A King`s Trade

CHAPTER TWO

In retrospect, perhaps-and one could safely assume that retrospection was an activity at which Alan Lewrie had come to excel over the course of a few months (and just might have been acclaimed as the champion retro-spector of the age… were prizes given for such, of course)-he really should have twigged to the fact that something was "rotten in Denmark" when he received that extremely odd, dare we say outre, invitation from Capt. Nicely, back in the summer when he was still based out of Kingston, Jamaica, to wit: Capt. Nicely requested that he be dined-in aboard Proteus by Capt. Lewrie, not the other way round.

Well, Nicely was a kindly sort, though a bit of a bull in the china shop, an aggressive, "but me not buts" sort, so Lewrie had thought little odd about it, at the time. Capt. Nicely had played "Dutch Uncle" to him since their first meeting at Port-au-Prince in 1797 and had supported his activities, dismissing the vituperative charges that the dyspeptic Capt. Blaylock had tried to lay against Lewrie for not breaking off his bombardment of the rebel-slave army besieging the port of Mole St. Nicholas and giving Blaylock his mooring to try his hand at it. Nicely's dislike for Blaylock might have had a hand in it, for they'd heartily despised each other as hotly as the Devil hates Holy Water since their Midshipmen days.

Ever the encouraging and supportive sort was Nicely, even when he'd as good as "press-ganged" Lewrie into a knight-errant's crusade against those French Creole pirates who'd stolen one of Lewrie's prizes from the anchorage at Dominica, even when he'd usurped Proteus right out from under him to be Nicely's "squadron of one" to chase them into Spanish Louisiana, then sending Lewrie up the Mississippi in civilian guise to hunt them on their home ground, shivering and farting with dread, and…

But, no… Lewrie had blithely shrugged it off as just one more quirk of a neck-or-nothing man. After all, he'd survived it, barely, and the expedition had fetched them all ?200,000 to share, gained all participants-the leaders most especially-plaudits in London papers, and the gratitude of their superiors for a job well done. As for Capt. Nicely, it had gotten him out of the dry and thankless post of Staff Captain, ashore in Admiralty House on Kingston Harbour 's Palisades, and gotten him back afloat in command of a mighty 44-gun frigate. And, let Nicely hoist a broad pendant as commander of a wee squadron-even if said broad pendant still bore a white ball to show Nicely was not yet a Commodore, due a Flag-Captain to run her.

Better yet, HMS Proteus had received orders assigning her, and her suddenly moderately-wealthy captain, to be part of that squadron of two frigates, a sloop of war, and two armed brigs, which would soon sail off on a new expedition to prowl the coasts of French Guiana and the Dutch isles off the shoulder of South America and the Spanish Main.

And, as captain of the only other frigate in the squadron, was not Lewrie second-in-command to Nicely, no matter that he had not yet attained the right to wear a second epaulet on his shoulders, and was still a Post-Captain of Less than Three Years' Seniority?

Given Capt. Nicely's knacky wits, and his bellicosity when it came to trouncing the King's enemies, it had promised to be a fruitful cruise… so long as Nicely didn't order Lewrie to sneak ashore as a Spanish grandee or mule-skinner and play spy one more time, that is.

Little wonder, then, that Lewrie had cocked his head over that invitation, had muttered something akin to "Hmmpf, well o' course," and had tossed it into the scrap drawer, and didn't give the matter a second thought, except for what he should serve for a working dinner, and for how many. And, given how badly Capt. Nicely had fared aboard Proteus with Toulon and Chalky whilst Lewrie was away in New Orleans, what he should do with his cats.

It did strike Lewrie as odd that Capt. Nicely came aboard alone, with nary a one of the squadron's other captains in tow, not even his own First Officer, which had prompted two thoughts in Lewrie's head: first, Oh, good… more leftovers for tonight's supper, followed by Oh, shit, he's got some harum-scarum plan in his head, again! A plan which might, indeed, require Lewrie to swot up on his Spanish, Dutch, or French, and quickly master plausible skills at donkey-tending!

