"Like Venice," Lewrie supplied to their conversation, "pretty to look at, but Dung Wharf once you get into the canals."
"Oh for the sailor's life," Cashman drolly sing-songed, "why, th' places I been, an' th' things I seen, cor blimey! Tyke New South Wales, f'rinstance… kangaroos as big'z dray 'orses… eat men up whole, an' spits h'out th' bones, 'ey does!"
"You sound in better takings this evening," Lewrie pointed out.
" 'Course I do, Alan." Cashman chuckled as they strolled along. "I've all my troops ashore, all my field guns, with five day's rations and cartridges, and something t'do with 'em. Our heroic Colonel's off swillin' in the staff officer's mess, and if God's just, he'll find it so agreeable, the Second Coming couldn't stir him out of it. A chance t'preen with General Maitland, and play dashin' hanger-on with the real soldiers… damn 'is
eyes."
"I don't know why I let you lure me ashore," Lewrie said for the third time, puzzling, as he peered into a converted shopfront that was filled with refugee families in stained finery. "The way they're talking, it's the last place I care t'be. Besides, I always get in trouble ashore, d'ye know that?"
"I promised you a grand supper," Cashman rejoined quite merrily. "And bein' a curious Corinthian, tales of mystery and gluttony won you over."
"The staff mess'd be safer than traipsing about like this, would it not?" Lewrie asked, noting how dark the night was, and how dimly and spottily Port-Au-Prince was lit, and its formerly grand Parisian system of illumination badly maintained… if at all, anymore.
"Ah, but only swill served, Alan." Cashman laughed at his reticence. "Most of the officers are English-raised, so they have no idea of good food, no sense of adventure. It's all John Bull, boiled beef and puddin's, and 'Wot's 'is here tripe? Pвtй de foie gras? Wouldn't feed that foreign trash t'me hounds!' You know the sort. Not like us. We have worldly palates."
"Just so long as I'll have a whole neck down which to swallow," Lewrie said, taking comfort in the two small double-barreled "barkers" in his coat pockets, and the heft of the hanger on his left hip. Just in case, he had secreted a wavy-bladed krees Mindanao pirate dagger inside the left sleeve of his coat, to boot.
"Been here before," Cashman promised, "and it can't have changed all that much in a year. 'Tis a hard man and wife, runs it. Once you taste their dishes, you'll slit yer own throat… just t'prolong your pleasure. As the Yankee slaves say, it's 'slap yo' mama good.' "
"Good God," Lewrie had wit to jape, "never have I heard such a 'back-handed' compliment. Back-handed… d'ye see?"
"God'll forgive you." Cashman snickered. "Ah, here we are." He had directed them to one of those imposing pastel mansions, at the intersection of two boulevards, where a roundabout and fountain stood, though the fountain barely burbled these days, and was mostly green and brown with moss, mildew, and scum. The house was fitted with a rounded wraparound set of balconies on the two upper floors, and the overhangs formed a wrought iron collonade above the ground floor doors and windows, which were barred with more intricate wrought iron grills. Heavy draperies were pulled over the windows, but from within Lewrie could espy the faintest hint of candlelight, though the place seemed to be abandoned.
Cashman lifted the hilt of his smallsword to rap on the heavy iron-strapped doors, a particular tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. After a moment, the Judas hole swung aside and a glint of light showed from within, quickly covered by a man's eye. A moment later, though, those doors were flung open and they were hurriedly welcomed in.
"Jean-Pierre… Maman!" Cashman cried in joy, flinging himself upon the swarthy man and woman who stood guard in the tiled foyer with pistols, cutlasses, and a brace of muskets.
"Ah! Commandant Keet, bienvenu!. Has been so long we see you!" "A Colonel, now," Cashman preened, twirling about to show off. "La, mon dieu… felicitations!" the wife of the establishment cried, hands to her cheeks with joy. "You hunger, oui, you wish wine, as before? Come, you and your frнen'. Nossing but ze best pour vous."
Swarthier manservants in livery came to take their swords and hats; servants who also bulged here and there with weapons discreetly hidden. They didn't seem to share the joy of rencontre with Cashman, or the sight of Lewrie, either; they wore permanent wary scowls. The swords, Lewrie carefully noted as they were led to a table in a back parlour, were stood against a sideboard, within easy reach should he or Cashman need to grasp them.
