"I gathered that most of their experienced naval officers by now are quite aged, sir," Lewrie informed him, "those who won fame back in the Revolution; and most of them were privateersmen, to begin with."
The interview was going quite nicely, Lewrie thought. Captain Charles was Admiral Sir Hyde Parker's staff captain, a most ebulliently friendly sort-big as a rum keg about the middle and twice as stout, with the rosy cheeks and nose of the serious toper. The first thing to be done was to fetch newcome Captain Lewrie a glass of claret, and take up a refill with him to be convivial. They sat in leather wing chairs to either side of a wine-table, not before and behind the massive desk as junior and superior might, like cater-cousins or fellow clubmen.
Lewrie was turned out in his newest and nattiest uniform, run up in London for the December fкte to celebrate Camperdown. The dark blue wool coat was hard-finished and smooth, and perhaps a bit too hot for a tropic day, but a snowy-white silk shirt and equally pristine sailcloth cotton waistcoat and breeches somewhat eased any discomfort that Lewrie might have felt. The single gilt epaulet on his right shoulder, all the buttons, and gold-lace cuff trim was so new, and so well packed away so long, that he fair gleamed. And the two medals hung about his neck had gotten a polish, along with his new Hessian boots with the gilt tassels. Captain Sir Edward Charles's eyes had drifted to the medals several times, in an almost wistful way, since their introduction.
Ain't ev'ry one-winged captain that can boast one medal, Lewrie smugly told himself; much less two! Poor old soul's jealous!
"Within two day's sail of Antigua, was it?" Sir Edward asked as he topped up their half-filled glasses.
"Aye, sir. Mister Gordon told me that Saint Kitts would be one of their 'rondy's,' as would Dominica. American merchantmen will gather there and await escort for convoys, he said, to perhaps as far north as Savannah, in Georgia. He gave me the impression that what few French privateers or warships that had harried their coastal shipping were now scared off by their new frigates, and that the bulk of their losses now take place in the Caribbean. This new naval minister of theirs, termed a Secretary of the Navy, a man name of Benjamin Stoddert, gave Gordon the further impression that he's that eager to make a 'forward presence'… as soon as they have enough ships in commission, of course."
"Well, if Gordon's little cutter was the best they have to show the flag…" Sir Edward smirked over the rim of his glass. "How well-armed was she?"
"Four four-pounders, and a batch of swivels, Sir Edward, and all rough-cast," Lewrie said with a deprecating sneer of his own. "Not two from the same foundry. Old-style touch-holes with powder-filled quills for ignition. That, or port-fires. The muskets and pistols that I saw were a tad rough, as well. Copies of Tower muskets," he said, heaving a tiny shrug. "Though some mates and officers had purchased long-range Pennsylvania rifles, and those were quite well-made and very accurate. We had a little shoot-off, sir. I with my Ferguson breech-loader, and they with their muzzle-loaders."
"Who won?" Sir Edward snapped, "tetchy" of a sudden. "Uhm… they did, sir. Though ramming the ball down a rifled barrel with a lubricated leather patch about it takes forever. I was told that their new Marine Corps will be issued rifles, not muskets. A squad of Marines in each top, with rifles, could decimate the officers of a foe at nearly two hundred yards, maybe even a full cable's range. Then, sir, God help the French, when they meet!"
"Don't hold with such doings, myself," Sir Edward scoffed, now growling with ill humour. "My Marines'll volley from the bulkwarks. Shooting officers, sir, is un-gentlemanly. Deliberately targeting an officer is abominable! Dishonourable! Might as well cut their throats in their beds! Piratical, barbaric! Just what I'd expect of American manners, morals, or 'honour!' Pack of Red Indians, near-like, sir, in all those deerskin clothes, with feathers-and dung!-in their hair so please you! We'll not have such in this fleet, sir, and I'll thank you to remember that!" The feathers, deerskins… or snipin ? Lewrie had to ask himself. "Never stood and fought in the open, Captain Lewrie, no! They skulked in the bushes and shot from cover, the coward's way! Armed to the teeth, e'en the women and children," Sir Edward querulously carped, in a "pet" over past experiences, Lewrie surmised. "Uncivilised thieves and highwaymen, riotous armed bullies, hah! But never the stomach for a proper battle, and I doubt they've improved, now they're on their own without English law to rein in their chaotic nature. Do we really see American warships down here, I'll lay you any odds you wish, they will skulk in port, fatten off our stores, but leave the hard work to a proper navy such as ours! The French'd eat 'em alive!"
