Chapter 9

And you could not pursue him?” Mr. Twigg demanded, sounding as if he did not believe one word of Lewrie’s report.

“Once we’d convinced the rest of the praos to surrender, sir,” Lewrie replied, striving to keep a cool head in the face of Twigg’s unspoken sneering, “after I had returned to harbor and blocked their escape, I did sail off to the east’rd, for two days, sir, but found no sign of him or the pirates who did get out of harbor. After that two days, I felt it my duty to return to Spratly and defend it until Lieutenant Choate arrived with Cuddalore to relieve me, sir.”

They held their conference on Telesto’s poop deck, under the canvas awnings with lots of liquid refreshments, instead of the airless great cabins below, for the day was sunny, hot but breezy.

“And the estimable Lieutenant Choate is where, sir?” Twigg inquired.

“Off the coast of Borneo, sir,” Lewrie stated. “He unloaded his cargo of supplies, then told me to remain here as harbor-guard. He would scout to the sou’east, up to windward, from the Rajang River delta to Balabac Strait. He took along one of the captured praos in tow, sir, so he could go close inshore.”

“Good thinking, that,” Ayscough said of his first lieutenant.

“A bit too late, that,” Twigg retorted.

“Let me remind you, Mister Twigg, that you were still of the opinion that Choundas would be here by mid-June, and in that you were dead-wrong!” Captain Ayscough rumbled deep in his chest, arms folded over his stomach. “I also get the sense that you disapprove of Mister Lewrie’s actions here on Spratly. Well, let me tell you, I have read his full report, even if you have not, and as a commission Sea Officer I find no fault with his conduct of our campaign so far, nor with any decision he has made. My report shall contain my highest approbation for his actions, actions in the very best traditions of the Sea Service!”

“Hmmpf!” Twigg sniffed loftily. “Two sea-dogs whelped from the same litter. Your approval is only natural, but a chance was missed!”

If anything, the already strained relationship between Twigg and Captain Ayscough had grown even more testy in the weeks since Alan had last seen them, going past gentlemanly conduct to the words and sneers that back home would have resulted in a pre-dawn duel. Choate had warned him to expect the worst of them, and had expressed worries that their acrimony was bad enough to jeopardize the future conduct of their expedition. Perhaps that was why Choate had been so eager to get back to sea, so he would not be there when they arrived. They had come into port at Spratly three days earlier, the fifteenth of May. Choate had brought Cuddalore, a fine twenty-gunned merchantman, across the bar on the first of May, and had departed in a haste such as if all the imps of Hell were chasing him. Which, in a way, Alan realized, they were. He’d rather be anywhere than around these two headstrong men whose relationship had degraded to an open feud!

“Why, thankee, Mister Twigg.” Captain Ayscough beamed. “That was a pretty compliment, to my lights, and I do take it as such! I would like to think I’d been as successful had I been in this lad’s shoes. The island taken with minimum casualties, a French cartel ship captured and burned. And not just any hired vessel, but one of Choundas’ outright ownership! A cartel ship, I might remind you, we were not even aware of, and she moored not a quarter-mile ahead of us for six months at Whampoa!”

“Hmmpf!” Twigg reiterated, turning beet-red from that insult to his intelligence-gathering powers, his lips going twine-thin.

“The harbor fortified and provisioned as good as any, and the encampment improved, though I am sure we have Sir Hugo’s skills as a soldier to thank for that as well,” Ayscough continued, inclining his head toward Lieutenant-Colonel Willoughby, who was sprawled in a canvas deck-chair with a glass of brandy in hand, booted feet up on the rickety deal table. Sir Hugo raised his glass and smiled beatifically.

Lewrie could not help but swell with pride as his praises were sung so nicely. If Ayscough were any more complimentary, he imagined they’d commission a Te Deum Mass at St. Paul’s and lay on fireworks!

“An entire pirate fleet destroyed, sir,” Ayscough went on, hammering gaily away at Twigg’s arguments. “Ten out of eighteen Lanun Rover praos sunk, taken or burned, sir, and over twelve hundred cut-throats dead or made prisoner. Why, these Mindanao pirates haven’t suffered such a bloody check in a hundred years! Wiped from the face of God’s blue seas. As you demanded back at Bencoolen, sir.”

