There didn't seem to be much point in patrolling the area, either. There was very little sea traffic except for fishing boats and the rare inter-island packet. There was no foe to fight, no trade worth the name to protect, and hence, no piracy to defend against. It was rare to see a deep-draught seagoing ship pass by, since most of the trade headed for Nassau, Eleuthera or the Exumas up north, or down south to the salt isles of the Turks and Caicos in season. Alacrity made a nuisance of herself by stopping every ship she could catch to inspect cargoes and manifests to enforce the Navigation Acts. And plead for their personal letters to be forwarded to Nassau, should a ship be going there.
Yet, most mysufyingly, there had not been one article of mail from the outside world received in the entire six months. And with the lack of personal correspondence, the hands had gone sullen and slack, as had the warrants and officers. Try as they might to keep the men active with hydrographic work, with the erection of night-beacons and day-marks to aid navigation, it was a halfhearted endeavor as weeks wore by with little pay, few amusements and dulling drudgery to face, with no hope of novelty, or relief.
With no Admiralty funds with which to purchase fresh meat and vegetables, Lewrie had resorted to many refreshing shore expeditions. They would land and hunt wild goats, pigs or iguanas. They would lay at anchor for a day or two and let the hands fish, or gather conch from the shallows, then stage "maroons" with music, singing, dancing and drink enough to at least mellow the men as their food cooked by nighttime beach campfires. By day, they'd extemporize the means to play village games like football or cricket, endless "best-of-seven" tournaments of watch against watch. Even that had palled, lately.
Turtle races, cockroach races, rat-catching… they'd tried it all on. They'd allowed the hands to keep parrots they caught ashore, wild kittens and puppies. They tried to capture wild pigs and temper them to abide being penned in the manger forward by the break of the forecastle for later consumption. Lately, only William Pitt was fond of the menagerie, licking his chops in drooling expectation over the fractious shoats, and attempting to creep up on unsuspecting parrots.
On almost uninhabited Rum Cay, Lewrie had rented a small piece of white land, and had hired an older man to watch it for them, with hopes of fresh vegetables and melons, buying the seeds out of his own pocket, as he had several other small lots of supplies. But now, he was down to his last thirty pounds, and was practically living on the ship's rations himself most of the time, with no replies from Nassau requesting funds from his personal accounts. Every officer or warrant with a shore agent was similarly cut off!
And, he had no idea if he was now a father.
Or a widower.
There had been no letters from Caroline; not one!
Childbearing, the ordeal of childbirth, was the scourge of women, no matter how healthy. "Childbed Fever" they called it and even back home in civilized London, the annual bills of mortality bore thousands and thousands of victims. What could be expected in such a rude climate as the Bahamas, with so few skilled physicians he could not force himself to contemplate any longer.
And half of those hopeless drunkards, he thought miserably!
He threw himself into anything, if only so he could cease his frantic brooding for a few hours. Swordplay until he frothed with sweat. Practice upon the flageolet until he could carry a tune from start to finish at a regular meter. Hunting and fishing. Amusing William Pitt with a cork on a piece of string for hours.
And sulking. And morose imaginings of Caroline dead, until his lack of news for good or ill, his hours of staring raptly at her portrait, his fretful sleep and vivid, nightmarish dreams, had sunk him into a deep despondency, a surreal resignation.
Clarence Town on Long Island was a dreadfully boresome place, worse than Anglesgreen on Sunday, and this was a market day. He took a table in the shade of a veranda at the one inn the settlementcould boast and ordered rum, lime juice, sugar and water for a cold punch. He put his feet up in a rickety chair, removed his hat, undid his neck-stock, and settled in for an afternoon of drinking, an activity which was beginning to figure more prominently in his life lately.
There was a London paper nine months old to read, what was left of it, after being pawed over by countless other patrons, so he was in for the day, if he read all eight pages slowly.
"Ho dere, Navy mon," a fetching black girl said from the railing overlooking the sandy street. "Got no-thin' bettah t'do on ya run asho', now, an' you a hon'some young feller, Lord."
