"The high-jump, was it, sir?" Bosun Pendarves asked once Lewrie had turned aft to the quarterdeck.
"Guilty on all counts, and to be hung at dawn tomorrow," Lewrie told the hawk-nosed older man with a satisfied nod. "A foregone conclusion, really. Chained, tarred, and caged 'til his bones fall away, then buried off the Palisades at low tide, God knows when."
"We can see it from here, sir?" Bosun Pendarves chuckled, glad for a bit of amusement. Public hangings did that to people, even the primmest. "I'd admire t'see Hennidge get scragged, I would."
"All ships in harbour to send witness parties, Mister Pendarves. And all crews to muster facing Execution Dock," Lewrie said. "You get first thwart in the boat, then choose the rest for me. Best turn-out, mind."
"Oh, aye, sir!" Pendarves beamed, rubbing his calloused hands with gleeful anticipation. "I'll see to it."
Lewrie didn't tell him that he'd send a midshipman with him in nominal charge of the shore party; he thought that Mr. Elwes was tough enough, and "blooded" by longer service, not to shame Proteus by casting up his accounts to Neptune at the sight.
He took another look about the ship before going below, and it was amazing what Martin Hennidge's appearance at Kingston had done for his frigate's repute. Canvas, cordage, tar, and oils-paint!-so spitefully and stingily denied before, had appeared in liberal, squanderous amounts, since. Admiral Sir Hyde Parker had been effusive with praise, and had done him the honour of supplying him a copy of a flatteringly fulsome report he would send to Admiralty anent the capture of a Hermione mutineer; which report lavishly, nigh luridly, recounted his personal seizure and disarming of Martin Hennidge, with but a hanger against a loaded and cocked musket. Even the staff-captain, Sir Edward Charles, had simpered with outwardly sincere congratulations.
Sycamore s capture, with proof of Yankee Doodle collusion with the French, admittedly had caused a problem with the American consul, and could still result in a chilly rift with their frigates in future, but the burning of a French privateer, the scotching of an arms delivery, and most especially the intelligences he had gained had offset that-as far as Lewrie and Proteus were concerned, at any rate. The matter of his pressing three men from Sycamore, and one of them a mutineer-as if the United States had deliberately sheltered him-was not a matter for discussion from the local American representative! Too bloody embarassing, all round!
So, perhaps for the moment, he could afford to feel smug. But for the Admiral's parting comment as he'd left the court-martial, that he'd count on Proteus to put paid to that ogre Choundas! As if it was to be his quest, and no one else's!
Lewrie allowed himself a disbelieving shiver as he gained his great-cabins and divested himself of his best uniform, and donned one of his older shirts, without neck-stock, and slop trousers. He went to the desk to give Toulon an affectionate stroking of his belly. In the heat of a Caribbean summer, the ram-cat had taken to sleeping on his back, with all four paws limply stuck in the air. His best response to a petting was a sleepy " Urrmph" and a thump and swish of his stout tail on the desktop. Toulon was down for the day, most-like to contemplate shedding.
Lewrie went aft to the transom settee and splayed himself slack-spined on the cushions, his head resting on the sash-window sill for a cool breeze.
Choundas, by God! he thought; can't the bastard find anything better to do than follow me round the world? I've taken my best shots at him, surely someone'd call me 'out' and send in another batsman to finish him off! Thankee, Id rather not, this time, but do keep me posted.' Bet that'd go down well! Damme, if fame an' glory ain't a cursed buggery… do one thing flashy, and they never give you a rest!
He shut his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to recall the bastard. From the description Mr. Durant had read, he'd hit Choundas's arm, not the chest he'd aimed for. Two hundred yards, even with a Ferguson rifle, was an iffy shot. Their sword-fight on a beach at Balabac in the '80s… hacking that hateful face into ruin with a last-second, blind slash to save his very life! Ham-stringing him and forcing that leg-brace and mask on him, making Choundas stump and limp with a cane evermore…! By now Choundas should be a shambling ogre, the stuff of children's nightmares, an implacable Nemesis tracking him down, a beast to fear, but… Lewrie found himself grinning a bit, seeing him not as his Doom, but as a crippled… clown!
Not as quick as he used t'be, I'll warrant, Lewrie thought as he fanned the front of his shirt for coolness; it can't be his sword and mine crossed, this time… he '11 order others. No matter how well he chooses, his minions could never measure up to him/
It also struck Lewrie that Choundas wasn't part of that massive French fleet, not part of General Bonaparte's, or of Admiral de Brueys grand aspirations, either!
Who'd want a man that gruesome in one's entourage! Lewrie felt like giggling; He'd put people off their feed! Damme, has Choundas had a comedown… tsk-tsk?
The French Revolution had a habit of eating its own; condemning and executing its early firebrands who were too crude, radical, and brutal to present on the world stage, too identified with The Terror, and its excesses and slaughters. They had a habit of turning on each other, too, denouncing and guillotining both leaders and followers of losing factions in their ever-shifting grasps for absolute power!
And Guillaume Choundas was surely one of the last of the "judicial" murderers who'd purged the aristocrats from his own navy, then purged the "suspect" who didn't give the Revolution their entire soul.
More than enough reasons to shuffle him off, out of sight; his foul repute, his butt-ugly appearance, his continual embarassment to the glittering, polished "new men!"
Choundas's appearance in the Caribbean, Lewrie thought, was an exile; a last chance to redeem himself at best, a callous dismissal to the deadly Fever Isles where he could die, unwanted and un-loved, at the worst. He'll be desperate! Lewrie surmised with sudden joy; he'll take more risks than he'd usually dare, to vindicate his ugly self!
"Vulnerable," Lewrie whispered aloud, drawing out the word, syllable by syllable, to savour its import. "Third time's the charm, by God?"
He jerked to his feet, ready to scrabble to the quarterdeck to shout this revelation to the world, chest swelling with eagerness for the meeting with his arch foe; eager to shout his suddenly discovered sense of courage, when before he might have trembled in his boots with dread. Choundas, and his machinations, would be the Devil one knows, knew too well for terror. If he felt the slightest check on his emotions, it was wariness. He could face Choundas clear-headed, not swooning with anxiety, in future! A shambling, limping, crippled clown!
"Marvellous!" he muttered joyously, aflame to speak to someone, write someone, about this sudden change of heart. But whom}
Caroline? No, he'd told her about his early adventures, and of encounters with Choundas. She knew him too well, or thought that she did. He'd been breezy about the man, swaggering as a proper hero must. To express, to confess, that he'd always feared him would be weakness. And to blather on about no longer being fearful would be even worse, a Frenchman's insouciant gasconading boasts. There was no way to rejustify himself in her eyes, even did she break the seals and read his letter, instead of using it for fireplace tinder.