Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey

It was a Pennsylvania rifle, octagonal-barreled, fitted at butt, barrel-bands, and firelock plates with shining brass, the hinged cover to the patch-box in the buttstock also bright brass, and the stock all of a highly polished, ripply-striped bird's eye maple! It was indeed lovely, one of the finest examples of the gun-maker's art that he had ever seen outside of a set of custom duelling pistols; even the plates were engraved so finely that he suspected only a magnifying glass could reveal the detailing.

"Fresh from Philadelphia, sir," Devereux said proudly, "and the work of a master craftsman."

"You've one for yourself, Mister Devereux?" Lewrie asked, lifting the piece to aim at the sky and sight down the long barrel, noting the silver bead on the muzzle's top, and the cut-steel notch sights at the rear, near the fire-lock. "Was this the only one, I'd understand… envious as all Hell, but…"

"One for myself, too, sir, near its twin," Devereux confessed with a little laugh, "and one of lesser quality for every officer and midshipman… as private hunting weapons, ha ha! Two dozen, in all."

"Personal possessions of yon brig's mates?" Lewrie frowned.

"No looting of a prize, sir… part of her cargo. Withheld as uhm… evidence for the Prize Court?" Devereux snickered.

"By God, we have corrupted you!" Lewrie laughed. "But this is magnificent, I must own. Find yourself some coehorn mortars, too?"

"No, sir, but those'll come. Ah, here's Mister Langlie, coming aboard with even better news. I'll let him tell the rest."

Lewrie almost pounced on Langlie, primed to eagerness.

"She's the Sycamore, sir, out of Philadelphia," Lt. Langlie reported, after he'd taken the salute, doffed his hat, and had been given his own covered rifle up from the boat below the entry-port. "A native tree, I s'pose, or the name of an Indian tribe. Her master was wounded, and is still aboard. Rather panicked by the thought of expiring, sir, so he was open to questions… between prayers and pleas for his last will and testament to be taken down, that is."

"Will he live?" Lewrie asked.

"His wounds are more fearful than mortal, sir. Mister Durant is of the opinion that he's more likely to pass over from fret than shot," Langlie chuckled. "He openly confessed that he's been smuggling to the French for some time. With most of their overseas trade curtailed, 'tis a lucrative endeavour, I gather. He also admitted he's run arms to L'Ouverture on Saint Domingue. Now his country is all but at war, any large cargoes or arms and powder would have been suspicious, and expensive, with the United States Navy the best customer, so he made arrangements through French agents in Philadelphia to meet the privateer and transfer her arms aboard his 'innocent' ship."

"What's his cargo, then?" Lewrie asked, absently stroking his new rifle.

"Two thousand stand of arms, Charleville muskets with leather accoutrements, two thousand pairs of boots and shoes," Langlie intoned as he read from a list he pulled from a coat pocket. "One hundred and twenty thousand pre-made cartridges and twist paper, shot and powder for half a million more… four six-pounder Gribeauval Pattern pieces of artillery with caissons, limbers, harness, and the essentials for a battery forge-waggon. Blankets, slop-trousers, cross-belts, shakoes, and other uniform items, bayonets, infantry hangers, and officers' quality swords… most of it recently snuck into Guadeloupe aboard a Frog frigate, sailing en flute, sir. A real treasure trove."

Turning up in Kingston, with that brig astern and the British flag flying over the American, would represent a treasure, a "golden shower" of prize money, Lewrie was mortal-certain.

"There's also an innocent cargo of molasses and sugar, Captain," Langlie went on. "Saint Domingue coffee, tea, and cocoa would have put Sycamore far ahead of the game, once they'd unloaded the arms."

"Just their bad luck, but to our good. This is documented? We have them by the 'nutmegs' about this, for certain?" Lewrie demanded.

"Every bit of it on paper, sir, even the captain's private log. It was well hidden, but not destroyed. Mister Neale, our Master-At-Arms, was part of my boarding party and he and his Ship's Corporals, Burton and Ragster, are old hands at knowing where sailors hide things."

"And what they made off with, God only knows… or cares, with all this on our plate," Lewrie chortled. "And the rifles were part of the cargo?"

"Ordered specifically, sir. L'Ouverture's people are mad for 'em. Yours, sir… do you look close, you'll find it engraved with Toussaint L'Ouverture's name, sir. It was to be a present to one of his generals, a man named Dessalines."

"God almighty!"

"We also found three men aboard whose certificates are 'colourable,' sir," Langlie told him. "As English as Bow Bells, and with so obvious a set of frauds, they were pathetic. Should we press 'em, sir?"

"But of course," Lewrie said with a sly grin. "I'll not turn up my nose at volunteers… willing, or no. Muster 'em on the gun-deck, and I'll have a word with 'em. We're making sternway onto the shores of Saint Thomas, and need to haul off. The wind's veered half a point North'rd, and we're on a lee shore. Might have to sail all the way to the western end of the island, then beat back to pick up Catterall and our boarding party…"

"Excuse me, sir," Mr. Winwood suggested, coming to his side and looking to Lieutenant Devereux expectantly. "With the wind veered so, it would be possible to stand back down this Leeward Passage, here, with the wind almost abeam, and be off Ram Head in less than two hours. I, uhm… I must say, Mister Devereux, those are dashed handsome rifles."

"You are welcome to take your pick from the lot, Mister Winwood. As a private, personal hunting weapon," Devereux assured him.

"And a handsome gesture, too!" Winwood actually enthused, come over all a'mort with greedy pleasure.

