Havoc`s Sword

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Quite a stir we're causing, sir," Lt. Langlie said as Proteus rounded up into the wind to let go her best bower at the "top" end of English Harbour's outer roads. She had been last to enter port, after Sumter, Oglethorpe, and their five prizes, which had first been mistaken for a whole squadron of seven American warships, a sight never seen before, or even imagined, in these waters.

"And indeed we should, Mister Langlie," Lewrie smugly replied, tricked out in his best shore-going uniform and sword. He didn't envy the Antiguan merchants, once they found that the prizes would go back to their masters after a brief hearing at the Admiralty Court, and no profits would be made from their, and their cargoes', sale. What started as an eight-day wonder would become a two-day thrill, and the only ones to gain from it would be the taverns, the eateries, and the prostitutes when victorious Yankee sailors were allowed ashore.

Lewrie thought it would be interesting to see how the shoals of French prisoners were handled. Would America and Great Britain share the cost of gaoling them aboard the hulks? Which power could accept a French officer's promise of parole? Which would negotiate his half-pay so he could keep himself in town until exchanged? And once paid, would France reimburse the United States, since they were not at full war with each other? Lewrie snidely thought those Frogs'd most-like sulk in dockside taverns 'til The Last Trump, since France

hadn't taken any U.S. Navy ships in combat, yet. And most-like wouldn't, not here in the Caribbean, at least.

Proteus had made her number to the shore forts, had fired off a gun salute to Rear-Adm. Harvey, commanding the Leeward Islands Station, and had received a proper twelve guns in reply. Just after, she'd come in "all standing," swinging up to her anchorage and furling all canvas in a closely choreographed flurry, the last scrap vanishing in concert with the anchor's splash. That impressive arrival, his news, and his testimony at the Prize Court would win his frigate, and himself, a bit of the island's adulation, perhaps enough to wake the Antigua Prize Court from its usual torpor, and bludgeon its subsidiary on Dominica into action concerning their own prize that still swung idle in Prince Rupert Bay. Frankly, he could use the extra money to spruce up the wear-and-tear on his wardrobe and his accommodations. Besides, his last good "run ashore" had been months before at Christopher Cashman's boisterous send-off at Kingston.

Lewrie rocked on the balls of his feet, eyes half-closed in fond speculation of good meals, fresh-water washing of all his salt-stained and itchy garments, as Lt. Langlie saw to their anchoring. Him ashore in Sunday-Divisions best, the St. Vincent and Camperdown medals algeam against his shirt ruffles. Successful frigate captains could expect a warm welcome from merchants, and from the ladies…

He knew Antigua of old. Why, there'd be ravishing matrons, and "grass-widows" simply bored to tears by the local society; there'd be delectably lissome young misses, with lashes and fans all aflutter as he languidly smiled, half-bowed, and doffed his hat. There'd be smiles in return from the more-promising "runners" among the ladies, the well-hooded, secretive "perhapses" if not bolder, carnal "come-hithers."

Had he at Cashman's going-away? No, and come to think on it, he had been retaining his "humours" like a Catholic monk, lately, abjuring even tame relief in the practice known in the Navy as "Boxing the Jesuit"-the one the physicians and parsons condemned for turning manly youth into feeble wheezers, with hair on their pink palms, too!

Why the Devil not? he asked himself; a man wasn 't made to…

Quickly followed by thoughts of Caroline, and reconciliation… then of Desmond McGilliveray, and even more bastardly gullions turning up fifteen years hence to plague him, hmm… perhaps, sadly, not. It was a mortal pity, for the Antigua ladies were raised right in his estimation, as round-heeled and obliging a pack of "genteel" wantons as anyone could wish for… the sort who'd trip you with a daintily shod foot, then manage to be the first to hit the floor, cunningly asprawl beneath you!

"Anchor's set, sir," Lt. Langlie reported, and Lewrie turned to take note of Langlie's relief; at last, his onerous task of First Officer could ease, in harbour. Well, mostly, anyway. "And the battery is secured from the salute."

"Very well, Mister Langlie," Lewrie replied, leaving his lusty reveries. "We'll row out the stern kedge to… there," he directed, pointing five points off their larboard bows, almost abeam. "We have room to swing by one anchor, but I'd admire did we haul her up so the prevailing wind's off our larboard quarters, for an easy departure in a few days. And not go 'aboard' a nearby ship, do we swing foul."

