Havoc`s Sword

convoy for another try, later on. Might the British have planned to use Lewrie as bait, because your former master had become too… predictable in his lust for revenge?'

'It is possible, Citizen Desfourneaux,' Hainaut allowed with an enigmatic shrug. 'He was obsessed by Lewrie, for a certainty.'

'To the detriment of all else he was trusted to do, alas,' the voice of central authority grumbled, leaning back in his comfortably padded chair, and sighing theatrically. 'Both Hugues, and Choundas, lost to the Revolution's further service. A clean… sweep, hah!' Desfourneaux chirped as if secretly pleased. 'Both too brutal and direct. Useful, in the early days and the Terror, but… France is now in need of subtler, cleverer men. Men of action, naturally, but those who understand when to employ wits, or the sword. Men such as you, I do believe, Lieutenant Hainaut.'

'Indeed, Citizen?' Hainaut perked up warily.

'Indeed,' Desfourneaux reiterated, turning more business-like. 'With the loss of Capitaines Choundas, Griot, and MacPherson, and the earlier loss of Capitaine Desplan and Le Bouclier, our naval power in the Caribbean is gone. You, and that Lieutenant Recamier, whom Choundas needlessly relieved of sea-duties, just to make him a scapegoat and object lesson, some few others, must make do until my reports to Paris produce a re-enforcing squadron. Choundas … Le Hideux' Desfourneaux said with a simper, as if emboldened by Capt. Choundas's enforced absence to damn him with his behind-the-back slur, 'recommended you highly. His papers, which I seized after his departure, also absolved you of any suspicions of treachery, or any hint of collusion with British agents.'

'I see, Citizen,' Hainaut replied, allowing himself the tiniest smirk of derision for his former employer, as if sharing Desfourneaux's disdain. 'Although I feel insulted that I was ever suspected, after serving him so well.' Though Jules Hainaut could not help worrying about what else the ogre had written about him.

'Recamier I appoint a Capitaine de Vaisseau' Desfourneaux intoned formally, 'and will assign him the best remaining ship suitable for conversion and arming. From what others here on Guadeloupe say of him, he is much too good to idle ashore, and was treated most shabbily by that vicious old cripple. He will command all our ships, now.'

'An admirable choice, Citizen, pardon me for saying.'

'Related by marriage to a dead naval hero,' Desfourneaux chuckled, waving a hand in the air dismissively, 'Admiral de Brueys. Fool that he was to lose his whole fleet to that Nelson at Aboukir Bay. As harmful as it was to the esprit of the revolutionary masses, it wasn't all his fault. That ambitious climber, General Bonaparte, might just as well have staked him out for slaughter. Rest assured, mon cher, in our good time the Directory will make that upstart pay, too. For you… you, Hainaut, ahem. By the plenipotentiary power granted me by the Directory as their Represantant-En-Mission, you I make a Capitaine de Fregate … to serve as Recamier's strong right arm and second-in command.'

'I… I don't know what to say!' Hainaut exclaimed in wonder.

'A small merci beaucoup will suffice,' Desfourneaux simpered at him. 'I confirm you in command of your schooner La Mohican, and will assign another into the, uhm… Chippewa? … to pair with your vessel. Of course, France expects great things from you, Capitaine Hainaut,' he said, turning serious. 'When strong enough, eventually, this 'Bloody' Capitaine Alan Lewrie you must eliminate. Do not take it as your sole task, as your old master did, but… he must be cornered and defeated. He must be seen by our people to pay for the loss of such a hero as… Guillaume Choundas,' Desfourneaux sardonically sneered.

'I will do it… someday, Citizen,' Hainaut eagerly vowed.

'Bon! For now, though, concentrate on British shipping. The Directory has disavowed our war on American trade as Victor Hugues's doing.' Desfourneaux paused to shrug. 'Perhaps in a few months, they will again be 'good prize,' who knows? The last packet that slipped through the blockade bore no news about an Anglo-American alliance, or an American declaration of war, so, for now, we will not take actions that goad the 'rustics' into taking hands with the 'Bloodies,' nor declaring open war. But some victories over the many small cutters and sloops of the British blockade would not go amiss, n'est-ce pas?'

