Havoc's Sword

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Before I depart, I’ll send a letter aboard for the…for my son, telling him the same, and that…that he’s…that Desmond is shapin’ main-well to become a fine young man, and I wouldn’t want any harm to come to him. Which I hope you’ll say, as well, sir, from me?”

  Lewrie dug out his wash-leather coin-purse and clawed down for a few shillings. “’Til we meet again, he might find need for some things at the chandleries and shops, so—”

  “No need o’ that, Cap’m Lewrie,” McGilliveray protested. “He’s his Navy pay, such as it is, and a modicum o’ private means as my adopted nephew. Desmond needs time with his real father, more than money. Once you’re back from your pursuit, sir, we’ll make time for that to happen. For the nonce, count on me t’keep him safe, and well t’windward of that devil.”

  “I could ask no better than that, Captain McGilliveray, thankee kindly,” Lewrie responded, somewhat eased in his mind, but knowing his foe of old, worries for the lad’s safety would not quite disperse that easily. He put his purse away, chiding himself for a callous bastard, for feeling relief that “fatherhood” wouldn’t cost too much; that his new-found son Desmond came with his own sustenance!

  “A lucky lad, sir,” McGilliveray commented, “with two families, two fathers, really…so concerned for his wellbeing.”

  “One who left it much too late, sir, but…” Lewrie confessed.

  “But makin’ up for it in splendid fashion,” McGilliveray told him warmly. “God speed your fine ship, Cap’m Lewrie, and your return.”

  Epilogue

  “You lead a charmed life, Lieutenant Hainaut,” Representative-on-Mission Desfourneaux told Jules over a convivial glass of wine, at the end of his verbal report. “So…” Desfourneaux said, prissily setting his wineglass down on his “appropriated” marble-topped desk with a precise little click. “The redoubtable Capitaine Choundas was taken, both corvettes and the arms convoy were taken, by the Americans, you say, not the British. Yet Choundas’s bête noire, Lewrie, discovered it, and led them to it…yet took little part, hmmm. A failure. A regrettable failure, and a great loss to France.”

  “Yes, Citizen, assuredly,” Hainaut replied, not sure of what he could say, in safety. Would he be blamed for surviving, or did their representative from the Directory imagine that he was the one who had alerted the British and the Americans?

  “In the long run, though, your former master had outlived his usefulness,” Desfourneaux went on with a wee moue of regret. “He was ill, one could see that, and as a result his faculties were diminished. Had this Lewrie person not been present as a lure, Choundas might have put about and saved the convoy for another try, later on. Might the British have planned to use Lewrie as bait, because your former master had become too…predictable in his lust for revenge?”

  “It is possible, Citizen Desfourneaux,” Hainaut allowed with an enigmatic shrug. “He was obsessed by Lewrie, for a certainty.”

  “To the detriment of all else he was trusted to do, alas,” the voice of central authority grumbled, leaning back in his comfortably padded chair, and sighing theatrically. “Both Hugues, and Choundas, lost to the Revolution’s further service. A clean…sweep, hah!” Desfourneaux chirped as if secretly pleased. “Both too brutal and direct. Useful, in the early days and the Terror, but…France is now in need of subtler, cleverer men. Men of action, naturally, but those who understand when to employ wits, or the sword. Men such as you, I do believe, Lieutenant Hainaut.”

  “Indeed, Citizen?” Hainaut perked up warily.

  “Indeed,” Desfourneaux reiterated, turning more business-like. “With the loss of Capitaines Choundas, Griot, and MacPherson, and the earlier loss of Capitaine Desplan and Le Bouclier, our naval power in the Caribbean is gone. You, and that Lieutenant Récamier, whom Choundas needlessly relieved of sea-duties, just to make him a scapegoat and object lesson, some few others, must make do until my reports to Paris produce a re-enforcing squadron. Choundas…Le Hideux,” Desfourneaux said with a simper, as if emboldened by Capt. Choundas’s enforced absence to damn him with his behind-the-back slur, “recommended you highly. His papers, which I seized after his departure, also absolved you of any suspicions of treachery, or any hint of collusion with British agents.”

  “I see, Citizen,” Hainaut replied, allowing himself the tiniest smirk of derision for his former employer, as if sharing Desfourneaux’s disdain. “Although I feel insulted that I was ever suspected, after serving him so well.” Though Jules Hainaut could not help worrying about what else the ogre had written about him.