"Aye aye, sir," Langlie said, looking even more relieved.

"Your pardon, Captain, but there seems to be a boat bound for us," Midshipman Elwes announced. "Just there, sir."

Sure enough; once Lewrie had lifted his glass, he could see the colours in the stern-sheets of a large rowing barge, one sporting fully eight oarsmen, a bow-man, a coxswain, and a useless midshipman aft by the tiller, with a Lieutenant seated forward of them, along with another man dressed like some sort of buskined sportsman out for a "shoot" on his private game park.

Commanding Admiral's barge, maybe the Port Captain's, Lewrie intuited; officer a flag-lieutenant, the pasty-faced shorebound sort, but why the civilian!' Lewrie allowed himself a wry smirk, supposing that a functionary from the island's governor-general had been sent out to see what all the fuss was about, and had been caught sitting for a portrait as Nimrod the Mighty Hunter, with fowling-piece, custom rifled musket, a brace of setters at his feet with parrots in their mouths, and all.

Damme though, he further wondered; what's left on Antigua worth huntin' anymore? Rats, and runaway sailors?

"Permission to mount the quarterdeck?" Mr. Peel enquired halfway up the larboard ladder, natty in his other suit of "ditto," this one in sombre grey rather than black, with a subdued maroon waist-coat.

"Oh, shit! Oh, Hell!" Lewrie spat, lowering his telescope for a second so he could rub his disbelieving eye.

"Well, if you feel that way about it…" Peel griped, piqued.

"Mister the Honourable Grenville Pelham is come to call on us," Lewrie told him. "In that barge yonder."

"What? Pelham! WhatthebloodyHellishedoinghere?" Peel gawped, leaping to the quarterdeck, the bulwarks, and seizing Lewrie's glass for a gape-jawed squint of his own. "Where… oh. My eyes!"

"No, borrow mine, I insist," Lewrie grumbled. "God's Teeth!"

"At least he looks pleased," Peel took hopeful note. "He's up and waving like his best horse just came in first. Hmmm… this may not be too bad. 'Ne defice coeptis … 'Falter not in what thou hast begun.' Valerius Flaccus," Peel cited, taking what heart he could.

That'un made Lewrie wince; it had been that ne'er-do-well Peter Rushton's droll advice, just after they had set fire to the governor's coach-house at Harrow, which had gone up in a most spectacular blaze, surpassing their wildest expectations; just before he and that other scoundrel, Clothworthy Chute, had gotten clean away, leaving Lewrie to be nabbed with the port-fire in his hands. The caning they'd escaped (since Lewrie was stupidly "honourable" enough not to tattle) had been Biblical; which thrashing hadn't held a candle to the one his father, Sir Hugo, had given him after he'd been sent down in shame- along with the long bill for damages! Falter not, indeed. Pah!

"My word, Mister Peel, but… what a load of 'balls'!" Lewrie replied. "Pass word for my servant Aspinall, there! If Pelham seems happy, Peel, best we let him crow over whatever it is that's made him so, before we, uhm… tell him what we've been up to. Perhaps over a large bowl o' punch, hey? One with a liberal admixture o' whisky?"

"I've been to Saint Domingue!" Grenville Pelhamm boastfully announced once they were alone in Lewrie's great-cabins. "Direct action, that's the thing, and damme gentlemen, but I do avow that we're on the cusp of success, at long last. Carpe diem, what? 'Seize the day,' so I did! Uhmm, tasty punch, this. What's in it? Diff rent…"

"Oh, some celebratory champagne," Lewrie said, ticking off the ingredients, and manfully striving not to roll his eyes at all the old Latin adages being bandied about in Public School Boy style, with a "pooh-poohing" wave, "properly French, o' course. Cool tea, bottle o' dessert wine, a half-gallon o' ginger beer, sugar, and lemon. The usual ingredients… mostly. Saint Domingue, though, really? Well, well!"

"Got our Mister Harcourt to slip Toussaint L'Ouverture a letter asking to meet him on lie Gonaves, the middle of the bay just off Port-au-Prince… on the strictest q.t. and he did" Pelham said, preening. " Ugliest little monkey ever you did see, but shrewd, for being a butler in his early days. Or so he thought, hey? Oddest damn' eyes he has, too. Like a lion's. His best feature, since he's so short, squat and bow-legged. Went… what's the Hindoo word?… in disguise I did."

