Havoc`s Sword

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Havoc`s Sword Page 23

by Dewey Lambdin


  "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, again, and do Victor Hugues, Guillaume Choundas, and their privateers 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 Curacao 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!

  Peel could see the sense of it, at last (though he'd had to get pie-eyed to do so!), that Choundas would, once stung enough, come out personally to restore the morale of his piratical lackeys, to even the score… protect his own profits, too, and salvage his career.

  Peel had kept pointing out that L'Ouverture, the possible ally General Rigaud, and the conflict between them, was the more important matter, that estopping martial aid to either-from the French, not their own side, should Rigaud sign on the right line-was what Mr. Pelham had intended when he despatched them eastward to Antigua, but Lewrie had assured him that they could accomplish that task, too… indirectly, by making the short voyage seem too dangerous; by forcing Choundas to use his men o' war in search of Proteus and Sumter, not in convoying vulnerab
le merchantmen to Jacmel or Port-au-Prince; and, by goading him so sore that he had to find and kill his worst enemy before any convoy could sail.

  USS Sumter became a bee-hive of activity as her crew scrambled aloft and manned her braces to haul her wind and wear about due South, and Lewrie lost sight of Midshipman McGilliveray, who became just one more hand lined up along the yards and foot-ropes of the course sail on her main-mast to shake out reefs, like a flock of wrens perched on a barn roof. Lewrie finally collapsed the tubes of his telescope and tucked it under his left arm, abandoning the lee quarterdeck bulwarks to pace "uphill" to the windward.

  "Stations to wear, Mister Langlie," Lewrie told his First Lieutenant. "We'll come about to Sou'west-by-West, and take the Trades on the starboard quarter. All plain sail, after that. Just 'fore sunset, we'll shorten sail for a predawn arrival off Guadeloupe's north coast to see what they're 'serving' us for breakfast."

  "Very good, sir," Langlie replied, all dutiful and efficient a watch-stander… but for the faintest hint of a grin at the corner of his lips.

  Damn my eyes, was that a smirk? Lewrie fumed to himself. And it wasn't the first he'd seen in the last day or so, either, from one and all, even from Mr. Peel… once he'd gotten over his latest hangover. It was exasperating, but Lewrie strongly suspected that his parentage of Desmond McGilliveray was an open secret… which was to say it was no secret at all. But he'd be damned if he didn't rip the buttocks off the next person who found it amusing!

  And how the Devil he ever thought to keep their relationship a secret, he had no idea. After all, it wasn't every day that lofty Post-Captains in the Royal Navy befriended lowly gentlemen-in-training from anyone's navy (especially their own) unless they were blood kin, cater-cousins… or devotees of "the windward passage" on the prowl for pre-pubescent victims. No one who knew Lewrie would ever misconstrue him for a "back-gammoner" or secret "Molly," so that left kinship. He had hoped that distant kinship, some six-times-removed cousin on his wife's side, perhaps, could explain his sudden attentive doting, but that hope had been dashed. Too many people, from focs'le to taff-rails, from the orlop to the mast trucks, had cocked their heads aslant and made comparisons of their features, their very un-thought gestures, and had come to the correct conclusion. And they'd done it damned fast, damn 'em!

  Stood up side-by-side, he and Desmond McGilliveray were as alike as two peas in a pod.

  "There she goes, sir!" Lt. Langlie pointed out as Sumter turned at last, falling away Suth'rd and showing them her stern.

  Little good'll come of this, Lewrie told himself for what felt like the hundredth time. He could not imagine how young Desmond could improve his situation in Life by discovering that he was his bastard, not the dead Desmond's, a "bastardly gullion," really-the bastard son of a bastard. Maybe havin' more English blood than Indian makes a diff'rence, he mused; like bein' a Sacatra-Black, 'stead of a Griffe-Black in Port-au-Prince. Help him pass for lily-White, like the Sang-Meles, with one drop o' dark blood in an hundred? What'll he do, take an advertisement in the Charleston Post and Courier, and shout it out t'one and all? Brr!

  Such thought of adverting his kinship to the world could result in the article being picked up by London papers, which Caroline would read, and Devil take the hind-most then! Why, she'd sic assassins on him faster than the Beaumans could, for this final insult!

  Hopefully, whoever his dreaded anonymous scribbler was who sent those revelatory billets doux to Caroline that had ruined his Domestic Joy would never get wind of Desmond! Safely removed (in the relative sense) from that nameless scoundrel's purview, the "log" of his scandals had dried up… so far. And pray God the tale stayed as dry as a Barbary desert dune!

  Lewrie shook himself, rocked on the balls of his feet, and gave his neck and shoulders an easing roll to loosen the tension of intense observation and worry over young Desmond's foolish sky-larking. With an arch of his back, he turned to windward, dismissing Sumter and with her his secret shame.

  It was actually coolish, now that it was getting on for October, and the seas were no longer simmered by the tropic sun, so soaked up a lot less warmth to be blown along on the Trades. While not nippy, the winds were refreshing, and the late afternoon sunshine was milder, and balmier, not quite so ferocious. Once the sun was down, vanishing in a finger-snap as it did in these climes, the wind would be right up the stern, flooding through his transom sash-windows, cupped by the propped open windows of the coach-top over his cabins. Despite his qualms, he would sleep well tonight, he was certain.

  Sumter now sat flatter on her bottom, rapidly drawing away into the failing twilight, with yards angled and sails cupped to sail Large upon her "occasions." Though it was too far, now, to be discerned from her decks or fighting-tops, Lewrie raised a hand and waved her a pleased farewell.

