King, Ship, and Sword

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The first three days of urgent pursuit were sunny and clear as they made a rapid transit from St. Domingue West-Nor'west, crossing the Windward Passage and rushing along the northern coast of Spanish Cuba, squeezing between that shore and the Great Bahama Bank, then up the narrow deep-water throat of the Old Bahama Channel.

After they threaded the narrowest part 'twixt Cayo Cruz and Cayo Lobos, though, the weather turned foul and boisterous, with fretted and mounting seas, rain squalls, and rising winds, forcing them to reef courses, tops'ls, t'gallants, and royals, and stow away the stuns'ls. Pressed by winds fine on the starboard quarters, all four ships rolled and pitched and heaved, and gun-drill or small-arms drill had to be put aside for constant sail-tending. Rain hissed down by the bucket-fuls, seething on the upper decks and gangways, sluicing to either beam, or fore and aft, with every jerking motion, so much at times that it gurgled out the scuppers. No matter how snugly the deck planks were payed with sealing pitch over the pounded-in oakum, water seeped through the gaps to drip and drizzle belowdecks, and plop cold on hands trying to sleep in wildly swaying hammocks at night, onto the mess tables during meals, and making everyone thoroughly miserable. To be "caught short," to stumble forrud to the beakhead rails and the "seats of ease," resulted in a complete soaking-from fresh-water rain, and salt water spray pitched up by the bows as they plunged and rose. No matter the watchfulness of the Midshipmen, the Master-At-Arms, and Ship's Corporals, it was dryer simply to piss in the odd corner of the mess-decks, shit in a wood bucket, and hope to pitch it overside when no one was looking. And the hands who got caught at it ended on report before "Captain's Mast."

"Rrrow!" Toulon complained as a dollop of water caught him on the head as he tried to eat his supper from his dish by Lewrie's place setting. "Mrrf?" was his mournful plaint as he looked aloft to seek the source of his annoyance.

"I trust the wardroom's dryer," Lewrie commented to his First Officer as they supped together, along with the Sailing Master, Mr. Caldwell, and Midshipmen Grainger and Munsell. "A deck above you, and I catch all the rain intended for you," he drolly pointed out.

"It seeps through, eventually, sir," Lt. Westcott replied with a brief, tooth-baring grin. It was well that he wore his napkin tucked into his shirt collar, for a drop of water raised a shot-splash in his pea soup, spattering the napkin, not his uniform. Grainger and Munsell thought it amusing. "We keep tarpaulins on our bedding, same as you, I fear."

"No need to dampen the tablecloth, I vow," Mr. Caldwell sniggered. "No plate'd dare slide tonight."

Munsell and Grainger found that funny, too.

"More sea-room," Lewrie said. "Out of the narrows of the Old Bahama Channel and into the Nicholas Channel by morning, is that your reckoning, Mister Caldwell?"

"Aye, sir… into deeper water," that worthy cautiously said. "Cross the Tropic of Cancer by Noon Sights, perhaps, as we enter the Florida Straits. Pray God the weather clears, for the Straits are a boisterous place of their own, quite the equal of the seas we've experienced lately."

"That won't make Captain Blanding happy," Westcott said with a smirk as he dabbed his lips with his napkin. "Even with clear skies and steady winds, we'd lose a knot per hour."

"'Make All Sail Conformable To The Weather,' hey?" Lewrie added, chuckling. That had been Modeste's signal for two days.

"Per… perhaps the French are slowed by the same conditions, sir?" Midshipman Grainger essayed in a meek voice.

"Sailing two days before us, I doubt it, Mister Grainger," Mr. Westcott told them. "The worst they'd get, ahead of the squalls, is the gust-front wind, which will only make them faster.

"Beg your pardon, sir," Westcott said to Lewrie, "for talking 'shop' at-table."

"I've always found such constructive, Mister Westcott," Lewrie assured him. "I know no poetry to recite, 'cept for some doggerel, not fit for young ears. No high-toned books in my library t'discuss, and we're all most-like horrid at music, so… why not?"

"Then, sir… should we have stayed at Cape Franзois and taken the French surrender?" Lt. Westcott posed, shifting in his chair and looking a bit distressed. "I know they're the enemy, but I'd not wish such a fate on anyone."

"We have explicit orders, Mister Westcott," Lewrie answered as he dabbed his own lips, then took a sip of wine. "It was, I imagine, a trial for this French fellow in charge of their squadron, Decean. He could have stayed… added his last battalion of troops to defend the city, and taken hundreds of civilians aboard for New Orleans. It's a French city, after all, and every refugee'd be welcome. Same as it is a trial for Captain Blanding. Both have explicit orders."

