Havoc`s Sword

European power that colonised the Antilles had sworn off the place in 1748, but that hadn't lasted long. Britain took it in 1763, the French got in back in 1778, then Britain again at the end of the American Revolution. The steep, fern-jungle mountains were simply stiff with Caribs, making it a real 'King's Bad Bargain.'

So was the Prize Court. A greater pack of ignorant 'ink-sniffs, thieves, drunkards, and paper buccaneers Lewrie had never laid eyes on! And it was no wonder that they'd greeted his arrival the same way some gang of adolescent London street imps would welcome the sight of a pie-man with a tray of fresh goodies.

Half-literate, spouting 'dog-Latin' legalese, their accents an echo of Cockey 'Bow Bells,' 'half-seas-over' on cheap rum or strong 'stingo' beer, and sporting mementos of their last half-dozen dinners on greasy cuffs, waist- coats, or breeches, unshaven and unwashed-Lewrie suspected their experience of law had come from the wrong side of some magistrate's bench. He'd have rather dealt with Mr. Peel, who still sulked over their contretemps; it would have been safer, and he would not get gravy-spotted off the furniture, nor would he depart infested with fleas! Besides, this court would refer everything back to Antigua, and reams of paper, gallons of ink, and pounds of stamps and paste would be used up before he, his officers and warrants, or his sailors saw tuppence… sometime in 1810, he sourly suspected. Maybe his grandchildren might have joy of his latest capture's profit.

After that experience, which had taken up most of the morning, and a horrid dinner at a tumbledown dockside tavern, Lewrie walked out the long single quay that speared at least one hundred yards out from the beach before the waters at low tide would allow a ship's boat to come alongside, then rambled on all ramshackley for a good fifty yards more. His cutter, with its single lug-sail furled, was the only one in sight, at present, positively handsome compared to the few scabrous and half-abandoned fishing boats drawn up on the sands.

He paused to fan himself with his hat and belch biliously from his repast. The purported squab had most-like been seagull, and the 'Roast Beef of Olde England' had most-like barked at the moon and run after cats before its luck had run out! The infamous two-penny ordinarys of his native London had nothing to fear for their reputations by comparison; and they had most-like not poisoned half as many patrons. He might have tried the pork roast, but the natives on the island were reputed to be cannibals, and he'd not put it past the publican to buy a side of 'long pig' (as they said in the Great South Seas) and serve up the loser of some Carib feud.

'You men have eat?' Lewrie enquired of his boat crew after he finally reached them. He had let them step ashore for a meal, and the usual 'wet,' with instructions for everyone to be back in two hours… and sober, mind. A quick nose-count assured him that no one had been daft enough to take 'leg bail' in such a no-hope port; no one appeared 'groggy,' either-well, no more so than usual.

'Think it was food, sah,' his Coxswain, Matthew Andrews, dared to josh with him from his privileged position and long association as his sometime confidant. 'It was burnt, and it come on plates.'

'Law, Missah Gideon, he b'ile wood chips in slush, it would o' eat bettah, Cap'm sah,' little Nelson, one of his recent Black Jamaican 'volunteers' further ventured to say.

'Sorry 'bout that, lads,' Lewrie commiserated, 'but I do think my own dinner was pot-scrapings worse than yours. Let's shove off.'

'Back to de ship, sah, aye,' Andrews said, shipping the tiller-bar atop the rudder post while Lewrie was offered a hand or two on his way aboard the cutter, and aft to a seat in the stern-sheets.

Two hours later, though, as the cutter bounded close-hauled into Prince Rupert Bay, Lewrie shaded his eyes for a look round. There was HMS Proteus, as pretty as a painting, with her prize moored close by; there was the Yankee stores ship, attended by boats come to fetch out supplies; there was USS Sumter… but there were some new arrivals, too, including a 'jack-ass,' or hermaphrodite, brig that flew a small blue Harbour Jack right-forward, sprinkled with thirteen white stars, to show that she was an American man o' war; another of their bought-in and converted 'Armed Ships,' not a vessel built as a warship.

