“Aspinall, this is Mister McGilliveray, off the United States’ Armed Ship Thomas Sumter,” Lewrie told his cabin-steward as he seated himself behind his desk. “Mister McGilliveray, my man Aspinall, and a better ‘aid and comfort’ you’ll rarely see. Keeps me minding my p’s and q’s, does Aspinall. Sit, lad, sit.”
“Howdje do, sir,” Aspinall had cheerfully said, knuckling his forehead.
“Draw us each a ginger beer, would you, Aspinall?” Lewrie bade as he tore open the wax seal of the letter, still faintly soft, still warm to the touch.
“Thank you kindly, sir,” McGilliveray said, seated in an upholstered chair before the desk, hat in his lap, and almost squirming with some inner fretfulness, despite the half-smile he evinced. His curiosity did extend to looking about the great-cabins, finally. “Hello!”
Lewrie looked up to see Toulon, who had leaped atop the desk in curiosity of his own, perching himself on the very edge of the desk to crane his neck forward and bob, to study the newcomer.
“That’s Toulon,” Lewrie had told him. “Where I got him in ’93, when he was a kitten. He was just about as huge as disaster, so that’s how he got his name. He’s almost out-grown his clumsiness, but he can still surprise you.”
“He’s a big’un, sure enough, sir,” the lad said, cautiously petting the ram-cat, ruffling the fur under Toulon’s intricately plaited sennet-work collar with the brass disk hung from it. “As big as a bobcat…nigh twenty pounds or so, sir?”
Sure enough, Toulon “surprised,” stretching too far in his bliss and diving nose-first to the deck. To make it less embarrassing, Toulon leaped into the boy’s lap, as if that was what he intended, all along.
Lewrie unfolded the pages of his letter and read the first lines or so, then “whuffed” in alarm. Despite any misgivings or forebodings Capt. McGilliveray might feel, the boy’s uncle had determined to reveal the facts of his parentage to the lad. He had blabbed all!
“Ah, Captain Lewrie,” Mr. Peel had cheerfully called out, emerging from his dog-box cabin. “A visitor, have you?”
“No one to arouse your interest, Mister Peel,” Lewrie had almost snapped, regretting such a curt dismissal at once. Not for Peel’s sake, but for how lightly he might esteem the lad. “Pray take a turn on deck, Mister Peel. I’ve a letter from Captain McGilliveray of Sumter.”
“Very well, sir,” Peel had responded, sounding intrigued as well as a tad miffed to be shooed out, as he departed.
McGilliveray had thought it odd for his kinsman to turn up with a wife and a son, especially a pale-skinned and blue-eyed infant so very unlike himself. They had stayed but briefly in Charleston after the Revolution had ended, since his “bride,” Soft Rabbit, could never gain entrée into cultured society, even if she could have adapted to civilised dress—or shoes!—or could have learned to speak fluent English. It was a Muskogee marriage, after all, as informal as that of a Black city couple “jumping the broomstick” in the slave quarters.
Desmond and Soft Rabbit had resided with the boy’s grandfather, Robert, at his plantation-cum-trading post on the edge of “civilisation” far up the Savannah River, and no circuit-riding parson had made it any more formal. From what Capt. McGilliveray had discovered during their brief visit, during a later trip to “Uncle Robert’s,” he thought their marriage one more of convenience than a love match, as if Desmond felt he’d had to “do the right thing” by her after her “exploitation” by an English sailor-adventurer…for the good of his tribe and clan name. And Soft Rabbit had acquiesced, since the babe needed a father, and she needed support that a low-status former slave could not get in a proud clan huti among the Muskogee.
Capt. McGilliveray had gently railed against his kinsman, deeming him “a stiff-necked prig who had taken upon himself the Burden and Duty to atone for White callousness.” Desmond did need someone to cook and clean, sew his clothes, and service his rare bouts of prim desires. The boy was Desmond’s “experiment.” He was half-White and deserved the same chance his putative “stepfather” had had, to gain an education so he could function in the White world if he so chose, with a solid grounding in Muskogee lore and trailcraft should he choose that life. At best, perhaps, the lad could find a place in the family “over-mountain” Indian trade, a symbolic bridge to Desmond’s vaunting dreams of a “partially” civilised Muskogee-Seminolee-Cherokee-Chickasaw-Choctaw-Apalachee race co-existing at the borders of the United States, like the Iroquois League, as the semi-barbaric German and Gallic tribes had co-existed with ancient Rome; as the various Hindoo tribes served a burgeoning British Empire in India. A project, but never a beloved son; a comforting worker, but never a “goody” wife, alas.