  “Récamier I appoint a Capitaine de Vaisseau,” Desfourneaux intoned formally, “and will assign him the best remaining ship suitable for conversion and arming. From what others here on Guadeloupe say of him, he is much too good to idle ashore, and was treated most shabbily by that vicious old cripple. He will command all our ships, now.”

  “An admirable choice, Citizen, pardon me for saying.”

  “Related by marriage to a dead naval hero,” Desfourneaux chuckled, waving a hand in the air dismissively, “Admiral de Brueys. Fool that he was to lose his whole fleet to that Nelson at Aboukir Bay. As harmful as it was to the esprit of the revolutionary masses, it wasn’t all his fault. That ambitious climber, General Bonaparte, might just as well have staked him out for slaughter. Rest assured, mon cher, in our good time the Directory will make that upstart pay, too. For you…you, Hainaut, ahem. By the plenipotentiary power granted me by the Directory as their Représantant-En-Mission, you I make a Capitaine de Frégate…to serve as Récamier’s strong right arm and second-in command.”

  “I…I don’t know what to say!” Hainaut exclaimed in wonder.

  “A small merci beaucoup will suffice,” Desfourneaux simpered at him. “I confirm you in command of your schooner La Mohican, and will assign another into the, uhm…Chippewa?…to pair with your vessel. Of course, France expects great things from you, Capitaine Hainaut,” he said, turning serious. “When strong enough, eventually, this ‘Bloody’ Capitaine Alan Lewrie you must eliminate. Do not take it as your sole task, as your old master did, but…he must be cornered and defeated. He must be seen by our people to pay for the loss of such a hero as…Guillaume Choundas,” Desfourneaux sardonically sneered.

  “I will do it…someday, Citizen,” Hainaut eagerly vowed.

  “Bon! For now, though, concentrate on British shipping. The Directory has disavowed our war on American trade as Victor Hugues’s doing.” Desfourneaux paused to shrug. “Perhaps in a few months, they will again be ‘good prize,’ who knows? The last packet that slipped through the blockade bore no news about an Anglo-American alliance, or an American declaration of war, so, for now, we will not take actions that goad the ‘rustics’ into taking hands with the ‘Bloodies,’ nor declaring open war. But some victories over the many small cutters and sloops of the British blockade would not go amiss, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I am looking forward to them, Citizen Desfourneaux, and thank you, again, for your trust in me,” Hainaut declared, knocking back his glass of wine in celebration, now that he knew (for the moment) where he stood in the Directory’s estimation, and firmly vowing to himself that he would do nothing to lower that estimation; would indeed wreak such havoc on the British that the Directory raised their opinions of him, paving the way for even higher rank, and fame.

  An intricate ormulu clock chimed on the marble-topped sideboard in Desfourneaux’s pleasant office in the upper levels of the grim Fort Fleur d’Epée, and the man slapped his leather-bound workbooks shut in a fussily pleased fashion. Desfourneaux rose and poured both of their wineglasses full, again, gave Hainaut a playful little smile, and then crooked a finger to command him out onto the stone balcony overlooking the courtyard of the fort.

  “Now that our business is at an end, Capitaine Hainaut, we will witness the end of another, less fortunate, bit of business. Do bring the bottle…this may take some time,” Desfourneaux directed.

  The fort’s massive gates had been flun
g open to allow the towns-people and islanders inside. A battalion of the garrison stood rigid, under arms, as the tumbrils rolled into the large courtyard, drawn by artillery horses. The tall wooden wheels of the tumbrils groaned and clattered on the cobblestones, wobbling on their hubs; the un-greased axles keened dirge-like, and the fairly open-woven wicker frames atop the tumbrils’ beds shook and trembled, in tune with the men and women who rode them, wide-eyed and refusing to believe, as the short line of big carts slowly rolled to the foot of the steps that led to the high wood platform, and the waiting guillotine.

  The crowd began to titter and jeer, to cat-call and curse those people in the carts. The soldiers were allowed to raise their muskets and shake them in anger, too, as the taunts of the crowd built in rage and volume, as the first of the condemned were led or dragged aloft to the executioners, to answer for their crimes of treason, treachery, the betrayal of so many gallant officers, warrants, and beloved sailors lost with the convoy, and that hero of the Republic who had succumbed, not to superior force, but had been sold out to the despised British, for “Bloodies’” gold.

