And those far-off drums still thrummed, regular as a metronome, seemingly from every inland point of the compass, as if Port-Au-Prince was already surrounded and under a fell siege. There were some out on the streets who seemed glad of it, though it was far too early to show enthusiasm or loyalty. The guillotines set up by the original Jacobins still stood, waiting for their next victims; terrified petits blancs or Mulattoes could still turn into a mob and tear people asunder, if they had no other weapons than their hands.
Toussaint L'Ouverture's secret allies, those supposedly "happy" personal servants and household slaves fetched in from the country, had turned on their masters before. It was no wonder everyone went about as cutty-eyed as a bag of nails, with one hand near a pocketed pistol or the hilt of a sword. At present, all they could do was glare, maybe smirk with delight of a future victory, their chins high and their eyes alight, as Lewrie and Cashman passed-two officers alone, with no escort, easily taken by a quickly gathered gang?
Lewrie could feel their speculation, as if he were a yearling calf under the gaze of the farmer with a knife hidden from view.
"Yorktown… Toulon," Lewrie snarled, keeping his eyes moving and a firm grip on his sword hilt. "Looks and smells the same, of a sudden. Defeat and… disaster." He was still short of breath, and their rapid pace wasn't helping.
"Oh, rot!" Cashman snapped, still out of sorts for being kept waiting, when he was afire to dash off to join his troops. "What we built 'round this place, we can hold for months, if need be. Break 'em on our guns and ramparts."
"Certain you can, Kit," Lewrie replied, "but the rot's set in." Those drums… tales of voudoun and past massacres. British troops might hold but… whole town's against you. Ready t'roll over and quit. Can't you feel it, already?"
"They're scared, I'll grant you," Cashman answered. "But, let 'em see us shred the first assaults, and they'll buck up. Let some of the fainthearts run! No use, anyway, and that'll be fewer mouths to feed. A week'r two of slaughter, and the slaveys'll melt back into the hills, lickin' their wounds. Weil hold, count on it," he said, firmer of resolve, as if saying it would make it so, though Lewrie doubted that it might make a real difference on the rest of the island.
What would be gained, with another Fever Season coming, Lewrie wondered? The slave armies decimated, for sure, but not defeated, as his advisories had boasted, free to recruit and re-arm, strike another place less well defended; another year of campaigning that would eat European troops, ammunition, and money like a glutton's box of sweets! To what end, after all the lives lost?
"Well, here we are," Cashman said, clomping to a halt. "Camp's that way, the quays t'other. Good luck out at sea, Alan. I do think you'll have more joy of it than I, the next few weeks."
"Pile 'em up in heaps, Kit," Lewrie said, offering his hand to his long-time friend. "And thankee for a hellish-good run ashore!"
"That I will, and you're welcome," Cashman said with a smile, easier and more relaxed now. "Though what a staid family man such's yerself is doin', makin' a right meal o' things, is beyond me. Or… p'raps 'tis been too long, as a family man and all?"
"You're corrupting," Lewrie assured him.
"You're corruptible." Cashman hooted. "Why I like you so well. Damn those drums! You'd think even they'd like some peace and quiet, a bit o' shut-eye. Fare ye well, ye tarry ol' whoreson."
"You, too, you old rogue!" Lewrie bade in hearty return, and then they became formal, doffed their hats and bowed away in congй to their separate commands.
Lewrie made the last cable or so to the quays, where he could whoosh out his relief to still be living; the warehouses and houses had seemed more than usually ominous. He stood in the dull rain and peered about for a boat, suddenly distrusting himself alone aboard an island bum-boat, with a Black crew who just might favour L'Ouverture's party. Finally, a Navy guard-boat ghosted past, and he whistled and waved 'til they steered towards him.
"Going my way?" Lewrie called to the young midshipman in the stemsheets, who held a blazing torch by which to see. "Lewrie, from the Proteus frigate."
"Oh, aye sir! Come aboard. Curlow, help the captain aboard, there!" the boy cried, seeming relieved, and snapping at a Jamaican sailor who served as bow-man. "Uhm, those drums, sir… started up 'bout an hour ago. My pardons for asking, sir, but… what does it mean?"
"It means," Lewrie intoned, once he had gotten settled upon a thwart, "that a whole hurricane of shit is about t'come down on this place, younker. And thank your lucky stars you're in the Navy and not ashore when it does."
And the Jamaican bow-man chimed "Amen, sah!" to that.
