Havoc's Sword Read online

  Like proper little sychophants appreciative of their superior’s acuity and bold strategic thinking, the diners almost stood to clap.

  Hainaut didn’t quite remember it that way. When orders had come from the five demi-gods who comprised the Directory in Paris, in point of fact, his master had raged and cursed, throwing things to the four winds, howling about Betrayal, Exile, and scourging the “New Men,” the slimy-slick attorney-poseurs who’d supplanted the bold firebrands of the Revolution, shuffling those who’d worked the hardest off stage to be forgotten and dismissed without reward! A brace of prisoners in for minor offences had been half-dead before Le Maître had spent his rage!

  It was, though, the story of his master’s embittered life, to be used as a cat’s-paw to the rich and titled wastrels, even in the days when he was slim, stalwart, and handsome in his own fashion. Now it was exile to the Sugar Islands, where ugly, crippled embarassments could succumb to a myriad of plagues and fevers, un-looked-for and un-loved!

  Hainaut grimaced a tad, recalling Choundas’s slim successes in the Mediterranean, his next thankless assignment to outfit General Humbert’s expedition to Ireland in a squadron of frigates. It hadn’t been his fault that Lord Cornwallis’s army had cornered the small army of Humbert’s, forcing its semi-honourable surrender, and a slaughter of its ill-armed, ill-trained Irish rebel auxiliaries…

  Last year in the Batavian Republic, formerly Holland, training and encouraging jury-armed merchant ships into frigates and corvettes and scouting vessels…only to see the bifteck Admiral Duncan sweep them from the seas at the Battle of Camperdown, for the scouts failed their main body. That hadn’t been his fault, either, but…

  Hainaut wondered, again, whether he had hitched his waggon to an ill-favoured star, or remained in Choundas’s harness perhaps too long. Did Le Maître fail out here, this would be his last chance, and Hainaut could sink back into the pool of mediocre junior officers, living only on his meagre pay, with all hopes of future advancement blocked…

  Choundas rang a tiny porcelain bell to summon dessert. Slaves rushed to dole out soft, doughy, and sugar-crusted pastry shells filled with fresh local berries sopping in heavy whipped cream. Dessert wine and brandy were fetched out as well.

  The Directory, and the Assembly, gave short shrift to failures, Jules Hainaut glumly speculated as he tried a bite of the dessert and found it better than succulent, almost too sweet; though they did not execute as many as they had in the earlier days, Hainaut speculated. Even powerful Robespierre had lost his head as an embarassment! Choundas…perhaps. But never a handsome, cunning fellow such as he! He knew when to jump, and profit by it!

  Promised me a command, he did, Hainaut thought; not a privateer, but a National Ship. It was the donkey’s carrot that Choundas had hung before his eyes, what he had groomed him for—not to be his footman, his catch-fart, his dog’s-body, forever! That’s what the de Gougnes of this world were for, after all!

  “Excellent,” Choundas grunted in rare praise of his berry tart. “Though, cher Hainaut, you must also remind that peau de vache that portions must be cut smaller for me in future.”

  “I’ll see to it, m’sieur,” Hainaut swore, beaming at his mentor, already laying an agreeable aura in which he could sooner or later pose his request for a chance to shine on his own.

  “The brandy, now, I think, messieurs?” Choundas announced. “And we shall now partake of Lieutenant Récamier’s vast experience and his wisdom!” Making Récamier stiffen in dread; which reaction pleased Le Maître no end.

  After all, Machiavelli had said it was better to be feared than loved.

  Though Lieutenant Récamier knew that “Le Hideux” loved to make examples of failures in the performance of their duty to the Republic and the navy, the fellow had kept a cool head throughout supper, believing that a bold front of honour impugned, his truth insulted, would serve him better than coming over all meek or fearful, of being willing to admit error but vowing to do better next time…if allowed.

  Hainaut had been mildly amazed that Récamier had so kept his wits about him that he’d not even fidgeted, or plucked with his fingers at the tablecloth or his napkin, either—his hands had stayed innocently inert, rising only to gesture, or draw his actions against the British frigate that had destroyed his command, and captured the American smuggling brig in his charge, using the tip of his knife on his placemat.

