Lewrie jerked his head back to look at Gamble, who started like a deer at a dog's barking, quickly lashing out to seize a musket from a seaman who'd been idling with a messmate, the butt on the deck, and one forearm draped casually over the muzzle as a hiking stick. Gamble scampered forward, musket at port-arms, and using it as a bludgeon to either hand to clear his way!
"Mutineer, sir!" Mr. Towpenny cried, putting his musket to his shoulder as if to aim. "One of the Hermiones! Knew him years ago, I did… know him anywhere!"
"Proteuses, seize that man!" Lewrie barked.
"Keep back!" the fugitive sailor shrieked, spinning to face the crew and levelling his musket to point at them from his hip. "Leave me be, or by Christ I'll shoot at least one o' ye! Keep back, I say!"
He swung the muzzle back and forth, frantically, daunting the few hands who had obeyed Lewrie's order. He climbed the larboard companionway ladder near the focs'le belfry to the gangway, near the larboard anchor cat-heads.
"Sir!" the seaman who had lost his musket called up. "Sir! 'At musket ain't loaded!" Mister Catterall wouldn't let us back aboard wif one!"
Lewrie tipped the sailor a wink, drew his sword, and took off at a quick trot down the larboard gangway. "Give it up, Gamble, or whatever your name is!" He forced himself to look stern and menacing, sure that the joke would soon be on their "armed" mutineer.
Hennidge looked down to his piece, used one hand to make sure it was at full cock again, and raised it, aiming at Lewrie's heart.
"Won't be taken, I won't! Back, ya tyrant, or I'll kill you, if it's the last thing ever I do!" Hennidge cried.
"Murder another officer, would you?" Lewrie snarled, sword extended and almost within reach of the muzzle. "There were ten slaughtered aboard Hermione … in their beds! Those not enough for you, Hennidge? Thrown overside, still alive but bleeding, even the wee midshipmen who pleaded for their lives. Have a hand in that, did you? Did you, you traitor?"
"An' all of 'em torturin' devils!" the man shot back, jabbing at Lewrie as if his musket had a bayonet to keep him back out of reach of his sword's tip. "They all deserved what they got, and more! Officers, God above! You're all monsters! Navy, merchant…!"
"The Spaniards didn't treat ya right?" Lewrie taunted, parrying with his hanger, forcing the sailor backwards. "No shower o' gold for handin' 'em a British frigate? No commission in their navy, no reward for you? Drop that musket… now! It's over. Nowhere to go…"
He grazed his sword blade down the musket barrel and forestock, threatening to slash the man's left wrist and fingers if he kept proper hold of it, forcing him back against the bulwarks, with no place to escape, sure that this made a great raree-show. "Give up!" he roared in the man's face.
Leap and lunge! Left hand round the muzzle to lever it up and away, right fist smashing his hanger's hilt and curved hand-guard into Hennidge's nose, making it explode in crimson, eyes crossed in pain!
Left knee into the crutch as he bulled forward, for good measure!
Give, before ya get! Lewrie snickered to himself.
As Hennidge dropped to his knees, Lewrie stepped back a pace and yanked hard to tear the useless musket away. Hennidge found breath to howl, right hand still clawing to keep his weapon by the fire-lock and one finger inside the brass trigger-guard, and… BLAM!
"Holy shit!" Lewrie screeched, flinging away the hot muzzle from his left hand. "You bastaren" he added, raising his sword and bringing the hard pommel down atop the man's head for sheer spite, as the spent powder smoke wreathed round his head and shoulders.
From sheer terror, Lewrie coshed him on the head again!
Sailors and Marines were beside him in an eyeblink to take hold of the mutineer and drag him toward the companionway to the gun-deck.
Fat lot of help you shits were! Lewrie fumed, gasping fit to a swoon, and his bowels dangerously loose; Unloaded, hey? Mine arse on a bandbox! Why, he could've… killed me! Aye, make a great show, now he's out cold! Pitch in, and look organised… if not brave!
"I'll have that sonofabitch in irons… double irons, at once, Mister Catterall!" Lewrie roared, once he'd got his breath back, picking on the first officer he spotted within easy reach. "Someone check my cabins for the list of descriptions of Hermione mutineers we were told to look out for. See Mister Padgett, my clerk, quickly now!"