  Despite all… he was a likely lad.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Soft Rabbit in a fashionable gown and picture hat was laughing with glee as he danced with her at Ranelagh Gardens, under the myriad candles, white-silk heeled shoes and stockinged ankles flirting under the froth of lace at her hems, whilst Theoni Connor stood and fanned herself near the string orchestra in livery and powdered wigs playing, inexplicably, a lively jig called "Go To The Devil And Shake Yourself." Theoni had a mug of ale in her other hand-and a Muskogee "papoosa" cross her back which bore twin boys, peering over one shoulder and beneath an armpit. Theoni was quite fetching in beaded buckskins, but a pair of gnarled, tanned, and sooty bare feet quite put him off, and…

  "Sir! Sir!" Midshipman Grace said in a harsh whisper near his bed-cot. "Mister Adair's duty, sir, and he says to tell you that the enemy is in sight, sir!"

  "Woof?" Lewrie grunted, pushing himself up from his face-down frog sprawl to an elbow. "Umm… where away?"

  "Two points off the starboard bows, sir, and almost hull-up to us, sailing about Nor'west-by-North… reefed down for the night, he said to tell you, sir!" Grace tumbled out with eagerness. "It is now a quarter-glass shy of Four Bells, and Mister Adair has doused all of our lights, soon as the starboard bow lookout sang out, and…!"

  "Very well, Mister Grace," Lewrie replied, shaking his head to clear the cob-webs; the cool air streaming into his cabins had put him into a deep, muzzy, and dizzying sleep, as he had expected the afternoon before. "Move, Toulon, there's a good cat!" he hissed as he flung off the sheet and quilt he'd drawn up sometime after he'd caulked out cold. Toulon was curled up atop the quilt, between his spread thighs, taking his sweet time to stretch at being wakened at such an ungodly hour.

  Aspinall had been summoned from his hammock a deck below in the after stores room, but was taking his sweet time arriving, too. Lewrie grabbed the first clothes his hands encountered off the back of a chair near his bed-cot and hurriedly dressed.

  "Mister Adair is to call all hands to Quarters, Mister Grace," he snapped as he drew a shirt over his head. "No pipes, no fifes and drums, and tell him I'll be on deck, directly. Go! Scamper, lad!"

  Shirt and breeches, shoes and coat, and no time to fool with a pair of stockings; a trundle cross the cabins to his arms rack for his hanger, and to hell with his hat. Within a frantic two minutes in the dark, he was out past the Marine sentry on the gun-deck and scampering up the starboard ladder to the quarterdeck scant moments ahead of the hands who'd come to strip his great-cabins of partitions, furniture, and fittings, to man the 12-pounders mounted right-aft.

  "Captain, sir," Lt. Adair reported, knuckling his forehead for a salute, instead of doffing his hat. "You can see her in the night-glass, sir… two points off the starboard bows. Three-masted, full-rigged, but reefed down to tops'ls, jibs, and spanker for the night."

  Lewrie accepted the heavy night-glass and lifted it to his eye, espying the strange ship, upside-down and backwards, as if sailing on a reciprocal course to her real one, due to requirements of the optics in the tube, as Lt. Adair prosed on to finish his report.

  "… about a half-hour before, sir, just looming behind Pointe Al-legre. Her
going Northerly, us fetching the point? Saw her lights, but we thought she was just a fishing smack, out night-trawling, 'til we got close enough for her sails to catch some moonlight, sir, and we divined how big she was."

  "Very well, Mister Adair. My compliments to the lookouts, and to your quick judgement regarding our taff-rail and binnacle lights. I will… ah, Mister Langlie? That you in the night-shirt, is it?"

  "Aye, sir," his First Lieutenant said, sounding sheepish about his catch-as-catch-can state of dress.

  "Hands aloft, and shake out the night reefs in the main and the mizen tops'ls, let fall one reef in the main course," Lewrie directed. "Waisters to the braces, and steer for a point ahead of her bows. She shows no sign of spotting us yet, and bows-on to her, she might not 'til we're close-aboard! Expect to engage with the larboard battery. And where's Mister Devereux?"

  "Here, sir," the Marine officer replied from near the larboard quarterdeck ladder. Lewrie could barely make him out by the sheen of his white silk shirt and white cotton breeches, quickly masked back to darkness by his batsman, who was pushing him into his red tunic, black in the faint moonlight of predawn. "Will you be requiring a boarding-party, pray God, sir?" Lt. Devereux enquired, carefully making his way over tackle, ring-bolts, and the neatly coiled jear and halliard lines by a series of shuffling, probing scuffles.

  "Sorry we've proved boresome of late, Mister Devereux," Lewrie said, chuckling. "Aye. Man the larboard gangway, and be ready to go over to her, should she prove to be hostile."

  There were many more comings and goings, with a deal of grunts, curses, and muffled yelps as less-careful or less-fortunate crewmen or officers stubbed their shoes or bare toes on deck obstructions in the darkness. Proteus thudded and slammed with the sounds of preparation for battle as sea-chests, furnishings, and partitions were slung below or out of the way, as gun-tools were fetched from the racks overhead of the raised mess tables one deck below; as shot, wadding, and powder cartridges began to come up from the rope-garlands or the magazine. A deaf man, Lewrie imagined, could have heard the ruckus aboard the ship off their bows, what with all the creaking and skreaking of the parrel balls binding the yards to the masts as they changed angles, the cries from the hoisting blocks, and the loud rustles of freed canvas as the night-reefs were unbound and the yards hoisted higher, the clew-lines drawing tauter, the halliards, and even the braces "sawing" cross wood belaying pins and the tops of the pin-rails.

 

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