Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH

"Jesus an' Mary," Finney shivered. "It's all up, ain't it?" "Sir?" his butler inquired distantly.

"Get out. I said, get out! Leave it!" Finney shouted as he got to his feet. He shoved the broadside sheet and the letter into one of his private ledgers, tucked them under his arm, and began to pace his palatial parlour and receiving rooms. He took inventory of his fineries as if seeing them for the first time, a visitor to his town house. The inventory took him through the dining room, into the large salon on the other side of the entrance hall, through still-rooms and butler's pantries, through wine cellar and library, up the stairs to peek into all four huge bedrooms, marveling again how well furnished they were. Sumptuous, some said. Bordello "Flash," others cruelly whispered behind his back-after they'd had his meats, wines and music, after they'd fawned to his face and simpered at his japes!

"It's all up," he told himself again, halfway between tears and rage. "Don't want me t'have nothin', won't let me have nothin', niver in this life, the bastards! Build all this, they find a way t'take it from me, they do. Wisht t'God I'da had time t'kill Boudreau… an' do fer that uppity bitch an' her rogue! Ah, well. Me curses on 'em, 'tis the best ye'll do, Jack, me lad. It's all up. Ye had a good run, did ya not?"

Not only would he lose the plantation, but he'd lose the slaves, his house and all its lovely "pretties," the best mat money could buy. His stores, his ships, his chandlery, his… "Ah, shame of it, now!"

But, there was money in the house, and money in his stores. And in the bank. Enough to start over somewhere else. And he still had a fine little ship in the harbour, ready to take him anywhere in the wide world he wished. He ripped open the chifforobe in his own bedroom, took out a leather traveling case, and set the ledgers inside it, then began to pack bom it and an ornate sea-chest, his mind already calculating the best of the tide.

"Damme, what a rotten business," Lord Dunmore grunted after he had read the confessions. "All this happenin' right under my predecessor Maxwell's nose, and him ignorant as sheep, ha ha! That'll make int'restin' readin' in London! But, it's over now. We've bagged the miscreants, and they'll hang in tar and chains 'til their bones fall apart, damme if they won't."

"Finney did escape us, milord," Solicitor-General William Wylly informed him. Wylly had not known Lord Dunmore but a few months, but he had already developed a blazing dislike for the new governor, and had been heard to call him "obstinate and violent by nature," with a "capacity below mediocrity, little cultivated by education, ignorant of the constitution of-England… the lordly despot of a petty clan."

"Best rid of him, then," Lord Dunmore shrugged as he poured a round of brandy for them all; those he had to cultivate, at least Lewrie, Rodgers and some other minor officials were not included in that category, while Wylly, Garvey and Peyton Boudreau were. "Once he's proved guilty in court, all his goods'll be liable to seizure. Bound to be a pretty penny in all that, hey? Might even help defray the cost of me new fortifications I'd planned for the western side of the town. Fort Charlotte, I think to name it, for our Queen."

"There is the matter of the bank, milord," Chief Justice Matson put in. "Finney and several… ahum… of the finer and wealthier of the colony had formed a private merchant bank. There werehundreds of depositors, milord. It's been looted, I fear, and gone with Finney to God knows where. Many of your Privy Council had their accounts there, milord. I did, more to the point."

"Well, send a ship after him and get it back!" Lord Dunmore told them with an impatient arrogance. "That'd be easy enough, hey? What we have the Royal Navy for, if you can't go seize a ship when you wish to, what? How long's he been gone? Two hours, three? Garvey?"

"There is the problem of where he's gone, milord," the commodore muttered, looking most unwell since he'd seen Whippet and Alacrity come into port with Guineaman and Fortune as captures that morning. "I have three ships in harbour at the moment, but they'll not be enough. And Whippet, the sloop of war, is wormed and weeded. She would not be swift enough to catch him, even if we did know his direction."

"Excuse me, milord," Lewrie spoke up.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" Lord Dunmore scowled at him.

"Lieutenant Lewrie, of the Alacrity, milord. Finney did not use the Nor'east Providence Channel, else he'd of had to sail past us to get out to sea. He'd be going west or south, milord. South down Tongue of The Ocean to the east'rd of Andros, to Cuba. Or he went up the Nor'west Providence Channel to pick up the Gulf Stream and sail north. That would be the fastest escape, sir."

