Dewey Lambdin - King, Ship, and Sword

"Upon my word, Captain Lewrie," Blanding went on, "but I would not have suspected you to possess a shred of charity towards the French, given your, uhm… dealings with the devils, but… I must own that it would have cut a bit rough with me to be so heartless as to doom those refugees to a Jamaican holding pen. We don't make war on helpless civilians. It just ain't Christian!"

"Hear, hear, sir!" Lt. Gilbraith seconded between quick slurps.

"A most fitting end to our endeavour, indeed," Chaplain Brundish stuck in. "It is one thing to show implacable wrath to those most deserving of it, yet quite another to extend the sweet, kind hand of mercy to those who do not. So British, so English, that it makes me swell with pride to be Church of England."

"Well said, sir!" Captain Blanding exclaimed. "A most fitting act to gild the laurel wreaths of our victory. For which we have Captain Lewrie to thank for the suggestion."

"Hear, hear!" Captain Stroud piped up, lifting his glass.

Toady! Lewrie sourly thought.

"Well… thankee for sayin' so, sir," Lewrie said, striving for proper modesty. "And for acceptin' my thoughts on what t'do with ' em all. Not their fault they're French… those refugees."

"I dare say," Chaplain Brundish said after a sip of wine and a dab at his lips with his napkin, "that news of our victory, as well as our merciful conclusion to it, will make all good Englishmen swell in pride, when it is made known in the papers back home."

"That, and the casualty list," Capt. Parham of Pylades added, looking slyly droll.

"Aye, Parham… not over a dozen of ours slain, not two dozen wounded," Captain Stroud proudly said, "The most Modeste's, sorry to say, but then, you did bear the brunt of the action, sir. Most proficiently and ably. As opposed to the French losses, that is."

Blanding bowed in place, pleased as punch by the compliment.

"Aye, the Mob'll be mad for it," Lewrie commented.

It was what the Publick at home had come to expect of the Royal Navv, the impossible victory by an out-numbered, out-gunned squadron or lighter single frigate 'gainst a bigger, with a pleasing "butcher's bill" of enemy slain to report in the papers.

That they had accomplished; the leading French frigate had had over 350 men aboard-they always over-manned-and when she had struck and been boarded, nigh half of them were dead or wounded, with the rest staggering round in shock or slumped dead-drunk after breaking into the spirits stores of brandy, wine, rum, ratafia, or arrack. The French flagship had had over 700 in her crew, and a quarter of them had perished or been horribly maimed.

The trailing frigate that had struck to Cockerel and Pylades… well, that was another sterling example of British pluck and daring, and French timidity; though she had taken very little damage and very few casualties, her captain had seen the futility of vigourous resistance and had fired off only two or three broadsides before striking her colours and surrendering. Parham, a considerate young man towards his sailors, seemed satisfied, though Stroud, out to make a name for himself, Lewrie suspected, still seemed disappointed.

"As we lay up treasure of a temporal nature in a Prize-Court, I expect we also lay up more treasure with Admiralty, and the nation, for a job well done," Captain Blanding congratulated himself smugly as his soup bowl was removed and a fresh plate laid before him. "Oh, the sea-pie, good ho!"

"And treasure in Heaven, sir," Chaplain Brundish added with a deep, blessing-like nod of his head, "for the Christian mercy bestowed upon the innocent at its conclusion."

"Quite so, ha ha!" Stroud seconded.

"We may only hope that our temporal treasure will be paid out in honest measure, though, sirs," Lewrie said as he took a fork full of the hearty sea-pie. "There are half a dozen prize-agents at Kingston, and only one or two may be trusted not t'scalp us bald. I know of only one I ever dealt with who played me fair, and God only knows if he's still in business, after the long peace."

"Bedad, yes!" Blanding exclaimed. "Why, between the four ships we took, all of them French National ships, not merchantmen, there may be an hundred thousand pounds owing… and none of it due to Admiral Duckworth, haw haw!"

"Head-And-Gun Money on the two-decker transport, too," Stroud reminded them. "All those soldiers, to boot?"

"Be months before they're condemned and bought in to the Navy," Blanding cautioned. "Even so, some small advances may be made to us."

"Enough for a proper wine cellar, I trust," Captain Parham enthused, chuckling. "Serving with Captain Lewrie in the past, I gained an appreciation for fine wines… and lashings of prize-money from our previous captures. Some of the ships we took back then, their masters or captains were possessed of discerning palates, were they not, sir?"

"A few of'em, aye, Parham," Lewrie wistfully agreed, "but some with the taste of Philistines. The piratical sorts, mostly."

"And what might you do with your spoils, Captain Lewrie? Any special wishes?" Stroud asked, trying to be "chummy."

"You know…," Lewrie said, sitting back to ponder that query for a long moment. He took a sip of wine, then grinned. "I think I will buy a penny-whistle."

To the rest, it was a jape, an amazement.

But Lewrie really meant it.

…that if good men called werriours

Would take in hand for the commons succours,

To purge the Sea unto our great avayle,

And winne hem goods, and have up the sayle,

And on our enemies their lives to impart,

So that they might their prises well depart,

As reason wold, justice and equitie;

To make this land have Lordship of the Sea.

Uhm… strictly speaking, sir," Lt. Westcott said, "the transport we took. The rest of the squadron wasn't 'In Sight' when we took her. Would she not he our prize, alone, sir?"

"In the spirit of amity, I allowed Captain Blanding to present her as a squadron capture, Mister Westcott," Lewrie told his First Officer. Lewrie looked over his shoulder through the opened sash-windows of Reliant's transom at their prizes, now safely anchored in Kingston Harbour under guard of the Jamaica Station, with all their prisoners penned up aboard the hulks or in shore prisons, and felt a smug pride to see the French Tricolours idly flapping beneath Union Flags.

Lewrie was being his usual lazy self, stretched out on the transom settee cushions in white slop-trousers and shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, propped up on an upright timber.

"A piddlin' matter, Mister Westcott," he told his First Officer. "After the fulsome things he wrote about us to Admiralty." He shrugged and grinned, pointing to the prizes. "They'll be goin' home after the hurricane season's done. Months from now, dependin' on the ruling of the Prize Court. A man who commands one for the passage stands a good chance of promotion, once back in England. Interested, sir? Should I put your name forward, or let Rear-Admiral Sir John Duckworth reward one o' his favourites?"

"Not really, sir," Lt. Westcott replied, shaking his head as he sat in a chair near Lewrie's desk, nursing a tumbler of cool tea. "I'd prefer to remain in Reliant."

"Better 'the Devil you know,' Mister Westcott?" Lewrie japed.

"More like… liking the company I keep, sir," Westcott said, flashing one of his brief, toothy grins.

"Good, then. For my part, I'd hate to lose you," Lewrie told him, glad of that news. "Ye never can tell… we might get stuck into some new harum-scarum adventures. Or, like the old sayin' goes, 'His men'd follow him anywhere… just t'see what he'd get into next'?"