Did I bring my condom with me, he asked himself? No, I'll not! There's Caroline, now. Well, would it hurt to sit and at least talk with a woman? Six months, it's been.
"Cat got ya tongue, fine sah?" she teased. She wasn't as dark as most, tarted up in a decent sack gown she'd altered so it fell low off her shoulders, and bared a darkly shadowed cleft between heavy breasts that swelled her bodice far beyond the original owner's design. She sported a wide-brimmed straw hat, tied beneath her chin with a yellow ribbon, and to keep off the August sun, a small parasol which she twirled fetchingly.
Damned handsome wench, Lewrie appraised silently. More coffee-milk than black. Huge brown eyes, that pouty mouth, and… Christ!
"Just taking my ease for the day," he said at last.
"Dot rum punch be bettah wit' de pineopple in it, sah. Ya let me show ya how, sah, an' do I get a glass, I be obliged," she teased. "De son, he be hot t'day, Cap'um sah."
Oh, Christ, I'd best…! He squirmed inside.
"Take a seat with me," he said instead. "Indeed, it is a hot day. I'd not see a lady suffer. And it's a very old paper. And who might you be?"
"M'name's Wyannie, sah. Wyannie Slocum," she smiled in victory.
Hot, sweaty couplings they had, in a rented room of the tavern. Bodies sheened with perspiration as they plunged away at each other in total, wanton abandon. Her legs were strong and muscular, and Wyannie bucked and thrust back at him with equal vigor, enfolding him with all her limbs, writhing and shoving to meet him hard enough to lift him in the air off the crackling straw mattress and creaking bedropes. She squalled and grunted, panted and lowed like a cow, cursed and groaned and shuddered, then ended each time in hissing screams.
There was more rum punch between bouts, mutual sponge-downs with a pitcher of water and a mildewed handcloth, which renewed their heat. She'd roll a firm thigh across him to ride St. George as he squeezed those heavy breasts, or teased large, dark rock-hard nipples with his thumbs. Once she romped atop him facing away toward his feet, which led to her bent forward, kneeling on the side of the rickety, low cot and him standing behind her with a death grip on her madly rocking hips as he thrust deep into her as frantic as a hound, sweat rolling off his chest and belly, off her solidly firm buttocks, to mingle with their juices. They'd bellowed like bulls and had fallen almost senseless in an exhausted swoon after that one, Alan's mind areel with her cheap perfume, a woman's odors, and her exotic, musky aroma.
"You come t'Clarence Town agin, Alan?" she breathed lazy as a cat as she lolled open and idle beside him. She picked up a top-silver palmetto-frond fan and began to cool him. "Got me a nice shack down t'the beach. We c'n go dere nex' time, luvah-mon. Save ya money an' not need t'rent a room heah."
"We never did discuss your fee," Alan sighed. "We were a touch too… eager, for tawdry business talk."
"Ah ain't no who'," she chuckled as she rolled over to kiss and fondle him. "Jus' walk inta town t'market, an' sell m'melons an' veg'tables. Jus' comin' heah t'buy m'rum, an' dere ya wuz, a'lookin' finel Had me a mon, but he drown las' year fishin', an' nobody else since. Nobody 'roun' heah wort' messin' wit'!" she snorted in contempt. "Some as tried. An' I ain't sayin' de lonely don' pester me s'hard I didn' sport wit a mon a time'r two. I be a who', Lord, I en' up payin' you, darlin'! No, I got me a patch o' white Ian', I got de nets, an' goats an' chick'ns, so I c'n keep m'self right good most de time. Ya don' owe me nottin', luv."
"Well, stap me!" Alan purred, pleased as punch at the news.
"I know ya ship come heah once de mont'," she said, sitting up on one elbow and leaning over so her breasts spilled over his chest. "Ya come t'me, hey? I be yer wo-m'n when yer ashore. Ya sport wit' me good's ya do t'day, Wyannie don' need dese no-'count Clarence Town bo-eys. None o' 'urn's ram-goat as you, Cap'um Alan!"
"You make a tempting offer, Wyannie," he told her. "A damned handsome offer!"