  They had both anchored for the night off St. John’s island in the masterless Danish Virgins; yes, he’d seen the frigate, lit up like a whaler hard at work boiling down a catch for its oil, he admitted to them; a clever ruse.

  Yes, there she’d been at dawn, as his schooner and the brig had set sail, revealed as a British warship, and he had turned at once to interpose his small ship between them and had been the first to fire. Fifteen minutes altogether, he had traded fire with the Biftecks, his puny 6-pounders against 12-pounders, until forced to bear away after a roundshot had shattered his schooner’s helm. Before relieving tackle could be rigged to the rudder post, his little ship had struck a badly charted shoal, ripping her bows open, stranding her forward third high and dry, and dis-masting her in an instant.

  “Unlike some, m’sieur Capitaine, I did not fire a few shots to salvage honour before striking!” Lt. Récamier had sulkily declared to one and all, eyes level, broodingly aflame, as if ready to dare anyone to a duel for his good name. “I had thought to lure the ‘Bloody’ ship onto the shoal in close pursuit, but my charts were old, so…”

  Hainaut had scoffed to himself, sure that Récamier was lying as boldly as a street vendor with a tray of “confiscated aristo” pocket watches, but, strangely, Capt. Choundas had not challenged him over it. And who was to say, since L’Incendiare had not rated a sailing master, leaving her navigation to her low-ranking captain—and all of those charts were now lost with her; quite conveniently, he thought!

  Yes, the British frigate had broken off pursuit of the brig to fetch-to and lower two boats filled with “redcoat” Marines and sailors, then had headed West-Nor’west into the vast sound east of St. Thomas to catch the brig—which she did, Récamier had witnessed from a high vantage point ashore through his telescope, and saw them sailing back down a very narrow channel into the sound where she fetched-to, again, to recover her boats and men.

  Yes, Récamier had gotten all his crew, including his seriously wounded and maimed men, into his own boats and had rowed ashore on St. John, but only after making sure that his command was well alight, his colours still flying in fiery defiance, and all her damning correspondence rescued, jettisoned in weighted bags or boxes, or left to burn. His precious commission papers and rôle d’equipage as proof of being a proper warship he had salvaged, which had proved of great value when he had sailed over to St. Thomas a day later and presented himself to the Danish authorities, who had shrugged off the more-punctilious formalities of internment and had treated his wounded well, before providing a cartel ship to return him and his men to Guadeloupe—the Danish fee for such “compassionate” offices a steep one.

  “And how close-aboard were the British boats when you left your command, Lieutenant?” Choundas had probed.

  “More than four long musket shots, m’sieur, perhaps less,” Lt. Récamier had replied, his eyes a tad too unblinking over that point, as if trying too hard to be believed.

  “Describe them,” Choundas had demanded.

  “Hmmm…tarred hulls, m’sieur, perhaps dull black paint? The gunwales and waterline boot-stripes were cream or pale yellow. White oars…?” He had vaguely shrugged, taking a sip of wine, at last.

  “Any name displayed, mon cher Lieutenant?” Choundas had almost purred, as if beguiling him into an inescapable trap, making Hainaut lick his lips in expectation, sure that Récamier had gone over-side in haste, not sticking around to take note of such things.

  “Proteus, m’sieur,” Récamier had calmly and certainly answered, though. “Block letters in gilt, either side of the lead boat’s bows. And the off
icer in charge, he shouted the ship’s name, as well. Very bad French, of course. ‘Here am I, His Frégate Les Rois…His Twelfth Night Cake’s ship! Proteus!” Récamier had tittered, making the others laugh. Les Rois, not Le Roi—quel drôle! And that error had carried such versimilitude that Captain Choundas had chuckled along (briefly, mind) with the rest, dismissing his suspicions. Only an English ignoramus, so arrogantly unschooled in any language but his own, could mistake the possessive “Majesty’s” with the plural “Les Rois,” which any French toddler knew meant a Christmastide treat!

