"Out in a bit, puss!" Mewl Toulon cried, pawing the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lewrie had Lieutenant Langlie and Lieutenant Catterall in for a working supper, with Mr. Durant to aid in the translations. They had captured a brace of hogs from the brig Sycamores manger, quickly run over to Proteus in the cutter, and done to a crackly turn by their new ship's cook. Being a Yankee brig, she'd also carried several sacks of cornmeal which had gone into skillets to bake sweet, chewy muffins or pone bread for all hands, to replace hard ship's biscuit for a day or two. Mushy peas with melted cheese sauce, and breaded and fried onion accompanied the tender pork roast, making a fine victory feast, with promise of a piping-hot apple dowdy to come. It was only after a round oн port, with some biscuit and cheese, that the papers from the French privateer Incendiare were fetched out for study.
The bulk of it was dry, boresome, and innocuous; lists of needs and expenses for cordage, spars, canvas and tar, shot, powder and cartridge flannel (all pleasingly hard to come by on Guadeloupe at present, they noted), and the problems among her crew; the everyday life of a working ship.
Much more interesting were the former captain's letters from at least three ladies of Guadeloupe, all dated within days of each other, of a blue-hot ardent and salacious nature, which had them all guffawing, along with the former captain's attempts at draft letters that tried to keep them sorted out without repeating himself. Even racier was an unfinished and forlorn missive to his wife in Bordeau, practically weeping blue ink over missing her so grievously!
A good supper, fresh bread (of a sort), and the promise of prize money to come had them all in an expansive mood, Lewrie noted. Even Mr. Durant seemed to have laid aside his disenchantment over Hudson's place as the senior Surgeon's Mate, for the nonce, and joined in the mirth, holding up his end of the table conversation and putting down a fair and manly share of wine, even cracking droll jests before they got down to the business at hand. And in that business, letters that Incendiare s captain had received provided bright gems of interest.
"This'n from his wife, sir," Lt. Catterall said, holding up a page for better light from the four-lanthorn chandelier that swivelled and swayed over Lewrie's glossy dining table, "she writes that things are hotting up in the Mediterranean. An Admiral de Brueys-sounds as if her family knows his-has taken command of a three-decker by the name of L'Ocean, and a large number of line-of-battle ships… uhm, accompanied by over an hundred transports, for an expedition bound for somewhere."
Durant hid a snicker behind his port glass; it was true, then, that Catterall could read French, but couldn't pronounce it worth a tinker's damn, as he tried to expand eruditely. After two bottles' worth, he should have known better, Lewrie thought.
"In his journal, zere is similar mention," Mr. Durant stated, setting down his glass and opening a salt-stained book of ruled pages. "Ah… he speculates about zis armada, sirs. He is certain zat some tremendous victory will be won, and… rumour gained from Guadeloupe officials about one possible aim being ze island of Malta."
"Damme, that'd cut the Mediterranean in half," Langlie said. He refilled his port glass from the decanter that circled larboardly round the table as he spoke. "And with no help from the neutral and beaten Italian states, and Austria out of things, that'd leave Admiral Jervis where he was two years ago… chased back to Gibraltar or Lisbon."
"He regrets zey do not come to ze West Indies, sirs," Mister Durant read on, "and retake Martinique, or other former colonies… ah! Apparently, a General Bonaparte is in charge, and has a grander scheme in mind. He writes that perhaps the Balkans are the aim-"
"Bonaparte?" Lewrie grumbled, slapping the table. "Why, I've met the little bastard, in '93! Ran me out of the Adriatic, too, when he invaded Italy in '96, and beat the Austrians and Piedmontese like a dusty rug. Almost bagged me on the Genoese coast once, too. He's a dangerous man, I tell you. Never trust the dwarfish, gentlemen. He's no bigger than a minute, but slipp'ry as an eel…"
It need not be said that Lewrie was, by then, most cheerily in his cups, since he'd-By God-earned it, and was damned grateful to have breath in his body for use between sips. Unloaded? Jesus!
