"I doubt knowing him would be quite as pleasureable as your own acquaintance, Captain McGilliveray," Lewrie "chummily" had said, trying to "piss down his back" to grease the wheels, "but still, Goodell, and Hancock, are the most powerful force now about, and it'd be a dev'lish shame did we work at cross purposes."
"Well, there's that," McGilliveray had casually allowed, "but, Cap'm Goodell may have his own ideas about things. And he's new-come from home, so his orders're surely fresher than mine. France might've seen sense and called off its trade war, by now, and we'd know nought of it."
"I shouldn't be telling you this, but…" Lewrie had confided, leaning forward in his chair as McGilliveray had lolled on the settee. To make things even better, Toulon, having perversely taken a liking to their amiable, drawling visitor, was on the settee, too, up against the good captain's leg with his paws in the air, and twining slowly as his chest and belly were idly caressed. "We strongly suspect that the French intend to move a small convoy, but a rich'un, from Guadeloupe to Saint Domingue in the near future. Two, perhaps three, vessels, laden with supplies for the rebel slaves. L'Ouverture or Rigaud, who knows? But do either of 'em end up holdin' the high cards over t'other, they will start fightin' again. Then all the ports get closed, and trade be damned 'til the dust settles. Don't know who your country backs in that horse race… don't care, really," he had lied.
"Don't know as how we've a cock in that fight, either, Captain Lewrie," McGilliveray had lied right back. Just after, though, he had revealed a bit of his nation's preference, perhaps his own, by adding "Seems if those two do go at each other, it'll eliminate one, and make the winner so weak he'd… may be best do those ships get there, and let 'em fight it out and settle it, once and for all."
"Guillaume Choundas, we are fairly sure," Lewrie had lied some more, wondering just what it took to spur the man to further ambition, "is charged with their safe delivery. All he has left to use for that purpose are his two corvettes… what we'd call three-masted sloops of war, and moderately armed akin to our Sixth Rates. Twenty or twenty-four guns. Nine-pounders, most-like. French Navy, National sloops of war, not over-armed privateers. Takin' them, bestin' 'em in a proper sea-fight, at odds…? And they'd have to fight, 'cause Choundas has t'win at something or be sacked, and to abandon the supply ships while saving themselves'd be the last straw, so they must stand and…"
"Your charmin' Mister Peel tell ya all this, did he, sir?" Capt. McGilliveray had snickered, his eyes glim-flashy in secret delight. "Or 'twas that totty-headed new-come, Pelham? Him o' th' hunt togs?'
"Don't know what ye mean, sir," Lewrie had grunted, pretending total ignorance, even going so far as to tuck in his chin and "sull up like a bullfrog."
"Yer spies, Cap'um Lewrie!" McGilliverary had hooted with mirth "Yer Foreign Office, or Admiralty, or whoever pays 'em spies. 'Bout as secretive as house fires, th' both of 'em. Peel ain't your clergyman God knows, he don't tutor your midshipmen, so what else could he be?"
"Uhm, well, actually… uhm," Lewrie had flummoxed, blushing for a rare once. "Damn."
"Don't hold with spies, meself," McGilliveray had quibbled.
"Don't know why not!" Lewrie had quickly countered. "Your partisan rangers like Francis Marion the Swamp Fox, your ship's namesake Thomas Sumter, thrived on the aid of patriotic spies. Your esteemed General Washington, so Peel tells me, ran an intelligence network, in the face of which our Foreign Office still stands in awe. So…"
"I can tell Cap'm Goodell this?" McGilliveray had asked. "That it came from the horse's mouth, so t'speak?"
Lewrie had given that a good, long ponder, weighing how wroth, and loud, Pelham's howls would be, of how poor Jemmy Peel would whimper and beat his head against the mizen-mast trunk to have been frustrated by one of his wild-hair whims; again/ Whisky punch wouldn't avail a second time; they were onto that ploy, so the screeches and expostulations'd be horrid. Weighted against all that, though, was the chance of successfully ending "their "collegial" association when Choundas was at last conquered, and with a great deal of luck, he'd never have to deal with them ever again in this life.
That had taken about two ticks of his pocket watch!
"Don't see why you can't, no," Lewrie had blithely assented.
"Well, then. Well, well, well! Prizes, and battle, my, my!" the estimable Capt. McGilliveray had said, beaming and rubbing his hands with relish. "That'd take the trick, Cap'm Lewrie. Cap'm Goodell'd like nothin' better than t'beat you top-lofty Britons at your own game… with your own spies' intelligence."
"So, you just possibly might bring him round to continuing our cooperation?" Lewrie had posed. "Loathe us though he may?"
"There's a good chance of it, aye," McGilliveray had said. "It may be best, did we give 'Thunderation' a day'r two t'climb down from his high horse over th' riots, and let me get his ear. Then have him aboard my ship under some pretence or t'other, where you just happened along, with a pretence of yer own, and since both of ya are aboard, we dine t'gether, and…"
"I could call upon Desmond," Lewrie had quickly suggested. "In your brief fight with the French brig, by the way… the lad comported himself well? A credit to your ship and Navy?"
"Brave, cool-headed, and honourably, sir," McGilliveray had said with great, though more-formal, pleasure. "A credit to his blood; and, may God let me claim in all due modesty, a credit to his raisin', too."
"I should like to hear his account of it," Lewrie had replied, with a note to his voice that expressed his growing fondness. "Though I worry that so much undue attention paid a 'younker,' ahem… from a total stranger, really, a. foreign Post-Captain, and from his own uncle and Captain, ehm… don't want his head turned, or account himself so grand or singled out that it spoils him. Others in his mess despisin' him for seeming cosseted, d'ye see… Cruelty of boys… all that?"
"Aye, children can be cruel," McGilliveray had glumly agreed. "Some thoughtless and repeatin' what their parents say, some spiteful and aware o' what they're doin', but had we truly cosseted him, tried t'keep him from all Shakespeare's 'slings and arrows,' we'd've done a greater harm."
"Has to stand on his own bottom someday," Lewrie had commented.
"Aye. Now, mostly he was in merry pin, dutiful, sweet and sly round his betters, but he could go cock-a-hoop wild, as all boys can, too. First to th' top of th' live oaks, a fearless horseman, a clever student… the sort o' lad'd make most parents pop their buttons t've raised," Capt. McGilliveray had fondly recalled. "But there was ever the slur of 'Injun,' 'half-breed,' or 'Red Nigrah,' and then he'd turn sombre and hawk-eyed… like a caged eagle, his gaze focussed out ten mile or better, like he was 'bout ready t'spread wings and go someplace finer. But you'd be delighted t'know, Cap'm Lewrie, your son Desmond gave as good, or better, than he got… though my dear Martha was put to Job's despair t'mend his clothin' whenever he came home all skinned and bloodied. But ya should've seen t'other lad he'd whipped, 'til they learned he'd take no sauce off 'em. They got older, it got more subtle, o' course. Had to, for we made certain he had th' very best trainin' with sword and pistol, as any young gentleman should, 'til he was known as a dead shot and able blade."