"In mufti" Lewrie supplied, for his father used the term after years and bloody years with a "John Company" sepoy regiment.

"I was wond'rin' why you were clad so, uhm…" Peel commented for Pelham was still wearing a dark buff suit of "ditto" with a waistcoat in a green shade most often seen on sadly neglected houseplants, a pale tan unbleached linen shirt, tall riding boots covered by dark-brown corduroy "spatterdashes" to mid-thigh, buttoned up the outside with dark horn buttons, and had come aboard sporting a flat-crowned, wide-brimmed farmer's hat half-buried in assorted dark-brown feathers. The hat was of cheap felt, not beaver, of a colour that Lewrie could only describe as "shit-brickle" or "dyspeptic dog turd ochre." Lewrie could only assume that Pelham had struck an earth-shaking bargain with L'Ouverture, if he still felt need to sport his "costume" days or even weeks later, like a Muskogee warrior displaying his most-recent scalps.

"Mufti, that was it," Pelham crowed, holding out his tall mug for a second refill. "L'Ouverture's nigh illiterate, and cannot even speak halfway decent French, just their horrid Creole pate… patois, mean t'say. I say pate? Hmm."

"So, did your negotiations proceed to the point that we should offer congratulations all round, sir?" Peel asked him, sharing a look with Lewrie at Pelham's slip.

"Got a much better reception with General Rigaud," Pelham said, with a sly-boot's wink. "L'Ouverture was stand-offish, said he'd give Britain's terms a good ponder, though I think he was just stallin' for time to see what his putative master, General Hedouville, would do for him. Slavishly bound to France, is L'Ouverture, as we supposed, Peel. Slavish, hah! Rigaud, though… has fewer supporters and troops, but better organised and armed, and easily supplied through Jacmel, and a strong stone fortress to protect his rear. Whites, rich, landed Mulattoes and half-castes, the educated and civilised, as good as any in Paris 'fore the wars, and the ladies …! Not to boast, but in a lone week the presence of a mannered English gentleman allowed me more carnal pleasure than a whole six months on my Grand Tour of the Continent, ha ha! Rigaud would take hands with Hedouville in a heart-beat t'save his hide before L'Ouverture is sicced on him, but Hedouville's nothing substantial to offer him, not like we could. No British troops ashore this time, but artillery, shot, and powder, and enough arms, munitions, boots, and accoutrements to arm more of his followers. Enough horses to haul guns and mount a large, mobile force that could ride circles round L'Ouverture's barefoot infantry will turn the trick. Rigaud was all ears, let me tell you, and much more receptive! Almost slavering."

"So, you will recommend Rigaud to Lord Balcarres at Jamaica, to the Foreign Office, sir?" Peel asked with a troubled frown.

"Already have, Mister Peel!" Pelham bragged, "And lit a fire to gather all the arms, horses, and saddlery we may, soonest. Came here to do the same. The quicker Rigaud gets the goods the better; before Hedouville makes his offer. Then, on the pretext of L'Ouverture blocking British ships in his ports, even under false colours, we will blockade his parts of the island, to guarantee Rigaud's success."

"I trust you were discrete, sir," Peel went on, leaning forward. "And how did you get there?"

"Ain't stupid, Peel," Pelham griped, tossing off his third mug of punch, and rising to get himself another refill. "Maitland will lay that before him later. As for the how, I hired a small Bahamian boat, come to Kingston to trade, and was headed for the Turks and Caicos for salt. Went in my disguises, in and out of the bay at night, unseen… Sailed far West before turning for Jacmel, after, so no one ashore had a glimpse of us. Dressed as a sailor then, and Gawd what a stench it was, all lice and fleas for days! Played as if we'd come to buy coffee and such. But the hard part's nearly done, and as soon as we can get a convoy to Rigaud at Jacmel, we have Saint Domingue in our grasp."

"That boat. What were Bahamians doin'…?" Lewrie quibbled.

"Trading, I told you," Pelham bulled on over his objection. "A two-masted… whatever you call 'em, from an island off Great Abaco, where big merchantmen don't put in much, but completely English, not to worry, Captain Lewrie. Every last one of them sounded like a West Country peasant, or a Bristol dock-walloper. Place where they build a fair number of boats, they said. Long settled, but sparsely peopled, I think, and not much farmland, so it's trade where they can, or perish."

