Dewey Lambdin - The Invasion Year

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 Francois 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 Francois 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.

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 bled 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.