The King`s Commission

Chapter 2

Amazing how quiet we are, Alan thought to himself as he sipped his soup in the admiral's cabins aboard the flagship. It was a small supper party, and not one prone to much conversation. Lieutenant Lilycrop was head down and almost grim with determination not to make an ass of himself, and as long as he was silent, his first lieutenant should keep his own mouth shut, if he knew what was good for him.

Adml. Sir Joshua Rowley presided at the head of the table, a man of some girth and seniority. Next to him on his right was a Lieutenant Colonel Peacock, commanding one of the regiments that garrisoned the island of Jamaica, resplendent in polished metal gorget, scarlet waist sash and red regimentals. To the admiral's left sat a civilian in a bottle-green silk suiting, a Mr. Cowell.

The next pair of diners were, on the right, a Captain Eccles of Lieutenant Colonel Peacock's regiment; at least, to Lewrie's eyes, their regimental button-hole trim matched. Across the table from Eccles was another civilian named to them as a Mr. McGilliveray, a young man in his mid-twenties or so. From the poor quality of his snuff-colored suiting of "ditto"-matching coat, waist-coat and breeches-Alan assumed that he was Cowell's secretary, or something menial.

Then came Lewrie on the admiral's left, and Lieutenant Lilycrop across from him on the right. There had been a place laid for the admiral's flag-captain at the foot of the table, but he had not been able to attend at the last moment.

There had been some conversation, of the dullest and blandest sort, when they arrived, and the admiral traded gossip at the head of the table with his more distinguished guests, which did not extend to the people below the salt. From Cowell's comments, Alan gathered that he was not long from London. Turning to McGilliveray, his dining companion on his right, Alan said, "I take it you're out from Home recently?"

"Not in about a year, sorry," the man replied with almost a guttural slurring of his words, which led Alan to wonder if he was drunk as a lord already.

"Ah. I'm from London, you see," Alan went on. "Thought you might know something entertaining about things there."

"Oh, London." McGilliveray brightened slightly (but only slightly). "Yes, six months ago. About the same sort of thing as usual. Crowded, prices too high, much too noisy."

"My dear fellow, that's exactly what I like about London!" Alan said with a small laugh. "No, I meant some new scandal or something."

"I don't follow Society," McGilliveray sniffed, prim as any Scottish deacon, which put paid to any more hopes of conversation from that source.

Damned odd sort, Alan thought, trying to find a niche for the man in his mind. He was dressed almost poor (and had an excruciatingly bad tailor) but carried himself without deference to Cowell. With a name like McGilliveray, Alan expected him to be a Scot, but if he was, he was a Scot/Dago, for the man was almost coppery red in complexion, with the blackest hair Alan ever did see, parted in the center and drawn back into a long, almost seamanly queue that reached down to the middle of his back. His face was broad, and his nose was hooked as a hawk, broad as it was to match those high cheekbones.

Alan turned away as the soup was removed and a smoking joint of mutton made its appearance on the table. Liveried servants passed behind the diners with small boiled potatoes and peas.

Lilycrop rose and hacked at the joint to carve the diners their choice. As a meal, Alan could not fault it; the mutton was followed by boiled lobsters and fresh-dredged crabs, with the Bordeaux replaced with bottles of cooled hock. Before the hock was removed, it went well with the small game birds, and claret replaced the hock to be served with the roast beef without which an English meal would not be complete. To sweeten the palate, slices of tropical fruit were served, then the cheese and biscuit.

The water glasses were removed, and servants topped up their glasses with claret. Admiral Rowley cocked a weather eye at Lewrie.

As the most junior officer at table, Alan knew his duty. He rose to his feet and raised his glass.

"My lord, gentlemen, the King," he said as they rose.

"The King," they chorused, Lieutenant Colonel Peacock almost smashing his skull open on an overhead deck beam, and whispering "God Bless Him." Obviously Peacock was from one of those regiments that were allowed that nicety by their sovereign in times past.

They sat back down and the tablecloth was whisked away and the last of the claret drunk while the port was set out for them, along with a large silver bowl of nuts to join the cheese and biscuit.

