Havoc`s Sword

displayed.

'Thank you, Mister McGilliveray,' Lewrie had replied, properly gruff and stoical, his hand out for the letter.

'I was instructed to wait upon your written reply, sir, and…' McGilliveray said, stumbling for the first time. He had shown none of the usual youthful curiosity one might expect of a fellow boarding one of King George's ships for the first time, not even craning his head about to see how other navies did things, rigged things, but kept his gaze wide-eyed upon Lewrie far more intently than any courtly book of gentlemanly behaviour could advise when dealing with one's superiors, or elders.

'Oi'll see ta him, sor, whilst… I shall, rather…?' Larkin offered, eyes almost crossed in concentration on 'proper' speech.

'No, that won't be necessary, Mister Larkin, but thankee. I'll have Mister McGilliveray below to my quarters,' Lewrie decided, which unexpected offer of hospitality confused one, but delighted the other.

'Aspinall, this is Mister McGilliveray, off the United States' Armed Ship Thomas Sumter,' Lewrie told his cabin-steward as he seated himself behind his desk. 'Mister McGilliveray, my man Aspinall, and a better 'aid and comfort' you'll rarely see. Keeps me minding my p's and q's, does Aspinall. Sit, lad, sit.'

'Howdje do, sir,' Aspinall had cheerfully said, knuckling his forehead.

'Draw us each a ginger beer, would you, Aspinall?' Lewrie bade as he tore open the wax seal of the letter, still faintly soft, still warm to the touch.

'Thank you kindly, sir,' McGilliveray said, seated in an upholstered chair before the desk, hat in his lap, and almost squirming with some inner fretfulness, despite the half-smile he evinced. His curiosity did extend to looking about the great-cabins, finally. 'Hello!'

Lewrie looked up to see Toulon, who had leaped atop the desk in curiosity of his own, perching himself on the very edge of the desk to crane his neck forward and bob, to study the newcomer.

'That's Toulon,' Lewrie had told him. 'Where I got him in '93 when he was a kitten. He was just about as huge as disaster, so that's how he got his name. He's almost out-grown his clumsiness, but he can still surprise you.'

'He's a big'un, sure enough, sir,' the lad said, cautiously petting the ram-cat, ruffling the fur under Toulon's intricately plaited sennet-work collar with the brass disk hung from it. 'As big as a bobcat nigh twenty pounds or so, sir?'

Sure enough, Toulon 'surprised,' stretching too far in his bliss and diving nose-first to the deck. To make it less embarrassing, Toulon leaped into the boy's lap, as if that was what he intended, all along.

Lewrie unfolded the pages of his letter and read the, first lines or so, then 'whuffed' in alarm. Despite any misgivings or forebodings Capt. McGilliveray might feel, the boy's uncle had determined to reveal the facts of his parentage to the lad. He had blabbed all!

'Ah, Captain Lewrie,' Mr. Peel had cheerfully called out, emerging from his dog-box cabin. 'A visitor, have you?'

'No one to arouse your interest, Mister Peel,' Lewrie had almost snapped, regretting such a curt dismissal at once. Not for Peel's sake, but for how lightly he might esteem the lad. 'Pray take a turn on deck, Mister Peel. I've a letter from Captain McGilliveray of Sumter.'

'Very well, sir,' Peel had responded, sounding intrigued as well as a tad miffed to be shooed out, as he departed.

McGilliveray had thought it odd for his kinsman to turn up with a wife and a son, especially a pale-skinned and blue-eyed infant so very unlike himself. They had stayed but briefly in Charleston after the Revolution had ended, since his 'bride,' Soft Rabbit, could never gain entree into cultured society, even if she could have adapted to civilised dress-or shoes!-or could have learned to speak fluent English. It was a Muskogee marriage, after all, as informal as that of a Black city couple 'jumping the broomstick' in the slave quarters.