'I am looking forward to them, Citizen Desfourneaux, and thank you, again, for your trust in me,' Hainaut declared, knocking back his glass of wine in celebration, now that he knew (for the moment) where he stood in the Directory's estimation, and firmly vowing to himself that he would do nothing to lower that estimation; would indeed wreak such havoc on the British that the Directory raised their opinions of him, paving the way for even higher rank, and fame.

An intricate ormulu clock chimed on the marble-topped sideboard in Desfourneaux's pleasant office in the upper levels of the grim Fort Fleur d'Epee, and the man slapped his leather-bound workbooks shut in a fussily pleased fashion. Desfourneaux rose and poured both of their wineglasses full, again, gave Hainaut a playful little smile, and then crooked a finger to command him out onto the stone balcony overlooking the courtyard of the fort.

'Now that our business is at an end, Capitaine Hainaut, we will witness the end of another, less fortunate, bit of business. Do bring the bottle… this may take some time,' Desfourneaux directed.

The fort's massive gates had been flung open to allow the townspeople and islanders inside. A battalion of the garrison stood rigid, under arms, as the tumbrils rolled into the large courtyard, drawn by artillery horses. The tall wooden wheels of the tumbrils groaned and clattered on the cobblestones, wobbling on their hubs; the un-greased axles keened dirge-like, and the fairly open-woven wicker frames atop the tumbrils' beds shook and trembled, in tune with the men and women who rode them, wide-eyed and refusing to believe, as the short line of big carts slowly rolled to the foot of the steps that led to the high wood platform, and the waiting guillotine.

The crowd began to titter and jeer, to cat-call and curse those people in the carts. The soldiers were allowed to raise their muskets and shake them in anger, too, as the taunts of the crowd built in rage and volume, as the first of the condemned were led or dragged aloft to the executioners, to answer for their crimes of treason, treachery, the betrayal of so many gallant officers, warrants, and beloved sailors lost with the convoy, and that hero of the Republic who had succumbed, not to superior force, but had been sold out to the despised British, for 'Bloodies'' gold.

The heavy, slanted blade rose slowly, foot by agonising foot as if to draw things out for the mob's screaming pleasure, before the pincer-like release mechanism locked in place. The names, the crimes, the sentences were screeched out over the crowd roar, the lanyard was tautened, and then the blade flashed down to slam its great weight and its razor-sharp edge into the bottom of the blocks. And the heads of the criminals and traitors flew off, to land in the bushel-baskets, teeth in those harvested heads still chattering, lips still writhing with a final prayer or protest, eyes rolling like a slaughtered heifer's, and a gout, a fountain, an eruption of blood gushing outward as the hearts in those 'shortened' bodies continued to beat in thudding terror for a moment or two, and members of the crowd howled and shrieked with glee, rushing to catch droplets on scraps of cloth for souvenirs.

Last came the arch-traitor, the one who had betrayed a paragon of the Revolution, his own master. Etienne de Gougne was hauled down from his tumbril, its last occupant, with his shirt open, and his neck bared. His long, Republican locks had been shorn at the nape so nothing would impede the blade. Hands bound behind his back, bound from chest to waist in old, cast-off naval ropes, too, de Gougne tried to struggle even so, thinly screaming his innocence, damning Choundas as a bitter, overly suspicious fool, which protests made the mob shout even louder, booing and laughing at his ridiculous desperation. There was a drum-roll that went on and on for what seemed like a whole minute after Etienne's head was locked in place. The mob liked suspense, those executioners knew. Finally…

Shisshh-thud!-'Hurrah!' and the entertainment was done. 'Thus perish all who would spurn the superiority of our glorious Republic,' Desfourneaux intoned, one hand lifted over the balcony balustrade like a church noble bestowing his general blessings. 'Well, so much for that, Hainaut,' he continued, turning amicable. 'This puts an end to most of our spies and traitors, for now. Some few may have eluded us, but there is nothing like wholesale executions to run the rest into hiding, or ineffectiveness. We will get the rest eventually. I am nothing if not a patient man,' he said with a supremely satisfied sniff, tossing off the rest of his glass of wine.