"Should nature have her way with your digestion, I urge you to attend to your needs now, gentlemen, so we shall have no interruptions," Admiral Rowley said, more in the way of an order. It took about ten minutes before everyone had voided whatever irked them and were back at table. Rowley sent the servants away rather pointedly.

"Gentlemen, I trust you have enjoyed what bounty I was able to offer?" Rowley began once their odd assemblage were the only people in the huge dining alcove of the great cabins. "Now, let us turn our heads to business. Lieutenant Lilycrop, Lewrie; Mister Cowell is a representative of His Majesty's government. Sorry you were kept in the dark, and the dinner conversation did not sparkle, but certain precautions had to be taken so that word of our meeting did not get round to the wrong people. Mister Cowell, sir. If you would be so kind as to explain your purpose."

Cowell was one of those people who thought better on his feet, or felt he had to pace when he orated, like a Member of Parliament.

"Gentlemen, I am sure you are aware as I this war is lost," he began rather dramatically. "Not the one against our classic enemies, the French, Spanish or Dutch, but the war in the Colonies. Our last armies gone except for the New York and Charleston garrisons, Lord Shelbume in charge now that Lord Rockingham has died, and our ambassadors treating at Versailles. The official end could come soon, perhaps on the next packet from England."

Just what I needed, Alan thought glumly, wondering if he could crack a nut to snack on during Cowell's harangue. A bloody sermon. He settled for a sip of port.

"This is not to say that England shall curl up like a worm in hot ashes and shrivel away, sirs," Cowell said, giving them a slight grin of encouragement, to which everyone grunted their "here, here's," much like a back-bencher Vicar of Bray in the Commons.

"Reports from India suggest we hold the upper hand against the French fleet at long last, have subdued the rebellious sultans, and look to evict the French from Pondichery once and for all," Cowell went on.

"Should never have given it back after the last war," Lilycrop growled, slicing himself a morsel of a rather fresh Stilton.

"I quite agree, Lieutenant," Cowell said, looking anything but pleased to be interrupted. "And here in the West Indies, the Sugar Islands are safe since de Grasse's fleet has been scattered. We hold the old French Canadian colonies and the maritime approaches to the Americas. St. Kitts shall come back at the treaty table, I assure you. No, the government's biggest worry right now is what the Rebels mean to do with their new lands, and how France or Spain may profit thereby."

"The Frogs might try buying territory, you mean," Alan said, almost without thinking, or more like thinking aloud. Cowell swiveled a glance in his direction, obviously unused to being interrupted so often by people below his station in life, and Alan was glad he had spoken. "We took a French ship last year loaded with artillery and draft horses and what-not. She also carried more than seventy thousand pounds, to be used for bribes or gifts to influential members of the Rebels' Congress or whatever they call it," Alan went on.

"I refer more to awards of territory to recompense the French and Spanish for their assistance and material support, sir," Cowell huffed, and the others looked at Alan as though he had broken wind at table-such was simply not done! Lieutenant Colonel Peacock glared as though Alan were one of his junior officers, he'd be in irons that instant.

"We shall not give them one acre, sir, but what the Rebels may do is open to question, and a formal military expedition to express our displeasure at any reward of territory is simply not in the cards. What we may do informally, though, is another matter entirely," Cowell said with a sly grin. "And there are methods by which the French and Spanish, who are already out untold riches, and in financial difficulty by their support of this unlawful Rebellion, may be discomfited and confounded in those territories they already possess, souring their appetites for more."

Cowell turned to stare at Alan, expecting him to open his mug and make some comment, but Alan had learned his lesson and gave him a beatific smile of encouragement, one of his best eager-but-innocent expressions, which made Lilycrop cough into his fist to hide a smile.

"Pipes, gentlemen?" Admiral Rowley offered, obviously fidgeting for the soothing fumes of tobacco. He rose and fetched out his own tub of tobacco, a large-mouthed stone crock aromatic with Virginia leaf, and then chose a clay church-warden pipe from the ample selection contained in a plush-lined box large enough for a brace of dueling pistols.

"Not for me, thankee, milord," Alan said to his offer.

"Best to learn how," McGilliveray told him. "It shall come in handy soon."