"Shack needs t'fix up some. An' I may need a few t'ings, so Ic'n look pritty fo' ya," she allowed. "Ya know wot dey say, shillin' he be good's de poun', in Clarence Town. Mebbe ya gimme two, t'ree shillin' t'tide me ovah 'til ya get bock t'me an' I c'n luv ya agin, hey, darlin' mon? Den I be ya wo-m'n, an' ya have me all t'y'self."
Right, and I'm Prince Henry the Navigator, Alan thought wryly; I thought it sounded a little too good to be true! Still…
"Wot ya say, luv?" she cooed, drawing him over to her, lifting a breast to his face to be suckled and licked, trailing her lips over his neck and shoulders. She reached down to dandle his waking member.
There came a sudden rapping on the flimsy door.
"Damn my eyes," he muttered under his breath. "Who is it?"
"Lieutenant Ballard, sir."
"Oh, shit," Alan started. "Uhm. A moment! Get dressed, girl."
He got to his feet, fuddled with rum punch and weak-kneed from past exertions, and staggered into stockings, breeches and shirt, gave up a search for his shoes, and went to open the door. He tried to step out into the rude hall and close the door behind him so Ballard would not see his companion, but Wyannie had walked into plain sight to bend over and retrieve her shift, and stood there, splendidly, provocatively nude.
Arthur Ballard's brows lifted, his wary eyes flew open, and for a fleeting moment of shock, he lost his usual calm composure. His jaw sagged, until he swallowed and shut his mouth into a prim set, his lower lip even more pouted than usual.
"What is it, Mister Ballard? Something amiss aboard?"
"Ah, no, sir," Ballard replied, still flustered, and blushing like a schoolboy. "But there's a note come aboard, sir, from the local magistrate. Said there's a letter in his possession for us from Cat Island. Been held by him for a month or more, sir."
"Hallelujah!" Alan whooped with joy. After six months of silence, any missive at all was nothing short of miraculous! "Give me a moment to dress, and I'll be right with you."
"Aye, sir. I'D wait on the veranda," Ballard blushed again.
"Do me buttons up, luvah-mon?" she asked him, dressed but for the back of her gown.
"Sorry we were interrupted. I have to go back aboard."
"Dot's fine," she smiled as she turned around to face him. "I gotta be gettin' back t'my place, anyways. Lef m'chillun wit' m'ma t'watch. Don' ya worry 'bout de kids nex' time ya come, Cap'um Alan. I shoo 'um off fo' de night ovah t'momma's."
"Of course," he said, cringing inside.
Christ on a crutch, she has children, he thought! Here I've been bulling her all over the shop, and Caroline… what of my child? Damme, but I can be such a bloody fooll
"Here, Wyannie," he said, pressing a crown into her palm.
"Lord o' mercy, Alan, ya don' need t'gimme dot much!" Wyannie protested. "I tol' ya, I ain't a who'! Two shillin keep me fine 'til ya get back. An' ya don' need t'gimme ev'n dot, luv."
"Five shillings keeps you better," he said gallantly, smiling in spite of his sudden chagrin, and knowing he'd never see her again in this life, if he had any willpower left. "Dresses you prettier, and takes care of those sprouts of yours the better, hey? Widowhood is hard any place you are. And you're much too young and pretty to be a widow in need."
"Ya sweet," she warmed to him, and accepted the coin. She gave him one last fervid embrace, one last series of open-mouthed and moist kisses. "Walk me t'de road, like a gen'mun, hey, Cap'um?"
He saw her down the hall, onto the veranda, where she retrieved her straw baskets and produce bags, doffed his hat and gave her a bow which made her smile so widely that she dimpled as she curtsied to him, and watched her stroll away loose-hipped and proud with a profound sense of relief, yet a smile of pleasant reverie on his face. Even if Arthur Ballard was watching his antics.
"Well, shall we stroll over to the magistrate's, Arthur?"
"Aye, sir."
They set off down the single street Clarence Town could boast, the afternoon swelter of a late August day only slightly tempered by the sea's breeze, kicking up small clouds of sandy dust with each step.