“Sadly, the Smallpox put paid to those plans,” Capt. McGilliveray had written. “Desmond and Soft Rabbit were carried off, and kindly old Uncle Robert quite enervated, to the point that the lad was brought to us in Charleston by Desmond’s youngest brother, Iain, and an older Muskogee nursemaid when the lad was three, and became my ward, whereupon he did receive the best of everything we McGilliverays could bestow on one of our own, and young Desmond’s connexions with his Indian nature were effectively severed. Curious as the lad seemed anent his antecedents, I must confess that I can recall no true Fondness beyond his mother. Toddler that he was when he came to us, he held no particular air of Grief for his late Stepfather, even when considering how Stoic our Indians comport themselves. So, when I, at last, informed the lad of the identity of his actual Father, I—thankfully—discerned not a great Disappointment on his part, nor did Desmond evince any sudden Surprise. I suspect that the old Muskogee nursemaid, who stayed with us ’til her Passing in ’93, was present when you and Desmond took part in your Adventures, and imparted to him the Truth…”
Meddlin’ fool! Lewrie had thought at that moment; There’s whole regiments o’ lads, never knew who quickened ’em, but still prospered. Silence might’ve been kinder. He was settled in his mind as an orphan…with a silver spoon, and all. Now…Christ!
“Imagine my Astonishment, two evenings past, sir, when your comments made me put two and two together!” Capt. McGilliveray had penned further. “The utter Coincidence, and the odds against such! I only knew what little Desmond had related to me, and that, long ago, anent your identity, or Character, and must confess that I knew nothing about you other than your most recent Success off Guadeloupe. Enquiries made ashore, though, sir, quickly satisfied my Curiosity as to the Illustrious Name you have gained in the Royal Navy, and the many Successes you have had against your King’s foes; Fame which I was quick to pass on to young Desmond, who, enflamed by his own Eager Curiosity, made enquiries ashore whilst on his errands among Midshipmen, Warrants, and those few Officers who might deign to converse with him; such revelations assured him that he is the Scion of a most capable and honourable Gentleman…”
Only heard the good parts, Lewrie had silently thought, squirming in sudden dread; Wait’ll the other shoe drops. So, now what? They passin’ him onto me? I’m t’be his Daddy, of a sudden? Dear God, I’m to set him an example?
Lewrie had laid the letter aside, and looked up to see his “son” stroking Toulon, who was now all but cradled in the crook of one arm, belly exposed and paws in the air, with his head laid back in rapture to be getting such diligent attention. The lad looked him in the eyes and gulped, near to shying should Lewrie speak a single callous word.
“Well, well,” Lewrie finally said, after clearing his throat. “It would appear that we’re…kin, young sir. Now, what the bloody Hell do we make of that?”
“Don’t…don’t know, sir,” Desmond meekly said, with a gulp.
“I never meant t’leave your mother…leave Soft Rabbit, but,” Lewrie began, stammering a tad. “Your father,…Desmond, ’twas him, said it would be best. That he’d see to her, after I sailed away. I was wounded. Touch and go that I’d live, for a while, there, anyway, so…it seemed best, all round. Couldn’t have taken her to London, any more than Desmond could have settled her in Char
leston.”
“Was she really a princess, like he said, sir?” Desmond asked, in almost a desperate pleading. “A Cherokee princess?” Lewrie sat up with a start, smothering the wince he felt.
“A captured Cherokee princess,” he finally lied, unable to dis-abuse all the lad’s callow assumptions, those sticking points to which his very self clung. “Man-Killer, the Great Warrior of your father’s White Wind clan, raided far north and took her. Brought her back for a valuable slave. Quite a coup, they thought. She wasn’t visiting…the Muskogee said the T’se-luki weren’t the real People, not as good as them. Couldn’t even talk right, the Cherokee, they told me.”
“But they let you marry her, even so, sir?” Desmond pressed at him, snuggling Toulon to him as if for comfort. “Being an outsider, and all, I meant. Was it…?”
“She served me supper, one night,” Lewrie told him, reminiscing almost happily, despite the awkward circumstances, “and I was lost in a trice. Unmarried Muskogee girls may choose whom they wish, and we met later down at the lake…we talked, or tried to, and…she was so very fetching and handsome, so slim and wee, really. Very sweet and gentle a girl…and smart as paint, too, quick to learn things! Uhm…”
Randy as a stoat? Lewrie had thought; do I dare tell him that?