Capt. Nicely had proved to be popular with the crew, his recent exploits earning every Man Jack a pretty penny, so it was with happy smiles and waving hats that Proteus' s hands had turned out to welcome Nicely aboard, beyond the formality of the side-party, the shrilling bosuns' calls, and the stamping of Marines in full kit.

"Hallo, lads!" Capt. Nicely had joyfully cried, waving his own hat back at them. "Spent your prize-money, yet, you rogues, ha ha? Or, did you owe your Purser too much for tobacco, what?"

That had gotten him a laugh, and a jeer or two at their "Nip-Cheese," Mr.

Coote, as all Pursers were termed.

"Seeing as how 'tis just before Seven Bells of the Forenoon," Nicely had further said, "and Proteus is well-anchored, with none but the harbour watch to stand, with your captain's permission…?" he had looked over at Lewrie, cocking a brow 'til Lewrie nodded his agreement, "I propose that you 'Splice the Main Brace'!" Nicely had cried down to the waist, giving leave for every man and boy to have a full rum issue, with no sips or gulps owed among them to lower the brimming measure.

"And, do you come this way, sir," Lewrie had offered, gesturing aft, "we'll 'splice' our own. I've a case of fine French claret."

"Delighted!" Nicely had cried; though his eyes had been shifty. Once below, with Aspinall and Andrews, Lewrie's long-time Black Cox'n, to take charge of hats, swords, and such, Capt. Nicely shied a bit, peering about intently, though managing to hide most of his nervousness deuced well. "It, ahh… you've re-painted lately, have ye, Lewrie?" "Nossir, not in some time, why?" Lewrie said as he did honours with the first ready-opened and breathing bottle with his own hands.

"It smells… fresher than I recall," Nicely tentatively allowed, accepting a semi-conical, low-stemmed, and footed glass from him.

"Oh, the cats, d'ye mean, sir," Lewrie replied with a well-hid simper. "Don't know quite what got into 'em, when you were aboard. A tribe that don't brook 'change' all that well, I've discovered. A new person where their master usually is… pining for me, as well, sir? My apologies, again, for what harm they did

your things."

Far aft in the bed-space, Lewrie could espy two pairs of ears, two sets of hard-slit and wary eyes, perhaps even two noses, one with pink nostrils, the other grey, lurking over the top of his extra pillow and the folded-up coverlet, in his wide-enough-for-two hanging bed. Where, he fervently hoped at that moment, they would be content to stay… muttering only the faintest spiteful "Mrrrs," scheming nothing.

"Delightful creatures," Nicely intoned without even attempting to sound convincing.

"And didn't they take to you, just, sir!" Lewrie couldn't help saying as he led Nicely to the dining-coach and a seat at the table.

"Ummm… yayss," Nicely rejoined, "and aren't you so fortunate?"

High summer in Jamaica, even with wind scoops erected at every hatchway, the awnings rigged tautly over the quarterdeck against direct sunlight, and all the transom or coach-top windows of the great-cabins opened, mitigated against a heavy repast. They'd begun with a thin but spicy chicken broth, which was followed by freshly-caught red snapper with lemon and clarified butter sauce, and boiled carrots. Green salad with shredded bacon and oil-and-vinegar cleansed the palate for a main course of de-boned pork chops served with fried potato wedges and middling dollops of mushy peas, which repast required the opening of some hock with the fish, soup, and salad, and a second bottle of claret with the chops.

Not a single word was said about their coming mission far to the South'rd, of French and Spanish foes sheltered at Aruba or Curacao, at Caracas or Cartagena, nor what dangers lurked in the port of Cayenne, or the marshy inlets of French Giuana, and Lewrie had begun to squirm a bit, waiting for a particularly ugly, but "inspired," shoe to drop.

It was expected, of course, that naval officers never discussed Politics, Religion, Women, or "Work" in the mess, so… perhaps after?

It was only once the tablecloth had been whisked away, the sweet biscuits and mixed nuts, and the port bottle, had been set out, that a nigh-broody Capt. Nicely had appeared to wince, or steel himself for a secret discussion, requesting that Aspinall make himself scarce.