"Uhm, Alan," Arthur said at last. "Sir, I… uhm."
"Yes, Arthur?" Alan asked, certain that this was not to be an official matter.
"Damme, sir," Ballard cursed for the second time in Alan's recollection. "I know it's not my place. Or concern, how you conduct your personal affairs, sir."
"No, it isn't, Arthur," Alan replied. "Yet…?"
"I mean to say, though, sir. Well, there're… you are married, sir. There're vows and such," Ballard strangled out. "And to such a fine young lady as your dear Caroline, sir. Were the… uhm… had you been with a white woman, sir… dash it all, Alan, it seems such an incomprehensible slip for you to make, sir, with Caroline waiting for you in Nassau. With child! And to lay with a Cuffy slattern…"A handsome young widow, Arthur, with children of her own," Lewrie stated calmly.
Damme, but he's a priggish young swine, he thought!
"Not a year over twenty, she is. Proud, free, and independent. For your information, she did it for free, Arthur. And she was damn' good, let me tell you," Lewrie said, his perverse streak standing up on both hind legs and baying the moon down. "She's a lonely widow, and I am a weak and foolish man. We crossed hawses once, and like as not, we'll never come bulwark-to-bulwark again."
"I understand your loneliness, Alan," Ballard stuttered. "How worried you've been without news from… from Nassau."
"Don't you ever get lonely, Arthur?" Alan inquired. "Doesn't a craving for abandon come over you so powerful of a sudden that any old drab doxy'd do you? Don't you ache to put the leg over?"
"I hope to set my aim a bit higher than mere rutting, sir," Lieutenant Ballard rejoined primly. "I'd wish someday for… well, sir, for some bright and lovely young lady as fine as your wife, sir."
"Yet you turned your nose up at Elizabeth Mustin."
"A bit too frippish and… flibberti-gibbet for my lights, sir. I hope you do not take that the wrong way, seeing as how you and your wife set such store by her company, sir, but…" He shrugged.
"I don't know why I care for you as much as I do, Arthur," Alan chuckled, clapping him on the back. "You're shy as a spanked puppy in women's company. You'd lie like a butcher's dog next to a handsome bit of quim as yon Wyannie, and never sniff the beef! You don't drink but a bottle a day, bad days or good! And you're as stiff-arsed as a parson in a poor parish."
"I hope to set my aim a bit higher than mere rutting, sir," Lieutenant Ballard rejoined primly. "I'd wish someday for… well, sir, for some bright and lovely young lady as fine as your wife, sir."
"Yet you turned your nose up at Elizabeth Mustin."
"A bit too frippish and… flibberti-gibbet for my lights, sir. I hope you do not take that the wrong way, seeing as how you and your wife set such store by her company, sir, but…" He shrugged.
"I don't know why I care for you as much as I do, Arthur," Alan chuckled, clapping him on the back. "You're shy as a spanked puppy in women's company. You'd lie like a butcher's dog next to a handsome bit of quim as yon Wyannie, and never sniff the beef! You don't drink but a bottle a day, bad days or good! And you're as stiff-arsed as a parson in a poor parish."
"True, sir," Ballard grimaced, rueful at the truth.
"But you've wit, and you've sense, and damme if you're not right about most things," Alan allowed, laughing out loud. "I,use mine for jollities. And I'd go dashing off on a tear without your advice half the time. Begrudge me my faults, Arthur. Mind you, I'm not asking you for forgiveness, Reverend Ballard. That's between me and Our Lords Commissioners for the Execution of the Office of Lord High Admiral of this world, and the next. Takes all kinds. I am most often one of the sorry kind, and when it comes to Caroline, damned fortunate. Made me feel good, Wyannie did. She and this mysterious note of yours have put me in a fettle such as I've not felt in months, sir! As my old Captain Lilycrop would say, feagued me so well as a lump o' ginger up a prad's rump! Ought to issue girls like her. Good for morale."
"I see, sir."
