CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ah, Captain Lewrie," Peel said after he had gotten back aboard Proteus, and had made it below to his great-cabins. Peel was sitting in the dining-coach, in the middle of writing a letter, to his master Mr. Pelham Lewrie supposed as he tore open his neck-stock, unbuckled his sword belt, and removed his coat. "You're back, at last. I have been meaning to discuss your idea with you… that'un you proposed on deck, yesterday, concerning the, uhm…" Peel enigmatically said with a vague wave of his hand in Aspinall's direction.
"Oh, yes?" Lewrie responded, feigning idle interest, and making his face a placid Englishman's mask again. "I'd relish a ginger beer, Aspinall, there's a good fellow. The Americans served cold tea when I was aboard Sumter just now."
"The decoction in which I indulge, sir," Mr. Peel told him, all chirpy and pleasant, as if yesterday's bitter argument hadn't happened.
Lewrie answered, "With ice, sir. The Yankees still had a small supply of their Massachusetts ice aboard. Worth its weight in gold with the Dons, one of their merchant masters informed me." He took a seat at the table, across from Peel.
"I am suddenly jealous, sir!" Peel said with a groan of envy at the prospect, and made a moue of faint distaste at his mug of tea. I suppose we shall not see the like 'til the first American traders call at Kingston next spring, alas."
"Yer beer, sir," Aspinall said, fetching Lewrie a foaming mug.
"Thankee, Aspinall, that'll be all for a bit," Lewrie said with a brief smile. "Do you take a turn on deck and get some air. Cabins are stuffy, God knows, even with the canvas chutes rigged."
"Aye, sir, and I will," his man-servant replied, departing with a long hank of spun-yarn he quickly fetched from what was left of his tiny day-pantry, so he could continue his sennet-work.
"So, you've considered the idea, have you, Mister Peel?" Lewrie said once they were alone. He could not show as much keen interest in what Peel decided, for, frankly, the developments aboard Sumter had made the quickly spun scheme quite fly his head. He could sham renewed interest, though… and trust that fear of rejection would explain a lack of greater enthusiasm in his demeanour.
"I have, sir," Peel stated. "Once I had, uhm… cooled off a bit, d'ye see?" He made another moue, tossed off a shrug, and chuckled softly. "And I've come to the conclusion that encouraging Choundas in imagining that he's a traitor in his vicinity is actually a rather neat piece of mis-direction… one which I am sure that Mister Pelham would approve, were he here. One, frankly, which he might have dreamt up himself, was he privy to the intelligence we just discovered."
"Excellent!" Lewrie crowed, slapping the dining table with his open palm. "Capital! And I am certain that you've concocted a scheme for getting our prisoners back to Guadeloupe, and blabbing what you wish to Choundas. It'll be a clever bit, knowing you, Mister Peel. More subtle than any / could have come up with on short notice. Mean t'say," Lewrie gushed, then paused, thinking that he was laying on the praise a bit too thick for Peel to credit, so soon after their howling snit. He had a very large and heavy "shoe" which he was about to drop on the long-suffering bastard's head, after all, and it would be nice to agree on something, anything!, before dropping it.
"Well, sir," Peel continued, though he did pause a bit, himself, to give Lewrie the tiniest chary look. "Captain Haljewin was the one sprung the idea of a spy on Choundas, from what I gathered whilst interrogating the man. Haljewin had bags of unguarded time since his capture to converse with the French captain and his mates, as separate interrogations with them revealed. They are all now convinced that someone on Guadeloupe betrayed them to us last night, and I was careful to leave them with the impression that they weren't far wrong… without actually confirming the existence of a spy, or spies. But neither did I go out of my way to deny it, d'ye see, Captain Lewrie!"
Let him have joy of it, Lewrie thought; preen gladsome, for now.
"During my interrogations, I also discovered that Choundas has a rather small, but trusted, staff," Peel went on almost happily, in his element, privy to things Lewrie didn't know, and glad to impart them "There's a Captain Griot, commanding a corvette name of Le Gascon A Breton, and you know what stock Choundas puts in his ancient Celts and Veneti warriors… men of the ancient blood, and all."
"God, yes," Lewrie agreed. "Mad for 'em."
"His other corvette is commanded by a Captain MacPherson, one of those emigre Scots who fled after the Battle of Culloden. He was born in France, but his parents were minor Scots aristocracy. Most-like landed gentry, in the 'squirearchy' with but dim and distant relation to a proper 'laird.' In France, though, 'til the Revolution, they were awarded the title of Chevalier. Or, bought it. King Louis's court at Versailles was as corrupt as the Ottoman Turks'. But, Captain MacPherson is Catholic! A breast-beater of the staunchest sort, hmm?"
"A fallen aristo, and a Papist, to boot?" Lewrie said with a chuckle. "That'd make him doubly suspect to the Directory in Paris… all the anti-religion cant they spout. There's bishops back home now calling France the Anti-Christ, already. He your choice, then?"
"In a pinch, he'd serve main-well, I do confess," Peel laughed, "though he's reckoned a superb officer and ship-handler. Rather popular with his officers and men. Well thought of, in general."
"Oh well, then," Lewrie said with a shrug, and a sip of beer.
"Should a well-liked and trusted man be labeled a spy and traitor, sir, and were enough proofs manufactured to convince Choundas and Hugues of his guilt," Peel merrily plotted, "the implications of that strike much wider and deeper than Guadeloupe. Firstly, if a man like MacPherson can't be trusted, then who can? And secondly, would it not set off a frenzy of Jacobin revulsion 'gainst Catholics in France? Or create a Catholic resistance to the Directory, and the Revolution? Do you see the possibilities, sir? They're breathtaking!" Peel exulted.
"Oh!" Lewrie gasped. "It'd set off another Terror, worse than the one of Ninety-three! Half their people'd be witch-findin' among the other half, and everyone'd be suspect. They'd keep their guillotines workin' round the clock!"
"Decimating their officer corps, purging it all over again, of capable people, and promoting the rabid fools most loyal to the Republic from the rear ranks to the officers' mess," Peel chortled in glee as he contemplated the reach of his scheme.
"Turning Ordinary Seamen into Post-Captains," Lewrie added with an evil snicker.
"Aye, he'd do right-wondrous, this MacPherson fellow. But he may be a bit too straight for our purposes," Peel went on. "Choundas maintains a very small staff, as I said. There is his aide-de-camp, his flag-lieutenant I suppose you'd say in naval parlance. Jules Hainaut. A Lieutenant de Vaisseau, now. Just a midshipman, an Aspirant, the last time we dealt with Choundas in the Mediterranean. Recall him, do you?" Peel asked, tongue-in-cheek sly.
"No, not really," Lewrie replied, frowning.
"You should. You captured him," Peel informed him, enjoying a look of surprise on Lewrie's phyz. "Thatch-haired lout, looked like a swineherd? Tattered uniform, all out at elbows and knees?"
"Perhaps," Lewrie had to confess his ignorance. "Can't really say. Hmmm… wasn't Dutch or something, was he? My old clerk Mister Mountjoy had to interview him? Hmmm, it'll come to me."