The Captain`s Vengeance

Gilding the lily, that, Lewrie thought of Jugg's display, for when coming back aboard, Lewrie was HMS Proteus. Four fingers and 'aye, aye' were for unknown Post-Captains arriving, to tell how many sailors should turn out as the side- party. After a long, fretful, civilian, and covert absence, though, the more Navy ritual, the better, for it meant a return to sanity, security… and his own identity.

Lewrie almost squirmed with anticipation, that itchy-innards, leg-jiggling impatience he recalled from his boyhood when his father, Sir Hugo, had gruffly announced that they'd coach to town the next day. The dawn would never come, it seemed, before he got that first orange from the fruiterer's, that first peek at new toys, first sweet-sticky candy after being good, studious, and quiet for so long!

His eyes flitted hungrily over his magnificent frigate. Proteus in his absence had been maintained in spanking 'Bristol Fashion,' with First Officer Mr. Langlie in his stead as acting-captain, aided by Lt. Catterall and Lt. Adair, and that 'temporary' Third Officer Lt. Darling, whom Capt. Nicely had fetched him. Lewrie could find nothing to gripe about in her appearance or her readiness.

And there those worthies were by the starboard quarterdeck bulwarks, wide grins plastered on their faces, just about ready to give up Sea Officer 'stoic' and whoop like punters at Derby whose horse led the last furlong. His whole crew looked to be gathered on the gangway and glad to see him… happier than he had a right to expect.

Their shalope, a wretched craft only fifty feet on the range of the deck and never meant for extended seafaring, sidled up to Proteus like a timid trout shyly nuzzling up to a great sea bass. After they left the Mississippi Delta, even Lewrie's cast-iron constitution had been challenged to seasickness aboard the shalope, so it was with avidity that he took the single easy step from the shalope's low entry-port to the main-mast channels, man-ropes and boarding battens of the frigate's starboard entry. A moment later, Lewrie stood on his own decks once more, doffing his much-abused wide-brimmed hat in salute to the side-party, the wail of bosun's calls, the stamp-slap of boots and hands on muskets from the Marines, and the doffings from both officers and crew.

Once his honours had been rendered, Lewrie gleefully smiled and whooped himself to send his civilian headgear sailing as far off as possible. He skinned off his hideous shiny-green coat and tore at the buttons that bound him into that tight, striped waist-coat.

'Lemme help, sir!' his steward, Aspinall, joyfully offered as he came near. 'God A'mighty, sir, but… these're a tad… garish!'

'Burn 'em if you wish, Aspinall,' Lewrie sniggered.

Then there were his officers to greet, his middies, Bosun Pendarves, and his Mate, Mr. Towpenny, now returned to robust, full-fleshed health after his ordeal on the Dry Tortugas. And there was his Coxswain, Andrews, eyes alight with relief that he'd returned at last.

Where's that bloody Nicely? Lewrie fretfully wondered, a glance upwards assuring him that Capt. Nicely's broad pendant still flew aloft; Command of a, hah!… squadron o ' one gone to his head?

As if 'witched' up by the very thought, the bulkhead door to the main deck opened below him as he still stood on the starboard gangway. The Manne sentry on that door stamped and presented his musket in salute, and Nicely began to emerge… beaten to it, though, by two balls of fur that streaked so close to Capt. Nicely's feet that he staggered for a moment like a Scotsman dancing over crossed blades, as his cats, Toulon and Chalky, came flying up the starboard quarterdeck ladder in a full-out, softly thundering, feline gallop.

'And there 's my lads!' Lewrie cried, going down on one knee to welcome their arrival, and he didn't care who witnessed it, either, so fondly happy to see them again. And oh! but didn't they twine, mew and trill, stand on their hind legs, and sniff him over, make snorting, open-mouthed sounds as he stroked their heads. They kneaded and gently clawed at his trousers, and made a great ado over him.

'Ah, Captain Lewrie… back at last, I see,' Capt. Nicely said once he'd gained the quarterdeck, standing a few feet off, cocking one brow in wary fashion. 'The deed's done, sir? Our pirates' foul business stopped, I take it?'