"Well, sir, even as addle-pate as their Lieutenant Gordon was," Lewrie dared to point out, "they did run a taut enough ship, and they sounded quite eager to prove themselves against the Frogs."
"Ev'ry calf-headed innocent sings eager before his first fight, Captain Lewrie," Sir Edward countered. " 'cause he knows nothing about battle. Let idiots and fools like your Lieutenant Gordon cross hawse with a real French frigate, and then see what tune he sings, hah! No, sir… Americans are too disorganised, too stubbornly individualistic to achieve much. Put a dozen in a room, you'll hear fifteen different opinions! Lazy, idle; twiddlers, who'd rather get drunk on their corn whiskey-a vile concoction!-just enough bottom to 'em to plant more corn, so they can make more whiskey! As money-grubbing as Jews, too. But not a single gentleman, a single educated and civilised man in a thousand to boast of. Barbarians, sir! Ignorant.. . peasants!"
Does he really hate 'em that bad? Lewrie wondered. Or is he just drunk, and ravin'? And how 'in-the-barrel' was he before I got here?
"I s'pose we'll see, Sir Edward," Lewrie said, noncommittally. "This Gordon fellow expected their warships rather soon."
"In hurricane season?" Sir Edward responded, leaning far back in his chair to the point that it almost tipped off its front legs, agape with a mix of horror and amazement on his now-glowing phyz.
"Their Secretary of the Navy, that Mister Stoddert, is of the opinion that really bad storms occur more rarely than people think. I believe Gordon said perhaps no more than once a year, sometimes once in five years, sir. American merchantmen in the Caribbean keep records of weather, and their studies of those records-"
"Told you they were purblind fools!" the staff-captain said with an angry bark. "Well, let me tell you, Captain Lewrie, the Royal Navy has records, too, and vaster experience in the West Indies than anyone else, hundreds of years in these waters, and even we depart the Indies by June, and don't come back 'til late September. Why Sir Hyde's flagship Queen is in the careenage this very moment, sir… to ready her for her voyage to Halifax."
And here I thought it was 'cause the seaweed on her bottom had taken root in the harbour mud! Lewrie thought, hiding his smirk. He'd heard that Sir Hyde Parker was making a vast fortune in prize money in the West Indies, the richest plum assignment that Admiralty could bestow; and that he was doing it the classic way… trusting to others in frigates and sloops of war, to junior officers in hired brigs, cutters and tenders to reap the spoils, whilst the big ships languished at anchor, waiting for a French fleet that might never come, so tight was the British blockade of the French ports.
"Why the other Third Bates are in, outfitting, too," Sir Edward further informed him. He topped up his own glass, but made no offer to do the same for Lewrie's this time. "By no later than mid-June, this harbour will be nearly empty. Then it will be up to the lesser ships on the station to exert themselves in our stead. Tenders to the Third Bates, tenders to the flagship…"
Pets and toadies, Lewrie sneerfully told himself; captains' favourites who can fatten their sea-daddy's purse, and their own. While better men twiddle their thumbs and never see tuppence.
"… hired brigs, captured schooners, and a few frigates, just to keep the French on the qui vive. What is your draught, sir?"
"Umh…" Lewrie said, coming back to the moment, "seventeen and a half feet aft, sir."
"Excellent! Though you'll want to purchase, or capture, a tender, or tow some additional single-masted boats for close inshore work," Sir Edward suggested. "Base out of Kingston, here, so the voyage over to Saint Domingue will be short, when you run low on stores. You may even contemplate landing some stores, sailing lighter, to reduce draught to seventeen feet, or slightly less."
"I see, sir. Most helpful advice," Lewrie replied, realising he was probably the lowest-ranking Post-Captain on-station, and would be staying after the valuable ships departed for hurricane season. Dull blockade work off some French-held port on Saint Domingue, off-and-on plodding back and forth, and nothing worth chasing but for island-built luggers and single-masted sloops. And reefs and shoals, aplenty!
"So Proteus is to patrol close to Saint Domingue, is she, sir?" he simply had to ask, in way of sly prompting for a wider liberty for action… and prize money! "Or shall she have leave to patrol more, uhm… aggressively? "
"Blockade work, Captain Lewrie," Sir Edward told him, sounding almost glad to grind it in, as if he had formed a low opinion of him, in a twinkling. "Get your sea legs in the West Indies, after all that derring-do of yours in European waters," the staff-captain sneered, with a dismissive gesture towards Lewrie's medals. Unfortunately, the hand that he employed was the one that held his wineglass, and he spilled a goodly dollop of it on his own breeches, the wine-table, and his carpet, which was a very fine-mostly pale- Turkey. "Goddammit!"