"No, you don't, you're only making noises like you do," Lewrie cajoled him. "Wish to God you did. Damme, but you take life serious, Arthur! God knows sailors don't mean much by their sins, when they do get the opportunity. Precarious as we get Life, we're a pack o' hymn-singin' castrati compared to landsmen. Try putting a foot wrong, now and again, Arthur. Go on a tear, why don't you?"
"Takes all kinds, as you say, sir," Ballard replied, grinning shyly in spite of himself. "I'll not meddle again, sir. Sorry."
"The devil you won't," Alan chortled. "And I may bark to pin your ears back, but remember I mean nothing by it And if you care enough about me to warn me when I'm about to do something lunatic, then that's what friends are for. As oddly matched as they sometimes are."
"Aye, aye, sir," Ballard nodded. "Now, pray God we've good news at last!"
Chapter 4
The letter was from Col. Andrew Deveaux, one of the major planters on Cat Island, informing them that he held mail for them at his mansion near Port Howe on the southern coast, mail sent directly to him from Nassau by his old friend from South Carolina, Mr. Peyton Boudreau.
Upon that elating news, Alacrity was up-anchor and out of the harbour at Clarence Town by dawn the next morning, beating into the nor'east Trades for Port Howe.
There was one narrow break in the coral reefs surrounding Port Howe, with breakers lazily spuming on either hand, and behind the reef was a shallow port ill-suited for anything much larger than Alacrity."They ought to drop the 'E'," Lewrie commented once they were come to anchor, with the courses handed and being lashed secure.
"Sir?" Ballard smiled.
"Call Port Howe H-O-W," Alan grimaced. "How the devil a ship may enter without wrecking herself is beyond me. And where are the day-marks, and the warning beacon we erected in May, I ask you?"
"I have no idea, sir."
"Carry on, Mister Ballard. I'm going ashore!"
He was rowed to the town's one long pier, debarked onto a lower landing stage atop a catamaran work platform, and almost ran down the pier for the tiny village. A man on horseback waited for him at the shore end, with another mount held by a groom near at hand.
"Lieutenant Alan Lewrie?" the man asked. "That is the Alacrity yonder, sir?"
"She is, and I am, sir. And you are?"
"Andrew Deveaux, sir. Delighted to make your acquaintance," he said, springing down from his saddle as lithe as a cavalryman. Deveaux was a rather small and lean fellow, shorter than Alan. His face was fox-lean, with a pointy patrician nose, almost a woman's soft mouth, large, liquid brown eyes, and a smallish, tapering ball of a chin. He wore two-tone black and tan top boots, white sailcloth breeches, and a loosely flowing silk shirt, his face shaded by a very wide-brimmed woven straw hat. They shook hands, muttering the expected "your servant, sir," and that's when Alan discovered the steel in the man, for his grip was stronger than a fencing master's.
"Didn't think you'd come to Port Howe," Deveaux commented. "I was prepared to ride to The Bight on the western coast, if necessary."
"Alacrity is shallow-draught enough to enter, sir, so I thought this would save time. You've been watching for me?"
"For nigh a month, sir. Here, sir, do you ride? My groom has a mount for you, and my coach can be fetched if you do not."
"I ride, sir. Thankee."
A black servant brought a fine gelding forward and held reins while Alan got aboard. They set off down a sandy track between thick clusters of sea-grape trees for his plantation house to the west. Alan was struck by how young Deveaux was, how unremarkable.
"This is quite an honour, Colonel Deveaux," Alan said. "To meet you, a hero of the Revolution, and the man who recaptured Nassau from the Dons." Another of those frail but game scrappers? he wondered.
"Neck-or-nothing," Deveaux shrugged. "But bloodless. People do make much more of it than it really was. I am quite honoured to meet you, sir. I heard in the Nassau paper of your feats at Conch Bar, and Walker's Cay."
"Well, Walker's Cay, sir…" Alan grumbled sadly, then sat up and looked back towards the harbour. "Sir, we put up day-marks and some warning beacons earlier. They're gone now. Do you have any…?"
