The Invasion Year Read online

  This one is dedicated to Forrest

  “Nathan Bedford,” my “little general,” and his “bubba” Mosby’s groomer, fellow prankster, and “hot water bottle” on cool nights. Forrest was white-furred, with a grey tail, ears and nose, and the brightest, widest jade green eyes. He was an ambusher, a talker who’d hold long conversations with me, or any message left on the phone, and could purr louder than any other cat I can remember. He was only 9½ when he left this life on July 2nd, 2010, and Mosby and I miss him very much, and wish he could have stayed with us many years more—if only to help Mosby open every under-counter cabinet door in the house, or lay side by side to “paddle” all the sliding closet doors open so they could get inside and prowl.

  Forrest was my shadow, and my foot-warmer under the desk whenever I wrote even a short letter, much less a chapter of the books, and I miss that very much, too.

  Forrest, I give you the Sunday wardroom toast,

  “Absent Friends.”

  Pateant montes silvacque lacusque

  cunctaque claustra maris; spes et metus omnibus esto

  arbiter. Ipse locos terrenaque summa movendo

  experiar, quaenum populis longissima cunctis

  regna valim linquamque datas ubi certus habenas.

  Let mountains, forests, lakes

  and all the barriers of ocean open out before them;

  hope and fear shall decide the day for all alike.

  I myself by shifting the seat of empire upon earth

  shall make trial which kingdom I shall elect to let

  rule longest over all peoples, and in whose hands I

  can without fear leave the reins of power once bestowed.

  ~ARGONAUTICA, BOOK I 556–560

  GAIUS VALERIUS FLACCUS

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Diagram of Ship

  Diagram of Points of Sail

  Map of France

  Map of West Indies

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Book I

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Book II

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Book III

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Book IV

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Book V

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Afterword

  Also by Dewey Lambdin

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Vae victis.

  Woe to the vanquished.

  ~HISTORY, BOOK X

  TITUS LIVIUS (LIVY)

  59 B.C.–17 A.D.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Damme, but I do despise the bloody French!”

  “Understandably, sir,” the First Lieutenant softly agreed.

  “Their bloody general, Rochambeau,” Captain Alan Lewrie, RN, further gravelled, “he’d surrender t’that murderous General Dessalines and his Black rebel army, but he’s too damned proud t’strike to us?”

  “Well, Dessalines did give them ten days’ truce to make an orderly exit, sir,” Lt. Westcott pointed out. “Else, it would have been a massacre. Another, really.”

  “If they don’t come out and surrender to us, soon, it’ll be all ‘Frogs Legs Flambé,’ and Dessalines’ truce be-damned,” Captain Lewrie said with a mirthless laugh as he extended his telescope to its full length for another peek into the harbour of Cap François … and at the ships anchored inside, on which the French now huddled, driven from the last fingernail grasp of their West Indies colony.

  Evidently, the Black victors of the long, savage insurrection were getting anxious over when the French would depart, too, for those solid stone forts which had guarded the port from sea assault showed thin skeins of smoke, rising not from cook-fires but from forges where iron shot could be heated red-hot, amber-hot, to set afire those ships and all the beaten French survivors aboard them—soldiers, civilians, sailors, women, and children. Root and branch, damn their eyes, Lewrie thought; burn ’em all, root and branch!

  He lowered his glass and grimaced as he turned to face his First Officer, Lt. Geoffrey Westcott. “Is it askin’ too much, d’ye imagine, sir, that the Frogs could face facts? Which is the greater failure or shame … admittin’ the rebel slaves beat ’em like a rug, and surrenderin’ t’them … or strikin’ to a civilised foe, like us? They’ve done the first, so … what matters the second?”

  “Perhaps it’s the matter of Commodore Loring’s terms, sir,” Lt. Westcott supplied, inclining his head towards their senior officer’s flagship, idling under reduced sail further out to seaward. “He will not let them dis-arm and sail for France on their parole.”

  “Be a fool if he did,” Lewrie said with a dismissive snort, “and Admiralty’d never forgive him for it if he did. We’d, escort them to Jamaica, intern their civilians … make the women and kiddies comfortable … Rochambeau and all his officers’d be offered parole, quarters, and funds ’til they’re exchanged.…”

  “Of course, we’d sling all their sailors and soldiers into the prisoner hulks,” Lt. Westcott added with a touch of whimsy, then, in a tongue-in-cheek manner, said, “And surely some of those French jeunes filles, or fetching young widows … surely some of them are, sir … might find themselves in need of a British officer’s ‘protection’?”

  “Hmm, well…,” Capt. Lewrie allowed, rocking on the balls of his feet, making his Hessian boots creak; they were new from a cobbler at Kingston, still in need of breaking in. “I expect you’d be one to make such an offer, Mister Westcott? I warrant you’re a generous soul,” he said with a leer. Since their first acquaintance fitting-out their new frigate at the renewal of the war with France a little after Easter, Lewrie had discovered that Geoffrey Westcott was a Buck-of-The-First-Head when it came to putting the leg over biddable young ladies … almost himself to the Tee, in his younger, frivolous days.

