Sea of Grey

Proteus metronomically rolled about fifteen degrees either side of upright every thirty seconds or so-all the while soughing or rising, by turns, at least one every forty-five seconds, now that the weather had moderated, the seas had flattened a bit, and the space between great waves had increased.

The last cast of the log a half-hour before showed that Proteus was making about twelve knots, even under cautiously reduced sail, but the winds were finally out of the Nor'east on her starboard quarters, presaging the first of the Trades that would bear her slantwise for the West Indies. With a clean and newly coppered bottom, Proteus was always fastest on a quartering wind.

The rest of the voyage had been perfectly, miserably vile, but for a short break in the weather when they had met up with old Admiral Jervis's fleet to deliver despatches; day after day of reduced canvas, pouring icy rains and sleet pellets, of soaked and swelling rigging all going slacker by the hour, threatening the loss of spars and masts to every sickening heave, toss, or roll, with the bows smashing fist-like into every oncoming wave with a deep, echoing boom, as if they had run aground, an hundred miles out in the Bay of Biscay! Cold rations from an unlit galley, tepid soups and gruels when they had risked fires in the hearths under the steep-tubs, hatches mostly closed and everyone in a dim, foetid 'fug' on the gun-deck, with bedding and every stitch of clothing sopping wet or only half-dry when re-donned, the drying salt crystals itching like mad, creating boils wherever flesh and wool had a chance to chafe, had made even the 'chearly' hands grumble. Bedding was no dryer, and the hammocks, so tight-packed, had swayed and dipped and jerked to the ship's vicious motion, robbing everyone of sleep, and awake or a'nod, the cold and wet had set everyone coughing. Even that brief spell of decent weather had been boisterous, he recalled, just nice enough to air and dry things out under a weak and watery winter Mediterranean sun, and being rowed over to 'Old Jarvy's' flagship, Lewrie had nearly been pitched from out his gig as it rose and fell so swoopily that he'd had to hang on for dear life, or end up flipped arse-over-tits like a pancake!

Not the sort of activity for a man who could not swim; nor was scaling the tall sides of a heaving, rolling three-decker. At least Admiral Jervis, now Lord St. Vincent, had been appreciative, and had a welcome glass of claret whistled up once Lewrie'd gained her upper decks; all the while doffing his gilt-trimmed cocked hat in his eccentric manner, from the instant Lewrie had addressed him 'til the moment he had turned to depart.

Now, even here past 15 degrees West and 34 degrees North, where he had been at last allowed to open those intriguing additional advisories, the weather was foul; just better by matter of degree. It was no longer frigid… now it could perhaps be described as only 'cool and brisk.' And he had finally thawed out!

He slapped his hands together behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet as he swayed from side to side along with his ship, pondering.

No matter several expeditions sent out from France attempting to reclaim their prewar island colonies, the French had lost most of them, except for Guadeloupe, and the much smaller isles nestled close around Guadeloupe-Marie-Galante, La Desirade, the tiny Iles de Saintes and Iles de la Petite Terre. They had lost St. Barthйlйmy, Dominica, and Saint Martin, which they had shared with the Dutch; they had lost Martinique, its planters and settlers welcoming British occupation as salvation from the brutal Jacobin terrors of Parisian revolutionary officials who panted to behead or hang anyone suspected of less than total ardour for the Republic.

The French had also lost Tobago, Grenada, and Saint Vincent, and for a time had lost Saint Lucia, 'til the islanders had rebelled, driving British troops off the island three years before, in '95. Grenada was also 'iffy,' with British forces only holding Fort St. George, and the rest of the island in the hands of a slave rebellion led by a coloured planter, Julien Fйdon.