Secret doings? Lewrie had wondered; Or… look out, here comes another of his brain storms, with me up t'my neck in the quag, again.

"So… what is it to be, sir?" Lewrie had prompted, scooting up closer to the table, expecting to hear Capt. Nicely whisper revelations about secret sailing times, sealed orders for rendezvous out at sea, so the French, who still had informers on Jamaica despite efforts to root them out, would hear nothing of the squadron's destination, or its formation, 'til it was much too late.

That, or another miserable spell of dirty-work for Lewrie.

"These… walnuts?" Nicely had grumpily asked, instead, with his face screwed up like a hanged spaniel as he nibbled on one.

"Uh… no, sir," Lewrie said, topping off his glass of port and passing it down-table. "American pecans," he informed Nicely, saying it the way he'd heard it from Capt. Randolph of the USS Oglethorpe from whom he'd obtained them. "Pee-cans… Georgia pee-cans."

"Hmmpf," Nicely had muttered, clearing his palate with the port, and pouring himself another rather quickly, too, tossing that one back uncharacteristically quickly. He poured himself a third, but let that one sit 'twixt his hoary hands, and gave it a long glare before looking at his host.

"Uhm… bad news, I fear, Lewrie," Nicely had begun, at last. "A matter's arisen which, ah… may preclude your participation in my squadron's mission, d'ye see."

"Some other duty, then, sir?" Lewrie had asked, feeling, in the following order: disappointment to miss a straightforward adventure; some relief that he'd not be handy, did Nicely get a wild hair up his nose, and need some derring-do done; who the Devil had requested him for something else, and how much worse might that be?

"Not, ah… quite," Nicely had struggled on, obviously loath to bear bad news, but… "I shall be… we shall be, sorry to lose your inestimable services on the West Indies Station."

"I'm t'go somewhere else, sir?" Suspicious, indeed, that.

"Far and fast, I fear," Nicely had gloomed. He wriggled as if the crutch of his breeches had suddenly pinched a testicle. "There's the matter of all those damned Samboes of yours, Lewrie. Your Cuffy sailors. More to the point, where and when you got 'em, d'ye see."

"Ah? Hmm, hey?" Lewrie flummoxed, like to cough up half of a lung suddenly. That was not the ugly shoe he'd expected to be dropped!

"I did note, and wonder, where ye'd found so many free Black volunteers, the weeks I was aboard, whilst you were away, but…" his squadron commander had said, doing some fidgetting of his own.

They're going to hang me! the irrational part of Lewrie's brain screeched at him. The rational half was too stunned to put forth any opinion. I'm caught, red-handed! Christ, shit on a …!

" 'Tis the Beauman family, d'ye see," Nicely had carped. "A dozen of their slaves ran off one night. Nothing too odd about it, at first glance. One of the risks of slave-holding, with all the tales of the Maroons who've fled into the Cockpit Country, or the Blue Mountains… where the Beaumans thought they'd run, even was that plantation right on the sea, on the South coast, and rather far from Maroon territory."

"Ah… gerk!" had been Lewrie's sagacious reply, and his heart banging away like Billy-Oh, about two inches below his tonsils, it felt like. "Bother ye for the port, if you're…?" he asked, trying damned hard not to stammer. "Then, so, sir?" he managed to state.

"Organised as the Maroons are," Nicely had gone on, "it wasn't beyond credence to think that they couldn't arrange an escape for any number of slaves determined enough to join them. And, God knows word can pass secret 'twixt house and field slaves, and runaways, quicker than their masters could manage. No, Lewrie… 'twas only after the Beaumans managed to find witnesses who said that a darkened ship was in Portland Bight that very night that they began to suspect that the runaways might have had some help, and the ex-slave Maroons are not in possession of many boats, none larger than canoes and such, so…"

"Perhaps a French, or Spanish, privateer, that…" Lewrie tried to say, with a puzzled shrug.