  “Well … I hope to be, sir,” Lt. Westcott replied, shrugging in false modesty, or piety (it was hard to tell which), and flashing a brief, teeth-baring grin before turning sober and “salty” once more.

  “Wish ye joy of it,” Lewrie said, turning to probe the harbour with his telescope once more.

  Cap François, casually known as “Le Cap” in better days, had at one time been the richest entrepôt on the French colony of Saint Domingue, rivalling Jacmel, Mole St. Nicholas, or Port-Au-Prince itself. Nigh a thousand ships had put in there each year with all the luxuries of Europe and the Orient, and
had cleared laden deep with sugar, rice, molasses, and rum, making Saint Domingue the richest prize of all the Sugar Islands, richer than all the British possessions put together.

  Cap François and Mole St. Nicholas further west out towards the extreme Nor’western cape of Saint Domingue were well placed for trade—on the North side of the colony, accessible to the passages out into the broad Atlantic, which made for shorter voyages to American or European markets.

  Give the Frogs a little credit, Lewrie thought; at least they made something of their half of Hispaniola.

  The eastern half of Hispaniola was held by the Spanish, but San Domingo had never produced a pittance of wealth compared to the French half; cattle herding, sheep and pigs, subsistence farming … along with the boucaniers who dressed in hides, and had become the dreaded buccaneers of pirate lore.

  Now, though … it was all lost, to both France and any other nation which might try to possess it; as Great Britain had in those early days of the French Revolution, when they’d landed an army ashore, and had been fought back to the beaches and piers by the rebel slaves … when they weren’t fighting their former grands blancs masters, or the petits blancs and half-bloods, or each other, for dominance.

  That brute General Dessalines had once been an aide to the former house slave Toussaint L’Ouverture, who’d turned out to be a much more brilliant general than any that the French had sent to fight and die here. Over thirty generals, Lewrie had heard tell, and over fourty thousand French soldiers had perished, including Napoleon’s brother-in-law, General LeClerc. Oh, LeClerc had managed to lure L’Ouverture to a parley and had enchained him, then shipped him to die in an alpine prison in France—dead of cold, hunger, and heart-break that Napoleon Bonaparte would betray him, the “Napoleon of The West,” and break all the promises of the French Revolution, of Liberté, Fraternité, and Egalité, of the heady vows of abolishing slavery anywhere in every French colony, in hopes that without L’Ouverture, the rebellion would end.

  It wasn’t even Saint Domingue anymore, either. Now, the rebel slaves had begun to call it Haiti, or Hayti, which—so far as Lewrie could tell from the many battles-to-the-death, the ambushes of whole battalions at a whack, the massacres of masters, mistresses, and overseers, and pretty-much anyone else of the former ruling castes, and the betrayals that had taken place here—translated from Creole patois as “Hell On Earth.”

  The last desperate refuges for the surviving French of Saint Domingue were the ships in harbour, anchored as far out as they could from the shore guns, but still be in the port proper; to venture out further would put them at risk of being raided and boarded at night by the blockading British squadron.

  “One’d hope that Rochambeau had wits enough t’spike his coast artillery, before he abandoned the forts, Mister Westcott,” Captain Lewrie said to his waiting First Lieutenant.

  “Well … he is French, sir, so there’s no telling.”

  Their frigate, HMS Reliant, along with the rest of the squadron that had sailed from Portsmouth in May on an independent mission, lay three miles to seaward of the coast, right at the edge of what had come to be accepted as the limits of a nation’s, or island’s, sovereignty, the Three Mile Limit. Three miles because that was the Range-To-Random Shot of the largest fortress gun then in use, the 42-pounder. Had the French ever had 42-pounders emplaced on Saint Domingue? Lewrie didn’t know, but, just to err on the side of caution, that was how far out Commodore Loring had decided they would come to anchor.

  “He couldn’t be that huge a fool as t’leave ’em in place, then anchor right under ’em,” Lewrie commented.

  “As I said, sir … he is French, after all,” Westcott said.

  “Most-like, the rebels have only field guns … regimental guns of six-, eight-, or twelve-pound shot,” Lewrie speculated.

  “Twelve-pounders firing heated shot would more than suffice, at that range from the shore to the anchored French, sir,” Lt. Westcott opined as he briefly doffed his hat to swab his forehead with a faded handkerchief; almost the last day of November in the Year of Our Lord 1803 or not, it was a bright, sunny, and almost windless day.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Lewrie agreed, intent again on the ships yonder.

  There appeared to be at least two large Compagnie des Indies three-masted ships, as big as East Indiamen, perhaps another brace of similarly-sized French National ships of the line that seemed to be crammed from bilges to poop decks with humanity.

  En flute, or completely dis-armed, Lewrie judged them. Else, they’d be completely elbows t’arseholes if they’re still armed, and of a mind t’resist us, he told himself with a wry grin. With no place t’put the women and children if they tried.

