Havoc`s Sword

the French brig o' war shiver, again, as her main-mast came tumbling down in ruin, as round shot bowled her entire length, caroming side to side in splintery ricochets that ripped the French ship's entrails out. A round-shot came bursting out from below her larboard cat-head in an immense whirlwind of broken planking, some of the inner faces painted red, perhaps… but it looked like a spurt of her heart's blood!

His own crew was cheering, safe themselves for a rare once, and always happy to see 'Monsoor' done the dirty. A moment later, and the crew raised a louder and more enthusiastic cheer, for someone upon the French ship's quarterdeck cut the flag halliards right-aft, abaft her spanker, to let a massive Tricolour flutter down to drape her stern in sign of surrender.

'That's the way, Sumter, that's the way!' Lewrie hooted in joy at seeing a thing done smartly and well. He pounded a fist on the cap-rail of the quarterdeck nettings' bulwark, before remembering how glum Royal Navy captains were supposed to be-far too late, as usual.

The USS Sumter sailed on for a space, then hauled her wind and fell off in pursuit of the square-rigged prize vessels. Her late foe had struck her colours, and was so damaged she would not be going anywhere anytime soon, at any rate. A stern-rake would have killed and wounded so many of the French brig's crew, created so much havoc belowdecks, that it would take hours for those still on their feet to raise a jury-mast aft, plug shot-holes below the waterline, pump her out, and get any sort of way on her again. A painfully slow and crippled way, so slow that any real hopes of escape were foredoomed if the foe decided to renege on her honour- bound pledge of surrender A privateer might break his oath and attempt a run for it, but French Navy officers, even jumped-up petty officers made into the gentleman-officer class, might not, Lewrie thought.

Besides, Lewrie smugly considered, the brig o' war had already been working at a disadvantage, with so many of her hands away in the prize vessels. He doubted they had enough healthy people aboard for a full rowing crew in all four of their ship's boats!

'They are, uhm… disturbingly good,' Mr. Peel commented in the relative quiet after the guns had fallen silent. 'That was a quick and brutal drubbing. Well-laid, too.'

'Did you expect any less, Mister Peel?' Lewrie replied. 'They may not have had much of a navy the last time round, but they're among the world's best sailors… as their privateers and that Captain John Paul Jones proved, time and again. Not too surprising really, when you think on it. They are half- British.'

'Then surely not a people whose nautical aspirations should be encouraged… or, fostered, as it were,' Peel glumly admonished.

'But of course they should!' Lewrie enthusiastically countered. 'They're damn' good, didn't you just say so? With more ships in commission, encouraged by a few more victories like this one, they just might declare war on the French, and be a tremendous ally. And they wouldn't cost us a groat, not like the Austrians or Neapolitans, 'cause they're too proud to take the sort of subsidies we toss around. Millions of pounds a year, and what have we gotten for our money? Weak-kneed fools, and utter failure.

'Say we give, or sell dirt-cheap, modern artillery to 'em. It's all they need. They have Southern live oak for hulls, the tall, straight pines for masts and spars, the tar, pitch, and oils, the flax and hemp for sails and rope, and do they build a few more frigates like Hancock … I told you all about her!… Guns, powder, and shot are all they really lack. Say the Crown reimburses our cannon foundries so they still make the same profit as if they sold 'em direct, and that is money spent at home, not thrown away on Prussians, Hindoos, the Chinee, or… men in the Moon! The Crown would adore it!'

'Well, given what we've seen this morning, yes, they seem to be more than capable at sea,' Mr. Peel tentatively acceded. 'And, yes, we do waste millions in solid coin, I'll grant you. But they're rivals in trade, Lewrie. You give 'em an inch, they'll dominate the Caribbean, the carrying trade…'

'They'll never be so strong that they'd threaten our sugar colonies, though,' Lewrie objected. 'And, as friendly allies, with solid commercial ties to us, whyever should they?'