"Man O' War, Elbow, Green Turtle, Guana Cay… do you recall a name, sir?" Lewrie speculated aloud.

"Green… something edible," Pelham answered, shrugging, and sipping. "Green, boiled… disgusting? Anyway…! Rigaud won't be cheap, Mister Peel, but I held the price down to a quarter-million per year for Rigaud, and another quarter-million for his cronies and generals, so he can pay his troops, and hire on the bootless mercenaries we abandoned when we left the island. Those who've sided with L'Ouverture for the promise of a few puny acres of plantation land? Once they get wind of Rigaud having showers of silver coin, though, we may expect at least a tenth of L'Ouverture's army changing sides and haring down to South Province, and Rigaud's so-called Mulatto Republic. Two months, four on the outside, and Rigaud will be ready to take the field against L'Ouverture. Then, perhaps a year from now, we step ashore in triumph, Mister Peel… Captain Lewrie, having stolen a march on the French, and those pesky Americans, for good and all! With not only French Saint Domingue, but the Spanish half of Hispaniola in our possession, as well. Have to invade Santo Domingo! When Toussaint L'Ouverture's slave armies are broken, that's where he will flee, and den up. When congratulations are offered, you may rest assured I will feature your stalwart efforts in support of my endeavours in the most appreciative terms to the Crown.

"So," Pelham barked, beginning to look a touch bleary. "While I've been up north, what have you two been up to, in the meantime, to bedevil and dethrone Guillaume Choundas?"

Pelham, thankfully, was too engrossed in dipping himself a new mug of punch to take note of the uneasy silence that followed that enquiry; and with his back turned, he could not discern the queasy looks that passed between them.

"Damme, but this is an inspiritin' punch," Pelham enthused with a lip-smacking grin. "Sweet, spicy, but stout. What'd you say was in it? Rum, gin, brandy? No…"

"Captured Guadeloupe pineapple, Jamaican cinnamon, and allspice," Lewrie said, shifting about in his chair and crossing his legs to protect his true vitals. "Sweet, dark rum, aye, and a local, er… spirit-Why don't you tell him of our doings, Mister Peel?"

Peel mouthed a silent "Damn You!" at him, then plastered a grin on his face for Pelham's benefit and gave his superior a precis of the raid, the latest rich prize belonging to Hugues, and her captain's loose-lipped talk of Hugues blaming Choundas for her loss, with all of Hugues's expected profits. Peel laid out the intelligence they had gleaned from their prisoners, how much they knew about Choundas's staff, his current state of health, his dealing the ruin of his frigate to Hugues for two converted raiding vessels…

"Choundas now only has two corvettes under his direct command," Peel related, merely sipping at his own punch as Pelham continued his eager quaffing, and Lewrie had a single refill. "Hugues won't give up a single row-boat more, sir. We learned that Choundas escorted a store ship filled mostly with munitions to Guadeloupe, with very few spare spars or canvas for his own ships, beyond what they stowed aboard."

"Short-sighted, that," Lewrie felt emboldened to add, since Mr. Pelham was soaking up the report (along with the punch) in a most amenable fashion, even going so far as to utter the odd "Oh, well played!" and "Ye don't say!" every now and then.

"There is another small three-master, a captured American ship, at Pointe-a-Pitre, awaiting convoying to Saint Domingue, that bears a cargo of armaments," Mr. Peel carefully laid out. "Both await orders from General Hedouville, whether they go to L'Ouverture, or Rigaud. I… that is, we… do not think they will ever sail, though, with our foe Choundas stripped of strong escorts. Both corvettes are cruising far South on the Spanish Main for prizes…"

"Yankee ships, mostly, this deep into hurricane season," Lewrie added. "And anyway, they can't be expected back at Guadeloupe for at least a fortnight, depending on how successful their cruise has been. We asked some Yankee merchant captains how many of their ships could still be down there, and-"

"Slim pickings, with everyone eager to get their cargoes home past the Cape Hatteras weather, sir," Peel hurriedly, dismissively explained to cover Lewrie's gaffe, and quickly changing the subject. "We've played a nasty trick on Choundas, one that will keep him busy peeking under his bed-covers. Our first raid, and destroying his frigate at her Weakest moment… as was our second, seemed so timely that our recent prisoners expressed the worry that there may be a spy sneaking messages offshore to us. Choundas, as we intended, sir, knows that Captain Lewrie is responsible," Mr. Peel glibly said, with a confidential chuckle. "But, as we also know, Choundas holds a low opinion of the good captain's intelligence!"

