He suspected, though, that as long as the war went on, and the Admiralty had need of him (despite their qualms), once reconciled, he would be right back at sea, years and thousands of miles gone, putting into strange… "harbours," as all true sailors did, sooner or later.
Could he actually amend his roguish ways?
Sadly, he rather doubted it; or doubted such a vow surviving an entire year, unless he spent his time completely out of sight of land. He knew by then his own nature… and a lewd'un, it was, he was man enough to confess… to himself, at the least.
He eyed the larger stack of letters, all from Theoni. No! His solicitor, and Caroline, now took precedence. He scooted his chair up to the desk and stretched for paper, quill, and inkwell.
Mountjoy, then the boys, then lastly that vital epistle to Caroline. Well, to his father, thirdly, to give thanks for his ministrations and advice. Which thought gave him shivers! Caroline, last.
"Gawd," he said with a wondering sigh. "All this, and Choundas, too. Well, just thankee Jesus for all this bounty."
BOOK TWO
"En labor, en odiis caput insuperabile nostris!"
"Lo! a heavy task!-this man whom no hate of mine can overcome!"
– Argonautica, Book III, 510
Valerius Flaccus
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mister the Honourable Grenville Pelham, with Lewrie's agreement, determined that the Proteus frigate, and Lewrie's tender hide, would be safer did she sail for her hunting grounds at once, with Mr. Peel to accompany her, and Lewrie, so the "game" could be put afoot immediately… and someone sensible kept a chary eye on her captain, to prevent further folly!
While Lewrie didn't think he had much to fear from the Beaumans and their allies, still all a'bluster with rage over Ledyard's demise, and the undying shame and dishonour attached to it (in court at least) there had been some disquieting rumours bandied about involving knives, clubs, and dark Kingston alleys. The principal witnesses to the affair were of too-good standing, embarrassingly alive… and demonstrably unbribable, yet someone had to pay, so…! Which rumours, sworn even as the dust was pattering upon Ledyard's coffin in the churchyard, did, admittedly, force Lewrie to tug his neck-stock and gulp a time or two, and keep his head swivelling to see who was coming up on his off-side. The Beaumans always had been a crude and immoderate clan who never did anything by halves!
God sakes, look at Lucy! had been Lewrie's conclusion. Swiftly followed by / never get in much trouble at sea, then damme, but my men are goin' stale, swinging idle at anchor so long, and finally by let's get after that bastard Choundas, then, at once! He's no more vicious than the Beaumans… and I can see him comin ' a long way off!
So it was with A Glad Heart and filled with Righteous Duty that Lewrie ordered HMS Proteus to take in her kedge anchors, haul up close to her moor, unfurl tops'ls and jibs, and, on a fine and freshening slant of wind from off the distant Blue Mountains, stand out proudly past the Palisades, wreathed in the gunsmoke of her salutes to Admiral Sir Hyde Parker (perhaps with Staff Captain Sir Edward Charles eying them much as an owl might ogle an escaped tit-mouse, with shaken fist and a faint cry of "I'll have ye, yet, ye bastard!") to thread the reefs with a harbour pilot aboard, and make a joyful offing to the sparkling deeps! Where Captain Alan Lewrie, R.N., could savour the thought of… "Hah! Cheated Death, again!"
Despite his previous experience in the Caribbean, Lewrie hadn't known about the odd phenomenon of the sunset "green flash," that brief eye-blink of time when the sun at last declined its last hot sliver under the horizon, and the final, glorious reds, oranges, pinks, and greys were interrupted. It had been Kit Cashman who'd told him of it, over their last goodbye supper, the last night in harbour.
He had been pacing the windward bulwarks of the quarterdeck, as was a captain's sole right when not below, but crossed to leeward with his fingers crossed, hoping that Cashman hadn't been pulling his leg. Unblinking, he strained his eyes, looking directly into the sun's ball. No, not this night, for Sol blinked out, yonder over New Spain to the West, leaving only the rapidly dulling colours of the usual tropic sunset that could, at sea, turn star-strewn black as quickly as a closed window shutter.