"Oh, what a pity, sir…'bout the rug," Lewrie said, making a charitable grimace, instead of the angry scowl he felt like showing.
"Best pair, dammit," Sir Edward seethed, trying to swipe at his drenched thigh, setting that dangerous glass down, at least… but he flung droplets from his hand with an idle shake that spattered Lewrie in turn. "Oh, bugger!"
"Actually, Sir Edward, I did a few years in the West Indies in the Revolution. Started out here, in '80. So I wonder if the best use of Proteus is…" Lewrie slyly attempted to wheedle.
"Damned puppy!" Sir Edward screeched of a sudden, glaring back at him. "Don't like your orders, do you? Presume to talk me out of 'em, will you? In debt, are you? That eager for prize money?"
"Never, sir!" Lewrie declared, with his best "righteous" face on. "Proteus is fast and nimble, and does draw seventeen feet, sir. I was merely wishing to point out that a shoal-draught brig or large schooner would better serve close-in, whilst a frigate might stand farther offshore, to better interdict ships attempting to smuggle arms into Saint Domingue. And be better placed to intercept the odd French warship. As you say, in a few weeks our strength in the Indies will be reduced 'til the end of hurricane season, and fewer ships will have to cover a vast area, so it struck me that the most, uhm… efficient use of all our vessels is necessary, so-"
"Teach your granny to suck eggs, would you, sir?" Captain Sir Edward Charles fumed back, still mopping himself with a pocket handkerchief. "Know better than your superiors, do you?" "Absolutely not, sir, why-!"
"Specific orders will be draughted and aboard your ship by the end of tomorrow's Forenoon, Captain Lewrie. Good day, sir."
"Very good, sir," Lewrie answered, quickly quaffing the last of his claret and getting to his feet, his face now an inscrutable public mask. "Uhm… there is still my courtesy call upon the Admiral. Do you think…?" he enquired in an innocent tone, trying to salvage his odour, thinking that, should he make a favourable impression upon Sir Hyde Parker, what harm he'd done himself with this quarrelsome drunk could be cancelled out. And those orders changed!
"Our admiral is a most busy man, Captain Lewrie," Sir Edward intoned, "engaged with weighty matters anent the war, and his additional duties as prime representative of the Crown in this part of the world. Most busy. Some other time, perhaps," he concluded, not without a malicious simper to his voice, and a top-lofty twitch to his lips. He did, at least, rise to his own feet to steer Lewrie out, though more than a trifle unsteadily.
"Thank you for receiving me, sir," Lewrie was forced by manners to say, just before the double doors closed in his face, and the muffled cry for a manservant to come swab up the mess reached his ears-ears that were burning with rage!
Damme, but I mucked it! he chid himself as he stomped down the corridor, all but leaving gouged hoofprints in the gleaming tropical mahoghany boards; never argue with a drunk! One who holds powers over you, especially! If my luck's not out, mayhap he'll be half-seas-over by teatime, and so foxed he'll forget I was ever here!
"Arrogant old bastard!" he muttered under his breath. "Must keep his manservants up all night, washin' the wine and the vomit from out his wardrobe! Not sayin' he's so ignorant, he doesn't know how to pee, but I'll wager there's more'n a time or two his breeches are yellow, and his shoe-buckles 're rusty! God!" he spat aloud. Cautiously.
And it wasn't as if Sir Edward Charles was likely to stand tall in repute, either, he groused to himself; he was a staff-captain, not the flag-captain of the fleet. A drunken stumbler a pistol-shot shy of being "Yellow Squadroned," a jumped-up senior clerk left ashore by his superiors to shuffle papers for the real fighting captains!
He found a black servant tending to a laving bowl and a stack of towels just by the wide double doors that led out to the courtyard and coachway, a luxury for officers and civilian visitors who wished to swab off perspiration and cool themselves before reporting to superiors. Badly in need of a cooling-off, Lewrie set aside his hat and plunged his hands into the water, sluicing his face and neck several times, wishing that he could bury his head in the bowl until he blew bubbles, or just up-turn it over himself 'til his choler subsided.
"Thankee," he said to the well-liveried slave as he offered him a towel. "Needed that. Hot in there."
"Aye, sah," the slave replied, not quite rolling his eyes with long experience of officers who needed his ministrations after their interviews.
Damme, I know Isaw a man in admiral's togs, standin ' on a balcony as we sailed in. Was that Parker? Lewrie recalled.
Damme, I know Isaw a man in admiral's togs, standin ' on a balcony as we sailed in. Was that Parker? Lewrie recalled.
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.