Though Lieutenant Recamier knew that 'Le Hideux' loved to make examples of failures in the performance of their duty to the Republic and the navy, the fellow had kept a cool head throughout supper, believing that a bold front of honour impugned, his truth insulted, would serve him better than coming over all meek or fearful, of being willing to admit error but vowing to do better next time… if allowed.
Hainaut had been mildly amazed that Recamier had so kept his wits about him that he'd not even fidgeted, or plucked with his fingers at the tablecloth or his napkin, either-his hands had stayed innocently inert, rising only to gesture, or draw his actions against the British frigate that had destroyed his command, and captured the American smuggling brig in his charge, using the tip of his knife on his placemat.
They had both anchored for the night off St. John's island in the masterless Danish Virgins; yes, he'd seen the frigate, lit up like a whaler hard at work boiling down a catch for its oil, he admitted to them; a clever ruse.
Yes, there she'd been at dawn, as his schooner and the brig had set sail, revealed as a British warship, and he had turned at once to interpose his small ship between them and had been the first to fire. Fifteen minutes altogether, he had traded fire with the Biftecks, his puny 6-pounders against 12- pounders, until forced to bear away after roundshot had shattered his schooner's helm. Before relieving tackle could be rigged to the rudder post, his little ship had struck a badly charted shoal, ripping her bows open, stranding her forward third high and dry, and dis-masting her in an instant.
'Unlike some, m'sieur Capitaine, I did not fire a few shots to salvage honour before striking!' Lt. Recamier had sulkily declared to one and all, eyes level, broodingly aflame, as if ready to dare anyone to a duel for his good name. 'I had thought to lure the 'Bloody' ship onto the shoal in close pursuit, but my charts were old, so…'
Hainaut had scoffed to himself, sure that Recamier was lying as boldly as a street vendor with a tray of 'confiscated aristo' pocket watches, but, strangely, Capt. Choundas had not challenged him over it. And who was to say, since L'Incendiare had not rated a sailing master, leaving her navigation to her low-ranking captain-and all of those charts were now lost with her; quite conveniently, he thought!
Yes, the British frigate had broken off pursuit of the brig to fetch-to and lower two boats filled with 'redcoat' Marines and sailors, then had headed West-Nor'west into the vast sound east of St. Thomas to catch the brig-which she did, Recamier had witnessed from a high vantage point ashore through his telescope, and saw them sailing back down a very narrow channel into the sound where she fetched-to, again, to recover her boats and men.
Yes, Recamier had gotten all his crew, including his seriously wounded and maimed men, into his own boats and had rowed ashore on St. John, but only after making sure that his command was well alight, his colours still flying in fiery defiance, and all her damning correspondence rescued, jettisoned in weighted bags or boxes, or left to burn. His precious commission papers and role d'equipage as proof of being a proper warship he had salvaged, which had proved of great value when he had sailed over to St. Thomas a day later and presented himself to the Danish authorities, who had shrugged off the more-punctilious formalities of internment and had treated his wounded well, before providing a cartel ship to return him and his men to Guadeloupe-the Danish fee for such 'compassionate' offices a steep one.
'And how close-aboard were the British boats when you left your command, Lieutenant?' Choundas had probed.
'More than four long musket shots, m'sieur, perhaps less,' Lt. Recamier had replied, his eyes a tad too unblinking over that point, as if trying too hard to be believed.
'Describe them,' Choundas had demanded.
'Hmmm… tarred hulls, m'sieur, perhaps dull black paint? The gunwales and waterline boot-stripes were cream or pale yellow. White oars…?' He had vaguely shrugged, taking a sip of wine, at last.
'Any name displayed, mon cher Lieutenant?' Choundas had almost purred, as if beguiling him into an inescapable trap, making Hainaut lick his lips in expectation, sure that Recamier had gone over-side in haste, not sticking around to take note of such things.
'Proteus, m'sieur,' Recamier had calmly and certainly answered, though. 'Block letters in gilt, either side of the lead boat's bows. And the officer in charge, he shouted the ship's name, as well. Very bad French, of course. 'Here am I, His Fregate Les Rois.. . His Twelfth Night Cake's ship! Proteus/' Recamier had tittered, making the others laugh. Les Rois, not Le Roi-quel drole! And that error had carried such versimilitude that Captain Choundas had chuckled along (briefly, mind) with the rest, dismissing his suspicions. Only an English ignoramus, so arrogantly unschooled in any language but his own, could mistake the possessive 'Majesty's' with the plural 'Les Rois,' which any French toddler knew meant a Christmastide treat!
In point of fact, Lt. Recamier had picked out the lettering from a very safe half-mile distant with a strong glass, abandoning ship as soon as the 'Bloodies' had fetched-to, sure of what was coming, and averse to languishing for years in a prison hulk or scraping by on a pittance in an enemy harbour town on parole, with barely two sou to rub together, unable to afford his usual wine, women, and song, and women! And it was the biftecks who had fired his ship, after sorting through his papers, which he had left scattered 'cross his great-cabins, leaving his false Letter of Marque and Reprisal, taking only his true naval commission! Leaving orders signed by the newly arrived Capitaine de Vaisseau Guillaume Choundas, and did he ever discover that, well…! Even being kin by marriage to the estimable Admiral de Brueys would not save him from the guillotine's blade.
'A most unfortunate turn of fate, then,' Choundas had decided, motioning for Capitaine Griot to top up Recamier's wineglass at last. 'But they did not get your ship, or her papers. She did not go into English Harbour with that damnable British flag above her own colours.'
'Not into English Harbour, m'sieur, non' Recamier had objected.
Once her boats were recovered, she sailed West, not South. I watched her 'til her t'gallants dropped below the horizon. I suspect that she was not part of the Antigua squadron, but was from Jamaica, instead.'
'How odd,' Choundas had pondered, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling, as if easing a cramp from sitting so long.
'Poaching, perhaps?' Capitaine de Fregate MacPherson had japed. 'With the British troops gone from Saint Domingue, their frigates are under-employed that far West. Do they loan frigates to the squadrons out of Antigua, our tasks will be more difficult, with more patrollers at sea opposing us.'
'Proteus' Hainaut had mused. 'Did not the London papers last year mention her? Was she not at Camperduin, against our pitiful allies, the Batavians?' he posed, using the Dutch-Flemish pronunciation of the battle's name. 'I seem to recall… took a prize, another frigate… something?' he had trailed off, vague, and 'foxed' by then on his master's wine.
'Oui, look into that, Etienne,' Choundas had ordered.
'Certainement, m'sieur,' the harried little clerk had said with a quick bob of his balding head, scribbling notes to himself on scrap paper with an ever-present pencil from his waist-coat pockets.
'Well, mon cher Recamier,' Choundas had concluded their supper with an air approaching bonhomie, 'it is too bad that your L 'Incendiare was lost, along with the 'Ami' brig and all her supplies, but no blame can be laid against you, you did your best, after all, hein?'
'Merci, m'sieur,' Recamier had replied, nodding curtly, as if it were true, and no more than his right, with no sign of relief to his demeanour.
'I cannot promise you another command, though, not for some time,' Choundas had informed him. 'You understand that a new ship may be seen as a reward, n'est-ce pas? The British knight their captains when they lose after a well-fought action. We… do not. But I am sure that a shore posting, for a year or two… at your current salary rate, of course… might prove instructive… and rewarding.'
Choundas had looked down his ravaged, shiny-masked nose, as if to say that he knew about Recamier's three current amours, besides his reasonably well- connected young and attractive wife back in Bordeaux.
