“I shall not stand upon my dignity, sir,” Bury called up from the bottom of the boarding battens as his bow man hooked onto the main channel. “Though, you might extend honours to my prisoner. He claims to be the captain of the Escorpion. ”
All gilt and be-shit compliments to the loser, Lewrie thought.
“Side party, Mister Grainger,” Lewrie ordered, as he stared at the stranger beside Bury, a fellow with long and lank black hair tied back into a loose queue, a swarthy complexion, and a neatly trimmed mustachio and beard.
“I do not claim… I am!” the fellow snapped.
Thank Christ he’s some English, Lewrie thought; I doubt we’ve no more than five Spanish speakers in the entire squadron.
There was a snag to the welcome-aboard rite, though; both the Bosun and Bosun’s Mate had already departed in the cutters, and only Marine Lt. Simcock was wearing a sword, and his boots were caked with sand and mud. Lewrie’s Cox’n, Liam Desmond, who traditionally wore a silver call as his badge of office, hastily stepped in to pipe their prisoner aboard. That worthy ably scrambled up the battens to stand in the entry-port and brusquely doff his wide-brimmed straw hat with what seemed proud contempt.
“Welcome aboard His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Reliant, sir, and my condolences upon your loss,” Lewrie said, doffing his own hat with a bit more graciousness than the prisoner evinced.
“Sir, may I name to you Captain Alexandro Calderon, captain of the privateer sloop Le Escorpion,” Lt. Bury gravely intoned, managing to make it “Alehandro”, with an Iberian flourish to the ship’s name. “Captain Calderon, the commanding officer of our squadron, Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, and Captain of the Reliant frigate.”
Black eyes flashed at him, and the Spaniard tossed his head to jerk up his chin, as if impatient with such honourable formalities.
“Eet ees my regret, Senor Capitano… Loo… Loo-ree, that I am weethout a sword to offer to j’ou een surrender. Eef j’ou do not mind? But, eef I was at sea, j’ou would never have catch me. None of j’our leetle sloops, certainly not j’our beeg frigata. Le Escorpion ees as fast as the wind.”
“Then I suppose I should be grateful that we caught you and your consort at anchor, and asleep, Senor Calderon,” Lewrie drolly replied, bestowing upon the Spaniard his best “shit-eating” grin.
Irksome bastard! he thought; And can any bloody foreigner say my name right?
“I see by your papers that your homeport is Havana, senor,” Lewrie continued. “As was the Santa Doratea? The name of her captain escapes me.”
“Don Juan Emilio Narvaez, si, ” Calderon said, looking as if he wished to spit on the deck to cleanse his mouth of foulness.
“Then, may I assume that it was he who decided to anchor here in the bay?” Lewrie asked, “That this Narvaez was in charge?”
“ Si,” Calderon snapped, scowling, “J’ou say j’ou have my papers? My Letters of Marque prove that we are legitimate corsarios, so j’ou must respect that, and treat us weeth the rules of war.”
Insist, will ye? Lewrie griped to himself.
“ Corsarios? Like corsairs? Is that not another word for pirates?” Lewrie posed with one brow up.
“No no, senor! Corsario ees not pirata!” Calderon countered, sounding more impatient with a hen-headed poor linguist than in fear of being hanged. “There are many corsarios who sail from Havana, from Cuba, but no pirata. ”
“Despite our blockade,” Lewrie said, sounding dubious.
“Blockade? Blockade ees joke! J’ou ingleses do not rule the seas, senor!” Calderon sneered. “No matter what j’ou do, merchants enter and leave Cuba, the West Indies, every day, by the hundreds, and j’our navy do not take one een ten! Blockade? Hah!
“So… j’ou weel now accept our parole and take us to Nassau.” Calderon went on, in much calmer, but arrogant, takings. “And allow us to bury our dead?”
“Well, not right off, senor, ” Lewrie told him. The very last thing he wanted was a return to Nassau, within reach of Francis Forrester. For that matter, he was also loath to delay the execution of the rest of his orders, even by a day. “Is Captain Narvaez one of our prisoners, Mister Bury?”
“If he is, sir, he has not announced his presence,” Bury said.
“Narvaez was ashore wheen j’ou attack us,” Calderon sullenly said. “Weeth hees woman!”
“Hey?” Lt. Westcott, who had been idling nearby, commented. “A woman, did he say?” Men of the Afterguard, some of the Midshipmen, and the other officers suppressed their snickers.
“Most-like a trull, Mister Westcott, not worth your trouble,” Lewrie japed.
“No no, she ees puta, but muy hermosa, ” Calderon insisted, all but lifting his fingers to his lips to kiss them in appreciation.
“My pardons, Senor Calderon, but you must be as dry as dust,” Lewrie said; “how remiss of me not to offer you any refreshment.”
“I’ve a… some champagne in my boat, sir,” Lt. Darling piped up, a tad sheepishly, for such would have been looted from the encampment. “A whole case of bottles… French, to boot.”
“Well, fetch one up, Mister Darling, and I’ll send down to my cabins for glasses!” Lewrie enthused, clapping his hands in glee. “I expect the champagne will be Senor Narvaez’s, but… In point of fact, Mister Darling, I’d admire a second bottle for a victory feast this evening.”
“Ehm… I’ll have the entire case fetched up, sir. There are two cases, really.” Darling confessed, ready to wring his hands.
“Do so, sir! Do so!” Lewrie urged, then turned to his captive once more. “Had you been set up here in Mayami Bay for long, Senor Calderon? Much better for your purposes than the waterless islands in the Keys, hey? More game? Though, I would have thought that you might have preferred any of the inlets closer to Saint Augustine and its fort, and shore batteries. That’s where I thought to find you.”
“J’ou look for me, for Narvaez, especialmente?” It was his turn to gawp in astonishment, fearing betrayal by someone in Havana.
“No no, nothing like that,” Lewrie cajoled. “My orders sent me to look for French or Spanish privateers in general.”
The case of champagne in question arrived on deck, and Darling did the honours with the wire basket and cork. Pettus came up from the great-cabins with clean glasses, and Lewrie poured Calderon’s full. It was warm, but Calderon tossed half of the glass back at once,
“ Gracias, senor, I was thirsty,” Calderon admitted.
“Ah! A very good French champagne,” Lewrie commented, once he’d taken a deep sip himself. “Your compatriot has good taste, at least. A refill, sir? Here you go. I suppose, do so many of your merchant ships elude our blockade back in Europe, and here, that Cuba should be awash in champagne and fine French wines. Mean t’say, senor, you must get something in return for becoming a French ally.”
“ Damn the French!” Calderon snarled, well into his second glass. “And, damn all the ateo traidores back een Spain who take hands weeth France! So een love weeth a republica, they turn their backs on king, on the Holy Church, on God! Idiotas who think they so smart, who geef part of our Navy to France, geef them millions in silver and gold, on the sly!
“Damn all j’ou ingles heretics, too!” Calderon ranted on, “for declaring war on