"Well, if you insist." Alan shrugged and took one of the pipes. As the crock made its way down the table, along with the port, he stuffed crumbled leaf into the bowl, got a light with a paper spill from an overhead silver lantern, and fired the pipe up.

Damned silly practice, he thought, after almost coughing his lungs up. From then on, he merely rolled the smoke around in his mouth, not trying to inhale as the others did, slightly sickened by the taste and the sharpness of the hot smoke on his palate, which until then had been doing just fine with supper and wine to savor.

"A blend, Sir Joshua?" Cowell smirked, pacing about the cabins and puffing away like a house fire. "Quite pleasant. Quite."

"Just a touch of Turkey, sir, to give the Virginia some character," Admiral Rowley nodded, pleased at Cowell's opinion of his blend. "From Latakia, I believe. Taken from a prize last month. Usually it's more suited to snuff material, but it does give the blend some fire."

"Yes, it does have bite under the mellow," Cowell agreed. "Now, as to how we may foment confusion to our foes, gentlemen, let us take a look at the Spanish situation in the Americas. If you may allow me to refer to this map." He produced a large map, big as an ocean chart and spread it out on the polished mahoghany dining table, anchoring the corners with glasses and bowls.

"We shall most likely lose East, or British, Florida at the Peace Conference," Cowell pointed out. "Spanish forces have evicted us from our last bastion at St. Augustine, and from the mouth of the St. John's River."

"God give them joy of it." Sir Joshua shivered. "A pestilential place, from my experience."

"As you see, just before the war, the southernmost colonies of Florida and Georgia were just beginning to draw colonists," Cowell lectured, using the long stem of his church-warden pipe as a pointer. "Note the topography of the Virginias and the Carolinas, separated from the interior by the Appalachians, all the way down to here, where they end in Georgia, from whence a great coastal plain stretches all the way to the great river of the Mississippi, and probably beyond. The new Rebel nation has not crossed over these mountains yet, though they probably shall in future. To the north, the Iroquois nations, still favorable to British interests and dependent on us for trade goods. They shall give our Rebels pause, should they attempt colonizing westward."

"Bankrupt the devils to maintain a standin' army against the northern Indians," Lieutenant Colonel Peacock barked with amusement. "Let 'em see what the cost of their folly is!"

"With the French evicted from Canada, we can maintain good relations with, and ministries to, the northern Indians, as a check to any Rebel plans for expansion to the north and west," Cowell said with a firm nod or two.

"And we propose to do the same with the southern Indians," the admiral added, puffing away contentedly.

"That is exactly our plan, sirs," Cowell went on quickly. "Now, there will be Rebel influence in the South, unfortunately. Charleston was the center for trade inland for many years. That city's merchant adventurers extended far to the west and south, and we may expect no less in future, a trade, I wish to point out, that shall no longer be British. Where the border shall be drawn, we have no idea, but Spain rules the rest of the coast, West Florida and all. Fortunately for us, they rule pretty much in name only. Their normal methods of conquest, such as they employed in New Granada and New Spain were not followed on the mainland. Small church settlements, a few troops to keep order, but few European settlers, and no encomienda system to exploit the downtrodden Indians in slavery on large estates and fiefs. The land does not support the Colonies for that reason, and the Spanish are losing money on the bargain, though the soil inland past the coastal marshes is quite fertile. One of the reasons they have not moved inland is the southern Indians. The entire region swarms with various tribes, some of them powerful enough to give anyone pause, and none of them willing to have anyone settle among them-British, Spanish, or Rebel. They are, or could be, a potent counterpoise to any further settlement west of Georgia. Properly armed and trained with European arms, these Indians could provide us with a drain on the new Rebel economy, a force that could limit any westward expansion, and a means to bankrupt the Spanish treasury, making the Spanish think twice about keeping the region; in short, a southern Iroquois League."