Desmond and Soft Rabbit had resided with the boy's grandfather, Robert, at his plantation-cum-trading post on the edge of 'civilisation far up the Savannah River, and no circuit-riding parson had made it any more formal. From what Capt. McGilliveray had discovered during their brief visit, during a later trip to 'Uncle Robert's,' he thought their marriage one more of convenience than a love match, as if Desmond felt he'd had to 'do the right thing' by her after her 'exploitation' by an English sailor-adventurer… for the good of his tribe and clan name. And Soft Rabbit had acquiesced, since the babe needed a father, and she needed support that a low-status former slave could not get in a proud clan huti among the Muskogee.

Capt. McGilliveray had gently railed against his kinsman, deeming him 'a stiff-necked prig who had taken upon himself the Burden and Duty to atone for White callousness.' Desmond did need someone to cook and clean, sew his clothes, and service his rare bouts of prim desires. The boy was Desmond's 'experiment.' He was half-White and deserved the same chance his putative 'stepfather' had had, to gain an education so he could function in the White world if he so chose, with a solid grounding in Muskogee lore and trailcraft should he choose that life. At best, perhaps, the lad could find a place in the family 'over-mountain' Indian trade, a symbolic bridge to Desmond's vaunting dreams of a 'partially' civilised Muskogee- Seminolee-Cherokee-Chickasaw-Choctaw-Apalachee race co-existing at the borders of the United States, like the Iroquois League, as the semi-barbaric German and Gallic tribes had co-existed with ancient Rome; as the various Hindoo tribes served a burgeoning British Empire in India. A project, but never a beloved son; a comforting worker, but never a 'goody' wife, alas.

'Sadly, the Smallpox put paid to those plans,' Capt. McGilliveray had written. 'Desmond and Soft Rabbit were carried off, and kindly old Uncle Robert quite enervated, to the point that the lad was brought to us in Charleston by Desmond's youngest brother, Iain, and an older Muskogee nursemaid when the lad was three, and became my ward, whereupon he did receive the best of everything we McGilliverays could bestow on one of our own, and young Desmond's connexions with his Indian nature were effectively severed. Curious as the lad seemed anent his antecedents, I must confess that I can recall no true Fondness beyond his mother. Toddler that he was when he came to us, he held no particular air of Grief for his late Stepfather, even when considering how Stoic our Indians comport themselves. So, when I, at last, informed the lad of the identity of his actual Father, I-thankfully-discerned not a great Disappointment on his part, nor did Desmond evince any sudden Surprise. I suspect that the old Muskogee nursemaid, who stayed with us 'til her Passing in '93, was present when you and Desmond took part in your Adventures, and imparted to him the Truth…'

Meddlin' fool! Lewrie had thought at that moment; There's whole regiments o ' lads, never knew who quickened 'em, but still prospered Silence might've been kinder. He was settled in his mind as an orphan… with a silver spoon, and all. Now… Christ!

'Imagine my Astonishment, two evenings past, sir, when your comments made me put two and two together!' Capt. McGilliveray had penned further. 'The utter Coincidence, and the odds against such! I only knew what little Desmond had related to me, and that, long ago anent your identity, or Character, and must confess that I knew nothing about you other than your most recent Success off Guadeloupe. Enquiries made ashore, though, sir, quickly satisfied my Curiosity as to the Illustrious Name you have gained in the Royal Navy, and the many Successes you have had against your King's foes; Fame which I was quick to pass on to young Desmond, who, enflamed by his own Eager Curiosity, made enquiries ashore whilst on his errands among Midshipmen, Warrants, and those few Officers who might deign to converse with him; such revelations assured him that he is the Scion of a most capable and honourable Gentleman…'

Only heard the good parts, Lewrie had silently thought, squirming in sudden dread; Wait'll the other shoe drops. So, now what? They passin' him onto me? I'm t'be his Daddy, of a sudden? Dear God, I'm to set him an example?

Lewrie had laid the letter aside, and looked up to see his 'son' stroking Toulon, who was now all but cradled in the crook of one arm, belly exposed and paws in the air, with his head laid back in rapture to be getting such diligent attention. The lad looked him in the eyes and gulped, near to shying should Lewrie speak a single callous word.

'Well, well,' Lewrie finally said, after clearing his throat. 'It would appear that we're… kin, young sir. Now, what the bloody Hell do we make of that?'