"Yes, and we should put a stop to it, I take it," Lewrie said.
"Well, perhaps," Peel countered. "Before General Maitland negotiated the evacuation of our land forces, he and L'Ouverture came to what he assumed was a form of agreement regarding trade."
"His defeat, ye mean," Lewrie shot back, forever prejudiced to anything Maitland did. "I take it L'Ouverture reneged, and the great general was skinned by the little Black man?"
"One could put it that way, yes," Peel said, almost wincing at Lewrie's bluntness. "Maitland wined and dined him, held a parade for him, and fawned something shameful. Which nearly killed old Maitland's soul, since he absolutely despised him but… even so, Maitland is nothing if not a cunning diplomatist, so he dissembled to him deuced well."
"Piss-poor general, and a piss-poor negotiator," Lewrie snapped, though much intrigued by the hope of hearing more "dirt" on the man.
"Promised him the moon, did L'Ouverture agree," Peel summarised. "Our frigates to keep the Frogs at bay. British goods, arms, and munitions brought in by Yankee ships, just so long as the French didn't get the place back, if L'Ouverture would declare himself king or something and make Saint Domingue independent."
"But he didn't," Lewrie pointed out.
"Wasn't even tempted, I'm told," Peel told him, amazed by such sentiments, and what he'd have done, given the chance. "Too much in love with France and the Revolution, the mother country and the mother tongue. Though, you hear the local patter of the slaveys and even the Creoles, and it makes you wonder."
"More like, L'Ouverture knew Maitland was dealing with Rigaud, too, and saw right through him," Lewrie said with a prim sniff. "When you get down to it, do we really want the place? Better we blockade the coast 'til Kingdom Come… no imports, and they fall apart. No exports, and they go bust. More importantly, our planters make money with both fists, since French and Spanish colonies can't supply tuppence to the world market for sugar, molasses, and rum, and all that."
"But we must-" Peel exclaimed, as if presented with heresy.
"Have it?" Lewrie scoffed. "No, we don't. And if no one else has it, or can make ha'penny off it, it's British goods borne by British bottoms that rule tobacco, cotton, indigo, and cocoa… and Europe would shrivel up and die without 'em."
"But, surely…!" Peel sputtered, dabbing his lips.
"I know, it takes all the fun out of your plots and schemes if the Navy just closes the tap, and lets Saint Domingue rot and wither," Lewrie gleefully declaimed. "Makes your, and Pelham's, presence redundant, don't it? Why, I might actually get my cabin space back! And France, and Spain, lose all their overseas trade and wealth, and we whip 'em silly sooner or later… if their own people don't rise up to demand bread and peace, first."
"Well, I doubt we'll give up quite that easily, Captain Lewrie," Mr. Peel told him, once he'd gotten his breath back, so to speak. "We have always coveted Saint Domingue, and that very sort of exclusive possession of the Caribbean you just mentioned. If not exclusive, we would have shared it with Spain, and would have worked in concert to expel the French, the Danes, and the Dutch… expel the Americans, too."
"Do tell," Lewrie said, beckoning to Aspinall for more wine.
"As early as '92, there was a Lieutenant-Colonel John Chalmers foresaw the coming war with France. He wrote the Foreign Office and the Prime Minister, offering a plan to conquer all the Sugar Isles… all sorts of maps and such, marked with arrows and little sketches of forts and ships… the same sort of paper fantasies that wish-to-be generals dream up in peacetime-"
"Promising grand success… if they're put in charge, hmm?" Lewrie sourly suggested. "Military, naval, or… agents?"
"Well, uhm, yes," Peel was forced to admit. "Ambition grows in every breast. Anyway, Colonel Chalmers suggested that we share the island of Hispaniola, the entire Caribbean, with Spain, and urged that we form a proper alliance, with them as the weaker partner."
"Which we did, for a while," Lewrie stuck in, knife and fork in use. '" 'Til Spain turned on us, and took hand with the Frogs, and God knows why."
"French and American ships, and trade, would have been driven out of these seas, completely," Peel continued, as casually as if he were discussing the prospects of a horse at New Market. "Spain is old, tired, and bankrupt… what better sort of ally could one ask for? Colonel Chalmers even went so far as to propose that, with Saint Domingue in our hands, and the United States' trade eliminated, all those emigrants from Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and even England would settle down here instead of sailing for America… depriving the Yankee Doodles of an expanding population of enterprising newcomers, and all the industries and skills they'd possess, or demand once settled. Talented Britons, who'd-"
Lewrie cocked his head to one side and grinned, setting down his wineglass so he wouldn't spill when he began to wheeze with laughter. "Mine arse…!" he snorted, "on a band-box! Tell me you're not serious! That's the damnedest…! Christ shit on a biscuit!"
"Well, that's what you get when amateurs connive," Peel replied when Lewrie at last subsided, as if to prove that his hands had never touched such a scheme. "Property, property… nothing but property, do ye know," he went on, with a worldly-wise snicker. " 'Ferrea non venerem sed praedam saecula laudent.' 'It is not love but booty that this iron age applauds,' " Peel cited. "Tibullus."
"Bugger him, too," Lewrie retorted. "With bells on. Beg your pardon, Mister Peel, but, unfortunately, that's what you get when even the ones who should know better connive."
"Yes, unfortunately," Peel admitted. "You know that Maitland's gone to America? A Mister Harcourt from the Foreign Office is still in Saint Domingue, negotiating on the sly with L'Ouverture. Hope springs eternal," the elegant spy said with a faint shrug. "Maitland's brief is to negotiate covert trade arrangements, with Yankee ships to bear the goods. Unfortunately, he may be a trifle late off the mark. Their new President, John Adams, does not follow his predecessor's advice concerning foreign entanglements, as President Washington cautioned in his farewell address. Adams has already sent trade representatives to Saint Domingue, who seem to own the high cards for some reason."
"Even though twice as many Blacks are enslaved in America as there are on Hispaniola?" Lewrie said, gawping in surprise. "They have a bloody hope! So, do I end up chasing Yankee merchantmen?"
"It may come to that, yes," Peel intimated. "We should, uhm, pretend to continue in amity and cooperation with American men o' war versus the Frogs… for the moment."
"So all my advisories are over the side, I s'pose," Lewrie had to assume. "All that blather about equal protection for their traders and such. Sharing information with the American Navy… Damme, this could turn nasty if the Yankee Doodles aspire to dominate the colony's trade, without spilling a drop of blood, after we did all the-"
"Well, we won't share all our information, of a certainty," Mr. Peel warned. "For instance, our agents in Paris smuggled us the French private signals for the next three months, and those we shall not tell the Jonathons about."
"Really!" Lewrie exclaimed, a slow, devilish grin spreading on his face as he contemplated the opportunities for mayhem those signals codes might open to him.
"For now, we must be grateful the United States Navy is so tiny and weak, and most of her captains inexperienced," Mr. Peel snickered. "They barely make a show of force against the few French warships here, and those are few and far between, as we both know. Poor-cast cannon, perhaps green-timbered new-built ships…" he scoffed.