"Quite right," Pelham heartily, though woozily, agreed.

"Arrr," was Lewrie's affronted comment to that, all but sticking his tongue out at Peel.

"And no one can be that lucky, so… I let slip that another of Choundas's ancient foes, Mister Zachariah Twigg, was out here and directing Lewrie's activities," Mr. Peel snickered. "Which accidental revelation should be reaching Choundas through our exchanged prisoners even as we speak, sir. That news, and the strong suspicion that there is someone extremely close to Choundas secretly in our pay, will drive him mad. A spy who is now collaborating with secret Royalists and enemies of his precious Republic whom Victor Hugues didn't catch in his initial witch-hunt, will…"

"Why Twigg, Mister Peel?" Pelham crossly blurted. "Why not use my name? Ain't Pelhams canny enough?"

Lewrie awarded himself a larger sip of punch from his engraved silver mug from his days as captain of HMS Jester; concealing a gladsome grin to see Mr. Pelham beginning to succumb to corn-whisky. He even began to hum "The Jolly Miller" under his breath, delighting in the chorus: "the longer we sit here and drink, the merrier we shall bel"

"Well, sir, beg your pardon, but… Choundas has never heard of you," Peel patiently explained. " 'Twas Mister Twigg, in partnership with Captain Lewrie, who bested him twice before. And the longer you are unknown to the French, the more effective you are.

"But, once Choundas hears that my old mentor has been sicced on him, with Lewrie for his weapon, his worst dreads will be realised. He will credit Mister Twigg with being able to turn a trusted subordinate against him, and that will smart considerably. Imagining that Twigg opposes him once more fits Choundas's vanity like a glove, too, sir… makes him feel as if our side still rightly fears him and his un-diminished capabilities, which made us desperate enough to bring Mister Twigg out of well-earned retirement-a retirement of which Paris surely is aware!-to estop Choundas one last time, and…"

"And if Choundas don't win," Lewrie felt relaxed enough to add to Mr. Peel's subtle blandishments, "he's done for, this time, and he sure t'God knows it, too. No partial coup, either. For him, it's all or nothing. He can't allow us a single trick, or he's dealt out of the game. Desp'rate enough, t'begin with. Now…'?"

"Until his corvettes return, there's nought he can accomplish," Mr. Peel continued from Pelham's other side, making that worthy swivel rather ponderously. "That's enough time to concentrate on his alleged traitor-spy, and that spy's collaborators. Why, sir, Choundas'll tear Guadeloupe down to bed-rock. He'll decimate his household, Victor Hugues's staff as well. Anyone privy to their plans will be suspect, anyone the slightest bit connected to people privy to plans. Mistresses, whores, body-servants…?"

"No love lost 'twixt Choundas and Hugues from the very start, we… Mister Peel learned," Lewrie gruffly contributed.

"Hugues, we heard, suspects that Choundas was dispatched as his replacement as governor of Guadeloupe," Mr. Peel informed Pelham, with a nod and smile for Lewrie's interruption, which had slewed Mr. Pelham about again, his aristocratic head now wobbling on his neck, with one eye squinted in "concentration" or to maintain his focus. "Choundas has been slighted from the moment he set foot on the island, and hates the way he's been treated."

"Man that hideous," Pelham blearily mused, "can't have too many objections, when folk run screamin', or shun 'im."

"Did Victor Hugues fail to 'vet' his staff, or miss a few well-placed… 'reactionaries,' they call them," Peel went on, which hauled Pelham's gaze back to him, "in his brutal witch-hunt, Choundas would be more than happy to turn up a few, and make Hugues look the fool. Maybe Choundas does have a secret brief from the Directory to supplant him if Hugues seems to be losing his grip on things. Who knows?

"At any rate, I 'accidentally' offered up clues pointing to one man extremely close to Choundas," Peel confided to his superior, with a sly-boots' grin. "His clerk and private secretary, Etienne de Gougne. He's slurred as 'the Mouse,' a meek little scribbler too frightened of the consequences to leave his employ, we discovered."