"No need, sir," Mr. Towpenny assured him from the gun-deck. "I knew him. You peel off his shirt, here, you'll find two tattoos. He had one on his left upper arm, a Killick Anchor atop a heart. Seen it often enough when we were in Queen Charlotte t'gether, sir. Over his right shoulder blade, there should be a Saint Paul 's Cross, in green ink… protection 'gainst drownin', the tattoo man in Plymouth told him, sir. He's Martin Hennidge, sure enough, I'll swear a Bible Oath to it at a court, Cap'um. And admire t'see him hang for his sins."
Padgett came forward with the list, quickly raked out of the desk drawers aft in his cabins, and the written description, including tattoos, fit Gamble/Hennidge to a Tee.
Lewrie sheathed his hanger and stepped down to the gun-deck as Hennidge was sluiced with a bucket of sea-water and awakened, spluttering and moaning, already fettered and shackled to a 12-pounder shot.
"Sling his sorry arse below on the orlop," Lewrie ordered in a mellower mood. "Bread and water, only. Mister Langlie?"
"Here, sir."
"Our prisoner, and his return to justice, is more important than continuing our cruise," Lewrie instructed. "Once well Sou'east of the island yonder, shape course for Kingston."
"Aye, sir," Langlie replied, a foolish expression of awe, mixed with both relief and joy on his face. "Beg pardon, sir, but that deed was… just about the boldest, damnedest thing, ever I did see! You went for him without a blink, a thought for your safety…!"
Lewrie made the appropriate, and expected, deprecating gestures and clucking sounds, as if it was really nothing much, though all the while thinking: S posed t'be safe as houses. Un-thinking is the word for it! Damme, there must be easier ways t'keep a good name! Got to get aft…fore I squit my breeches!
"Don't quite know, myself, Mister Langlie," Lewrie said with a shake of his head, as if puzzled, heading sternward along the gangway. "Thank God for Mister Towpenny, or we'd have had this man aboard for years, all unknowing. Thought his story was queer, but…" Lewrie shrugged again.
"I'd admire to shake your hand, sir!" Langlie earnestly cried.
"Well, if you must, Mister Langlie," Lewrie answered, trying on a humble chuckle as he took hands with him, keeping a pleasant grin on his face, though he was, by gastric necessity, rather impatient.
"Three cheers for the Captain, lads!" Lt. Catterall yelled, not to be outdone. "Hip hip…!"
HMS Proteus trembled with the strength of their enthusiasm, the cheers almost feral in their intensity. And Lewrie caused a further outburst, when he drew out his pocket watch, noted the time, and said that after such a strenuous and rewarding morning's work, once they'd shaped course for Jamaica, the rum cask would be got up and everyone would "Splice The Mainbrace," with full and honest measure for all.
He did not stay on deck to share rum with them, though. He got the retrieved musket from a Marine private and stepped down to the gundeck to return it to Ordinary Seaman Fawcett, who had lost it.
"Not loaded, was it?" he hissed, almost in the lad's ear, as he leaned close. "Not charged or primed, hey?"
"Oh Gawd, sir, I'm sorry!" Fawcett gulped, eyes abrim with tears and shaking like a leaf. "I thought 'twas, oh Jesus…!"
"You're an idiot, Fawcett! The blitherin' sort!"
"Yessir?" the sailor cringed in dread and sorrow.
"Oh, for God's sake," Lewrie relented, stepping back, his urgent needs denying him a good and proper rant. "Go get your rum, and we'll say no more about it. But, by God you'll never, ever fetched a loaded weapon back aboard, again… will you."
He went up the ladder to the quarterdeck, stiff-legged and his buttocks pinched; struck a "captainly" pose for a second, hands behind his ba
ck, then ducked aft quickly. Bounding down the stern ladder to his cabins, he stripped off hat, coat, waistcoat, sword and belt, and dashed into his private quarter-gallery, slamming the door on Aspinall and a welcoming brandy. Even so, he barely made it. Fear, belated or not, worked its way on him better than an enema from Mr. Durant's clysters; so loose, rank, and gaseous that he had to fan the air.
After a moment or two, though, he had to laugh out loud. "God, people get knighted for less, and…!" Captain Alan Lewrie, RN, wheezed, biting on a fist to keep from braying, for all the world to hear.
"Don't know how fame and glory strike other people," he giggled, "but by God, they have an effect on me! Hee hee!"