Once seated, the pocket doors were slid half shut on the hall, and he and Cashman had the entire parlour to themselves. From without Lewrie could hear the low hum-um of other conversations in other chambers, a piercing laugh now and then, some boisterous shouts as a toast was made and drunk. Hmmm, some rather high-pitched laughs and words… some women? Things might just be looking up, he thought.
A waiter in livery and a white bib apron entered, and chatted quite gaily with Cashman for a piece; in patois French, of course, so Lewrie hadn't a clue what was being said, though it looked quite jovial and innocent… innocuous, rather.
As the waiter departed, Cashman tipped Lewrie the wink. "Old Jacques… wonderful old fellow, he'll take care of us," Cash-man informed him. "Took the liberty of orderin' for us, do you not object. Spйcialitй de la hфte. You'll love it, I assure you."
"So what are we havin', then?" Lewrie asked as the waiter came back with a magnum of champagne and two crystal flutes. Though it was too much to expect that Port-Au-Prince might run to Massachusetts ice, the champagne was velvety smooth and spritely, from a famous vineyard in France, and much finer than Lewrie might have expected.
"Grand, ain't it," Cashman said, once he'd had a taste. "Jean-Pierre and Maman always have the best of ev'rything. Before the Revolution sent things Tom O'Bedlam, this was the most exclusive place in town. They're the best smugglers and speculators, too. No one knows how or where they get things, or cache 'em 'til needed, but you won't eat or drink better, were you in Paris itself."
"Are those smugglers and speculators we hear, then?" Lewrie had to ask, savouring the dry mellowness of the wine. It was miles above any vintage he'd tasted lately, even better than the Beaumans' cellar!
"Cut-throats, pimps, courtesans… mistresses and their men, or the odd profiteer," Cashman quite cheerfully catalogued, "rogues from the canting crews, successful pickpockets and thieves, rich rake-hells who haven't fled yet. A shifty lot, but they pay well and they're always flush with 'chink.' B'lieve it or not, Alan, with all o' their hired beef watchin' their backs, this just may be the safest place in Port-Au-Prince, and I doubt things'd change, did L'Ouverture march in tonight! Give 'em a week, and he'll be dinin' here, him and his generals. May make more of a mess, stain more napery, but…
"As to supper," Cashman enthused, changing the subject and refilling their glasses, "we start with shrimp rйmoulade, followed by an omelette au bacon et frommage, followed by spinach salads, before the goat ragout, which is bloody marvellous, by the way, and the roasted coq au vin, with asparagus and other removes. Burgundy, hock, or Saint Emilion Bordeaux, p'raps a Beaujolais with the omelettes, if you like? The sideboard'll groan with bottles. And for dessert, a crиme fraоche over strawberries and cut fruit. You should see the berries they can grow in this soil!"
"Thought most of the folk here in town were starvin'," Lewrie said in wonder as the waiter bustled in once more, this time trailed by a brace of serving wenches in fresh-pressed and sweet-smelling sack gowns; one with light brown hair, the other a striking redhead, and wearing their own hair, not wigs, artfully done up in ribbons.
"They are, but that don't signify if you have the 'blunt' and know your way about," Cashman said dismissively. "There's some that'll always prosper. Ooh-la, Vivienne, you darlin'! Still here, are ya?" Cash-man said, turning his attention to the striking wee light-haired wench, drawing her even closer as she sidled her hip against him and served his rйmoulade. Fine coin-silver utensils magically appeared from a pocket of Jacques's bib apron; more spoons, knives, and forks than an English household might display all at once, prissily set out in bewildering order, either side of their plates.
"M'sieur, " the redhead purred as she served Lewrie, pressing her hip against his shoulder, too.
"Mademoiselle… enchantй, " Lewrie instinctively responded with a welcoming purr of his own, and a slow, sly smile. "Comment vous appelez-vous?" he asked.
"Henriette, m'sieur. Et vous, brave Englis' capitaine?"
He told her, took her hand and kissed it for good measure, and tipped her a wink before turning to face Cashman.
"You're going to get me in trouble, aren't you, Kit?" he asked, with a wry grin.
"Hope you fetched off your best cundums," Cashman muttered back with a smile of his own, this one of beatific innocence.
"God, this is good!" Lewrie had to exclaim after the maids had departed in a swirl of skirts and hips, and had closed the pocket doors completely so they could dine in peace.
"Reminds me," Cashman said, daubing at his mouth and sipping at his wine, " 'fore we depart, we'll ask Jean-Pierre for some coffee and cocoa beans. Saint Domingue coffee is as good as anything from Brazil, and their cocoa's sweeter an' mellower, too. Mix it with what ya have already-one-to-two-and you'll think you're in Heaven. It may be dear, what with the crops not bein' tended much since their slaves rose up, but worth it, if they have any."