If he had been cheated by Nature this night (or twitted by Kit's tongue-in-cheek inventions), at least the early evening was cooler than the day, and the wind rushing cross the deck was a blessing. He pushed off the bulwark, clapped his hands in the small of his back, and paced to the double-wheel and compass binnacle, now lit by a whale-oil lanthorn flickering eerily upon the faces of the quartermaster and his mate now standing their "trick" at the helm. He craned his gaze upwards to the sails and rigging in the quickly failing last light, ascertaining that everything was just so, with nothing out of order or amiss; a peek up to "weather" for threats of storm clouds; a look down into the binnacle at the compass, where the pointer wavered near to East-Sou'east, Half East, as close to the steady Nor'east wind as Proteus could steer.
And damn Pelham, Lewrie thought, frowning; sendin' us to English Harbour, Antigua, first! Antigua lay nearly due East, demanding a hard passage "Full and By" nigh against the Trades, and days of short tacks to the Nor'west, did they get pushed too far down, alee, zig-zagging on a drunken snail's track, short "boards" almost in the opposite direction before they could come about nearer to Cuba or Hispaniola and sail a "long board" on larboard tack, right on the eye of the wind, and something sure to go smash aloft, with so much pressure on the rigging- He now could barely make out the forms of spare yards, booms and light upper top-masts stowed along the gangways and on the boat-tier beams, but was sure that their number would be reduced by the time they anchored.
Quartermaster Austen stood to the weather side of the helm, his Mate to the loo'rd, a larger man who braced his strength on the wheel spokes, his eyes on the sails aloft, whilst Austen kept his glued upon the compass. A big fellow, was the Quartermaster's Mate, new-come off a Yankee smuggler taken on the north shore of St. Thomas in the Danish Virgins, where Proteus had done a little discreet "poaching."
Toby Jugg, for that was the improbable name he'd given when he reluctantly signed ship's books as a 'pressed man, had originally been rated an Ordinary Seaman, but had quickly proven Able in the past few months, and had then "struck" for Quartermaster's Mate. Big, hulking and dark-visaged, surly and noncommunicative, Jugg had only "volunteered" to qualify for the Joining Bounty to send to his woman and child on Barbados, far to the South. Odds were, Proteus would never be called upon to sail there, though, and if she did, Lewrie was sure the man would jump ship, and they'd never see him again. Or he would be forced to sic the island garrison on Jugg, who would fetch him back in chains to be bound to an upright hatch grating and given four-dozen lashes for desertion.
"Not too heavy forrud, Mister Austen?" Lewrie asked the senior Quartermaster's Mate. "Not crank?"
"Erm… she's fair-balanced, Cap'm," Austen took a long time to adjudge. "Mebbe a tad light, forrud. But she tacks right-easy, sir."
"Watch her head close, then," Lewrie said, transferring his gaze to the inscrutable Toby Jugg. "And nothing to loo'rd, it goes without sayin', right, Jugg?"
"Y'say so, sir," Jugg growled, eyes locked on the main course.
"Ahem…" Aspinall interrupted, "but yer supper's ready fer servin', sir."
"Aye, thankee, Aspinall," Lewrie grunted, irked by Jugg's coolness which was just shy of dumb insubordination. "Carry on, then, men. Mister Catterall, I leave you the deck, and the watch. Evening, all."
"Aye aye, sir," the Second Officer piped up, after hovering in summoning distance the last ten minutes. He clapped his hands behind his back and short-strutted up to windward, filled with his importance. Quartermaster's Mate Austen waited 'til he was out of earshot before he dared mutter from the lee corner of his mouth.
"Jugg, ye bloody idiot," Austen told his helm-mate. "The Cap'm ain't nowhere bad as some, an' better'n most. Keep up yer surly airs, though, an' ye'll push him t'flog ye, an' take back yer ratin'."
<
br /> "Sod 'im," Jugg whispered back. "Sod all officers an' captains."
"Sod 'im, who's done right by ye?" Austen pointed out. "Ye toss yerself back t'Able Seaman, an' there's nought t'send yer ol' woman an' kid. Show willin', why don't ye? Don't cost tuppence."
"But…" Jugg began to disagree, his face working sorrowfully, but any explanation or relenting was stopped by Lt. Catterall.
"Minds on your duties, men… no talking, there," he snapped.
"Aye aye, sir," they chorused.
Mr. Peel of the Foreign Office's Secret Branch simply knew too many secrets; it was impossible for Lewrie to follow his usual custom of dining in his officers, midshipmen and "gentlemen warrants" as long as Peel was aboard. Peel, as supercargo, had to be accommodated somewhere apart from casual conversations. There was always the risk that Peel talked in his sleep, or boasted immoderately in his cups.
