Havoc`s Sword

Capitaine MacPherson, though… hmmm, Hainaut considered, giving him a perusal under his lashes as he took a long sip of vin ordinaire. The man was tall, lean, and raw- boned, as gingery-blond as Choundas, but more weathered, his skin more amenable to harsh sunlight. Scottish; ergo, some sort of Celt. But most unfortunately and overtly Catholic, of the most egregiously self-effacing and devout kind.

Not the best thing to be, or practice so openly, these days in a nation, under a regime, that had closed great cathedrals and tiny chapels, confiscated the great wealth and lands of Holy Mother Church, and turned them all into Temples of Reason, where the genius of Man was celebrated.

His corvette, La Resolue, was a smartly-run ship, though, kept in perfect trim, her crew intensely drilled and disciplined with a gruff fairness. Their stormy passage had proved MacPherson to be a tarry, hoary-handed 'tarpaulin man' as the British, the 'Bloodies,' said. It was possible that MacPherson would prosper under Choundas's command… but never shine.

'… what Admiral de Brueys will accomplish with the Mediterranean fleet, well,' Choundas was raspingly continuing. He stopped in mid-carp, pressed his napkin to his lips to stifle a belch, and bent at the waist as if in pain. 'Mon Dieu, take this merde away!'

He shoved his plate halfway to the fruit compote on the glossy wood surface, and flung his all-in-one utensil after it in a sudden fit of rage. 'Damned negres! All fire and peppers!' he gravelled, glaring at Hainaut as if it were his fault; making Hainaut cringe to think that his plate and the 'loaded' one meant for de Gougne had been confused!

'She'll not do it again, m'sieur! Hainaut hotly vowed, rising. 'I'll fetch you a blank-manger, at once, to ease you.'

Le Maitre had been suffering stomach troubles ever since he had gotten his orders to sail for the Caribbean. Was his mentor ailing… was it something serious enough to threaten Hainaut's comfortable and lucrative billet? He dashed off towards the cooking shed.

'Oui, go!' Choundas snapped, stifling another painful burning and eructation. 'And give that salope a whack or two as warning! Pardons, messieurs. Foreign service has ruined my trips as sure as grape-shot. I could almost savour Chinese cooking. Mandarin was best, subtle and elegant both in taste and presentation. Hoisin, from the far north, or Cantonese, though… all devil's piss, garlic and fire, bah! Does that negre cow's-hide mean to poison me?'

'It has been known to happen, m'sieur le Capitaine,' Lt. Recamier spoke up for the first time in half an hour, still diffident. 'Though it means the slaughter of the entire house-slave staff… if they are caught at it. Many an overly cruel master or mistress has died, under mysterious circumstances, in the islands. Sometimes, the 'witch' worked by Voudoun poisons are so subtle, even the ablest physicians can't say the cause was not natural. Les noirs have a thousand ways to get back at Europeans. Scorches on new clothing, pets gone missing, lost spoons… anything. Drip at a time, never anything worthy of a beating. I think your chinois would call it 'the death of a thousand cuts', n'est-ce pas? A drip-at-a-time water torture?'

'Indeed,' Guillaume Choundas archly drawled back, though with a glint of sudden wariness in his good eye.

'Here you are, m'sieur' Hainaut said, returning with a dish of whipped and sweetened wheat flour. He retrieved the utensil, wiped it on his waist-coat, and handed it to Choundas.

After a few moments, and a few spoonfuls, Le Maitre seemed much eased, and the wary, uncomfortable silence ended. Hainaut returned to his own supper, enjoying its taste, even if it had cooled while he was away on his urgent errand.

