Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey

"And I doubt General Maitland's staff runs to lunatics, such as our friends Wandsworth and Scaiff," Lewrie replied, softly japing him.

"That, too, sir," Langlie chuckled, turning his attention to the draw of the sails and their course. "Half a point a'weather, helmsman."

Two hours of mopping his face, swatting flies and pesky mosquitoes, dipping up water now and then from the communal bucket at General Maitland's headquarters, and Lewrie had even less of a clue as to what Proteus should do once she was re-armed.

At last, coming from a tall set of double louvred doors leading to a parlour converted to offices, he spotted a blue-and-white uniform not worn by the Royal Artillery but by a Post-Captain of his own service, and Lewrie practically pounced on him, naming himself.

"Captain Lewrie, is it?" the officer asked, once he'd spoken.

"Aye, sir."

"Nicely… of Obdurate," the officer replied, and his name fit him most appropriately. Nicely was a square older fellow with pepper-and-salt hair, still thick and wiry, a man possessed of the merriest blue eyes and a permanent tan, his countenance fixed in perpetuity in a benign half smile, as if pleased as punch with his place in the world, his lot, and the progress of all that he surveyed.

"You're senior officer present, sir, I take it. Any orders for me?" Lewrie asked. "Askin' of the Army, well…"

"You were off to patrol the north shore," Nicely mused^ fingers to his lips to recall him, before snapping his fingers as he got it.

"Aye, sir, but we put into Mole Saint Nicholas a few days ago, and shot away all our grape and cannister. Now that Grampus is here, and we may re-arm-"

"Shot it all away? Tell me," Nicely said, leading him by dint of personality down the hall towards the front doors. After he'd related the whole tale, Nicely let out a loud "Whew!" of amazement.

"Damme, but you've been a busy lad, Captain Lewrie. You have a written account? O' course you do. Give it me. That laving bowl and the bucket's fairly fresh. Avail yourself whilst I look this over."

Lewrie swabbed his face and neck once more, and ladled up a dipper of water, sipping off half and using the rest to swirl the dipper's ladle clean before slinging it on the stone steps of the commandeered mansion, where the water steamed on the hot, sun-heated stones.

"Damn! Are they trying to shift supplies east to invade Santo Domingo, the best use for your ship would be right back on the station you left!" Nicely grumbled, fanning himself with the sheaf of paper in their airless oven of a hallway. "No love for the Dons, understand, but I wouldn't wish L'Ouverture on the demons of Hell. Soon as they're in charge here, they'll be over the border quick as you can say 'knife,' and God help the Spanish, then. This… indirect fire may prove useful here in a few days. I'm afraid I must order you to stay, Lewrie."

"I understand, sir," Lewrie answered, nodding and smiling as he contemplated another visit ashore, and a rencontre with that Henriette. With a qualm, too, for this time, should he have to fire over the head of British troops, he wouldn't have Wandsworth or Scaiff to "carry the can" should things go wrong. Perhaps Captain Blaylock would get his wish after all, and he'd end up slaughtering British soldiers by error! His error! Quickly followed by a court-martial, Blaylock testifying that he'd "told him so," and…

"Excuse me, sir, but you said…" Lewrie plumbed at last. "If L'Ouverture is in charge? Of Port-Au-Prince?"

"Should have said 'when,' rather," Nicely told him, turning sombre. "Mole Saint Nicholas re-enforced with troops from Saint Marc and Gonaives… thereby ceding those little ports to L'Ouverture, do you see. Us here in their South Province and West Province concentrating forces at Port-Au-Prince and Jacmel, on the south coast. We've given up Little and Grand Goave, Arcahele just north of here…'twas that or get their garrisons massacred. L'Ouverture's unleashed his armies on us in an all-out effort, and frankly the swarthy little bugger is beating our poor Army like a cheap drum, Lewrie. Your coming here is much like 'out of the frying pan, into the fire.' "

"Well, damme!"

"Couple of days back, it was run or die, up at Croix de Bouquets… routed Maitland's troops and ran 'em clean out of the Plain de Cul-de-Sac," Nicely explained. "Flank units gave way under hellish swarms of 'em, then the center lost heart and scampered before they could be cut off and encircled. Abandoned guns, caissons… wounded? That's not over five miles from here. Our six or eight thousand healthy and present, 'gainst fifty or sixty thousand of theirs? Damme, I suspect we'll be asked to evacuate the Army in a few days. A total muddle, Lewrie. Complete and utter."

"Dear Lord," Lewrie said with an authentic qualm and a gulp of amazement. "Who'd've ever thought it possible?"

"Know Captain Blaylock, do you?" Nicely asked of a sudden, and with a less than "nice" expression on his phyz.