'Not quite, sir,' Lewrie told him, looking up, half his attention still fixed on his insistent creatures. 'The prize was looted and stripped of anything useful, a dead loss to us. A dead loss for them, too, 'cause we set her afire on our way out of town. Set alight a Yankee emporium ship, too, but that was accidental, really. Let me get below, back in uniform, and I'll tell you all, sir. We know where our pirates are bound, d'ye see, sir, and… there's a chance, just a chance, mind, that when we catch 'em, they might've stolen a shipload of silver the Dons were sending from the Mexico City mint, and-'

'Silver?' Nicely goggled. 'A whole shipload o-?'

'Coined silver, sir,' Lewrie said, rising to his feet, despite the protestations of his cats. Chalky, younger and spryer, took hold of his trousers at the left knee and scaled him like a tree trunk. 'We… ow!… heard rumours in New Orleans the sum might be at least one or two millions. Spanish dollars to British pounds'd be… '

'Jesus bloody Christ!' Capt. Nicely breathed in awe. 'And you think you know where they're bound, sir?' he further asked, his mouth moving afterwards in a silent mumble of numbers-juggling. 'Five hundred thousand bloody pounds? '

'I do, sir,' Lewrie said with a sly smile, with Chalky draped over his unbuttoned waist-coat, and going for his shoulder as agile and intent as a squirrel. 'Where they'll likely be, if they're not at… owl, stop that, Chalky, damn ye… if they're not at sea seekin' the booty this instant, sir.'

Lewrie looked down as he felt claws on his right leg as Toulon gathered himself for a (clumsy) ascent of his own. Lewrie knelt to let the heavier, older cat have his other shoulder, to spare himself a few more bleeding nicks. Toulon nuzzled, head-butted, and snorted, whilst Chalky went in for more playful love-nips. Needless to say, both were purring as loud and rattly as carriage wheels on street cobbles. 'For what I have in mind, sir, we'll need to retain the shalope. She's very shallow draught, and can go… ow!'

'Mister Langlie,' Nicely bade, swivelling about. 'I'd admire if you order yon… shalope, taken in tow, then get us back underway.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Lt. Langlie said, flicking a wary gaze betwixt Capt. Nicely and his own Capt. Lewrie for a moment. Now that Lewrie was back aboard, the request should have gone to Lewrie first, then to him. Lewrie cocked a brow at Langlie, as if to say that he would set things right once he and Nicely were below in his great- cabins.

'The course to steer, Mister Langlie, will be roughly Nor'west, a touch of Northing, for Barataria Bay,' Lewrie instructed. 'Know that place, Mister Winwood?' he asked of his stolidly prim Sailing Master.

'Not personally, no, Captain,' that worthy slowly replied after seeming to give the matter a long, ponderous think. 'Though I have in my possession a fairly trustworthy chart of the area in question.'

'An out o' date, typical slap-dash French or Spanish chart, an hopeful fiction, most-like, but…' Lewrie genially scoffed. 'Consult it, anyway, Mister Winwood, and give Mister Langlie the proper heading, then fetch it to my chart space, so we may all refer plans to it.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Mr. Winwood replied.

'Good Christ!' Lewrie said with a grimace once he was below in his private quarters, inhaling the stench of ram-cats. 'Aspinall!' he started to accuse, 'have you slacked off your scouring whilst I… '

'Beg pardon, sir, but… ' the lad muttered, wringing his hands. 'The little fellers seemed t'take to Cap'm Nicely well enough so long as you were still aboard, but oncet you set off for Louisiana, it got sorta… grim, sir. Spent half their time sulkin' for lack o' ya and t'other half prowlin' th' ship in search o' ya, the poor little beasts did. I 'spect they felt a bit put out with a stranger aft. Gave up their sandbox for 'is clothes, the deck canvas… his shoes an' hat, sir? Lurkin' about, peein' on his pillows an' bed sheets… hissin' an' spittin' whene'er they