"Then, there was all that folderol 'twixt your friend, Colonel Cashman of that West Indies regiment the Beaumans raised to put down the slave rebellion on Saint-Domingue, and the family," Capt. Nicely had gravelled reluctantly on, "the duel that followed the accusations slung about after that pot-mess of a battle outside Port-au-Prince, just before the withdrawal of all British forces… cowardice charges by Cashman, 'gainst the younger Beauman… Ledyard Beauman, was it?"

Lewrie could only vaguely nod; he did not trust himself to speak.

"Incompetence charges in reply, then that duel!" Nicely sniffed in gentlemanly outrage at what a shambles that had turned out to be… Ledyard Beauman too scared or drunk to obey the niceties, firing at Cashman's back before "Kit" could turn, stand, and receive; Cashman drilling the foppish bastard in the belly; Ledyard's second, a cousin, Captain Sellers from the disbanded regiment, tossing Ledyard a second pistol and drawing his own; and Lewrie, as Cashman's second, shooting him dead, too, and…

"Your friend sold up and sailed for America, right after?"

"Uhm, aye, he did, sir," Lewrie answered, sensing a reprieve if Kit Cash-man was suspected. "Good Lord, Captain Nicely, ye don't think that Christopher had a…! Well, I'm damned if…!"

"The Beaumans did, at first," Nicely had intoned, so solemnly that Lewrie felt that faint hope shrink like a deflating pig bladder.

"Spite, sir, pure and simple!" Lewrie managed to declaim.

"Spite, perhaps, on Colonel Cashman's part," Nicely countered. "A parting jape on the whole detestable Beauman clan, and an expensive one. For, wherever your friend Cashman lit in the United States, the dozen fit and young slaves would prove useful in a new farming venture, or a source or ready funds, if not, but…"

Nicely had drawn out that "but," turning it into a descending glissando worthy of a dying diva's final aria, nailing the first spike into the coffin lid by adding, "Of late, though, Hugh Beauman, head of their clan, has heard-tell that your crew has quite a few more Cuffy sailors in it than the usual frigate so long on station in the Caribbean."

"Why, those bastards!" Lewrie spluttered, summoning up every shred he could muster that even resembled righteous indignation, and whey-faced innocence. "Cashman slew Ledyard, /killed one of Hugh's cousins, so…! Before your time, sir, in my midshipman days during the American Revolution, Lucy Beauman and I were, ah… friendly. We even considered a union, should I earn a commission, but the Beaumans would have none of it. Almost had t'duel one of 'em then! Barred the house, Lucy and I cut off…!"

He pointedly didn't supply that he'd been rogering a scandalous older "grass-widow" on the side whilst trying to squire Lucy, that he had escorted Hugh's married sister, Anne, about town unchaperoned one day, and not his fault, that faux pas in gentlemanly behaviour.

"So I have learned, Lewrie," Nicely had sternly muttered. "Just as I'm aware of the Beaumans' threats on your life following the duel, which Mister James Peel of the Foreign Office took seriously enough to discover to me, and get you and Proteus safely out to sea, and out of their reach. We are all aware of that."

"Ah… we, sir?" a stalwart Capt. Lewrie had quailed.

"Well, of course, we, sir!" Nicely had barked, obviously grown weary with tip-toeing and shilly-shally. "Me… Peel, Admiral Sir Hyde Parker, the island governor, Lord Balcarres…" he ticked off on his blunt fingers. "Spiteful, vengeful calumnies laid against you by men who've held grudges against you since the '80s may not be deemed sufficiently actionable beyond an initial enquiry. But…"

The dying diva warbled again.

Didn't know he liked German operas, Lewrie fearfully thought at the mere mention of "enquiries." One look aboard by the Beaumans, and he'd meet up with "Captain Swing," and why the Hell had he thought the theft of a dozen slaves, no matter how perishing-bad he'd needed hands to man his ship, could escape notice forever? A semi-drunken evening with "Kit" Cashman after the defeat and withdrawal from Saint-Domingue, as Cashman was closing his accounts and preparing to emigrate; "Kit" sniggering as they schemed a way to punish the Beaumans, and, indeed, it was meant to be an expensive, parting jape against them, hitting them where it would hurt them the worst… in their pocket books! A way for Lewrie to flesh out his under-strength crew, with

Cashman even offering to urge some of his White ex-soldiers from the disbanded regiment to sign aboard as Marines…!

