Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey

"Our artillery will cut them down in waves, like reapin' cane," Captain Sellers chortled.

"Never even get in musket range," Major Porter added, "when the grape and cannister'll lay 'em out long before."

"Why we brought along caltrops," Ledyard Beauman boasted. "It was Cashman's suggestion, wasn't it?"

"Caltrops?" Captain Blaylock enquired, peering at Cashman. "Scrap metal, ten pence nails and such, sir," Colonel Cashman explained with a shrug of modesty. "Colonel Beauman has the right of it… very few of 'em are shod. Take two and bend 'em together, so however it lands, a couple of points always face up, sirs. Strew 'em by the hundreds in the long grass before a position, even if a clear field of fire's been cut, and they'll tramp right over 'em before they see 'em. Even a Cuffy's horny hoof can't take that. Lame 'em, take 'em out of the fight… die of lockjaw days later, and take even more t'tend 'em. Brought enough for our own use, and I know that General Maitland had his quartermasters on Jamaica scour the countryside for scrap iron. Sure t'be umpteen thousands of 'em, cased up and waitin' to be landed, soonest. Slows 'em up somethin' wondrous, sirs."

"E'en through flimsy, worn-out shoes!" Ledyard hooted. "Gad! Think o' L'Ouverture, hoppin' about in his fancy boots after that!"

"Ooh, merci, ooh sacre bleu, ooh massahl" Captain Sellers playacted in a slurred slave accent, dancing his feet on Blaylock's fancy rugs and shrilling in "pain," which made all but Lewrie and Cashman double over with laughter. "Tak' eet out,' I be a goood niggah!"

"You do not find it amusing, Captain Lewrie?" Blaylock asked, once the impersonation had paled.

"L'Ouverture and his tag-rag troops have defeated everyone on the island, sir… or so my advisories from Admiralty inform me. I doubt things'll be quite so easy. They never are, unfortunately.

"And, long as L'Ouverture fights us, he's supported by France, recognised by the Directory in Paris as a patriot, sir. To them, and to a great many people in Saint Domingue. They're better equipped and armed than we suspect, too, sir. From Hugues, down on Guadeloupe, and from the Americans. They're beginning to make decent muskets and-"

"Oh, rot, sir!" Captain Blaylock said with a sniff of humour. "We've the whole coast bottled up, with the cork hammered home! Not a row-boat could land supplies. No, the Samboes are fighting with what little they've gleaned from the pre-war garrisons, and there's little mineral wealth here, not enough to make iron or steel, nor the ingredients for even halfway decent powder… lead for shot… Before this war began, the rich merchant traders at Rochefort, L'Orient, and Brest preferred selling manufactured goods here, and blocked any attempt to make none but the simplest things, locally."

"Good rap, and they crack," Ledyard Beauman said, nodding with as much sagacity as he could muster. "Nought t'fall back on."

"Then how have they maintained their army this long, sir?" Kit Cashman had to ask him. "How has Rigaud and his faction done so, and the grands blancs up at Cape Francois? Good reason for my troops t'be landed as soon as possible, Captain Blaylock… and for old Lewrie to get back out to sea to add to your blockade, soon as we're ashore."

God bless the man! Lewrie thought in soaring thankfulness; like he read my bloody mind! Have to gift him for't… handsomely!

"Weill…" Captain Blaylock said, after a long pondering, during which a sly smile had crept upon his phyz. "Perhaps, are we so thin on the ground hereabouts, Colonel Cashman… even more re-enforcments may be needed to hold the perimeter. Long six-pounders, from a quarterdeck or forecastle, might be a welcome addition. Carronades? Easily handled by a small team of gunners, and capable of large loads of grape or cannister, too. Experienced naval gunners, along with some Marines?"

He turned his head away from the rest, who were nodding along in rote agreement, and cast his lidded gaze upon Lewrie, who plumbed, with a sinking feeling in his innards, exactly where such 6-pounders, carronades, and warm bodies would be found.

Damn you, ya can't be that big a bastard! he silently yelped. I best think fast and hard!

"To the contrary, Captain Blaylock," Lewrie rejoined, as calmly as he could, "it would seem to me that Halifax has the larger Marine complement, commanded by a Captain of Marines, with two lieutenants as aides. And since she is a very deep-draught ship of the line, surely she could be no assistance in the blockade. You are already en flute, and therefore should hardly miss your quarterdeck and foc'sle guns."

"You do, do you." Blaylock smiled back, his lips and voice as thin as winter ice. "Might remind you, Captain Lewrie"-his gaze fell pointedly upon the single epaulet on Lewrie's uniform, compared to his pair-"that I am senior officer of our convoy. I will decide."

