Sea of Grey

with his place in the world, his lot, and the progress of all that he surveyed.

'You're senior officer present, sir, I take it. Any orders for me?' Lewrie asked. 'Askin' of the Army, well…'

'You were off to patrol the north shore,' Nicely mused^ fingers to his lips to recall him, before snapping his fingers as he got it.

'Aye, sir, but we put into Mole Saint Nicholas a few days ago, and shot away all our grape and cannister. Now that Grampus is here, and we may re-arm-'

'Shot it all away? Tell me,' Nicely said, leading him by dint of personality down the hall towards the front doors. After he'd related the whole tale, Nicely let out a loud 'Whew!' of amazement.

'Damme, but you've been a busy lad, Captain Lewrie. You have a written account? O' course you do. Give it me. That laving bowl and the bucket's fairly fresh. Avail yourself whilst I look this over.'

Lewrie swabbed his face and neck once more, and ladled up a dipper of water, sipping off half and using the rest to swirl the dipper's ladle clean before slinging it on the stone steps of the commandeered mansion, where the water steamed on the hot, sun-heated stones.

'Damn! Are they trying to shift supplies east to invade Santo Domingo, the best use for your ship would be right back on the station you left!' Nicely grumbled, fanning himself with the sheaf of paper in their airless oven of a hallway. 'No love for the Dons, understand, but I wouldn't wish L'Ouverture on the demons of Hell. Soon as they're in charge here, they'll be over the border quick as you can say 'knife,' and God help the Spanish, then. This… indirect fire may prove useful here in a few days. I'm afraid I must order you to stay, Lewrie.'

'I understand, sir,' Lewrie answered, nodding and smiling as he contemplated another visit ashore, and a rencontre with that Henriette. With a qualm, too, for this time, should he have to fire over the head of British troops, he wouldn't have Wandsworth or Scaiff to 'carry the can' should things go wrong. Perhaps Captain Blaylock would get his wish after all, and he'd end up slaughtering British soldiers by error! His error! Quickly followed by a court-martial, Blaylock testifying that he'd 'told him so,' and…

'Excuse me, sir, but you said…' Lewrie plumbed at last. 'If L'Ouverture is in charge? Of Port-Au-Prince?'

'Should have said 'when,' rather,' Nicely told him, turning sombre. 'Mole Saint Nicholas re-enforced with troops from Saint Marc and Gonaives… thereby ceding those little ports to L'Ouverture, do you see. Us here in their South Province and West Province concentrating forces at Port-Au-Prince and Jacmel, on the south coast. We've given up Little and Grand Goave, Arcahele just north of here…'twas that or get their garrisons massacred. L'Ouverture's unleashed his armies on us in an all-out effort, and frankly the swarthy little bugger is beating our poor Army like a cheap drum, Lewrie. Your coming here is much like 'out of the frying pan, into the fire.' '

'Well, damme!'

'Couple of days back, it was run or die, up at Croix de Bouquets… routed Maitland's troops and ran 'em clean out of the Plain de Cul-de-Sac,' Nicely explained. 'Flank units gave way under hellish swarms of 'em, then the center lost heart and scampered before they could be cut off and encircled. Abandoned guns, caissons… wounded? That's not over five miles from here. Our six or eight thousand healthy and present, 'gainst fifty or sixty thousand of theirs? Damme, I suspect we'll be asked to evacuate the Army in a few days. A total muddle, Lewrie. Complete and utter.'

'Dear Lord,' Lewrie said with an authentic qualm and a gulp of amazement. 'Who'd've ever thought it possible?'

'Know Captain Blaylock, do you?' Nicely asked of a sudden, and with a less than 'nice' expression on his phyz.

'Not really, sir. Not 'til our convoy here, oh… weeks ago.'

'Had praise for your actions. Faint praise, but some is better than none,' Nicely pointed out, picking up a used towel with which he sponged and mopped his face. 'Aahh! Lord, it's so hot and still!'

They despise each other, Lewrie quickly schemed; damme, perhaps the truth '11 serve for a rare once! Navy politics, feuds, and jealousy, Gawd! But I do need a patron out here… bad!