"Not really, sir. Not 'til our convoy here, oh… weeks ago."

"Had praise for your actions. Faint praise, but some is better than none," Nicely pointed out, picking up a used towel with which he sponged and mopped his face. "Aahh! Lord, it's so hot and still!"

They despise each other, Lewrie quickly schemed; damme, perhaps the truth '11 serve for a rare once! Navy politics, feuds, and jealousy, Gawd! But I do need a patron out here… bad!

"General Sir Harold Lamb insisted that he do so, sir, whilst I was present, so he could hardly refuse him," Lewrie said, daring a cynical grin. "I'd already angered him in Kingston harbour, and I think he blames me for having guns stripped from his ship once we brought a convoy here. And, whilst engaged against the Samboes, I rejected his summons to go aboard Halifax 'til we were out of munitions and targets. Munitions which I requested from his ship… which request was ignored, too, sir."

"His loss of guns was my doing," Nicely said, grinning after he had dried his face. "What did you do in Kingston harbour?"

"My libertymen sang too loud and woke him at midnight, sir."

Nicely found that delicious, and uttered a bark of laughter.

"You'll do, Captain Lewrie," Nicely told him, "you'll do quite well.

Tomorrow morning, once laden, take up a closer anchorage to the shore. I shall put a flea in General Maitland's ear regarding this indirect fire business… have him second his most experienced artillery officer aboard your ship. There's always the possibility that if the enemy presses Maitland back to the town environs, we may have to try it on, and see if there's anything to it… and how well you do."

"Aye aye, sir," Lewrie said, getting the wind up, again.

"I'll forward your report to Admiral Parker at Kingston, with a recommendation of mine own," Nicely promised. "Is there anything else I may do for you, Lewrie?"

"I sent in a prize with my Third Officer and best midshipman in charge of her, sir. I lost two midshipmen at Mole Saint Nicholas, and I need my people back."

"Can't," Nicely brusquely said. "Sent her on to Jamaica, with all those French privateersmen. I'd no place to secure them. She's in the hands of the Prize Court, though, so there'll be some reward coming… should that be a comfort."

"Oh well, then," Lewrie said with a sad shrug. "Short-handed a tad longer. Promote a couple of quartermasters or mates as acting midshipmen? Uhm… when the Army buckled and broke, sir… do you know anything about the Fifteenth West Indies regiment? An old friend of mine commands it."

"You don't mean that fop Colonel Beauman, do you?" Nicely asked, a look of distaste on his face.

"Oh no, sir!" Lewrie all but gasped. "I know Colonel Beauman, from long ago, but… I refer to Colonel Cashman!"

"Oh, him!" Nicely laughed, throwing back his head. "One devil of a fellow. That's alright, then. Pity, though, about him and his regiment. There's a bit of a stink, after the battle up at Croix des Bouquets. Not in good odour with Maitland since. Your friend lives, though, have no fears on that score. They're somewhere along the lines, fairly close to town, I believe."

"Well, that's good," Lewrie said, letting out a breath of pent worry. "Whilst we're loading, do you not have anything for me to do, sir, I'd very much like to look Cashman up."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Nicely decided. "God keep you, then,

Captain Lewrie. We'll surely speak again, as long as this poor siege lasts. Adieu, sir." Nicely and Lewrie doffed hats, then Nicely strode out into the torrid sunshine, reaching into his left sleeve for a handkerchief, and sneezing as the full brunt of the sun struck him, before stomping briskly towards the quays.

The staff officers at the commandeered headquarters were loath to loan him a horse, but Lewrie cajoled them after a long palaver and rode up the streets out of town. The paving stones gave way to silty dirt and sand, the last tumbledown shanties and hovels of Free Blacks and petits blancs were left behind, and the undergrowth grew thicker and closer to the track, reaching overhead to interlace and block off the sun, making multiple swaying dapples of soft green light along the eerie tunnel through the woods.

Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Lewrie thought, drawing his thin-shanked, weary mare to a halt. He took off his hat to fan himself and swabbed his cheeks and chin of dripping sweat on his right sleeve. Though he was in deep shade, there was no relief from the heat and, perplexingly, it felt even warmer than under the crushing sizzle of the sun; airless, too, the heat muggy and close, and so humid that he could feel his breath flow in and out like running water.

Eeriest of all, it was ominously quiet-but for the throb of those damned drums, and the hum and buzz of mosquitoes, tiny bees, and large flies that swarmed his sweaty horse and sweaty self.