'Oh, stop!' Peel said with a groan, looking as if he wished to cram his fingers in his ears. 'You make it sound too alluring. 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' don't tempt me to concede. You have led me into folly enough, thankee very much!'

'What the Crown, Admiralty, and your Mister Pelham cannot seem to see, sir, is that the Americans are a fact of life,' Lewrie pointed out, sensing a victory, and becoming more diplomatic. 'The French, us in some future crisis… someone 'd force 'em to build a strong fleet. Now, wouldn't it make more sense to woo them while they're weak? Make the Yankees grateful for our aid? Make 'em our friends?'

'Well, it's not like training puppies, Captain Lewrie,' Mr. Peel said with a snort of derision. 'You can't leash- train a whole nation. Do recall that British foreign policy must be bound by what is best for us in the long run. We do not have friends, not permanent friends. We have interests, just as the Americans do. Really…'

'No, but you'd do best to pet, feed, and praise a litter o' pups, get 'em used to your voice,' Lewrie replied with a wry chuckle. 'Else you come home some dark night and find a pack o' wolves waitin' on you. Better they're glad t'get their treats and play 'fetch,' than forage on your livestock. Or confuse you with prey. Hmm? What d'ye say?'

'Well, it might be plausible, but…' Peel waffled. 'Pray God this is a real insight on your part, Captain Lewrie. That it doesn't have anything to do with a certain American midshipman who might need fostering, and encouraging.'

'Don't know what you're talking about!' Lewrie curtly retorted, leaning back, stiffly drawn.

'Oh, sir,' Peel cynically drawled, as if preferring to talk of anything but Lewrie's madcap idea, and more than happy to change what they discussed. 'Do you not! Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face. There's not a man on this ship, nor the Yankee ships, could be in doubt of him being your by-blow, once he saw you side-by-side. It might be hard enough, explaining what you just up and did on your own to Pelham… 'gainst all his cautions and instructions, mind if you were singly motivated to do the Crown a valuable service, based upon your appreciation of the circumstances obtaining, but… understand, sir, that I don't wish to construe your motives… have you_r motives construed as personal, or trivial, d'ye see…'

'And I tell you that all I've done, I've done with a cold-eyed appreciation for the way things truly stand,' Lewrie said, teeth gritted in response to such an insult, 'not for a need to impress a young man. I can't help it if our superiors back in London are idiots, that you got sent out by lordly sots addled with delirium tremens, on their good days, like that Colonel of yours who thought we could starve America of emigrants if we just had Saint Domingue! What I see is a chance to rid the New World of French influence forever, do we do this right, and to Hell with Saint Domingue! We'd have a grand ally 'twixt our Canadian holdings and the Caribbean, with rich trade, cross a British lake called the Atlantic Ocean, Peel! And who's t'say Saint Domingue can't rot on the vine a few more years 'til its putrid corpse rots to the bones, then begs us and the Yankees for peace!'

'My God, sir, I did not…!' Peel spluttered.

'Good God, but they're at it again,' Lt. Langlie whispered to the Sailing Master near the helm, amidships of the quarterdeck.

'Aye,' Mr. Windwood took sorrowful note. 'And it does not help hopes of conciliation that you blaspheme, Mister Langlie.'

'Ah, oops. Sorry.'

'We never get Saint Domingue, who bloody cares, Peel!' Captain Lewrie was going on, with as much heat as before. 'Filthy damn' place, in the main. American trade takes up the slack, not just in sugar and rum, cocoa and coffee. Prices for those goods go up 'cause demand is just as great, and our Sugar Isles fill it, at greater profit. Don't know much of trade, frankly, but… second-hand goods through Yankee merchants, in partnership with English companies, might be arranged.

'Now, do you really think I'd go off half-cocked like a two-shilling musket, upset your precious Mister Pelham's impossible scheme for nothing? Believe me, Mister Peel, I'd not risk my command and my