King, Ship, and Sword

'All of them, that is? If their Commodore or whatever took pity on the people at Cape Franзois, and took aboard as many refugees as he could… as you said, sir? Their big Indiaman might be full of women and children, 'stead of soldiers. Might we… uhm?'

Aye, they bloody are! Lewrie quickly, angrily thought. As for Munsell's fear… We could end up killin' as many civilians as those Black rebels. No, surely they'd strike their colours, soon as we get to hailin' distance! Wouldn't that make Blanding tear his hair out. A bloodless victory? Oh, the poor bastard.

'If this Decean fellow did take civilians aboard, there would not be that many, Mister Munsell,' Lewrie told him after a long frown and think. 'Not aboard his armed ships, for certain. He'd have to work his guns, if overtaken… to protect the transport. He might've kept no more than two or three companies of troops. Mean t'say, how many Frogs does it take t'make a dumb-show or fire a ceremonial volley?'

'His frigates and seventy-four would most-like come about and fight us, Mister Munsell,' Lt. Westcott added, 'giving the Indiaman a shot at escaping to leeward. If she's swift enough, she's probably already placed ahead of their other ships, against that very chance.'

'To shepherd her, sir?' Midshipman Munsell said, nodding as if he understood the concept… almost.

'Just as we'd shepherd a convoy of our own, aye,' Lt. Westcott replied, then lowered his head to finish his cooling soup.

'Once out in the Gulf of Mexico, though…,' the Sailing Master said with a shrug, slurping up his last spoonful and looking eagerly in Yeovill's direction as the cook filled plates, 'it's 'needle in a hay-stack' as to finding them. The surest wager would be to race on West-Nor'west on a bee-line for the Mississippi Delta. If the French didn't put into Havana and think it over first. Now they know they are at war again… oh, spiced rice with the quail, too? Good oh!'

'Easy to make, sir,' Yeovill said as he and Pettus set plates before them. 'And rice is cheap, but filling. Can do wonders with it, Mister Caldwell.'

'Too close to Jamaica, and Duckworth's squadron?' Lewrie said, frowning again as his soup bowl was removed and the next course was placed before him; he drummed his fingers on the table top, pondering. 'If Decean knows we're at war, and the bee-line is so obvious… hmm.'

'Sir?' Lt. Westcott prompted.

'If he sheltered in Havana, he'd fail his orders,' Lewrie said, looking up. 'But if he steers closer to Pensacola or Mobile, that'd take him North of the obvious route but still get him to New Orleans, as far out of Duckworth's reach as he can get. If discovered, he has a chance t'duck into one of 'em, under the protection of a fort and its artillery, and send his troops overland through Spanish territory.

'His mission's a success even if his ships are interned!' Lewrie exclaimed, fighting the urge to rush to the chart-space to fetch dividers, compass, and ruler, and spread a chart over their supper dishes. 'Were I Captain Blanding, I'd steer Nor'west t'hunt for 'em. If we had enough ships, that is. Or… spread out what we have to the limit of signallin' and sightin' distance, stretched as far North of the usual track, the most direct course, as we can.'

'Glass of hock with the quail, sir?' Pettus suggested, hovering with a fresh bottle of white wine.

'Aye, Pettus, thankee,' Lewrie agreed, tossing back the last of his claret and offering his glass to be filled. 'Just a thought,' he told the others with a shrug and a lifted eyebrow.

'Would the Dons let them march through their territory, though, sir?' Lt. Westcott wondered aloud. 'From what I've read, the Spanish might as well be puppets of the French, but… are they that eager to become Bonaparte's active allies again? Their minister, Godoy, is a spineless wretch, ready to do whatever the French want, I've heard.'

'Would it be a hard march, sir?' Mr. Caldwell asked. 'On what sort of roads, I wonder. After all, this Captain Decean needs them to be… presentable when they reach New Orleans. Alive, too, I should imagine,' he added with a laugh.

Lewrie recalled his time in West Florida, up the Apalachicola; there were no roads, just game trails, Indian trading paths.

'Closer to New Orleans, then,' he announced with a sudden smile. 'Much closer… almost to Lake Pontchartrain. We need a chart…'

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Six days out from Cape Franзois, and the weather relented. The squadron cleared the Florida Straits and entered the Gulf of Mexico at last, with the Dry Tortugas a bit over the horizon on their starboard beams. Drill on the great-guns and small-arms practice resumed on all ships, All sails that could be bared to the winds bloomed aloft again, including stuns'ls; with them came laundry, damp and mildewed changes of slop-clothing, and bedding. While it had rained so hard, canvas sluices had thriftily been rigged, and some of the deluge had been funnelled into spare butts that the Cooper and his Mate had assembled from hoops and staves stored on the orlop, the first depleted casks and butts of the voyage hoisted out, scrubbed, and rinsed, then re-filled with fresh water and stored below once more. There was so much spare water, for once, that every hand could wash his slops 'shore-fashion' instead of soaping the worst smuts, then towing them astern in net bags, hoping the churning ship's wake would get them mostly clean. That method engrained salt crystals in the cloth, and when worn, resulted in ugly salt-water boils which the Ship's Surgeon and his Mates spent time lancing and daubing with ointment… the cost of such services deducted from the sailors' pay, the same as a 'mercury cure' for the venereal Pox.

Modeste signalled for live-fire exercises on the great-guns at least once a day, demanding three rounds from each gun every two minutes, and God help the ship, and the captain, and the signals party of any ship that did not meet his standards! Captain Blanding would not veer from his urgent chase to the West-Nor'west long enough to set out old kegs for targets, then double back to fire at them in passing in-line- ahead. The rate of fire was paramount, not the proper elevating or aiming, to his mind; after all, would he not bring the French right up to close-broadsides, where proper aim did not matter?

'Fair enough, Mister Rahl,' Lewrie congratulated the grizzled older Prussian. Their Master Gunner had suggested that they shift the guns as far forward in the ports as they could, fire a round from one of the forecastle chase guns, then let the individual gun-captains aim at the shot-splash as they sailed past it, and it seemed that most of the crews of the all-important 18-pounders were catching on quickly. 'One more from the starboard chase gun, and we'll see how close they come with a full broadside before we cease for the morning.'

'Sehr gut, Kapitдn! Sofort!' Mr. Rahl barked, standing at the base of the starboard companionway to the waist, so stiffly at attention that he resembled one of Kaiser Friedrich the Great's grenadiers. 'Ja, very gut, sir, at once!' he amended before turning to speak to Lt. Spendlove and Lt. Merriman, relaying Lewrie's orders.

'Quite the odd duck, sir,' Lt. Westcott commented. 'Once a soldier, forever a soldier. Crash-bang, about turn, hep hep!'

'Damned good gunner, though,' Lewrie replied. 'Though I don't know what he'd do if he ever ran out of wax for his mustachios. Go mad, I expect.' He pulled out his pocket-watch to check the time; it lacked a quarter-hour to Seven Bells of the Forenoon, and the morning rum ration. 'Last broadside, then Secure from Quarters. Can't delay the grog!'

'Aye, sir,' Westcott said with a grin. 'And may I say that I envy you your chair, sir?' he added tongue in cheek. 'I must admit I own to a certain wish to sit through part of a watch, whether the Navy approves or not.'

'Sprawl, rather, Mister Westcott,' Lewrie corrected him. 'Even snooze! I already stand accused o' bein' an idle, improper bastard, and freely confess to the charges. In my last days in the West Indies, I was even known to sprawl and tootle on my penny-whistle.' The Carpenter, Mr. Mallard, and his Mate, Swift, had cobbled together a canvas-and-wood collapsible sling-chair to his