Havoc`s Sword

'It would appear that the French are in a bit of a pique at the moment, Captain Lewrie,' Peel snickered, 'and any boats despatched to port would most-like be shot to atoms long before they could be identified as truce boats. Have to make a show of usefulness, satisfy the honour of their bloody Tricolour rag, don't ye know. They're simply too angry to listen to reason, at the moment, so… it appears we can not implement your plan, for now, sir.'

'Dammit, Mister Peel, they couldn't hit the ground with their bloody hats, we could lie off safe as houses!' Lewrie countered.

'I do not dismiss your suggestion out of hand, sir,' Peel said with a pinched expression, looking as if he was wrapping resistance to the idea about himself as he tucked the lapels of his coat together. 'I only say that it is a matter which will require some cogitation on my part before deciding whether it advances our enterprise, or proves to be so transparent a ploy to Choundas that we end up appearing just too clever, thereby, uhm… shooting ourselves in the foot by forcing him to deem the presence of a British spy in his circle groundless. I also note that we are almost past Guadeloupe. Why, it might take hours to sail back, right into the teeth of those heavy fortress guns, again. To return so quickly would be even more transparent to him, and-'

'No! Ye don't say!' Lewrie drawled, as if he just that instant had had a blinding glimpse of the obvious. 'Really?' he sneered.

'There is hardly a call for sharp words, Captain Lewrie!'

'The hell there ain't. Our best shot at it is past, whilst we stood here yarnin' and… cogitatin',' Lewrie spat. 'If not now, do tell me when, sir! Ye said yourself, 'twas a good idea, in the main. Damme, Mister Peel, I don't have 'em often. You keep assuring me of that, God knows. Young Pelham ain't here t'hold your hand and impa^rt his… wisdom to you…!'

'Damn you, sir!' Peel barked, himself rowed beyond temperance. 'Damn you for that! I need no cosseting to do my best! For two pence I would demand satisfaction… sir.'

Lewrie made a show of withdrawing his coin-purse from a breeches pocket, undoing the draw-strings, and delving inside for coins. Jovial blue eyes had gone cold, steely grey, and his face was a killing mask. He raised one brow in deadly query.

'Two pence, did you say, sir?'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen!' Lt. Langlie intruded, all but stepping between them in sudden worry. 'Mister Peel, sir… Captain, sir! Do but draw a deep breath, the both of you, and consider the consequences to your good names… your careers, if nothing else, I conjure you.'

'I'll not be insulted so publicly,' Peel snapped, eyes boring into Lewrie's, rot allowing Lt. Langlie a lone inch of personal space in which to part them.

'I'll not be treated like a lack-wit, too dumb t'pee on my own, either,' Lewrie rejoined.

'Dear God, sirs,' Anthony Langlie groused at the both of them, as softly and confidentially as he dared while still getting his point across. 'Is not our King's business, and the destruction of this man Choundas, more important at the moment than either of your senses of honour and hurt feelings?'

'Mister Langlie!' Lewrie growled, rounding on him, as if to tear a strip off his hide for daring to gainsay a Post-Captain placed over him by that selfsame King.

'Your pardons, sir, but I cannot stand by and see you ruined,' Lt. Langlie pleaded. 'I know not what grievance, or difference, you gentlemen share, but surely it cannot be so dire a matter over which you must come to logger- heads. Do, pray, allow me to counsel cooler minds, some time to consider your actions before either of you does or says anything else… from which you cannot demur later. I know it ain't my place, Captain, and I could be broken for it, but…'

The desperation in Langlie's voice, the worry in his eyes, at last got through to Lewrie. He drew that demanded deep breath, then screwed his eyes shut for a long moment. With a long exhalation, he relented.

'Thankee, Mister Langlie,' he said, forcing a bleak grin onto his phyz. 'Thankee for your concern for me.'

'And you, Mister Peel?' Langlie felt emboldened to enquire from their supercargo. 'Can you not give it a good, long think before…'

Peel grunted as if he'd been punched in the stomach, but waved off any further 'assistance' from the First Officer. 'Thankee, Mister Langlie. A minor matter, as you say. But a trifling, passing snit… of which I shall say no more, other than to characterise it as a professional, and brief, parting of the minds. You will excuse me, sir?' Peel asked of Langlie, doffing his hat and essaying a short bow. Peel gave Lewrie a shorter jerk in his direction, too, before stomping off for the larboard quarterdeck ladder to go below.

'I'm sorry, sir, but it looked as if someone had to…' Langlie said with a groan of worry.

'Oh, be at ease, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie assured him. 'We were in disagreement over a joke I wished to play on the French. Still may, does he see his way round it. Once he 'gets down from his high-horse,' that is. 'Tis not a killing matter, 'less he wishes to make it so. I expect a decent dinner, and a bottle of my claret'll bring him back to his senses. Just may do the same for me, you never can tell,' Lewrie concluded with a wry, self-disparaging grin.

'I am at ease, sir,' Langlie replied, grinning wider, himself. 'Thank God, how could I ever explain your, uhm, untimely demise to poor Sophie, or…'

'Now you are being impertinent, Mister Langlie,' Lewrie chided him, putting his 'stern' face back on for an instant.

'Carrying on, sir, instanter,' Langlie quickly said, doffing his hat, and making a rapid escape, back to his proper duties.

Damn you Frogs/ Lewrie thought, turning back to face the island as Proteus ran Large off the wind, now just a bit below the fort, that was still intent on wasting powder and expensive heavy shot on them; I almost had him convinced, but for you bastards interrupting. I still think it's a good idea. Just 'cause it ain't my pigeon, not my line o' work, don't mean it's worthless. 'Lucky, but not brilliant, ' am I? Just a faithful gun-dog, t'point, run, and fetch, am I? Well, we'll see about that!

He pushed himself erect from the cap-rails, turned and stomped black-visaged past his captive captains to the binnacle cabinet, left hand flexing fretful on the hilt of his hanger. He glared at them in passing, speculating which of them, the Frenchman Fleury, or the Dutch master Haljewin (however the Hell one spelled that!), would be the better 'tablet' on which to carve his mis-directing message.

Over his shoulder, he heard expostulations in wind-muffled Dutch or French, an evil snicker-followed by more unbelieving splutters. Shoes clomped on the quarterdeck planks, coming nearer.

'Excuse me, again, Captain,' Lt. Langlie said, tapping fingers to his hat in a casual salute, 'but our prisoners were asking what your argument with Mister Peel was all about, and… I could not help having a bit of fun at their expense. I told them, sir…' Langlie paused, a fist to his mouth to stifle a laugh, and ruin his jape, 'I told 'em that you were going to throw them to the sharks, but that Mister Peel thought only one should go over the side, and we'd give him the other.'

'You did, did you, Mister Langlie?' Lewrie said, gazing on them past Langlie's shoulder. 'Well… tell 'em we'll decide which later.'

'Aye aye, sir!'

'Arrr' Lewrie called out, pointing 'eeny-meeny-miney-moh' at them. Captain Fleury fainted dead away. And he really did have a very weak bladder!

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Admiralty Prize Court on Dominica was ten miles or more to the south of Prince Rupert Bay and its tiny settlement of Portsmouth, at the lee-side port town named Roseau, from the times when the French had owned the island. Lewrie had been forced to trade his smart gig for a humbler but larger cutter and sail down to confer with them.

Dominica had been one of those isles infested with Carib Indians so battle-mad and death-defying that every