Havoc`s Sword

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ah, Captain Lewrie," Peel said after he had gotten back aboard Proteus, and had made it below to his great-cabins. Peel was sitting in the dining-coach, in the middle of writing a letter, to his master Mr. Pelham Lewrie supposed as he tore open his neck-stock, unbuckled his sword belt, and removed his coat. "You're back, at last. I have been meaning to discuss your idea with you… that'un you proposed on deck, yesterday, concerning the, uhm…" Peel enigmatically said with a vague wave of his hand in Aspinall's direction.

"Oh, yes?" Lewrie responded, feigning idle interest, and making his face a placid Englishman's mask again. "I'd relish a ginger beer, Aspinall, there's a good fellow. The Americans served cold tea when I was aboard Sumter just now."

"The decoction in which I indulge, sir," Mr. Peel told him, all chirpy and pleasant, as if yesterday's bitter argument hadn't happened.

Lewrie answered, "With ice, sir. The Yankees still had a small supply of their Massachusetts ice aboard. Worth its weight in gold with the Dons, one of their merchant masters informed me." He took a seat at the table, across from Peel.

"I am suddenly jealous, sir!" Peel said with a groan of envy at the prospect, and made a moue of faint distaste at his mug of tea. I suppose we shall not see the like 'til the first American traders call at Kingston next spring, alas."

"Yer beer, sir," Aspinall said, fetching Lewrie a foaming mug.

"Thankee, Aspinall, that'll be all for a bit," Lewrie said with a brief smile. "Do you take a turn on deck and get some air. Cabins are stuffy, God knows, even with the canvas chutes rigged."

"Aye, sir, and I will," his man-servant replied, departing with a long hank of spun-yarn he quickly fetched from what was left of his tiny day-pantry, so he could continue his sennet-work.

"So, you've considered the idea, have you, Mister Peel?" Lewrie said once they were alone. He could not show as much keen interest in what Peel decided, for, frankly, the developments aboard Sumter had made the quickly spun scheme quite fly his head. He could sham renewed interest, though… and trust that fear of rejection would explain a lack of greater enthusiasm in his demeanour.

"I have, sir," Peel stated. "Once I had, uhm… cooled off a bit, d'ye see?" He made another moue, tossed off a shrug, and chuckled softly. "And I've come to the conclusion that encouraging Choundas in imagining that he's a traitor in his vicinity is actually a rather neat piece of mis-direction… one which I am sure that Mister Pelham would approve, were he here. One, frankly, which he might have dreamt up himself, was he privy to the intelligence we just discovered."

"Excellent!" Lewrie crowed, slapping the dining table with his open palm. "Capital! And I am certain that you've concocted a scheme for getting our prisoners back to Guadeloupe, and blabbing what you wish to Choundas. It'll be a clever bit, knowing you, Mister Peel. More subtle than any / could have come up with on short notice. Mean t'say," Lewrie gushed, then paused, thinking that he was laying on the praise a bit too thick for Peel to credit, so soon after their howling snit. He had a very large and heavy "shoe" which he was about to drop on the long-suffering bastard's head, after all, and it would be nice to agree on something, anything!, before dropping it.

"Well, sir," Peel continued, though he did pause a bit, himself, to give Lewrie the tiniest chary look. "Captain Haljewin was the one sprung the idea of a spy on Choundas, from what I gathered whilst interrogating the man. Haljewin had bags of unguarded time since his capture to converse with the French captain and his mates, as separate interrogations with them revealed. They are all now convinced that someone on Guadeloupe betrayed them to us last night, and I was careful to leave them with the impression that they weren't far wrong… without actually confirming the existence of a spy, or spies. But neither did I go out of my way to deny it, d'ye see, Captain Lewrie!"

Let him have joy of it, Lewrie thought; preen gladsome, for now.

"During my interrogations, I also discovered that Choundas has a rather small, but trusted, staff," Peel went on almost happily, in his element, privy to things Lewrie didn't know, and glad to impart them "There's a Captain Griot, commanding a corvette name of Le Gascon A Breton, and you know what stock Choundas puts in his ancient Celts and Veneti warriors… men of the ancient blood, and all."

"God, yes," Lewrie agreed. "Mad for 'em."

"His other corvette is commanded by a Captain MacPherson, one of those emigre Scots who fled after the Battle of Culloden. He was born in France, but his parents were minor Scots aristocracy. Most-like landed gentry, in the 'squirearchy' with but dim and distant relation to a proper 'laird.' In France, though, 'til the Revolution, they were awarded the title of Chevalier. Or, bought it. King Louis's court at Versailles was as corrupt as the Ottoman Turks'. But, Captain MacPherson is Catholic! A breast-beater of the staunchest sort, hmm?"

