Havoc`s Sword

and the Indians, forever lecturing and scolding the live-long day regarding 'sensible' Muskogee customs and how stupid and 'heathenish' Whites, and Lewrie in particular, were! Frankly, Lewrie had come to quite heartily despise him! Don't even look at an Indian woman, especially when she was in her 'courses'; don't even piss in a stream above them! Lewrie couldn't recall Desmond McGilliveray even smiling at one of them. He'd taken no wife, as long as Lewrie had been ashore and inland with him. Perhaps after they'd sailed off, that frail little dandy-prat from the Foreign Office dead and all their plans gone for nought, even after thinking they had a settled agreement that the Muskogee would back England in the war.

Only one marriage I recall, and that was mine… at the point of the knife/ Lewrie thought, working his mouth in silent, resentful, reverie; 'Twos Desmond made me do it, and thought it hilarious.¹

'My mother was a visiting Cherokee princess,' young McGilliveray stated with a stubborn, piss-me-in-the-eye pride, as if daring anyone to demean his antecedents; probably from long practice. 'Her name in Cherokee meant Soft Rabbit, Grandfather Robbie said my father was dumbstruck in his tracks by her, from the very first, and…'

Soft Rabbit, God-DAMN! Lewrie quietly screeched, almost knocking his wineglass over; He ain't that stiff-neck's boy… he's MINE! SHIT!

His mouth dropped open of its own volition; his eyes blared as wide as a new-saddled colt's, as he took note of the lad's eyes. Grey-blue eyes, just like his own. And what had his father Sir Hugo smirked after calling upon Theoni Connor and her new-born bastard, right after the Nore Mutiny? 'He's got your eyes, Alan, me son,' the old rake-hell had cooed; followed by a gleeful cackle!

His eyes. Soft Rabbit's glossy and thick, raven-black hair; but with a fairer Englishman's complexion that he'd never have gotten from a union 'twixt Soft Rabbit and a half-blood, even were McGilliveray as fair as a Finn! A leaner face, not rounded; a fine nose, not hawkish.

'I knew her,' Lewrie confessed. 'Met her,' he quickly amended.

Damme, didn 't I just! he frantically thought, recalling all the sweet, stolen hours when they went at it like fevered stoats, like… newly-Weds! And the only reason he and Soft Rabbit had been made to 'leap the sword' was because she was war booty, a slave taken by a Muskogee war party up near the Tanasi River, far to the north. A girl slave of the haughty Wind Clan couldn 't birth a bastard, and holding a rantipoling 'outsider' responsible was amusing to them! The poor deluded lad, Lewrie thought.

'What was she like, sir? ' young Midshipman McGilliveray begged

'Oh, wondrous handsome!' Lewrie truthfully said. 'Pretty as a picture. Not so very tall, d'ye know, but as slim and graceful as any doe deer. Sorry, but they didn't wed whilst I was at their town. And I never conversed with her. Gad, imagine lettin' an outsider, English sailor such as me, in such exalted company, what?

'Point of fact, the last time I saw your father was when he and his warriors escorted us back to our boats, then downriver to the sea. The Spanish had gotten wind of our presence, and they and the Apalachee attacked us before we started unloading the trade goods and arms we'd promised. It was neck-or-nothing there, for a bit, 'til your father rallied his warriors and ran them off. All I was left to show for it was a bayonet in the thigh, and a tale t'tell. Early spring of '83, it was.'

'And he called you imathla lubotskulgi' Captain McGilliveray contributed of a sudden, drawing Lewrie's attention to the top of the table. 'In Creek, that's 'little warrior.' Desmond told me that,' he declared, seeming to gawp in wonder over such a coincidence happening in regards to his long-dead relative. 'All these years, and both gone to their Maker, of the smallpox. I'd quite forgotten, but… well, I am dashed.' The other supper guests smiled, but he didn't.

Though McGilliveray didn't sound 'gawpish'; quite the opposite, in point of fact, as he squeamishly, uneasily looked away, eyes almost panicked and averted, 'harumphing' to reclaim his proper demeanour.