  The heavy, slanted blade rose slowly, foot by agonising foot as if to draw things out for the mob’s screaming pleasure, before the pincer-like release mechanism locked in place. The names, the crimes, the sentences were screeched out over the crowd roar, the lanyard was tautened, and then the blade flashed down to slam its great weight and its razor-sharp edge into the bottom of the blocks. And the heads of the criminals and traitors flew off, to land in the bushel-baskets, teeth in those harvested heads still chattering, lips still writhing with a final prayer or protest, eyes rolling like a slaughtered heifer’s, and a gout, a fountain, an eruption of blood gushing outward as the hearts in those “shortened” bodies continued to beat in thudding terror for a moment or two, and members of the crowd howled and shrieked with glee, rushing to catch droplets on scraps of cloth for souvenirs.

  Last came the arch-traitor, the one who had betrayed a paragon of the Revolution, his own master. Etienne de Gougne was hauled down from his tumbril, its last occupant, with his shirt open, and his neck bared. His long, Republican locks had been shorn at the nape so nothing would impede the blade. Hands bound behind his back, bound from chest to waist in old, cast-off naval ropes, too, de Gougne tried to struggle even so, thinly screaming his innocence, damning Choundas as a bitter, overly suspicious fool, which protests made the mob shout even louder, booing and laughing at his ridiculous desperation.

  There was a drum-roll that went on and on for what seemed like a whole minute after Etienne’s head was locked in place. The mob liked suspense, those executioners knew. Finally…

  Shisshh—thud!—“Hurrah!” and the entertainment was done.

  “Thus perish all who would spurn the superiority of our glorious Republic,” Desfourneaux intoned, one hand lifted over the balcony balustrade like a church noble bestowing his general blessings. “Well, so much for that, Hainaut,” he continued, turning amicable. “This puts an end to most of our spies and traitors, for now. Some few may have eluded us, but there is nothing like wholesale executions to run the rest into hiding, or ineffectiveness. We will get the rest eventually. I am nothing if not a patient man,” he said with a supremely satisfied sniff, tossing off the rest of his glass of wine.

  “I still can’t believe that de Gougne, that timid little mouse, could have—” Hainaut dared to say.

  “Guillaume Choundas was noted for his nose where spies and reactionaries were concerned,” Desfourneaux interrupted. “If in little else of late. I am utterly convinced his instincts were correct. Choundas gone…de Gougne and his suspected collaborators gone? The end of a problem…chop! Ha ha!” Desfourneaux tittered.

  Hainaut resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck to assure himself that his head was still attached, and would most likely remain where God intended it, for the nonce.

  “You and Capitaine Récamier must dine with me tonight, Hainaut,” Desfourneaux happily suggested. “Shall we say at eight, when the heat of the day is dissipated? I have appropriated Choundas’s town mansion, so you know the way. I also sleep in your old bed-chamber. What tales it could tell, hein?” he said with a sly leer.

  “Well…” Hainaut smirked, shrugging like a man of the world.

  “Executions, ah…” Desfourneaux frowned, lowering his voice to cordial intimacy. “For some reason they excite me, much as they did the amatory humours of the masses in Paris in the early days. Going at each other in the court balconies, the doorways of Place de Bastille. An affirmation of life in the face of death, perhaps? You are known as one familiar with this island’s, ah…pleasures, Hainaut. Maybe you could recommend to me a lady, or ladies, amenable to an evening of dalliance. Clean, mind…no English Pox!” he blushingly quibbled. “Handsome, it goes without saying. Young and pretty, not too tawdry? Not as tender as those your old master preferred, Mon Dieu, non! You understand.”

  “Completely, Citizen,” Hainaut replied, his smirk turning to a knowing leer. “Just the one as a mistress, or a new one each evening? Two, three at a time? French-born, Creole…part-White, or a swart tigress for a change of pace? On Guadeloupe, everything is for sale, anything is possible. And so willing to please, ah! But of course I can aid your search, Citizen!”

  Hainaut had whore-mongered for Choundas when succulent prisoners or their tender daughters were unavailable; pimping for a Voice of the Directory could prove equally favourable to his cause. M. Desfourneaux at least had conventional tastes, he suspected, so the courtesans he’d already sampled would suit admirably.