"Him or Choundas, sooner or later," Lewrie idly stated, one leg atop his desk in sublime ease. "Choundas loses, the little bastard is done for. Knows too much, and Choundas couldn't let him live to blab, else old sins'd come back to get Choundas shortened by the guillotine."

"And we know Choundas's penchant for cruelty, Mister Pelham," Peel said, hiding a wider grin to see Pelham's eyes slewing beyond his head's direction, and starting to glaze over. "A shot at torturing the truth from the unfortunate fellow will suit Choundas down to his toes. Frustrate him, too, since this idiot de Gougne knows nothing and can't name any names… Choundas will go barking-mad, I expect, and turn all his attention on a hunt for our spies. He touches Hugues's staff, Hugues slaps him down, takes command of his remaining ships, and Choundas goes back to France in chains, disgraced and probably down for the mad-house, to boot! Driven to insanity by one too many intrigues."

"Hmmm," Pelham uttered, polishing off another mug of that perfidious punch, and dipping himself a replacement. "Don't know, Peel."

"He'll be kept so busy, so distracted…" Peel pressed.

"Ever think we do have spies on Guadeloupe, hah?" Pelham suddenly snapped. "Choundas snaps 'em up like pickin' daisies, where are we then? His clerk, well… dies 'thout namin' names, a wider hunt will turn up real'uns, shuh… surely!"

"Anyone we know?" Lewrie was forced to ask in curiosity.

"Uh er, no," Pelham had to admit.

"Anyone vital to our cause, sir?" Peel asked, too.

"I, er… don' know. N'body tol' me, damn 'em! Wouldn' trust me with their idet… ident… names! Their 'product' goes to Lord Balcarres, an' he tells me, he thinks I need it… hic. Damme, that a cat, Lewrie?" Pelham suddenly said, peering owl-eyed into the dining-coach, wherein Toulon crouched atop the table next to his hideous hat, head bobbing and cocking and his whiskers stiffly forward at the sight of something so alluring… and possibly edible.

"Why, I do b'lieve it is," Lewrie replied, feigning surprise.

"Thank God!" Pelham shuddered, sounding much relieved. "Thought it was a ship rat. Heard o' them, I have. Nice puss! Nice moused"

"So, you concur with my putting the scheme in play, sir?" Peel decided to ask, to get verbal assent before Pelham went arse-over-tit, while he could still form sentences.

"What? Oh… knacky ruse. Yes. S'pose," Pelham agreed, now noticeably swaying. "Clever! Amusin'. Damme, we set sail, already?"

"I'm glad you approve of my extemporaneous actions, sir," Peel most-carefully intoned, "and that Captain Lewrie may attest to such an approval." He tipped Lewrie a broad wink.

"Glad to be of service, Mister Peel," Lewrie gleefully agreed.

"Where'd those damned Colonials get all their prizes?" Pelham enquired, plopping down into his side-chair again, and tugging at his neck-stock as if strangling, or suffocating in his too-warm clothes.

" 'Bout ninety miles West-Nor'west of the Grenadines. They took four merchantmen back from Choundas's newest raiders," Lewrie casually explained, thinking that Mr. Pelham was sufficiently "liquored" to be amenable to part of the truth. "They also took one of his raiders into the bargain, and sank another. Picked up the survivors from that one, and fetched 'em all in. You'll have a good time interrogating 'em, I think, Mister Pelham. Once they're handed over from the Americans to our officials, that is. Should've seen 'em!" Lewrie enthused. "Ev'ry shot 'twixt wind and water, made one strike with a single broadside…!"

"You there?" Pelham gravelled of a sudden, head now well a'list and one eye screwed shut. "Yer ship'z… hic!… there, sir? Damn my eyes, you been coll-… collab-… at sea with the Yankees, 'spite my tellin' ye…?"

Uh oh, Lewrie thought; should've let him slip under the table, and kept my mouth shut!

"God damn my eyes, you bloody… WHAT?" Pelham screeched as he shot to his feet. "Mis'rable idiot bastard, meddlin'…!"

Lewrie swung his leg off the desk as Pelham staggered forward, hands "clawed" as if wishing to strangle him, but, thankfully, he did not get that far; couldn't in point of fact, for Toulon, proudly bound aft toward his lair under the starboard-side settee, dragging his oversized, wide-brimmed, befeathered, and awkward "kill," overhauled Pelham's stumbling, clumping feet.