“One might also mention the harbor properly surveyed for the first time in living memory, and the island’s exact location corrected, sir,” Sir Hugo prompted. “The late Captain Cook could have done no less in these waters, I shouldn’t doubt.”

“And that American whaler freed, too,” Ayscough concluded.

“Yes, that American whaler,” Twigg drawled. “Now off in Manila, shouting to high heaven. Letting the world in on our little secret! Did it not occur to you, Mister Lewrie, that our mission out here is secret?”

Twigg got to his feet to pace his anger off.

“It cannot be known publicly by any other power that England had disguised warships in these waters, or the recent treaty is violated, and we might face another disastrous war with France. Or any other nation that might decide to side with them. Those Yankees saw a battalion of East India Company troops, and a vessel flying Royal Navy colors, do battle with the French, sir! Now how secret do you believe our mission is any longer? You should have kept them here, found any excuse to delay their departure, until I could arrive so no one could learn of this, but no! You ...”

“Oh, bloody Hell!” Sir Hugo snapped, slamming boots on the deck. “Did it never occur to you, Mister Twigg, that there may have been a tad too much bloody worry about secrecy?”

“I beg your pardon, Sir Hugo?” Twigg snarled back.

‘Two years ago, when our first ships started going missing, it would have made eminent sense to raise the hue and cry with every seafaring nation out here and make a concerted campaign to defend trade. Not just our trade, but everyone’s. Let the world know there’s need to chastise every bloody pirate in the Far East,” Sir Hugo went on. “But that may have been too much good sense for our masters back in London. Seems to me, sir, this exposure at last, with our American cousins shouting the loudest, is just the thing for us. In a year, the world’ll know it was this Choundas, and the Frogs, backing these pirates. Now, our work’s four-fifths done, and public pressure, and an end to all this bloody sneaking and hiding, will do the rest for us, without getting any more good men killed. I say, it’s time the wraps came off this bloody business. And as for freeing those Yankees, refitting their ship and all, well, that’ll stand us in good credit with those new United States. And should another war break out, we’ll need all the good credit we can stand, else they’d side with their former allies.”

“I would not normally expect,” Twigg said after a long sigh, “such perspicacity in a military man, Sir Hugo. And in private, I might be able to agree with you. But the Crown decided otherwise. And it’s not simply about piracy, you see. It’s not even about this fellow Choundas, when you get right down to it, sir. It’s about laying combinations out here for the next war.”

“Oh, bugger,” Sir Hugo growled.

“You consider another war with France inevitable, Sir Hugo, as much as I. At this very instant, there may be three dozen schemes in play such as ours, and even I have no knowledge of them, and shouldn ‘t unless one of the others impinges upon mine. All to see that future foes have no strength or credit here in the Far East, nor any allies or secret bases that could threaten England. To put too much light on ours, sir, to expose any of them, would be to expose all of them, eventually. The best mushrooms, I am told, are grown in the dark.”

“The best roses need the most cow-shit, too,” Ayscough huffed.

“Nevertheless, sir,” Sir Hugo smiled, a disarming, lazy smile that Lewrie knew of old was one of eminent menace, “I do trust that when you come to write of this campaign, you shall sound at least the slightest bit grateful for what we’ve done for you so far. And commending.”

“Of course I shall, Sir Hugo,” Twigg relented, obviously seeing the threat that lay behind that smile, and being enough of a political animal, with the ability to read others so he could best use them for his own purposes, or the Crown’s, to know he could carp no longer.

“So,” Captain Ayscough grunted. “How best to conclude this’un? Now we’ve hamstrung this Choundas bugger so thoroughly.”

“Have we, sir?” Twigg scowled. “And for how long?”

“Well, he’s lost this island base of his,” Ayscough rambled. “Lost La Malouine, lost Stella Mans, and his secret’s soon to be out, thanks to those Yankee Doodle whalermen. Now he may have other cartel ships out here to serve him, but for now he’s on his own.”

