"Maitre?" he heard Lt. Hainaut say by his side. Lt. Mercier had departed, perhaps minutes before after suffering his inattention. "I thought you could use some refreshment," he added, offering a shiny pewter mug, and an arm on which to lean, but Choundas brushed him off, to make his own way to the break of the quarterdeck nettings, creaky in his joints from long stillness, and long-ago maiming.
Clump-shuffle-tick… clump-shuffle-tick, 'til he could lean upon the railings and discard his cane, with the ever-solicitous Hainaut at his elbow the whole way.
"Watered wine, m'sieur. Quite cool," Hainaut tempted.
Choundas turned his head to study him for a moment. There was a subtle difference to Hainaut's voice, to his demeanour; not quite so much smarmy deference as he usually displayed, which deference always secretly amused Choundas, to see his protege toady so eagerly, yet be so ambitious and scheming, and imagine that he disguised it. Now he sounded… smug. Pleased with himself, of a certainty, but self-confident as well. Daring to be his own man, not Choundas's, was he?
"Merci, Jules," Choundas allowed, reaching out for the pewter mug, now that his hand was free, and took a long gulp or two.
"All those poor men… never had a chance, m'sieur," Hainaut mourned, removing his hat (rather the worse for wear, Choundas noted) and shaking his head sadly, as if honouring the dead and wounded.
"A waste of good material, Jules," Choundas growled. "But we will be free of them by dawn. Had we met les anglais far out at sea we would be cursed with them for days. After all, good Catholic widows cannot re-marry until some bit of their dead husbands is shipped for burial in France," Choundas said with a dismissive sing-song. "In the dirt, with the worms! Following the old customs and superstitions we would have been forced to bury them in the gravel ballast belowdecks until we came into port. Peu! What ancient… idiocy!" he scoffed.
"Eu, merde" Hainaut grimaced in seeming agreement.
"The 'Bloodies' shove their dead out a gun-port without even a kind word," Choundas casually informed him between appreciated sips of his wine. "Those too mangled to live, they bash on the head with gun-tools or mallets, then shove them over, unconcious, to drown. That is British… mercy, hein?'
"We must avenge them, m'sieur," Hainaut vowed with some heat to his voice. "We must strike back. We cannot let this pass unanswered."
Choundas eyed him more closely. Hainaut's zeal for vengeance sounded suspiciously like true conviction, not one of his usual poses. What had gotten into the lad? Choundas had to wonder.
"All in good time, Jules," Choundas promised with a sly smile. "But I shall not be diverted by such a silly, sentimental passion."
"Even if it was that salaud, Lewrie, m'sieur? I saw him plain, close enough to read his ship's name, close enough to recognise him at once,' Hainaut declared, half-questioning, but mostly boasting in case his master had forgotten how bravely he had shown.
Choundas uttered an evil little laugh, turning his gaze on his aide, the sort of appraisal that would shrivel the scrotums of braver men. Choundas had seen L'Impudente's attack. Jules had never gotten quite as close as that, but… was there anything praiseworthy to the whole disastrous day, his terrier-nip charges had seemed to drive away the 'Bloodies,' in the eyes of the town's inhabitants, the uninformed.
"You did well today, Jules," Choundas decided to say.
"Merci, m'sieur," Hainaut responded, turning so hellishly stern and heroically "modest" that Choundas had to bite down on the lining of his cheek not to laugh in his face at such posturing.
"I must give this frigate a new captain, Jules," Choundas began.
"M'sieur?" Hainaut asked, as if it were grievous news to him and indeed a mortal pity, hope and greed rising despite his best efforts.
"Griot, I think," Choundas continued, between sips of his wine. "Lieutenant Houdon to take Griot's corvette. He could not serve under a new man, when he is senior enough for a ship of his own. He makes a good impression, n 'est-ce pas? That fellow Mercier, I think his name is, promoted to First Officer under Griot. He kept a cool head on his shoulders during the worst of our drubbing."
And me? Hainaut furiously thought; And what for me?
"Griot obviously will wish to bring one of his lieutenants with him, so he has one familiar face in his coterie," Choundas speculated.
"Quite understandable," Hainaut allowed, though squirming with expectation.
"Leaving a Lieutenant's berth open aboard Le Gascon" Choundas temptingly decided. "Does anyone able spring to mind, Jules?"
"Well…" Hainaut began to say, averse to just blurting out to one and all his aspirations. "If he wasn't such a failure, there is that Recamier fellow, m'sieur, but… heh, heh."
"No, he's commanded a ship, after all. To be made Third Officer under another… that is not the use I eventually intend for him. After he has had enough time to ponder his 'sins,' " Choundas quibbled.
"Well, if we're really desperate, m'sieur, I could, ah… that is to say, might a spell of sea-duty continue my nautical education as an officer?" Hainaut finally flummoxed out. "I can already hand, reef, and steer, stand a watch, as Capitaine Desplan allowed me as we sailed to Guadeloupe, and…"
"You do merit some reward, Jules, oui" Choundas grumbled. "As junior-most officer, well… hmmm. I must think on that. Come. Let us board your ratty little schooner. Take me back to Pointe-a-Pitre. You can show me what a tarry young man you are, hein?"
"But of course, m'sieur" Hainaut said with an enthusiasm that he did not feel, almost despising the sly bastard for taunting him so cruelly. But with such a cruel ogre, what could he really expect?
"And once in my own bed, after a good supper, I will sleep on it Jules, I promise," Choundas vowed.
"You will not visit Capitaine Desplan, before he goes away from us, m'sieur?" Hainaut asked without thinking.
"I think not, Hainaut," Choundas said, more frostily, as if he had been criticised. "The good Capitaine fell as a true Breton sailor and warrior, without complaint or regret. To paw over him and weep a flood of loss is womanly. I will make a proper oration at his grave. Hurry, now, Jules. It has been a long, long day, and I'm weary."
"Aye, m'sieur" Hainaut replied, walking close to Choundas for a prop, should he need it, as they went to the entry-port.
And after serving you so well, so long, Hainaut mutinously told himself; you wouldn't even come to say goodbye to me if I fell? Your tool… disposable tool, and nothing more. Just give me even a tiny ship, and I'll make my own way, from here on.
BOOK THREE
"Rebus semper pudor absit in artis!"
"Away with scruple in adversity!"
– Argonautica, Book V, 324
Valerius Flaccus
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mister Peel," Capt. Lewrie said, alighting from the spavined roan "prad" which he had ridden up to, and back from, Admiralty House on its lofty, airy hilltop overlooking English Harbour. He could not quite disguise a smug expression. He had ridden, whilst Mr. Peel had been forced to take "Shank's Ponies" for his call upon the Governor-General, that is, to walk; and a long, upward walk it had been. Peel was plucking his coat and waist-coat away from his sopping shirt, and mopping his streaming face as Lewrie sprang down by the boat landing.