"Well, if he's busy conquering someplace Dago-ish, we'll not be plagued by him this summer at least," Catterall snickered, only a wee bit sozzled. His robust constitution came with a "hollow-leg."
"No ships to spare to oppose us. Good," Langlie contributed.
"And with their Atlantic ports blockaded so close, where else'd the Monsieurs get frigates or corvettes, with their Toulon fleet busy?" Catterall snorted.
"So the West Indies'll be safe 'til our 'liners' come back from Halifax, at the end of hurricane season," Lewrie reasoned out.
"Uhm… he expresses worry about American frigates, sirs," Mr. Durant continued, flipping through the private journal. "He was pursued by one off Dominica… he was run one hundred miles in a day."
"Recent?" Catterall demanded, eyes beginning to unfocus, after all, and starting to sound "bull-horned" drunk.
"Recently, yes, Mister Catterall," Durant replied.
"Must've been that Hancock, then," Catterall said with a grunt.
"I'd've run, too," Lewrie jokingly confessed, "whether she was over-sparred and un-handy, over-gunned or crank. She's a fearsome and fast beast."
"Privateers stand no chance on ze coast of America, now," Mr. Durant paraphrased. "Zey return to Caribbean waters, uhm… he suspects more American frigates… ah! Here is something, sirs. After ze break in relations, Paris determines to re-enforce zeir navy here… what ships zey may spare from Brest and L'Orient, bringing fresh troops and arms…"
Durant made a shrug and a moue.
"He rejoices, for L'Ouverture's victory over General Maitland," Durant cautiously said, "he congratulates ze noirs of Saint Domingue, and writes of hopes zat zey may be directed west to an invasion of Jamaica, rather zan east against Spanish Santo Domingo. But he does not trust zem, sirs, nor does he like zem. If zey go east, Spanish harbours might be closed to privateers."
"Be a good thing," Catterall huffed. "Tally-ho, Toussaint!"
"A mission diplomatique is to be sent to L'Ouverture, soon, as I read zis!" Durant cried, making them all sit up and take notice of such news. "Important officials who will ask L'Ouverture to reconcile with General Rigaud in South Province, so zeir armies may combine to attack Jamaica! And ask for a time of rest, so zey may build up his supplies first, and assemble suitable transports!"
"We must get this news to Kingston, at once," Lewrie declared. "Then rash right back, and hunt the delegation ship!"
"Pipe dreams, sir," Langue sadly said. "Their hopes for a try at Jamaica, that is. That'd take lots of ships, not a gaggle of potty little fishing boats, nor all their privateers as escort. Can't be done without proper ships of war, even with our ships of the line away 'til October or November."
"Unless Bonaparte really means to hit the Indies, not something in the Mediterranean," Lewrie objected. "I told you he was devious as the Devil! Look at the way he gammoned half a dozen brilliant Austrian generals by sayin' one thing, demonstratin' one thing, but doin' quite another fifty miles away. Anything more on that line, Mister Durant?"
"Zere is another entry, quite recent, Capitaine," Durant said, after wetting a finger to turn the pages. "Before he sails north, to rendezvous with ze brig we capture, uhm… many privateer capitaines meet with an officer sent from Paris on the frigate zat delivers ze arms we take, a Capitaine de Vaisseau … a Post-Captain. He is under the Governor-General Hugues, to coordinate. He writes, 'If United States have turned belli gиrent, prey upon their merchantmen, those of useful burthen, and capture sufficient transport for future expeditionary use. Then, as re-enforcements arrive, under escort by ships from the Atlantic squadrons, both French and noir forces will combine for a descent upon islands now occupied by Albion,'… that is to say, us, gentlemen. The capitaine of Incendiare describes the new arrival as a most energetic and inspiring man… zough he expresses a troubling fear of him, due to his monstrous appearance, and his reputation as an ardent and ruthless chasseur of Royalists and seditionists during Ze Terror. He names him Le Hideux," Durant said, turning the book about so they could see the entry for themselves.
