King, Ship, and Sword

were issued in mid-May, and the official declaration of war came on the eighteenth. Now, did they get down- Channel before that-by a fortnight or less!-they would've sailed in a fog, whilst we-'

'What's the dashing weather to do with it, sir?' Capt. Blanding quickly

sneered back.

'Metaphorical, sir… a lack-of-information sort of fog. They couldn't know of the state of war when they left Holland,' Lewrie continued, warming to his topic. 'No one could catch them up t'tell them once they were out to sea. And when they got to the West Indies, no one here knew of it, either. They arrived ahead of the news! No idea they had to get a way on, no need for haste, d'ye see, sir.'

'Hmm, go on,' Blanding urged, perking up considerably.

Aye, grasp any straw when drownin… even mine! Lewrie told himself with secret glee; Poor bastard!

'If they were as raw as the typical French sailors, who learn their trade on-passage like they usually get sent out,' Lewrie further said, 'their crossing would've been slower than ours, sir. If they'd sailed a line of latitude t'pick up Dominica to fix their position-spot the mountains sixty miles out at sea, on a clear day!-let us say, did they carry at least a demi-brigade to Mole Saint Nicolas or Cape Franзois-'Le Cap,' the Frogs call it-they'd have to take on water, firewood, and fresh victuals after landin' the bulk of the soldiers, and perhaps even give their sailors shore liberty, wastin' even more time before they went on to New Orleans for the hand-over!

'Even were they five weeks ahead of us before we left European waters, sir,' Lewrie quickly speculated, 'we might've made up a week on 'em with our fast passage, and made up another week sailin' a line of latitude above Dominica, and perhaps two more whilst they anchored at Cape Franзois or Mole Saint Nicolas and… frittered. Then, if they finally heard of the declaration of war, they might dither a bit longer before heading for New Orleans, sir. After all, their senior officer's got strict orders t'be in New Orleans for the ceremonies… the same sort of firm orders as us, really, sir,' Lewrie concluded, a sly-boots smile on his face. 'A failure'd not do his career any good.'

'By… Jove!' Blanding said at last, after munching that over in his head, his jaws actually working as if chewing the concept. 'By Jove and by Jingo, Lewrie, of course he has strict orders! He'll not waste time on the smaller isles in the Leewards, he'll have put into Saint Domingue first, then… '

Blanding shot to his feet, beaming for a rare once since they'd departed their patrol of the Channel entrances. 'That's where he'd be hiding! That's where he wishes to run from, soonest!'

'Sir?' Lewrie asked, puzzled. He'd thought to goad the fellow into a better mood, spur him into action and out of the slough of despond, but… where was his head going now?

'He fulfills his orders to go up the Mississippi to New Orleans, he'll find shelter from our ships!' Blanding explained… sort of, kind of. 'He can't be blamed if he can't get out after the exchange of ownership there. And if he's less than a week ahead of us… I say! Top-ups, and I will have a glass with you all. We will crack on at once for the Anegada Passage 'twixt Anguilla and the Virgins, and then it's 'all to the royals,' stuns'ls, too, for the Old Bahama Channel and the Florida Straits. Does he flee Saint Domingue, he'll not wish to take a course south of Cuba… too close to Jamaica and our squadron there. Duckworth'11 not have them… we will!'

Several fresh bottles of claret had been uncorked to breathe, so re-fills were quickly done. Blanding held up his glass on high. 'Sirs, I give you confusion to the French!'

'Sloth to the French!' Captain William Parham amended. Sloth and timidity!'

'But not too much timidity, Parham!' Lewrie added, Else they never come out!'

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

They dashed roughly Nor'west past Montserrat, Nevis, and St. Kitts, passing far alee of St. Martin, Eustatius, and almost within sight of Saba, then turned North for a time on a close reach to thread through 'twixt Anguilla and the eastern-most isle of the British Virgin Islands- Anegada, which gave name to the passage from the Caribbean to the Atlantic once more. From there, it was 'wind on the starb'd quarters' again, with stuns'ls boomed out on either side of the main course and tops' 1 yards, the fore courses of all four warships partially reefed to take downward pressure off their bows and allow them to spear their bluff entries through the sea instead of pressing too deep and snuffling, robbing them of half a knot or more per hour. The Nor'Easterly Trade Winds were strong and steady, despite it being almost late July, never varying more than a point from Nor'east, and only fading lighter after dusk as the squadron ran down the line of the 20th Latitude, due West. There were spells of late afternoon rain squalls now and again, through which they drove onwards without reducing sail; there were grey and charcoal-dark storms on the horizon, so dense they resembled island mountains, but far away and unthreatening, though they were well into hurricane season, when any mariner in those waters continually looked over his shoulder and watched the cabinet barometer leerily.

Spanish Puerto Rico passed alee, as did the Mona Passage, their squadron plunging along at an impressive rate of knots, and HMS Modeste proving Captain Blanding's boast that she was very fast for a 64-gunned two-decker. Drill on the great-guns, drill with small arms and edged weapons filled both Forenoon and Day Watches, under a warm sun, white clouds, and the occasional afternoon rains that sluiced off the sweat the hands had worked up, sometimes lasting long enough for a thorough scrub-down with a stub of soap and a wash- rag.

Then came the coast of Spanish Santo Domingo, the eastern half of Hispaniola, the long northern coast looming up to larboard, forcing them to alter course a point or two… and Lewrie was back in his old hunting grounds in the Proteus frigate, and his memories of that time in Hispaniolan waters. When he had been more carefree.

'Monte Cristi… ten miles off the larboard beam, sir,' Lieutenant Westcott said, lowering his telescope. 'And Cape Franзois about fourty miles to the West.'

'The rebel slaves tried to blow us to Kingdom Come, round about here, Mister Westcott,' Lewrie recalled aloud. 'And the lone survivor we picked up after the last of their boats sank slit the throat of one my hands tryin' t'haul him up the battens. Fanatics, all of em.'

Kit Cashman and his regiment ashore outside Port-au-Prince; a night in a restaurant-cum-brothel; the blind shelling they'd fired over the heads of British troops at Mole St. Nicolas; his intense dislike of Sir Hyde Parker's staff-captain at Kingston, 'the wine keg,' aye, and that Captain Blaylock, too. The duel he'd seconded for Kit against that Beauman 'git,' Ledyard, and his cousin, and how they had cheated and gotten gunned down. The Yellow Jack that had decimated Proteus's crew and officers; the 'theft' of Beauman slaves to replace some of them. Matching wits with Guillaume Choundas, cooperating with the American Navy, finding he had a bastard son…

'It'll be 'Beat to Quarters' in the next hour or so, Westcott,' he said, shrugging off his memories.

'At long last, sir!' his First Officer said with eagerness. 'If they're here. If!' Lewrie replied, staring at the impossibly green mountains of Santo Domingo. So far, all their landfalls had been French islands; only one of them, Guadeloupe, he had been at all familiar with. Here, though…! Here were islands he'd known at coasting distance, every bay, fishing port, inlet, and shoal, close to an host of other places he'd known at first-hand; the Turks and Caicos isles to the North, and the Bahamas further North of them. And when he was prowling these shores, it had been Antigua, the Danish or British Virgins, Kingston, Jamaica, the coast of Cuba, Apalachicola Bay in Spanish Florida so long before… they all sprang to mind in a flood of remembrance, from his Midshipman days in 1780, the hired-in Parrot schooner, the Desperate Sloop and half-mad Capt. Tobias Treghues, then old HMS Shrike and Lieutenant Lily-crop and all his damned cats, and his first, the sullen William Pitt, the best