The Captain`s Vengeance

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

An th' top o' th' mornin' to ye, Cap'm, sor," Toby Jugg said with a jovial tone to his voice and a sham tug of his forelock, as if making salaam to an Asian potentate… or a poor Irish crofter to his landlord. "An' wot a foin mornin' h'it be, at 'all an' at 'all."

"Oh, pack it in, Mister Jugg!" Lewrie replied with a groan and a weary scowl. " 'Tis too 'foin a morning for your 'Jack Sauce.' Have you seen Mister Pollock yet?"

"Come an' gone, sor, in a bit of a dither," Jugg informed him as Lewrie hefted the teapot off the candle-warmer in the Panton, Leslie shore warehouse offices. There seemed enough to make a cup, so Lewrie poured himself a mug-full, hoping for the best.

"Did he say what'd… dithered him, then?" Lewrie asked, making a face at the bitterness of the tea, despite a liberal admixture of two spoonfuls of sugar and a hefty dollop of cream.

"Borryed Dempsey an' Mannix, said he needed eyes t'do some watchin, an' loped off, sor," Jugg said, taking a sniff of the teapot and slinging what was left out onto the cobbled street to start a new one. "Desmond, Furfy an t'others are keepin' their eyes on th' Americans. An' th' Yankee Doodles're keepin' an eye on us, too, sor. 'At lout 'cross th' street, sor? Been strollin' back an' forth th' better part of an hour, an' about wore 'is eyes out lookin' in th' same shop windows, each lap he makes."

Lewrie flung his mug of tea into the street, taking the time to peer at the buckskinned, raccoon-capped watcher, who spun suddenly on his heels and took an intense interest in the creaking overhead sign-boards that jutted out from the storefronts.

"Clumsy buggers they is, sor," Jugg said with a faint snicker. "Liam said some o' their lads skulkin' round th' town forts was so obvious, they might as well been carryin' surveyor's rods."

"Well, pray God our lads are better skulkers," Lewrie breathed, "though I rather doubt it."

"Th' local Cuffies're best, sor," Jugg said, spooning tea from the unlocked caddy into the pot, then turning to stoke the fire so he could get a fresh batch of water to a boil. "I 'spect ye niver took a bit o' notice that a slave followed ye all th' way here, Cap'm. Nor did th' Yankee feller who trailed ye take note o' him, neither," Jugg pointed out with a droll wink.

"They what?" Lewrie responded, with an urge to go "Eep!" or run out into the street and search for his pursuers. "Where?"

"So many of 'em, they blend in damn' well, they do, sor," Jugg almost chortled. "Who'd spot one Cuffy in a crowd, when New Orleans is et up with thousands of 'em, and most as alike as peas in a pod, sor? To th' likes o' us, anyways."

Lewrie had sauntered down to the streets after shaving, a sponge bath, and a change of clothing, completely oblivious to anyone lurking or following him. He couldn't recall being stalked on his way to a hearty breakfast. All the way to the warehouse and store, he had idly ambled, savouring the sights, tastes, and smells, and hadn't suspected a blessed thing! Even if Jugg took him by the hand and led him to his trailers, he doubted if he could remember seeing them mere minutes before, and that shameful lack of awareness gave him cause to shiver with dread. Lewrie could understand the competing Americans tailing him, but… had the Spanish authorities sicced watchers on him and his men? Had they tumbled to his true identity?

"At least we're not at war with the Yankees," Lewrie thought out loud. "They're up to no good for certain, but it ain't all directed at us, thank God." And for Toby Jugg, of all people, to enlighten him… that nettled him, too. 'The Cuffy, though. He might be a Spanish spy, and that is a danger!"

"Amen t'that, Cap'm, sor," Jugg gloomily agreed. "Though I… beggin' yer pardon an' all, Cap'm Lewrie, but it don't seem t'me a Don would trust a Cuffy t'do his spyin', not a blue-skin slave Cuffy, even a fancy 'Bright' in liv'ry. Such work's fer freeborn Spaniards, most-like. Clerks an' soldiers an' such, sor? 'Ese Creole Frenchies, they ain't quite as cruel an' haughty with th' Blacks as th' Dons are, even do they own most o' th' slaves here 'bouts, so…"

"You think the Black watchers've been sicced on us by the local Frog Creoles for some reason, then, Jugg?" Lewrie speculated with one eye screwed nigh shut in a quizzical expression. "Perhaps our pirates, who got wind of our presence, somehow?"

" 'At'd make th' most sense, aye, sor," Jugg cagily answered, in faint amusement. "Could be one o' Mister Pollock's competin' traders done it, but there's no way o' tellin', not without we grab one of 'em an' make him talk, like."

