'Such as they are, m'sieur. Best of a poor lot,' Hainaut told him, with a disparaging Gallic shrug. 'I returned those that did not please to Governor Hugues, to make what use of them he will. Do a few more officials arrive in need of servants, he'll be reduced to the very dregs of the government supply, n'est-ce pas, mon Capitaine?' he concluded with a devious simper.
'Think I am Le Diable, do you?' Choundas asked the Blacks lined up for inspection, almost jovially, soft-voiced, as he clump-ticked to within a few feet of them, making them shrink back a pace. He removed his hat, baring florid ginger-red hair. 'Ah, mais oui' he said with a shrug. Hat tucked under his good arm, he lifted the mask. 'I am!' he thundered, making the Blacks whine, cringe, visibly shake, and almost piss their slop-trousers.
'I will be served with alacrity, with diligence, and with quiet! The one who raises his voice inside, who annoys me, he'll be flayed to his bones and fed to the sharks… alive! Do not make me take notice of you, comprendes? You've had your one curious look, and last winces! The next one of you who looks at me askance and even thinks that I am disgusting I will have boiled in hot tar and crucified, head-down!'
He let the mask drop back into place, shuffled its seating, and thrust his hat back onto his head.
'You had better fear me, mon garcons' he threatened, 'and do my bidding as quietly and un-noticed as mice. Now, go! Allei, vite!'
They scampered in a twinkling.
Pleased with himself, Choundas turned once more to Lt. Hainaut. 'Let us see what you have accomplished, Jules. By the way, we will be having dinner guests. You know the gallant Capitaine Desplan?'
'But of course, maitre. Capitaine Desplan? Welcome,' Hainaut piped up to the captain of the Le Bouclier frigate, as if they hadn't spent nearly six weeks aboard her, in cheek-to-jowl company.
Choundas stomped up to the wood veranda while Hainaut made his welcomes to the other captains of their acquaintance off the 20-gunned corvettes that had escorted their older 28-gun frigate and a storeship; Capitaine de Fregate Griot of Le Gascon, a stout little fellow of dark features, and the much taller and paler Capitaine de Fregate MacPherson off Za Resolue, an emigre Jacobite Scot whose family had fled to France after the failure of Bonnie Prince Charlie Stuart in 1745.
Another officer, a mere Lieutenant de Vaisseau, had alit from the carriage, too, one who hung back shyly. 'Et vous, m'sieur!''
'That is Lieutenant Recamier, Jules,' Choundas informed him as he stood, impatiently rapping his stick on the veranda to hurry them inside. 'Formerly of the schooner L'Incendiare. He is most familiar with Caribbean waters, and has a most intriguing tale to tell. After dessert and brandy, we must avail ourselves of his experience. Come, messieurs … let us share a glass of wine, and discover what an island cook can do with victuals.'
Ah, him! Hainaut thought with malicious glee, having read afteraction reports of L'Incendiare 's loss. It was no wonder that the poor fellow was diffident! Hainaut wasn't sure whether Lt. Recamier was to be the main course, the dessert, or the postprandial entertainment.
'Bienvenu, M'sieur Recamier,' he said, though, putting his best face of ignorant affability on, and extending a proper Republican hand to shake. 'I trust you'll enjoy our offerings for supper.'
They had sailed with an extensive wine cellar, and the casks and crates had been ashore long enough for ship- stirred lees to settle, or be carefully filtered when decanted, so Choundas set a good table. Lt. Hainaut saw to that. The soup was a bland, cool celery broth, the fish a fresh-caught pompano served with a local delicacy, crabes farcis. A locally grown salad course with onions, cucumbers, and carrots, zested with vinaigrette and lime juice. The main course chickens were on the tough, small, and stringy side, on a rice pilaf, still on the bone, but for Choundas's plate, which had been picked off and diced for easier one-handed eating. A touch dry and over-cooked, pan- fried, but enlivened with enough exotic hot sauces and Caribbean spices to make an equivalent to a Hindee curry, normally used to mask a tainted dish.
Hainaut, Griot, Desplan, and MacPherson dug in with a will, delighted with fresh shore viands after weeks of salt-meat junk, sending servants back for more crisp and piping-hot baguettes time after time, after the dreary monotony of stale or weeviled ship's biscuit.
Choundas occupied the head of the table, with Capitaine Desplan in the place of honour to his right, and Griot to his left. Recamier was to Griot's left, opposite Hainaut, and-two empty chairs down- at the foot of the table sat poor clerk Etienne de Gougne.
The little clerk abstemiously took wee bites, then chewed seemingly forever before swallowing, before the tiniest sips of wine.
Hainaut had seen to it that his dishes had been over-seasoned, knowing the timid little clerk's penchant for the blander and creamier Parisian cooking. Each bite seemed a torture of Hell-fire, though he would be loath to do or say a thing about it. And if he pushed his plate away, he wouldn't get anything else!
Lt. Recamier was another spare diner and imbiber, as if trying to keep his wits about him and hope to be forgotten, perhaps. Sooner or later, though, Le Maitre would get around to him, Hainaut was sure.
'Stupid waste of the fleet,' Choundas groused, on his favourite peeve for the umpteenth time, 'when it would have been better to work them up with weeks of training at sea, before gadding off on their adventures. We will never meet the biftecks on an equal footing until our seamanship and our cooperation between ships and senior officers markedly improves. Been that way for years,' Choundas groused, shoving his food about his plate with his specially made all-in-one utensil, a pewter fork and spoon on one end, and a thin scoop on the other. 'In the aristo navy,' he sneered, 'we swung at anchor most of the time, convenient to shore comforts, and got sent out on overseas adventures by foppish, ignorant fools, trusting that time on-passage would smooth out the rough spots. What idiocy!'
'If only our superiors would have heeded your suggestions, mon Capitaine' Desplan of Le Bouclier sympathised, toadying up agreeably, as was his wont since they had first set foot on his decks.
'One devoutly wishes that you could be appointed to the Ministry, Capitaine Choundas,' the dark-visaged, hawk-nosed Griot suggested. 'Scourge out the useless place-keepers, and put real sailors in charge.'
They were so obsequious that Hainaut had to stifle a groan of derision. Toadying was pointless for Griot. He was a Breton, one of Le Maitre's fabled Celts, descended from the bold seafarers of Brittany, of the same blood as Choundas, scions of the ancient Veneti. To hear Choundas tell it (and endlessly re-tell it!) the Veneti had been deep-water sailors in their stout oak ships, as daring as the Phoenicians, and might have crossed the trackless oceans to discover the New World long before Columbus; who had almost out-fought Julius Caesar's fleet of eggshell-thin, coast-hugging, oared triremes during the Gallic Wars.
No, Griot had no need to lick Le Maitre'?, arse; his heritage was his pass to promotion and favour.
Desplan, too. Before the Revolution, Desplan had been a mere midshipman, a commoner who could not expect to rise much higher than Lieutenant de Vaisseau in royal service without money, connections, or the rare chance to shine with a spectacular feat of derring-do gaining him notice at the royal court. Desplan, however, was from Quimper, a fluent speaker of the ancient Breton tongue that King Louis's officials had fought to suppress. He and Capt. Choundas had slanged whole afternoons away on-passage, Desplan even daring to compose heroic poems set in the glorious old days-then read them… aloud), first in Breton, then in French for the unenlightened.
