Havoc`s Sword

by Dewey Lambdin

  "Oh, they hardly ever scalp their supper guests, Mister Peel," Lewrie cheerfully said. " 'Less they're hellish liquored up. Let's see… yes, Lieutenant Adair will go with me. Show 'em a real Scot for a change, not their rusticated variety. He'll most-like bowl 'em over, might even cite whole pages of 'guid auld Robbie Burns' at 'em. Don't know of him, Mister Peel? The Scot poet and songster? Oh, well. And Midshipman Grace, to pair with their 'younker.' Grace came up from the Nore fisheries not two years ago, common as anything, so he'll appeal to their egalitarian ideals."

  "Whether they really practice them or not," Peel stuck in.

  "Catterall? No, he'd scalp somebody, does he get into his cups. And there's sure t'be American corn-whisky. Third guest, hmm. What about you, Mister Peel? Might turn out t'be a rare treat. If not, I could take Lieutenant Langlie. He sings well, when liquored."

  Peel and corn-whisky, though; walking on his knees and howling.

  Talk about amusing, indeed, Lewrie maliciously thought.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The USS Thomas Sumter was not a true frigate, though she looked like one at first glance; long, fairly low in the bulwarks, flush-deck at the forecastle and quarterdeck, but "waisted" between her foremast and main in conventional style, with upper gangways just wide enough for sail-handling, and service of the swivel-guns that would mount on the stanchions set atop her bulwarks.

  Though armed with twenty-two 12-pounders on the gun-deck, and equipped with two 6-pounder chase-guns on her forecastle and six more on her quarterdeck-making her a 30-gunner and a "jack-ass frigate" in any nation's navy-she was officially rated as an Armed Ship, in temporary service. Most of the former colonies, now states, had raised subscription funds literally by the bushel-baskets with which they meant to build men o' war, but… in the meantime, some of the funds were used to purchase likely merchant ships for arming and conversion until the real ones slid off the ways and got to sea.

  Though Sumter was all trig and "Bristol Fashion," as clean and fresh-smelling as a spanking-new ship, meticulously maintained by her crew, and with her yards squared to a mathematical perfection, Lewrie wasn't particularly impressed by her, in his professional appraisal.

  Sumter had very little tumble-home above her gun-deck to reduce her hull's topweight, having been designed for maximum space in cargo holds and orlop, so he suspected that she might not be as stiff

  as he might have liked in a blow, since, like all American-built ships he'd seen, he thought her over-sparred, and would likely carry too much canvas aloft, making her tender. Her bulwarks and hull scantlings weren't as thick as a proper warship's, either, and from what short time they had had on an abbreviated tour before going aft, he saw that her beams, timbers, futtocks, and knees had been sawn to lighter civilian specifications, and spaced a few more vulnerable inches apart on their centres. She'd not withstand a long, drawn-out drubbing 'twixt wind and water, did she cross hawse with a French Fifth Rate frigate, perhaps not even a well-manned and gunned Sixth Rate corvette armed with sixteen or twenty cannon.

  Those drawbacks didn't seem to faze Captain McGilliveray, though; he was immoderately proud of her, boasting of what a swift sailer she was, how capable of carrying "all plain sail" even in blustery weather… though with all squares'ls reduced one reef.

  Lewrie had brought Lt. Adair, Midshipman Grace, and had finally chosen Peel instead of his First Officer for the third guest; the hope of seeing Peel "three sheets to the wind" on corn-whisky was just too tempting… and, was any intelligence to be gleaned, Peel was trained for such subtle delving and discovery, after all.

  "Thought we'd begin with claret, Captain Lewrie," Sumter''s captain announced, opening his wine-cabinet. "Claret, not rum, appears to be the lifeblood of the gallant Royal Navy."

  "And on that head, Captain McGilliveray," Lewrie responded, "I took the liberty of fetching off a half-dozen of claret from my lazarette stores as a gift to you."

  "You are quite kind, sir… I am most grateful for your thoughtful present," McGilliveray, a well-knit fellow in his late thirties, said with a wolfishly pleased look. He was not Red Indian dark, but seamanly dark, and sported an abundantly thick thatch of ginger-blond hair, too. Nothing like what Lewrie had expected. "Given our present set-to with the French, you can imagine that claret is neither readily available in the States, nor anyone's first choice of potation, in public at least. Though what folk wish with their suppers is another matter, entirely. I fear our smugglers aren't as capable as yours, Captain Lewrie," he japed with a sly twinkle.

