"Well, damme!"
"Couple of days back, it was run or die, up at Croix de Bouquets… routed Maitland's troops and ran 'em clean out of the Plain de Cul-de-Sac," Nicely explained. "Flank units gave way under hellish swarms of 'em, then the center lost heart and scampered before they could be cut off and encircled. Abandoned guns, caissons… wounded? That's not over five miles from here. Our six or eight thousand healthy and present, 'gainst fifty or sixty thousand of theirs? Damme, I suspect we'll be asked to evacuate the Army in a few days. A total muddle, Lewrie. Complete and utter."
"Dear Lord," Lewrie said with an authentic qualm and a gulp of amazement. "Who'd've ever thought it possible?"
"Know Captain Blaylock, do you?" Nicely asked of a sudden, and with a less than "nice" expression on his phyz.
"Not really, sir. Not 'til our convoy here, oh… weeks ago."
"Had praise for your actions. Faint praise, but some is better than none," Nicely pointed out, picking up a used towel with which he sponged and mopped his face. "Aahh! Lord, it's so hot and still!"
They despise each other, Lewrie quickly schemed; damme, perhaps the truth '11 serve for a rare once! Navy politics, feuds, and jealousy, Gawd! But I do need a patron out here… bad!
"General Sir Harold Lamb insisted that he do so, sir, whilst I was present, so he could hardly refuse him," Lewrie said, daring a cynical grin. "I'd already angered him in Kingston harbour, and I think he blames me for having guns stripped from his ship once we brought a convoy here. And, whilst engaged against the Samboes, I rejected his summons to go aboard Halifax 'til we were out of munitions and targets. Munitions which I requested from his ship… which request was ignored, too, sir."
"His loss of guns was my doing," Nicely said, grinning after he had dried his face. "What did you do in Kingston harbour?"
"My libertymen sang too loud and woke him at midnight, sir."
Nicely found that delicious, and uttered a bark of laughter.
"You'll do, Captain Lewrie," Nicely told him, "you'll do quite well.
Tomorrow morning, once laden, take up a closer anchorage to the shore. I shall put a flea in General Maitland's ear regarding this indirect fire business… have him second his most experienced artillery officer aboard your ship. There's always the possibility that if the enemy presses Maitland back to the town environs, we may have to try it on, and see if there's anything to it… and how well you do."
"Aye aye, sir," Lewrie said, getting the wind up, again.
"I'll forward your report to Admiral Parker at Kingston, with a recommendation of mine own," Nicely promised. "Is there anything else I may do for you, Lewrie?"
"I sent in a prize with my Third Officer and best midshipman in charge of her, sir. I lost two midshipmen at Mole Saint Nicholas, and I need my people back."
"Can't," Nicely brusquely said. "Sent her on to Jamaica, with all those French privateersmen. I'd no place to secure them. She's in the hands of the Prize Court, though, so there'll be some reward coming… should that be a comfort."
"Oh well, then," Lewrie said with a sad shrug. "Short-handed a tad longer. Promote a couple of quartermasters or mates as acting midshipmen? Uhm… when the Army buckled and broke, sir… do you know anything about the Fifteenth West Indies regiment? An old friend of mine commands it."
"You don't mean that fop Colonel Beauman, do you?" Nicely asked, a look of distaste on his face.
"Oh no, sir!" Lewrie all but gasped. "I know Colonel Beauman, from long ago, but… I refer to Colonel Cashman!"
"Oh, him!" Nicely laughed, throwing back his head. "One devil of a fellow. That's alright, then. Pity, though, about him and his regiment. There's a bit of a stink, after the battle up at Croix des Bouquets. Not in good odour with Maitland since. Your friend lives, though, have no fears on that score. They're somewhere along the lines, fairly close to town, I believe."
"Well, that's good," Lewrie said, letting out a breath of pent worry. "Whilst we're loading, do you not have anything for me to do, sir, I'd very much like to look Cashman up."
"Shouldn't be a problem," Nicely decided. "God keep you, then,
Captain Lewrie. We'll surely speak again, as long as this poor siege lasts. Adieu, sir." Nicely and Lewrie doffed hats, then Nicely strode out into the torrid sunshine, reaching into his left sleeve for a handkerchief, and sneezing as the full brunt of the sun struck him, before stomping briskly towards the quays.
The staff officers at the commandeered headquarters were loath to loan him a horse, but Lewrie cajoled them after a long palaver and rode up the streets out of town. The paving stones gave way to silty dirt and sand, the last tumbledown shanties and hovels of Free Blacks and petits blancs were left behind, and the undergrowth grew thicker and closer to the track, reaching overhead to interlace and block off the sun, making multiple swaying dapples of soft green light along the eerie tunnel through the woods.
Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Lewrie thought, drawing his thin-shanked, weary mare to a halt. He took off his hat to fan himself and swabbed his cheeks and chin of dripping sweat on his right sleeve. Though he was in deep shade, there was no relief from the heat and, perplexingly, it felt even warmer than under the crushing sizzle of the sun; airless, too, the heat muggy and close, and so humid that he could feel his breath flow in and out like running water.
Eeriest of all, it was ominously quiet-but for the throb of those damned drums, and the hum and buzz of mosquitoes, tiny bees, and large flies that swarmed his sweaty horse and sweaty self.
When first he'd entered the woods, there had been a faint hum of town doings astern, and the ring of axes thwocking into timber somewhere ahead. Exotic birds had screeched and hooted, crickets and grasshoppers had sawed and fiddled and cheeped, frogs had croaked and whatever-the-hell-they-weres had rustled and whined. Now, all was silent; but for the deep waggon ruts in the dirt track and the imprint of army boots along the verges where soldiers had slogged to avoid the puddles, he could conjure that he was the only human in the trackless forest, the only person to have come this way in days!
Maybe I don't like Cashman that much! he told himself considering turning around and going back aboard ship, with grim remembrances of
the underlying terror of wild wastelands he'd felt as a young midshipman in the woods of the Yorktown peninsula in the Virginia Colony before the siege began. His future brothers-in-law, Governour and Burgress Chiswick, had taunted him about skulking Red Indians, Rebel snipers, and irregulars just waiting to lift his hair, cut his throat, and carve off his privates, whilst screeching with glee and dancing above his half-dead body!
Lewrie could not see half a decent pistol-shot in the forests on either hand, the dirt track a demi-lune forming the bottom of the view down a telescope's tube, and…
He heard a jingling-plashing-thumping approach up ahead and round the slight bend in the road! He groped for the double-barreled pistol in his waistband, thumbing the right hammer back to half-cock, his legs tightening about his mount, and ready to saw the reins to run back into town, heels pressed to the mare's belly, about to thump her to her fastest gait.
"Oy, thank God!" a soldier, a Corporal, cried as he came round the bend on a horse. He was a wizened little fellow, not as big as a minute, clad in a tunic that had faded from red to pink, and stained white breeches, his walnut-tan face grizzled with several days' worth of whiskers. A short musketoon was slung across his back, and across the saddle in front of him lay several lengths of chain.