"Dearer than what Jamaican chandlers ask?" Lewrie frowned.
" 'Bout half, I'd think," Cashman told him, pausing to savour a bite. "Hard to believe they're Samboes… ain't it?"
"Who? Our hostlers?" Lewrie asked.
"Them… and our servin' girls," Cashman told him, winking.
"They are?" Lewrie said, amazed. "But they look so…"
"Petits blancs need love, too, Alan," Cashman drolly snickered. "Most real Whites've fled to Havana or Charleston, even New Orleans." He seemed delighted by Lewrie's surprised look. "Those who stayed are mostly half-castes… brights, fancies, quadrons or octoroons, what are lumped into the catchall term Mulatto, hereabouts. Some of them owned plantations, sent their children to school in Paris before the war. Rich as the grands blancs… richer! But that don't signify, either. 'Tis pure White blood, the guinea-stamp round here. Remember I told you how the French divided folk by grades of White or Black? There're one hundred and twenty-eight diff rent gradations-s'truth! Get into marabous and sacatras, maybe three-quarters or more White, and you couldn't say one way or t'other, even in broad daylight. But even a sang-mйlй, with one part Black blood to a hundred-twenty-seven White, is still a Sambo to them. Vivienne an' Henriette, they're high marabous, maybe low sacatras. And still get the short end of the stick, 'cause their folks weren't rich, or landed, or much of anything, 'cept imitation petits blancs. And the worst part for them is…"
Cashman paused for dramatic effect, and a sip of his wine.
"The real darkies off the fields, the ones in L'Ouverture's regiments, think the same way about 'em, d'ye see," Cashman said, with an air of grim foreboding. "They look too White for one camp, but they're too… tainted with the tar-brush for t'other. Lovely place, Saint Domingue, ain't it," he sarcastically drawled.
"So what happens to 'em, if Port-Au-Prince falls to L'Ouverture and his laddies?" Lewrie asked.
"World turned upside down," Cashman tossed off, as if it were no worry of his. "The too White'll get knackered, and all the rest'll be allowed to kowtow and join up with L'Ouverture. Make their salaams, bang their heads on the floor, and live-on the bottom of Society, mind. And a poor'un it'll be, you mark my words. Take 'em a century t'turn this island back to a payin' proposition. Jean-Pierre, well… by God, but this is a marvelous rйmoulade, don't ya think, Alan?"
"Aye, 'tis," Lewrie agreed, a trifle impatient for Cashman to complete his statements, though. "But what about 'im?"
"Oh, he'll most-like have a schooner lined up for a quick getaway," Cashman speculated with another blasй shrug. "Does he stay, he might do alright… 'less they scrag him for profiteerin', when other folks were starvin'. God knows which side'll do that… L'Ouverture's as an example, or them that starved, for revenge. Now, does he cut an' run with all his goods and money, he could set up fresh in the United States. Savannah, Charleston, New Orleans… they all have so-called Creole citizens… under 'Polite' Society, o'course. Take the lightest girls along, and reopen a bordello? Some o' them could lie like Blazes, and swear they were grands blancs all the way back to Adam… pass for White, d'ye see. Ah, our omelettes!"
In came Jacques and the girls to remove the now-empty plates, recharge wineglasses, and deliver steaming "piss-runny" French style egg dishes-with more subtle bumping and lingering touches.
Lewrie studied Henriette more closely. The only hints of difference he could discern were a slightly olive cast to her flawless complexion, and very full lips. Her dark red hair, though curlier, did not appear to be hennaed, and her green-hazel eyes would not have been out of place in the Germanies.
"Somezing is wrong, M'sieur Capitaine Lewrie?" she asked, feeling the intensity of his scrutiny; perhaps resenting it as a prejudice on his part, he wondered?
"In no way, Mademoiselle Henriette," he answered, smiling more broadly, adding a touch of "leer" to dispel her wariness. "I was just captivated… utterly dumbstruck… by how lovely you are."
"You are too kind, m'sieur," Henriette purred back, her lashes fluttering most fetchingly as she leaned down a bit, allowing a promisingly soft breast to compress against his epaulet. "But delightful to hear."
"You do not object?" he dared to tease.
"Mais non, Capitaine Lewrie, " Henriette replied, lowering her eyelids. "A poor girl always enjoy the compliments."
