Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey
Fort Charles had partially blocked his view, along with all of the gunsmoke, but Giddy House had been in clear sight for a little bit! It had been too far off to count buttonholes or cuff rings, but he had seen what looked to be a coloured sash and a star of knighthood!
"Uhm, is Admiral Parker ashore, today?" Lewrie asked the slave.
"Aye, sah," the servant said with a sly smirk. "But he's werry busy, sah," he told him in a distinctive Jamaican patois.
"And here I must still pay my courtesy call," Lewrie responded, retrieving his hat, and his hopes. Something about the servant's expression gave him a salacious clue. "And he'd be busy doing…?"
The slave pointed a finger skyward to the upper floor above.
"His shore office?" Lewrie enquired.
"His chambers, sah," the servant replied with a wee grin.
"Napping, then?" Lewrie further pressed.
"Oh, nossah" the slave answered with a wider grin and high-pitched titter.
"With company, is he?" Lewrie puzzled out. "Well, that's good reason t'be busy, I s'pose. All the live-long day, I take it?"
"Mos' de night, too, sah," he was further informed. "Been ovah t'Saint Nicholas Mole, 'board ship so long… De Admerl, he got -а fine eye fo' de ladies, Cap'um, sah."
Lewrie heaved a sigh of defeat. The staff-captain's impression of him would get to Sir Hyde first, and he and Proteus would be slighted. Attempting to gain admittance, mid-jollifications, would make his odour even worse! He clapped his hat on his head and strode out into the late morning glare, pausing in the shade of Giddy House to steel himself for the full brunt of the sun. And, merry and light as local birds, he could hear the tinkle of a harpsichord, and the soft chuckle of at least two people on the balcony above.
" 'Least someone's havin' a good mornin'," he growled.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Remind 'em again, about the Maroons," Lewrie told his officers. "Ail to be back aboard by midnight… with so many ships in port, it's impossible not t'hear the watch-bells chime it. Plain drunks and half-dead get slung below… fightin' drunks'll get the 'cat' and stoppage of rum and tobacco for a month. Remind 'em not t'take too much money ashore, too. That should do it… pray God."
"Aye, sir," the officers, senior mates, and midshipmen chorused as they doffed their hats in dismissal.
It was a hellish risk he was running. Lewrie knew that more men took "leg bail" from ships' companies that were fairly new together, whereas ships longer in commission, and shaken down together, had fewer hands who would end up marked as "Run." After a time, the ship became home, one's closest mates and supporters almost like family. A stake in future pay-outs of prize money could provide a leash, as well, and HMS Proteus still awaited the reward for the Orangespruit frigate. Maybe his luck was in. He uncrossed his fingers.
Lewrie had seen unhappy and happy ships both, and felt that Proteus had shaken down rather well, even after the Nore mutiny and Camper-down. The music, the dancing in the Dog Watches, showed him high spirits; he had a somewhat honest Purser, so the rations were not rotten "junk" and were issued to fair measurements. He had decimated the gunroom and midshipmens' mess of bullies and tyrants, by refusing to take back aboard those budding despots and brutes the crew had wished off during the mass mutiny of the year before. There were very few requests for a change of mess, these days. A constant reshuffling of who could not stand the others in an eight-man dining/sleeping group was a sure sign of unrest and trouble. And, lastly, he had called everyone aft and had spoken to them.
Of trust and honour… of shipmates, future pay, and the prize money; of how Marines and the Army garrison and local militia kept up a full patrol; that Jamaica was an island, after all; that did anyone run inland, there were venomous snakes released long before by plantation owners to frighten their slaves into staying put; that runaways in the hills and back country, the slave "Maroons," were just waiting to butcher lone whites… well, he'd stretched the truth on that one. The Maroons were mostly high up in the Blue Mountains, fortified in the inaccessible places, not on the very edge of Kingston town; but thank God for the naive gullibility of your average tar-they'd eaten it up like plum duff, and had goggled in horror.
"But, most of all, lads… I trust you. I trusted you when we almost lost the ship and her honour at the Nore," he had told them and meant every word of it. "And you proved yourselves worthy. And I will trust you with shore liberty, knowing that you will return to duty… with thick heads and a bruise or two, most-like. Does anyone run, the rest of the crew will lose their chance, 'cause you'll have proved me mistaken in my trust. Don't let your shipmates down. Don't toss away what you've earned. Don't let Proteus down. Prove me right in trusting you. That's all… dismiss. Larboard watch to go ashore."
