“Mufti, that was it,” Pelham crowed, holding out his tall mug for a second refill. “L’Ouverture’s nigh illiterate, and cannot even speak halfway decent French, just their horrid Creole paté…patois, mean t’say. I say paté? Hmm.”
“So, did your negotiations proceed to the point that we should offer congratulations all round, sir?” Peel asked him, sharing a look with Lewrie at Pelham’s slip.
“Got a much better reception with General Rigaud,” Pelham said, with a sly-boot’s wink. “L’Ouverture was stand-offish, said he’d give Britain’s terms a good ponder, though I think he was just stallin’ for time to see what his putative master, General Hédouville, would do for him. Slavishly bound to France, is L’Ouverture, as we supposed, Peel. Slavish, hah! Rigaud, though…has fewer supporters and troops, but better organised and armed, and easily supplied through Jacmel, and a strong stone fortress to protect his rear. Whites, rich, landed Mulattoes and half-castes, the educated and civilised, as good as any in Paris ’fore the wars, and the ladies…! Not to boast, but in a lone week the presence of a mannered English gentleman allowed me more carnal pleasure than a whole six months on my Grand Tour of the Continent, ha ha! Rigaud would take hands with Hédouville in a heart-beat t’save his hide before L’Ouverture is sicced on him, but Hédouville’s nothing substantial to offer him, not like we could. No British troops ashore this time, but artillery, shot, and powder, and enough arms, munitions, boots, and accoutrements to arm more of his followers. Enough horses to haul guns and mount a large, mobile force that could ride circles round L’Ouverture’s barefoot infantry will turn the trick. Rigaud was all ears, let me tell you, and much more receptive! Almost slavering.”
“So, you will recommend Rigaud to Lord Balcarres at Jamaica, to the Foreign Office, sir?” Peel asked with a troubled frown.
“Already have, Mister Peel!” Pelham bragged, “And lit a fire to gather all the arms, horses, and saddlery we may, soonest. Came here to do the same. The quicker Rigaud gets the goods the better; before Hédouville makes his offer. Then, on the pretext of L’Ouverture blocking British ships in his ports, even under false colours, we will blockade his parts of the island, to guarantee Rigaud’s success.”
“I trust you were discrete, sir,” Peel went on, leaning forward. “And how did you get there?”
“Ain’t stupid, Peel,” Pelham griped, tossing off his third mug of punch, and rising to get himself another refill. “Maitland will lay that before him later. As for the how, I hired a small Bahamian boat, come to Kingston to trade, and was headed for the Turks and Caicos for salt. Went in my disguises, in and out of the bay at night, unseen…Sailed far West before turning for Jacmel, after, so no one ashore had a glimpse of us. Dressed as a sailor then, and Gawd what a stench it was, all lice and fleas for days! Played as if we’d come to buy coffee and such. But the hard part’s nearly done, and as soon as we can get a convoy to Rigaud at Jacmel, we have Saint Domingue in our grasp.”
“That boat. What were Bahamians doin’…?” Lewrie quibbled.
“Trading, I told you,” Pelham bulled on over his objection. “A two-masted…whatever you call ’em, from an island off Great Abaco, where big merchantmen don’t put in much, but completely English, not to worry, Captain Lewrie. Every last one of them sounded like a West Country peasant, or a Bristol dock-walloper. Place where they build a fair number of boats, they said. Long settled, but sparsely peopled, I think, and not much farmland, so it’s trade where they can, or perish.”
“Man O’ War, Elbow, Green Turtle, Guana Cay…do you recall a name, sir?” Lewrie speculated aloud.
“Green…something edible,” Pelham answered, shrugging, and sipping. “Green, boiled…disgusting? Anyway…! Rigaud won’t be cheap, Mister Peel, but I held the price down to a quarter-million per year for Rigaud, and another quarter-million for his cronies and generals, so he can pay his troops, and hire on the bootless mercenaries we abandoned when we left the island. Those who’ve sided with L’Ouverture for the promise of a few puny acres of plantation land? Once they get wind of Rigaud having showers of silver coin, though, we may expect at least a tenth of L’Ouverture’s army changing sides and haring down to South Province, and Rigaud’s so-called Mulatto Republic. Two months, four on the outside, and Rigaud will be ready to take the field against L’Ouverture. Then, perhaps a year from now, we step ashore in triumph, Mister Peel…Captain Lewrie, having stolen a march on the French, and those pesky Americans, for good and all! With not only French Saint Domingue, but the Spanish half of Hispaniola in our possession, as well. Have to invade Santo Domingo! When Toussaint L’Ouverture’s slave armies are broken, that’s where he will flee, and den up. When congratulations are offered, you may rest assured I will feature your stalwart efforts in support of my endeavours in the most appreciative terms to the Crown.