"Such scurrilous charges 'gainst a Commission Sea Officer, and one so successful, and valuable to the Crown, well!" Capt. Nicely had sniffed again with prim anger. "Baseless charges, of course… Well, we feel that the repute of the Royal Navy should not be tainted with such, so… that is why we thought it best, all round, were you, and Proteus, to be sent away on other duties, Lewrie." As he said that, Capt. Nicely had squirmed on his chair like a Hindoo fakir trying for a comfortable spot on his bed of nails.

"Ah, hmm," Lewrie had responded with an audible gulp of relief. "So, how far d'ye think I…?"

"There's despatches in need of transport to Halifax," Nicely said with a vague wave of his hand, and a cutty-eyed expression on his face. "Hellishly boresome place, Halifax. Fogs, rocks, and shoals… deuced hot summers for that far north, mosquitoes big as wrens, swarms of them as thick as, well… fogs. Nothing much there, but for their dockyard and store houses. What the town was settled for, to service ships on the North American Station, and a seasonal haven for line-of-battle ships from our station, as well. Excellent yard facilities, I know, though. And, isn't Proteus in need of a bottom cleaning, and a re-coppering? "

"Well, there is that, sir," Lewrie had perked up.

"Of course, with our liners from the Caribbean ready to head up that way, soon, Halifax might be a tad too busy fulfilling their needs, so you may end up swinging round the anchor for a considerable bit of time, before they get round to your case."

Oh, don't say case! Lewrie had most illogically thought, ready to titter with relief; Did I say "case "? Silly old me!

"So, I should look to closing my shore accounts, d'ye mean, sir?" Lewrie asked, sure then that his departure would be something quicker than "instanter," and he didn't need to add dunnings from tailors and chandlers to his troubles.

"May you achieve all that by dawn tomorrow, it'd be best."

"Dawn! Ah ha," Lewrie had gloomed, with a benumbed nod.

"Frivolous, detestable, spiteful…" Capt. Nicely had mumbled, intent on nibbling Georgia "pee-cans," giving them his whole attention, unable to look at Lewrie, or unwilling to do so. And Lewrie wasn't so sure whether Nicely had been griping about the Beaumans, or him! He'd also noticed that Nicely hadn't, or couldn't, put Lewrie to a question of whether the Beaumans' suspicions were true. What Nicely didn't know, he could not testify to in a court of law, should it come to it!

"Well, of course they are, sir!" Lewrie had spat.

Nicely had squirmed some more, his eyes nicking about as if in search of a basin of water and a towel, like a Roman governor about to remand a felon back to the Court of The Sanhedrin-or so Lewrie's fervid imagination could conjure at that instant.

"Sail under Admiralty Orders," Nicely had grunted, "fly colours of an 'independent ship,' all that."

"Written orders, sir?" Lewrie had had wit enough to press. The last thing he needed was to be charged with stealing his own frigate!

"Oh, most assuredly, sir," Capt. Nicely had chirped. Meaning that Vice-Adm. Parker would treat his departure as a trivial matter of a minor refit for a hard-used frigate, which could carry despatches to Halifax at the same time, and could later swear that he'd known not a blessed thing about any legal charges. Nicely's signature would not be on those orders, either; nor would Lord Balcarres's, or Peel's, or anyone else's. "Can't have you just swanning off whenever… damme!"

Nicely might have said more anent the matter, but was startled by faint brushings of fur against his well-blacked, fashionable boots, as Lewrie's cats, Toulon and Chalky, took that moment to gird up their not very considerable courage to make musky rencontre of their former cabin-mate.

