Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission
"One would think you had no bottom for the adventure, sir," Lieutenant Colonel Peacock countered grumpily. "Perhaps another officer…"
"I think what my captain means, sirs, is that no one could sail in and play 'Merry Andrew' with no knowledge," Alan stuck in as Lilycrop turned scarlet at the slur to his courage. "And what is Shrike to do in the time the Guarda Costa sloop is up-river? Lay at anchor and trust a local patrol doesn't happen along? Pray some local informer doesn't tell the Spanish we're there? It sounds as if Shrike should lurk offshore, say ten or fifteen leagues out in the Gulf, and never close the coast at all. Let the sloop go inshore alone. Then, if all goes well, Shrike could meet her at some prearranged rendezvous. I assume, however, that Shrike would carry the main cargo of arms and trade goods, and must at some time come inshore to deliver. Or do you plan to take everything along in San Ildefonso, Mister Cowell?"
"It would cut down our time in danger on the coast if the sloop bore the complete cargo, sir," Cowell said.
"And how much is to be transported, sir?" Alan pressed.
"There are eight hundred refurbished muskets with all equipage, eight hundred infantry hangers and bayonets, plus forty thousand cartouches," Cowell stated as though reading a manifest. "And powder and ball equivalent to another forty thousand rounds. And we have trade goods. Tomahawks, knives, bolts of cloth, cooking pots, shirts and cast-off tunics, the usual merchant truck the tribes desire the most."
"About four tons altogether," McGilliveray said. "A very light load. The sloop could handle it easily, could it not?"
"Aye, a thirty-six-foot barge could do it easy," Lilycrop agreed.
"Then another two weeks to get the stuff inland and get our party back?" Alan wondered aloud, glancing at Lilycrop.
"No, the Creeks have horses and mules," McGilliverary told him. "And they have their own canoes, you know. They could take it all on their own once we get them to agree to the bargain. Once they show up and we unload for them, the sloop could be gone."
"What about these Apal… what-you-call-'ems, then?" Alan asked. "Do we have to hide from them as well? Would they be hostile?"
"I know for a fact that we have no worries about the Apalachee." McGilliveray smiled. "They are too weak on their own. They're allies of the Seminolee and the Creeks. Mostly out of fear of what will happen if they cross them. I shall explain the situation, and I doubt if anyone remaining with the boats at the mouth of the river will have any worries. They have no reason to love the Spanish, either. With some trade goods presented to their chiefs, they'll probably fall all over themselves to help us, as long as the crew that stays behind does not offend them."
"That's a rather big if, is it not?" Alan laughed. "I mean, I never heard of anyone who could trust an Indian. They follow their own lights, and be damned to everyone else, don't they?"
"We trust the Indians, Mister Lewrie," Cowell sniffed. "We trust Mister McGilliveray. This is his plan."
"Know a lot about them, do you?" Alan cocked an eyebrow at the young man to his right.
"Dear me, I should have told you, Mister Lewrie. I am one." McGilliveray smirked.
"Ah," Alan managed to say, mostly because it could be done with his mouth hanging open.
"My mother is Muskogee, my father Scot, one of those merchants out of Charleston," McGilliveray explained. "With my mother's people I am called White Turtle, of the Wind Clan, the most powerful clan in any tribe or settlement. My grandfather on mother's side is mikko where we are going, and my cousins are influential. The Apalachee and Seminolee know me, so we shall be safe from harm from them. I shall try to explain all the particulars you should know on the voyage."
"And how many crew may you need, Captain?" Admiral Rowley inquired to smooth over Alan's gaffe.
"Nine men, plus cook and officer, milord."
"Along with Captain Eccles here, and a dozen men from my regiment as guards with the sloop, and with the party up-river," Peacock added.
"Pardon me, Colonel, but would those be troops of the line, or light infantry?" Alan asked, once he had regathered his abashed wits.
"Why do you ask, sir? What do you know of soldiers?"
"I was at Yorktown, sir, and this affair strikes me as calling for Rifles or skirmishers, not line troops. I dealt with a Loyalist Volunteer Regiment and their light company, armed with Fergusons, sir."
"Rifles, bah!" Peacock spat with some heat. "Bunch of damned irregulars, no discipline. Dependable as chimney smoke. If you run into trouble up there, you'll thank your lucky stars for some steady men of the line who can overawe these savages, men who can fire two shots a minute in volley, such as Captain Eccles may select!"
"Pardon me, sir, but in my limited experience with land fighting, I'd rather fire four shots a minute with a Ferguson breechloader from ambush than stand and deliver by volley," Alan retorted with a smile.
"One of the reasons we chose Shrike, you'll remember, is that her first officer does have land-fighting experience, Colonel," Admiral Rowley interjected before Peacock could explode like a howitzer shell with a very short fuse. "Plus her shallow draft, and the record she had made for herself as a fighting ship under her gallant captain, Lieutenant Lilycrop. And since Shrike's officers shall be responsible for getting our expedition ashore and up-river safely, it does seem reasonable to allow them to make suggestions now from their experience."