"We want to establish good relations with the southern Indians," the admiral summed up, shifting in his chair with impatience at Cowell's plodding oratory. "We wish to give the Spanish fits over their possessions in the South, making them more amenable to our re-taking the region at the peace negotiations. And we want to nail down the western border of the Colonies in the meanwhile so we may exploit this great and fertile coastal plain, instead of the Jonathons, the Frogs or the Dons. Look at the possibilities. Great rivers pouring down from the interior. Here at the mouth of the Mississippi, of the Mobile, this bay at Pensacola, even here at Tampa Bay. They could be important naval bases in time of war. Why should the Dons have 'em-or the Jonathons?"

"And, for the nonce, with strength enough, we could bleed both the Rebel and the Spanish treasuries trying to keep large forces on the frontier," Cowell finished with a dramatic sigh, and sank down into his chair as though exhausted by the effort of being so clever and erudite.

"Catch 'em in a nutcracker," Lieutenant Colonel Peacock said chearly, waving a real nutcracker at them. "Canada and a new British Florida, with the Rebels squeezed to death between, ha ha!" To prove his point, he crunched a walnut to nibble on.

"The only problem being," Sir Joshua frowned, "that at present we have no entrйe, with the Dons in possession of the coast."

"Ah, but a most weak and porous possession, Sir Joshua!" Cowell chuckled. "A few Guarda Costa luggers, little better than fishing smacks. Perhaps one full regiment, supported by native levies of doubtful worth. Had we the troops, and the inclination, we would have swept the area clean years ago, but for Washington and our priorities further north. That is where you two gentlemen come in."

"Us, I see." Lilycrop pondered, slurping some port.

"Can't get there without the Navy, ey?" Cowell laughed.

"So what is it exactly you want us to do, milord?" Lilycrop asked of his admiral.

"Your brig o' war, Shrike, is shallow-drafted. You can get close inshore in what… two fathom of water?"

"She'll draw about ten foot proper laden, milord."

"Even better. The bays are shallow along this coast, even at high tide, and the passes into the sound through the barrier islands are of a piece with the Bahamas, or the coast of Cuba, which you gentlemen have done such a thorough job of ravaging lately," Sir Joshua Rowley told them. "In addition, you took a Spanish Guarda Costa sloop on your last cruise, of a type not very much unlike anything the Spanish would expect to see along the coast. False flag, false uniforms for your officers. Shrike was originally a trading brig, so her presence under Spanish colors would be unremarkable. We propose that you, disguising yourselves as a Don packet-brig and escort, go inshore, drop off a party who shall make their way inland to treat with the Indians. And if the negotiations go well, deliver to the Indians a quantity of arms suitable to their needs, along with such gifts as may tempt them to side with our interests."

"How far inland, milord?" Lilycrop asked, looking a trifle dubious. "And how long are we to linger off this coast?"

"Mister McGilliveray?" Cowell asked.

"The tribe we wish to talk with are the Lower Creeks, sirs," McGilliveray said, swiveling about to look at Lewrie and Lilycrop.

He stood and swung the large map about so the military representatives could see it better. "In the peninsula of Florida, the people are pretty much shattered. Timucua, Ocale, several other tribes mostly reduced by Spanish or British weapons or disease, or rum. West of the peninsula, pretty much the same for the Apalachee. But to the north, there are Muskogean peoples, whom the colonists call Upper Creeks and Lower Creeks. There are also Seminolee, Creek relatives who speak Muskogean. They're fairly powerful on their own. Their influence shall be most helpful to me inland."

"You, sir?" Lilycrop asked.

"Mister Cowell and I are your passengers, sir," McGilliveray said with a small grin. "Do you land us here, sir, at Apalachee Bay east of the Ochlockonee River. There are marshes and mangrove swamps for cover, so we may take the Guarda Costa sloop up-river to where it joins the larger Apalachicola, behind any coastal patrols. Two days on the water, perhaps forty miles? Then we pick up horses from the Seminolee and march two days overland to the large lake formed by the Chatahooch River. Or if the sloop will not serve, perhaps a pair of ship's boats with sails."

"And how long to negotiate, sir?" Lieutenant Colonel Peacock asked.

"Two more days, if all the important mikkos are available," McGilliveray speculated. "It might be a week if they had to be summoned. They will be cautious, so it might take a total of two weeks altogether before they make up their minds, including the trek inland. Then say a third week to get representatives from the Creeks at the mouth of the river here to pick up the arms. Or pick up our shore party should we fail to convince them."