Though the cats had made a fuss over Nicely when he'd first gotten aboard to supplant Lewrie, once their master was gone it was another matter, and they'd tormented the man… mostly with piss! Stockings, shoes, linens, sheets, and mattress, dressing robe abandoned on the back of a chair, uniforms laid out near to-hand atop his sea-chests, and the contents of the chests, too, if carelessly left open… all had gotten Toulon's and Chalky's "liquid blessings"! Teeth and wee claws had marked Nicely's boots, sword-belt, and leather scabbard covering, too, and his bright brass or gilt brassards, buttons, or sword fixtures had gone a gangrenous shade of green by the time Lewrie had come back aboard.

"Why, those…!" Nicely had barked, like to lift his boots from assault, draw his knees to his chest, or climb atop his chair and let out a screech like a lady who'd seen a mouse. "Why… there are the little darlings," he'd pretended to coo, instead, after he'd gotten past the urge to kick them as far as the stern transom settee. Only to be polite to his host!

"Aspinall?" Lewrie had called out. "I assume we've nothing more private to discuss, Captain Nicely, so I might…?"

"Aye, have him in," Nicely had quickly agreed.

"Thought you were keeping an eye on the cats, lad," Lewrie said as his steward returned.

"Oh, I woz, sir. 'Twoz feedin' 'em tasty scraps, but…"

"If you'd… herd 'em aft, for a bit longer, I'd be grateful," Lewrie had gently bade him.

"O' course, sir. Here, lads! Come, Toulon! Come, Chalky, an' here's more bacon shreds for ye, there's th' good littl'un!" Aspinall coaxed, as they trotted for the day-cabin, tails fully erect. Once by Lewrie's desk, though, the cats did take a moment to gloat over their little shoulders, lick their chops, and seem to grin at each other as if highly pleased with themselves!

"I'll see you to the deck, if that is all you, ah…" Lewrie offered, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and rising.

"Ah, well, aye," Nicely had replied with a sigh, setting aside his own napkin, and getting to his own feet. "One last thing, sir."

"Aye?"

"Sir Hyde, and Lord Balcarres, both bade me relate to you that they appreciate all you've achieved since coming under their command, Lewrie," Nicely had whispered to him. "They, and I, think you much too valuable an officer to be sacrificed. Though we all consider you the damnedest fool… should the Beaumans' suspicions hold even a drop of water. Sir Hyde particularly stressed his approval of your fighting qualities, your, ah… unorthodox way of achieving whatever you're set to accomplish. We, all of us, wish you to know that, should you have need of patronage in future, you may… should the Beau-mans insist on laying false charges… count on our support."

And, were the charges true, Lewrie would end swinging in small circles in the wind, at the end of a fresh, new rope, it went without saying!

"I'll miss ye, Lewrie, 'deed I shall," Nicely had said, by way of gruff departure. "Best of luck, young sir," he added, offering his hand for a fierce shake.

"Thank you for that, sir… for all you've done for me in the past… truly," Lewrie had soberly answered, realising that the thing was still afoot, that formal charges for grand theft could follow him wherever a mail-packet could go, and, unless he walked away from his ship in a foreign port, there could always be a British court near to hand to find him and haul him before its bench.

"I really do like you, Lewrie," Nicely had declared, then, as fiercely as privacy allowed. That was as far as he could go, though; that was all he'd allow himself to say on the matter.

"I hope we have the chance to serve together, again, sir," he had replied to that. "Goodbye, sir. May you have a successful cruise down there against the Frogs and Dons, and continued success in your career."

"Thankee, Captain Lewrie, thankee," Nicely had gruffly said.

Then it had been time for them to call for their swords, hats, and marks of dignity, then go out onto the main deck; up to the quarterdeck, then the starboard gangway as the side-party had assembled, and the strict ritual for the departure of a senior officer was performed. Proteus's crew, Black and White, still mellow from that rum issue, and their own mid-day meal, had doffed their hats and raised a second cheer for good old Capt. Nicely.

And Lewrie had stood by the entry-port, hat raised high over his head in salute to watch Capt. Nicely enter his barge and be rowed away to his bright, new frigate… and had suddenly never felt so alone in all his born days.