“Yet you never thought to write her, or look for her, once the war ended, sir? If you loved her as much as she…?”
“I’d barely made my lieutenantcy, and the Royal Navy distrusts junior officers who marry,” Lewrie extemporised, squirming in embarassment. “We’re to make Commander first, then marry some retired admiral’s proper daughter. Does she come with acres attached, that’s even better, d’ye see, young sir? Besides, they slung me ashore in London on half-pay, then shipped me halfway round the world to India and the Chinese coast for nigh on three years. By then, I’d met my Caroline.”
“The lady on the bulkhead, sir? She’s very pretty. Do you have…children, dare I ask, sir?” Desmond shyly probed.
“Three…two boys and a daughter,” Lewrie said, crossing his fingers over how long that situation might continue. “And a ward, to boot. A genteel French girl, well…young woman, by now, whose kin were slain at Toulon. Promised a dying French officer I knew from the Revolution that I’d see for his cousin Sophie. You’d like her, I’ll wager. Unless, of course, you have a special young miss dear to your heart back in Charleston?” Lewrie thought to tease, to finagle more probing, and upsetting, questions.
“Oh…none particular, yet, sir,” the lad actually blushed, before turning a touch gloomy. “Even as a McGilliveray, d’you see…we’re a long-settled and respectable family, and all, but…”
“But people still think you not quite…the ton? Because…”
The lad merely bobbed his head, as if in shame, seemingly more intent on nuzzling Toulon to his chin; which was just heavenly to the ram-cat.
“Well, damn their blue blood, I say!” Lewrie barked. “Uhm…this sudden revelation. How widespread d’ye wish it to be, among yer peers, and such? Would a British father make things worse for you or better? Pardons, but I ain’t had much experience at…this. You’ve spent so much time a…” Lewrie flummoxed, hand waving for words.
“Bastard, sir?” the lad suddenly said, with too-candid heat.
“Well, d’ye want t’put it that way, aye,” Lewrie answered, with an embarrassed grimace. “No harm in it, really. I’m a bastard myself.”
That snapped the lad’s head up right quick!
“S’truth!” Lewrie vowed. “Little matter of hiring a false justice, ’stead of proper clergy, when my own father, Sir Hugo St. George Willoughby, took my mother, Elisabeth Lewrie, to wife. A little jape arranged by his fellow officers in the Fourth Regiment of Foot. You know…the King’s Own? The drunken lot o’ sots. She died, soon as I was born, and I got lost in a parish poor house nigh a year, and was lucky to live, cruel as they care for orphan gits, ’til my father came and got me out. Here, lad…does your uncle, your captain, require you back aboard any time soon, or would you care to go ashore with me and dine? I expect we’ve a lot of catching up to do.”
“I expect we do, sir!” the lad said, almost pathetically grateful and eager. “And I’d…I would be greatly honoured to accept an invitation to dine with you, sir. Because…”
“’Coz I’ve yet t’meet a mid who wasn’t half-starved?”
“That, too, sir,” Desmond McGilliveray confessed, all smiles of a sudden. “Er, should I call you ‘sir,’ or Captain Lewrie, or…?”
“Well, once you learn what a sordid family you’re kin to, make up your own mind as to that,” Lewrie allowed. “Aspinall? I’d admire did you pass the word for Cox’n Andrews, and my boat-crew. I’ll dine ashore with Mister McGilliveray,” he said, springing to his feet.
“Aye aye, sir!”
“Your father’s knighted, sir?” Desmond happily bubbled as they gathered hats and such. “Is he a lord? And, your pardons, but those medals you wore at supper t’other night…!”
“No, he ain’t,” Lewrie gleefully related. “He was knighted for bravery. A Major-General, now, though mostly retired on his estate. Nothing much, really, nothing grand. This’un’s for Saint Vincent…we were in shoutin’ distance of Captain Nelson, at that’un. And this’un’s for Camperdown, when we trounced the Dutch, under Duncan the wild Scot. Oh, he’s a tall, craggy figure, white hair stickin’ up six ways from Sunday…!”
“And you wear a hanger, instead of a smallsword?”
“Best for boarding-party brawls, don’t ye know! Cut and slash, as well as skewer, and short enough to whip about when it’s shoulder-to-shoulder…Desmond.”
