Dewey Lambdin - Havoc`s Sword

"A most unfortunate turn of fate, then," Choundas had decided, motioning for Capitaine Griot to top up Recamier'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" Recamier 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 Fregate 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 Recamier," 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," Recamier 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 Recamier'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." Recamier 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, Recamier 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 garcon chef 'had whistled up for them. All of them, but Lt. Recamier 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 Recamier 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 Recamier 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. Garcon/ 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 across the foyer from his miserable quarters to Le Maitre'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!