"Just pointing out the most efficient use of what we have at present, sir," Lewrie said, having to swallow his bile and eat bitter "shite," though wondering if there was another naval officer ashore, on one of those ships he'd saluted, who could countermand this idea.

And how quickly he could get to him to complain!

Before the confrontation could get more serious, there came a discrete rapping upon the great-cabin door and the stamp of a Marine boot. "First Awf'cer… sah!"

"Enter!" Captain Blaylock testily barked.

In came the unfortunate lieutenant that Lewrie had spurned at Proteus's entry-port just nights before. With his hat under his arm, he looked a thin-haired, half-bald, and long-suffering sort, frazzled by his onerous duties and, Lewrie suspected, just about done in by a constant diet of Blaylock's dung on his plate. A short session with the man was bad enough, but to serve under him, day after day, watch-and-watch…?

"I've a reply from General Maitland, sir," the lieutenant said.

"Well, out with it, man. God's sake!" Blaylock "tsk-tsked."

"The general's compliments, sir, and he desires that we begin to land troops and supplies, at once, sir. He adverted me to use the word 'urgent,' Captain."

"Well, then! But Mister Duncan… in which order, hah?"

"The, ah…" Lieutenant Duncan stammered, consulting a list, "newly arrived troops, under long arms, and with full field packs and ammunition issue, at once, sir. Musket ammunition and 'specials,' that'd be what he called caltrops, sir, second… with field artillery and teams, caissons and limbers, and munitions, third. Rations are to be last, Captain."

"Well, then," Blaylock said, stroking at the top of his wig. "There it is, then, gentlemen. To horse. Or rather to boat, haw!"

"Uhm… there is also a note from Captain Nicely, sir," the lieutenant added as Blaylock rose to his feet.

"Indeed!" Captain Blaylock rejoined with an offended snort.

"Here, sir," Duncan said, shoving the folded note at him and acting hangdog, but eager to get away, sure there would be reason to flee. All this intrigued Lewrie's curiosity, who stood with his hat under his arm, shamming respectful deference, but aquiver to escape as well-just as soon as Blaylock's sudden dyspepsia was explained. A Post-Captain senior to Blaylock, this Nicely… and from the sound of it, no friend of his; some rivalry, he wondered?

Blaylock's rosacea bloomed like Caroline's spring gardens, and the man actually growled like a wakened bear!

Oh, this must be good! Lewrie told himself; Some 'dirty' passed on, from one vengeful bastard to another.

Blaylock crumpled the note into a tight wad, so hard his fingers turned white, and his mouth and eyes pinched in rage; he could ram the note down a musket barrel for wadding, so fiercely did he work it.

"Captain Lewrie, I'll thank you to return to your ship and get your boats back here, instanter," Captain Blaylock snapped. "I will brook no delay, no dawdling or sky-larking, hear me? You are to land Colonel Beauman's regiment on the town beach, north of the quays, and God help you do you shilly-shally."

"Aye aye, sir, directly," Lewrie parroted off from long usage, bowing from the waist like a German and stalking for the door. The unfortunate Lieutenant Duncan took the opportunity to flee, as well, using the excuse of mustering the side party to render him honours.

"Bad blood, is there?" Lewrie casually asked, once on deck.

"Of long standing. They were once midshipmen together."

"Oh, good as a Scottish feud, then. Campbells and MacDonalds," Lewrie tossed off with a grin of sudden understanding. "There's more than a few still eager for my liver. Those compatriots of my youth? "

"Well, sir, success has a way of attracting the envious," Lieutenant Duncan told him with a shy smile, one almost of open adoration!

Damme, is my name that well known? Lewrie asked himself: Am I some sort of paragon to emulate? Mine arse on a band-box!

"I wish to apologise for being short with you the other night," Lewrie told Duncan, feeling the need to sound "noble" of a sudden. "It put you in a bad patch. But then… I suspect you already know what that feels like, hmmm?"

"Oh aye, Captain Lewrie," Duncan had the sudden temerity to agree, in a faint whisper. "I, uhm… gather that Captain Nicely should have fresh orders for you as well, soon as you're done, sir."

"Ah… any hint you may share with me, Mister Duncan?" Lewrie cajoled, hoping against hope that this Nicely hadn't had the same idea about using Proteus as an armory or reserve barracks.

"Out to sea, where you're the best use, sir," Duncan said, with a tired but wistful expression, "but, you didn't hear it from me!"

"I quite understand, and thankee, Mister Duncan. For not saying a bloody word," Lewrie beamed, offering his hand.