Guadeloupe (so Lewrie was informed) was a hornet's nest of privateers, with everything from proper merchant ships to longboats outfitted and armed. French frigates, corvettes, and smaller National Ships sometimes called there for resupply. A particularly vicious and greedy bastard by name of Victor Hugues had landed with a small army in June of 1793, after Guadeloupe had been occupied by British regiments under General Sir Charles Grey, and had defeated them. Ever since, he had sent agents provocateurs to stir up revolution on the former French islands, among the French-speaking slaves and free coloureds on Dominica and Grenada, among the Black Caribs of Saint Vincent. A bloodthirsty fanatic, he had guillotined over 1,200 'disloyal' white settlers so far. But he was brutally effective, even getting agents, arms, and money to British-owned islands' slaves and freedmen.

Lewrie and Proteus were, therefore, to patrol vigourously, with an eye out for privateers, proper French warships, and anything suspicious, no matter how small, that might help foment more troubles.

Right, so far so good, he thought; so's especial care to protect British merchantmen, and enforce the Navigation Acts. British goods in British bottoms, to and from British colonies… and everyone else can go sing for thescraps!

Except for the Americans… temporarily!

The Spanish were still at war with England, but his 'advisories' didn't make them sound up to much; Cuba had few ships, and was under a heavy blockade from Jamaica. The aforementioned Santo Domingo was not a real factor; neither was Puerto Rico, even if the locals had driven off a British expeditionary force. Should French ships not be able to use French ports, their privateers and warships might be found near a Spanish possession, or lurking among the Danish Virgin Islands… Then there was Saint Domingue… and the Americans, again. Before the French Revolution in 1789 (so his 'advisories' told him), Saint Domingue had been the richest prize in the West Indies, and its trade in sugar, molasses, rum and arrack, coffee and dye-woods had been worth more than all the British colonies put together. William Pitt the Younger, the Prime Minister, along with Lord Dundas and those worthies in Whitehall, had desired it above all.

Another British expeditionary force had invaded Saint Domingue from Jamaica in 1793, with eager help from white French planters and traders, the so-called grands blancs, those richest, with the most 'to lose… along with their heads; most were royalists who'd be first in line for the turnbrils to the guillotine. At present, British soldiers held most of the seaports in South Province and West Province, with the French Republicans pretty much in charge of North Province.

Tired of staring at the ocean, Lewrie turned and strode forrud to his chart-space for a peek at a map. Toulon woke from a nap and trotted beside him.

'Good puss,' Lewrie cooed as Toulon rolled onto his back atop a map of the island of Hispaniola. 'That's it… crush the Dons in Santo Domingo, not this half.'

Saint Domingue was like the letter U laid on its side, the two long arms aimed Westerly. First settled and richest, North Province was the

upper arm and long peninsula that thrust towards Cuba and the Windward Passage. British troops held the harbour of Mole St. Nicholas near its western tip, and Port de Paix; the Royal Navy blockaded the provincial and colonial capital, Cap Francois-he made a note to himself that the locals referred to it as 'Le Cap'-and the port of Fort Dauphin, near the eastern border with Spanish Santo Domingo.

Between the two arms lay a vast bight, and West Province, with all its freshwater rivers running down from the high mountains, where the French had dug intricate irrigation canals to water their fields. British troops held the port of Gonaives, just above the river Ester and the port of Saint Marc.

In the south, the small island of Gonave was lightly garrisoned by British troops. The isle broke the Bay of Port Au Prince into two channels leading to the large harbour and town of the same name, down at the 'elbow bend' where South Province 's peninsula began. British troops had a firm grip on South Province, and the port towns of Grand Goave and Petit Goave, on the northern coast, and Jacmel on the southern shore. South Province had been last to be settled and farmed with slaves; it was much drier and less productive, since it lay in the lee of those storm-breaking mountains, in the 'rain shadow.' Most nourishing rainwater fell on West Province, therefore.

Such a rich place, so lush and green… and so deadly.

'Murjf?' Toulon asked, sprawled on his belly, with his chin on the border, looking for 'pets.'

'Damn' bad place, aye… you're right, puss,' Lewrie said, as he swept him up to cradle him and tickle his white belly.

It was no wonder to him that the British forces, now under General Maitland, had gone little farther inland.