"And if we had stayed, sirs," Mr. Caldwell stuck in, "what are the chances the French would've surrendered to us? Their general may have thought he could hold out for months or delayed 'til he could deal with Rear-Admiral Duckworth, a man of rank suitable to his own. They're touchy, the Frogs. Too proud to admit they'd have to surrender, or accept terms, from anybody."

"And we'd have failed to execute our orders, to our peril, and Captain Blanding's career," Lewrie said as Pettus and his own cook, Yeovill, bustled in with large covered trays, fetching roasted quail raised from the eggs or chicklets bought in Portsmouth, potatoes and beans, and the entrйe of salt-beef.

"Are the French really all that bad, sir?" Midshipman Munsell hesitantly asked. "All of them, that is? If their Commodore or whatever took pity on the people at Cape Franзois, and took aboard as many refugees as he could… as you said, sir? Their big Indiaman might be full of women and children, 'stead of soldiers. Might we… uhm?"

Aye, they bloody are! Lewrie quickly, angrily thought. As for Munsell's fear… We could end up killin' as many civilians as those Black rebels. No, surely they'd strike their colours, soon as we get to hailin' distance! Wouldn't that make Blanding tear his hair out. A bloodless victory? Oh, the poor bastard.

"If this Decean fellow did take civilians aboard, there would not be that many, Mister Munsell," Lewrie told him after a long frown and think. "Not aboard his armed ships, for certain. He'd have to work his guns, if overtaken… to protect the transport. He might've kept no more than two or three companies of troops. Mean t'say, how many Frogs does it take t'make a dumb-show or fire a ceremonial volley?"

"His frigates and seventy-four would most-like come about and fight us, Mister Munsell," Lt. Westcott added, "giving the Indiaman a shot at escaping to leeward. If she's swift enough, she's probably already placed ahead of their other ships, against that very chance."

"To shepherd her, sir?" Midshipman Munsell said, nodding as if he understood the concept… almost.

"Just as we'd shepherd a convoy of our own, aye," Lt. Westcott replied, then lowered his head to finish his cooling soup.

"Once out in the Gulf of Mexico, though…," the Sailing Master said with a shrug, slurping up his last spoonful and looking eagerly in Yeovill's direction as the cook filled plates, "it's 'needle in a hay-stack' as to finding them. The surest wager would be to race on West-Nor'west on a bee-line for the Mississippi Delta. If the French didn't put into Havana and think it over first. Now they know they are at war again… oh, spiced rice with the quail, too? Good oh!"

"Easy to make, sir," Yeovill said as he and Pettus set plates before them. "And rice is cheap, but filling. Can do wonders with it, Mister Caldwell."

"Too close to Jamaica, and Duckworth's squadron?" Lewrie said, frowning again as his soup bowl was removed and the next course was placed before him; he drummed his fingers on the table top, pondering. "If Decean knows we're at war, and the bee-line is so obvious… hmm."

"Sir?" Lt. Westcott prompted.

"If he sheltered in Havana, he'd fail his orders," Lewrie said, looking up. "But if he steers closer to Pensacola or Mobile, that'd take him North of the obvious route but still get him to New Orleans, as far out of Duckworth's reach as he can get. If discovered, he has a chance t'duck into one of 'em, under the protection of a fort and its artillery, and send his troops overland through Spanish territory.

"His mission's a success even if his ships are interned!" Lewrie exclaimed, fighting the urge to rush to the chart-space to fetch dividers, compass, and ruler, and spread a chart over their supper dishes. "Were I Captain Blanding, I'd steer Nor'west t'hunt for 'em. If we had enough ships, that is. Or… spread out what we have to the limit of signallin' and sightin' distance, stretched as far North of the usual track, the most direct course, as we can."

"Glass of hock with the quail, sir?" Pettus suggested, hovering with a fresh bottle of white wine.

"Aye, Pettus, thankee," Lewrie agreed, tossing back the last of his claret and offering his glass to be filled. "Just a thought," he told the others with a shrug and a lifted eyebrow.

"Would the Dons let them march through their territory, though, sir?" Lt. Westcott wondered aloud. "From what I've read, the Spanish might as well be puppets of the French, but… are they that eager to become Bonaparte's active allies again? Their minister, Godoy, is a spineless wretch, ready to do whatever the French want, I've heard."

"Would it be a hard march, sir?" Mr. Caldwell asked. "On what sort of roads, I wonder. After all, this Captain Decean needs them to be… presentable when they reach New Orleans. Alive, too, I should imagine," he added with a laugh.

Lewrie recalled his time in West Florida, up the Apalachicola; there were no roads, just game trails, Indian trading paths.

"Closer to New Orleans, then," he announced with a sudden smile. "Much closer… almost to Lake Pontchartrain. We need a chart…"