"T'will be Halifax, I was told, that will be stripped for guns and gunners, our Marines and…" Duncan continued, eagerly taking the offered hand and shaking it with joy; though with a sad and disappointed look on his face. "The curse of old 'liners', I fear, sir. Never so exciting as being appointed to a frigate."

Of course, every aspiring young officer yearned for place aboard frigates and sloops of war, where the independent adventures happened; though Lewrie did wonder if Duncan was as guileless as he looked, and whether he was slyly wangling for a berth aboard Proteus, should any of his present officers die of battle or fever. Given the joylessness of life aboard Halifax under Captain Blaylock, though, Lewrie decided that Stroke-Oar on Tom Turdman's Dung Barge would be a distinct improvement!

Hell, leave him something, he's been helpful, Lewrie decided.

"So many men sent ashore, though, Mister Duncan," Lewrie continued, "they'll need a capable officer. As I was, at the siege of Toulon in '93. A grand opportunity for an aspiring man to make his name."

"There is that, though, isn't there, sir?" Duncan said, his mood brightening in an instant. "I am senior…" he mused, all a'scheme.

And Blaylock despises you, Lewrie thought; much like old Captain Braxton on Cockerel hated me. That's how I got my 'chance' ashore, at Toulon - he wanted t'see the back o' me.

"A grand chance for glory, and official notice," Lewrie encouraged. It was the honourable, the courageous thing one had to say when a man like Duncan was seconded to command a neck-or-nothing endeavour; instead of "Gawd help yer mis'rable arse." That simply wasn't done!

Grand chance o ' dyin ' with a pitchfork in yer belly, more like, Lewrie imagined; if things ashore have gotten that desperate.

"It will be, won't it, sir?" Duncan decided aloud, putting the good face on it, despite his own qualms-and if he didn't have any qualms, Lewrie would have considered him daft. "Why," Duncan joshed, "a few more chances like this'un, and I could end as famed as you, sir!"

"Oh, don't do that, Mister Duncan." Lewrie pooh-poohed the idea, breezing it off, as a properly modest "hero" was supposed to do. "The hours are horrid, you can't keep clean, and it's damn-all hard work! Far too much for a lazy-bones like me. But… the very best of good fortune go with you, if you have the honour to be appointed ashore."

"Thankee, Captain Lewrie, thankee indeed." Duncan chortled, now in high fettle, his saggy hound-dog eyes alight and crinkled in joy.

The bosuns' calls were twittering, Marines were stamping boots and slapping muskets about, so Lewrie doffed his hat to them all and turned his back out-board to descend the man-ropes and boarding battens, gazing at Duncan's face and wondering if he should have thrown in more than a trifling note of caution.

For Lewrie had the queasy, fey suspicion that he had just shaken hands with a dead man, who would dare too much in pursuit of fame.

Just as long as it ain't me! he gratefully told himself.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Bloody chimera," Christopher Cashman said with a growl of disappointment. "Always looks better from a distance. Gotten worse, since last I was here, too."

Before the French Revolution had begun in 1791, Port-Au-Prince had been the second richest town in Saint Domingue, trailing the main port of Cape Francois-"Le Cap"-by only a few livres. Now it was sadly fallen, no longer the lively and cultured town of music and arts, of operas and farces, and grand balls. Frankly, it was a cesspit. The few stores still open sold only the barest necessities, with most shelves bare and the prices exorbitant. There were too many refugees down from the countryside, and many of those closed stores were now converted to housing, if they hadn't been commandeered for Army use. Even the grand pastel-stuccoed mansions that Lewrie had seen out at sea resembled tumbledown, long-neglected hovels in the worst stews of London 's East End; centuries-old manses turned to anthills of tiny rental lodgings, some going for a penny a night for a pallet on a bare wood floor. And many bore chalk marks denoting that a certain company of a certain regiment lodged there, with the smaller houses bearing a number around 8 or 10, showing how many troops could be barracked.

The reek of garbage, of human wastes, was even stronger ashore, and the kerbside gutters were stained with it, the channels down the middle of those faeryland boulevards could run brown with ordure when it rained. And it rained a lot in Saint Domingue.

"Like Venice," Lewrie supplied to their conversation, "pretty to look at, but Dung Wharf once you get into the canals."

"Oh for the sailor's life," Cashman drolly sing-songed, "why, th' places I been, an' th' things I seen, cor blimey! Tyke New South Wales, f'rinstance… kangaroos as big'z dray 'orses… eat men up whole, an' spits h'out th' bones, 'ey does!"