Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey

Lewrie dismounted and led his horse down the lines until coming to a sizable pavillion with a large fly, and two sides halfway rolled up. He recognised the coat hanging on a nail driven into the tentpole in front. From within there came the sounds of snores.

"Hallo, the house," he called, rapping on the pole.

"Ummph!" came a querulous, half-awake plaint.

"Wakey wakey, lash up and stow, you idle bugger," Lewrie japed.

"Alan?" Cashman croaked, coughing and clearing his throat before sitting up on his sagging cot. "What the bloody hell're you doing way out here?" he asked, swinging his booted legs to the ground.

"Came in search of good cheer," Lewrie said, kneeling down and tying his reins through a rusty iron ring set in a tethering-stone.

"Came to the wrong bloody place if you did… more fool you," Cashman grunted, scrubbing his face with dry hands and yawning broadly, reaching for a towel to soak up his sweat. "No joy here, believe me."

"Ran into a soldier on my way here…"

"Not hard t'do, that," Cashman snorted, taking the lid off his tin water pail and dipping out a ladleful to swish around his mouth and spit out. "We're lousy with 'em. Least, we were."

"Said you'd had a spot of bother, recently. Asked if I was up to arrest anyone," Lewrie said, ducking under the tent fly to sit on a folding camp stool and fan himself with his hat. How Cashman slept under canvas was a wonder to him; the temperature felt as if it had increased by a full twenty degrees inside the tent.

"Wish someone would!" Christopher spat, dipping up more water, this time to guzzle down. "My luck, though, they'd come for me."

"What happened?" Lewrie asked, waving off Cashman's offer of a crooked, local-rolled cigarillo.

"Feel like a stroll?" Cashman asked, fumbling with his tinder-box and striking flint on steel several times before getting the lint burning, with which to light his cigarillo.

"Not really, it's hotter than the hinges of Hell."

It was no matter to Cashman, who, now puffing away, stood and pulled on his waistcoat, coat, hat, and sword-belt and led the way out to the bare and sandy tramped ground of the encampment.

"We'll go up and take a look at the lines," Cashman announced, setting off for the woods to the east. Lewrie could but shrug before following him; at least, from Cashman's initial pace, it would be the slow, ambling sort of stroll he had in mind.

"That purblind, Goddamned fool back there!" his old friend said at last, once out of earshot of the officers' lines. "He got us halfway massacred… and now swears it wasn't any fault of his! I've lost a third of the regiment, dead or wounded, and the rest're so terrified, I doubt they'll be worth a tuppenny shit the next time they face those devils of L'Ouverture's."

"How?" Lewrie asked.

"Why, by being himself, Alan," Cashman said, the scorn dripping. "By bein' his merry little, useless, witless self! General Maitland put us out on his left flank, braced by a veteran regiment of regulars on the extreme left. Heard about the battle we had t'other day, at Croix des Bouquets? The 'Port-Au-Prince Derby '?"

"Only that there was one," Lewrie told him.

"Had us some trenchworks, not much, 'bout waist-deep, with the bushes and such cut and cleared a couple of hundred yards out beyond," Cashman explained as they threaded through a worn path into the woods towards their new front. "Caltrops in the grass and all, two guns on the line for help. 'Bout a half-hour before sunup, here the darkies came, the sun in our eyes. Advance party, a 'forlorn hope,' that had most-like spent all night creepin' through the grass to us? Sprang up at the first volley, and got into the trenches with their cane-knives and short spears. Some o' them just fire-hardened canes or branches, if you can feature it. I'd kept two companies back for just such an emergency, and brought 'em up myself. First time in real action, our lads, so a fair number broke, no matter what the sergeants did t'keep 'em steady… you know how that is.

"I'm with you," Lewrie said, idly swatting a mosquito that landed

on his cheek.

"Don't do that!" Cashman snapped in a hoarse whisper. "It draws fire. The darkies snipe at any sound, and some of 'em are dab hands at shootin'. Not just muskets out there… some have jaeger rifles and rifled huntin' pieces… took 'em from their dead masters' plantation homes. Sometimes they take a blind shot, at night especially. T'keep us awake

and scared, mostly, but every now and then, they'll wing some poor bastard."

Sure enough, a second later there came the sharp crack of a gun from the distant woods, the faint warble of a ball passing over their heads, and a spattering of leaves. Native birds screeched in sudden alarm and took wing, sounding like a musket volley as they beat their wings and crashed through the limbs and leaves.

"You were sayin'," Lewrie prompted as they began to walk on.

