocuous; lists of needs and expenses for cordage, spars, canvas and tar, shot, powder and cartridge flannel (all pleasingly hard to come by on Guadeloupe at present, they noted), and the problems among her crew; the everyday life of a working ship.

  Much more interesting were the former captain’s letters from at least three ladies of Guadeloupe, all dated within days of each other, of a blue-hot ardent and salacious nature, which had them all guffawing, along with the former captain’s attempts at draft letters that tried to keep them sorted out without repeating himself. Even racier was an unfinished and forlorn missive to his wife in Bordeau, practically weeping blue ink over missing her so grievously!

  A good supper, fresh bread (of a sort), and the promise of prize money to come had them all in an expansive mood, Lewrie noted. Even Mr. Durant seemed to have laid aside his disenchantment over Hodson’s place as the senior Surgeon’s Mate, for the nonce, and joined in the mirth, holding up his end of the table conversation and putting down a fair and manly share of wine, even cracking droll jests before they got down to the business at hand. And in that business, letters that Incendiare’s captain had received provided bright gems of interest.

  “This’n from his wife, sir,” Lt. Catterall said, holding up a page for better light from the four-lanthorn chandelier that swivelled and swayed over Lewrie’s glossy dining table, “she writes that things are hotting up in the Mediterranean. An Admiral de Brueys—sounds as if her family knows his—has taken command of a three-decker by the name of L’Ocean, and a large number of line-of-battle ships … uhm, accompanied by over an hundred transports, for an expedition bound for somewhere.”

  Durant hid a snicker behind his port glass; it was true, then, that Catterall could read French, but couldn’t pronounce it worth a tinker’s damn, as he tried to expand eruditely. After two bottles’ worth, he should have known better, Lewrie thought.

  “In his journal, zere is similar mention,” Mr. Durant stated, setting down his glass and opening a salt-stained book of ruled pages. “Ah … he speculates about zis armada, sirs. He is certain zat some tremendous victory will be won, and … rumour gained from Guadeloupe officials about one possible aim being ze island of Malta.”

  “Damme, that’d cut the Mediterranean in half,” Langlie said. He refilled his port glass from the decanter that circled larboardly round the table as he spoke. “And with no help from the neutral and beaten Italian states, and Austria out of things, that’d leave Admiral Jervis where he was two years ago … chased back to Gibraltar or Lisbon.”

  “He regrets zey do not come to ze West Indies, sirs,” Mister Durant read on, “and retake Martinique, or other former colonies … ah! Apparently, a General Bonaparte is in charge, and has a grander scheme in mind. He writes that perhaps the Balkans are the aim—”

  “Bonaparte?” Lewrie grumbled, slapping the table. “Why, I’ve met the little bastard, in ‘93! Ran me out of the Adriatic, too, when he invaded Italy in ’96, and beat the Austrians and Piedmontese like a dusty rug. Almost bagged me on the Genoese coast once, too. He’s a dangerous man, I tell you. Never trust the dwarfish, gentlemen. He’s no bigger than a minute, but slipp’ry as an eel … .”

  It need not be said that Lewrie was, by then, most cheerily in his cups, since he’d—By God—earned it, and was damned grateful to have breath in his body for use between sips. Unloaded? Jesus!

  “Well, if he’s busy conquering someplace Dago-ish, we’ll not be plagued by him this summer at least,” Catterall snickered, only a wee bit sozzled. His robust constitution came with a “hollow-leg.”

  “No ships to spare to oppose us. Good,” Langlie contributed.

  “And with their Atlantic ports blockaded so close, where else’d the Monsieurs get frigates or corvettes, with their Toulon fleet busy?” Catterall snorted.

  “So the West Indies’ll be safe ’til our ‘liners’ come back from Halifax, at the end of hurricane season,” Lewrie reasoned out.

  “Uhm … he expresses worry about American frigates, sirs,” Mr. Durant continued, flipping through the private journal. “He was pursued by one off Dominica … he was run one hundred miles in a day.”

  “Recent?” Catterall demanded, eyes beginning to unfocus, after all, and starting to sound “bull-horned” drunk.

  “Recently, yes, Mister Catterall,” Durant replied.

  “Must’ve been that Hancock, then,” Catterall said with a grunt.

  “I’d’ve run, too,” Lewrie jokingly confessed, “whether she was over-sparred and un-handy, over-gunned or crank. She’s a fearsome and fast beast.”