In an English port, he would never have risked it; once ashore and with access to civilian "long clothing," a fair number would have scampered, no matter how happy the ship, but here…
And when one got right down to it, Lewrie thought that his men had earned something better than putting the ship "Out of Discipline" and hoisting the "Easy" pendant to summon the bum-boatmen and whores aboard. He would be going ashore, after all, as would his midshipmen and officers… and it didn't feel fair, that the men who might still have to die with him, for him and their ship, would be denied what he could enjoy as a captain, as a gentleman.
Damme, I'm become an imbecile in my dotage! he chid himself one more time; bad as a Frog… Republican! A "popularity Dick"? He found that he'd crossed his fingers all over again.
The seat of government on Jamaica was thirteen miles west, over a rough road, at Spanish Town. Kingston was the principal commercial harbour and naval base, so even without the presence of the great or near-great who decided things, it was a lively place.
Lewrie landed just by The Grapes, the cheery red-brick Georgian inn and public house hard by the foot of the landing stage, an inviting establishment mostly frequented by ship captains, naval officers, and chandlers, along with an admixture of importers and exporters looking for a ship to haul their goods.
He strolled over to the chandleries and shops, at first with an eye for novelty, of being on solid ground and presented with the many rich goods displayed, nigh as varied and of as good a quality as could be found in England. There were his wine-cabinet and lazarette stores to be replenished, more paper, ink, and quills to be purchased, a book or two to read-great, whacking thick ones to be rationed out at a chapter per day. He was low on mustard, coffee, and tea, and eager for local-made preserves, the mango chutneys, the exotic dry-rub spices he remembered from his early days that could enliven grilled shoe leather, and, like Hindoo curry, make even rotten salt-beef or salt-pork worth eating. More dried meat-"jerky"-for Toulon, and a fresh keg of low-tide beach sand for his box in the quarter-gallery.
And, on the spur of the moment, cotton canvas uniforms! He sought out a tailor's that he remembered, got measured, and ordered a brace of dark blue undress breeches, another pair in white, and coats for undress, at-sea, days.
"Bleed all over your shirts and waistcoats, sir, the first time in a squall," the tailor cluck-clucked, just as he had back when Lewrie had needed a new midshipman's uniform in '81.
"Well, wash the cloth a time or two first, then run 'em up. No shrinkage then, either, right?" Lewrie countered.
"Cost extra, it would, sir," the old fellow contemplated.
"Hang the cost. Better a shilling or two than suffocate in a wool coat, with summer coming."
"Be ready in two days, sir."
"And, do we sail before then, I'm assured my ship will be back in harbour quite often. You could hold them for me, if I put half the sum down now?"
"Quite acceptable, sir. Unlike some, d'ye see. Why… here! I recall you, Captain Lewrie. Long before, oh years and years, but…"
"I do not owe you from then, do I, sir?" Lewrie teased.
"Not as I recall, sir. And I've a long mem'ry for debtors. In this line, such is ruin or salvation, don't ye know."
The tiny bell over the front door tinkled, and an Army officer entered, mopping his face with a handkerchief and fanning his hat.
"Ah, Colonel… all's ready for you, as promised!" the tailor chirped. A largeish order, or another who paid his reckoning on the nail, Lewrie gathered.
"Well, stab me!" the officer said, with a goggle.
"Damn my eyes!" Lewrie rejoined quite happily. "Cashman!"
"Young Lewrie! Made 'post'! Hell's Bell 's, who'd have dreamt you'd rise so high!"
They advanced on each other and clasped hands with warmth, all but pounding each other on the back and shoulders.
"And you, a Colonel," Lewrie marvelled.
"Well, Lieutenant-Colonel," Christopher Cashman allowed with a becoming modesty in one Lewrie remembered as so brash.
"But with your own regiment, I take it?"
"Aye, the Fifteenth West Indies, just raised last year. A one-battalion, wartime-only regiment, but all mine. Local volunteers, and funded by rich planters. We do have a Colonel of the regiment, but for the most part, he's too busy making money. The odd mess-night boredom, when he shows up to bask, d'ye see."
"So you may run things as you see fit, at long last!" Alan said.
"Mostly, and thank God for it!" Cashman said with a merry laugh.
"You must tell me all about it."
"We'll dine you in, and you can see 'em," Cashman vowed. "And you've a ship, I s'pose. What is she?"