"First waves came on, runnin' flat-out," Cashman continued with his tale of woe. "Not a one of 'em armed, not with muskets, actually. Socket bayonets jammed on sticks, that sort o' thing, and we're firin' by platoon volleys, wastin' lead on 'em, and the smoke's gettin' thick like it always does, and up comes Beauman, the chuckle-headed bastard! You could hear 'em breakin' without seein' 'em. Yellin' and hollerin' fit t'bust, at first, then steppin' on the caltrops and howlin' like a pack o' ram-cats… wounded and dyin' weepin' and wailin'? I decided t'send the two reserve companies back to the rear, but Beauman wouldn't hear of it. Wanted 'em formed twenty paces behind the trenchworks and him behind 'em. Personal bloody guard, even if their charge was broke and bloodied. It was over, d'ye see, Alan. L'Ouverture and his generals, they'll trade half a regiment just t'count your guns, see if they can find a weak spot, before they send in the troops with muskets. We had 'em beaten, with only eight companies… them slidin' off to our left, and catchin' more Hell from the regulars."

"Feeling about for your flank," Lewrie intuited.

"Damme, we'll make a soldier of ya, yet," Cashman chuckled with a sour amusement. "That's exactly what they were doin'. Right professional of 'em, really. Fightin' falls off on our front, the gun smoke clears, we've laid out an even hundred or so, and the lads're feelin' right pert, and cheerin' like 'billy-oh.' Then the firin' picks up on the far left, and you could hear a charge against the regulars, where they'd found the flank, and field pieces firin' cannister and grape into 'em. You could just see the men of the Ninth Hampshires wheelin' about, refusing the flank with three or four companies and a gun, bent back at right angles. That's when Beauman lost it for us, the simple sonofabitch."

"What'd he do?"

"Took the two reserve companies, the light and grenadier company from our line, and ordered 'em to re-enforce the Hampshires," Cashman growled, slashing at the undergrowth with a stick. "We told him we'd lose touch on both our flanks if he did it, that the Cuffies would see it and hit our six remainin' companies, soon as he moved… the Hampshires needed help, they'd ask for it, a reserve regiment was in our rear for just such a thing, but he wouldn't listen. Wanted to do somethin' grand, I s'pose. Had hold of his bridle, and he lashed at me with his ridin' crop, sittin' up there on his big grey horse, so arrogant and dumb! Off he goes, with his favourites drawin' out their swords and yelpin ' for it. All his bloody neighbours and debtors, hot for bloody fame! Well, even before they set off, and filed the grenadier company and light company out of line, the Hampshires had smashed the Samboes and didn't need the help, but… he was already in motion and I was left t'string at what was left, to cover the front."

"And the slaves hit you again," Lewrie said, half-knowing the worst. "A big attack, that time, Alan old son," Cashman said, sighing with disgust and sorrow. "Damn' near a brigade, in a big block column, maybe two hundred across and might've been fifty deep, the front ranks with muskets this time, and skirmishers out front in pairs. I sent a galloper after Beauman, t'warn him what was comin' and how we needed all our lads back, soon as dammit, but they were on us before he could stir his slack arse up. Damn him!" Cashman spat, slashing hard at the weeds, as if it were happening that instant, and not several days ago. "The line broke?"

"No, we held! Men goin' down like nine-pins, but we held for as long as we could," Cashman said. "Sent another galloper back for the reserve regiment… warn 'em, d'ye see? Well, here comes help at last, Beauman with our four companies, but I look back at him, and do ya know what I see? He's formin' 'em a hundred yards behind the line! We're on our own! Oh, he's trottin' back and forth, wavin' his sword and makin' his stallion rear, all glorious-like. Might've seen it in a damn' painting, I s'pose… but he ain't helpin' us After my lads see 'em, all lined up and ready… then see the enemy comin' at a dead run with bayonets levelled, well… that was when we broke, and no holdin' 'em.

Thought it looked safer to the rear. That tore the line wide open, our wounded are gettin' butchered, and the Cuffies are rollin' up the right flank of the Hampshires and the left of what regiment was on our right, and the race was on! Those units pivoted companies backwards, to refuse, and our lads took it for a retreat. So did Beauman, damn him, and he's shoutin' for us all t'fall back on the reserves, and I'm yellin' 'No!' but our people're dyin', no matter if I could've held 'em, then it's Devil take the hind-most.

"I tried t'organise volley fire… front rank fires and falls back ten paces t'reload whilst the second rank fires? But Beauman and his damn' pets were orderin' 'em t'run, so once the first rank retired they took off for the woods, and not a second later, the second rank, and it's a complete rout, Goddammit!"