'De Brueys,' Choundas dyspeptically snapped, picking up where he had left off. 'A cautious old fellow. Perhaps more suited to a shore or port command than a fighting fleet, hein? Too set in his ways, the old idle aristo ways. Needs everything just so, a set-piece that advances in understandable steps. We must thank our lucky stars, messieurs, that we are not part of his folly. That little tuft-hunter whose army he carries, General Bonaparte, is sure to overreach, and lead a great part of our navy into trouble. Better we take Malta as planned, land and conquer the Kingdom of Naples second, then cross and conquer Sicily, cutting the Mediterranean in two, before any farther efforts. Give the bifteck Admiral Jervis a real headache and run him back to Lisbon, again. Then, properly shaken down and trained in seamanship, the Adriatic, the Aegean Sea, and the Ottoman Turk lands could be ours by simply opening our hands to pluck them. Oui. Dearly as we would wish to partake in honour and glory for La Belle France, and the Revolution's expansion to all of Europe, we must be thankful that we are out here, where adventures just as grand await us.'

Like proper little sychophants appreciative of their superior's acuity and bold strategic thinking, the diners almost stood to clap.

Hainaut didn't quite remember it that way. When orders had come from the five demi-gods who comprised the Directory in Paris, in point of fact, his master had raged and cursed, throwing things to the four winds, howling about Betrayal, Exile, and scourging the 'New Men,' the slimy-slick attorney-poseurs who'd supplanted the bold firebrands of the Revolution, shuffling those who'd worked the hardest off stage to be forgotten and dismissed without reward! A brace of prisoners in for minor offences had been half-dead before Le Maitre had spent his rage!

It was, though, the story of his master's embittered life, to be used as a cat's-paw to the rich and titled wastrels, even in the days when he was slim, stalwart, and handsome in his own fashion. Now it was exile to the Sugar Islands, where ugly, crippled embarassments could succumb to a myriad of plagues and fevers, un-looked-for and unloved!

Hainaut grimaced a tad, recalling Choundas's slim successes in the Mediterranean, his next thankless assignment to outfit General Humbert's expedition to Ireland in a squadron of frigates. It hadn't been his fault that Lord Cornwallis's army had cornered the small army of Humbert's, forcing its semi-honourable surrender, and a slaughter of its ill-armed, ill-trained Irish rebel auxiliaries…

Last year in the Batavian Republic, formerly Holland, training and encouraging jury-armed merchant ships into frigates and corvettes and scouting vessels… only to see the bifteck Admiral Duncan sweep them from the seas at the Battle of Camperdown, for the scouts failed their main body. That hadn't been his fault, either, but…

Hainaut wondered, again, whether he had hitched his waggon to an ill-favoured star, or remained in Choundas's harness perhaps too long. Did Le Maitre fail out here, this would be his last chance, and Hainaut could sink back into the pool of mediocre junior officers, living only on his meagre pay, with all hopes of future advancement blocked…

Choundas rang a tiny porcelain bell to summon dessert. Slaves rushed to dole out soft, doughy, and sugar- crusted pastry shells filled with fresh local berries sopping in heavy whipped cream. Dessert wine and brandy were fetched out as well.

The Directory, and the Assembly, gave short shrift to failures, Jules Hainaut glumly speculated as he tried a bite of the dessert and found it better than succulent, almost too sweet; though they did not execute as many as they had in the earlier days, Hainaut speculated. Even powerful Robespierre had lost his head as an embarassment! Choundas… perhaps. But never a handsome, cunning fellow such as he! He knew when to jump, and profit by it!

Promised me a command, he did, Hainaut thought; not a privateer, but a National Ship. It was the donkey's carrot that Choundas had hung before his eyes, what he had groomed him for-not to be his footman, his catch-fart, his dog's-body, forever! That's what the de Gougnes of this world were for, after all!

'Excellent,' Choundas grunted in rare praise of his berry tart. 'Though, cher Hainaut, you must also remind that peau de vache that portions must be cut smaller for me in future.'

'I'll see to it, m'sieur,' Hainaut swore, beaming at his mentor, already laying an agreeable aura in which he could sooner or later pose his request for a chance to shine on his own.

'The brandy, now, I think, messieurs?' Choundas announced. 'And we shall now partake of Lieutenant Recamier's vast experience and his wisdom!' Making Recamier stiffen in dread; which reaction pleased Le Maitre no end.

After all, Machiavelli had said it was better to be feared than loved.