"HMS Proteus, a Fifth Rate thirty-two gunner. Damn' near new!" "And been busy, I see," Cashman said, eyeing Lewrie's medals. "Tell you all about it over dinner. Is Baltasar's still open?" "The old Frog's fancy restaurant?" Cashman asked. "He died of Yellow Jack, ages ago. A Free Black feller dared buy it, and kept the name. Frankly, the food's much better and his prices ain't so high."
"Let's make it my treat, then," Lewrie offered. "Feelin' a tad peckish? Have time for it?"
"Yes, and yes. Let me collect my new articles, and we're off!"
Baltasar's was much as Lewrie recalled it. There was a curtain-wall with a wrought iron gate in front, with a small brass plaque the only sign that it was a commercial establishment and not a residence. Within, there was a cool and shaded courtyard, with a small fountain that plashed and gurgled beneath a pergola, between trellises hanging heavy with fragrant tropical flowering vines. A second curtain-wall split the entry into two clean white gravel or oyster shell paths, by jardiniers filled with even ' more flowers.
Inside was a cool, open room with plaster walls and heavy wood beams, wainscotted to chair-height with gleaming local mahoghany, and the tables covered with clean white cloths. At the rear, there was a slightly raised dining area facing a back wall pierced by large windows and glazed double doors that led out to a back garden overlooking the harbour, where even more wrought iron tables sat under sailcloth awnings for shade, to dine alfresco. The decor was much simpler than what Lewrie remembered, more Caribbean than imitation Versailles or Tuilleries Palace ornate. Most tables were taken, and the intriguing aromas coming from the separate cooking shed told him why.
A fetching Creole or Mulatto wench came to take their orders, a young woman with whom Cashman joshed as though he was a more than regular diner… or an after-hours lover? Like Lewrie's Cox'n Andrews, she was light-skinned and her features were finer and handsomer, than brutish.
"A mere touch o' the tar-brush," Cashman explained once she had headed for the kitchen shed and had spoken to the barman.
"Fair handsome," Lewrie amiably agreed. "A particular friend?"
"Almost pass for white, a fair number of 'em," Cashman told him, ignoring the query, "but what may one expect, with so many sailors and soldiers runnin' off and takin' up with the first decent-lookin' wench they see? Planters and overseers, married or no, who can't resist the Cuffie housemaid's charms? Some free girls who turn to whorin' and out pops a mulatto git. And their dialect, did ya hear it? Damn' near an Irish brogue, or a Cockney twang that takes ya back to Bow Bells, with a Creole lilt. Jamaica could be a fine country."
"Same as India, or Canton in China, anywhere Europeans go," Alan said, as their wine arrived, taking Cashman's evasion as confirmation.
"Same as Saint Domingue," Cashman pointed out with a frown. "If you think Jamaica 's a hodgepodge, wait'll you get ashore, over there."
"Wasn't plannin' on it, Christopher," Lewrie scoffed after tasting the hock. "From all I've heard, a mile or two safe offshore'll do me fine. Do they ice this, by God? Marvelous!"
" Massachusetts ice, packed in straw and wood chips, down in the storm cellars," Cashman informed him, beaming. "Americans can even turn shite t'money, s'truth! Whole shiploads of dried manure to dung thin island soils. Saint Domingue, though… you know the French. Put the leg over a monkey did someone shave the face first. Saint Domingue's a bloody pot-mess when it comes t'race. Dozens of terms for how black or white a person is… mulatto, quadron, octoroon, griffe, dependin' on whether the father or mother was black or white, and what shade, if the mother was slave or free, house-servant or field hand, how rich or important the sire. Most confusin' bloody war ever ya did see, and I doubt if the Blacks over there can sort it out. They're comin' to call it the 'War of The Skin.' Everybody's terrified of the real dark Blacks, the half-castes with nothing side with this fella L'Ouverture, the half-castes with anything t'lose side with Rigaud, or the whites."
"The petits blancs side with the grande blancs.. ." Lewrie added.
"Someone fill you in, then?"
"Written advisories," Lewrie told him, scowling. "But you must know how little those're worth, and how out of date by now."
"We're going there, soon," Cashman said. "General Maitland has been run pretty-much ragged, whenever he sends battalions out into the countryside. Lucky he hasn't been butchered and hung up by his heels, suffered total massacres, so far. Like the Frogs. Poor bastards."
"So what is this, the Last Supper?" Lewrie asked. "Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we shall die?"
"Been there, before. Call it a preventive dose of civilisation, so I don't go mad quite as quickly," Cashman snickered.
"How did you get your own regiment?" Lewrie enquired. "Last we saw of each other back in '83, you were a brevet-captain in a fusilier regiment."