  “Privateers stand no chance on ze coast of America, now,” Mr. Durant paraphrased. “Zey return to Caribbean waters, uhm … he suspects more American frigates … ah! Here is something, sirs. After ze break in relations, Paris determines to re-enforce zeir navy here … what ships zey may spare from Brest and L’Orient, bringing fresh troops and arms … .”

  Durant made a shrug and a moue.

  “He rejoices, for L’Ouverture’s victory over General Maitland,” Durant cautiously said, “he congratulates ze noirs of Saint Domingue, and writes of hopes zat zey may be directed west to an invasion of Jamaica, rather zan east against Spanish Santo Domingo. But he does not trust zem, sirs, nor does he like zem. If zey go east, Spanish harbours might be closed to privateers.”

  “Be a good thing,” Catterall huffed. “Tally-ho, Toussaint!”

  “A mission diplomatique is to be sent to L‘Ouverture, soon, as I read zis!” Durant cried, making them all sit up and take notice of such news. “Important officials who will ask L’Ouverture to reconcile with General Rigaud in South Province, so zeir armies may combine to attack Jamaica! And ask for a time of rest, so zey may build up his supplies first, and assemble suitable transports!”

  “We must get this news to Kingston, at once,” Lewrie declared. “Then rush right back, and hunt the delegation ship!”

  “Pipe dreams, sir,” Langlie sadly said. “Their hopes for a try at Jamaica, that is. That’d take lots of ships, not a gaggle of potty little fishing boats, nor all their privateers as escort. Can’t be done without proper ships of war, even with our ships of the line away ’til October or November.”

  “Unless Bonaparte really means to hit the Indies, not something in the Mediterranean,” Lewrie objected. “I told you he was devious as the Devil! Look at the way he gammoned half a dozen brilliant Austrian generals by sayin’ one thing, demonstratin’ one thing, but doin’ quite another fifty miles away. Anything more on that line, Mister Durant?”

  “Zere is another entry, quite recent, Capitaine,” Durant said, after wetting a finger to turn the pages. “Before he sails north, to rendezvous with ze brig we capture, uhm … many privateer capitaines meet with an officer sent from Paris on the frigate zat delivers ze arms we take, a Capitaine de Vaisseau … a Post-Captain. He is under the Governor-General Hugues, to coordinate. He writes, ‘If United States have turned belligerent, prey upon their merchantmen, those of useful burthen, and capture sufficient transport for future expeditionary use. Then, as re-enforcements arrive, under escort by ships from the Atlantic squadrons, both French and noir forces will combine for a descent upon islands now occupied by Albion,’ … that is to say, us, gentlemen. The capitaine of Incendiare describes the new arrival as a most energetic and inspiring man … zough he expresses a troubling fear of him, due to his monstrous appearance, and his reputation as an ardent and ruthless chasseur of Royalists and seditionists during Ze Terror. He names him Le Hideux,” Durant said, turning the book about so they could see the entry for themselves.

  “Huh? Beg pardon?” Lewrie stammered, wishing that his senses were not quite so foxed, or his eyes so mutinous at focusing. “Le Hideux, did he call him?” He felt a cold, fey dread invade his body.

  No, can’t be! he quailed inside; I killed the dog! Didn’t I?

  “Oui, Le Hideux, Capitaine.” Durant blithely continued reading from the journal. �
��Apparently, zis officer is deformed by many cruel wounds. He wears a black mask over ze right half of his face and his eye, to cover a blinding and a livid scar, it is rumoured. He has a bad limp, and must wear an iron brace over his boot to stand and uses a cane … which must be awkward for him, since his right arm is gone at ze shoulder. His name, he notes …” Durant paused. “Mon Dieu!”

  “Guillaume Choundas!” Lewrie spat. “Mine arse on a band-box!”

  “You know of him, aussi, Capitaine?” Durant asked, shivering.

  “I killed him,” Lewrie whispered. “Swear t’Christ, I thought I did, back in ’96.” He stared blank and pale at the far partitions.

  “Sir?” Langlie gawped, eldritch-struck by such a reaction from his captain, by such an ominous, rabbit-across-one’s-grave dread. “Did you say you … killed him, sir? Then … ?”

  “Who is the bastard, then, sir?” Catterall asked, impervious to superstition; nigh impervious to anything, by then.