'General Sir Harold Lamb insisted that he do so, sir, whilst I was present, so he could hardly refuse him,' Lewrie said, daring a cynical grin. 'I'd already angered him in Kingston harbour, and I think he blames me for having guns stripped from his ship once we brought a convoy here. And, whilst engaged against the Samboes, I rejected his summons to go aboard Halifax 'til we were out of munitions and targets. Munitions which I requested from his ship… which request was ignored, too, sir.'

'His loss of guns was my doing,' Nicely said, grinning after he had dried his face. 'What did you do in Kingston harbour?'

'My libertymen sang too loud and woke him at midnight, sir.'

Nicely found that delicious, and uttered a bark of laughter.

'You'll do, Captain Lewrie,' Nicely told him, 'you'll do quite well.

Tomorrow morning, once laden, take up a closer anchorage to the shore. I shall put a flea in General Maitland's ear regarding this indirect fire business… have him second his most experienced artillery officer aboard your ship. There's always the possibility that if the enemy presses Maitland back to the town environs, we may have to try it on, and see if there's anything to it… and how well you do.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Lewrie said, getting the wind up, again.

'I'll forward your report to Admiral Parker at Kingston, with a recommendation of mine own,' Nicely promised. 'Is there anything else I may do for you, Lewrie?'

'I sent in a prize with my Third Officer and best midshipman in charge of her, sir. I lost two midshipmen at Mole Saint Nicholas, and I need my people back.'

'Can't,' Nicely brusquely said. 'Sent her on to Jamaica, with all those French privateersmen. I'd no place to secure them. She's in the hands of the Prize Court, though, so there'll be some reward coming… should that be a comfort.'

'Oh well, then,' Lewrie said with a sad shrug. 'Short-handed a tad longer. Promote a couple of quartermasters or mates as acting midshipmen? Uhm… when the Army buckled and broke, sir… do you know anything about the Fifteenth West Indies regiment? An old friend of mine commands it.'

'You don't mean that fop Colonel Beauman, do you?' Nicely asked, a look of distaste on his face.

'Oh no, sir!' Lewrie all but gasped. 'I know Colonel Beauman, from long ago, but… I refer to Colonel Cashman!'

'Oh, him!' Nicely laughed, throwing back his head. 'One devil of a fellow. That's alright, then. Pity, though, about him and his regiment. There's a bit of a stink, after the battle up at Croix des Bouquets. Not in good odour with Maitland since. Your friend lives, though, have no fears on that score. They're somewhere along the lines, fairly close to town, I believe.'

'Well, that's good,' Lewrie said, letting out a breath of pent worry. 'Whilst we're loading, do you not have anything for me to do, sir, I'd very much like to look Cashman up.'

'Shouldn't be a problem,' Nicely decided. 'God keep you, then,

Captain Lewrie. We'll surely speak again, as long as this poor siege lasts. Adieu, sir.' Nicely and Lewrie doffed hats, then Nicely strode out into the torrid sunshine, reaching into his left sleeve for a handkerchief, and sneezing as the full brunt of the sun struck him, before stomping briskly towards the quays.

The staff officers at the commandeered headquarters were loath to loan him a horse, but Lewrie cajoled them after a long palaver and rode up the streets out of town. The paving stones gave way to silty dirt and sand, the last tumbledown shanties and hovels of Free Blacks and petits blancs were left behind, and the undergrowth grew thicker and closer to the track, reaching overhead to interlace and block off the sun, making multiple swaying dapples of soft green light along the eerie tunnel through the woods.

Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Lewrie thought, drawing his thin-shanked, weary mare to a halt. He took off his hat to fan himself and swabbed his cheeks and chin of dripping sweat on his right sleeve. Though he was in deep shade, there was no relief from the heat and, perplexingly, it felt even warmer than under the crushing sizzle of the sun; airless, too, the heat muggy and close, and so humid that he could feel his breath flow in and out like running water.

Eeriest of all, it was ominously quiet-but for the throb of those damned drums, and the hum and buzz of mosquitoes, tiny bees, and large flies that swarmed his sweaty horse and sweaty self.

When first he'd entered the woods, there had been a faint hum of town doings astern, and the ring of axes