"I know, Mister Wyman," Lewrie said. "Don't blame yourself. I was at fault for letting him aboard, when I should've known better."
"Uhm… this musket, sir," Wyman said, getting back to point. "And this cutlass, and this sword? Look at the proof-mark, and these maker's marks stamped into the blades, sir."
"Bloody hell… American?" Lewrie barked, utterly nonplussed by this evidence. "They'd sell arms to rebellious slaves? Surely, if they succeed, their own plantations'll go up in flames… their slave owners'll be massacred."
"Musket's a copy of a French Charleville Arsenal. Poor made, sir. Perhaps surplus from their own army's armories? The blades… who knows about those, sir," Wyman said, shaking his head in disgust.
"Northern foundries," Lewrie noted.
"Not so many slave-owners in their northeastern states, sir," Wyman spat. "So perhaps what happens after they're sold don't signify to them. As long as a… profit's made!"
"Most of their ironworks are in the northeastern states, but…" Lewrie trailed off with a sigh. "God, this is hellish business Mister Wyman! I know it hurts the French in Saint Domingue, for rebel slaves to obtain arms. And later, our enemy the Dons in Santo Domingo, but the massacres that follow…!"
"We could tell someone, sir?" Wyman suggested in a soft voice. "An American consul, a senior officer? Let them lay an official protest, perhaps?"
"We could, Mister Wyman. Rather, we should and we will, just as soon as dammit!" Lewrie vowed. "Someone will pay for this!"
CHAPTER TWENTY
Morning found HMS Proteus ten miles Nor'west of Cape St.
Nicholas, with her crew in a sombre mood following Seaman Inman's funeral two days before. Even a run close inshore of Cape Francois, the port still held by the surviving Whites of North Province on Saint Domingue, and a lively exchange with a harbour fort, had not lightened the mens' gloom. Inman had been popular, a cheerful and hearty worker, and one of the best voices in the foc'sle's off-duty chorus, a dab-hand at the hornpipe competitions between larboard and starboard watch, and a wag of no mean skill when imitating ship's officers, midshipmen, and mates behind their back, or below in the privacy of the mess-deck.
Lewrie was up early, before dawn, to watch the hands at their labours at the change of watch at 4 A.M. Today was the day that the "bears" were broken out and dragged across the weather decks; the heavy and rough-surfaced weighted sledges that sanded the planks harder than the small "bibles" men on hands and knees normally used to keep them new-wood pale.
Especially round the larboard entry-port, where Inman's blood had fountained, and the rebel slave's blood had erupted. Some vinegar poured on the stains before using the "bear" might even completely erase them… someday.
It was predawn, with only the palest streak of lighter sky to the East, astern, and everything else buried in a hazy blue-grey, just enough light to see from bow to stern, with a gibbous moon still low on the horizon, a few bright stars still aglow, aloft. The galley chimney fumed lazily, as the men's oatmeal gruel was boiled up, and coffee for the officers was kept warm, and shore bread was toasted for them.
Lewrie sipped at his mug of coffee, savouring the stoutness of Saint Domingue beans; savouring the blessed, windy coolness before the tropic sun burst over the edge of the sea to fry and roast them for another day. Hat off, clad only in breeches and shirt, he could almost feel a faint chill as the Trades whisked up the frigate's stern to waft her Westward towards Cuba once more.
Good pickings round Cienfuego in the last war, he thought; why not just stand on, both sheets aft? Old Captain Lilycrop and 1 took more than one prize there, in '82. On West… round-about Jamaica 's west cape and into Kingston to wood and water. The people need a joyful diversion, God knows, and…
"Deck, there!" a lookout shouted down. "Lights ashore, on the larboard quarter! Looks like signals!"
Lewrie set his mug down on the binnacle and returned to the aft rails with a telescope, hearing the scrubba-dub and hiss of the bibles and bears cease as he spied out the mysterious light.
Proteus was enough West of Cape St. Nicholas to see into a long inlet that led to the British-held harbour of Mole St. Nicholas. High hills on either side of the inlet, the island that formed the northern shore, were blue-black and forbidding at predawn; only a tiny lighter shade were the waters leading inward. There were the usual wee winks of lanthorns ashore in windows, but there was also a brighter light… no, a pair! Wheeling about each other, first in one position, then another.
"Mister Wyman," Lewrie called, his glass still to his eye; "I think you said you were familiar with those new semaphore towers back home, did you not?"
"Aye, sir," the Second Officer replied, sounding unsure.
"Know how to read them?"
"Well, just a bit, sir," Wyman admitted. "But I've a book below in my cabins," he more-hopefully concluded.
"Do you please have it fetched, then, sir. In the meantime, lay us on larboard tack, abeam the wind."
"Aye aye, sir!"
"Ahem… excuse me, Captain," Marine Lt. Devereux said, clearing his throat.
"Ah, Mister Devereux!" Lewrie brightened, turning to face him. "Didn't know you were on deck, sir. An early rising, for one who gets 'all night in' and doesn't stand watch."
"The freshest coffee, and the coolest part of the day, sir," the Marine said with a modest shrug, and a wave of his own mug of steaming coffee. He, too, was dressed in only breeches, shirt, and waistcoat at that early hour. " 'Twas originally an Army signal system, Captain, to alert the coastal garrisons, should the French invade cross Channel."
"One that our local Army leaders didn't deem fit to share with us, I gather?" Lewrie posed, a touch sarcastically. "What a surprise."
"I know a bit of it, though, sir. If I may?"
Lewrie gave Devereux the telescope, and ambled back over to the double-wheel and binnacle to retrieve his coffee before it got cold. A moment later, up came Midshipman Elwes with Lieutenant Wyman's book, and both officers began to confer; with a deal of "What the Devil?" and "Goodness gracious" commentary, a deal more page-turning, and some scribbling on a slate.
"They're not signalling to us, sir," Lt. Wyman reported at last. "Can't even see us way out here, I expect. From what I, and Lieutenant Devereux, may construe, all that waving is meant for vessels still in port. The nubbin, Captain, is an order for all ships to begin loading supplies, and prepare to extricate our garrison."
"To pull out?" Lewrie puzzled.
"They seem to be hard-pressed by a slave army, sir, and things are going against them. The signals say that the troops ashore are at the outskirts of the town, that they've been driven back from the outer entrenchments. And Mole Saint Nicholas ain't that big, sir. More like a hamlet than a thriving seaport."
Lewrie nodded and pursed his lips, turned away and took another sip of coffee, pondering his options. He turned back to them at last.
"Mister Wyman… ah, Mister Langlie, there you are! Stow away the holystones, and 'vast scrubbing. We'll let the deck go hang, just this once. There's a problem ashore. Fetch the ship to, for now, and pipe the hands to their breakfast. Once they've eat, we'll short-tack our way inshore to the port."
Aye, sir. "Aspinall, just some toast for me," Lewrie bade.
The long inlet leading to Mole St. Nicholas was frustrating in the extreme. The first part ran roughly Sou'east, an easy sail across the wind for the first few miles… until the hills and the taller inland mountains, blocked the Trades and created one contrary zephyr after another, leaving Proteus chasing patches of sea that were still cat's-pawed by wind, and each weakly wafting from the opposite direction of the last one.