"Choundas would adore searchin' for a spy in his midst, Mister Peel! They could tell him we were bound South t'hunt his privateers, too. Us, sir; Lewrie, and Proteus, out to harm him, personally! And all he can is stew and fret that we'll find one or all, and eliminate his little squadron, and there's no way he can warn them. He's lamed, but he ain't paralysed. He's not the sort to sit patient and trust to Fate. Damme, sir, he'll be forced t'do something to keep his hand in, to prove to Hugues that he's vital, capable…! He's truly convinced there's a spy responsible for his troubles, Choundas will move Heaven and Earth t'find him. Does he produce one, he's vindicated, don't you see? 'Weren't my bloody fault, 'twas those damned British and a damn' traitor done it!' He'll have weeks and weeks to sit idle, 'fore those ships of his report back, and he's not the man to take his ease in an armchair and catch up on his reading."
"Hmmm…" Mr. Peel said, maddeningly dithering while gnawing on a ragged thumbnail, and all the while time, position, and advantage were passing by at a rate of knots! "There's truth in what you say, I grant you, Captain Lewrie, but…"
"But, mine arse, Mister Peel!" Lewrie spluttered. "The chances are passin' us by, 'long as you hem and haw. We could fetch-to right this minute…!"
Boom-boom… bo-boom, faintly from windward.
The western coast of Guadeloupe tucked in upon itself a bit as one reached its southernmost extremities. Proteus, standing Due South just beyond the heaviest cannon's range, had extended her distance by another mile or so as the shore trended away. Even so, the Vieux Fort on the final point below Basse-Terre had attempted to take them under fire, and by the basso notes of the bowling round-shot that went up the scale in an eerie minor key as it neared, Lewrie suspected 32-pounder or even 42-pounder guns, with which to enforce the new three-mile-limit of territoriality, their maximum range.
Sure enough, four massive waterspouts leaped for the sky, high as their frigate's fighting-tops, fat yet feathery, and aroar as tons of seawater were vertically displaced, then slowly collapsed upon themselves as torrential as a mountain river's falls. Smaller feathers of spray staggered towards Proteus as the massive balls caromed off First Graze to Second Graze, then Third, before losing enough forward momentum to gouge little more than leaping-dolphin splashes as they finally sank.
Proteus's sailors jeered and cat-called with derision for such a hopeless show of defiance, for their First Graze had struck the sea one whole mile or near short of her sides, with their final, weary splashes still half a mile shy.
"Better luck next time, Froggie!" Lewrie heard Landsman Desmond shrill between tunneled hands.
"Yair… waste yer powder, Monsewer!" his mate, Furfy, howled.
"It would appear that the French are in a bit of a pique at the moment, Captain Lewrie," Peel snickered, "and any boats despatched to port would most-like be shot to atoms long before they could be identified as truce boats. Have to make a show of usefulness, satisfy the honour of their bloody Tricolour rag, don't ye know. They're simply too angry to listen to reason, at the moment, so… it appears we can not implement your plan, for now, sir."
"Dammit, Mister Peel, they couldn't hit the ground with their bloody hats, we could lie off safe as houses!" Lewrie countered.
"I do not dismiss your suggestion out of hand, sir," Peel said with a pinched expression, looking as if he was wrapping resistance to the idea about himself as he tucked the lapels of his coat together. "I only say that it is a matter which will require some cogitation on my part before deciding whether it advances our enterprise, or proves to be so transparent a ploy to Choundas that we end up appearing just too clever, thereby, uhm… shooting ourselves in the foot by forcing him to deem the presence of a British spy in his circle groundless. I also note that we are almost past Guadeloupe. Why, it might take hours to sail back, right into the teeth of those heavy fortress guns, again. To return so quickly would be even more transparent to him, and-"
"No! Ye don't say!" Lewrie drawled, as if he just that instant had had a blinding glimpse of the obvious. "Really?" he sneered.
"There is hardly a call for sharp words, Captain Lewrie!"
"The hell there ain't. Our best shot at it is past, whilst we stood here yarnin' and… cogitatin'," Lewrie spat. "If not now, do tell me when, sir! Ye said yourself, 'twas a good idea, in the main. Damme, Mister Peel, I don't have 'em often. You keep assuring me of that, God knows. Young Pelham ain't here t'hold your hand and impart his… wisdom to you…!"
"Damn you, sir!" Peel barked, himself rowed beyond temperance. "Damn you for that! I need no cosseting to do my best! For two pence I would demand satisfaction… sir."
Lewrie made a show of withdrawing his coin-purse from a breeches pocket, undoing the draw-strings, and delving inside for coins. Jovial blue eyes had gone cold, steely grey, and his face was a killing mask. He raised one brow in deadly query.
"Two pence, did you say, sir?"
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Lt. Langlie intruded, all but stepping between them in sudden worry. "Mister Peel, sir… Captain, sir! Do but draw a deep breath, the both of you, and consider the consequences to your good names… your careers, if nothing else, I conjure you."
"I'll not be insulted so publicly," Peel snapped, eyes boring into Lewrie's, rot allowing Lt. Langlie a lone inch of personal space in which to part them.
"I'll not be treated like a lack-wit, too dumb t'pee on my own, either," Lewrie rejoined.
"Dear God, sirs," Anthony Langlie groused at the both of them, as softly and confidentially as he dared while still getting his point across. "Is not our King's business, and the destruction of this man Choundas, more important at the moment than either of your senses of honour and hurt feelings?"
"Mister Langlie!" Lewrie growled, rounding on him, as if to tear a strip off his hide for daring to gainsay a Post-Captain placed over him by that selfsame King.
"Your pardons, sir, but I cannot stand by and see you ruined," Lt. Langlie pleaded. "I know not what grievance, or difference, you gentlemen share, but surely it cannot be so dire a matter over which you must come to logger-heads. Do, pray, allow me to counsel cooler minds, some time to consider your actions before either of you does or says anything else… from which you cannot demur later. I know it ain't my place, Captain, and I could be broken for it, but…"
The desperation in Langlie's voice, the worry in his eyes, at last got through to Lewrie. He drew that demanded deep breath, then screwed his eyes shut for a long moment. With a long exhalation, he relented.
"Thankee, Mister Langlie," he said, forcing a bleak grin onto his phyz. "Thankee for your concern for me."
"And you, Mister Peel?" Langlie felt emboldened to enquire from their supercargo. "Can you not give it a good, long think before…"
Peel grunted as if he'd been punched in the stomach, but waved off any further "assistance" from the First Officer. "Thankee, Mister Langlie. A minor matter, as you say. But a trifling, passing snit… of which I shall say no more, other than to characterise it as a professional, and brief, parting of the minds. You will excuse me, sir?" Peel asked of Langlie, doffing his hat and essaying a short bow. Peel gave Lewrie a shorter jerk in his direction, too, before stomping off for the larboard quarterdeck ladder to go below.
"I'm sorry, sir, but it looked as if someone had to…" Langlie said with a groan of worry.