Sea of Grey

laugh now and then, some boisterous shouts as a toast was made and drunk. Hmmm, some rather high-pitched laughs and words… some women? Things might just be looking up, he thought.

A waiter in livery and a white bib apron entered, and chatted quite gaily with Cashman for a piece; in patois French, of course, so Lewrie hadn't a clue what was being said, though it looked quite jovial and innocent… innocuous, rather.

As the waiter departed, Cashman tipped Lewrie the wink. 'Old Jacques… wonderful old fellow, he'll take care of us,' Cash-man informed him. 'Took the liberty of orderin' for us, do you not object. Spйcialitй de la hфte. You'll love it, I assure you.'

'So what are we havin', then?' Lewrie asked as the waiter came back with a magnum of champagne and two crystal flutes. Though it was too much to expect that Port-Au-Prince might run to Massachusetts ice, the champagne was velvety smooth and spritely, from a famous vineyard in France, and much finer than Lewrie might have expected.

'Grand, ain't it,' Cashman said, once he'd had a taste. 'Jean-Pierre and Maman always have the best of ev'rything. Before the Revolution sent things Tom O'Bedlam, this was the most exclusive place in town. They're the best smugglers and speculators, too. No one knows how or where they get things, or cache 'em 'til needed, but you won't eat or drink better, were you in Paris itself.'

'Are those smugglers and speculators we hear, then?' Lewrie had to ask, savouring the dry mellowness of the wine. It was miles above any vintage he'd tasted lately, even better than the Beaumans' cellar!

'Cut-throats, pimps, courtesans… mistresses and their men, or the odd profiteer,' Cashman quite cheerfully catalogued, 'rogues from the canting crews, successful pickpockets and thieves, rich rake-hells who haven't fled yet. A shifty lot, but they pay well and they're always flush with 'chink.' B'lieve it or not, Alan, with all o' their hired beef watchin' their backs, this just may be the safest place in Port-Au-Prince, and I doubt things'd change, did L'Ouverture march in tonight! Give 'em a week, and he'll be dinin' here, him and his generals. May make more of a mess, stain more napery, but…

'As to supper,' Cashman enthused, changing the subject and refilling their glasses, 'we start with shrimp rйmoulade, followed by an omelette au bacon et frommage, followed by spinach salads, before the goat ragout, which is bloody marvellous, by the way, and the roasted coq au vin, with asparagus and other removes. Burgundy, hock, or Saint Emilion Bordeaux, p'raps a Beaujolais with the omelettes, if you like? The sideboard'll groan with bottles. And for dessert, a crиme fraоche over strawberries and cut fruit. You should see the berries they can grow in this soil!'

'Thought most of the folk here in town were starvin',' Lewrie said in wonder as the waiter bustled in once more, this time trailed by a brace of serving wenches in fresh-pressed and sweet-smelling sack gowns; one with light brown hair, the other a striking redhead, and wearing their own hair, not wigs, artfully done up in ribbons.

'They are, but that don't signify if you have the 'blunt' and know your way about,' Cashman said dismissively. 'There's some that'll always prosper. Ooh-la, Vivienne, you darlin'! Still here, are ya?' Cash-man said, turning his attention to the striking wee light-haired wench, drawing her even closer as she sidled her hip against him and served his rйmoulade. Fine coin-silver utensils magically appeared from a pocket of Jacques's bib apron; more spoons, knives, and forks than an English household might display all at once, prissily set out in bewildering order, either side of their plates.

'M'sieur, ' the redhead purred as she served Lewrie, pressing her hip against his shoulder, too.

'Mademoiselle… enchantй, ' Lewrie instinctively responded with a welcoming purr of his own, and a slow, sly smile. 'Comment vous appelez-vous?' he asked.

'Henriette, m'sieur. Et vous, brave Englis' capitaine?'

He told her, took her hand and kissed it for good measure, and tipped her a wink before turning to face Cashman.

'You're going to get me in trouble, aren't you, Kit?' he asked, with a wry grin.

