Havoc`s Sword

Mr. Peel of the Foreign Office's Secret Branch simply knew too many secrets; it was impossible for Lewrie to follow his usual custom of dining in his officers, midshipmen and 'gentlemen warrants' as long as Peel was aboard. Peel, as supercargo, had to be accommodated somewhere apart from casual conversations. There was always the risk that Peel talked in his sleep, or boasted immoderately in his cups.

The only secure place where Peel could sling a bed-cot was here in Lewrie's great-cabins, and they were already cramped enough. Aspinall's little day-pantry had come down, and the chart-space had to shift aft into the day cabin, right against Lewrie's bed space; and that bed space got crowded aft and in-board into his day cabin, which had moved Lewrie's desk and chair, settee and guest chairs, portable storage chests and wine-cabinet over to larboard, nearer his quarter-gallery and his 'seat of ease'-where Toulon's tin-lined sand box also was located. Toulon, usually of the most garrulous and playful nature, had not taken all those changes kindly. Whilst he had the run of the entire ship, his master's cabins were sacrosanct; or at least they should have been. The ram-cat had not taken well to Peel, either, usually dubiously on guard under the furniture when Peel was astir, his paws tucked under his chest, his eyes slit in Oriental wariness.

'Evening, Mister Peel,' Lewrie said as he swept back the tails of his coat and sat himself down in the dining- coach.

'Captain Lewrie,' Peel purred back, taking a place about halfway down on Lewrie's left. 'Am I given to understand that we're having turtle soup tonight? Delightful.'

'Green turtle, sir,' Aspinall supplied as he poured their wineglasses full, waving the neck briefly at the sideboard, where a tureen with the lid off fumed. 'Small'un, but tender. Turtle steaks, too.'

'Our cook, Gideon, is a wonder,' Lewrie boasted, discovering at least something to lighten his grumpy mood over being turfed from his own quarters, something with which to ease his careful formality.

'Gideon Cook… how apt,' Peel said with a smirk as some soup was ladled into his bowl. 'Your ship's cook's name, that is.'

'Cooke with an E,' Lewrie corrected, as Toulon hopped up on the table by his right hand and sat like a statue, watching Aspinall's every move; for sure enough, once Lewrie's bowl had been filled, there was a smaller bowl for him, mostly fine-shredded and soft-boiled meat, with just a bit of broth. Toulon hunkered down possessively and tucked in, now and then glaring at Mr. Peel, did he gesture too wide or abruptly for the cat's liking.

'His old master's name, I presume?' Peel blandly commented, his spoon poised before his mouth to blow upon, his eyes averted.

'Who knows?' Lewrie lied, tossing off a shrug of believable innocence. 'Free to volunteer, at any rate.'

'One may only hope, sir,' Peel cautioned. 'Was he a runaway… the punishment for harbouring or succouring him is harsh. In point of fact, you seem to have a great many Blacks in your crew. Howes, Hoods? Brewsters, Sawyers, Carpenters… Basses and Whitbreads, and Nelsons? Or Groom. Old masters, or old trades? Oh, I forgot. Tis Groome with an E.' He gave Lewrie a questioning smirk. 'But Bass, or…'

'Quite a spell of yellow fever and malaria, earlier this year, Mister Peel' Lewrie very cautiously stated, covering his lies with his napkin to his lips. 'Was Proteus fortunate so many locals volunteered into her, well, I ain't picky, 'long as I can work and fight my ship.'

'Odd, though,' Peel drilled on, glass held pensively in hand. 'That was just about the same time that a coincidental number of young male slaves fled the late Ledyard Beauman plantings near Portland Bight, was it not? One could wonder…'

Got me by the nutmegs! Lewrie frantically thought, in dire need of a panicky 'Yeek!' and did he try to bluster his way out of it, he would only make things worse for himself. Panic gave way, though to anger at Peel and Pelham, knowing they'd hold this over him to ensure his cooperation… when they already had it, the bastards!

'Most fortunate, aye,' Lewrie conceded, busying himself with a spoonful of soup, taking thinking time in stroking Toulon, who had put his food away and was cajoling for more.

