Sea of Grey

Mulattoes could still turn into a mob and tear people asunder, if they had no other weapons than their hands.

Toussaint L'Ouverture's secret allies, those supposedly 'happy' personal servants and household slaves fetched in from the country, had turned on their masters before. It was no wonder everyone went about as cutty-eyed as a bag of nails, with one hand near a pocketed pistol or the hilt of a sword. At present, all they could do was glare, maybe smirk with delight of a future victory, their chins high and their eyes alight, as Lewrie and Cashman passed- two officers alone, with no escort, easily taken by a quickly gathered gang?

Lewrie could feel their speculation, as if he were a yearling calf under the gaze of the farmer with a knife hidden from view.

'Yorktown… Toulon,' Lewrie snarled, keeping his eyes moving and a firm grip on his sword hilt. 'Looks and smells the same, of a sudden. Defeat and… disaster.' He was still short of breath, and their rapid pace wasn't helping.

'Oh, rot!' Cashman snapped, still out of sorts for being kept waiting, when he was afire to dash off to join his troops. 'What we built 'round this place, we can hold for months, if need be. Break 'em on our guns and ramparts.'

'Certain you can, Kit,' Lewrie replied, 'but the rot's set in.' Those drums… tales of voudoun and past massacres. British troops might hold but… whole town's against you. Ready t'roll over and quit. Can't you feel it, already?'

'They're scared, I'll grant you,' Cashman answered. 'But, let 'em see us shred the first assaults, and they'll buck up. Let some of the fainthearts run! No use, anyway, and that'll be fewer mouths to feed. A week'r two of slaughter, and the slaveys'll melt back into the hills, lickin' their wounds. Weil hold, count on it,' he said, firmer of resolve, as if saying it would make it so, though Lewrie doubted that it might make a real difference on the rest of the island.

What would be gained, with another Fever Season coming, Lewrie wondered? The slave armies decimated, for sure, but not defeated, as his advisories had boasted, free to recruit and re-arm, strike another place less well defended; another year of campaigning that would eat European troops, ammunition, and money like a glutton's box of sweets! To what end, after all the lives lost?

'Well, here we are,' Cashman said, clomping to a halt. 'Camp's that way, the quays t'other. Good luck out at sea, Alan. I do think you'll have more joy of it than I, the next few weeks.'

'Pile 'em up in heaps, Kit,' Lewrie said, offering his hand to his long-time friend. 'And thankee for a hellish- good run ashore!'

'That I will, and you're welcome,' Cashman said with a smile, easier and more relaxed now. 'Though what a staid family man such's yerself is doin', makin' a right meal o' things, is beyond me. Or… p'raps 'tis been too long, as a family man and all?'

'You're corrupting,' Lewrie assured him.

'You're corruptible.' Cashman hooted. 'Why I like you so well. Damn those drums! You'd think even they'd like some peace and quiet, a bit o' shut-eye. Fare ye well, ye tarry ol' whoreson.'

'You, too, you old rogue!' Lewrie bade in hearty return, and then they became formal, doffed their hats and bowed away in congй to their separate commands.

Lewrie made the last cable or so to the quays, where he could whoosh out his relief to still be living; the warehouses and houses had seemed more than usually ominous. He stood in the dull rain and peered about for a boat, suddenly distrusting himself alone aboard an island bum-boat, with a Black crew who just might favour L'Ouverture's party. Finally, a Navy guard-boat ghosted past, and he whistled and waved 'til they steered towards him.

'Going my way?' Lewrie called to the young midshipman in the stemsheets, who held a blazing torch by which to see. 'Lewrie, from the Proteus frigate.'

'Oh, aye sir! Come aboard. Curlow, help the captain aboard, there!' the boy cried, seeming relieved, and snapping at a Jamaican sailor who served as bow-man. 'Uhm, those drums, sir… started up 'bout an hour ago. My pardons for asking, sir, but… what does it mean?'