"A fallen aristo, and a Papist, to boot?" Lewrie said with a chuckle. "That'd make him doubly suspect to the Directory in Paris… all the anti-religion cant they spout. There's bishops back home now calling France the Anti-Christ, already. He your choice, then?"

"In a pinch, he'd serve main-well, I do confess," Peel laughed, "though he's reckoned a superb officer and ship-handler. Rather popular with his officers and men. Well thought of, in general."

"Oh well, then," Lewrie said with a shrug, and a sip of beer.

"Should a well-liked and trusted man be labeled a spy and traitor, sir, and were enough proofs manufactured to convince Choundas and Hugues of his guilt," Peel merrily plotted, "the implications of that strike much wider and deeper than Guadeloupe. Firstly, if a man like MacPherson can't be trusted, then who can? And secondly, would it not set off a frenzy of Jacobin revulsion 'gainst Catholics in France? Or create a Catholic resistance to the Directory, and the Revolution? Do you see the possibilities, sir? They're breathtaking!" Peel exulted.

"Oh!" Lewrie gasped. "It'd set off another Terror, worse than the one of Ninety-three! Half their people'd be witch-findin' among the other half, and everyone'd be suspect. They'd keep their guillotines workin' round the clock!"

"Decimating their officer corps, purging it all over again, of capable people, and promoting the rabid fools most loyal to the Republic from the rear ranks to the officers' mess," Peel chortled in glee as he contemplated the reach of his scheme.

"Turning Ordinary Seamen into Post-Captains," Lewrie added with an evil snicker.

"Aye, he'd do right-wondrous, this MacPherson fellow. But he may be a bit too straight for our purposes," Peel went on. "Choundas maintains a very small staff, as I said. There is his aide-de-camp, his flag-lieutenant I suppose you'd say in naval parlance. Jules Hainaut. A Lieutenant de Vaisseau, now. Just a midshipman, an Aspirant, the last time we dealt with Choundas in the Mediterranean. Recall him, do you?" Peel asked, tongue-in-cheek sly.

"No, not really," Lewrie replied, frowning.

"You should. You captured him," Peel informed him, enjoying a look of surprise on Lewrie's phyz. "Thatch-haired lout, looked like a swineherd? Tattered uniform, all out at elbows and knees?"

"Perhaps," Lewrie had to confess his ignorance. "Can't really say. Hmmm… wasn't Dutch or something, was he? My old clerk Mister Mountjoy had to interview him? Hmmm, it'll come to me."

"The very fellow," Peel insisted. "The sort who'd sell his own mother, did she fetch a good knock-down price, Mister Twigg determined. Parrots the right slogans, toadies with the best of 'em, and fawns on Choundas, so he can trade on his fearsome repute, so the Frog prisoners say. A right bastard, in their opinion, one of the charming rogues. For some reason, though, Choundas has sent him away from him, after near-doting on the young sprog all these years. Appointed him aboard that new auxiliary man o' war schooner, and he's most-like at sea now."

"Think Choundas has tumbled to him, at last?" Lewrie enquired. "Or gotten fed up with his ways?"

"It happened after Captain Haljewin first brought up the topic of a spy who'd betrayed his ship, and that frigate we smashed," Peel hinted, tapping the side of his nose. "If this Hainaut would sell up his mother for pocket-money, perhaps Choundas suspects he'd be open to a shower o' British guineas, hmm?"

"But he's at sea, now, like you said," Lewrie pointed out to him. "How could he have betrayed our prize to us?"

"Unless Hainaut was part of a whole cabal of agents," Mr. Peel countered, "and the very thought of that'd have Choundas, and Hugues, puttin' half the island through 'questions' worthy of the Spanish Inquisition… torture chambers, and all."

"Is that what you intend, then, Mister Peel?" Lewrie asked, in awe of his daring, now that Peel was hitting his full devious stride.

Dear Lord, what've I started? Lewrie had to ask himself.

"Lastly, there's Choundas's long-time clerk," Peel told him in a less enthusiastic manner, after a calming sip of tea. "He's known as 'The Mouse.' Frightened to death of working for Choundas, but too scared to leave his employ by now, I'd reckon. Knows where too many bodies are buried, all that. Meek as a catch-fart, scorned and abused by one and all. There's no love lost 'twixt him and Choundas. None lost where Hainaut's concerned, either. Who better to make a target than Choundas's sorry little long-suffering clerk, who has access to every secret and every move, and Choundas's every idle musing, hmm?"