"That sounds like a good idea," Lewrie said, perking up at the idea of doing something to forward their endeavour and to atone for his blissful blindness in the streets. "Let's take a stroll, get one of them to follow us somewhere quiet, then grab the mis'rable bastard and wring it out of him."

"Aye, we could, couldn't we, sor?" Jugg mused aloud, scratching his chin whiskers in sly delight. "Might be we'd have need o' Furfy, one'r two t'other lads t'keep watch fer us, block 'im in from a'hind."

The kettle came to a boil and began to rattle its lid, claiming their immediate attention; they were British, well… English on the one hand, Irish on the other, and a fresh pot of tea could bring even bloody donnybrooks to a temporary halt. Lewrie saw to the teapot as Jugg took up the kettle with a filthy towel to guard his hands, so he could pour boiling water over the fresh leaves.

The second thing to claim their interest was the arrival of one of those aforementioned Black slaves, this one in a muted livery, with a short, white side-curled wig on his head, and a letter in his hand.

"I 'ave ze letter fo' a Capitaine Weel, uh… Weelo…"

"That'd be me… Willoughby," Lewrie announced, and the neatly garbed house servant left off trying to puzzle out the odd name on the outside of the folded letter and handed it over. His hand remained out in silent demand.

"Oh," Lewrie said, clawing into a trouser pocket for local coin. Whatever denomination of peseta or peso he produced wasn't the liveried servant s going rate, it seemed, for the fellow heaved a weary sigh, all but made an audible sniff of disdain, but closed his palm over it and stalked away. "Can you follow him, Mister Jugg?"

"I could give it a go, sor, aye… cautious-like."

"Good, 'cause I don't know him or his livery from Adam, and as for who'd send me a letter, if it ain't Pollock…" Lewrie muttered as he broke the still-warm wax seal (one without any identifying impression stamped into it of either aristocratic crest or the initial of the sender's surname) and read it quickly. "Well, damme!"

"Ain't Mister Pollock, sor?" Jugg asked, mystified by Lewrie's sudden elation.

"Er… no, Jugg," Lewrie gruffly told him. "From a lady, but a lady whose servant you must follow, all the way home if you're able."

"That'd be th' one wot dresses like a man, then, sor?" Jugg enquired, slyly bland-faced and innocently hiding his droll simper well.

"The one who claims she knows rich men who want their own ships, Jugg," Lewrie sternly retorted, "and most-like aren't that choosy over how they get 'em! Her name's Charite Bonsecours, but I don't know if that's quite true, after talking to Mister Pollock. I need to know as much about her as I can, if she does lead us to the people who back our pirates. Pollock's trying, too, but we can't trust to him alone."

"We leave this place abandoned, then, sor?"

"I'll leave Pollock a note," Lewrie impatiently stated, nettled again by Jugg's impertinent quibblings. "We're to dine at a place name of… de Russy's," he said, referring to her note, "round one. Plenty of time for Pollock to get here and get caught up. Speaking of… you dawdle much longer, that slave'll be out of sight, Jugg."

"Arrah then, sor, aye aye," Jugg reluctantly responded, as if he wished to dispute being sent on a fool's errand but did put knuckles to his brow in salute before sloping off.

Damn the man! Lewrie fumed to himself; His eye-rollin' impertinence, too, like I don't know what I'm about, and he knows best!

If the Spanish were alerted to their mission, were keeping eyes on him and his people… today he must take a chance and rush things with Charite, press her on her mystifying offer of a ship and get her to introduce him to those rich men she'd boasted of knowing.

Pollock'll have a fit, Lewrie decided as he quickly wrote a note to the man on a torn-out ledger page. Press Charite for her address so lean write her whilst Im gone? Hah! Call on her and her lordly Creole family? Bet that'd make 'em dance a pretty jig!

He warned Pollock that he suspected that he'd been followed… by whom, well, that was the question, was it not? Despite the risks, he felt it necessary to keep his outwardly "innocent" appointment with the girl, with no one to watch his back.

Despite the risk of arrest as a British spy, Lewrie found that he was vibrating with excitement, like to jump out of his skin. There was a tiny frisson of dread, of course, but… the girl was the real lure. Maddeningly outlandish and entrancing, so desirable! Would they have another long afternoon bout of "the needful"?

Lewrie pegged his note where Pollock was sure to find it, then impatiently drew out his pocket watch to check the time. His dinner appointment was two hours off, and the tea leaves had steeped, so he poured himself a fresh, bracing cup and forced himself to sit down and sip it, fretting over just how he would frame his questions, how subtle he'd have to be. If Charite knew the people who financed the piracy, did she know more than she let on about their business, too?

"Damme!" Lewrie muttered of a sudden. "My cundums!"

He'd have to rush back to his set of rooms and fetch them, now they were fresh-washed and lightly oiled, before… with luck…

All dozen? he fretted; I bloody hope so!