On the second rousing day and night, however, the question arose to whether the Yankee Doodles had needed British aid in fighting a brace of French warships; whether the aforesaid French men o' war were worthy opponents, or cringingly weak and lightly armed poltroons who'd struck too quickly; whether they'd been daunted by American prowess or the mere sight of a British "bulldog" flying the Union flag.
The resulting brawls, 'twixt Yankee salts and British tars, actively aided and abetted by other bellicose drunks egging them on, with the eager participation in said brawls of stout British islanders and merchant seamen, by Yankee Doodle civilian sailors and gentlemen traders who'd taken manly umbrage, shortly after re-enforced by members of the watch and Admiralty dockworkers, by publicans, whores, and their bully-bucks and crimps, and lastly by the appearance of the heartily despised shore gangs of His Majesty's Navy's Impress Service (who came off a rather poor third) had redounded to the detriment of the publicans, their establishments, the whores, pimps, crimps, brothel keepers, and "Mother Abbesses" and their commercial properties and the peaceable tradespeople and residents of English Harbour, who had forced the Governor-General to call out a company of the garrison and declare the Riot Act. Bayonets, and fall-down drunken stupors had ended it.
Which brawl had placed HMS Proteus, her people, her officers, and most especially her captain in extremely bad odour, and Lewrie had had what felt like five pounds of hide taken off his backside by both the Governor-General and Rear-Admiral Harvey.
And to make matters even worse, Grenville Pelham was not only not expired, but able to sit up, take nourishment, and screech like a wet parrot!
Other than working-parties to fetch supplies, the hands off the three ships in question had been banned from further shore liberty. A day later, the Yankee merchantmen had practically been dragooned out to sea at gun-point to carry their cargoes home… and warned to give it a long think before they dared come into English Harbour again, 'less they moderated their people's behaviour.
The packet-brig, gaily flying her "Post-Boy" flag, had departed bearing Pelham's boasting reports, Peel's "yes, but" reports and codicils, and Lewrie's several hefty sea-letters to his wife Caroline and his father Sir Hugo, to his ward Sophie, separate long missives to his sons, Sewallis and Hugh, by way of his father's London lodging house, and to his mistress Theoni and his other son, solicitor, and creditors.
Lewrie could pessimistically think that keeping his breeches up and his prick to himself might just be worth it after all. He would save hundreds on ink, paper, and postage on any more bastards; avoiding wrist and finger cramp communicating with additional by-blows would be, he thought, a collateral blessing.
And that monstrous frigate, USS Hancock, had completed repairs, and had returned to the Caribbean, though it was late in the hurricane season, commanded by a spanking-new captain, one Malachi Goodell, who, or so Lewrie was informed on the sly by Capt. McGilliveray, was one of those stiff-necked and overly righteous Massachusetts Puritans and a "New-Light," a Methodist to boot; a man of rectitude who brooked as little nonsense as that famously rigid French disciplinarian General Martinet.
"And wasn't he shot by his own troops at Doesbourg, in 1762?" Lewrie had glumly recalled.
"No matter, he's here, and senior to me and Randolph," Capt. McGilliveray had responded with equal gloom, "and mightily miffed our crews went on such a tear. Brought undyin' shame on our new Navy, and our Nation, he says, and there's to be no more of it whilst he's commanding. 'Thunderation' Goodell's a Boston 'Pumpkin,' bad as a Cotton Mather 'Hell-fire's in your future' altar pounder. He don't much hold with drink in gen'ral, and as for tuppin', well… I doubt any of our men'll set foot ashore 'til next we dock at Charleston, and as for lettin' the doxies an' port wives come aboard to ease 'em, that'll be once in a Blue Moon. Put us on notice, Goodell did, come armed with Word o' th' Lord."
"A 'Conscience Keeper'… God save us," Lewrie had japed. "He cuts his hair bowl-headed like Cromwell's Puritans, does he?"
"Actually, he looks more akin to Moses," McGilliveray had sadly countered, "so wild-haired and bearded he looks like an owl in an ivy bush. A long, thin 'Jack O' Legs' is he. Gloom, doom, and piety… and while you're up, Cap'm Lewrie, I'd admire a drop more o' yer tasty claret, if you're still offerin', thankee kindly."
"And I am, Captain McGilliveray," Lewrie had twinkled, pouring a topping refill with his own hospitable hand. "A good sailor, though, I'd imagine?"
"A right scaly fish, from the cradle," McGilliveray had rejoined, "and one o' th' first at sea when the Massachusetts Committee of Public Safety called for ships t'face your Customs vessels. Goodell's fam'ly were smugglin' un-taxed goods in the large way. Ambitious, aspirin'."
"So… he might be amenable to our budding cooperation, do ye think, sir?" Lewrie had slyly queried, hoping against hope that their new arrival would be just as eager to score a notable, newsworthy success against the French.
"Hah!" McGilliveray had scoffed. "You'd be lucky he don't make you walk the plank, do ya go aboard Hancock unbidden. He meets you at sea, alone, and ship-to-ship, he'd like as not brace up and challenge ya t'battle. None too fond o' th' British, is Goodell. Lost one fine armed brig off New Bedford and had t'swim ashore in his small clothes. Fam'ly lost a half-dozen smugglin' boats… burned a sloop o' war off Rockport so your Navy didn't take her, and got captured early in '82. Spent time in the prison hulks at New York 'til after th' Peace got signed, long after Yorktown. Ended up a backhanded hero, for all he tried, but never won much success."
"But… he still aspires, if offered a shot at the French, and capturing Choundas…" Lewrie had pressed, hopes suddenly dashed.
"Oh, I'll allow he's that eager," McGilliverary had mused. "Ya show him a chance, he'll most-like go gallopin', tantwivy as hunters after th' fox. He's the fire-eatin' sort."
"A Captain Hackum, then," Lewrie had wondered, hopes rising.
"Well, aye. I know he's irked that our piddlin' li'l 'Subscription Ships' scored a coup, whilst he was dry-docked at Baltimore, kidnap-pin' crewmen. Boston 'Bow-Wows' and Northern Yankees hold low opinion o' Southerners, t'boot. Goodell met John Paul Jones, th' once and was almost one o' his lieutenants, and he's regretted the lost opportunity ever since. 'Thunderation' good as said he's anxious to tussle with th' French, t'show what the United States, and our navy, can do."
"Sounds like an enterprising fellow," Lewrie had inveigled with seeming admiration, "though perhaps a daunting one. I should meet him. Must, rather… duty requires. You could introduce us, Captain McGilliveray, make the way smooth and straight? Perhaps on neutral ground, not here aboard Proteus, given Captain Goodell's sentiments. He most-like'd suspect we'd clap him in irons again! Must I beard him in his own den aboard Hancock, well, then I must, I s'pose, but…"
"Ya that curious, Cap'm Lewrie?" McGilliveray had chortled, "Or are ya a glutton for punishment?"
"I'm under Admiralty orders to treat United States Navy vessels and their captains with all the respect due those deemed as 'in amity' with His Majesty's Government," Lewrie had glibly stated. "We share a foe, and would not share a signals book did not our respective governments intend us to work together, when our aims coincide. Your Captain Goodell, fearsome though you depict him, is the senior American naval officer in these waters, so it only makes eminent good sense to become acquainted… professionally.