The only secure place where Peel could sling a bed-cot was here in Lewrie's great-cabins, and they were already cramped enough. Aspinall's little day-pantry had come down, and the chart-space had to shift aft into the day cabin, right against Lewrie's bed space; and that bed space got crowded aft and in-board into his day cabin, which had moved Lewrie's desk and chair, settee and guest chairs, portable storage chests and wine-cabinet over to larboard, nearer his quarter-gallery and his "seat of ease"-where Toulon's tin-lined sand box also was located. Toulon, usually of the most garrulous and playful nature, had not taken all those changes kindly. Whilst he had the run of the entire ship, his master's cabins were sacrosanct; or at least they should have been. The ram-cat had not taken well to Peel, either, usually dubiously on guard under the furniture when Peel was astir, his paws tucked under his chest, his eyes slit in Oriental wariness.
"Evening, Mister Peel," Lewrie said as he swept back the tails of his coat and sat himself down in the dining-coach.
"Captain Lewrie," Peel purred back, taking a place about halfway down on Lewrie's left. "Am I given to understand that we're having turtle soup tonight? Delightful."
"Green turtle, sir," Aspinall supplied as he poured their wineglasses full, waving the neck briefly at the sideboard, where a tureen with the lid off fumed. "Small'un, but tender. Turtle steaks, too."
"Our cook, Gideon, is a wonder," Lewrie boasted, discovering at least something to lighten his grumpy mood over being turfed from his own quarters, something with which to ease his careful formality.
"Gideon Cook… how apt," Peel said with a smirk as some soup was ladled into his bowl. "Your ship's cook's name, that is."
"Cooke with an E," Lewrie corrected, as Toulon hopped up on the table by his right hand and sat like a statue, watching Aspinall's every move; for sure enough, once Lewrie's bowl had been filled, there was a smaller bowl for him, mostly fine-shredded and soft-boiled meat, with just a bit of broth. Toulon hunkered down possessively and tucked in, now and then glaring at Mr. Peel, did he gesture too wide or abruptly for the cat's liking.
"His old master's name, I presume?" Peel blandly commented, his spoon poised before his mouth to blow upon, his eyes averted.
"Who knows?" Lewrie lied, tossing off a shrug of believable innocence. "Free to volunteer, at any rate."
"One may only hope, sir," Peel cautioned. "Was he a runaway… the punishment for harbouring or succouring him is harsh. In point of fact, you seem to have a great many Blacks in your crew. Howes, Hoods? Brewsters, Sawyers, Carpenters… Basses and Whitbreads, and Nelsons? Or Groom. Old masters, or old trades? Oh, I forgot. Tis Groome with an E." He gave Lewrie a questioning smirk. "But Bass, or…"
"Quite a spell of yellow fever and malaria, earlier this year, Mister Peel" Lewrie very cautiously stated, covering his lies with his napkin to his lips. "Was Proteus fortunate so many locals volunteered into her, well, I ain't picky, 'long as I can work and fight my ship."
"Odd, though," Peel drilled on, glass held pensively in hand. "That was just about the same time that a coincidental number of young male slaves fled the late Ledyard Beauman plantings near Portland Bight, was it not? One could wonder…"
Got me by the nutmegs! Lewrie frantically thought, in dire need of a panicky "Yeek!" and did he try to bluster his way out of it, he would only make things worse for himself. Panic gave way, though to anger at Peel and Pelham, knowing they'd hold this over him to ensure his cooperation… when they already had it, the bastards!
"Most fortunate, aye," Lewrie conceded, busying himself with a spoonful of soup, taking thinking time in stroking Toulon, who had put his food away and was cajoling for more.
"Mister Pelham, now," Peel continued quite casually, "is a lad born to wealth. As we both know, respectable wealth in England means land, and property obtaining to the land. Tenants, and rents? He was a bit nettled, therefore, by the, uhm, coincidence. Mister Pelham, however, has the acquaintance of Sir Samuel Whitbread and the 'Great Commoner,' Charles James Fox, who are of a persuasive progressive bent. He also admires the work of the Reverend William Wilberforce and Mistress Hannah Moore, the earnest reformers. Mister Pelham is not taken quite so much by their views concerning the reform of English society… but he agrees with them about the abolition of slavery, d'ye see."
"Uhm-hmm," Lewrie commented with his mouth full, which seemed safest. I'm ruined, I'm extorted forever… which? he wondered.
"Mister Pelham now thinks the slightest bit better of you, sir," Peel informed him. "Did you actually have a hand in it."
