Proteus would cruise past Guadeloupe to leeward, again, and do Victor Hugues, Guillaume Choundas, and their privateers and smugglers another evil turn if they could find anything at sea to bash. Then, though, they would cruise on down to Dominica and beyond, into the seas where American merchantmen were trading, leeward of Martinique and St. Lucia, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, perhaps as far south as Tobago and Trinidad, as far west as Curacao and Aruba along the coast of Spanish South America.
Even worse in Mr. Peel's estimation, Proteus would cruise along with Sumter, not as an official squadron, but two independent warships which just happened to be in the same waters at the same time, and did they sometimes pass within signalling distance in their rovings, well, who could fault that? Despite Mr. Pelham's strictures that the United States were rivals, not to be trusted, their merchant ships not to be aided with such diligence as long as Choundas still lived, as long as Saint Domingue was not firmly in Britain's grasp forever after, Amen.
'But, but…!' Mr. Peel had spluttered when Lewrie had revealed his and McGilliveray's scheme to him. Expostulations from both sides had taken up most of an evening, and only the downing of a considerable amount of sweet, aged corn-whisky had brought him (somewhat) round to Lewrie's point of view. They wouldn't be down South long, since trading season was ending, and all those Yankee Doodle merchantmen would be eager to scuttle off homeward with their treasures before hurricane season. Quartering and zig-zagging the sea in wide sweeps, always trending back North'rd, both Proteus and Sumter would stand a much better chance of meeting up with the hosts of French privateers bent on taking those treasures.
Lewrie had had to point out that Choundas, Hugues, and their sea-captains weren't out here for true patriotic reasons, after all. Prize Courts were just as respected by Republican Frogs as they had been by the Royal Frogs, and French officials on Guadeloupe were just as avid as Admiral Sir Hyde Parker back in Kingston for their lucrative share, their 'admiral's eighth.' Starve the Prize Courts of business, starve the privateer officers and crews of profit, and there'd be less of it in future. Take, sink, or burn a few of them, and put the fear of God into the rest, and that'd force them to stay home, lay up their ships, and boast over their wine in waterfront taverns of what they'd do, if only they could break even at it, if only they could find enough hands to man their ships these days, the poltroons!
Peel could see the sense of it, at last (though he'd had to get pie-eyed to do so!), that Choundas would, once stung enough, come out personally to restore the morale of his piratical lackeys, to even the score… protect his own profits, too, and salvage his career.
Peel had kept pointing out that L'Ouverture, the possible ally General Rigaud, and the conflict between them, was the more important matter, that estopping martial aid to either-from the French, not their own side, should Rigaud sign on the right line-was what Mr. Pelham had intended when he despatched them eastward to Antigua, but Lewrie had assured him that they could accomplish that task, too… indirectly, by making the short voyage seem too dangerous; by forcing Choundas to use his men o' war in search of Proteus and Sumter, not in convoying vulnerable merchantmen to Jacmel or Port-au-Prince; and, by goading him so sore that he had to find and kill his worst enemy before any convoy could sail.
USS Sumter became a bee-hive of activity as her crew scrambled aloft and manned her braces to haul her wind and wear about due South, and Lewrie lost sight of Midshipman McGilliveray, who became just one more hand lined up along the yards and foot-ropes of the course sail on her main-mast to shake out reefs, like a flock of wrens perched on a barn roof. Lewrie finally collapsed the tubes of his telescope and tucked it under his left arm, abandoning the lee quarterdeck bulwarks to pace 'uphill' to the windward.
'Stations to wear, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie told his First Lieutenant. 'We'll come about to Sou'west-by-West, and take the Trades on the starboard quarter. All plain sail, after that. Just 'fore sunset, we'll shorten sail for a predawn arrival off Guadeloupe's north coast to see what they're 'serving' us for breakfast.'
'Very good, sir,' Langlie replied, all dutiful and efficient a watch-stander… but for the faintest hint of a grin at the corner of his lips.
Damn my eyes, was that a smirk? Lewrie fumed to himself. And it wasn't the first he'd seen in the last day or so, either, from one and all, even from Mr. Peel… once he'd gotten over his latest hangover. It was exasperating, but Lewrie strongly suspected that his parentage of Desmond McGilliveray was an open secret… which was to say it was no secret at all. But he'd be damned if he didn't rip the buttocks off the next person who found it amusing!
And how the Devil he ever thought to keep their relationship a secret, he had no idea. After all, it wasn't every day that lofty Post-Captains in the Royal Navy befriended lowly gentlemen-in-training from anyone's navy (especially their own) unless they were blood kin, cater-cousins… or devotees of 'the windward passage' on the prowl for pre-pubescent victims. No one who knew Lewrie would ever misconstrue him for a 'back-gammoner' or secret 'Molly,' so that left kinship. He had hoped that distant kinship, some six-times-removed cousin on his wife's side, perhaps, could explain his sudden attentive doting, but that hope had been dashed. Too many people, from focs'le to taff- rails, from the orlop to the mast trucks, had cocked their heads aslant and made comparisons of their features, their very un-thought gestures, and had come to the correct conclusion. And they'd done it damned fast, damn 'em!
Stood up side-by-side, he and Desmond McGilliveray were as alike as two peas in a pod.
'There she goes, sir!' Lt. Langlie pointed out as Sumter turned at last, falling away Suth'rd and showing them her stern.
Little good'll come of this, Lewrie told himself for what felt like the hundredth time. He could not imagine how young Desmond could improve his situation in Life by discovering that he was his bastard, not the dead Desmond's, a 'bastardly gullion,' really-the bastard son of a bastard. Maybe havin' more English blood than Indian makes a diff'rence, he mused; like bein' a Sacatra-Black, 'stead of a Griffe-Black in Port-au-Prince. Help him pass for lily-White, like the Sang- Meles, with one drop o' dark blood in an hundred? What'll he do, take an advertisement in the Charleston Post and Courier, and shout it out t'one and all? Brr!
Such thought of adverting his kinship to the world could result in the article being picked up by London papers, which Caroline would read, and Devil take the hind-most then! Why, she'd sic assassins on him faster than the Beaumans could, for this final insult!
Hopefully, whoever his dreaded anonymous scribbler was who sent those revelatory billets doux to Caroline that had ruined his Domestic Joy would never get wind of Desmond! Safely removed (in the relative sense) from that nameless scoundrel's purview, the 'log' of his scandals had dried up… so far. And pray God the tale stayed as dry as a Barbary desert dune!
Lewrie shook himself, rocked on the balls of his feet, and gave his neck and shoulders an easing roll to loosen the tension of intense observation and worry over young Desmond's foolish sky-larking. With an arch of his back, he turned to windward, dismissing Sumter and with her his secret shame.
It was actually coolish, now that it was getting on for October, and the seas were no longer simmered by the tropic sun, so soaked up a lot less warmth to be blown along on the Trades. While not nippy, the winds were refreshing, and the late afternoon sunshine was milder, and balmier, not quite so ferocious. Once the sun was down, vanishing in a finger-snap as it did in these climes, the wind would be right up the stern, flooding through his transom sash-windows, cupped by the propped open windows of the coach-top over his cabins. Despite his qualms, he would sleep well tonight, he was certain.
Sumter now sat flatter on her bottom, rapidly drawing away into the failing twilight, with yards angled and sails cupped to sail Large upon her 'occasions.' Though it was too far, now, to be discerned from her decks or fighting-tops, Lewrie raised a hand and waved her a pleased farewell.
Despite all… he was a likely lad.