"Damme, hide a ship in the marshes for three weeks?" Lilycrop almost exploded, turning a cherry hue. "More like hide two ships, Shrike at the mouth of the river, and the sloop way up here, assumin' the damned thing may get that far, which is a rather large assumption, ain't it? And just what forces do the Dons have around this Apalachee Bay, I ask you? What about these coastal Indians? They goin' to sit on their duffs and just let us set up housekeepin', or are they goin' to run off and sell us up to the bloody Dons?"

"One would think you had no bottom for the adventure, sir," Lieutenant Colonel Peacock countered grumpily. "Perhaps another officer…"

"I think what my captain means, sirs, is that no one could sail in and play 'Merry Andrew' with no knowledge," Alan stuck in as Lilycrop turned scarlet at the slur to his courage. "And what is Shrike to do in the time the Guarda Costa sloop is up-river? Lay at anchor and trust a local patrol doesn't happen along? Pray some local informer doesn't tell the Spanish we're there? It sounds as if Shrike should lurk offshore, say ten or fifteen leagues out in the Gulf, and never close the coast at all. Let the sloop go inshore alone. Then, if all goes well, Shrike could meet her at some prearranged rendezvous. I assume, however, that Shrike would carry the main cargo of arms and trade goods, and must at some time come inshore to deliver. Or do you plan to take everything along in San Ildefonso, Mister Cowell?"

"It would cut down our time in danger on the coast if the sloop bore the complete cargo, sir," Cowell said.

"And how much is to be transported, sir?" Alan pressed.

"There are eight hundred refurbished muskets with all equipage, eight hundred infantry hangers and bayonets, plus forty thousand cartouches," Cowell stated as though reading a manifest. "And powder and ball equivalent to another forty thousand rounds. And we have trade goods. Tomahawks, knives, bolts of cloth, cooking pots, shirts and cast-off tunics, the usual merchant truck the tribes desire the most."

"About four tons altogether," McGilliveray said. "A very light load. The sloop could handle it easily, could it not?"

"Aye, a thirty-six-foot barge could do it easy," Lilycrop agreed.

"Then another two weeks to get the stuff inland and get our party back?" Alan wondered aloud, glancing at Lilycrop.

"No, the Creeks have horses and mules," McGilliverary told him. "And they have their own canoes, you know. They could take it all on their own once we get them to agree to the bargain. Once they show up and we unload for them, the sloop could be gone."

"What about these Apal… what-you-call-'ems, then?" Alan asked. "Do we have to hide from them as well? Would they be hostile?"

"I know for a fact that we have no worries about the Apalachee." McGilliveray smiled. "They are too weak on their own. They're allies of the Seminolee and the Creeks. Mostly out of fear of what will happen if they cross them. I shall explain the situation, and I doubt if anyone remaining with the boats at the mouth of the river will have any worries. They have no reason to love the Spanish, either. With some trade goods presented to their chiefs, they'll probably fall all over themselves to help us, as long as the crew that stays behind does not offend them."

"That's a rather big if, is it not?" Alan laughed. "I mean, I never heard of anyone who could trust an Indian. They follow their own lights, and be damned to everyone else, don't they?"

"We trust the Indians, Mister Lewrie," Cowell sniffed. "We trust Mister McGilliveray. This is his plan."

"Know a lot about them, do you?" Alan cocked an eyebrow at the young man to his right.

"Dear me, I should have told you, Mister Lewrie. I am one." McGilliveray smirked.

"Ah," Alan managed to say, mostly because it could be done with his mouth hanging open.

"My mother is Muskogee, my father Scot, one of those merchants out of Charleston," McGilliveray explained. "With my mother's people I am called White Turtle, of the Wind Clan, the most powerful clan in any tribe or settlement. My grandfather on mother's side is mikko where we are going, and my cousins are influential. The Apalachee and Seminolee know me, so we shall be safe from harm from them. I shall try to explain all the particulars you should know on the voyage."

"And how many crew may you need, Captain?" Admiral Rowley inquired to smooth over Alan's gaffe.