'Mister Pelham, now,' Peel continued quite casually, 'is a lad born to wealth. As we both know, respectable wealth in England means land, and property obtaining to the land. Tenants, and rents? He was a bit nettled, therefore, by the, uhm, coincidence. Mister Pelham, however, has the acquaintance of Sir Samuel Whitbread and the 'Great Commoner,' Charles James Fox, who are of a persuasive progressive bent. He also admires the work of the Reverend William Wilberforce and Mistress Hannah Moore, the earnest reformers. Mister Pelham is not taken quite so much by their views concerning the reform of English society… but he agrees with them about the abolition of slavery, d'ye see.'

'Uhm-hmm,' Lewrie commented with his mouth full, which seemed safest. I'm ruined, I'm extorted forever… which? he wondered.

'Mister Pelham now thinks the slightest bit better of you, sir,' Peel informed him. 'Did you actually have a hand in it.'

'Excuse me, Mister Peel,' Lewrie wondered aloud, after he got his soup down without choking in shock, or relief. 'But, not two days ago, re-enslaving every last Black in Saint Domingue seemed to bother him less than a hang-nail. Damme, he's posing as a prospective slave owner! How can he hold both views simultaneously?'

'Ah, but they're French slaves, Captain Lewrie,' Peel brightly replied. 'Not English- owned. And anyone who tries to put the chains back on 'em will bleed money, soldiers, and grief, the whole next century. Let it be a festering boil for the Frogs, not us. L'Ouverture is getting the land back into limited production, so what he can do, disorganised as he is, our more enlightened British planters can do, just as well if not better. Perhaps with paid labour, d'ye see.'

Lewrie gave that idea the scornful snort it deserved; he doubted if anyone could mention British overseas planters and 'enlightened' in the same breath, and not be slung into Bedlam for lunacy.

'And Mister Pelham's pose is just that,' Peel snickered. 'For just so long as it is necessary. He'll make a great show of keen interest into every aspect of slave agriculture, then suffer a sudden, ah, turn of fortune that precludes the purchase of slaves, or acres.'

'He'll make a pest of himself, you mean,' Lewrie wryly supposed.

'Uhm!' Peel gaily agreed over the lip of his wineglass.

'Which means that I won't be saddled with you forever,' Lewrie further assumed. 'Your mission ends when Choundas is defeated, or when Saint Domingue explodes again? When Rigaud wins?'

'Hopefully, Captain Lewrie,' Peel said with a mystifying shrug.

'Just how abolitionist is the Honourable Grenville Pelham then?' Lewrie queried. 'Enough so to delve into slavery's horrors and write Wilberforce and Moore all about 'em? So Whitbread and Fox can screech in the Commons and expose the evils?'

'Frankly, sir, I would not put it past him,' Peel agreed. 'He is young, you've noticed, and, uhm, ardent in his beliefs,' Peel said, with a jaded roll of his eyes at such callowness in younger men.

'Ain't he, though,' Lewrie replied, chuckling; but he was more amused by the fact that Pelham was vulnerable, too. A word in the right ear, and Jamaica would shun him like the proverbial viper in the breast; an abolitionist spy out to ruin them, take their profits with emancipation and paid-for workers-steal the food from their children's mouths!

He threatens me, he goes down with me, Lewrie vowed to himself; Pelham presses me too sore, and I'll have him by the nutmegs!

'I take it that your friend, Colonel Christopher Cashman, is not enamoured of the institution either, Captain Lewrie,' Peel said as his soup bowl was whisked away, to be replaced by a plate of grilled fish and simmered turtle cutlets, with small boiled new potatoes, chick peas, and fried onion slices added.

'No, he's not,' Lewrie answered.

'How odd, then, that he's removed to the Carolinas,' Peel said as he broke open a piping-hot roll of shore bread and slathered it with fresh butter; butter preserved as long as it lasted on the cool far-aft orlop deck, sunk in an oak pail of seawater.

'Looking at Wilmington in North Carolina, or Georgetown in South Carolina,' Lewrie supplied, feeling more at