And the novelty of three square meals a day, with portions at least twice the victuals they had ever gotten as slaves, even on the rare holidays, was a wonder! For the first time in ages, Lewrie was just about dumbfounded to hear people rave over boiled salt meats, the pease pudding, or even the burgoo! And as for the daily rum rations, and the small beer…! The newlys agreed, though, that the rock-hard ship's biscuit was a peril to all mankind, but the currant duffs and the weekly figgy-dowdys were just handsome-fine. Even a "Banyan Day" of cheese, beer, biscuit, and gruels pleased them, for now.
Then there was the matter of arms drill.
No one in the West Indies or the New World ever put weapons in a Black's hands, nor even in his close proximity for fear of revenge murder or full-blown rebellion. Even Black freedmens' rights to own weapons was strictly regulated. Here, though, the newlys were expected to become proficient with cutlass, hatchet, boarding pike, musket, and pistol, and were even allowed to purchase clasp-knives to hang on their belts (with the tips blunted like everyone else's) even if used for nothing more than whittling in off-duty hours, or for cutting their tough meat portions.
"Most enthusiastic students ever I did see, sir," Lt. Devereux told Lewrie one morning off Santo Domingo, the Spanish half of Hispaniola, as the hands shot at towed kegs from the taff-rail. "Even do I halfway suspect ulterior motives."
"Such as, sir?" Lewrie asked.
"Well, sir, there's bound to be one or two using us as a school for later rebellion… like Irish volunteer soldiers who get paid by our Army to teach 'em how to fight us?" Devereux said offhandedly, as if he was merely joshing, after all. "Where else might young Black men get the chance to learn weapons-handling as good as any European soldier or sailor? Or, do you come to it, sir, the art of the great-guns, and the use of artillery?"
"Over yonder, with L'Ouverture and his bully bucks," Lewrie responded, jerking his chin northward. "Or with our Jamaican Maroons."
"Exactly, sir," Devereux said with a sage nod, but with a wink, as well. "But we got 'em young, so perhaps serving aboard our ship, where they'll get firm but fair and humane treatment, will be a civilising influence against rebellious thoughts."
"Don't make me rue my decision, Mister Devereux," Lewrie said, with a mock shiver. "I've qualms enough, already."
And how I let Cashman talk me into it, I'll never know! Lewrie thought anew; He's corruptin', and I'm weak and corruptible, just as he said. Always have been, and I doubt the sorry old plea of 'drink and bad companions ' will excuse me in court!
"Damme, but that wee Rodney fellow is a cracking shot, sir… e'en with our poor old muskets!" Devereux exclaimed.
Little "George Rodney" had plumbed a round right in the center of the keg lid, in the second that it had swirled about end-on to the ship's stern, and at a creditable seventy yards, too! Sergeant Skipwith pounded him on the back in congratulations, and his mates whooped in shared glee, whilst Rodney's face lit up in ecstatic joy.
"Wonder what he could do with my Ferguson rifle, or with one of those fusils?" Lewrie said. "We might detail him in the main-top as a sniper when we go to Quarters, alongside your Marines, 'ey, Mister Devereux? Make him a Marine…?" Lewrie japed with a wide grin.
"Well, uhm…" Lt. Devereux demurred, wincing and sucking his teeth. "That might present a problem, sir. There have never been any Black Marines, and did we wish to experiment, as it were, my men would resent it mightily… most especially our five new volunteers we got from your Colonel Cashman's disbanded regiment."
"I don't really intend to kit him out in pipe-clay and a red coat, Mister Devereux!" Lewrie said with an amused snort.
"Those five are West Indies-born and bred, or have lived here so long they've taken on local prejudices, sir," Devereux explained, "and strictures against armed Blacks most of all. Their regiment was lily-white, and you know how little mixing there is in island society."
"Outside the sheets, that is," Lewrie dryly commented.
"Uhm, aye, sir," Devereux agreed shyly. "So, should we station Rodney with a musket at Quarters, it might be best did he shoot from the bulwarks, but not in the tops with the Marines, sir."
"Are they disgruntled, you're saying?" Lewrie demanded.
"Only mildly, sir… so far," Devereux replied, his usual air of elegant detachment slowly shredding. "They're happy, in the main, for another chance to 'soldier,' with their pay, uniforms, and rations. They're adapting well to most aspects of shipboard life… so much so that they're already expressing the.usual low opinion of sailors, and the superior air of Marines. None seem to be future disciplinary problems, though they're tough men, sir. No raging drunks or troublemakers have reared their heads… yet. A ship, though, with so many of her people Black…"
"So their only plaint is against our Black sailors?" Lewrie asked. "Damme, sir… it's not like they haven't seen ten Blacks to each White settler already, ashore, haven't seen ships stationed out here for three years or more with half their British crews perished, and God knows who mannin' 'em?"
"They have, sir, but…"
"Damme, are they so disgruntled they'd blab where we got 'em?"
"Oh, no fear of that, sir!" Devereux was quick to reassure him. "Their disgust with that Colonel Ledyard Beauman is so great that they found our little raid rather delightful. Frankly, Captain, they despise him worse than cold, boiled mutton, and think what we did was a grand buggering! No, the only fear I have concerns desertion, sir… should they hear of a chance to see Colonel Cashman duel the hen-headed bastard, and run off to cheer him on!"
"I see," Lewrie said, calming, but still furrowing his brow in contemplation of a new threat. "That's a comfort… I think."
"About fusils, sir…" Devereux said, with a shifty look in his eyes- eyes usually steeled with rigid Marine rectitude. "Our new men were trained on, and equipped with, fifty-four calibre fusil muskets. While they're no match for German jaeger rifles, or Yankee Doodle Pennsylvania rifles, fusils are more accurate than Brown Bess. Your friend Colonel Cashman sent us extremely good marksmen, born to shooting and hunting. So I was wondering, uhm…"-Devereux coughed gently into a fist to cover his scheming-"should you have another opportunity to speak with Colonel Cashman, sir, might it be possible that he could obtain some fusils for us? With his regiment disbanded, their arms will rust away in an armory, and you just know how the Army will insist everyone use seventy-five calibre Tower muskets just to ease problems with ordnance supplies, so…"
"You wish to arm our Marines with fusils, then, sir?" Lewrie asked, rocking on the balls of his feet with a stern glower on his face. "Opposing the 'wisdom' of our Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty?"
"Oh, not all of them, sir, just a dozen… a half-dozen fusils." Devereux squirmed. "The Army surely would not miss so few. Was a swap possible… our Short Sea Pattern muskets for fusils, well…" righteous Lieutenant Devereux muttered like a housebreaker chatting plans for his next robbery in an ale house. He coughed into his fist again.