"Guillaume Choundas, capitaine, La Poisson D'Or. A votre service" he said. "I am mos' sorry for your loss. Zat it was a French sailor who did this… words cannot express my sorry."
Twigg laid a hand on Lewrie's arm before he exploded.
Choundas was turned out in his Sunday Divisions best, a dark blue master's coat trimmed in white lace and silver buttons, short white tie-wig over his dull ginger hair, silk shirt and neck-cloth, dark red waist-coat and black breeches and stockings. On his left sleeve, he wore a wide black riband, tied in a bow. In mourning for the French sailor.
Choundas turned up the corners of his mouth in a sad smile. He had droop-cornered eyes, orbs of a pale, washed-out blue that were as icy as Greenland bergs, though, belying his evident sorrow.
"Zis pauvre homme, messieurs," Choundas went on. "Zis poor lad. what 'e did was…" A Gallic shrug. "But 'e was in drink, n'est-ce pas! A good matelot. One of mine, as you know. 'E is tres … so very young, messieurs. Surely, Brittanique gentilhommes such as you may find ze Christiani-te.. ."
"Not my decision, sir," Twigg said, glaring. "He killed one of mine!"
"Ah, mais ouis, mais ouis, m 'seur Tweeg," Choundas sighed like a disappointed suitor. "Ze Chinetoque courts, zo, zey do take… uhmm… like ze Gauls ancien… what your Saxon ancestors called 'were-gild,' messieurs."
"Blood-money?" Lewrie gasped.
Amusement danced in those pale eyes as Choundas turned his slack-jawed gaze to him. "Ze lad by zis courts could be freed to return to 'is aged parents, 'is young wife and child, m'seur Looray. And you still live. 'E did not mean to 'arm anyone. 'E was drunk, in need of money. 'E did not mean to kill, 'e 'as sworn to me!"
Choundas put his hands together as if at prayer and his face became even more droopy-eyed, like a dog whose master has just yelled at him. "Your m'seur Weethy frighten 'im. 'E only wan' to flee. Please, m'seur, I beg you, as 'is capitaine, as a Christian gentilhomme. As a fellow Brittanique who share I'ancestrie with all ze sires of notre race… Celts, Gauls, hien? Spare 'im! Mon Dieu, in the name of God, spare 'im! Tell ze court you take ze… blood money, if you will name it zo. Whatever sum you wish, messieurs! Name ze price and I swear to pay it!"
Lewrie was shaken by Choundas' demeanor. He certainly seemed sincere. But then, so did Sir Hugo, when he desired something. A fine pair they'd make, he thought sourly: both of them consummate actors. And frauds! And damme, if he ain't laughing at us, even now, I swear. Standing there, judging his performance. Like I do, I have to admit, now and again. But, bedamned to the bugger!
Twigg took his arm and gave his elbow a squeeze.
"I could be prepared to spare the young fellow, if he was only confused and drunk, Captain Choundas," Twigg replied slowly, weighing every word. "As you say, we are of one race, sprung from the selfsame root-stock that flourished in Gaul and Brittania before the time of the Caesars… before the German barbarians came… the Romans."
"Ah, mais ouis, mais ouis!" Choundas nodded, his eyes glinting with unexpected triumph. The pious expression he wore flickered to a revealing brief smile, a smile tainted with just the faintest bit of a leer at Twigg's stupidity.
"He is awfully young, is he not, sir," Twigg sighed, and his stern visage creased into a grin. "God, I pity the poor…"
Surely not! Alan thought.
"But, the courts have given their decision. Death by strangulation. To put a curb on this unfortunate animosity between English and French in their port. The assault on one of my ship's officers, and, no matter the reasons, the death of my most trusted and beloved longtime partner, Tom Wythy, with a forbidden weapon, well…"
"Ah, but m'seur Tweeg…" Choundas floundered a bit.
"And the poor lad, when one gets right to the meat of it, is a lice-ridden, scurrilous Frog, ain't he now, Captain Choundas? A murdering cut-throat son of a Frog bitch, ditch-dropped by a Frog whore!" Twigg went on, those lips pursing, temples pounding, but a beatific grin creasing his lower face. "A brisket-beating superstitious slave to Rome, and, like all French of my acquaintance, born under a threepenny, ha'penny planet, never to be worth a groat!"
Choundas recoiled as if slapped, dropping his pious pose and slitting his eyes.
"If this court don't scrag him, I'll volunteer to twist the cords myself, sir!" Twigg rasped.
"You play with me, m'seur, you make ze sport…!"
"Far as I know, you play with yourself, you sans coulotte peasant," Twigg barked. "Why don't you go back to eatin' snails and catchin' an honest fishmonger's farts?"
"You insult me beyond all honneur, m'seur, I demand…"
"Try it and see whose ship gets booted out of this port, sir. Try it and see who ends up in a Chinee grave!" Twigg hissed. "Who knows, from what Mister Lewrie tells me, your demise might make a few poor whores happier'n pigs in shit! Takes more'n that pitiful excuse for a beard to make a man a real man, right, Mister Lewrie?"
"To quote the Bard, sir, 'Who is he who is blessed with one appearing hair.' Or something like that," Lewrie fumbled out.
"Only French have I'honneur) You English have none!"
"Perhaps, but we do have bloody marvelous artillery," Twigg simpered. "Do but give us the opportunity to prove it to you."
Choundas spun on his heel and stalked noisily away to join the rest of the French traders and ship-captains, heels ringing on marble.
"Good on you, sir," Alan said firmly. "That was bloody well said! Told that perverted monster off good and proper."
"Do but dwell upon this, Mister Lewrie," Twigg whispered, turning back to the court as the accused was led in. "We might have just struck flint to tinder, created a blaze hot enough to goad him into something rash. Like following us once we leave Canton, 'stead of us having to track him. The gloves are off now, ours and his. For old Tom Wythy's sake, I'll have that bastard's heart's blood. You watch your back from now on, 'cause it's war to the knife!"
The Viceroy began to speak, sing-songing formal phrases which his linguist translated bit by bit for the foreigners. "By the will of our Emperor, Son of Heaven, Complete Abundance, Solitary Prince, Celestial Emperor, Lord of the Middle Kingdom and swayer of the wide world… my master, Viceroy for the prefecture… in the City of Rams, Yu Quang Shen Wang speaks. Hear his words, make kow tow and obey, tremblingly!"
The eight members of the Co Hong and their creatures, and every Chinese went flat on the floor, while the Europeans performed elaborate bows, doffing hats and making legs. The British barely inclined their bare heads.
"Psst," Lewrie said, nudging Twigg when the linguist began again. "Third from the right, sir. Do you mark him?" he whispered from the corner of his mouth and cut his eyes to Twigg, who swiveled to glare at a minor mandarin in a sumptuously thick and rich embroidered silk robe and pillbox cap with coral button and feather. Twigg nodded and turned back to face the Viceroy on his throne.
"… and disturb the heavenly harmony of our Celestial Kingdom! We tolerate the rude behavior… of foreign-devil barbarians who know no better… the export of our valuable goods… in exchange for what worthless items they bring to the City of Rams… until such time as they displease us beyond measure. You are quarrelsome slaves whose crude barbarian chieftains cannot control… your rustic kings have sent ambassadors to pledge fealty to our Celestial Emperor… made their kow tow to recognize the superiority of the Son of Heaven… made themselves subjects to the one who sways the wide world… the foreign-devil Louis of France… the foreign-devil George of England… so that the Solitary Prince might stay his hand and not conquer them."