"Huh? Beg pardon?" Lewrie stammered, wishing that his senses were not quite so foxed, or his eyes so mutinous at focusing. "Le Hideux, did he call him?" He felt a cold, fey dread invade his body.
No, can't be! he quailed inside; Ikilled the dog! Didn't I?
"Oui, Le Hideux, Capitaine." Durant blithely continued reading from the journal. "Apparently, zis officer is deformed by many cruel wounds. He wears a black mask over ze right half of his face and his eye, to cover a blinding and a livid scar, it is rumoured. He has a bad limp, and must wear an iron brace over his boot to stand and uses a cane… which must be awkward for him, since his right arm is gone at ze shoulder. His name, he notes…" Durant paused. "Mon Dieu!"
"Guillaume Choundas!" Lewrie spat. "Mine arse on a band-box!"
"You know of him, aussi, Capitaine?" Durant asked, shivering.
"I killed him," Lewrie whispered. "Swear t'Christ, I thought I did, back in '96." He stared blank and pale at the far partitions.
"Sir?" Langlie gawped, eldritch-struck by such a reaction from his captain, by such an ominous, rabbit-across-one's-grave dread. "Did you say you… killed him, sir? Then…?"
"Who is the bastard, then, sir?" Catterall asked, impervious to superstition; nigh impervious to anything, by then.
"A fiend from Hell's deepest pits, Mister Catterall," Lewrie at last managed to say, after mastering himself. "A fiend who just won't die, no matter I've had my whacks at him two or three times. An evil, clever, murderin', bastardly gullion of a Malouin corsair, who thinks he has some Breton, ancient Celtic destiny, since Julius Caesar conquered the Veneti. Mad as a March Hare, but clever… oh, so clever!" Lewrie told them, shaking his head in queasy wonder, and pouring himself more port, a brimming bumper, with hands that barely shook despite his shock.
" Paris couldn't have picked a better foe to send us. Dangerous as a crate o' cobras, and not a jot o' mercy in his thrice-damned soul. He puts a squadron together in these waters, and he'll raise mayhem as sure as I'm born. Sew your arses shut, and keep yer backs to a wall."
He felt another sinking feeling in his innards, and knew that it was not the result of indigestion or a tropical fever. "You gentlemen will, I pray, excuse me for a moment," he bade, tossing off his glass of port at one go, then shoving his chair back so hard that it nearly tipped over, its feet catching at the painted canvas deck cover. They rose in kind as he headed aft for his quarter-gallery again.
"Whew!" Lt. Catterall softly marvelled, clawing for the bottle to charge his glass. "Never heard the like! If this… what was he, this Choundas, is that bad, and his presence in the West Indies upsets the captain so, well… he must be Satan incarnate."
"You asked if Captain Lewrie had heard of him, too, did you not, Mister Durant?" Langlie enquired more sombrely, but also in a mutter that would not carry far aft. "What do you know of him?"
"Rumours of him before my family and I escape Toulon in '93, Mister Langlie," Durant fretfully informed them, frowning hard. "And what he did to zose who could not flee ze Rйpublicains when Toulon fell. Six thousand guillotined, shot, or bayoneted in ze surf, wading out and pleading for just one more boat. Guillaume Choundas was one of those who purged ze Toulon fleet and ze city. He loves ze guillotine, ze torture… poor helpless women, and especially little girls in terror of him. He slaughter his way south from Paris, to every naval port, an enthusiastic agent of Ze Terror. I had not thought of him in years, Grace б Dieu! But now… pardons, gentlemen, but I fear it will be a very bad zing for him to appear."
"But, surely…!" Langlie protested in a splutter that sounded half bemused, now. "He's but one man, in charge of a pack of tag-rag-and-bobtail privateers… that's like herding cats!"
"No insult meant, Toulon," Catterall grumped, winking at Lewrie's pet, who was hunkered on all fours with his tail tucked about his front paws on the sideboard, his eyes half slit in the dim lanthorn light as eerily as a witch's familiar. He'd meant to jape, but the atmosphere had gotten to him, too.
