“Fire as you bear, Mister Child!” Darling yelled, exultantly. “Shoot low and hull the bitch!”

Lieutenant Child obliged him, and the carronades roared one at a time from bow to stern. Thorn was almost fully abeam of the Spaniard by then, not one hundred yards off, close enough to hear the shot striking and the groans and screams of rivened wood.

“Her foremast’s gone by the board—huzzah!” Darling whooped as the Don’s foremast, shot clean away from her main supporting stays, slowly tilted to larboard and aft by the pressure of the winds, falling against her mainmast and ripping away sails and yards and rigging.

“She’s struck!” Lewrie yelled as he saw her colours being cut away to sail off astern of her and fall into the sea. Some of her crew stood at the starboard rails with their hands up, tossing gun tools overboard to show that they had had enough.

“A nice morning’s work, Mister Darling,” Lewrie congratulated.

“Cease fire, Mister Child! Drop it, dead’un!” Darling cried as Thorn’s crew erupted in lusty cheers. “Grapnels and lines, there! Secure the guns and make ready to go alongside!”

“How’s your Spanish, sir?” Lewrie asked Darling. “Mine is nigh-nonexistent. I’ll be wanting her papers and whatever we can find of her prizes.”

“Mister Child will be your linguist, sir,” Darling informed him. “He both speaks and reads Spanish main-well.”

Very good,” Lewrie said with a satisfied smile. “Then, we may get to the bottom of all this business, at long last.”

Chapter 7

Thorn and Lizard returned to port several days later with their Spanish privateer, and the American trading brig Santee, which had been cached close to the shore of un-inhabited Little Inagua. Once all the salutes had been fired and both ships had come to anchor, Lewrie sent a signal for one of Reliant’s barges to come collect him, specifying a barge, not his usual cutter. Thorn’s signalmen also made hoists for Fulmar and Lt. Oliver Lovett’s Firefly sloop to send boats—to the American brig.

Lewrie spent little time aboard his frigate, just long enough to scrub up, shave, and dress in his best uniform coat with the sash and star of the Order of the Bath, and both his medals, then he was off ashore to call upon the American Consul and the Prize Court.

*     *     *

“So, you did manage to hunt down the guilty party and recover Captain Martin’s ship and cargo, did you, sir?” the American Consul, Mr. Alexander Stafford mused as he offered Lewrie a chair and a glass of Rhenish. “Quick work, I must say.”

Stafford was tall and spare, with a stand-offish air that did little to sponsor warm relations ’twixt himself and the authorities of Nassau. He was a Massachusetts “blue blood,” aloof to most people in his own country, much less the more-despised “Brits,” and, in all, a damned poor choice for his diplomatic post, making Lewrie wonder if his presence at Nassau was more a punishment for his acerbic nature, not a reward.

“Perhaps Captain Martin will be relieved to get his ship back,” Lewrie presumed between refreshing sips of his wine.

“Captain Martin, fearing the worst, has left Nassau, sir,” the Consul informed him. “I saw him and his crew aboard one of our ships bound for Charleston from Turks Island, which had broken her passage here. He wished to explain his ship’s loss to his business partners and her ship’s husbands, and try to secure his finances as quickly as possible. I am sure he will be eager to return and reclaim her just as soon as I may write and inform him of her re-capture.”

“Well, he may not, Mister Stafford,” Lewrie said, leaning back in his chair with a smile on his face. “We also recovered all of his papers—manifests, business ledgers, his personal log? Does he return to British jurisdiction, he might find himself under arrest.”

“Arrest!” Stafford barked, scowling over the possible indignity. “For what cause, sir?” he archly added.

“Trading with the enemy,” Lewrie said with a shrug, “a charge of Conveyance by knowingly purchasing and transporting stolen goods, to wit, a shipload of British goods taken by a Spanish privateer and offered on the Havana market?”

“Spain is not our enemy, sir!” Stafford snapped. “Spain is your enemy. The United States is neutral in your war, and in a state of amity with all nations!”

“Well, what else may you call a shipload of powder, shot, and naval stores—ordered from Boston, by the way, and put aboard the Santee at Charleston—then shipped to Havana with written proof in Captain Martin’s hand that he knew what he was selling to the French and Spanish privateers? Then, sir, after noting that he had made himself and his partners a very tidy profit by doing so,” Lewrie went on, “he writes in his log, and in his business journal, that with some of that profit, he purchased several hundred kegs and hogsheads of British beer, ale, stout, and porter—all plainly marked with the brewers’ marks—and listed in the cargo manifests as so many in a lot of Whitbread, in a lot of Bass, in a lot from Strangeways Brewery, and so many kegs of Irish Guinness, hmm, sir?”

“Well, I… I…” Stafford spluttered, going red in the face and looking like a hanged spaniel, which pleased Lewrie greatly.

“He almost got away with it, too, Mister Stafford, but for the bad luck of running afoul of a man more suited to piracy than privateerin’, and there was the biter bit, hey?” Lewrie told him. “Unless you wish to lay legitimate claim to the Santee and her cargo, sir, I have no choice but to turn her and my Spanish prize over to the Prize Court to be condemned, evaluated, then put up for sale. Santee might fetch a decent sum, but I expect the merchants of Nassau to snatch up the beer quicker than you can say ‘knife’! Neutral or not, she’s as guilty as your Captain Martin.”

“I will do no such thing!” Stafford growled, looking insulted by the suggestion. “Such is not in my brief. I represent the interests of my country, nothing more, and the insinuation that I would attempt to profit from the situation, I find offensive!”

“Then, upon the best interests of your country, sir, I assume that you will be writing the authorities in Charleston to tell them of this breach of American neutrality,” Lewrie purred on, grinning as he sloughed off the very idea of Stafford feeling offended enough to call for a duel for his “injured” honour. “I will be writing our Consul, Mister Cotton, at Charleston, and our Ambassador at Washington. If you feel your country’s interests have been violated, perhaps you may write Spain’s Captain-General at Havana as well, warning him that his privateers had best leave American ships alone, from now on.”

“I will consider it!” Stafford snapped most stiffly. “Will that be all, sir?”

Lewrie finished his wine and set the glass aside, then rose to his feet. “You may also caution the authorities in Charleston that I fully expect that once the Prize Court has been made cognizant of all the particulars, they will refer the matter to civil court, which will issue a writ against your unfortunate Captain Martin in all British ports.

“That’ll put a rather large crimp in where he can put in to trade in future, but…upon his head be it,” Lewrie said, widening his arms. “I shall take my leave, sir, and good day to you, Mister Stafford.”

*     *     *

Lewrie returned to Reliant later that afternoon, once the last of his business ashore was done. His welcome aboard from the ship’s crew, summoned to gather on deck and the sail-tending gangways, with hats off, was a lot more boisterous this time. As soon as he appeared above the lip of the entry-port, they raised a great cheer.

“Ah, Mister Cadbury!” Lewrie called out to the Ship’s Purser, summoning him over once the cheers died away. “You’ve stowed our…spoils away securely?”