  "Yours just have farther to go, Captain McGilliveray," Lewrie responded in kind, accepting a glass, "whereas our bold English smugglers have but to cross 'the Narrow Sea.' I expect the Channel Isles'd float, for all the casks and bottles hidden in every cave and cove. As for me, though, a friend of mine… just recently removed to the Carolinas by the way… introduced me to American whisky. With such near to hand, 'tis a wonder anyone in the United States would care whether claret is available, at any price."

  "Then in return for your kindness, sir, allow me to give a man who truly appreciates good corn 'squeezings' a barricoe of our 'portable grain'!" McGilliveray exclaimed. "After all the troubles we have had regardin' whisky, lately, I'd admire to introduce you to the best upland, Piedmont distillation."

  "Highly gratified, sir, thankee," Lewrie truthfully told him. 'Tis mellow, amber, and actually aged, much like a good brandy in oak wine casks," McGilliveray enthused. "None of your gin-clear or week-old 'pop-skull,' either. Some think it rivals the best brandy."

  "Trouble with whisky, sir?" Lewrie asked, once glasses had been shoved into every hand, and McGilliveray had waved them into seats.

  And Capt. McGilliveray took a gleeful five minutes to describe a recent "Whisky Rebellion" by back-country settlers who had objected quite vehemently to a mere penny-per-gallon tax on whisky, possibly the major trade item in the back-country, and in most instances the only medium of exchange, a replacement money, the coin-strapped United States had. It had taken Gen. George Washington and a call-up of the various state militias to form a field army to put it down; though once the "Riot Act, " in essence, was read, the rebellion had melted away.

  "Excuse me for asking, Captain McGilliveray," Peel said, "but I was under the impression that your earlier Articles of Confederation, and your Constitution, prohibited your federal government from interfering with the sovereign states, especially with armed force."

  "Aye, they do," McGilliveray, replied, frowning, "and it was indeed troublin'. Given how much Britons distrust a large standin' army, you can certainly understand our misgivin's… though it had to be 'scotched,' else our fragile new economy'd collapse. You ask for a payment in coin back home, taxes in coin, and God knows how folk'd be able t'pay you. Alexander Hamilton and his new national bank, well… mind you, Mister Hamilton's as patriotic as anyone, but it does sound so Frenchified and coin-hungry a proposition, that a great many folk hope it'll never see the light o' day."

  Lewrie had taken McGilliveray's exposition on the rebellion in mostly one ear, taking note of his surroundings, not asked for more than the occasional "do tell" and "egad" to show interest.

  Where the USS Hancock's Capt. Kershaw's great-cabins had been the' opulent quarters of a wealthy man, those of a rich and titled man back in England, McGilliveray's were spartan in the extreme. Lewrie knew he was related to a rich mercantile family, and obviously had been educated at considerable expense; his speech alone told him that. The decks were covered with nailed-down and painted canvas, the colour a drabbish solid brown, not the black-and-white parquet chequer of a British man o' war. The interior panels were off-white, and not a single painting graced them. His desk in his day-cabin, his chairs and such, were crudely made, dull-finished, and almost graceless. Sailcloth curtains could be drawn to cover the transom sash-windows in the stern, but the drapes seemed an after-thought, and made from parchment-tan used sail scraps. Lewrie took a peek at the waiting dining table; dull platters and place setti
ngs of dark pewter awaited them, with but two four-hole candelabras and a lone pitcher of bright-polished pewter in the centre. The glasses were nondescript, befogged by long use and many scrubbings by clumsy servants, in seawater most-like.

  Whale-oil lanthorns hung overhead-mica panels set in lead-dark pewter or old tin, and not a single glint of brass to be seen anywhere in the great-cabins, not a single family portrait, nothing personal to Sumter's captain. Lewrie was put in mind of the poorest village pubs and coaching inns he had ever seen. Was McGilliveray a poor relation, or as abstemious as a prelate in a poor parish, eking out his dignity on the widows' occasional charity and ten scrimpy pounds per annum?

  Damme, what do they pay Yankee captains? he had to ask himself.

  He did set a good table, though, with boiled shrimp, done in a Low Country spice-broth, roasted chickens, odd yellow-orange potatoes that he called yams (and were quite sweet with a slather of his fresh butter), beef-steaks from a fresh-killed bullock, and miles fatter and tenderer than anything he could have purchased from the British dockyard, with lashings of cornmeal bread, island chick-peas with diced onions, and a tangy mid-meal salad. Wine flowed, as did whisky, and Lewrie noted that Lt. Seabright, Capt. McGilliveray, his First Officer a Lt. Claiborne, and a fresh-faced midshipman, introduced to him as one Desmond McGilliveray, freely imbibed the whisky like mother's milk!