"Excuse me, Mister Peel," Lewrie wondered aloud, after he got his soup down without choking in shock, or relief. "But, not two days ago, re-enslaving every last Black in Saint Domingue seemed to bother him less than a hang-nail. Damme, he's posing as a prospective slave owner! How can he hold both views simultaneously?"
"Ah, but they're French slaves, Captain Lewrie," Peel brightly replied. "Not English-owned. And anyone who tries to put the chains back on 'em will bleed money, soldiers, and grief, the whole next century. Let it be a festering boil for the Frogs, not us. L'Ouverture is getting the land back into limited production, so what he can do, disorganised as he is, our more enlightened British planters can do, just as well if not better. Perhaps with paid labour, d'ye see."
Lewrie gave that idea the scornful snort it deserved; he doubted if anyone could mention British overseas planters and "enlightened" in the same breath, and not be slung into Bedlam for lunacy.
"And Mister Pelham's pose is just that," Peel snickered. "For just so long as it is necessary. He'll make a great show of keen interest into every aspect of slave agriculture, then suffer a sudden, ah, turn of fortune that precludes the purchase of slaves, or acres."
"He'll make a pest of himself, you mean," Lewrie wryly supposed.
"Uhm!" Peel gaily agreed over the lip of his wineglass.
"Which means that I won't be saddled with you forever," Lewrie further assumed. "Your mission ends when Choundas is defeated, or when Saint Domingue explodes again? When Rigaud wins?"
"Hopefully, Captain Lewrie," Peel said with a mystifying shrug.
"Just how abolitionist is the Honourable Grenville Pelham then?" Lewrie queried. "Enough so to delve into slavery's horrors and write Wilberforce and Moore all about 'em? So Whitbread and Fox can screech in the Commons and expose the evils?"
"Frankly, sir, I would not put it past him," Peel agreed. "He is young, you've noticed, and, uhm, ardent in his beliefs," Peel said, with a jaded roll of his eyes at such callowness in younger men.
"Ain't he, though," Lewrie replied, chuckling; but he was more amused by the fact that Pelham was vulnerable, too. A word in the right ear, and Jamaica would shun him like the proverbial viper in the breast; an abolitionist spy out to ruin them, take their profits with emancipation and paid-for workers-steal the food from their children's mouths!
He threatens me, he goes down with me, Lewrie vowed to himself; Pelham presses me too sore, and I'll have him by the nutmegs!
"I take it that your friend, Colonel Christopher Cashman, is not enamoured of the institution either, Captain Le
wrie," Peel said as his soup bowl was whisked away, to be replaced by a plate of grilled fish and simmered turtle cutlets, with small boiled new potatoes, chick peas, and fried onion slices added.
"No, he's not," Lewrie answered.
"How odd, then, that he's removed to the Carolinas," Peel said as he broke open a piping-hot roll of shore bread and slathered it with fresh butter; butter preserved as long as it lasted on the cool far-aft orlop deck, sunk in an oak pail of seawater.
"Looking at Wilmington in North Carolina, or Georgetown in South Carolina," Lewrie supplied, feeling more at ease now they were off that damning topic of his guilt. "Damme, puss, be easy! Here comes your portions. Ye ain't eatin' mine, damn yer eyes. Uhm, cotton, tobacco, and naval stores, mostly… rice and indigo from Georgetown. But he will be a factor. He told me he's placed orders for the machinery for a sawmill and rice mill. No more farming for him. I expect Kit will prosper, no matter where he lights. He's the hard-pluggin' sort.
And damme but I'll miss him, Lewrie thought once more; Life '11 be dull, 'thout Cashman t'stir things up.
Though, after their last parting supper three nights before, it might be best if Life did get plodding-boresome for a while, for it had been a rowdy and "wet" night of wine, punch, brandy, and some of that infamous Yankee Doodle corn-whisky, before they'd bawled out the last bonne chance and adieu, to the great displeasure of half the-sleeping residents of Kingston.
"Ah, the Americans," Peel simpered. "I'm certain that a man of Colonel Cashman's kidney will greatly improve the ton of their society, though he'll have to look sharp, else the Yankees skin him naked. In America, all is trade, everything has its price, and everything, and everyone, seems for sale. You are aware, I trust, that the Americans already trade with Saint Domingue?" Peel asked him.
"Yes, and we should put a stop to it, I take it," Lewrie said.
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