  There were a couple of frigates, one of them a very handsome and big one of at least 38 guns or better. There were some lighter, smaller two-masted brigs, even some locally-built schooners. Did the French see the sense of it and strike to Loring’s squadron, there’d be a nice pot of prize-money due … even if it had to be shared by every British warship then “in sight” at the moment of their striking their colours.

  Don’t half mind the French perishin’ in flames, but … we all could use some “tin,” Lewrie thought; be a shame t’lose those ships.

  Beyond the ships, ashore … Lewrie had seen Cap François back in 1783, at the tail-end of the American Revolution when he had had his brief, acting-command of the Shrike brig for a few weeks. It had looked prosperous then. He had trailed his colours before it in the 1790s in HMS Proteus, his first frigate, during his first Post-Captaincy, when the slave rebellion had burst aflame, and Cap François had even then seemed safe, secure, and ordered, as if the French had kept the uprising and slaughter at bay, deep inland, and well away from the port.

  Now … it was dowdy, charred, and filthy, the looted mansions and goods warehouses broken and gaping, and the harbourside streets and piers teeming with taunting, jeering ex-slaves. What possessions the French had abandoned in their haste to flee made a colourful sea of silks and satins being haggled or fought over by the victors, and draped the native women. There was street dancing, some very faint snatches of music, making Lewrie think that he was watching some feral Carnivale. And, when the gentle sea-breeze faltered, he could almost make out the dread, rhythmic thud of voudoun drumming, the sort that had made him prickle with fear his one night ashore long ago at Port-Au-Prince, the drumming that had presaged the evacuation of the British Army to cut their losses to battle, poisonings, small-party ambushes, and the ever-present Malaria and Yellow Jack.

  If there were any French left ashore for lack of room aboard the anchored ships, then God help them; they’d have been hunted down, torn from even the deepest hidings, then butchered, raped, and tortured, or burned alive or beheaded—perhaps guillotined in proper French fashion?—as the last to atone for centuries of slavery and all of the cruelties that came with it.

  Or, he imagined, for the vindictive, victorious fun of it!

  One more day, and, upon the 30th of November, the French would sail and surrender, or burn in Hell, and Haiti (or Hayti) would become an independent Black republic, the only one of its kind in the world, born in a decade or more of blood-rain monsoons.

  “Signal from the flag!” Midshipman Entwhistle piped up from the taffrails aft of Lewrie and the First Lieutenant. “Our number, sir … ‘Captain Repair On Board,’ sir!”

  “What the Devil?” Lewrie wondered aloud.

  “I’ll pass word for your Cox’n and boat crew, sir,” Lt. Westcott said in a crisper tone, with a doff of his hat.

  “Aye, but … whatever for?” Lewrie muttered to himself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When one was summoned by a senior officer, it was a given that it would be “With All Despatch,” with no time frittered in shaving, sponging off, or primping. Pettus had come up from his great-cabins with Lewrie’s everyday sword belt and hanger, and a clean uniform coat to replace a cotton one long ago gone bad, a sorry experiment in tropical clothing that had faded and bl
ed dark-blue dye to the point that it had gone a spotty sky blue, the gilt lace trim verdisgris green and sick-making.

  But, it was comfortable, was so bleached it could ruin no more shirts, waist-coats, or breeches, and it was cool, unlike the requisite broadcloth wool coat.

  Liam Desmond, his Coxswain, stroke-oar Patrick Furfy, Desmond’s long-time mate, and the rest of the boat crew had been ready below the entry-port by the time Lewrie had taken Reliant’s ritualist departure honours, and within minutes, they were off for a long mile row out to the two-decker flagship.

  Plenty of time for Lewrie to fret, that. On the one hand, he and the other officers of their wee four-ship squadron had won fame and a pot of prize-money back in September when they had succeeded in chasing down a French squadron that had sailed from French-occupied Holland for Saint Domingue, then New Orleans. They had met them off the Chandeleur Islands, east of the Passes into the Mississippi, and had fought a spirited hour’s action resulting in the capture of one two-decker 74, a frigate and two corvettes, and an East Indiaman that had been reputed to carry a battalion of troops and government officials for the ceremonial handover of New Orleans and all the Louisiana Territory to the United States, after recovering them by treaty from Spain.

  That fame had come with a tinge of scandal for Lewrie, for he had run down the Indiaman alone, then decided to let the French civilians—refugees from Saint Domingue for the most part—be put ashore from Lake Borgne to make the fifteen-mile trek to New Orleans and freedom. Some newspaper accounts thought it an honourable gesture of Christian magnanimity, the act of a proper British hero … fellow officers in the West Indies had deemed it daft, and soft-hearted—dash it all, but hadn’t Napoleon Bonaparte ordered Lewrie’s death over some insult during the Peace of Amiens, and the Ogre’s men had killed his wife with a cowardly shot in the back at the very moment they had almost made a clean escape by boat? Damme if the French hadn’t! So, why would a chap like Lewrie show a whit of mercy to the Frogs? Had they been in his boots, they’d have not, by God!