  Politics and religion were, of course, banned topics, and anything related to "business" was out, too, so supper conversation was limited. Americans and Britons shared little in common, the last fifteen years since the end of the Revolution, but a common language, and even that was beginning to diverge. They did not share music and song as they evolved, nor dramas, nor even London or Court gossip.

  Needless to say, the aforementioned yams came in for a lot of praise and discussion, which led to longings for fresh-killed venison, comparisons of "furrin" dishes they'd come across in their voyages, or the more exotic social customs witnessed, so long as they had nothing to do with prurient or bawdy talk, accompanied by winks and nudges.

  Food, it seemed, was safest, with farming practices coming in a strong second, and Caribbean cuisine third. Lewrie held forth for the Chinese or Hindoo cooking and seasonings, which led to questions about his adventures in the Far East 'tween the wars.

  "A little covert work, Captain McGilliveray," Lewrie told him, with a wink, " 'bout the time your first merchant ships were putting in at Canton. Many of ours, and more than a few of yours, were disappearing. More than could be blamed on local pirates. Admiralty sent out a strong Third Rate disguised as a 'country ship,' not part of the East India Company, and sure t'be a prime target. Turned out t'be a French plot, hand-in-glove with Mindanao pirates, to build an alliance that'd capture everyone's trade but theirs, the next time war came. Well, we put paid to 'em, in the end. Couldn't blurt out that the French had a disguised squadron out there, any more than we could reveal our own… 'twas a hard three years, all in all, but it came right, at last."

  And God, but 'twas priceless the startled, uneasy look on Mr. Peel's face as he sketched out the nub of the tale! That mission, any of its sort, was supposed to be held forever "under the rose"!

  Wait for this 'un, then, Lewrie mulishly thought as Peel pleaded with his eyes for silence and no more details, concluding with a harsh glare of warning.

  "In point of fact, the Frenchman who led their activities there is now here in the Caribbean, on Guadeloupe," Lewrie told them, with a secretive hunching forward, as if sharing the unsharable. "His name is Guillaume Choundas, and I'm told he directs their privateers and minor warships. Brutally ugly fellow," Lewrie said, describing Choundas's current appearance. "You run across him, you would do your nation the greatest service by eliminating him. He's the cleverest brute ever I've come across. Most-like sent out to counter your navy's presence here."

  "Don't you wish to finish him yourself, Captain Lewrie?" young Midshipman McGilliveray asked, his eyes alight at the prospects. Evidently, the U.S. Navy was not quite as tolerant of outspoken "gentlemen in training," for his captain (uncle?) glowered him to abashed silence, and the teen reddened and ducked his head.

  "I'd give my right arm, young sir," Lewrie declared. "And save the world a great deal of future grief. Though I very much doubt we'll ever heave in sight of one another. Just so long as somebody does. I will spot the victor a case of champagne, do I hear the glad news. My word, what a coup that'd be for your new navy, what?"

  That went down well; every American at the table got a wolfish, speculative expression at that suggestion. Promotion, glory, and honour for themselves, their new nation, and navy; a feat which would ensure a permanent U.S. Navy, never again to be laid up or sold off, once their "emergency measures" were no longer necessary.

  Lewrie took a peek cross the table to Peel, who was thin-lipped and flint-eyed at how much Lewrie had revealed, at how blatantly he had tossed the bait in their direction. Their eyes met, and Peel's mouth quirked a touch, though he did incline his head in mute, and grudging, agreement. Perhaps he would have brought Choundas's name up much more subtly, but… it was done, and no real harm had resulted. Yet. "And you, Mister Peel?" Lt. Claiborne, Sumter's First Officer, enquired. "You look like a travellin' man, so weathered, an' all. Are you Royal Navy, too? I'd expect you have a favourite cuisine as well."

  "Uhm, I am…" Peel began, flummoxing in search of a bona fide, of a sudden, "… Spain, Portugal, and the Mediterranean region, mostly. I represent Coutts' Bank in London, so I do get about somewhat!"

  "Old family friend of my wife's British relations, sir," Lewrie lied, coveririg for him. "I bank with Coutts', so when James wrote he was being sent out to search for suitable acreage for a bank's client, I offered him passage to Antigua from Kingston. Safer passage than he could expect aboard a civilian packet. My wife, by the by, originally came from the Cape Fear country in North Carolina. Upriver, near Cross Creek and Campbelltown… the Scots' settlements. We first met during the last war, in Wilmington."