"Oh, those!" Deveaux hooted, throwing his head back in delight. "Damme, sir, do you not know that before the war, a third of Bahamian revenues came from shipwrecking and salvage? Blackbeard, Henry Morgan… Port Howe was one of their old haunts, so the locals tore down your marks the minute you were out of sight and moved 'em ashore for lures, to make the town look bigger at night. Needed the timber for buildings, too. They light the place up like a major city, put lights in the harbour so it appears deep-draught ships are anchored in Port Howe, in hopes of luring the foolhardy onto the reefs, so they may strip the wreck. You got off easy, sir. I'm told a Navy officer formerly in these islands was almost lynched for even suggesting he'd erect a lighthouse on Great Exuma!"
"Worse than Cornishmen, I do declare," Lewrie smiled, surprised all over again in spite of his supposed worldliness.
"Indeed. We get so little news here on Cat Island. What about Walker's Cay, sir? Peyton writes that all talk of suits and such have been dropped long ago. Did you…?"
"Dropped?" Alan cried. "I had no idea, sir. I've not had even a single word from Nassau in six months!"
"Not even from your wife?" Deveaux frowned. "Pardon me, but he also wrote that she was most greatly upset that she had not heard from you, Lieutenant Lewrie."
"She is well, Colonel Deveaux?" Alan demanded with alarm. "Did he say more? She's with child, and I've been beside myself with fear!"
"He did state she was expecting, and that he and his wife were perturbed that her worries about your silence would affect her health. But she is well, Lieutenant Lewrie, he did assure me of that. She had begged him to discover what had happened to you, and why you hadn't responded to her letters."Damme, sir, I got no letters! Nothing!" Alan shouted. "No one aboard Alacrity's had a single thing, except for our purser, and only inventories of supplies sent out to sustain us, which do not require an answer. I've sent request after request to my squadron commander, and dozens of letters to Caroline, and it's like dropping a stone down a wellshaft and never hearing even a splash. I feared… you cannot imagine what I have feared, sir!"
"Well, rest easy," Deveaux assured him. "There's a small bag of correspondence for you and your ship, sir. And a thick packet of letters from your wife. Peyton could not believe you would ignore her so callously. He stated in his note to me that he suspects your superiors are withholding your mail to and fro."
"I know Commodore Garvey was wroth with me over Walker's Cay and John Finney's trial. He sent us down here out of anger. But I never thought he'd be that vindictive to me!"
"You've written him often, then?" Deveaux demanded.
"Weekly, sir. We're running out of all manner of stores except for food and drink. Sir, if this goes on, my ship'll be crippled for lack of new spars, rope and sailcloth. Yet, without specific orders, I am barred from returning to the Navy dockyard at Nassau."
"And I trust you've saved a fair copy of your every plea, sir?" Deveaux hinted slyly. "As a precaution for the future?"
"Aye, sir, that's customary. And in black ink, too," Alan had to grin as he said it. "But why would he interrupt my mail? How can a man be so spiteful?"
"We'll discuss that later," Colonel Deveaux told him. "Once we get to my house, you read your letters. And fill yourself in on what has been happening in Nassau in your absence. Then we'll talk more."
Caroline was alive! And well!
He went to her letters first, reading the one with the most recent date to assure himself of her existence and her safety. She wrote that she was blooming big as a mare about to foal, the baby was kicking lustily, and that she carried low, which the physician and midwife she had engaged considered signs of a man-child. Except for the usual complaints and pains, the clumsiness and heaviness, she reassured him that her confinement was not too hard, although she missed the pleasures of riding, gardening, and doing her own cooking; yet, between Betty Mustin and Wyonnie (Lew-rie flushed with remorse as that similar name appeared) she had no difficulties.
After that joyous news, though, there was a plaint that brought tears to his eyes as he read of her tightly denied fears; that he and Alacrity had been sunk or wrecked; that he had died of some fever; that he'd fallen out of love with her and now spurned her; that he did not really desire children, and had turned his back on her, as a rich man might discard an inconveniently pregnant mistress who was no longer as attractive or slim.