"Charge oн nothing," Langlie persisted, sterner now. "He might get the use of a frigate or two, that's all, and we've what… seventy or more ships out here? And we've Captain Lewrie, as brave and smart a scrapper as ever trod a quarterdeck! And we've Proteus, surely the finest frigate in the whole Royal Navy! We'll settle this Choundas."
"Got old Lir," Catterall whispered. "Don't forget the tales of seals and selkies, the old sea-god's favour and all, and the uncanny good fortune that follows the Captain from ship to ship. What did for our first commanding officer at Chatham? What did for that mutineer, Rolston, the night we transferred him after we escaped the Nore? No, lads, don't forget we've luck on our side. Why, the Captain's taken the man half apart, already! Shot off his arm, by the sound of it… probably did the carvin' on his phyz, too, I shouldn't wonder, maybe was the one who lamed the bastard, as well!
"One more encounter with Captain Lewrie, and this Choundas'll have t'sign his name with his prick like that Buckinger feller, does all the stunts at the raree shows 'thout arms or legs, hey? And keeps Mistress Buckinger a happy woman, 'tis said!" Catterall chortled, more loudly than necessary. "He don't scare me, this Guillaume Choundas or howsomever ya say it! Bring him on, I say!"
"Hear, hear!" Langlie cheered, drumming the tabletop.
"And, m sieurs,'" Durant slyly commented, tapping the side of his head, "after so many disasters to his person… who is to say that he, Choundas, just may be in dread of rencontre with ze capitaine, n'est-ce past
"Hear, hear!" Langlie chirped, merry once again, hastening to top their glasses. "The Captain gets one more shot at him, and it will be finis for Choundas. After this morning, I doubt that there's anything on Earth that'd daunt our captain for more'n a second!"
"Hear, hear!" Langlie chirped, merry once again, hastening to top their glasses. "The Captain gets one more shot at him, and it will be finis for Choundas. After this morning, I doubt that there's anything on Earth that'd daunt our captain for more'n a second!"
"Toast, toast!" Catterall cried, staggering to his feet.
In the sudden silence, though, as foxed wits tried to dredge up the proper sentiments, there came a sound from the quarter-gallery in the stern, not quite unlike a prolonged, stentorian belch; nor, being in a hero-worshiping and charitable humour, could the assembly term it as resembling a day-long, fluttery fart.
Either way, though, it didn't sound particularly heroic.
EPILOGUE
Mind th' paint, yer honour, sor," Landman Furfy cautioned, as Lewrie's gig bumped against their frigate's hull below the entry-port.
"You do the same, Furfy," Lewrie cheerfully called back, taking in how much ended up on Furfy rather than the gunwale, "else the only thing t'clean you would be neat rum, or turpentine."
"Prefer th' rum, sor… bathin' in it, ah th' wonder!" Furfy replied, pausing on the half-awash work catamaran platform on which he stood, standing back to salute with his paintbrush as Lewrie ascended the battens to the starboard gangway. Pipes trilled, boots clomped in unison, hands slapped shiny, linseeded musket stocks, and sailors took pause in their labours to doff their hats.
"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.
Theoni Connor? Again, no. She had always seen him as heroic, and any admission of past dreads would demean him with her. He could explain just who this bкte-noir was, at least lay out the odds of the possible future confrontation, now they were due to cross each others' hawse, but… maybe weaning himself of Theoni Connor was the better course. It was three years before Proteus sailed home to pay off, and at least two months each way for letters.
He could write his father, baldly stating, "By the by, that dog we chased in Asia is now here, and we hunt each other. The weather is fine…" That might be best, he thought; surely his father would be able to put a flea in Sophie's ear, and that would get back to his own household in short order, reawakening concern for him in Caroline's heart. Again, that was two months' mail packet passage before the news could affect anyone, for good or ill.