When first he'd entered the woods, there had been a faint hum of town doings astern, and the ring of axes thwocking into timber somewhere ahead. Exotic birds had screeched and hooted, crickets and grasshoppers had sawed and fiddled and cheeped, frogs had croaked and whatever-the-hell-they-weres had rustled and whined. Now, all was silent; but for the deep waggon ruts in the dirt track and the imprint of army boots along the verges where soldiers had slogged to avoid the puddles, he could conjure that he was the only human in the trackless forest, the only person to have come this way in days!

Maybe I don't like Cashman that much! he told himself considering turning around and going back aboard ship, with grim remembrances of

the underlying terror of wild wastelands he'd felt as a young midshipman in the woods of the Yorktown peninsula in the Virginia Colony before the siege began. His future brothers-in-law, Governour and Burgress Chiswick, had taunted him about skulking Red Indians, Rebel snipers, and irregulars just waiting to lift his hair, cut his throat, and carve off his privates, whilst screeching with glee and dancing above his half-dead body!

Lewrie could not see half a decent pistol-shot in the forests on either hand, the dirt track a demi-lune forming the bottom of the view down a telescope's tube, and…

He heard a jingling-plashing-thumping approach up ahead and round the slight bend in the road! He groped for the double-barreled pistol in his waistband, thumbing the right hammer back to half-cock, his legs tightening about his mount, and ready to saw the reins to run back into town, heels pressed to the mare's belly, about to thump her to her fastest gait.

"Oy, thank God!" a soldier, a Corporal, cried as he came round the bend on a horse. He was a wizened little fellow, not as big as a minute, clad in a tunic that had faded from red to pink, and stained white breeches, his walnut-tan face grizzled with several days' worth of whiskers. A short musketoon was slung across his back, and across the saddle in front of him lay several lengths of chain.

"Ah!" Lewrie snapped, very much relieved, de-cocking his pistol.

"Thort I wuz t'onliest man alive fer a bit there, sir," the old veteran merrily cackled, pacing his horse up next to him. "Spooky of place, 'ese woods, sir."

"Indeed," Lewrie "windily" agreed. "I'm looking for the whereabouts of the Fifteenth West Indies."

" 'Bout a mile an' a bit straight on, sir, then veer right along the lines, first track ya come to. Woods open up so's ya can see your way, not a quarter-mile yonder, where a big plantation wuz, an' you're fair-safe, then… among soldiers, beyond 'em fields an' all, sir."

"Thankee, Corporal."

"Be glad t'get outta th' woods, meself," the corporal said, taking a swig from a wood canteen. "Get 'ese trace-chains fixed, so's me major's waggon'll draw again. Why, do I not find a handy smith, h'it'd take me

all this day an' night, sir! Major'd not expect me t'risk 'is road after dark, sir… no, 'e wouldn't!"

The "water" in the man's canteen smelled hellish alcoholic to Lewrie's nose. An experienced old hand, the corporal obviously wanted any excuse to toddle off and dawdle over his errand, getting a shot at a decent meal, a thorough drunk, and a woman before having to go back to the Army's misery.

"You goin' up to h'arrest some o' them officers from 'at regiment, sir, 'em Fifteenth? Good Lord knows somebody should, th' cowards. 'Tis said, sir… some of 'em rode off an' left 'eir men t'die or get took by 'em dark devils. Won't see 'at in an English regiment, nossir, but… wot can ya h'expect from such an idle lot, sir?"

"Visiting a friend," Lewrie answered.

"I'll ride on then, sir, an' keep safe," the soldier bade him, saluting for the first time, with a leery expression for anyone with a friend from among that regiment's officers.

"Same to you, Corporal," Lewrie rejoined, doffing his hat, and clucking his mount into motion once more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

He found the Fifteenth at long last, after casting rightwards past the fork in the road, slowly walking his mount along the rear of several other units' encampments and entrenchments.

Lewrie had seen defeat and despair often enough in his eighteen years of service, and this army was showing all the signs of it. Care wasn't being taken of equipment, but for personal arms. Uniforms were still mud and grass-stained, and the clotheslines were not the usually crowded rows oн bunting. The soldiers looked hang-dog and lethargic.

When he got to the lines of the Fifteenth West Indies, it was even worse. There were very few tents, replaced with brush arbors or mere awnings stretched beneath the trees, where exhausted, sick, and hollow-eyed men lolled nigh-insensible to everything around them, not even raising their heads at the rare sight of a naval officer on horseback. What tents remained contained the wounded… and the still-neat line oн larger pavillions for officers. One, the largest of all, he took for Ledyard Beau-man's; that was where some fashionably dressed and rather clean officers had gathered, raising a merry din as if they were enjoying themselves, where fine horses stood cock-footed and shivered their skins and lashed their tails and manes against the flies, blowing and nickering now and again in exasperation or boredom.