convoy, if the damn' French are free to run riot? Nossirs… I'm away down the Windwards, this very evening, as far as Caracas if I must.'
'Sumter'll clear port, as well, sir,' Capt. McGilliveray vowed. 'Randolph, you want to take charge here, and wait for the promised frigate t'come in? Or would ya prefer t'sail in company with me and find a proper fight for a change?'
'Let our consul keep an eye on things here, Cap'm McGilliveray ' Capt. Randolph cried, leaping to his feet (though careful not to knock his head on the overhead beams or planking), 'for sure as there's God in his Heaven, my sword, my right arm, and my ship are yours! I'd be that eager t'show those swaggerin' Monsoors what it's like to tangle with a pack o' Georgia wildcats! Bring 'em on… yee-hah!' he ended with a shout, a Red Indian warrior's feral battle-scream, that made Lewrie's hackles and nape hairs stand on end.
Aboard Sumter, that howl caused her crew, and Capt. Randolph's boat-crew laying alongside, to raise a screeching wolfs chorus of their own, as they suspected that they would no longer swing idle round the moorings to await the plodding drudgery of convoying, but would be going out to look for a proper stand- up fight, at long last.
'Uhm… given this sudden, and un-looked-for, turn of events,' Lewrie carefully began to say, once he had recovered his aplomb, using caution before the unwitting civilians not privy to their government's, or his and McGilliveray's covert arrangement, 'and since it is British as well as American merchantmen at peril… and, notwithstanding the lack of a formal pact 'twixt your President and the Crown, perhaps we could, ah… aid each other in our respective searches for the French privateers, Captain McGilliveray?'
'An excellent suggestion, Captain Lewrie,' McGilliveray replied, shamming the utmost surprise at such a generous offer. Then, amid the enthusiastic 'Huzzahs!' from Randolph and the merchant masters, he gave Lewrie an enigmatic smile, and the tiniest incline of his head as a reward. 'I, and my government, stand forever in your debt for your open-handed and cooperative spirit!'
Lost in the cheering and toasting, however, was the fact that no British ships, or very few at most, were in danger; they didn't trade on the Spanish Main or with the Dutch isles, with both nations allies to France!
A toast was raised to Lewrie's alacrity and support, and while it was being drunk, and he posed all disparagingly 'Aw, Pshaw' modest, his mind was mildly ascheme.
No matter what Pelham wanted, what his London masters wanted, it made eminent sense, and to the Devil with Saint Domingue and who owned it! America and Great Britain, he marvelled; sworn enemies not fifteen years past. Despite the lingering grievances and distrust created during their Revolution, their burgeoning commercial competition, and rivalry, they were going to war as temporary allies,! on the same side for a blessed once! Could this lead to better things, he speculated?
And what allies they'd make, too! Even if they were so ruled by their enthusiasms, so… un-English in revealing their feelings, such as their screams, howls, and cheers at present.
Well, so was he, when you came right down to it. Wearing a public mask of blase boredom definitely did not become him. In fact, he rather liked the freedom to howl, and wished he possessed it!
Oh, Lord, he thought, Peel's sure t'go off like a bomb!
Ah, Captain Lewrie,' Peel said after he had gotten back aboard Proteus, and had made it below to his great-cabins. Peel was sitting in the dining-coach, in the middle of writing a letter, to his master Mr. Pelham Lewrie supposed as he tore open his neck-stock, unbuckled his sword belt, and removed his coat. 'You're back, at last. I have been meaning to discuss your idea with you… that'un you proposed on deck, yesterday, concerning the, uhm…' Peel enigmatically said with a vague wave of his hand in Aspinall's direction.
'Oh, yes?' Lewrie responded, feigning idle interest, and making his face a placid Englishman's mask again. 'I'd relish a ginger beer, Aspinall, there's a good fellow. The Americans served cold tea when I was aboard Sumter just now.'
'The decoction in which I indulge, sir,' Mr. Peel told him, all chirpy and pleasant, as if yesterday's bitter argument hadn't happened.
Lewrie answered, 'With ice, sir. The Yankees still had a small supply of their Massachusetts ice aboard. Worth its weight in gold with the Dons, one of their merchant masters informed me.' He took a seat at the table, across from Peel.
'I am suddenly jealous, sir!' Peel said with a groan of envy at the prospect, and made a moue of faint distaste at his mug of tea. I suppose we shall not see the like 'til the first American traders call at Kingston next spring, alas.'
'Yer beer, sir,' Aspinall said, fetching Lewrie a foaming mug.
'Thankee, Aspinall, that'll be all for a bit,' Lewrie said with a brief smile. 'Do you take a turn on deck and get some air. Cabins are stuffy, God knows, even with the canvas chutes rigged.'
'Aye, sir, and I will,' his man-servant replied, departing with a long hank of spun-yarn he quickly fetched from what was left of his tiny day-pantry, so he could continue his sennet-work.
'So, you've considered the idea, have you, Mister Peel?' Lewrie said once they were alone. He could not show as much keen interest in what Peel decided, for, frankly, the developments aboard Sumter had made the quickly spun scheme quite fly his head. He could sham renewed interest, though… and trust that fear of rejection would explain a lack of greater enthusiasm in his demeanour.
'I have, sir,' Peel stated. 'Once I had, uhm… cooled off a bit, d'ye see?' He made another moue, tossed off a shrug, and chuckled softly. 'And I've come to the conclusion that encouraging Choundas in imagining that he's a traitor in his vicinity is actually a rather neat piece of mis-direction… one which I am sure that Mister Pelham would approve, were he here. One, frankly, which he might have dreamt up himself, was he privy to the intelligence we just discovered.'
'Excellent!' Lewrie crowed, slapping the dining table with his open palm. 'Capital! And I am certain that you've concocted a scheme for getting our prisoners back to Guadeloupe, and blabbing what you wish to Choundas. It'll be a clever bit, knowing you, Mister Peel. More subtle than any / could have come up with on short notice. Mean t'say,' Lewrie gushed, then paused, thinking that he was laying on the praise a bit too thick for Peel to credit, so soon after their howling snit. He had a very large and heavy 'shoe' which he was about to drop on the long-suffering bastard's head, after all, and it would be nice to agree on something, anything!, before dropping it.
'Well, sir,' Peel continued, though he did pause a bit, himself, to give Lewrie the tiniest chary look. 'Captain Haljewin was the one sprung the idea of a spy on Choundas, from what I gathered whilst interrogating the man. Haljewin had bags of unguarded time since his capture to converse with the French captain and his mates, as separate interrogations with them revealed. They are all now convinced that someone on Guadeloupe betrayed them to us last night, and I was careful to leave them with the impression that they weren't far wrong… without actually confirming the existence of a spy, or spies. But neither did I go out of my way to deny it, d'ye see, Captain Lewrie!'
Let him have joy of it, Lewrie thought; preen gladsome, for now.
'During my interrogations, I also discovered that Choundas has a rather small, but trusted, staff,' Peel went on almost happily, in his element, privy to things Lewrie didn't know, and glad to impart them 'There's a Captain Griot, commanding a corvette name of Le Gascon A Breton, and you know what stock Choundas puts in his ancient Celts and Veneti warriors… men of the ancient blood, and all.'
'God, yes,' Lewrie agreed. 'Mad for 'em.'
'His other corvette is commanded by a Captain MacPherson, one of those emigre Scots who fled after the Battle of Culloden. He was born in France, but his parents