"And you, Henriette," Lewrie muttered, leaning back in his seat to look up at her from even closer. "Are you kind?"
"And you, Henriette," Lewrie muttered, leaning back in his seat to look up at her from even closer. "Are you kind?"
"La, I can be trиs kind, Capitaine Lewrie," she whispered, all but in his ear, letting her loosely gathered hair brush his shoulder. "If you wish, that is," she added, with that secret smile that women make when being sultrily coy. "You would like, n'est-ce pas?"
Hell's Bells, we're doin' it on the table? Lewrie wondered to himself, as he caught sight of Cashman and Vivienne from the corner of his eye; Kit already had his wench in his lap, one hand groping about up her skirt, and sharing a soul kiss with her.
He turned back to Henriette, who wore a leer of her own after seeing what was transpiring across the table. Lewrie gently reached up and took hold of her chin to steer her lips to his, enfired by her warmth and the womanly aromas beneath her exotic, flowery perfume.
"Very much… very bloody much." Lewrie chuckled deep in his throat, feeling her lips grinning against his mouth in agreement.
"Later, mon cher?" Henriette silently sounded against him.
"Later, chйrie… plus tard!"'
"Certainement, cher Alain," she breathed against his cheek, a moment before Vivienne gave out a yip as Cashman play-spanked her on the bottom and shooed them out.
How long's it been since I've had a whore? he asked himself; Phoebe Aretino? No, don't count. She was a mistress. Gawd, Calcutta and Canton… way back in '84?
Cashman, smugly stuffing himself with a huge smile of anticipation, and slurping lustily at his wines, made Lewrie wonder if their dining chamber would have to serve amour's purpose. It was dimly lit with only a few candles, the drapes heavy and drawn, the windows iron-barred, the wainscoting and overhead beams made of dark wood that ate what little light the candles threw. There were several settees, and a pair of chaise longues along the walls. It could have been a seraglio in a sultan's harem-one of his oldest and most enduring fantasies-but it was a rather seedy, close and stuffy seraglio, with not a breath of air stirring. Much as he liked Kit, this was…
"They have rooms t'let, I s'pose?" Lewrie asked, finally. "Nice'uns, too," Cashman said with an enigmatic leer. "There's some don't wait, but I never thought of it as a spectator sport. Bad as mountin' yer filly in the middle o' Lord's cricket grounds. Try a glass o' hock with your eggs. There's a touch o' cinnamon to it that goes main-tasty with 'em, even better than champagne, t'my thinkin'."
"I think I will, at that!" Lewrie exclaimed, reaching for one of the bottles on the sideboard, now enthused and inflamed by thoughts of pleasures to come, and filled with a boisterous, expectant bonhomie. He was relieved, too, that his sport would be the private sort and not a public spectacle, with Cashman or Vivienne deducting points for awkwardness. Fond as he was of that harem fantasy, it had always been him and a round dozen wenches, with not even a sleeping eunuch as witness. "God… ain't it grand?" Cashman snickered with delight as he hoisted his glass to be refilled.
"Not too much, though, good as the wines are," Lewrie cautioned. "Ah, plus tard, hey? Can't take yer jumps if foxed blind." "It did come to mind," Lewrie happily rejoined. "Yoicks… tallyho!" Cashman crowed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Henriette was incredibly kind, upstairs in an airy room lined with wide-shuttered doors and window coverings that let in a blissful breeze of much cooler air, down off the high mountains to the east.
A lone trio of finger-narrow candles lit the chamber, barely illuminating anything beyond the bedstead, yet throwing mesmerising shadows against the walls and shutters with each mild gust. Up that high above the fouled and littered streets of Port-Au-Prince, it was refreshing to escape the miasma of too much garbage, and the reek of too many people. And those gently flickering candles threw such enchanting highlights and shadows over Henriette's fine body, too, limning a chiaroscuro portrait in ambers and black hollows, making her even more exotic than she already was.
The sheets were clean, if "wormed" with small seams of repairs, and were redolent of soap and sunlight. The candles were local-made, scented with flowers, almost as sharp on the nose as Chinee joss-sticks or very High Church incense. Henriette had dabbed on fresh scent, too, after they'd locked and barred the door, and that was all over the bedstead, the pillows, and him, by then; for, cool as was that breeze, it was still a warm and humid tropic night, and they had perspired… oh, how they had perspired, in the throes of lust! The more common term of "sweated" came to Lewrie's mind; sweated like coolie labourers loading cargo on Jackass Point in Canton, or Hindoos up the Hooghly River! But more than worth it, he smugly decided, stifling a yawn as he sprawled beside her, getting his breath back, and watching the candle patterns dance on the overhead canopy of the bedstead.