Damme, that sounds devilish promising! Alan thought with delight at the admiral's praise. Singled out for hazardous duty 'cause I made a name for myself? Won't that look good in the London papers.
He shared a quick glance with Lilycrop, who was beaming and nodding his head as he digested the fine assessment the admiral had made of his recent record, looking pleased as a pig in shit.
"No red coats," McGilliveray said in caution. "Your men should wear buff or green anyway. Have some linen hunting shirts run up. And I quite agree with Lieutenant Lewrie about the type of men to go ashore. It would be best if we could procure irregulars, people with some woods-craft. More than one British general has come to grief, tramping about the back-country with line troops, Colonel."
"Well, that lets out Walsham and his Marines," Lilycrop said. "And if this mission is to be secret-I do take it to be secret, hey-then why advertise our presence by wearin' uniform at all?"
"A good point, sir," Cowell spoke up, feeling left out on all the martial planning. "Mister McGilliveray, I doubt they could pass at close muster as natives, but clothes do make the man, do they not, ha ha?"
"A most sensible suggestion, honored sir," said McGilliveray, bowing to his mentor. "Perhaps pack uniforms for the negotiations, to appear more impressive to my people, who are delighted by a fine show. But on the march hunting shirts, leggings and moccasins might escape notice by any Spanish patrol we happen onto. Better to be ignored than have to fight, unless it's absolutely necessary."
"You could supply troops, Colonel?" Cowell almost demanded from his enthusiasm and excitement at getting to dress up like a Red Indian.
"I still hope to honor your requests, sir." He frowned, not liking his unit to be slighted so easily from a grand adventure. "There are no riflemen on Jamaica. No Fergusons, either. Well, I could assign men from my regiment, even so. From the light company, practiced as skirmishers. Remnants of a fusilier battalion. I assure you they know their way around in the mountains and forests hereabouts, milord. They're acclimated to Yellow Jack and the other fevers by now as well, after chasing after rebellious slaves during the last revolt."
"God. Cashman," Captain Eccles whispered bitterly, aghast at being left out.
"Cashman, did you say?" Admiral Rowley prompted, cocking an ear in Eccles' direction. "And who is that, sir?"
"The captain of our light company, milord," Peacock replied, trying to keep a sober face. "A bit… eccentric, but a good man in a fight, I assure you, milord."
If this ass Peacock doesn't like him, then he'll probably be just our sort, Alan thought. Doubt if I could have stood this catch-fart Eccles for more'n a week without callin' him out. And damned if I'd trust one of those battalion-company stallions to guard me out in those swamps.
Alan took it for a given that, as first officer, he would be called upon to guide the little sloop inshore; that's what first officers were for, to risk their arses while their captains stood off and chewed their furniture with worry. It was a rare captain who would give his first lieutenant command of his precious ship and go off on some deed of derring-do just to satisfy his blood-lust. By the time a man had made post-captain, he mostly had blood-lust out of his system, anyway, and was glad to make way for a younger, and more expendable, man.
The conference lasted several more hours, determining that the Spanish sloop would be the only vessel to go inshore, towing a single ship's boat. She could make her way at high tide as far as two miles up the Ochlockonee River with her topmast struck. The two twelve-pounder guns on her fo'c'sle would be dismounted for a brace of four-pounders to ease her sailing qualities. The ship's boat, a standard twenty-five-foot launch, would step a single mast, and would need only six oarsmen due to her shallow two-foot draft. She would also get a couple of swivels should they run into trouble.
This meant that another half a dozen hands had to come along, leaving half a dozen soldiers free for lookouts and protection. Once they left the sloop, six men would stay behind under a quartermaster's mate, with another half a dozen soldiers.
Shrike would never close the coast, but would stand off out of sight of land, and would wait two full weeks from the night the San Ildefonso left her and went inshore. If she did not show up within three weeks, they would come into the bay and search for them.
Shrike would not go ashore for good reason; she would be carrying the bulk of the arms. Cowell didn't want to risk everything in one small ship. The sloop would carry fifty muskets, one thousand rounds of pre-made cartouches and musketeers' equipment such as cartridge boxes, fine priming powder bottles, bayonets, swords and baldrics enough to make a fine show, along with knives, pots, blankets, etc., as samples of England's largesse. There would be bolts of cloth and blankets for presents, and all the usual trade goods, but only enough to whet their appetites for more. McGilliveray argued against this, assuring Cowell that he knew best when dealing with his own people in good faith, but finally relented.
"Well, I think that about covers it, gentlemen," Admiral Rowley said with a yawn. "Shrike is provisioned for a cruise already. All that remains is loading the cargo, bringing the troops aboard the sloop, and readying her for sailing. Her repairs are complete, and she has been provisioned as well. Lieutenant Lewrie, you had best go aboard her at first light with your selected crew. Mister McGilliveray is going to take care of the disguises for the shore party. Have we forgotten anything? Mister Cowell? Mister McGilliveray? Captain? If anything springs to mind between now and sailing date… say two days from now… send me a sealed note, or better, bring it yourself to my flag-captain. And I must warn you, not a word of this among your men until you are at sea. You know how fast rumors fly on the lower deck, hey?"