"Nine men, plus cook and officer, milord."

"Along with Captain Eccles here, and a dozen men from my regiment as guards with the sloop, and with the party up-river," Peacock added.

"Pardon me, Colonel, but would those be troops of the line, or light infantry?" Alan asked, once he had regathered his abashed wits.

"Why do you ask, sir? What do you know of soldiers?"

"I was at Yorktown, sir, and this affair strikes me as calling for Rifles or skirmishers, not line troops. I dealt with a Loyalist Volunteer Regiment and their light company, armed with Fergusons, sir."

"Rifles, bah!" Peacock spat with some heat. "Bunch of damned irregulars, no discipline. Dependable as chimney smoke. If you run into trouble up there, you'll thank your lucky stars for some steady men of the line who can overawe these savages, men who can fire two shots a minute in volley, such as Captain Eccles may select!"

"Pardon me, sir, but in my limited experience with land fighting, I'd rather fire four shots a minute with a Ferguson breechloader from ambush than stand and deliver by volley," Alan retorted with a smile.

"One of the reasons we chose Shrike, you'll remember, is that her first officer does have land-fighting experience, Colonel," Admiral Rowley interjected before Peacock could explode like a howitzer shell with a very short fuse. "Plus her shallow draft, and the record she had made for herself as a fighting ship under her gallant captain, Lieutenant Lilycrop. And since Shrike's officers shall be responsible for getting our expedition ashore and up-river safely, it does seem reasonable to allow them to make suggestions now from their experience."

Damme, that sounds devilish promising! Alan thought with delight at the admiral's praise. Singled out for hazardous duty 'cause I made a name for myself? Won't that look good in the London papers.

He shared a quick glance with Lilycrop, who was beaming and nodding his head as he digested the fine assessment the admiral had made of his recent record, looking pleased as a pig in shit.

"No red coats," McGilliveray said in caution. "Your men should wear buff or green anyway. Have some linen hunting shirts run up. And I quite agree with Lieutenant Lewrie about the type of men to go ashore. It would be best if we could procure irregulars, people with some woods-craft. More than one British general has come to grief, tramping about the back-country with line troops, Colonel."

"Well, that lets out Walsham and his Marines," Lilycrop said. "And if this mission is to be secret-I do take it to be secret, hey-then why advertise our presence by wearin' uniform at all?"

"A good point, sir," Cowell spoke up, feeling left out on all the martial planning. "Mister McGilliveray, I doubt they could pass at close muster as natives, but clothes do make the man, do they not, ha ha?"

"A most sensible suggestion, honored sir," said McGilliveray, bowing to his mentor. "Perhaps pack uniforms for the negotiations, to appear more impressive to my people, who are delighted by a fine show. But on the march hunting shirts, leggings and moccasins might escape notice by any Spanish patrol we happen onto. Better to be ignored than have to fight, unless it's absolutely necessary."

"You could supply troops, Colonel?" Cowell almost demanded from his enthusiasm and excitement at getting to dress up like a Red Indian.

"I still hope to honor your requests, sir." He frowned, not liking his unit to be slighted so easily from a grand adventure. "There are no riflemen on Jamaica. No Fergusons, either. Well, I could assign men from my regiment, even so. From the light company, practiced as skirmishers. Remnants of a fusilier battalion. I assure you they know their way around in the mountains and forests hereabouts, milord. They're acclimated to Yellow Jack and the other fevers by now as well, after chasing after rebellious slaves during the last revolt."

"God. Cashman," Captain Eccles whispered bitterly, aghast at being left out.

"Cashman, did you say?" Admiral Rowley prompted, cocking an ear in Eccles' direction. "And who is that, sir?"

"The captain of our light company, milord," Peacock replied, trying to keep a sober face. "A bit… eccentric, but a good man in a fight, I assure you, milord."

If this ass Peacock doesn't like him, then he'll probably be just our sort, Alan thought. Doubt if I could have stood this catch-fart Eccles for more'n a week without callin' him out. And damned if I'd trust one of those battalion-company stallions to guard me out in those swamps.

