Down below, Lewrie had espied the massive knees, futtocks, and beams that made up her hull, as thick as anything aboard a First Rate flagship, and the other beams, those oddly angled timbers that curved up from below and continued upwards past the overhead deck, like some diagonal strapping inside a well-made wicker basket. Could they stiffen her enough to make her as rigid as an iron cauldron, a ship immune to the eternal flexings and groanings, as stresses made her abrade and weaken herself with every pitch, roll, or toss?
Despite being more than sated with supper and all that wine, he felt driven to sketch his impressions that moment, before they faded from his mind. If the Royal Navy could attempt some construction along similar lines, with those diagonal thingamajigs…!
He sat down at his desk and fumbled open a drawer for paper and pencils, suddenly aware that his brandy was sitting on it, with Toulon lurking over it, one curious paw raised and his nose at the edge, mouth hanging open the way it did when he found a new scent.
"Mine!" Lewrie hissed, dragging it to him. He took a sip, then stood briefly to strip off his coat before beginning to draw. Toulon was intrigued by that, too, following the pencil end wide-eyed.
Happy the officer who brought Admiralty an innovation, Lewrie told himself. Happy, too, the officer who provided a hint that Americans were divided by sectional differences, that their burgeoning new Navy was rent by jealousies 'twixt the rich maritime states closer to the seat of power and interest, and the rest who dwelled too far away to north or south. Even as he drew, a part of his mind was composing a report that he would pen in the morning… once his head cleared.
They have an elite, an aristocracy just like us, Lewrie thought; New York, Boston, and Philadelphia… all of 'em related and schooled together. Yale and Harvard, Wilder mentioned, just like our Cambridge or Oxford. Fine republicans they are… what a sham!
"Oh dear Lord, sir," Aspinall softly gasped.
"What?" Lewrie snapped, impatient to be interrupted. He looked up to see Aspinall staring at him, as wide-eyed as Toulon. "Come down with the pox, have I? What is it, man?"
"Yer shirt an' waistcoat, sir," Aspinall mournfully told him. "That new cotton dress coat o' yours has bled blue all over 'em."
"What?" Lewrie yelped, jumping to his feet and trying to crane around his own body, arms raised, to see how much damage had been done. He pawed at his sides, trying to drag his shirt 'round to the front. He quickly undid the buttons of his waistcoat and stripped it off to hold it up to the light. "Well, damme!"
The thin white satin back of the waistcoat was very blue, and so were the armholes, shading outwards almost in a ripple pattern, like a trout-splash down the sides to a paler sky-blue! Even the front of the garment, originally pristine bleached white #8 sailcloth, was now faintly stained where his coat had overlain it.
"Shirt's worse, sir," Aspinall meekly informed him. Kershaw's great-cabins had been close, airless and humid, without canvas ventilation scoops; even the overhead skylights in the coach-top had been closed. Obviously, Kershaw, from already muggish Charleston, was used to perspiration; perhaps even had a Froggish fear of night airs and their miasmas… especially in the tropics, since Yellow Jack and malaria were no strangers to the Carolinas.
"Well…" Lewrie said at last, lowering the garment in defeat. "It seemed like a good idea. In broadcloth wool, I'd have turned to soggy gruel hours ago. Live and learn, I s'pose. Try and wash 'em, but… damme." Lewrie began to strip off his shirt, too.
"I'll give it a go, sir, but I ain't promisin' much." Aspinall said. "Uhm… yer breeches're in the same shape, sir."
"Still have white stockings, do I?" Lewrie asked, feeling the need to laugh the tiniest beaten snort of sour amusement. It was that or scream to high heaven!
"I'll fetch yer nightshirt, sir."
"And a basin of water, Aspinall. Before I show up on deck tomorrow, as blue as an old Druid."
"Aye, sir… lots o' soap, too."
Once coolly bathed and clad in his thin nightshirt, Lewrie bent once more to his drawing, adding curved diagonal lines atop the cross-hatchings of a ship's skeleton, thinking that even if the matter of his cotton uniform coat hadn't exactly worked out, the evening hadn't been a total loss. He had learned more than he had expected, had elicited some sort of promise of cooperation from a Yankee captain that could in future apply to the others as they assembled a squadron.
He eyed the small wash-leather purse of coins that Bantams captain had given him; Ј100 in various English, French, Spanish, and Dutch specie that, so far, took the place of a trustworthy United States currency.
It was what some-should they ever come to know of it, and he would be damned if they did!-might call a bribe. Taking Bantam and restoring her to her owner would involve reams of paperwork at the nearest Prize Court, at Kingston; placing a value on ship, fittings, cargo, and such to determine Proteus's official reward, with poor Wilder paying court fees and demurrages for swinging at anchor for weeks in that port, 'til the matter was adjudicated and his ship returned to him.
Easier all 'round, really, for Lewrie to write his report, saying that in the spirit of "cooperation" he had surrendered precedence and possession to the arriving American frigate.
They had, after all, the value of L'Oiseau to reckon with, with eight great-guns and over one hundred privateers brought to book, with "head money" for each, along with the schooner's worth as a tender to a larger ship; why, with any luck, they'd buy her in, perhaps even let Proteus claim her as a tender, and if they did…!
Lewrie leaned back from his artwork with a satisfied smile, in full "scheme." With L'Oiseau, he could run the same subterfuge he had in the Mediterranean when captain oн Jester, with a captured lugger on the Genoese and Savoian coasts; as an "innocent" harbour raider to cut out merchantmen who thought themselves safe in a friendly port, or as a tempting piece of "cut bait" trolled before a privateersmen, flying a French Tricolour flag, looking for "rescue" from those horrible English
"Bloodies"!
He hefted the coin purse, calculating in his head; two-eighths of Ј100 was Ј25, a captain's share of the bribe. Who knows, it might just cover the cost of the ruin of his wardrobe!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
By noon of the next day, Hancock and Bantam were out of sight in the South, and L'Oiseau was hull-under on her way to Port-Au-Prince to report her capture… and dump her hundred-odd prisoners on somebody else. And with any luck at all, Lewrie imagined that HMS Halifax and her irascible Captain Blaylock would become their gaolers, now that she was stripped of even more guns and would have bags of room below. It was piquant to picture Blaylock's phyz turning purple at that news… and, Lewrie further surmised, that Captain Nicely, who already despised Blaylock worse than cold, boiled mutton, would be more than happy for a chance to "slip him a bit of the dirty" one more time. And perhaps even think fondly of the officer who'd made it possible! Again, with any luck, Proteus might have L'Oiseau back as her "unofficial" tender within the week; and then they could really hit their stride!
The winds had backed a full point from Nor'eastly to Nor'east-by-East, as well. Proteus had loafed Sou'easterly after their meeting with Hancock during the night, closer to Cape St. Nicholas, so a "beat" close-hauled to the North-by-West could take them up to Matthew Town at the western tip of Great Inagua, where Proteus could once more keep an eye on both the Windward Passage and the Old Bahama Passage, before tacking and heading Sou'east for Tortuga. Then she could slowly zigzag her way Easterly between Turk's Island and Saint Domingue towards the tempting Mouchoir and Silver Bank passages, where arriving French merchantmen and privateers must appear, sooner or later.