"Our prize is secure and in good order, Mister Langlie?" Lewrie asked him. "No troubles from her crew or mates?"

"Secure, sir, and ready to proceed. The crew disarmed and our Bosun, Mister Pendarves, and trusted hands to back him up in guarding them," Langlie confidently stated. "Very little real damage done."

"Very well, gentlemen. Let's get under way back down the Leeward Passage. We know it, now, and I know when I've stretched my luck in unfamiliar waters for the day. Better the Devil you know, hey? And not an inch to loo'rd this time. Hmmm… stern kedge anchors readied for dropping, just in case this pass holds a last surprise… right?"

Lewrie reluctantly surrendered possession of his new rifle into Andrews's care, then went down the starboard ladder to the waist where three seamen stood hang-dog, awaiting their fate. Lewrie put his hands in the small of his back and faced them. One, the youngest, hopefully a teenaged topman, stared back fearfully, eyes blared and swallowing in shuddery gulps. One stouter, older fellow dared glare back at him in a sneer. The third, a lanky-lean man in his middle thirties, couldn't meet his eyes, but darted his glance about or found the grain of wood deck planks intriguing, his flat, tarred hat pulled low over his brow.

"Well, lads, you're caught, fair and square," Lewrie told them. "False certificates so badly done, if you paid more'n a shilling each for 'em, you got swindled. What names you use? Your own, or aliases?"

The young one, at least, perked up to that statement, glancing at the sneering man in alarm for a second.

"Don't signify," Lewrie went on, naming himself and his frigate. "You're runnin' from debtor's prison, termagant wives, or whatever, I don't care. We've had fevers, and we're short-handed. You're British, no matter how you protest it. You all wish to be 'John Bull' or 'Billy Pitt,' so be it, 'cause I've more need of you than the authorities back home. 'Tis becoming a tradition aboard, for people to take new names when they sign on. The pay's less than merchant service, but the rations are fair measure and decent quality. We don't flog unless you're a total bastard, and as you've seen this morning, we're lucky with prize money. A man… a boy, could do worse. How much is that Yankee captain owing you?"

"N-nigh on twelve pounds, sir," the youngest said in a shy voice. Merchant captains were infamous for "crimping" off their crews near the end of a voyage; when met by a Royal Navy vessel In Soundings of home waters, they'd gladly give up all but the merest few required to work into port, and pocket their pay-sometimes with connivance with officers of Impress Service tenders.

"I'll screw it out of him, and it's yours, lad," Lewrie vowed, "and pay a willing volunteer the Joining Bounty… no matter which name he puts down in ship's books. Oh, it'll go to pay for what kit you don't have, but we'll fetch your sea-chests aboard so you'll have most of what you need already, and save a bit with our Purser, Mister Coote. He's a fair man, can you believe that of a 'Nip Cheese.' So, what's it to be? Volunteer and make the best of it, or be pressed, and begrudge me to the end of your days?"

"Willy Toffett, sir, and I'll volunteer, then," the teen said with a relieved smile. "Main topman, I was."

"And you, sir?" Lewrie asked the second, who still glared, but with a resigned and bitter air of helplessness.

"Press me and bedamned," he gravelled, halfway surrendering to Fate, but determined to go game. "And put me down as Toby Jugg. With two 'Gees,' " he almost snarled, but with a sardonic smile to excuse it-

"Your choice, then," Lewrie allowed. "Rating?"

" 'Twas an Able Seaman, aboard Sycamore."

"Then Able you'll be rated, here, with the extra pay that goes with it," Lewrie promised, though that did nothing to mollify the man.

"Had a woman and girlchild on Barbados," Toby Jugg groaned. "Never see 'em again, now. Poor as church-mice and…"

"Your Joining Bounty could be sent on to them," Lewrie hinted.

With tears beginning to well in his eyes at the thought of not seeing his woman and daughter for years, his face clouded and taut, he nodded his assent, still unable or unwilling to accept his lot. A man who might have been pressed before, Lewrie suspected, unwilling to give his right name for fear of punishment for desertion.

"And you, sir?" Lewrie asked the third, who still could not meet his eyes except in brief, darting glances.

"Ships is ships, I reckon," the man said with a defeated sound. "Aye, I'll sign on, volunteer. Me name's George Gamble, and I was an Ordinary Seaman…" he muttered in a Midlands "Mumbletonian" accent.

"Landsman, ya were," Toby Jugg snorted in derision, "and cack-handed, at that, ya lubber!"

Gamble raised his head and hat brim high enough to glare daggers at his "shipmate" for a second. "Damn' captain cheated me, he did! I'm rated Ordinary, and well ya know it. Just 'coz he already had all the seamen he needed, and too cheap t'pay me due ratin', was the reason."

"Coulda signed aboard another ship," Jugg quibbled as if Lewrie wasn't there.

"Oh aye, an' me broke as a convict, and all me pitiful advance gone t'pay off me crimpin' landlord for his rat-hole lodgin's-"

"Some other time," Lewrie interrupted "We'll try you as an Ordinary Seaman, Gamble. I'm Landsman-Poor, at the moment. Do you have any certificates from past captains to show your rating?"

"Uh, nossir. Lost 'em 'tween ships, or somone stole 'em whilst I was sleepin' ashore."

"Sold 'em for drink, more like," Jugg scoffed.

"Enough!" Lewrie snapped. "You'll volunteer, Gamble?"

"Aye, sir… s'pose I'll haveta," the man replied, ducking his head again.