…I try and try to imagine you being so involved in some stern Duty that even our Love must be relegated a poor second for the nonce, but dearest Alan, it has been so long since you sailed away, and not one word from you have I received, nor any hearsay as to…
"Oh, Caroline, Christ!" he whispered through a throat constricted by his weeping. "Goddamme, no, it's not like that!"
He would sail at once to Nassau, he vowed. Damn the threats, or the consequences! Let them court-martial him for anything they damned well pleased, just so long as he could see her one more time, and tell her that her fears had no substance!
"And Goddamn the bastard who did this to me!" he raged. "Cruel, malicious bastard! How could anyone…? Dozens and dozens of letters and they've kept 'em all. Damme, do they read 'em? Do they gloat over her pain? By Christ, I'll have their heart's blood for thisl"
On the patio, Andrew Deveaux and his wife sat in the shade, and winced as they heard the strangled howl from within their drawing room.
"That poor young man," Mrs. Deveaux shuddered. "And his terrified young wife, Andrew! Do you truly believe that his commodore keeps his letters deliberately, dear?"
"I do," Deveaux scowled, running his hands through his thick and unruly long blond hair. "That, and a lot worse. Oh, it's foul, I…"
"You're dead, swear to Jesus, you're a dead man!" Lewrie wailed.
"I'd not wish to walk on Lieutenant Lewrie's bad side, dear," Mrs. Deveaux frowned. "Not even were I the King of France!"
It took an hour for Lewrie to collect himself enough to join them on the patio for tea, though he was still fretful and jerking at inability to be in action at that instant He could not keep his handsstill, and one crossed leg juddered upon the other as he rocked irately on his chair.
"I trust your wife is well, Lieutenant Lewrie," Deveaux asked.
"Aye, sir," Alan said, trying to be as gracious as his hosts. "The physician and midwife are confident the child's due late this month. A boy, they believe. Why, I could be a father now, even as we speak!"
"And your other letters are reassuring as well?"
"From my shore agent, Courts Co., my bank back home, my grandmother in Devon. Even one from my father in India. Caroline had saved them, no longer…" he gulped down a threatening spasm of raw emotion, "no longer believing I could, or would, respond to her until I returned to Nassau."
Sore as he hurt, he had to grin slightly, remembering what his father Sir Hugo had penned. It had begun "You silly ranti-poling dog, sir! Have I not drummed into you one should rent, not purchase, quim?" That smile, however, was just as quickly gone.
"God, it's so petty. So base! So cruel to her!"
"It's Jack Finney," Deveaux declared bluntly. "Sugar?"
"Finney? How could he get at Fleet mail, sir?" Alan gaped.
"Not Finney directly," Deveaux allowed. "I doubt he has interests in your personal letters. But you did anger him when you caught his ship trading in pirated goods, and you stung him upon his sorest spot when you burned the cache and hauled him into court. He has powerful friends, sir. And money enough to buy anyone he desires."
"So even you believe he's a pirate, sir?" Alan hoped aloud.
"I'm certain of it," Deveaux stated firmly.
"So he's bought himself a clerk in the Commodore's office, then. That way, he'd know where our patrols would be, so he might tell his piratical confederates," Alan realized. "And he never sued us because he would have been exposed as a smuggler at the least! Those goods we burned were never landed or bonded. And all this time Rodgers and I were fearing he'd end up making us jump through his lawyers' hoops!"
"I expect it cost him considerable to stay out of court on any smuggling charges, to boot," Deveaux smiled thinly. "The assembly in which I sit, sir, the courts, the Governor's Council… see here, sir, Nassau is an offal-ditch, an open sewer, a cesspit of corruption, and all is for sale! When I was awarded my grant of land for what little I did to retake New Providence, I was more than happy to settle on Cat Island. Did you know even this salubrious isle was named long ago for an Arthur Catt, a pirate? And does that not tell you something about the Bahamas, sir? Most of the year, I am quite content to avoid Nassau with all its back-stabbing, money-grubbing squalor, and limit my visits to Assembly sessions. Even so, this far happily removed, we still get a whiff of its corruption, like an ill wind from an abbatoir. I have heard rumours. Peyton did not speak of them in his letter to you?"