“He still has the Lanun Rovers, sir,” Twigg pointed out, with some glee. “And he has his freedom to rebuild a semblance of his web, like some noisome spider.”

“Without the silver and opium we captured here, without all the arms he would have given the pirates, or the trade goods, I doubt he still has the Lanun Rovers,” Captain Ayscough replied. “They lost too many of their brethren here for Choundas to hold their allegiance. Oh, he saved some few of ‘em by showing up when he did, but he failed to rescue the rest. Even with that big, fine ship of his, he didn’t sail up and fight us. He may have ‘em in name only, but not firmly in his grasp any longer. And for the moment, he’s vulnerable.”

“If that’s so bloody obvious, then why isn’t he running home right now, cutting his losses?” Sir Hugo speculated, sitting back down and refilling his glass. “He must know this is his last raiding summer, and it’s riskier now more’n ever.”

“Because he is who he is, Sir Hugo,” Twigg said with a knowing leer. “I’ve had a chance to interrogate the surviving Frogs from this Stella Marts. Amazing what a man will confess when threatened with a noose for piracy. The second mate told me that most of the officers thought Choundas a rather odd sort. Odder than most. Not merely in his sexual predific-tions, but in his mind, sirs. Lieutenant Lewrie, do you recall that nonsense he spouted the day of the execution, what he had to say about the ancient Gauls and Celts being related?”

“Aye, sir, I do,” Lewrie agreed, tensing for another lesson in just how simply clever Twigg thought himself to be. “He said that the Britons, the Gauls and the Celts were one race, sir. Damned fool.”

“Us, kin of Frogs?” Sir Hugo spluttered. “I mean, the Normans aside, what a lot of ... you will pardon the play on words, but, what gall!”

“Choundas was born in low circumstances, yes,” Twigg related with relish, “though not fishmonger poor. His father owned several boats, and hoped for better things for his son.

Education, and hopes he’d enter the priesthood. Don’t have to be a nobleman to do well in France if you wear the cassock. But the boy, besides being a superb sailor, developed a bent for scholarship in history, and in Latin, of course. Why he named Stella Marts by a Latin name, and not Etoile de la Mer, I s’pose.”

“Does this have any bearing on anything?” Ayscough groaned.

“What’s the thing all Latin students read, sir? Caesar’s Gallic Wars. Naturally, as a Breton, Choundas would sympathise with the ancient Gauls under Vercingetorix and such. But most specifically, he imagined himself, and his line, to be kin with the Veneti. When oared galleys daren’t go five miles offshore, these Veneti in their oak ships with leather sails would roam the entire known world, much as we do today. Their strength was in their Navy. Even the Vikings of latter days didn’t dare as much as they did.”

“I think,” Lewrie summarized for them, unable to pass up the sterling opportunity to shine, or to spill the air from Twigg’s sails, “that what Mister Twigg means is that if he thinks he’s the last of this noble seafaring line of Veneti, and goes on about it so much he bores his compatriots to tears with it, we may assume the silly arse will tweak our noses and raid our ships this season, sirs.”

“Then why didn’t you merely say so, Mister Twigg?” Captain Ayscough asked, with all innocence in his expression. “Right, then!”

Ayscough trotted out his chart of the South China Seas and laid it on the table, anchoring the corners with bottles and glasses so the wind wouldn’t scud it off somewhere to leeward.

“If he thinks he’s that bloody good, he can’t have sailed too far to the east’rd.” Ayscough chuckled. “West is out, ‘cause he’d have to beat so far to windward against the prevailing sou’easterlies this time of year to get to his cruising grounds. Choate is scouting the Borneo coast now, and we may have good news from him soon. Down there is to windward, where I’d wish to base myself, were I this ‘last of a noble seafaring line.’ But there’s a problem with that, too.”

“The Borneo pirates,” Lewrie interjected. ‘There’s little love lost between them and the Lanun Rovers, is there, sir?”