To which use of his Christian name, the lad beamed so widely his face threatened to split in half, as Lewrie laid a tentative, claiming, hand atop his shoulder lightly—ostensibly to steer him ahead of him on the way out past the Marine sentry to the gun-deck.
And God help us, the both of us, Lewrie had thought.
“Signal from the Sumter, sir,” Midshipman Grace sang out as the bunting soared aloft from the man o’ war abeam of them and alee, making Lewrie shift his telescope aft towards her mizen-mast, where the powerful day-glass forced him to scan the signal flags top-to-bottom one at a time. “She sends ‘Farewell and Adieu’, sir…her second hoist is…‘Haul Wind’…for ‘Am Hauling Wind,’ I’d suppose?”
“Does she propose to order a Royal Navy frigate to escort her to Dominica, that’s another matter,” Lewrie heard Lt. Catterall gravel.
“Spell out ‘Best of Fortune’ to her, best you may, lad,” Lewrie told Grace. “Mister Windwood?”
“Aye, sir?” the Sailing Master answered, stepping closer.
“We’ve enough sea-room to come about and run betwixt Guadeloupe and Montserrat, Mister Winwood?” Lewrie asked him.
“More than sufficient, Captain,” Winwood soberly assured him.
“Very well, sir, and thankee,” Lewrie replied. “We’ll let the Sumter haul off well alee before we come about ourselves.”
Thomas Sumter would be taking the “outside passage” to windward of Guadeloupe, that scorpions’ nest, for her base in Prince Rupert Bay on Dominica, heavily laden with fresh-slaughtered and salted beef and pork, with her decks also burdened by meat on the hoof to victual any arriving American warships. Even so burdened, however, she would leap at the chance to engage any French she encountered, Capt. McGilliveray had assured in his letter’s final pages.
As for HMS Proteus, well…Mr. Peel was miffed anew by what Lewrie had planned to do. When not at logger-heads concerning how the distant Mr. Pelham had instructed them to operate, Peel was turning out to be a rather amiable companion, and God knew that any captain needed some personal contact and conversation, besides cats, dogs, geese, and chickens…or himself…to ease the mute loneliness of command but…Lewrie suspected that Mr. James Peel would ever be on the qui-vive for his…inspired moments, waiting for a heavy shoe to drop.
Proteus would cruise past Guadeloupe to leeward, agai
n, and do Victor Hugues, Guillaume Choundas, and their privateeers and smugglers another evil turn if they could find anything at sea to bash. Then, though, they would cruise on down to Dominica and beyond, into the seas where American merchantmen were trading, leeward of Martinique and St. Lucia, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, perhaps as far south as Tobago and Trinidad, as far west as Curaçao and Aruba along the coast of Spanish South America.
Even worse in Mr. Peel’s estimation, Proteus would cruise along with Sumter, not as an official squadron, but two independent warships which just happened to be in the same waters at the same time, and did they sometimes pass within signalling distance in their rovings, well, who could fault that? Despite Mr. Pelham’s strictures that the United States were rivals, not to be trusted, their merchant ships not to be aided with such diligence as long as Choundas still lived, as long as Saint Domingue was not firmly in Britain’s grasp forever after, Amen.
“But, but…!” Mr. Peel had spluttered when Lewrie had revealed his and McGilliveray’s scheme to him. Expostulations from both sides had taken up most of an evening, and only the downing of a considerable amount of sweet, aged corn-whisky had brought him (somewhat) round to Lewrie’s point of view. They wouldn’t be down South long, since trading season was ending, and all those Yankee Doodle merchantmen would be eager to scuttle off homeward with their treasures before hurricane season. Quartering and zig-zagging the sea in wide sweeps, always trending back North’rd, both Proteus and Sumter would stand a much better chance of meeting up with the hosts of French privateers bent on taking those treasures.
Lewrie had had to point out that Choundas, Hugues, and their sea-captains weren’t out here for true patriotic reasons, after all. Prize Courts were just as respected by Republican Frogs as they had been by the Royal Frogs, and French officials on Guadeloupe were just as avid as Admiral Sir Hyde Parker back in Kingston for their lucrative share, their “admiral’s eighth.” Starve the Prize Courts of business, starve the privateer officers and crews of profit, and there’d be less of it in future. Take, sink, or burn a few of them, and put the fear of God into the rest, and that’d force them to stay home, lay up their ships, and boast over their wine in waterfront taverns of what they’d do, if only they could break even at it, if only they could find enough hands to man their ships these days, the poltroons!
Havoc's Sword Page 23
