departure,” Colonel Mirabois said, his smile the sort of rictus seen on a corpse who’d died terrified. “Mon generals, Dessalines, Christophe, Petion, z’ey send me to deman’ eet’s surrender, et ze surrender of all Blancs in ’er. If z’ey do not ze surrender, ze forts are prepar-ed w’iz ze ’eated shot, comprendre? If z’ey do not ze surrender immediatement, I weel signal for such to be done. Z’at ees ze difficile, M’sieur Capitaine.”
“She’s aground, Colonel… we’re tryin’ t’ warp her free,” Lewrie told him. “It’s not their fault they haven’t left harbour.”
“Z’at ees of no matter, Capitaine,” Mirabois told him, somewhat firmer than before.
“There are British sailors aboard her, rendering assistance,” Lewrie rejoined, stiffening his back and turning grimmer, himself. “I must protest. Royal Navy sailors of His Britannic Majesty aboard her, comprendre, Colonel? His Majesty, King George the Third, would deem such an action on your part as an act of war against Great Britain. We’ve been here, before, Colonel… do you want another ten years of foreigners in Hayti?”
“Vous v’ould perish as ze French ’ave perish-ed!” Mirabois shot back, getting his own back up.
“We get her warped off and under way, this little emmerdement is solved, Colonel,” Lewrie suggested. “Give us ’til sundown. If we can’t save the ship, then we are determined to rescue the Frenchmen aboard her.”
“Defendu!” Colonel Mirabois barked of a sudden; it was a word that Lewrie had never encountered. “Z’at ees… forbidden! Ve mus’ ’ave z’em all, eef z’ey weel not sail away! Non, non! ”
Got the stew-pots lit, already, have ye? Lewrie sourly told himself, sure that everyone ashore was looking forward to one, last hearty massacre of White people.
“For the moment, Colonel Mirabois, I intend to return aboard her, and see what progress is being made,” Lewrie temporised. “Now, if you wish to open fire upon her whilst I’m there, well… one might consider the consequences of any rash action. Once I’ve ascertained our progress, I’ll come back to speak with you, if you’ll wait here?”
Killing British sailors, killing gentlemen-officers, and one of them a Post-Captain, evidently seemed to check Mirabois’s ardour for blood; there most-like could be a very long war with Great Britain if he waved his signal; a war his masters surely would wish to avoid. He agreed to the delay, ill-mannered and as petulant as any Frenchman.
“Hoy, Mister Willoughby!” Lewrie shouted up to the Chlorinde’s quarterdeck once his gig was back alongside. “What-ho?”
“She’s coming, sir, inch by inch, but she’s coming free!” that energetic worthy called back down, still sporting that joyous, beamish grin of his. “Might I enquire what the rebels said to you, sir?”
“Surrender her and all her people for massacre, perhaps as the entree for the celebration supper, instanter, or they’ll fire heated shot into her, sir! I’ve warned him that there are British sailors aboard, and that he’d best give it a long think, if he don’t wish a new war with us!” Lewrie called back, grinning in spite of things, himself. “Let us work her off, cut their losses, call it a bad-”
“That gives me a marvellous idea, sir, if you will indulge me for a moment?” Lt. Willoughby interrupted. “Be back in a trice!”
He’ll inflate the hot-air balloons the women’ve made from their silk gowns, and he’s ready t’fly her off? Lewrie thought.
Several hundred voices, male and female, began to sing, of all the daft things! It was the French national anthem, that boisterous, blood-thirsty, martial tune. There came the sharp, crack of a swivel-gun, a light 2-pounder, then the Tricolour was fluttering down from the after staff, and cut free to drape the entire stern.
Up went a British Union Jack in its place.
Willoughby came back to the bulwarks, with a French officer in a fore-and-aft bicorne hat and gilt epaulets.
“Captain Lewrie, sir! Instead of waiting ’til she’s made her offing to strike her colours, her captain, here, has agreed to strike now… making Chlorinde a British prize, and, un-officially, a ship now to be reckoned a warship in the Royal Navy!” Lt. Willoughby cried down to Lewrie. “Do they open on her, it surely will be a war!”
“Oh, very good, Lieutenant Willoughby! Mine arse on a band- box, but that’s good!” Lewrie congratulated him. “I will relate the news to Colonel Mirabois… and hope he chokes on it!”
* * * It was late afternoon before Chlorinde, many tons lighter, finally hauled her hull off the rocks. Despite the loss of her rudder and some stove-in underwater planking, resulting in several leaks that could be patched with fothering and spare canvas, she floated; she’d not sink!
“Once you’ve made your offing, signal me if you need towing,” Lewrie offered, ready to depart for Reliant, and a celebratory glass of something cool and alcoholic. “One hellish-fine piece of work ye did, Mister Willoughby. Should your captain need a seconding to your report of the day, he’s but to ask.”
“Thank you for saying so, Captain Lewrie, and I expect we will need a tow,” Lt. Willoughby replied, looking exhausted but immensely pleased with an arduous job well done.
“Ehm… I wonder if we’re related or not, Mister Willoughby,” Lewrie hesitantly asked, making the younger officer cock his head in expectation of a pleasing coincidence. “My father is Sir Hugo Saint George Willoughby. His family’s estate was in Kent… was once with the Fourth Regiment of Foot, ‘The King’s Own’… then with the ‘John Company’ army in India, commanding the Nineteenth Native Infantry?”
“Uhm,” Lt. Willoughby replied, looking as if he fought a grimace, or a beetle had just pinched his testicles. “Sir Hugo, you say? And… might his father have been one Stanhope Willoughby, who once resided near Linton?”
Heard of us! Lewrie sadly realised.
“I believe he is, though he didn’t talk of him, much,” Lewrie told him. And, with damned good reason, he told himself; Father can’t hold a candle t’that old scoundrel’s sins! The both of us are pikers, in comparison… eligible t’take Holy Orders!
“Oh, that would be the, ehm… that would make us kin, sir. Of a sort, though…,” Lt. Willoughby hemmed and hawed, nigh to blushing.
“Well, I won’t mention the connexion, if you won’t. No sense lettin’ on you’re related t’that old rogue… or us. Bein’ the son and grand-son to ’em is bad enough.”
“Quite understood, sir, thank you,” Willoughby said with a very relieved smile. “The French wish to give you departing honours, sir. After the assistance you rendered them, and me, they appear grateful… for Frenchmen. An admiral’s side-party… minus the muskets.”
“And I’ll accept, gladly,” Lewrie said, grinning.