“Exactly so, Mister Lewrie. He may have some relations with ‘em as a hole-card, so to speak, and he may be forced to play it to allow him one last chance to go home a winner, but ... well, damme!”

“What?” Twigg rapped out.

“Well, here’s this lad Choundas, born a commoner, normally denied his chance to shine in the French Navy, but thinking himself kin to ancient sea-kings. I see why you would think he would have to do something grand against us before going home, Mister Twigg, but think on this for a moment . . .” Ayscough beamed cleverly. “The Borneo boys are river-based, and they don’t go out of sight of shore too often. Who would Choundas feel the most in common with?”

‘The Lanun Rovers, still!” Twigg exclaimed.

“Right, then!” Ayscough said once more, rubbing his horny palms in satisfaction. “Were I looking for prizes, I’d be far south, opposite the Johore Straits. Around Anambas or Pulau Natuna, where we met that pirate fleet last year. Here at Spratly, maybe up farther north and still to windward of the Canton run on the Tizard Bank. No shelter there, though, if the winds pipe up.”

‘Too close to Dutch or English patrols down south, sir,” Lewrie commented. “That’s why he chose Spratly in the first place.”

“Yes, so we must assume that he’s somewhere up to windward, but not too far to the east’rd. With his resources reduced, he has to be close to the scene of action and do his own dirty work for a while. So if I were constrained in such a way, I’d be somewhere around the mouth of Balabac Strait.” Ayscough frowned, pacing off a divider across the chart. “I’d not be too deep inside the Philippine Archipelago. If my allies started disliking me, there’d be no escape for a single ship, even as well-armed as we assume Poisson D’Or to be. So he would be west of the Sulu Sea. Still allied, even tenuously, with the Mindanao pirates. And using what’s left of that alliance, and their reputation, as a shield to prevent pursuit.”

“Is this not a Spanish naval base, here on Palawan?” Sir Hugo asked, leaning over the chart. “This Puerto Princesa? Seems they’d have this area covered. Why let some outsider upset what arrangement they have with their own native pirates? They’d kick him out soon as those Yankees let them know of it.”

“Ah, but he doesn’t even know that Stella Maris took a Yankee as prize, Sir Hugo,” Ayscough grinned, hugely enjoying himself. “It don’t signify, anyway, that the Spanish would even be aware of them being there. All they have are Guarda Costa luggers and such, not ships of worth. Hell, it’s two hundred miles from Puerto Princesa to the Balabac Strait. The Dons are flat-broke, and all they care about are the northern islands. Anything south of Leyte is pretty much controlled in name only. They have a loose agreement with the natives in the south—‘You don’t kill us, we won’t bother you!’ Healthier for Spanish fortunes in the long run.” Ayscough chuckled with mirth. “So aspiring young Dons don’t get their throats cut, or their reputations ruined, by a raggedy-arsed pack of fanatics.”

“So this Balabac Strait is pretty much the King’s Highway to these pirates, sir?” Lewrie asked, peering at the chart.

“Yes, just so. And I’d expect Choundas to be somewhere near the western entrance, around the island of Banggi on the north tip of Borneo, or on the island of Balabac itself,” Ayscough concluded, tossing down his dividers.

“We have little time, then, before the first ships sail from Calcutta and Madras for this year’s trading season,” Twigg fretted. “We’ll not see him playing innocent in Canton again. One raiding season, then back he goes to the Indian Ocean, leaving other ships to be his bearers for the last loads of loot, whilst he’s off like a hare to France. We might be able to stymie his designs by our presence, and defeat him that way. But there’s the matter of all those ships we’ve lost the last two years. All those murdered men. Damme if I care much for him escaping with even the slightest hint of success, sirs! I wish him destroyed, utterly!”

“Like Cato’s demand,” Sir Hugo mused. “Carthage must be destroyed.”

“Exactly, Sir Hugo,” Twigg said firmly. “For everyone’s peace of mind, Choundas must be destroyed.”

“Mister Lewrie,” Captain Ayscough asked. “Whatever did happen to those Veneti?”

“Caesar sank the lot of them in 56 B.C., sir,” Lewrie replied.