There were three merchant vessels flying the 'Stars and Stripes' anchored in the bay, as well. Two were very large three-masted tops'l schooners, with their tall masts raked much farther aft than Lewrie had ever seen before, lying near the new-come armed brig. Farther out in deeper water, and unable to anchor closer to shore for being deep-laden, was a proper three-masted, full-rigged ship, equally as impressive a specimen of the shipbuilders' art, and 'Bristol Fashion' smart.

'Damme, but those schooners look like they'd be fast as witches… even to windward,' Lewrie commented. 'Even with the full cargoes they seem to bear. Ever seen the like, Andrews?'

'Masts raked so sharp, dough, sah… dem Yankees mebbe crazy,' was Andrews's assessment. 'How dey foot 'em to de keel-steps, an' not rip right out, I'd wondah. Wadn't here dis mornin'. T'ink dem 'Mericans be makin' up a no'th-bound 'trade,' at las', Cap'm?'

'It very well could be,' Lewrie agreed. 'I think we'll satisfy my curiosity, before we go back aboard our ship. Steer for Sumter, if you will, Andrews. It appears there's a gaggle o' boats alongside of her already.'

'Aye aye, sah.'

'Besides, Captain McGilliveray might have something with which to settle our mis'rable dinners,' Lewrie added with a chuckle.

'Captain Lewrie, sir!' Midshipman Desmond McGilliveray said at the top of the starboard entry-port, stepping forward past the Marine Lieutenant in charge of the side-party that had rendered him honours. The lad was almost tail-wagging eager to greet him, though constricted by the usages and customs of his navy to the doffing of his hat and a bow from the waist.

'Mister McGilliveray!' Lewrie cried with too much heartiness of his own, his eyes equally agleam, and his carefully stern expression creased by an involuntary smile. 'Well met, young sir.'

'We saw you come in with your prize, sir!' the lad exclaimed in joy, plopping his tricorne back on his head any-old-how. 'Did she put up much of a fight, sir? Did she resist very long, or…?'

Once his own gilt-laced cocked hat was back on his own head, he astounded the boy by extending his right hand for a warmer greeting; a hand that young McGilliveray took with a puppyish delight and shook in return, right heartily.

'Steered right up to her, yardarm to yardarm, in the dark, and only fired one bow-chaser, just t'wake 'em long enough to surrender!' Lewrie replied, proud for a chance to boast and preen. 'I'll tell it all to you later, should we have the chance. But I have come to see your Captain first.'

'He is aboard, sir, and aft,' Midshipman McGilliveray informed him, only slightly crest-fallen. 'I shall tell him that you have come aboard, Captain Lewrie. This way, please.'

Lewrie's arrival alongside, though, had created enough stir to draw Sumter?, First Officer, Lt. Claiborne, from the great-cabins aft to the gangway, minus sword and hat.

'Ah! Captain Lewrie, good,' Lt. Claiborne said, coming over to greet him, as well. 'You got our captain's note, I see.'

'Uhm, no Mister Claiborne, I came direct from Roseau and the Prize Court offices,' Lewrie told him.

'And you escaped with your purse, Captain Lewrie? Congratulations,' Claiborne replied, frowning for a second. 'My captain is now in conversation with several of our merchant masters, and wished to speak with you, regarding their informations. A glad happenstance, you came to call on us. If you will follow me, Captain Lewrie?'

'Lead on, sir. Talk to you later, lad,' Lewrie promised to his newly acquired 'offspring.'

He was led down a ladder to the gun-deck, then aft into the cabins under the quarterdeck, clutching the hilt of his hanger in one hand and his hat in the other; suddenly self-conscious to be ogled like some raree show, with many faint, fond, almost doting smiles to every hand. Lewrie could only conclude that Sumter's, people had gotten a whiff of rumour concerning his relationship to Midshipman McGilliveray, who was obviously a 'younker' well thought of aboard that ship to begin with.

Damme, even that hawk-faced Marine lieutenant goggled me like a new-born swaddlin' babe! Lewrie groused to himself as he was admitted to the day-cabin, where the air was close, hot and still,