The coffee was rich and savoury, hot as the hinges of Hell, and laced with first-pressing sugar, lacking only milk to make it perfect; but then HMS Proteus did not run to nursing cows, and Lewrie had never cared for sheep or goat's milk, and that was all they had up forrud in the manger. One lean bullock, due for slaughter in a day or two for a taste of fresh beef; a sow with six piglets, one bedraggled and shorn sheep, and a nanny goat, along with about a dozen egg-laying chickens and their few hatchlings were all the ship could boast.
It was a grand morning to lean against the after-most windward bulwarks of the quarterdeck, right aft near the taff-rail and the flag lockers, and greet the day with the first pewter mug of coffee, relishing the brisk coolness of post-dawn, the beginning of what promised to be another of those sparkling days at sea. There was just enough wind to make the ship lively, and bedew even the quarterdeck with bursts of spray, with the slightly choppy wavetops curling and creaming with cats-paws and seahorses.
Frankly, every morning since Proteus had departed Port-Au-Prince had been delightful; the coffee and cocoa beans, and sugar bought from Cashman's friends was a piquant spice to early rising. Not one of Lewrie's favourite things about being in the Navy, this standing to dawn Quarters, but the habit had been drilled into him long before as a prudent precaution in peace or war, no matter which sea one sailed, or how rare the encounter with an enemy warship was reputed to be.
"Beg to report, sir," little Midshipman Grace piped up, doffing his hat, "the First Lieutenant's duty, and there are no sails within sight, sir."
"Very well, Mister Grace," Lewrie said with a nod and a final sip of his strong coffee, "my compliments to Mister Langlie, and he's free to stand the hands down from Quarters and pipe them to breakfast."
"Aye aye, sir," little Grace replied, eager to be the conduit between Commission Officers. Lewrie thought he was shaping well, for a' lad who'd come aboard with his father and grandfather "before the mast" at Sheerness, just before the Nore Mutiny. Though small, he was lithe, quick-witted, and eager to learn, to excel at the rare opportunity for a shoeless lad from the fisheries and mud-bank dredgings of the Nore to become a midshipman, some day a Royal Navy officer with a commission of his own. Lewrie had been shorthanded after he had to cull the crew of mutineers, was grateful for the Graces' support while re-taking the ship, and there had been a mid's berth open. The Graces had lost their own fishing boat, and had scraped by on charity and the odd day-labourer berth aboard a friend's boat before taking the King's Shilling out of penury and desperation. So far, Lewrie had no reason to doubt his hasty decision.
He idled over to the helm, sat his mug down on the binnacle cabinet, and studied the chart with the Sailing Master, Mr. Winwood. The Sailing Master squinted, muttered under his breath as he counted, then bent over to place a tiny X on the chart.
" 'Bout mid-way 'twixt Cuba, Great Inagua island in the Bahamas, and Mole Saint Nicholas on Saint Domingue, sir," Winwood speculated in an offhanded way. "Two hour's run off-wind, and we'll be well in the Windward Passage. Isle of Tortuga is about six hours Sou'Sou'east, on this morning's wind, Captain."
"Once the hands have eat, Mister Winwood, we'll tack and charge down toward Tortuga, 'til midday, say," Lewrie decided. "The wind's a touch more Northing to it, today. Does it hold, we may tack again, and reach almost North towards Great Inagua. Cover a goodly portion of the area, and take a peek into the Caicos Passage, as well. And I am of the mind to see into the Mouchoir and Silver Bank Passages, too. 'Tis one thing, to stand off-and-on on close blockade, but it may be more productive to roam a tad farther afield."
"Aye, sir… leave the small craft to our luggers and cutters, but the large ships will be ours," Mr. Winwood said, the brightness of his eyes the only sign of amusement or joy the laconic older man ever evinced to others. "Fair winds and deep water, then, for most of the day, sir. I will, for the space of it, breathe much easier."
"Perhaps even caulk a bit, Mister Winwood?" Lewrie pretended to scoff. "Heavens, where is your famed industry flown, then?"
"Held in reserve, sir, for more trying circumstances," Winwood insisted. "I assure you, sir, I do not flag in my zeal for accuracy or-"
"Never mind, Mister Winwood," Lewrie said with a sigh, expecting that, should they be in active commission together for ten years, "jest" and Winwood would never be mentioned in the same breath.
"Mister Catterall, you have the deck," Lewrie said, turning to their Third Lieutenant. He took one last look at the gun-deck as the artillery was tompioned and bowsed snug to the bulwarks, a final peek aloft at the commissioning pendant for the wind direction, then went aft and below to his own breakfast.