“So,” Pelham barked, beginning to look a touch bleary. “While I’ve been up north, what have you two been up to, in the meantime, to bedevil and dethrone Guillaume Choundas?”
Pelham, thankfully, was too engrossed in dipping himself a new mug of punch to take note of the uneasy silence that followed that enquiry; and with his back turned, he could not discern the queasy looks that passed between them.
“Damme, but this is an inspiritin’ punch,” Pelham enthused with a lip-smacking grin. “Sweet, spicy, but stout. What’d you say was in it? Rum, gin, brandy? No…”
“Captured Guadeloupe pineapple, Jamaican cinnamon, and all-spice,” Lewrie said, shifting about in his chair and crossing his legs to protect his true vitals. “Sweet, dark rum, aye, and a local, er…spirit. Why don’t you tell him of our doings, Mister Peel?”
Peel mouthed a silent “Damn You!” at him, then plastered a grin on his face for Pelham’s benefit and gave his superior a précis of the raid, the latest rich prize belonging to Hugues, and her captain’s loose-lipped talk of Hugues blaming Choundas for her loss, with all of Hugues’s expected profits. Peel laid out the intelligence they had gleaned from their prisoners, how much they knew about Choundas’s staff, his current state of health, his dealing the ruin of his frigate to Hugues for two converted raiding vessels…
“Choundas now only has two corvettes under his direct command,” Peel related, merely sipping at his own punch as Pelham continued his eager quaffing, and Lewrie had a single refill. “Hugues won’t give up a single row-boat more, sir. We learned that Choundas escorted a store ship filled mostly with munitions to Guadeloupe, with very few spare spars or canvas for his own ships, beyond what they stowed aboard.”
“Short-sighted, that,” Lewrie felt emboldened to add, since Mr. Pelham was soaking up the report (along with the punch) in a most amenable fashion, even going so far as to utter the odd “Oh, well played!” and “Ye don’t say!” every now and then.
“There is another small three-master, a captured American ship, at Pointe-à-Pitre, awaiting convoying to Saint Domingue, that bears a cargo of armaments,” Mr. Peel carefully laid out. “Both await orders from General Hédouville, whether they go to L’Ouverture, or Rigaud. I…that is, we…do not think they will ever sail, though, with our foe Choundas stripped of strong escorts. Both corvettes are cruising far South on the Spanish Main for prizes…”
“Yankee ships, mostly, this deep into hurricane season,” Lewrie added. “And anyway, they can’t be expected back at Guadeloupe for at least a fortnight, depending on how successful their cruise has been. We asked some Yankee merchant captains how many of their ships could still be down there, and—”
“Slim pickings, with everyone eager to get their cargoes home past the Cape Hatteras weather, sir,” Peel hurriedly, dismissively explained to cover Lewrie’s gaffe, and quickly changing the subject. “We’ve played a nasty trick on Choundas, one that will keep him busy peeking under his bed-covers. Our first raid, and destroying his frigate at her weakest moment…as was our second, seemed so timely that our recent prisoners expressed the worry that there may be a spy sneaking messages offshore to us. Choundas, as we
intended, sir, knows that Captain Lewrie is responsible,” Mr. Peel glibly said, with a confidential chuckle. “But, as we also know, Choundas holds a low opinion of the good captain’s intelligence!”
“Quite right,” Pelham heartily, though woozily, agreed.
“Arrr,” was Lewrie’s affronted comment to that, all but sticking his tongue out at Peel.
“And no one can be that lucky, so…I let slip that another of Choundas’s ancient foes, Mister Zachariah Twigg, was out here and directing Lewrie’s activities,” Mr. Peel snickered. “Which accidental revelation should be reaching Choundas through our exchanged prisoners even as we speak, sir. That news, and the strong suspicion that there is someone extremely close to Choundas secretly in our pay, will drive him mad. A spy who is now collaborating with secret Royalists and enemies of his precious Republic whom Victor Hugues didn’t catch in his initial witch-hunt, will…”
“Why Twigg, Mister Peel?” Pelham crossly blurted. “Why not use my name? Ain’t Pelhams canny enough?”