Alan took it for a given that, as first officer, he would be called upon to guide the little sloop inshore; that's what first officers were for, to risk their arses while their captains stood off and chewed their furniture with worry. It was a rare captain who would give his first lieutenant command of his precious ship and go off on some deed of derring-do just to satisfy his blood-lust. By the time a man had made post-captain, he mostly had blood-lust out of his system, anyway, and was glad to make way for a younger, and more expendable, man.

The conference lasted several more hours, determining that the Spanish sloop would be the only vessel to go inshore, towing a single ship's boat. She could make her way at high tide as far as two miles up the Ochlockonee River with her topmast struck. The two twelve-pounder guns on her fo'c'sle would be dismounted for a brace of four-pounders to ease her sailing qualities. The ship's boat, a standard twenty-five-foot launch, would step a single mast, and would need only six oarsmen due to her shallow two-foot draft. She would also get a couple of swivels should they run into trouble.

This meant that another half a dozen hands had to come along, leaving half a dozen soldiers free for lookouts and protection. Once they left the sloop, six men would stay behind under a quartermaster's mate, with another half a dozen soldiers.

Shrike would never close the coast, but would stand off out of sight of land, and would wait two full weeks from the night the San Ildefonso left her and went inshore. If she did not show up within three weeks, they would come into the bay and search for them.

Shrike would not go ashore for good reason; she would be carrying the bulk of the arms. Cowell didn't want to risk everything in one small ship. The sloop would carry fifty muskets, one thousand rounds of pre-made cartouches and musketeers' equipment such as cartridge boxes, fine priming powder bottles, bayonets, swords and baldrics enough to make a fine show, along with knives, pots, blankets, etc., as samples of England's largesse. There would be bolts of cloth and blankets for presents, and all the usual trade goods, but only enough to whet their appetites for more. McGilliveray argued against this, assuring Cowell that he knew best when dealing with his own people in good faith, but finally relented.

"Well, I think that about covers it, gentlemen," Admiral Rowley said with a yawn. "Shrike is provisioned for a cruise already. All that remains is loading the cargo, bringing the troops aboard the sloop, and readying her for sailing. Her repairs are complete, and she has been provisioned as well. Lieutenant Lewrie, you had best go aboard her at first light with your selected crew. Mister McGilliveray is going to take care of the disguises for the shore party. Have we forgotten anything? Mister Cowell? Mister McGilliveray? Captain? If anything springs to mind between now and sailing date… say two days from now… send me a sealed note, or better, bring it yourself to my flag-captain. And I must warn you, not a word of this among your men until you are at sea. You know how fast rumors fly on the lower deck, hey?"

"If they wonder, we'll let out we're goin' to raid the Cuban coast, milord." Lilycrop chuckled, almost leaning on his hand, propped up from the table and looking far past his bed-time. The continual supply of drink hadn't helped. "They'll believe that, and be glad it's the Army goin' ashore 'stead o' them. That'll explain the sloop, too."

"Excellent subterfuge, Captain. Excellent. Well, I'm for bed."

When they emerged on the quarterdeck of the 2nd Rate flagship, it was blessedly cool, and a refreshing little breeze was blowing to remove the funk of the closed cabins. Their boat was brought round, after the crew was awakened, and they rowed back to Shrike, keeping an enigmatic silence. It was only after they had gone to Lilycrop's cabin that they could talk freely. Lilycrop stripped out of his uniform and knelt to pay attention to his many cats, who blinked and stretched and made much ado over him after such an uncharacteristically long absence.

"Cats et, Gooch?"

"Aye, sir." Gooch yawned. "Will there be anythin', sir?"

"No, go back to sleep. Bide a moment, Mister Lewrie."

"Aye, sir."

"Wine?"

"Thankee, sir."

"Pour me one, too, whatever you're havin'."

They sat down together at his desk, leaning forward into the pool of light from a single overhead lantern that swayed softly as the hull rode the slight harbor ruffles stirred up by the gentle breeze.

"You feel comfortable with this idea, Mister Lewrie?" Lilycrop asked, his features heavily shadowed by the light.