There came a stronger gust of wind, a cooler and welcome zephyr.
"It rains," Henriette whispered. Sure enough, the zephyrs were followed by the faintest plashing of raindrops on the balcony. There was a basso rumble of faraway thunder, and an eyeblink's flicker upon the shutters from a fork of distant lightning, the wide wood shutters thrown in blue relief for a second. "Mon, Dieu, merci. "
Lewrie sat up and groped to the foot of the bed for a discarded sheet, to fan it and lift it to trap the cooler air, to let it fall slowly and drape over them, then fan it to soar and hang, again.
"Merci to you, too, cher Alain." She smiled, getting up on one elbow to face him and reward him with another token of kindness on his lips. "I have the basin… you wish me to sponge you? You are trиs hot? I cool you?"
"Better I get to sponge you, Henriette," he chuckled, reclining once more with his hands under his head and the pillow. "I don't wish t'get too cool. A certain… heat… is required, ain't it? Uhm, l'ardour? La passion?"
"But you were born with the passion, mon amour, " she told him. "Mon Dieu … so formidable^"
Whores ' lies, he thought; but… so pleasin'!
She slid out of bed on the window side, all those delectably shadowed hollows and sweat-sheened bright spots awakening his interest anew. Lean waist, long slim neck and arms, with entrancing hollows at throat and collarbones… firm, round and jutting young breasts that nearly defied Newton 's laws of gravity, a bouncy round and firm bottom, strong-thewed thighs… with such a seductive dark hollow between.
She peeked flirtatiously over her shoulder as she walked to the windows, rolling her hips, chuckling over the effect she knew she had on him. At the nearest window she posed herself, drew open the shutters and stood silhouetted, feet apart and arms widespread. With a theatric sigh of contentment, she threw back her head to savour that cooler wind, began to run her hands over her body as if smoothing in a lotion made of raindrops, or the night's magic, with her back to him.
Well, he wasn't having any of that! Lewrie sprang from the bed and crossed the room to snuggle in against her from behind, to "help" her enjoyment. His hands roamed, and made Henriette softly groan deep in her throat; over her waist and belly, the tops of her thighs, then up to cup her bounteous breasts and circle her large, dark nipples and areolae with his thumbs. Up to the tops of her shoulders, then butterflying downward over her breasts again, and she stiffened with delight and parted her feet more widely as he softly traced down either side of her stomach, down to her prominent mons and the pouty lips of her vagina. She leaned her head back on his shoulder, raised her arms over her head, and juddered her luscious bottom against his groin.
A moment more, a groan more, and she stepped quickly away, over to the wash-hand-stand for the sponges and the basin of cool water, so she could return and do the same for him. Working her way down, down, 'til she knelt before him, teasing her hair over his member, now hard as a marling-spike. A look up into his eyes, a teasing smile upon her face, then she half-lidded her eyes, took hold of his manhood, and put her lips over the cap.
"Pour vous, mon amour formidable, " she whispered, pausing for a moment before lowering her head once more to her ministrations.
The distant thunder seemed to rumble 'twixt his ears, steady as the excited pulse of his heart. He threw his own head back and let out a low moan, put one hand on the back of her head and gripped a shutter with the other.
Whores, by God! he exulted to himself, looking down at last to watch her, and him, work together. Wives never know this, now and then maybe a mistress, but… go it, darlin'. Tonight you're mine t'do ev'rything I want… bought an' paid for, and by God, it feels fine!
The novelty of having a woman so casually, of using her as much as he wanted, any way he wanted, then discarding her without a backward glance-though with a japing, teasing friendliness, a "fond" parting kiss, and extra shilling or two-it was so damned beguiling, so alluring, that he wondered why he'd eschewed whores all these years!
Wasn't for the Navy, I'd've most-like become a pimp! he recalled from his early days, the chuckle in his throat higher this time, almost a cackle of mirth.
Thud-thud-thud-thud, went the far-off thunder; thud-thud…
No, it wasn't thunder, he decided after a moment of coherency in the grip of mindless pleasure. And it wasn't his heart, either, those regular thuds, for they were in counterpoint to the beat in his chest.
Henriette stopped and sat back on her heels, suddenly looking forlorn and frightened, clamping her arms over her breasts.
"Here, now…" he began to say, irked that she'd quit before the "melting moments."