  In point of fact, Lt. Récamier had picked out the lettering from a very safe half-mile distant with a strong glass, abandoning ship as soon as the “Bloodies” had fetched-to, sure of what was coming, and averse to languishing for years in a prison hulk or scraping by on a pittance in an enemy harbour town on parole, with barely two sou to rub together, unable to afford his usual wine, women, and song, and women! And it was the biftecks who had fired his ship, after sorting through his papers, which he had left scattered ’cross his great-cabins, leaving his false Letter of Marque and Reprisal, taking only his true naval commission! Leaving orders signed by the newly arrived Capitaine de Vaisseau Guillaume Choundas, and did he ever discover that, well…! Even being kin by marriage to the estimable Admiral de Brueys would not save him from the guillotine’s blade.

  “A most unfortunate turn of fate, then,” Choundas had decided, motioning for Capitaine Griot to top up Récamier’s wineglass at last. “But they did not get your ship, or her papers. She did not go into English Harbour with that damnable British flag above her own colours.”

  “Not into English Harbour, m’sieur, non,” Récamier had objected. “Once her boats were recovered, she sailed West, not South. I watched her ’til her t’gallants dropped below the horizon. I suspect that she was not part of the Antigua squadron, but was from Jamaica, instead.”

  “How odd,” Choundas had pondered, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling, as if easing a cramp from sitting so long.

  “Poaching, perhaps?” Capitaine de Frégate MacPherson had japed. “With the British troops gone from Saint Domingue, their frigates are under-employed that far West. Do they loan frigates to the squadrons out of Antigua, our tasks will be more difficult, with more patrollers at sea opposing us.”

  “Proteus,” Hainaut had mused. “Did not the London papers last year mention her? Was she not at Camperduin, against our pitiful allies, the Batavians?” he posed, using the Dutch-Flemish pronunciation of the battle’s name. “I seem to recall…took a prize, another frigate…something?” he had trailed off, vague, and “foxed” by then on his master’s wine.

  “Oui, look into that, Etienne,” Choundas had ordered.

  “Certainement, m’sieur,” the harried little clerk had said with a quick bob of his balding head, scribbling notes to himself on scrap paper with an ever-present pencil from his waist-coat pockets.

  “Well, mon cher Récamier,” Choundas had concluded their supper with an air approaching bonhomie, “it is too bad that your L’Incendiare was lost, along with the ‘Ami’ brig and all her supplies, but no blame can be laid against you, you did your best, after all, hein?”

  “Merci, m’sieur,” Récamier had replied, nodding curtly, as if it were true, and no more than his right, with no sign of relief to his demeanour.

  “I cannot promise you another command, though, not for some time,” Choundas had informed him. “You understand that a new ship may be seen as a reward, n’est-ce pas? The British knight their captains when they lose after a well-fought action. We…do not. But I am sure that a shore posting, for a year or two…at your current salary rate, of course…might prove instructive…and rewarding.”

  Choundas had looked down his ravaged, shiny-masked nose, as if to say that he knew about Récamier’s three current amours, besides his reasonably well-connected young and attractive wife back in Bordeaux.

  “I serve at your command, of course, m’sieur.” Récamier shrugged back, with just the right “eager” note of toadying, but nothing too thick or oily.

  “It has been a long day, messieurs, and I am weary. Instructive and pleasant as our supper has been, I bid you a good night,” Choundas had determined, painfully, stiffly scraping his chair back on the bare parquet floor, and using his stick to rise, most creaky, by then.

  Quick handshakes, quick, insincere thanks and compliments were exchanged, Récamier out the door first, then MacPherson and Griot, in order of seniority dates on their commissions; lastly, Capt. Desplan doffed his undonned hat and backed off the wide front veranda to enter the waiting coach that the Black garçon chef had whistled up for them. All of them, but Lt. Récamier most of all, were glad to be gone, free of their superior’s mercurial, and scathing, temper.

  Choundas stood by the door, half slumped in weariness and lingering pain of his ancient wounds, leaning heavily on his walking-stick before turning to clump-swish back into the foyer.

  “He lies like a dog, oui, Jules,” Choundas said with a snarl of anger, and a touch of resignation. “Oh, his surviving crewmen said he fought well, but as for the rest, hmmm…”

  “Then why did you not…?”