"Out in a bit, puss!" Mewl Toulon cried, pawing the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lewrie had Lieutenant Langlie and Lieutenant Catterall in for a working supper, with Mr. Durant to aid in the translations. They had captured a brace of hogs from the brig Sycamores manger, quickly run over to Proteus in the cutter, and done to a crackly turn by their new ship's cook. Being a Yankee brig, she'd also carried several sacks of cornmeal which had gone into skillets to bake sweet, chewy muffins or pone bread for all hands, to replace hard ship's biscuit for a day or two. Mushy peas with melted cheese sauce, and breaded and fried onion accompanied the tender pork roast, making a fine victory feast, with promise of a piping-hot apple dowdy to come. It was only after a round oн port, with some biscuit and cheese, that the papers from the French privateer Incendiare were fetched out for study.
The bulk of it was dry, boresome, and innocuous; lists of needs and expenses for cordage, spars, canvas and tar, shot, powder and cartridge flannel (all pleasingly hard to come by on Guadeloupe at present, they noted), and the problems among her crew; the everyday life of a working ship.
Much more interesting were the former captain's letters from at least three ladies of Guadeloupe, all dated within days of each other, of a blue-hot ardent and salacious nature, which had them all guffawing, along with the former captain's attempts at draft letters that tried to keep them sorted out without repeating himself. Even racier was an unfinished and forlorn missive to his wife in Bordeau, practically weeping blue ink over missing her so grievously!
A good supper, fresh bread (of a sort), and the promise of prize money to come had them all in an expansive mood, Lewrie noted. Even Mr. Durant seemed to have laid aside his disenchantment over Hudson's place as the senior Surgeon's Mate, for the nonce, and joined in the mirth, holding up his end of the table conversation and putting down a fair and manly share of wine, even cracking droll jests before they got down to the business at hand. And in that business, letters that Incendiare s captain had received provided bright gems of interest.
"This'n from his wife, sir," Lt. Catterall said, holding up a page for better light from the four-lanthorn chandelier that swivelled and swayed over Lewrie's glossy dining table, "she writes that things are hotting up in the Mediterranean. An Admiral de Brueys-sounds as if her family knows his-has taken command of a three-decker by the name of L'Ocean, and a large number of line-of-battle ships… uhm, accompanied by over an hundred transports, for an expedition bound for somewhere."
Durant hid a snicker behind his port glass; it was true, then, that Catterall could read French, but couldn't pronounce it worth a tinker's damn, as he tried to expand eruditely. After two bottles' worth, he should have known better, Lewrie thought.
"In his journal, zere is similar mention," Mr. Durant stated, setting down his glass and opening a salt-stained book of ruled pages. "Ah… he speculates about zis armada, sirs. He is certain zat some tremendous victory will be won, and… rumour gained from Guadeloupe officials about one possible aim being ze island of Malta."
"Damme, that'd cut the Mediterranean in half," Langlie said. He refilled his port glass from the decanter that circled larboardly round the table as he spoke. "And with no help from the neutral and beaten Italian states, and Austria out of things, that'd leave Admiral Jervis where he was two years ago… chased back to Gibraltar or Lisbon."
"He regrets zey do not come to ze West Indies, sirs," Mister Durant read on, "and retake Martinique, or other former colonies… ah! Apparently, a General Bonaparte is in charge, and has a grander scheme in mind. He writes that perhaps the Balkans are the aim-"
"Bonaparte?" Lewrie grumbled, slapping the table. "Why, I've met the little bastard, in '93! Ran me out of the Adriatic, too, when he invaded Italy in '96, and beat the Austrians and Piedmontese like a dusty rug. Almost bagged me on the Genoese coast once, too. He's a dangerous man, I tell you. Never trust the dwarfish, gentlemen. He's no bigger than a minute, but slipp'ry as an eel…"
It need not be said that Lewrie was, by then, most cheerily in his cups, since he'd-By God-earned it, and was damned grateful to have breath in his body for use between sips. Unloaded? Jesus!
"Well, if he's busy conquering someplace Dago-ish, we'll not be plagued by him this summer at least," Catterall snickered, only a wee bit sozzled. His robust constitution came with a "hollow-leg."
"No ships to spare to oppose us. Good," Langlie contributed.
"And with their Atlantic ports blockaded so close, where else'd the Monsieurs get frigates or corvettes, with their Toulon fleet busy?" Catterall snorted.
"So the West Indies'll be safe 'til our 'liners' come back from Halifax, at the end of hurricane season," Lewrie reasoned out.
"Uhm… he expresses worry about American frigates, sirs," Mr. Durant continued, flipping through the private journal. "He was pursued by one off Dominica… he was run one hundred miles in a day."