"So," Lewrie posed, growing tired of Peel's machinations; there was a surprise to spring, a ship to get under way before dark, and the precious time in which to do both was quickly wasting. "I defer to you as to which you intend to give to Choundas, if you haven't done so already… let something 'oh so accidentally' slip to our prisoners? Or will you require them to stay aboard a while longer before clueing them in?"

"Impatient for them to go, Lewrie?" Peel asked him.

"The longer they're aboard, the more they might pick up of our doings, is all," Lewrie countered with a minor lie of dis-interest in them. "You can't keep secrets for very long aboard a ship, without a hint of it leakin' forrud, you know that. You've seen it. Better if we foist 'em off to the Prize Court ashore, on parole or gaoled, like we would with your run-of-the-mill enemy civilian prisoners. Else, we make 'em wonder why we treated 'em diff'rent, and start thinkin' about the 'why' of it, and there's your scheme taken with a grain o' salt as soon as Choundas grills 'em. Mind you, Mister Peel, he's a suspicious old shit. What's kept him alive and thrivin' all this time, hey?"

"You're absolutely right, Captain Lewrie," Peel responded, perking up with new determination and energy. "We can't risk them picking up the slightest thing that might blow the gaff, as you sailormen are wont to say. They must be put ashore at once. But with no unseemly haste, of course."

"Of course," Lewrie agreed, much relieved that Peel was amenable to his suggestion.

"With strict instructions that the Prize Court officials repatriate them soonest," Peel schemed on, rising to his feet to pace. "A week or so, do you think would be the customary usage?"

"Well, good luck with that," Lewrie said, sorry to disabuse him. "The Court officials are the worst pack o' drunk, slovenly layabouts lever I've encountered. Might take 'em weeks to recall they have prisoners. Might have t'bribe 'em. They're venal enough."

"Damn!" Peel spat, knocking his fists together in frustration. "The scheme must be put in play at once. Well, we'll try bribery, and see what haste the Court officials can mount then." Now that he was "aboard" the scheme, indeed its principal author, he could brook no delay in its deployment. "Choundas will be sure to believe Fleury, if not Haljewin, I'm certain of it. Or do their accounts agree with each other-"

"Thought Haljewin fled before Choundas had his arse cheeks for breakfast?" Lewrie asked. "You send him back, he's most-like dead I as mutton, no matter does Choundas eat his tale up like plum duff."

"B'lieve there's a French sayin', Captain Lewrie," Peel said in a cynical drawl, " 'bout how one can't make an omelette without breaking an egg or two. He dined with the Devil… with a short spoon."

"Ah," Lewrie commented to that ultimate cold-bloodedness. "Oh well, then. There goes one egg… Who's the other? Your target."

"With MacPherson and Hainaut both at sea, we're left with just one possibility: Choundas's clerk. Name of Etienne de Gougne. He'll do… the covert vengeance of the meekly oppressed, the under-paid and un-appreciated," Peel sketched out, in a world-weary tone. "A hint of others already in place, who contacted de Gougne once he came ashore. The ones who run the messages out to sea… all that? Vast conspiracy. Secret Royalists and their lackeys, waging their secret war 'gainst the Revolution, and the Republic. Revenge, for those who already died under Hugues's guillotine when he retook Guadeloupe and lopped off over a thousand heads? With the ghost of Zachariah Twigg and his evil minions the master puppeteers behind it all with gold in plenty? Oh, perfidious Albion!" Peel mockingly cried from the French point of view. "The despicable, grasping, conniving anglais, we… rosbifs … biftecks, we satanic … les sanglants!"

"You could take that to Drury Lane, Mister Peel!" Lewrie congratulated, even briefly applauding him; languidly, spiritlessly, like the "better sort" of theatre-goer in London. He rose to his feet and pulled his watch from his fob pocket, opened the face…

Four Bells of the Day Watch chimed from the forecastle belfry__

two in the afternoon, which conformed to what his watch told him. He closed the face of his watch and slipped it back into its pocket.

"Let me ask you something, Mister Peel," Lewrie requested. "I asked you once before, but… you and Mister Pelham got access to the French signals books, somehow. You know rather a lot about who's who on Guadeloupe, and Choundas's inner circle. Is there a spy, or a conspiracy of agents on the island? Do you really… own people close to the Directory in Paris, too?"

"And what did I say, when first you asked, sir?" Peel smirked, come over all superior and inscrutable again. "That I could not tell tales out of school, was that how I put it? What do you think?"

"That your department has the place riddled with spies," Lewrie declared. "Were you afraid my suggestion might expose people you had in place already? Was that why you rejected it out of hand? And so dismissively?" he wearily accused, their spat still rankling.

