"Dear Lord," Lewrie gawped. He'd thought Peel cold-blooded before, but… that took the cake.
"Well, then," Lewrie declared, rising energetically. "Lots to do, and the hours too short, as usual. We'll up-anchor and sail down to Roseau. Deliver our prize to the Court, now they've her manifests and such… land our prisoners with 'em. Then," he concluded with an anticipatory wince, "we'll get under way, 'bout dusk."
"Sorry," Peel queried in surprise, "get under way, did ye say? Wherever are we bound, this time, sir? I'd thought…"
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Lewrie blurted out in a rush, as if to trample peel's objections with his news, "The Yankees are missing some merchant vessels, and are sailing to go look for them. After I told 'em about Choundas and his four raiders bein' at sea, they swore they would run them down, too, but think they might need a spot o' help."
He gave Peel a rapid thumbnail sketch; Peel's mouth gaped open wider and wider, the more Lewrie explained to him.
"… so we're t'sail with 'em," Lewrie concluded, "with three ships to make up almost a proper little squadron, and sweep the seas as far South as Caracas. Might scoop up the odd Don or Dutch trader as well, ye never can tell, Peel. More prizes'd suit, don't ye…?"
"But!" Peel spluttered, turning nigh plum-complexioned. Both of his hands were squeezed into bone-white fists as he fought to hold in his sudden rage. "But…!"
"Like we discussed, don't ye know," Lewrie insisted. "When you got so 'both sheets aft' on whisky. We'd go south, and McGilliveray and Sumter would scout with us. Well, now we've Oglethorpe along, as well, and… you agreed to it, do you recall," he quickly pointed out.
"Lewrie, you…!" Peel squawked. "Damn… my eyes! Foreign Office… Maitland! Lord Balcarres, and Pelham, all their cautions! Keep the Yankees at arm's reach, half a foe, and… and you just up and decide to, on your blo-At your own whim! Spur of-"
"After gaining your agreement, Mister Peel!" Lewrie pouted.
"Damn y-Dammit, Lewrie!" Peel retorted, raising his fists as if ready to take him on, barehanded. "You just can't-"
"Our prisoners'll see all three men o' war, two American and one British, sail together, Mister Peel, and they'll dread the chance there's been an alliance made against 'em, but news of it hasn't got to 'em, yet. That'll give Hugues and Choundas something to bite on! Drive em bug-eatin', slung into Bedlam mad\ Mad enough to lash out and declare real war on the United States, then we get 'em as allies, and whoever managed that wins himself a knighthood, and…"
Peel lowered his fists, exhaled long and hard, nigh to a death rattle, and dropped his head. He jerked out his chair and sagged into it, cradling his face in his hands, fingers kneading his temples.
"You need t'be leashed, I swear you do, Lewrie," he weakly said. Leashed and muzzled, like a… Oh, I thought I was prepared to deal with you, thought I had your measure years ago. Twigg, he warned me t'keep you on a taut rein, but…!
"Think of the possibilities!" Lewrie beguiled.
"Think of the disaster," Peel said with a sorrowful groan, "if it all goes bust."
"Now really, Mister Peel," Lewrie countered. "What could possibly go much wrong with chasing after French warships?"
"The mind boggles," Peel croaked. "Damn… my eyes, Lewrie but you've done it to me… again! Lord, what'll Pelham say!"
"Well, I must go on deck and get us ready to sail," Lewrie told him, more than eager to get away, back on his quarterdeck where he was completely in charge. Where Peel wasn't, in point of fact.
"Don't know as I can trust you outta my sight that long," Peel almost whimpered. "Leashed and muzzled, like a dancin' bear…" He sounded almost wistful at that image.
"Later, Mister Peel," Lewrie said, scooping up his hat and coat and making his escape. Once on the quarterdeck, he passed the word for Lt. Langlie, to apprise him of their sailing. As he waited for him to appear, there came the sound of a mug clanking off a bulkhead. Later followed by another, and, perhaps, the sound of flung furniture.
"He's takin' that well," Lewrie could but suppose.
BOOK FOUR
"Maturate fugam gegique haec dicte vestro;
non illi imperium pelagi saevumque tridentum
sed mihi sorte datum. "
"Speed your flight and bear this word to your king;
not to him but to me were given by lot
the lordship of the sea and the dread trident."
– Aeneid, Book I, 137-139
Publius Vergilius Maro
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lieutenant de Vaisseau Jules Hainaut relished pacing his small quarterdeck as the sun threatened to rise in the East. Like a proper and salted sea officer his hands were clasped in the small of his back in imitation of the aristo captains and lieutenants he'd served when he'd been a humble seaman. As was the custom in all navies, he could pace, or strut, alone up to windward facing the Trades and the soon-to-be-risen sun, savouring the shivery damp coolness that was so welcome before the harsh warmth of the usual tropic day.
He rocked on the balls of his feet, enjoying the creak of those bright-buffed boots on his legs, and fiddled with the hilt of his precious smallsword. The name Hainaut was sure that he had made for himself was going to be the talk of the entire colony, figuring prominently in the despatches back to Paris and the Ministry of Marine, too… no matter how derisive his more-experienced fellow officers aboard La Vigilante had been towards him. Her new capitaine, Lt. Pelletier from Capitaine MacPherson's corvette, had been highly dubious of his appointment into La Vigilante as his Second Officer, almost openly sneering at him for being a dilettante more suited to odious shore duties, as well as the catch-fart to such a bloody-handed ogre as Choundas. Even the midshipman, now Acting-Lieutenant Digne, the Third Officer, had seemed to mock and disdain him; jealous of not
being named second-in-command to his friend Pelletier, Hainaut had thought.
Well, he had shown them what he was made of with an unaccustomed show of diligence and nautical skill, with saucy courage in the taking of their four prizes, and his willingness to come aboard this captured schooner, Mohican, as a prize-master when they had begun to scrape the bottom of the barrel for enough people to man them all with a sham of energy and even unselfish generosity, and he had mostly won them over.
This schooner Mohican, and her near-twin that sailed not a mile alongside her, the Chippewa, were fine vessels-fast, handy, and sea-kindly for all their outlandish rigging and their steeply raked masts. Their valuable cargoes notwithstanding, Hainaut was sure that Mohican and her sister would make magnificent commerce raiders, if bought in and converted to men o' war under Choundas's control, not as privateers under Hugues. Not so large that either demanded a senior officer in command, too.