Lt. Hainaut had, as soon as he'd moved his sea-chest and traps aboard Mohican, determined that he would be her captain. He had at last nagged, hinted and cajoled himself away from Choundas, the damned crippled monster! and by fetching in such booty, this Mohican would be his permanent escape, his route to the fame, glory, and profit he wished-he would!-win in future. A year or two and any odium from having been Choundas's "creature" would be forgotten, and…
"Dawn, m'sieur," the older petty officer who now stood watches as a temporary quarterdeck officer announced as the sun finally burst above the eastern horizon. Lt. Hainaut crossed to the helm to take a peek at the marvellous book he'd found in Mohicans great-cabins, that tabulated true sunrise and sunset to longitude. He juggled the book and the sea-chart, grunting in satisfaction as he noted that they'd made a decent distance to weather during the night, just that tiny bit farther East, and a safe haven in Basse-Terre or Pointe-a-Pitre. The casts of the knot log added up to an impressive sum of Northing, too. Hainaut set the book and the slate aside and stepped off their probable course with a pivoting brass divider and a ruler. Unless they ran into foul weather or roaming enemy warships, their entire "convoy" of prizes and raiders would make a triumphant landfall at Guadeloupe in three more days. The two corvettes, Le Gascon and La Resolue, with their much greater hold capacities, and the stores with which to keep the seas for months, still prowled down South nearer the Spanish Main, Trinidad and Tobago, to "show the flag" to their dubious allies the Spanish and Dutch and put iron back into their sagging spines as well as to take prizes. They would not return for weeks more, perhaps. For now, it would be this prize, these ships and their successful captors, that would arrive first to win the cheers from Guadeloupe… and earn the most in the Prize Court with all the valuable and tasty goods they bore.
"Very well," Hainaut said at last. "Time to send the lookouts aloft, Timmonier. And tell the cook he may start breakfast."
"Oui, m'sieur Lieutenant," the temporary second-in-command said in reply. Hainaut was irked that he had yet to address him the way he wished, as capitaine. Some, it seemed, needed more convincing than others. Hainaut turned away and strode aft to the taff-rails, to stand atop the transom lockers and grip the starboard lanthorn for a better view astern, taking a moment to enjoy how straight and true was Mohicans wake and how narrow the creamy-white road she cut over the sea was. Fine in her entry, slim in her moulded breadth, yet wide enough to carry cargo and be "stiff," even beating to windward. Whatever the Americans had done when forming her body below her waterline let her slice through instead of bully the waves.
She must be mine! Hainaut fervently thought again. He felt he would die, did he not keep her as his own, this rapier-quick and epee-slim marvel.
"Glass," he demanded over his shoulder, his right hand out to take the telescope when it was fetched to him, without looking to see if he was being obeyed. But of course he was, instantly.
There was La Vigilante, well hull-down and perhaps eight or ten kilometres back, shackled to their slowest and dowdiest pair of prize trading brigs. Lt. Houdon's big brig, La Celtique-another of his odious master's conceits to honour his damnable "blood"-and three prizes were perhaps a mile or more astern of La Vigilante, but, being a much less "weatherly" pack of square-riggers, were rather far down alee. Mohican and Chippewa, even under all plain sail, had out-raced them all since sundown.
Hainaut's stomach rumbled with hunger as he lowered his glass, and hopped down from atop the transom lockers. Mohican was positively crammed with good things to eat on her long passage back to her miserably cold home port. Her manger held dozens of chickens, six pigs, and four sheep, and the hens laid enough eggs for a four-egg omelette for his breakfast. There were still loaves and loaves of fresh bread aft, with strong, piquant South American coffee beans by the gigantic sack. He'd have fresh, unwormed cheese, a whole pot of coffee, and a chicken breast with his eggs, brightened with fresh-ground Spanish pepper, with first-pressing turbinado sugar, with over-sweet goat's milk to whip into the eggs, to make his coffee elegantly au lait, with luscious jams and pearly-dewed fresh butter to smear on light-toasted bread…!
"Allo.!" a lookout precariously perched on the main-mast tops'l yard shouted down. "Attention! Three… strange… sail… alee! Two points off the larboard quarter, and approaching quickly! Allo?"
"We see them!" Hainaut screeched back, even before he mounted the transom lockers once more and swung his telescope in the indicated direction.
Oui, there were three of them; two full-rigged ships and a brig! They were bounding along under every stitch of sail, "all to the royals" fore-and-aft stays'ls flying, and steering almost across the Trades, to the East-Sou'east… thundering up from the dark leeward horizon as if to pass ahead of La Celtique'?, group of prizes… ahead of his own ship, La Vigilante, and her group, too!
"Allo!" the mainmast lookout cried once more. "I see… flags! They are warships! Two frigates, and a brig o' war! One is anglais, and two are… americaine the lookout yelped in consternation.
"Together?" Hainaut cried, just as disconcerted as the lookout. "Americans and the British, together? Mon Dieu, merde alors, have the Amis declared war on France?"
There came a faint, muffled cheer from belowdecks, from their prisoners who had once owned and sailed Mohican, as the lookout's cry worked its way down to the fore-hold where nonplussed French sailors, just as amazed as Hainaut, guarded them, now stunned to garrulousness and loose lips.
"Someone go shut those scum up!" Hainaut shouted, for want of a better idea at the moment. "This prize can go into Basse-Terre with no survivors and no one the wiser if they keep that up, tell them!"
"What shall we do, m'sieur Lieutenant?" the petty officer asked from below him, standing by the transom lockers.
"Do?" Hainaut replied. He might have meant to sound angry, and properly indignant, but it came out more as a question, too. "What can we do?" he finally snarled, after chewing on his lower lip. "We have barely enough hands to man this prize and guard our captives… there are only six cannon aboard, and those half-rusted. We must… uhm, place discretion above valour. Much as it pains me, of course, Timmonier."
"Of course, m'sieur" the older petty officer replied, sounding just the faintest bit disgusted, despite the horrible odds. "We must run for port, oui."
"Choundas and Hugues must know that the Americans and 'Bloodies' work together against us, now, Timmonier" Hainaut claimed, striving to make it sound like an honourable, but reluctant, duty.
"Oui, m'sieur." Stiffly and coolly, blank-faced obedient.
"Hands aloft to… no," Hainaut flummoxed, thinking to deploy the cross-yard tops'ls for more speed, but perceiving that they were already on the eyes of the wind. "Maintain course, Timmonier. Signal Petty Officer Manon on Chippewa to stay close up with us and hold his course. At least two of our prizes will make port. And our terrible information. Take heart, m'sieur. Not all our profit is lost, hein?'