'Hope you fetched off your best cundums,' Cashman muttered back with a smile of his own, this one of beatific innocence.

'God, this is good!' Lewrie had to exclaim after the maids had departed in a swirl of skirts and hips, and had closed the pocket doors completely so they could dine in peace.

'Reminds me,' Cashman said, daubing at his mouth and sipping at his wine, ' 'fore we depart, we'll ask Jean- Pierre for some coffee and cocoa beans. Saint Domingue coffee is as good as anything from Brazil, and their cocoa's sweeter an' mellower, too. Mix it with what ya have already-one-to-two-and you'll think you're in Heaven. It may be dear, what with the crops not bein' tended much since their slaves rose up, but worth it, if they have any.'

'Dearer than what Jamaican chandlers ask?' Lewrie frowned.

' 'Bout half, I'd think,' Cashman told him, pausing to savour a bite. 'Hard to believe they're Samboes… ain't it?'

'Who? Our hostlers?' Lewrie asked.

'Them… and our servin' girls,' Cashman told him, winking.

'They are?' Lewrie said, amazed. 'But they look so…'

'Petits blancs need love, too, Alan,' Cashman drolly snickered. 'Most real Whites've fled to Havana or Charleston, even New Orleans.' He seemed delighted by Lewrie's surprised look. 'Those who stayed are mostly half-castes… brights, fancies, quadrons or octoroons, what are lumped into the catchall term Mulatto, hereabouts. Some of them owned plantations, sent their children to school in Paris before the war. Rich as the grands blancs… richer! But that don't signify, either. 'Tis pure White blood, the guinea-stamp round here. Remember I told you how the French divided folk by grades of White or Black? There're one hundred and twenty-eight diff rent gradations-s'truth! Get into marabous and sacatras, maybe three-quarters or more White, and you couldn't say one way or t'other, even in broad daylight. But even a sang-mйlй, with one part Black blood to a hundred-twenty- seven White, is still a Sambo to them. Vivienne an' Henriette, they're high marabous, maybe low sacatras. And still get the short end of the stick, 'cause their folks weren't rich, or landed, or much of anything, 'cept imitation petits blancs. And the worst part for them is…'

Cashman paused for dramatic effect, and a sip of his wine.

'The real darkies off the fields, the ones in L'Ouverture's regiments, think the same way about 'em, d'ye see,' Cashman said, with an air of grim foreboding. 'They look too White for one camp, but they're too… tainted with the tar-brush for t'other. Lovely place, Saint Domingue, ain't it,' he sarcastically drawled.

'So what happens to 'em, if Port-Au-Prince falls to L'Ouverture and his laddies?' Lewrie asked.

'World turned upside down,' Cashman tossed off, as if it were no worry of his. 'The too White'll get knackered, and all the rest'll be allowed to kowtow and join up with L'Ouverture. Make their salaams, bang their heads on the floor, and live-on the bottom of Society, mind. And a poor'un it'll be, you mark my words. Take 'em a century t'turn this island back to a payin' proposition. Jean-Pierre, well… by God, but this is a marvelous rйmoulade, don't ya think, Alan?'

'Aye, 'tis,' Lewrie agreed, a trifle impatient for Cashman to complete his statements, though. 'But what about 'im?'

'Oh, he'll most-like have a schooner lined up for a quick getaway,' Cashman speculated with another blasй shrug. 'Does he stay, he might do alright… 'less they scrag him for profiteerin', when other folks were starvin'. God knows which side'll do that… L'Ouverture's as an example, or them that starved, for revenge. Now, does he cut an' run with all his goods and money, he could set up fresh in the United States. Savannah, Charleston, New Orleans… they all have so-called Creole citizens… under 'Polite' Society, o'course. Take the lightest girls along, and reopen a bordello? Some o' them could lie like Blazes, and swear they were grands blancs all the way back to Adam… pass for White, d'ye see. Ah, our omelettes!'

In came Jacques and the girls to remove the now-empty plates, recharge wineglasses, and deliver steaming 'piss-runny' French style egg dishes-with more subtle bumping and lingering touches.