Which near-collision raised an outraged howl from the ram-cat; which howl seemed to levitate the distinguished Pelham for a startled second; which levitation made Pelham come down attempting to avoid the cat, or his costly new "sportin' hat" (it was hard to judge which), and reel and flail about for what little balance was left to him; which attempt looked like a marriage of an impromptu Irish Jig, a folk dance involving sombreros reported among the mestizo peoples of the Spanish New World, and the frantic whirlings of mystic Muslim dervishes in the Holy Land; which gay prancing brought forth an accompanying outburst in what might be mistaken for an Unknown Tongue, sounding hellish-like "Eeh too-ah gaah, shit hic! arr-eehf the last syllables a wail that ascended the musical scale as Mr. Pelham snagged a booted toe in a ring-bolt mid his descent and landed spraddle-legged on his rump with a gay thud.

"Rrowwr!" Toulon carped from his lair, his kill abandoned.

"Oww-hunngh!" was Pelham's response, quickly followed by a "Hhrackk!" quickly followed by the remains of his breakfast, dinner most-like his supper of the evening before, and about half a gallon of "punch" to boot. Pelham's "casting his accounts to Neptune" didn't do his sickly green waist-coat, buff breeches, or corduroy spatterdashes a bit of good, either.

"Now I understand why they call 'em spatterdashes," Peel said looking like to puke himself, with a pocket handkerchief pressed close to his nose and mouth. "God in Heaven, what's he been eating?"

Mr. Pelham caught a whiff of it, himself, and cast up another flood, just before his eyes crossed, his face went pasty, and he fell insensible to the deck on his right side.

"Pelham a Mason?" Lewrie enquired, quickly masking his own nose.

"Most-like," Peel mumbled through his handkerchief. "Most rich and titled men are. Why?"

"Just wonderin' if what he shouted was some secret language," Lewrie answered, shrugging. "Well. Shouldn't someone help him up, or… something?"

"Damned if it'll be me," Peel announced. " 'Twas your punch done him in. You do it."

"Aspinall?" Lewrie shouted toward the gun-deck. "Sentry? Pass word for my cabin servant… and Mister Durant, the Surgeon's Mate, as well. Carryin' board, and the loblolly boys," he instructed the Marine who popped his head through the forrud bulkhead door. "Mops, brooms… and lots and lots o seawater." To himself he muttered, "May have to rig a wash-deck pump, never can tell."

" 'E looks dead," Peel observed.

"No, he'll only wish he was, when he comes round," Lewrie pooh-poohed. "God's sake, let's go on deck for some air! And when knacky little Mister Pelham can sit up, again, I want t'ask him about how he got to Saint Domingue. Don't care how disguised and careful he said he was, there's something about that knockabout tradin' vessel he used, bothers me. Don't know why, but…"

"Sounded fishy to me, too," Peel allowed as they made a rapid way aft to Lewrie's private and narrow ladder to the after quarterdeck. "Don't trust his trade-craft, the bloody… amateur. L'Ouverture and Rigaud, Hedouville… Sonthonax and Laveaux… those lesser generals like Dessalines and Christophe, they all have agents in the opposing camps. Doubt you could walk from one side of the street to the other without bumping into three or four, and a half-dozen more spies scampering off to report on your ev'ry fart and scratch."

"You think Pelham was gulled?" Lewrie asked, once they reached the brisk fresh air by the taff-rails and flag lockers, under the taut-rigged canvas awnings that now spanned the quarterdeck.

"My dear Captain Lewrie, I am almost certain of it!" Peel said with a sneer. "That damned fool, callow… boy!… let himself get used by just about everyone in power on the island, and showed 'em all just how perfidious are our dealings. After him, all our hopes for a British Saint Domingue are completely dashed. And Pelham did it, all by his little self, by being just too clever by half!"

"Well," Lewrie said at last. "There lies the packet brig over yonder. Four to six weeks from now, your account could arrive beside his. I'll have my portable writing desk fetched up… do you decide you might need it, hmm?"

"Might fetch up Pelham's hat, too, while you're at it," Mr. Peel said with a knowing smile. "Your cat can have the feathers, for they ain't dyed. Turkey, eagle, and pelican plumes, mostly. But the hat dye might make him sick. Or as mad as a hatter."

"Good suggestion, Mister Peel," Lewrie said with a bow of gratitude. "And here, I didn't think you cared!"