He knows! Lewrie thought, cringing, fighting manfully to keep a calm exterior, himself, and not turn and look at Midshipman McGilliveray; Desmond must have told him who really fathered the lad, he looks so English, he 'd've had to. Indians annul bad marriages at the Green Corn ceremonies… Soft Rabbit must've said ours didn't take when I didn't come back for her, and McGilliveray took her on. Said he'd see to her, and didn 't he just… the bastard.

'Well, gentlemen,' Capt. McGilliveray said, balling up his napkin and laying it aside. 'Let us have the port, or the whisky, fetched out, and honour our distinguished guests with a hearty toast to the King of England. Charge your glasses, if you will?'

Lewrie again chose whisky; he was badly in need of it.

At a nod, Midshipman McGilliveray at the foot of the table rose and proposed the toast to King George III, with all the fulsome titles including 'Defender of the Faith, of the Church of England'; to which Midshipman Grace responded with a shorter toast to the President of the United States-then the serious toasting and imbibing began.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Thank God for a quiet day in port,' Lewrie muttered to himself as he struggled out of his coat sleeves, with his long-suffering manservant Aspinall trying to help, trying to keep up with his captain's slow, staggering circle of the day-cabin. 'Wouldn't trust me with the charge of a row-boat, t'morrow.'

'You circle, I pull yer sleeve, sir, that's th' way,' Aspinall meekly suggested. 'Mind yer kitty…'

Rrrowwr! Toulon bickered, fleeing the imminent danger from his 'beloved' master's clumping feet, wisely taking his tail and paws out of reach in an offended scurry under the settee.

'Who won, Mister Peel?' Lewrie asked, rather loudly. Mr. Peel, temporarily stashed somewhat upright against the deal-and-canvas partition to his cabin, didn't answer. He was too busy contemplating his shoes, arms lankly dangling, just about ready to drool. 'Them or us?'

'Uhm? Sir?' Peel finally responded, looking up blearily. 'Up, the cavalry! Huzzah! Forward, the King's Own Heavy Horse!'

'Why, the damn fool's drunk as a lord!' Lewrie chortled, as he kicked a constricting shoe toward the dining- coach. He stopped circling long enough for Aspinall to start undoing the buttons of his waist-coat; items which were too 'scientific' for him, at the moment.

'Aye, sir… so 'e is,' Aspinall agreed, smothering a giggle.

'Aspinall…' Lewrie said, peering at him as if imparting some eternal but urgent verity, 'the Yankee Doodles're a hopeless, drunken lot. It'll do for 'em, in the end.'

'I 'spect so, sir,' Aspinall said, peeling the waist-coat off, setting Lewrie to circling, again. Aspinall threw a helpless look at Cox'n Andrews, who was doing for Mr. Peel and his coat and things.

'Damme, I've lost a perfectly good shoe!' Lewrie complained.

' 'Tis here someplace, sir… honest,' Aspinall told him. 'Do slip t'other off, and I'll mate 'em up. Now fer yer stock an' shirt, sir, and I'll fetch yer dressin' gown. Lean on this, sir, will ye?'

Lewrie kicked the second off; this one skittered underneath the settee, causing Toulon to yowl once more and scuttle off for someplace safer, where people didn't shoot things at him.

'Dry, dry, dry…' Lewrie carped, noting (rather squiffily in point of fact) that he'd been leant against his wine- cabinet. He felt in need of liquid refreshment, but the flimsy latch appeared too elaborate a safeguard for his fingers, too.

'Ginger beer, sah,' Cox'n Andrews suggested, plumping Mr. Peel into a chair so he could remove his shoes. 'Good fo' settlin' a riled stomach. I'll fetch some from yo' lazarette.'

'Capital!' Lewrie crowed, swaying. 'We have any?'

'Ten gallon, sir, fetched aboard this mornin',' Aspinall said, coming back to lumber Lewrie into a chair, as well.

'Poor Kershaw… the clown!' Lewrie commented, tittering over what he'd heard aboard the