Shore bread, butter and jam, a proper two-egg omelette with two strips of bacon and some grated cheese-done firmer and fluffier to his liking, not the runny Frog fashion-and Lewrie was sated. Once the tack to the Sou'Sou'east was completed, he thought, there would be bags of time to idle, with a cup of hot chocolate, and a new chapter in one of his books. Perhaps even one of Mr. Winwood's naps, he speculated, 'twixt then and "Clear Decks And Up-Spirits" at Seven Bells of the Forenoon, then Noon Sights?
"Deck, there!" the faint cry came wafting down. "Sail ho! Off th' larboard quarters!"
Boxing the compass in his mind, Lewrie frowned in puzzlement at that news, only slowly rising from the table to don one of his cotton coats; the wind was more Nor'east by North, and Proteus was now close-hauled on the starboard tack, steering Nor'west by North. For a ship to be sighted astern of her, off the larboard quarter, would put her down to the Sou'west of them.
How could they have missed her earlier, unless she was bound North from the Windward Passage, astern of them at dawn? Or, he also supposed, beginning to smile in anticipation, she had rounded Cuba by way of the Old Bahama Passage, south of Great Inagua, and was sailing Sutherly.
"Deck, there! Two sail off th' larboard quarters!"
Thud went the Marine sentry's musket butt on the deck. "Midshipman o' th' watch, sah!"
"Come."
"Mister Catterall's duty, sir, and…" Midshipman Grace began to say.
"I heard it, too, Mister Grace. Run tell Mister Catterall that I'll be on deck directly, and he is to ready the ship about."
"Aye aye, sir!" Grace yelped with excitement, scuttling out in a twinkling to scamper up to the quarterdeck and relay his orders.
Before Lewrie could get to the quarterdeck, the bosun's calls were shrilling, and Proteus thundered to the drum of feet as the crew came up from below. Officers and mates were calling for order, readying them to wear off the wind and head Sou'west.
Leaving the evolution in capable hands, Lewrie took a telescope from the binnacle rack and went aloft, up the larboard mizen shrouds to just below the cat-harpings to "weave" his limbs about the stays and rat-lines for a quick peek.
He saw what he thought were two schooner-rigged vessels, close together, the rake of their masts and the slant of their bat-wing fore and aft sails putting him in mind of American-built schooners; heading Sutherly, for certain, according to the "arrow" of their jibs and main sails pointing in that direction. They were well hull-down, with only the upper parts of their sails showing, so far. Schooners were wicked-fast, but…
He grinned once more. Off the wind, though, unless they hoisted crossed yards, a frigate with its acres of sail and a long waterline could run them down, once it got a bone in its teeth. Placed as they were, with Proteus to windward, the schooners had nowhere to run, or beam-reach, where they could use their famous speed. Beating up near the eye of the wind was out, for Proteus was already there!
He shut the glass and scampered down as Lt. Langlie issued the final orders to wear. The after-guard who tended the mizen had little need of an officer in the rigging, to daunt their work.
"It couldn't be that Yankee Doodle revenue clown, d'ye think?" Lt. Catterall whispered, once they had fetched the schooners hull-up, after a hard hour of sailing off-wind. "One schooner, chasing another? He might've gotten lucky. Sooner or later, anyone may."
"All cats are grey in the dark, old son," Lt. Wyman softly replied. "Diff rent colour scheme to these… I think."
"Do they part…" Catterall continued.
"Don't go borrowing trouble," Wyman countered, looking shocked at the notion of two disparate Chases to run down.
Lewrie paced away from them, out of earshot. The dread of the schooners haring off on widely different courses had already occurred to him, and he didn't wish to hear such, either; the word was the sire to the deed… like causing the worst to happen just by saying it out loud. Or wishing on the wrong star!
The schooners had hardened up on the wind a bit, to use all the power of it they could; now they bore just a bit East of South, but on that course, they'd ram aground near Mole Saint Nicholas on the north arm of Saint Domingue's bay, did they stand on. That, or run into one more British blockader, and have to shy away.
Were they smart, Lewrie fretted, one might bear away Sou'west, angling for the Jamaica Channel, and the other, to put about and sail for Cuba 's eastern tip. Why they were still together, he could not fathom, for it was the obvious ploy. He could only catch one of them, and had already determined that the Cuba-bound one would be the easier prey; he could cut the corner on her and fetch her up, whilst the other stood a poor chance of sailing past Saint Domingue without being taken by another Royal Navy patroller. But here they both were, clinging to each other as if glued or chained, the one astern slightly slower than her consort. There were about two miles between them now, and Proteus was within two miles of the nearest.