  “A fiend from Hell’s deepest pits, Mister Catterall,” Lewrie at last managed to say, after mastering himself. “A fiend who just won’t die, no matter I’ve had my whacks at him two or three times. An evil, clever, murderin’, bastardly gullion of a Malouin corsair, who thinks he has some Breton, ancient Celtic destiny, since Julius Caesar conquered the Veneti. Mad as a March Hare, but clever … oh, so clever!” Lewrie told them, shaking his head in queasy wonder, and pouring himself more port, a brimming bumper, with hands that barely shook despite his shock.

  “Paris couldn’t have picked a better foe to send us. Dangerous as a crate o’ cobras, and not a jot o’ mercy in his thrice-damned soul. He puts a squadron together in these waters, and he’ll raise mayhem as sure as I’m born. Sew your arses shut, and keep yer backs to a wall.”

  He felt another sinking feeling in his innards, and knew that it was not the result of indigestion or a tropical fever. “You gentlemen will, I pray, excuse me for a moment,” he bade, tossing off his glass of port at one go, then shoving his chair back so hard that it nearly tipped over, its feet catching at the painted canvas deck cover. They rose in kind as he headed aft for his quarter-gallery again.

  “Whew!” Lt. Catterall softly marvelled, clawing for the bottle to charge his glass. “Never heard the like! If this … what was he, this Choundas, is that bad, and his presence in the West Indies upsets the captain so, well … he must be Satan incarnate.”

  “You asked if Captain Lewrie had heard of him, too, did you not, Mister Durant?” Langlie enquired more sombrely, but also in a mutter that would not carry far aft. “What do you know of him?”

  “Rumours of him before my family and I escape Toulon in ’93, Mister Langlie,” Durant fretfully informed them, frowning hard. “And what he did to zose who could not flee ze Republicains when Toulon fell. Six thousand guillotined, shot, or bayoneted in ze surf, wading out and pleading for just one more boat. Guillaume Choundas was one of those who purged ze Toulon fleet and ze city. He loves ze guillotine, ze torture … poor helpless women, and especially little girls in terror of him. He slaughter his way south from Paris, to every naval port, an enthusiastic agent of Ze Terror. I had not thought of him in years, Grace á Dieu! But now … pardons, gentlemen, but I fear it will be a very bad zing for him to appear.”

  “But, surely … !” Langlie protested in a splutter that sounded half bemused, now. “He’s but one man, in charge of a pack of tag-rag-and-bobtail privateers … that’s like herding cats!”

  “No insult meant, Toulon,” Catterall grumped, winking at Lewrie’s pet, who was hunkered on all fours with his tail tucked about his front paws on the sideboard, his eyes half slit in the dim lanthorn light as eerily as a witch’s familiar. He’d meant to jape, but the atmosphere had gotten to him, too.

  “Charge of nothing,” Langlie persisted, sterner now. “He might get the use of a frigate or two, that’s all, and we’ve what … seventy or more ships out here? And we’ve Captain Lewrie, as brave and smart a scrapper as ever trod a quarterdeck! And we’ve Proteus, surely the finest frigate in the whole Royal Navy! We’ll settle this Choundas.”

  “Got old Lir,” Catterall whispered. “Don’t forget the tales of seals and selkies, the old sea-god’s favour and all, and the uncanny good fortune that follows the Captain from ship to ship. What did for our first commanding officer at Chatham? What did for that mutineer, Rolston, the night we transferred him after we escaped the Nore? No, lads, don’t forget we’ve luck on our side. Why, the Captain’s taken the man half apart, already! Shot off his arm, by the sound of it … probably did the carvin’ on his phyz, too, I shouldn’t wonder, maybe was the one who lamed the bastard, as well!

  “One more encounter with Captain Lewrie, and this Choundas’ll have t‘sign his name with his prick like that Buckinger feller, does all the stunts at the raree shows ‘thout arms or legs, hey? And keeps Mistress Buckinger a happy woman, ’tis said!” Catterall chortled, more loudly than necessary. “He don’t scare me, this Guillaume Choundas or howsomever ya say it! Bring him on, I say!”

  “Hear, hear!” Langlie cheered, drumming the tabletop.

  “And, m’sieurs,” Durant slyly commented, tapping the side of his head, “after so many disasters to his person … who is to say that he, Choundas, just may be in dread of rencontre with ze capitaine, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Hear, hear!” Langlie chirped, merry once again, hastening to top their glasses. “The Captain gets one more shot at him, and it will be finis for Choundas. After this morning, I doubt that there’s anything on Earth that’d daunt our captain for more’n a second!”