"L'Ouverture!" Henriette squeaked. "The drums!"
"Drums? Oh!" Lewrie gawped, going to the window. "So that's what that sound is. Like… like Muskogee Indian drumming. Sort of."
"Is voudoun!" Henriette gasped, beginning to shiver in dread.
"Cuffy mumbo-jumbo?" Lewrie scoffed.
"Is vrais … is true! Very powerful!" Henriette insisted, at the verge of teeth-chattering terror. " Voudoun priests bless rebels, and curse town peoples. We hear the drums, it mean L'Ouverture and his armies 'ave come! In the hills now! Oh, Mon Dieu, zey kill us all!"
"They'll not get the town, chene," Lewrie told her, following her round the room as she dithered, thinking of packing, thinking about hiding the next moment, picking things up and then throwing them down. "There's a British army out there, with dozens of field guns. Redans and fortifications, lashings of ammunition. There's ships in harbour, just stiff with artillery, too. Nothing to worry about. Now, let us get back to our pleasures. Where were we, hmmm?"
He took hold of her arms and brought her to a halt by the bed, urging her to get back into it. She'd raised his desires, had brought him close to joy, and damned if he was going to quit now.
"British keep us safe?" she asked, sounding leery about it.
"Safe as houses, I assure you," he lied, embracing her and kissing her neck and shoulders, her hollows, but with a bit of a spraddle-legged dance to the edge of the mattress, a bit of pressure to topple her back to her duties. "Can't let a pretty young thing like you get in their clutches, now can we, Henriette… ma chйrie?" he coaxed.
She submitted, and sat on the edge of the bed to re-engage her mouth over him. Sulkily, at first, but quickly warming to her work.
"Ah, that's me girl," Lewrie sighed, rock-hard again.
She quit, again! But this time, it was merely to reach over to the nightstand to retrieve a fresh, unused cundum and sheath him with the tanned sheep-gut, to tie off the ribbons around his waist and under his crutch, then award him a brave smile as she lay back and opened her limbs to him.
Lewrie slid in, kissing his way up her body, lingering over her groin for a long minute or two, 'til she began to grind her hips and make whimpery little groaning sounds. Up to kiss and lick her belly, that. actually shuddered under his feathery touch, her hands now eagerly drawing him higher. Tonguing and suckling on her marvelous poonts and even play-nipping, that made her squeak and bounce and chuckle. Then her thighs raised and he was atop her and in her, and the Mongol Horde or all the Imps of Hell could have been howling for blood below-stairs, for all that Lewrie cared. Henriette, too, it seemed to Lewrie; this time was not artful or coy, but furious and mindless, as if sex could silence those drums and drive the bad'uns away.
Rap-rap-rap on the door. "I say, Alan old son? Time t'be out and doin'," Cashman muttered.
"Go… away! Later! Plus tard!" Lewrie gasped back, amid a skirl of squeaking bed-ropes and slats, and Henriette panting into his mouth as if trying to suck a long life from him. Whining in ecstacy!
"Heard the drums? I really think-"
"Bugger… off ! Drake had time t'bowl… I've time for a romp! Whoo! Darlin'!"
Henriette was keening, grasping, clawing, nigh to a scream!
"Oui oui oui, mon Dieu, oh oui … I" Henriette shrieked. "I am going… eeeeehhhh!"
"Aarrhhh!" Lewrie chimed in a moment later. "Rule, Brittania, by Jesus, yes\"
He collapsed on her, aswim in perspiration once more, gasping like a pair of landed fish, aslither to press close and grasp to keep the mind-lessness in hand as long as possible.
"Happy now?" came the sardonic, muffled voice beyond the door.
"Ain't Paradise yet, but damn close," Lewrie called back as he rolled off the bed, groaning with exhaustion and lingering joy, as he stood bare-arsed naked and stripped off the cundum for a quick washing and later use. "Quick sponge, and I'll be out in two shakes of a wee lamb's tail… and the first's already been shook. Uhm, Henriette, me darlin'… know where I dropped my shirt?"
Though it was hours before dawn, and still raining in a light, desultory way, the streets of Port-Au-Prince teemed with people. Some refugees were up and packing, or trundling two-wheeled handcarts down to the harbour, in hopes of a departing ship. There was more light at last, with almost every window or porchway illuminated by the curious and the fearful. Citizens stood on their stoops or balconies to stare out towards the countryside, or shout questions at passersby and their neighbours, who were also up and peering in their nightshirts or gowns.