Lewrie awarded himself a larger sip of punch from his engraved silver mug from his days as captain of HMS Jester; concealing a gladsome grin to see Mr. Pelham beginning to succumb to corn-whisky. He even began to hum “The Jolly Miller” under his breath, delighting in the chorus: “the longer we sit here and drink, the merrier we shall be!”
“Well, sir, beg your pardon, but…Choundas has never heard of you,” Peel patiently explained. “’Twas Mister Twigg, in partnership with Captain Lewrie, who bested him twice before. And the longer you are unknown to the French, the more effective you are.
“But, once Choundas hears that my old mentor has been sicced on him, with Lewrie for his weapon, his worst dreads will be realised. He will credit Mister Twigg with being able to turn a trusted subordinate against him, and that will smart considerably. Imagining that Twigg opposes him once more fits Choundas’s vanity like a glove, too, sir…makes him feel as if our side still rightly fears him and his un-diminished capabilities, which made us desperate enough to bring Mister Twigg out of well-earned retirement—a retirement of which Paris surely is aware!—to estop Choundas one last time, and…”
“And if Choundas don’t win,” Lewrie felt relaxed enough to add to Mr. Peel’s subtle blandishments, “he’s done for, this time, and he sure t’God knows it, too. No partial coup, either. For him, it’s all or nothing. He can’t allow us a single trick, or he’s dealt out of the game. Desp’rate enough, t’begin with. Now…?”
“Until his corvettes return, there’s nought he can accomplish,” Mr. Peel continued from Pelham’s other side, making that worthy swivel rather ponderously. “That’s enough time to concentrate on his alleged traitor-spy, and that spy’s collaborators. Why, sir, Choundas’ll tear Guadeloupe down to bed-rock. He’ll decimate his household, Victor Hugues’s staff as well. Anyone privy to their plans will be suspect, anyone the slightest bit connected to people privy to plans. Mistresses, whores, body-servants…?”
“No love lost ’twixt Choundas and Hugues from the very start, we…Mister Peel learned,” Lewrie gruffly contributed.
“Hugues, we heard, suspects that Choundas was dispatched as his replacement as governor of Guadeloupe,” Mr. Peel informed Pelham, with a nod and smile for Lewrie’s interruption, which had slewed Mr. Pelham about again, his aristocratic head now wobbling on his neck, with one eye squinted in “concentration” or to maintain his focus. “Choundas has been slighted from the moment he set foot on the island, and hates the way he’s been treated.”
“Man that hideous,” Pelham blearily mused, “can’t have too many objections, when folk run screamin’, or shun ’im.”
“Did Victor Hugues fail to ‘vet’ his staff, or miss a few well-placed…‘reactionaries,’ they call them,” Peel went on, which hauled Pelham’s gaze back to him, “in his brutal witch-hunt, Choundas would be more than happy to turn up a few, and make Hugues look the fool. Maybe Choundas does have a secret brief from the Directory to supplant him if Hugues seems to be losing his grip on things. Who knows?
“At any rate, I ‘accidentally’ offered up clues pointing to one man extremely close to Choundas,” Peel confided to his superior, with a sly-boots’ grin. “His clerk and private secretary, Etienne de Gougne. He’s slurred as ‘the Mouse,’ a meek little scribbler too frightened of the consequences to leave his employ, we discovered.”
“Him or Choundas, sooner or later,” Lewrie idly stated, one leg atop his desk in sublime ease. “Choundas loses, the little bastard is done for. Knows too much, and Choundas couldn’t let him live to blab, else old sins’d come back to get Choundas shortened by the guillotine.”
“And we know Choundas’s penchant for cruelty, Mister Pelham,” Peel said, hiding a wider grin to see Pelham’s eyes slewing beyond his head’s direction, and starting to glaze over. “A shot at torturing the truth from the unfortunate fellow will suit Choundas down to his toes. Frustrate him, too, since this idiot de Gougne knows nothing and can’t name any names…Choundas will go barking-mad, I expect, and turn all his attention on a hunt for our spies. He touches Hugues’s staff, Hugues slaps him down, takes command of his remaining ships, and Choundas goes back to France in chains, disgraced and probably down for the mad-house, to boot! Driven to insanity by one too many intrigues.”