Cashman? He felt like telling somebody] Cashman, though, was hip-deep in selling up his plantation, was too distracted with his ongoing feud with Ledyard Beauman… and his gleeful, cackling preparations for that duel. He was an old friend, a man, a seasoned soldier, so surely he 'd understand, did a respected, courageous officer relate a few twinges of worry over an old foe's reappearance, and how he had found a way to deal with him… over a few bottles of champagne?
Perhaps the next time he was ashore, visiting Kit; though that was an unbearably long time to sit on the matter. And, when ashore, their time would mostly be spent on the duel, since Cashman meant to hold him to his promise to second him, and the over-formal punctilio of the code duello would prove exacting.
The curse of command, Lewrie sourly realised, deflating from a brief moment of exuberance; good tidings or shiverin' shits, there's not a single soul you can tell! The public masque ya wear in Society… yer good odour as a hero won't allow it ashore, either! he thought with a self-deprecating scoff over "hero."
No, he would have to "play" the imperturbable Royal Navy stock character, as seen on stage, saving his innermost feelings only for a "good woman." After all, that was what a life's helpmeet was for, the role in life as stock characters for "good women."
Or bad'uns, who don't parley any English, Lewrie told himself with a smirk; to unburden oneself just might be an active verb, there! In more ways than one.
"Aspinall, how are we set for something cold to drink?" Lewrie asked the empty great-cabins, and his manservant popped his head from his small pantry, where he'd been doing some sennet-work napkin rings.
"Pitcher o' cool tea with lemon an' sugar comin' up, sir!"
Lewrie went to the desk and ruffled Toulon 's belly fur, tickling him under the chin. The cat awoke in a trice, and after a brief yawn and stiff-legged stretch, he began to wriggle and writhe about, eager for some play, tail whisking again, and his eyes wide.
"You poor old puss," Lewrie said with a sigh, fingers escaping quickly snapped jaws and batting paws for another "attack" upon belly fur, that put Toulon into a fit of flipping from side to side. "May not know it, but you're my onliest audience, Toulon. You've the only ears I can whisper into. 'Cause you're the only one who can't blab."
"Mmmrrph!" Toulon replied, trapping a hand and rasping tongue on a finger.
"I love you, too, you rascal."
AFTERWORD
Perhaps it's not a good omen for Alan Lewrie, but the captains and admirals who participated in the Battle of Camperdown had no luck at all. Too tainted, perhaps, with the worst part of the Nore Mutiny in the spring of 1797, their ships' crews the worst and most threatening to naval and social order (see King's Captain for Lewrie's part in it), none of them, even after winning a victory and eliminating a threat of joint Franco-Dutch invasion of England itself, none of them prospered. And one, the captain of Agincourt, was cashiered for cowardice.
The way the Dutch fought, close-up and courageous, shattered as many British ships as they lost. None of the Royal Navy ships served for very long after being extensively repaired; nor were any of their hard-won prizes taken at Camperdown worth anything, either. They were bought in, also given extensive repairs, but five or six years later, most of them ended up as non-sailing hulks or harbour receiving ships.
By the way, those purists who might object to the Orangespruit frigate being there… sure, I knew she was a very old warship in '97 and was probably a hulk by the time of the battle, but she was a 36-gunner, and the name was very Dutch, and since I know little of Holland beyond tulips, windmills, cheeses, and beers, well… I'll not steal a victory from a real captain and his capture, and I'll not name a ship Edam or Gouda, either. Lewrie will get his share of prize money from her taking, and that's all he cares about, thankee very much.
Many thanks to the U.S. Naval Institute Press, and Michael A. Palmer, for Stoddert's War regarding the rebirth of the U.S. Navy and its operations during the Quasi War with France in the Caribbean, and thanks to Ty Martin, USN (Ret) and former skipper of Constitution for a list of proposed ship names of American frigates that weren't used… so I could "borrow" one for the USS Hancock. I suspect we will run into Hancock and Captain Kershaw again. Mr. Martin's book, A Most Fortunate Ship, details Constitution and her operations in the Caribbean during the Quasi War, as well as her later illustrious career.