  And as long as he pimped, he might as well profit from it. A pact with madames and bordel owners, the girls themselves, could fill his own purse. He contemplated strumming them first, then escorting them to Desfourneaux “prepared for battle” so to speak—with what the British termed “battered buns”?—serving to Desfourneaux his “fresh-served” seconds might prove to be the drollest kind of geste. Over-charge him for island-made sheep-gut cundums…?

  “Would this afternoon prove soon enough, Citizen?” Capitaine de Frégate Jules Hainaut lazily enquired. “I have in mind a delectably sweet Octoroon, just barely seventeen, but already possessed of skills one could not find in Paris, itself. Petite, playful…”

  “As a matter of fact, Hainaut, I think I will go home at once. Take my mid-day meal, so many preparations for our supper, tonight…” Desfourneaux announced, all but fingering his crotch in anticipation. “Uhm…by three this afternoon, you might…ah?”

  “By half past one, Citizen,” Hainaut promised, him. “And may I wish you…bon appétit?”

  Late that evening and far out to sea to windward of Guadeloupe, USS Hancock prowled a moon-drenched sea hungry for prey, like a wraith on All-Hallow’s Eve. While Citizen Desfourneaux improved his digestif with a second courtesan fetched as a house-warming present by his old aide-de-camp, Capitaine Guillaume Choundas sat on the edge of the hard bunk in his tiny deal-partitioned cabin forward of the officers’ gun-room, beset by American cuisine. Salt-pork, soup beans, yams, ship’s biscuit, and greasy gravy griped his innards like smelting lumps of ore, and bile surged up now and then to sear his throat. As for that corn-whisky they had offered…pah!

  Griot, in the insubstantial next-door cabin, snored away, insensible to swinish victuals, defeat, and captivity alike, making Choundas despise his peasant’s dullness. His own ears and face burned with the utter shame of loss, of being out-witted, of failing so completely…of being so wrong! His repute and career were utterly lost, his place sure to be awarded to one of the handsome, swaggering charmers, and all he had done would be forgotten, dismissed as ancient history if remembered at all. The Americans might hold him, gallingly inactive; months and months, years! of penny-pinching, miserly parole.

  And that swaggering pig Lewrie still lived! As if his life was charmed! As if the very Heavens, the fickle ancient gods, conspired to preserve and reward him!

  Choundas fantasised that he’d find a way to kil
l him, slip into England as a crippled émigré beggar and murder his wife and children, if nothing else, but how? All his fortune would be gone, he would be penniless! And Choundas could feel that time for revenge was growing shorter. His marvelous body, his iron constitution, was betraying him. If Lewrie were to die by his hand, it might be with his last breath, as he had always vowed, never suspecting…!

  Nonetheless, Guillaume Choundas vowed that he would murder his Nemesis; find a way to delude the simple-minded Americans and escape; destroy Griot for letting him down, for being a dull shop-keeper fraud in bear-skin slippers, not a Venetic conqueror! He would take revenge on faithless Jules Hainaut for abandoning the battle like the cynical coward he really was, he would win back his position and honours…!

  But he had to press a grimy towel to his lips to stem a flood of bile and vomit; had to squeeze his buttocks together to prevent an even greater shame before he could stagger aft to the quarter-gallery with the aid of a crude loaned crutch. His bowels screamed in stony rendings, and shuddery looseness, both, while fiery stabbings in his stomach popped cold, woozy sick-sweat that flooded his body like an Arctic dunking. Weak and faint, his sphinctre failed him, and for the first time in his life, Guillaume Choundas succumbed to despair, giving out a faint, bleak whimper as he crammed the end of the towel into his mouth to deny the world the pleasure of hearing his helplessness. Hot, galling tears trickled from his eyes, searing his cheeks, to make his humiliation complete.

  “I must not die before he does, please!” Choundas whispered to the groaning oaken darkness, almost in prayer. But to which gods?

  The hilltop overlooking the vast encampment was bathed in moonlight as General Toussaint L’Ouverture stood under the fly of a grand pavillion that once had sheltered a French General of Brigade in splendour, looking down at his sleeping army and its guttering cook-fires, and felt his own despair for his long-suffering but hopeful people…for the future of St. Domingue, which some had begun to call Haiti in Creole patois. Its reluctant leader, short, bandy-legged, and unremarkable, plied a cane fan, seeing not a rag-tag army, but an island beset on all sides by a brutal, opportunistic outside world, just as the encampment was girded by forbidding forests and jungle.