"Recent?" Catterall demanded, eyes beginning to unfocus, after all, and starting to sound "bull-horned" drunk.
"Recently, yes, Mister Catterall," Durant replied.
"Must've been that Hancock, then," Catterall said with a grunt.
"I'd've run, too," Lewrie jokingly confessed, "whether she was over-sparred and un-handy, over-gunned or crank. She's a fearsome and fast beast."
"Privateers stand no chance on ze coast of America, now," Mr. Durant paraphrased. "Zey return to Caribbean waters, uhm… he suspects more American frigates… ah! Here is something, sirs. After ze break in relations, Paris determines to re-enforce zeir navy here… what ships zey may spare from Brest and L'Orient, bringing fresh troops and arms…"
Durant made a shrug and a moue.
"He rejoices, for L'Ouverture's victory over General Maitland," Durant cautiously said, "he congratulates ze noirs of Saint Domingue, and writes of hopes zat zey may be directed west to an invasion of Jamaica, rather zan east against Spanish Santo Domingo. But he does not trust zem, sirs, nor does he like zem. If zey go east, Spanish harbours might be closed to privateers."
"Be a good thing," Catterall huffed. "Tally-ho, Toussaint!"
"A mission diplomatique is to be sent to L'Ouverture, soon, as I read zis!" Durant cried, making them all sit up and take notice of such news. "Important officials who will ask L'Ouverture to reconcile with General Rigaud in South Province, so zeir armies may combine to attack Jamaica! And ask for a time of rest, so zey may build up his supplies first, and assemble suitable transports!"
"We must get this news to Kingston, at once," Lewrie declared. "Then rash right back, and hunt the delegation ship!"
"Pipe dreams, sir," Langue sadly said. "Their hopes for a try at Jamaica, that is. That'd take lots of ships, not a gaggle of potty little fishing boats, nor all their privateers as escort. Can't be done without proper ships of war, even with our ships of the line away 'til October or November."
"Unless Bonaparte really means to hit the Indies, not something in the Mediterranean," Lewrie objected. "I told you he was devious as the Devil! Look at the way he gammoned half a dozen brilliant Austrian generals by sayin' one thing, demonstratin' one thing, but doin' quite another fifty miles away. Anything more on that line, Mister Durant?"
"Zere is another entry, quite recent, Capitaine," Durant said, after wetting a finger to turn the pages. "Before he sails
north, to rendezvous with ze brig we capture, uhm… many privateer capitaines meet with an officer sent from Paris on the frigate zat delivers ze arms we take, a Capitaine de Vaisseau … a Post-Captain. He is under the Governor-General Hugues, to coordinate. He writes, 'If United States have turned belli gиrent, prey upon their merchantmen, those of useful burthen, and capture sufficient transport for future expeditionary use. Then, as re-enforcements arrive, under escort by ships from the Atlantic squadrons, both French and noir forces will combine for a descent upon islands now occupied by Albion,'… that is to say, us, gentlemen. The capitaine of Incendiare describes the new arrival as a most energetic and inspiring man… zough he expresses a troubling fear of him, due to his monstrous appearance, and his reputation as an ardent and ruthless chasseur of Royalists and seditionists during Ze Terror. He names him Le Hideux," Durant said, turning the book about so they could see the entry for themselves.
"Huh? Beg pardon?" Lewrie stammered, wishing that his senses were not quite so foxed, or his eyes so mutinous at focusing. "Le Hideux, did he call him?" He felt a cold, fey dread invade his body.
No, can't be! he quailed inside; Ikilled the dog! Didn't I?
"Oui, Le Hideux, Capitaine." Durant blithely continued reading from the journal. "Apparently, zis officer is deformed by many cruel wounds. He wears a black mask over ze right half of his face and his eye, to cover a blinding and a livid scar, it is rumoured. He has a bad limp, and must wear an iron brace over his boot to stand and uses a cane… which must be awkward for him, since his right arm is gone at ze shoulder. His name, he notes…" Durant paused. "Mon Dieu!"
"Guillaume Choundas!" Lewrie spat. "Mine arse on a band-box!"
"You know of him, aussi, Capitaine?" Durant asked, shivering.
"I killed him," Lewrie whispered. "Swear t'Christ, I thought I did, back in '96." He stared blank and pale at the far partitions.
"Sir?" Langlie gawped, eldritch-struck by such a reaction from his captain, by such an ominous, rabbit-across-one's-grave dread. "Did you say you… killed him, sir? Then…?"
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