"Comfortable enough, sir, I suppose." Alan shrugged. "It's a devilish grand opportunity for us, stap me if it ain't. If McGilliveray knows half of what he says, we should be alright once we're ashore. But I worry about the sloop and the men we leave behind. Not just about the Spanish running across 'em, but discipline while we're gone."

"Take Svensen, the quartermaster, as your senior hand," Lilycrop suggested. "That square-headed Swede'd put the fear o' God into artillery. There'll be no nonsense with him in charge. And he's a right clever'un, too."

"Thank you for the suggestion, sir."

"I don't like it, myself." Lilycrop frowned, looking old as Methuselah. "This McGilliveray, or Turtle or whatever he prefers to call himself, come up with this too-clever idea, an' he's got that Cowell excited as a sailor on his first whore to go off'n do somethin' grand an' mysterious. They sailed direct from Portsmouth in the mail packet with all their trade goods, and loped up to Rowley and Peacock with this plan. Now if the government at home is so miss-ish about endin' the war, why did they agree to such a far-fetched scheme, I wonder?"

"You don't think they're legitimate, sir?" Alan perked up.

"Oh, don't be that large an ass," Lilycrop grumbled. "Think just any fool can go aboard a flagship and dream somethin' like this up on the spur of the moment? No, this'n has so many official wax seals on it it'd float."

The ship's bell chimed three bells; half past one o'clock of the middle watch, and Lilycrop looked weary to the bone, which explained his testiness.

"Only thing that surprises me is, if Florida's so bloody important to us, why didn't we raise the tribes long ago, when we still had the east coast forts? Why leave it this late?"

"There is that, sir," Alan agreed, too sleepy to worry much.

"I've seen things like this before," Lilycrop went on. "War on the cheap, dreamed up by map-gazers'n quill-pushers safe back in London. I don't know whether our Mister Cowell come up with this himself, or if he's just a nobody wantin' to make his name out of it. He might be some lord's errand boy. And that McGilliveray. A right 'Captain Sharp,' too clever by half for the likes of me. Mayhap he knows what he's talkin' about, an' his tame Apalachee'll treat us like vistin' royalty, and he'll sit at the right hand of God once he's up-river with his people the Creeks. I don't like leavin' the sloop up-river. And we'll have to split our parties again when you transfer to horses."

"You should have said something then, sir."

"Oh, I did enough carpin' for their likes. All that praise we got, like we're Drake'r Anson come back with flamin' swords… well, talk's cheap, and so are we. I'm the oldest lieutenant in the Navy, you're nobody, and Shrike and the sloop are expendable. Damned expendable."

"You give me chills, sir," Alan said, taking a deep sip of his own mug to fortify himself. "But surely, the admiral has already placed his favorites into larger ships than ours. Everything makes sense to choose Shrike. It's a chance to do something really grand."

"And get your name in the Marine Chronicle!" Lilycrop sneered. "Hell, nary a word o' this'll ever get out. We're goin' to be as anonymous as spies, no matter how it comes out. Oh, maybe our Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty will make a note of it in our records, but I'll not be made post-captain over it, and you'll not go higher than you are now. There's no way to refuse this duty, but if there was a way, I'd consider it. All that talk of how the Spanish don't patrol. Well, remember, there's troops and a ship'r two at Pensacola, and sure to be a ship o' war workin' outa Tampa Bay. Spies along the coast, some Indian that'll run to the Dagoes to raise the hue an' cry. Sell us out for a fuckin' mirror! Jesus weep! Nobody I knew ever prospered who got tied up with damn foolishness such as this. You be sure to watch your back once you're ashore. If you learned anythin' up in the Chesapeake, use it. Take whoever you know is a woodsman an' a scrapper, 'cause you'll have need of 'em. And I'll pray every day for your safety, Mister Lewrie."

"Thank you, sir, that was well said, and welcome," Alan replied with a warm feeling inside for Lilycrop's regard for him.

"Hard enough to break in a first officer. No call to do it more'n once a year, 'pon my soul." Lilycrop scowled, looking away at the antics of his cats on the floor. "I've grown used to ya, d'ya see? Show us heel-taps on your glass, and let us get some rest. We'll need it."