"That's where the whole army broke, then?" Lewrie asked.

"The very place," Cashman said with a sneer, "and it's all our fault. Oh, I got' 'em stopped, once they ran out of breath, and formed 'em up, what was left of 'em. Even got 'em t'go forward again, t'help the reserve regiment. No help from Beauman or his beau-dandies! They scampered off God knows how far to the rear! Didn't even see 'em 'til late in the afternoon, when the whole army had fallen back, but they'd had time t'get their stories straight, and met up with General Maitland first and fed him a tale of woe… how no one could've held against such a horde, no matter their valiant efforts! Blamed the regular regiment, the Hampshires for gettin' flanked… and me, for being unable to control the line!"

"Surely you protested, Kit!" Lewrie barked in outrage. "You've witnesses… you could even demand a court t'clear your name."

"Sent Maitland a written protest, with a list of witnesses, but the way things are goin' it'll be months from now 'fore a court can be seated… and where's my witnesses then? Half stand a fair chance o' dyin' on a darky's bayonet long before I need 'em," Cashman groused.

"And in the meantime, Beauman's free t'say anything he chooses, and lay the blame on you," Lewrie realised.

" Kingston and Spanish Town papers are owned by some of his very best friends, too," Cashman said, continuing his litany of anger. "After we lost so many local men, I'll be lucky I'm not hung before a court could sit… or 'De-Witted,' like that Dutchman got pulled to wee pieces by a mob with their bare hands."

"The sales price of your lands wouldn't matter much then, hey?" Lewrie commented, using a stick to whack some tall weeds himself.

"Even if I prevail at the court-martial, I'll still be ruined," Cashman spat. "Better I just challenge him, put a ball in him, and be done."

"Kit, for God's sake!" Lewrie said, frowning. "You can't just shoot him or carve him up! You'd have to resign your commission, and then you'd never get a court. Lieutenant colonels can't duel colonels, anymore than I could duel an admiral. Have t'be a civilian before you can 'blaze' with a senior officer. Otherwise, we'd have eighteen-year-old generals and admirals, and all my lieutenants would be ten! Want a promotion… want command? Just eliminate the next highest over you! Besides," he added, "your Maitland ain't a complete fool. He must know that Ledyard's got the forehead of a hen, and you're the one who saved what was left. Think it over… compose a letter of your own for the Jamaican papers, laying it all out. Believe me, no amount of money or power's going t'make people believe he's the better soldier. Any man who's had dealings with him'll most-like already think him a dunderhead."

"Might work," Cashman allowed. "But if it doesn't, and I don't get my court, then I'll have no choice but to resign my commission… and then duel him. If you're still around, I'll ask you to be my second."

There was no way that a friend, and a gentleman, could turn away from such a request; Lewrie could only dumbly nod his head and accept. "If there's no other solution… and if that's the only satisfaction you'll have, then… aye, of course, Kit. I'll second you."

"He refuses, I'm proved right, and shown him up for a coward," Cashman said, looking wolfish with anticipated delight. "Does he take me up on it, then I'll kill him! Think I could sail away happy after that. Thankee, Alan. I knew I could count on you."

"What friends are for," Lewrie replied, feigning agreement. He had no doubts that Cashman could blow Beauman's heart clean out with a pistol or carve him to chutney sauce with a sword. What sorrowed him was the fact that once the deed was done his old friend would be penniless, and too suspect to ever go for a soldier again. His lot would be ignominous exile, perhaps to those southern United States that he'd disparaged.

"Think my writing General Maitland could help?" Lewrie offered.

"Oh, please!" Cashman sneered with bitter amusement. "Support from a sailor who wasn't even there? Hardly. But thankee for the offer, Alan old son. Hmmm… gettin' on for late afternoon. Best we get you back to town. The darkies begin to play up at night."

Sure enough, the drums had begun again, and that infernal chant could be heard far off in the eastern jungles.

"Eh! Eh! Bomba! Heu! Heu!

Canga, bafio, tй!

Canga, moune de le!

Canga, do ki la!

Canga li!"

'"What language is that?" Lewrie asked, chilled to the bone once more by the sounds. "And what does it mean?"

"Some African tongue from the Ivory Coast, where they came from," Cashman told him, starting to lead them back toward the tent lines. "I was told it means 'We swear to destroy all the whites, and everything they own. Let's die if we don't.' Way they fight, I'd believe it."