“Hmmm,” Pelham uttered, polishing off another mug of that perfidious punch, and dipping himself a replacement. “Don’t know, Peel.”
“He’ll be kept so busy, so distracted…” Peel pressed.
“Ever think we do have spies on Guadeloupe, hah?” Pelham soddenly snapped. “Choundas snaps ’em up like pickin’ daisies, where are we then? His clerk, well…dies ’thout namin’ names, a wider hunt will turn up real’uns, shuh…surely!”
“Anyone we know?” Lewrie was forced to ask in curiosity.
“Uh er, no,” Pelham had to admit.
“Anyone vital to our cause, sir?” Peel asked, too.
“I,er…don’ know. N’body tol’ me, damn ’em! Wouldn’ trust me with their idet…ident…names! Their ‘product’ goes to Lord Balcarres, an’ he tells me, he thinks I need it…hic. Damme, that a cat, Lewrie?” Pelham suddenly said, peering owl-eyed into the dining-coach, wherein Toulon crouched atop the table next to his hideous hat, head bobbing and cocking and his whiskers stiffly forward at the sight of something so alluring…and possibly edible.
“Why, I do b’lieve it is,” Lewrie replied, feigning surprise.
“Thank God!” Pelham shuddered, sounding much relieved. “Thought it was a ship rat. Heard o’ them, I have. Nice puss! Nice mouser!”
“So, you concur with my putting the scheme in play, sir?” Peel decided to ask, to get verbal assent before Pelham went arse-over-tit, while he could still form sentences.
“What? Oh…knacky ruse. Yes. S’pose,” Pelham agreed, now noticeably swaying. “Clever! Amusin’. Damme, we set sail, already?”
“I’m glad you approve of my extemporaneous actions, sir,” Peel most-carefully intoned, “and that Captain Lewrie may attest to such an approval.” He tipped Lewrie a broad wink.
“Glad to be of service, Mister Peel,” Lewrie gleefully agreed.
“Where’d those damned Colonials get all their prizes?” Pelham enquired, plopping down into his side-chair again, and tugging at his neck-stock as if strangling, or suffocating in his too-warm clothes.
“’Bout ninety miles West-Nor’west of the Grenadines. They took four merchantmen back from Choundas’s newest raiders,” Lewrie casually explained, thinking that Mr. Pelham was sufficiently “liquored” to be amenable to part of the truth. “They also took one of his raiders into the bargain, and sank another. Picked up the survivors from that one, and fetched ’em all in. You’ll have a good time interrogating ’em, I think, Mister Pelham. Once they’re handed over from the Americans to our officials, that is. Should’ve seen ’em!” Lewrie enthused. “Ev’ry shot ’twixt wind and water, made one strike with a single broadside…!”
“You there?” P
elham gravelled of a sudden, head now well a’list and one eye screwed shut. “Yer ship’z…hic!…there, sir? Damn my eyes, you been coll—…collab—…at sea with the Yankees, ’spite my tellin’ ye…?”
Uh oh, Lewrie thought; should’ve let him slip under the table, and kept my mouth shut!
“God damn my eyes, you bloody…WHAT?” Pelham screeched as he shot to his feet. “Mis’rable idiot bastard, meddlin’…!”
Lewrie swung his leg off the desk as Pelham staggered forward, hands “clawed” as if wishing to strangle him, but, thankfully, he did not get that far; couldn’t in point of fact, for Toulon, proudly bound aft toward his lair under the starboard-side settee, dragging his oversized, wide-brimmed, befeathered, and awkward “kill,” overhauled Pelham’s stumbling, clumping feet.
Which near-collision raised an outraged howl from the ram-cat; which howl seemed to levitate the distinguished Pelham for a startled second; which levitation made Pelham come down attempting to avoid the cat, or his costly new “sportin’ hat” (it was hard to judge which), and reel and flail about for what little balance was left to him; which attempt looked like a marriage of an impromptu Irish Jig, a folk dance involving sombreros reported among the mestizo peoples of the Spanish New World, and the frantic whirlings of mystic Muslim dervishes in the Holy Land; which gay prancing brought forth an accompanying outburst in what might be mistaken for an Unknown Tongue, sounding hellish-like “Eeh too-ah gaah, shit hic! arr-eeh!” the last syllables a wail that ascended the musical scale as Mr. Pelham snagged a booted toe in a ring-bolt mid his descent and landed spraddle-legged on his rump with a gay thud.
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