Last year in the Batavian Republic, formerly Holland, training and encouraging jury-armed merchant ships into frigates and corvettes and scouting vessels… only to see the bifteck Admiral Duncan sweep them from the seas at the Battle of Camperdown, for the scouts failed their main body. That hadn't been his fault, either, but…
Hainaut wondered, again, whether he had hitched his waggon to an ill-favoured star, or remained in Choundas's harness perhaps too long. Did Le Maitre fail out here, this would be his last chance, and Hainaut could sink back into the pool of mediocre junior officers, living only on his meagre pay, with all hopes of future advancement blocked…
Choundas rang a tiny porcelain bell to summon dessert. Slaves rushed to dole out soft, doughy, and sugar-crusted pastry shells filled with fresh local berries sopping in heavy whipped cream. Dessert wine and brandy were fetched out as well.
The Directory, and the Assembly, gave short shrift to failures, Jules Hainaut glumly speculated as he tried a bite of the dessert and found it better than succulent, almost too sweet; though they did not execute as many as they had in the earlier days, Hainaut speculated. Even powerful Robespierre had lost his head as an embarassment! Choundas… perhaps. But never a handsome, cunning fellow such as he! He knew when to jump, and profit by it!
Promised me a command, he did, Hainaut thought; not a privateer, but a National Ship. It was the donkey's carrot that Choundas had hung before his eyes, what he had groomed him for-not to be his footman, his catch-fart, his dog's-body, forever! That's what the de Gougnes of this world were for, after all!
"Excellent," Choundas grunted in rare praise of his berry tart. "Though, cher Hainaut, you must also remind that peau de vache that portions must be cut smaller for me in future."
"I'll see to it, m'sieur," Hainaut swore, beaming at his mentor, already laying an agreeable aura in which he could sooner or later pose his request for a chance to shine on his own.
"The brandy, now, I think, messieurs?" Choundas announced. "And we shall now partake of Lieutenant Recamier's vast experience and his wisdom!" Making Recamier stiffen in dread; which reaction pleased Le Maitre no end.
After all, Machiavelli had said it was better to be feared than loved.
Though Lieutenant Recamier knew that "Le Hideux" loved to make examples of failures in the performance of their duty to the Republic and the navy, the fellow had kept a cool head throughout supper, believing that a bold front of honour impugned, his truth insulted, would serve him better than coming over all meek or fearful, of being willing to admit error but vowing to do better next time… if allowed.
Hainaut had been mildly amazed that Recamier had so kept his wits about him that he'd not even fidgeted, or plucked with his fingers at the tablecloth or his napkin, either-his hands had stayed innocently inert, rising only to gesture, or draw his actions against the British frigate that had destroyed his command, and captured the American smuggling brig in his charge, using the tip of his knife on his placemat.
They had both anchored for the night off St. John's island in the masterless Danish Virgins; yes, he'd seen the frigate, lit up like a whaler hard at work boiling down a catch for its oil, he admitted to them; a clever ruse.
Yes, there she'd been at dawn, as his schooner and the brig had set sail, revealed as a British warship, and he had turned at once to interpose his small ship between them and had been the first to fire. Fifteen minutes altogether, he had traded fire with the Biftecks, his puny 6-pounders against 12-pounders, until forced to bear away after roundshot had shattered his schooner's helm. Before relieving tackle could be rigged to the rudder post, his little ship had struck a badly charted shoal, ripping her bows open, stranding her forward third high and dry, and dis-masting her in an instant.
"Unlike some, m'sieur Capitaine, I did not fire a few shots to salvage honour before striking!" Lt. Recamier had sulkily declared to one and all, eyes level, broodingly aflame, as if ready to dare anyone to a duel for his good name. "I had thought to lure the 'Bloody' ship onto the shoal in close pursuit, but my charts were old, so…"
Hainaut had scoffed to himself, sure that Recamier was lying as boldly as a street vendor with a tray of "confiscated aristo" pocket watches, but, strangely, Capt. Choundas had not challenged him over it. And who was to say, since L'Incendiare had not rated a sailing master, leaving her navigation to her low-ranking captain-and all of those charts were now lost with her; quite conveniently, he thought!
Yes, the British frigate had broken off pursuit of the brig to fetch-to and lower two boats filled with "redcoat" Marines and sailors, then had headed West-Nor'west into the vast sound east of St. Thomas to catch the brig-which she did, Recamier had witnessed from a high vantage point ashore through his telescope, and saw them sailing back down a very narrow channel into the sound where she fetched-to, again, to recover her boats and men.
Yes, Recamier had gotten all his crew, including his seriously wounded and maimed men, into his own boats and had rowed ashore on St. John, but only after making sure that his command was well alight, his colours still flying in fiery defiance, and all her damning correspondence rescued, jettisoned in weighted bags or boxes, or left to burn. His precious commission papers and role d'equipage as proof of being a proper warship he had salvaged, which had proved of great value when he had sailed over to St. Thomas a day later and presented himself to the Danish authorities, who had shrugged off the more-punctilious formalities of internment and had treated his wounded well, before providing a cartel ship to return him and his men to Guadeloupe-the Danish fee for such "compassionate" offices a steep one.
"And how close-aboard were the British boats when you left your command, Lieutenant?" Choundas had probed.
"More than four long musket shots, m'sieur, perhaps less," Lt. Recamier had replied, his eyes a tad too unblinking over that point, as if trying too hard to be believed.
"Describe them," Choundas had demanded.
"Hmmm… tarred hulls, m'sieur, perhaps dull black paint? The gunwales and waterline boot-stripes were cream or pale yellow. White oars…?" He had vaguely shrugged, taking a sip of wine, at last.
"Any name displayed, mon cher Lieutenant?" Choundas had almost purred, as if beguiling him into an inescapable trap, making Hainaut lick his lips in expectation, sure that Recamier had gone over-side in haste, not sticking around to take note of such things.
"Proteus, m'sieur," Recamier had calmly and certainly answered, though. "Block letters in gilt, either side of the lead boat's bows. And the officer in charge, he shouted the ship's name, as well. Very bad French, of course. 'Here am I, His Fregate Les Rois.. . His Twelfth Night Cake's ship! Proteus/" Recamier had tittered, making the others laugh. Les Rois, not Le Roi-quel drole! And that error had carried such versimilitude that Captain Choundas had chuckled along (briefly, mind) with the rest, dismissing his suspicions. Only an English ignoramus, so arrogantly unschooled in any language but his own, could mistake the possessive "Majesty's" with the plural "Les Rois," which any French toddler knew meant a Christmastide treat!