'It means,' Lewrie intoned, once he had gotten settled upon a thwart, 'that a whole hurricane of shit is about t'come down on this place, younker. And thank your lucky stars you're in the Navy and not ashore when it does.'

And the Jamaican bow-man chimed 'Amen, sah!' to that.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The coffee was rich and savoury, hot as the hinges of Hell, and laced with first- pressing sugar, lacking only milk to make it perfect; but then HMS Proteus did not run to nursing cows, and Lewrie had never cared for sheep or goat's milk, and that was all they had up forrud in the manger. One lean bullock, due for slaughter in a day or two for a taste of fresh beef; a sow with six piglets, one bedraggled and shorn sheep, and a nanny goat, along with about a dozen egg-laying chickens and their few hatchlings were all the ship could boast.

It was a grand morning to lean against the after-most windward bulwarks of the quarterdeck, right aft near the taff-rail and the flag lockers, and greet the day with the first pewter mug of coffee, relishing the brisk coolness of post-dawn, the beginning of what promised to be another of those sparkling days at sea. There was just enough wind to make the ship lively, and bedew even the quarterdeck with bursts of spray, with the slightly choppy wavetops curling and creaming with cats-paws and seahorses.

Frankly, every morning since Proteus had departed Port-Au-Prince had been delightful; the coffee and cocoa beans, and sugar bought from Cashman's friends was a piquant spice to early rising. Not one of Lewrie's favourite things about being in the Navy, this standing to dawn Quarters, but the habit had been drilled into him long before as a prudent precaution in peace or war, no matter which sea one sailed, or how rare the encounter with an enemy warship was reputed to be.

'Beg to report, sir,' little Midshipman Grace piped up, doffing his hat, 'the First Lieutenant's duty, and there are no sails within sight, sir.'

'Very well, Mister Grace,' Lewrie said with a nod and a final sip of his strong coffee, 'my compliments to Mister Langlie, and he's free to stand the hands down from Quarters and pipe them to breakfast.'

'Aye aye, sir,' little Grace replied, eager to be the conduit between Commission Officers. Lewrie thought he was shaping well, for a' lad who'd come aboard with his father and grandfather 'before the mast' at Sheerness, just before the Nore Mutiny. Though small, he was lithe, quick-witted, and eager to learn, to excel at the rare opportunity for a shoeless lad from the fisheries and mud-bank dredgings of the Nore to become a midshipman, some day a Royal Navy officer with a commission of his own. Lewrie had been shorthanded after he had to cull the crew of mutineers, was grateful for the Graces' support while re-taking the ship, and there had been a mid's berth open. The Graces had lost their own fishing boat, and had scraped by on charity and the odd day-labourer berth aboard a friend's boat before taking the King's Shilling out of penury and desperation. So far, Lewrie had no reason to doubt his hasty decision.

He idled over to the helm, sat his mug down on the binnacle cabinet, and studied the chart with the Sailing Master, Mr. Winwood. The Sailing Master squinted, muttered under his breath as he counted, then bent over to place a tiny X on the chart.

' 'Bout mid-way 'twixt Cuba, Great Inagua island in the Bahamas, and Mole Saint Nicholas on Saint Domingue, sir,' Winwood speculated in an offhanded way. 'Two hour's run off-wind, and we'll be well in the Windward Passage. Isle of Tortuga is about six hours Sou'Sou'east, on this morning's wind, Captain.'

'Once the hands have eat, Mister Winwood, we'll tack and charge down toward Tortuga, 'til midday, say,' Lewrie decided. 'The wind's a touch more Northing to it, today. Does it hold, we may tack again, and reach almost North towards Great Inagua. Cover a goodly portion of the area, and take a peek into the Caicos Passage, as well. And I am of the mind to see into the Mouchoir and Silver Bank Passages, too. 'Tis one thing, to stand off-and-on on close blockade, but it may be more productive to roam a tad farther afield.'

'Aye, sir… leave the small craft to our luggers and cutters, but the large ships will be ours,' Mr. Winwood said,