"My apologies for being brusque, sir," Peel said with a bow in his direction. "Truly. Aye, there is some small shred of truth in your surmise that not all the French on Guadeloupe are resigned to the success of the Revolution. Less effective or informative as we wish, nor as widespread as we could hope, but… I am relatively sanguine that whatever false spoor we lay for Choundas to follow, it will not lead too close to our true operatives. Do we actually lose one or two minor players, well… that's the cost of doing such business. Regrettable, but… there you are."

"Dear Lord," Lewrie gawped. He'd thought Peel cold-blooded before, but… that took the cake.

"Well, then," Lewrie declared, rising energetically. "Lots to do, and the hours too short, as usual. We'll up-anchor and sail down to Roseau. Deliver our prize to the Court, now they've her manifests and such… land our prisoners with 'em. Then," he concluded with an anticipatory wince, "we'll get under way, 'bout dusk."

"Sorry," Peel queried in surprise, "get under way, did ye say? Wherever are we bound, this time, sir? I'd thought…"

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Lewrie blurted out in a rush, as if to trample peel's objections with his news, "The Yankees are missing some merchant vessels, and are sailing to go look for them. After I told 'em about Choundas and his four raiders bein' at sea, they swore they would run them down, too, but think they might need a spot o' help."

He gave Peel a rapid thumbnail sketch; Peel's mouth gaped open wider and wider, the more Lewrie explained to him.

"… so we're t'sail with 'em," Lewrie concluded, "with three ships to make up almost a proper little squadron, and sweep the seas as far South as Caracas. Might scoop up the odd Don or Dutch trader as well, ye never can tell, Peel. More prizes'd suit, don't ye…?"

"But!" Peel spluttered, turning nigh plum-complexioned. Both of his hands were squeezed into bone-white fists as he fought to hold in his sudden rage. "But…!"

"Like we discussed, don't ye know," Lewrie insisted. "When you got so 'both sheets aft' on whisky. We'd go south, and McGilliveray and Sumter would scout with us. Well, now we've Oglethorpe along, as well, and… you agreed to it, do you recall," he quickly pointed out.

"Lewrie, you…!" Peel squawked. "Damn… my eyes! Foreign Office… Maitland! Lord Balcarres, and Pelham, all their cautions! Keep the Yankees at arm's reach, half a foe, and… and you just up and decide to, on your blo-At your own whim! Spur of-"

"After gaining your agreement, Mister Peel!" Lewrie pouted.

"Damn y-Dammit, Lewrie!" Peel retorted, raising his fists as if ready to take him on, barehanded. "You just can't-"

"Our prisoners'll see all three men o' war, two American and one British, sail together, Mister Peel, and they'll dread the chance there's been an alliance made against 'em, but news of it hasn't got to 'em, yet. That'll give Hugues and Choundas something to bite on! Drive em bug-eatin', slung into Bedlam mad\ Mad enough to lash out and declare real war on the United States, then we get 'em as allies, and whoever managed that wins himself a knighthood, and…"

Peel lowered his fists, exhaled long and hard, nigh to a death rattle, and dropped his head. He jerked out his chair and sagged into it, cradling his face in his hands, fingers kneading his temples.

"You need t'be leashed, I swear you do, Lewrie," he weakly said. Leashed and muzzled, like a… Oh, I thought I was prepared to deal with you, thought I had your measure years ago. Twigg, he warned me t'keep you on a taut rein, but…!

"Think of the possibilities!" Lewrie beguiled.

"Think of the disaster," Peel said with a sorrowful groan, "if it all goes bust."

"Now really, Mister Peel," Lewrie countered. "What could possibly go much wrong with chasing after French warships?"

"The mind boggles," Peel croaked. "Damn… my eyes, Lewrie but you've done it to me… again! Lord, what'll Pelham say!"

"Well, I must go on deck and get us ready to sail," Lewrie told him, more than eager to get away, back on his quarterdeck where he was completely in charge. Where Peel wasn't, in point of fact.

"Don't know as I can trust you outta my sight that long," Peel almost whimpered. "Leashed and muzzled, like a dancin' bear…" He sounded almost wistful at that image.

"Later, Mister Peel," Lewrie said, scooping up his hat and coat and making his escape. Once on the quarterdeck, he passed the word for Lt. Langlie, to apprise him of their sailing. As he waited for him to appear, there came the sound of a mug clanking off a bulkhead. Later followed by another, and, perhaps, the sound of flung furniture.

"He's takin' that well," Lewrie could but suppose.