  Why, that was right up the coast! Why, that almost made her a Scot herself, and had he ever heard the tale of Flora MacDonald mistress of Bonnie Prince Charlie, who'd landed at Wilmington and married a local, who'd raised a Tory Highland regiment… unfortunately defeated at Widow Moore's Creek bridge, just outside Wilmington, but…!

  A Chiswick, was she, why Captain McGilliveray had known of them, had met a Sewallis Chiswick before "the unpleasantness"… I

  "My late father-in-law, sir, and the namesake of my eldest son!" Lewrie happily exclaimed. "I served with Caroline's brothers, Burgess and Governour Chiswick, quite incidentally really, at Yorktown. Rifle regiment. One of ours, actually, but…"

  "Why, I do b'lieve I was introduced to them, too, must've been in '74 or '75, just before…" Capt. McGilliveray gleefully said. He was a Carolinian, from a distinctive region of the United States, one thinly populated compared to the northern states. And he was a Scot, a Celt, and vitally enthralled, as all "Southerners" were, by family lineages, what Caroline had once said was a parlour game more popular than Blind-Man's Buff or cards, what she'd termed "Who's Your People?"

  "Just lads they were then," Capt. McGilliveray recalled with a smile, "But likely lookin'. Dash it, I even think I remember a young girl, quite the sweet miss, with 'em. Blond hair, and the merriest eyes…?"

  "That surely was my Caroline, sir," Lewrie agreed.

  "So all the Chiswicks are in England now?" McGilliveray asked.

  "No, sir. Just her immediate family. One branch remained, and still farm in the Cape Fear. Some Chiswicks, and most of her former kin, the McDaniels, who supported independence," Lewrie had to say.

  "Ah, we lost so many good friends an' neighbours," McGilliveray said, sighing. "When there was no need for 'em t'eut an' run. We'd of put all the bitterness b'hind us by now."

  Not if you burned each other out and murdered your own cousins, Lewrie sourly thought, careful to keep a neutral expression, as he remembered how Caroline and her family had
come as refugees to Wilmington in rags and tears of betrayal.

  "Now, as I recall Mister Seabright tellin' me once he returned from bearin' my invitation, Captain Lewrie," McGilliveray went on, in a playful mood, "did you not tell him that you had met a McGilliveray some time or other?"

  "Forget his Christian name, sorry t'say," Lewrie replied, "but there was a young man name of McGilliveray with whom I served for a few weeks, in '82, just after I gained my commission. He had been London-educated… came out from England with an older fellow who wished to try and influence the Muskogee Indians. Your pardons, Captain, but as I recall, this particular McGilliveray or some of his kin were in the 'over-mountain' trade with the Indian tribes, and he was of… partial Indian blood," Lewrie stated with a hapless moue of chagrin, unsure of how tales of White-Indian unions went down with touchy Americans from the South, and with Capt. McGilliveray in particular. Had his kinsman been a black sheep, a "Remittance Man," or a stain on their escutcheon? Was Indian blood as shameful as a White-Negro blend seemed to be?

  "We tried to get the Muskogee and Seminolee to side with us, to take on the Spanish," Lewrie further said with another apologetic shrug. "S'pose that made him a Tory, to you all. From Charleston, he said."

  And let's not tell 'em the plan was t'turn the Indians loose on Rebel settlers, and drive 'em into the sea! Lewrie thought; Devil take the hindmost, and the scalps.

  "My uncle Robert's son, my cousin Desmond," Capt. McGilliveray said primly, almost sadly, all joy of comparing heritage quite dashed. "Worst thing the fam'ly ever did, sendin' some of us to England t'make Cambridge scholars. Turned Desmond's head round, sorry t say.

  "My abject pardons for broaching the subject, sir!" Lewrie said, much abashed. "Though I'm told that even your great Benjamin Franklin and his son took opposing tacks during the Revolution. I did not-"

  "Oh, 'tis long done with, Captain Lewrie," McGilliveray allowed, "and Desmond's been dead and gone, these past twelve years." He tried to placate, but only came off grumpier, more uneasy, than anything else. "Half the families in America had a Tory-Rebel altercation, if you look close. Once the war was over, though, Desmond did come home and we reconciled our diff'rences. My brothers and I inherited the city firm and the sea trade, whilst Desmond managed the hide and fur trade among the Indians. Here, sir! You actually went among the Muskogee when he did, or merely-"