  “Because he did not cringe, cher Jules!” Choundas barked with a tinge of wonderment in his voice. “Young Récamier has hair on his arse, to face me so coolly. A man of many parts, he is, and most of them calm, calculating, and brave. He is not a timid, cringing shop-keeper! And his wife is a distant cousin to Admiral de Brueys, and the Directory would look even more unfavourably upon me did I harvest the lad’s head,” Choundas concluded with a world-weary sigh and shrug. “He will not make that set of errors again; he is one who can learn from his mistakes. Of course, he panicked when he ran aground, most likely his first time, hein? I doubt he left his little ship so late as he claims. His Boatswain swears that smoke was visible when he got into his boat, though the real fire did not come ’til later, when the biftecks got aboard her…but he did see to his men, his wounded, so to punish him severely would degrade the morale of our matelots, did a popular and caring officer get guillotined for placing their safety as paramount.”

  “But he should have fired her at once, even leaving his wounded to burn with her, m’sieur?” Hainaut queried, aghast at the obvious conclusion, and posing his question most carefully.

  “Certainement,” Choundas callously snapped. “Such sentiment is bourgeois twaddle left over from the old regime, Hainaut. Hardly suitable to a commited son of the Revolution and the Republic. One cannot make the omelette without breaking the eggs, n’est-ce pas? Or, as the great American revolutionary Jefferson said, ‘The tree of revolution must now and then be watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’”

  “Well, Lieutenant Récamier will have plenty of time to think on his error, and repent of it, m’sieur,” Hainaut snidely tittered.

  “A year at least, before we employ him again,” Choundas mused, yawning loudly and widely, unable to cover his mouth. “Unless the need for officers at sea forces my hand. Say, six months?”

  “If you wish to really rub his lesson in, m’sieur,” Hainaut posed, carefully daring to advance his own career, “you could even send me to sea before him. In the next suitable prize. A fast American schooner, perhaps…”

  “Perhaps so, Hainaut. Perhaps so,” Choundas seemed to promise, before another gargantuan yawn overtook him. “It is late. The guards are posted? The doors and windows locked for the night? Bon. Garçon! Light me to my chamber!” he barked at the older chief servant.

  “Good night, m’sieur,” Hainaut bade him. “Sleep well in your new bed…your first night in your grand new house.”

  “Thank you, Jules, I believe I will,” Choundas said over his shoulder as he shrugged the right side of his ornate coat off, letting it fall down to his left wrist, with the servant fretting about him.

  Hainaut turned to ascend the stairs to his own lofty chambers, but had only taken a step or two when he heard de Gougne scuttle acro
ss the foyer from his miserable quarters to Le Maître’s, in evident haste and concern, so Hainaut halted and leaned far out, hoping to overhear what seemed so urgent to the little mouse, what made him so fearful.

  “…Proteus…Camperduin…the Orangespruit frigate…. in the Gazette and Marine Chronicle…mumble-mumble hum-um…”

  “Putain!” he heard Choundas bellow. “Mon cul! Ce salaud de…Lewrie? That bastard, that son of a whore is out here?” his superior screamed, instantly so enraged that anyone who crossed him would die, as sure as Fate! The stout walking-stick swished the air, something expensive and frangible shattered…several breakable somethings!

  Oh-oh! Hainaut cravenly thought. His bête noire, that bane of his very life, the author of his wounds and disfigurements was nearby?

  “Merde alors, putain! That shit, that…cunt! This time, I’ll kill him, this time…!”

  Lewrie! Hainaut thought, not daring to breathe or draw attention to himself that might make him a target. Now, Récamier’s bane…and mine, too. He captured me, once…

  More things went smash, the garçon chef yelped in sudden pain, then stumbled out of the bed-chamber into the office as if physically hurled…immediately followed by the little mouse, de Gougne, who was guarding his head with the sheaf of papers, his face terror-pale.

  Suddenly, the idea of getting a small ship of his own to command seemed a trifle less attractive, Hainaut thought, quietly tip-toeing up the stairs for safety. Better would be to go as a lieutenant aboard a much larger man o’ war, Capitaine Desplan’s frigate, say, with so many large guns and such stout sides…under an experienced older captain who’d know how to deal with such a clever scourge.