  “Toast, toast!” Catterall cried, staggering to his feet.

  In the sudden silence, though, as foxed wits tried to dredge up the proper sentiments, there came a sound from the quarter-gallery in the stern, not quite unlike a prolonged, stentorian belch; nor, being in a hero-worshiping and charitable humour, could the assembly term it as resembling a day-long, fluttery fart.

  Either way, though, it didn’t sound particularly heroic.

  EPILOGUE

  “Mind th’ paint, yer honour, sor,” Landman Furfy cautioned, as Lewrie’s gig bumped against their frigate’s hull below the entry-port.

  “You do the same, Furfy,” Lewrie cheerfully called back, taking in how much ended up on Furfy rather than the gunwale, “else the only thing t’clean you would be neat rum, or turpentine.”

  “Prefer th’ rum, sor … bathin’ in it, ah th’ wonder!” Furfy replied, pausing on the half-awash work catamaran platform on which he stood, standing back to salute with his paintbrush as Lewrie ascended the battens to the starboard gangway. Pipes trilled, boots clomped in unison, hands slapped shiny, linseeded musket stocks, and sailors took pause in their labours to doff their hats.

  “The high-jump, was it, sir?” Bosun Pendarves asked once Lewrie had turned aft to the quarterdeck.

  “Guilty on all counts, and to be hung at dawn tomorrow,” Lewrie told the hawk-nosed older man with a satisfied nod. “A foregone conclusion, really. Chained, tarred, and caged ’til his bones fall away, then buried off the Palisades at low tide, God knows when.”

  “We can see it from here, sir?” Bosun Pendarves chuckled, glad for a bit of amusement. Public hangings did that to people, even the primmest. “I’d admire t’see Hennidge get scragged, I would.”

  “All ships in harbour to send witness parties, Mister Pendarves. And all crews to muster facing Execution Dock,” Lewrie said. “You get first thwart in the boat, then choose the rest for me. Best turn-out, mind.”

  “Oh, aye, sir!” Pendarves beamed, rubbing his calloused hands with gleeful anticipation. “I’ll see to it.”

  Lewrie didn’t tell him that he’d send a midshipman with him in nominal charge of the shore party; he thought that Mr. Elwes was tough enough, and “blooded” by longer service, not to shame Proteus by casting up his accounts to Neptune at the sight.

  He took another look about the ship before going below, and it was amazing what Martin Hennidge’s ap
pearance at Kingston had done for his frigate’s repute. Canvas, cordage, tar, and oils—paint!—so spitefully and stingily denied before, had appeared in liberal, squanderous amounts, since. Admiral Sir Hyde Parker had been effusive with praise, and had done him the honour of supplying him a copy of a flatteringly fulsome report he would send to Admiralty anent the capture of a Hermione mutineer; which report lavishly, nigh luridly, recounted his personal seizure and disarming of Martin Hennidge, with but a hanger against a loaded and cocked musket. Even the staff-captain, Sir Edward Charles, had simpered with outwardly sincere congratulations.

  Sycamore’s capture, with proof of Yankee Doodle collusion with the French, admittedly had caused a problem with the American consul, and could still result in a chilly rift with their frigates in future, but the burning of a French privateer, the scotching of an arms delivery, and most especially the intelligences he had gained had offset that—as far as Lewrie and Proteus were concerned, at any rate. The matter of his pressing three men from Sycamore, and one of them a mutineer—as if the United States had deliberately sheltered him—was not a matter for discussion from the local American representative! Too bloody embarassing, all round!

  So, perhaps for the moment, he could afford to feel smug. But for the Admiral’s parting comment as he’d left the court-martial, that he’d count on Proteus to put paid to that ogre Choundas! As if it was to be his quest, and no one else’s!

  Lewrie allowed himself a disbelieving shiver as he gained his great-cabins and divested himself of his best uniform, and donned one of his older shirts, without neck-stock, and slop trousers. He went to the desk to give Toulon an affectionate stroking of his belly. In the heat of a Caribbean summer, the ram-cat had taken to sleeping on his back, with all four paws limply stuck in the air. His best response to a petting was a sleepy “Urrmph” and a thump and swish of his stout tail on the desktop. Toulon was down for the day, most-like to contemplate shedding.