"If you'll have a seat and join us, Captain Lewrie. A glass of something cool? We've cold tea, or…" McGilliveray offered.
"Cold tea'd be capital, thankee, sir," Lewrie said as he seated himself. "I take it that you were discussing some matter concerning a mercantile nature, sirs?"
"Missing ships, sir," McGilliveray intoned as his cabin servant fetched Lewrie a tall tumbler of tea, with the unheard-of luxury of a chunk of ice in it!
"Walsham, Massachusetts," one of the Crowninshields boasted to him. "The Dons an' the Dutchies're mad for th' stuff, our New England ice. Can't pack it outta the Andes mountains 'fore it melts, I guess. Mule train's too slow."
"Too-small packets, 'Zekiel," the other Crowninshield quibbled. "Has t'be stowed in bulk, in chaff an' sawdust outta sunlight. Keeps itself frozen, ya see."
"We've lost a ship, mebbe two," the brother Lewrie now knew to name Ezekiel baldly announced, stealing McGilliveray's "thunder," as the Yankee Doodles would say in their colourfully colloquial way.
"Down South," the one dubbed Gabriel stuck in. "Sailed behind us. Had 'em in sight for a piece…"
"Older schooners. Slower'n ours," Ezekiel chimed in. "And we were racin' each other, like I said, so we sailed 'em under. Mohican was t'put in at Saint Lucia, but that'd only delay her two days or so, no more, and…"
"And Chippewa was t'come inta Roseau t'meet us," Gabriel grumbled, "but we've laid over almost a week now, and there's neither hide nor hair o' either one of 'em, Cap'm Lewrie, and we're getting worried, I'll lay ya. Coasted up hyuh t'ask of 'em, but…"
"Powerful worried," Ezekiel Crowninshield butted in. "Wasn't a speck o' foul weather on our passage, and nary even a squall astern of us did we see t'upset 'em."
"Trusted, salty masters and mates, good an' true Mystic lads in the crews, too, so…" Gabriel Crowninshield interrupted, shrugging in mystification.
"So, no mutiny or buccaneering," Lewrie surmised, sipping at his tea, already suspecting the worst.
"Gentlemen, I fear that those ships have been taken by French cruisers," Lewrie was forced to tell them. "When I took my prize last night, we learned some things from our prisoners. That captain of whom I spoke, Captain McGilliveray, that Guillaume Choundas? We took away his best frigate a few weeks ago, but he still commands two corvettes and now has converted a schooner and a brig as privateers, and our captives told us he'd sent 'em South, to prey on American ships in particular. To hurt your commerce as sorely as you've hurt theirs. And make himself and their Governor-General, Victor Hugues, a pile of 'tin.' If he can't challenge American warships round Hispaniola, and further up North, he intended to put all four vessels to sea beyond your immediate reach, and purge you from the oceans, as you made passage home with all those rich cargoes of yours. Sorry."
And who 'd prefer lumber, ice, and barrel staves to sugar, coffee, and cocoa? Lewrie thought, scorning American exports and the products of their limited industries. Well, they do ship rum, and decent beer!
"Onliest place they can take 'em is Guadeloupe!" Captain Grant spluttered, breaking the stunned, sad silence following Lewrie's revelation. "Bless my soul, can't ya blockade 'em, can ya not dash back an'… try to…"
"Intercept 'em, ayup," one of the Crowninshields supplied.
"Aye, intercept 'em," Grant gravelled. "Catch 'em before they fetch 'em into Basse-Terre or Pointe-a-Pitre. Get word t'your other warships, Cap'm Lewrie. Ya can't be th' only frigate in these parts!"
"Three days, into the teeth of the Trades to Antigua, and then what, sirs?" Lewrie demanded, spreading his hands at the futility. "I am heartily sorry for your losses, gentlemen, but do I haunt either or both harbours in hopes of re-capturing your ships, any Americans taken as prizes, I'm not fulfilling my proper duty. Better I…"
"Damn my eyes, Lewrie!" Grant exploded. "And here I thought ya were a fire-eatin' scrapper!"
"Better I take Proteus South, sir," Lewrie reiterated with his teeth on edge, "for do I lurk close inshore of Guadeloupe for weeks, what's happening to a dozen, two dozen other American merchantmen down South? How many ships will make it here to form a convoy, if the damn' French are free to run riot? Nossirs… I'm away down the Windwards, this very evening, as far as Caracas if I must."
"Sumter'll clear port, as well, sir," Capt. McGilliveray vowed. "Randolph, you want to take charge here, and wait for the promised frigate t'come in? Or would ya prefer t'sail in company with me and find a proper fight for a change?"
"Let our consul keep an eye on things here, Cap'm McGilliveray " Capt. Randolph cried, leaping to his feet (though careful not to knock his head on the overhead beams or planking), "for sure as there's God in his Heaven, my sword, my right arm, and my ship are yours! I'd be that eager t'show those swaggerin' Monsoors what it's like to tangle with a pack o' Georgia wildcats! Bring 'em on… yee-hah!" he ended with a shout, a Red Indian warrior's feral battle-scream, that made Lewrie's hackles and nape hairs stand on end.
Aboard Sumter, that howl caused her crew, and Capt. Randolph's boat-crew laying alongside, to raise a screeching wolfs chorus of their own, as they suspected that they would no longer swing idle round the moorings to await the plodding drudgery of convoying, but would be going out to look for a proper stand-up fight, at long last.
"Uhm… given this sudden, and un-looked-for, turn of events," Lewrie carefully began to say, once he had recovered his aplomb, using caution before the unwitting civilians not privy to their government's, or his and McGilliveray's covert arrangement, "and since it is British as well as American merchantmen at peril… and, notwithstanding the lack of a formal pact 'twixt your President and the Crown, perhaps we could, ah… aid each other in our respective searches for the French privateers, Captain McGilliveray?"
"An excellent suggestion, Captain Lewrie," McGilliveray replied, shamming the utmost surprise at such a generous offer. Then, amid the enthusiastic "Huzzahs!" from Randolph and the merchant masters, he gave Lewrie an enigmatic smile, and the tiniest incline of his head as a reward. "I, and my government, stand forever in your debt for your open-handed and cooperative spirit!"
Lost in the cheering and toasting, however, was the fact that no British ships, or very few at most, were in danger; they didn't trade on the Spanish Main or with the Dutch isles, with both nations allies to France!
A toast was raised to Lewrie's alacrity and support, and while it was being drunk, and he posed all disparagingly "Aw, Pshaw" modest, his mind was mildly ascheme.
No matter what Pelham wanted, what his London masters wanted, it made eminent sense, and to the Devil with Saint Domingue and who owned it! America and Great Britain, he marvelled; sworn enemies not fifteen years past. Despite the lingering grievances and distrust created during their Revolution, their burgeoning commercial competition, and rivalry, they were going to war as temporary allies,! on the same side for a blessed once! Could this lead to better things, he speculated?
And what allies they'd make, too! Even if they were so ruled by their enthusiasms, so… un-English in revealing their feelings, such as their screams, howls, and cheers at present.
Well, so was he, when you came right down to it. Wearing a public mask of blase boredom definitely did not become him. In fact, he rather liked the freedom to howl, and wished he possessed it!
Oh, Lord, he thought, Peel's sure t'go off like a bomb!