"Wherever those are," Lord Dunmore laughed, his round, fleshy moon of a face broken only by a huge overhanging beak of a nose wobbling with incomprehending humour.

"I'll send Lieutenant Coltrop and Aemilia north, then, milord," Garvey decided. "And Lewrie down Tongue of The Ocean."

"Excuse me again, milord, but if the swiftest, and most logical, course he'd steer would be north, then Alacrity has a longer hull, more sail area, and more and heavier guns," Lewrie countered. "I stand the better chance to catch him, and bring him to book."

"That make the slightest bit o' sense to you, Matson?" Dunmore japed at his chief justice. "Sounds like Greek to me. Tarpaulins!" "And only if Lieutenant Lewrie is ordered to sea at once, milord," Rodgers added quickly. "And, with your permission, Commodore Garvey, I will turn Whippet over to my first officer so she may get her… long-delayed… docking and breaming." He could not resist the urge to put his own knife in. "And sail with Lewrie, sir."

"That sounds, and you will pardon the play on words, milord, I trust-like the best course, haw haw," Peyton Boudreau said with a lazy, aristocratic air, as if it were "just between you and me of the better sort" to Lord Dunmore, who was already under Boudreau's lofty spell. "Rodgers and Lewrie are, to my limited knowledge, two of the most energetic officers in the Bahamas Squadron, as I am certain that Commodore Garvey will agree. Damn my soul, have they not proved that today, milord? Best let 'em be in for the kill."

"Bless me, d'ya think so, Mister Boudreau?" Lord Dunmore asked with a wry cock of his head.

"Should they seize Finney and recover the funds, there's sure to be Finney's money as well, liable to condemnation as Droits of The Crown, I trust. More funds to support the construction of your Fort Charlotte. And to support the administration of the Bahamas Colony, milord," Boudreau concluded with a broad wink.

"Zounds! Damme if that don't sound right to me, Mister Boudreau!" the governor agreed heartily, his eyes piggish with greed. "Well, go be about it, you sea-dogs. Go get him! Sic 'im, boys, sic 'im, hey? I say, Commodore, you're lookin' a touch peaked. Not coming down with something… tropical, are you?"

"Got out on the first of the rising tide mis morning," Lewrie speculated as they left the Governor's mansion and began to trot down to the quays. "Four hours, just about. Damme, that's a hellish long lead. And that three-masted lugger of his is bound to be fast."

Lewrie could not bear to name Finney's ship, the Caroline.

"There's a chance," Rodgers puffed, trying to keep up with him. "He's no longer on the waterline than your Alacrity. And he couldn't have known we're only hours behind his sailin'. I'd wager he'll take deep water up the Nor'west Providence Channel. With your shoal depth, we might try cuttin' closer to the Berry Islands, and gain the current of the Gulf Stream afore him."

"Gentlemen, please!" Peyton Boudreau insisted, blowing with the effort to maintain their pace. The refined gentlemen or ladies never went faster than an idle strolling pace; the richer and more refined they were, the more languid! "This haste is unseemly! Lewrie, I must speak to you before you sail. About Caroline!"

"What about her?" Lewrie snapped, coming to an abrupt stop.

"I'll go on," Rodgers decided. "Join me soon as you're able."

"Aye, aye, sir," Lewrie responded perfunctorily before wheeling on Boudreau again. "Is anything wrong with her, or the baby?"

"They're fine," Boudreau assured him. "I meant but to show you this. Finney came to your home. He attempted to woo her with a tale of you abandoning her."

"So it was not Commodore Garvey interrupting my mails?"

"It was, but at Finney's behest," Boudreau said. "I believe he took your letters back and forth, so he might discover what would work best upon her insecurities when his time was right. Last week, before you arrived at Spanish Wells, I should think, he made his move."

"The bastard!" Lewrie screeched, clutching the hilt of his sword.

"This was the result, sir," Boudreau said proudly, producing a copy of the broadside sheet. "This was what 'Calico Jack' received as reward for his scheme."

"Well, damme!" Lewrie exulted as he took in the title and the engraved scene. "Good Lord, but she's got bottom!"

"I told you to trust her loyalty, and her good sense," Peyton praised her. "Enough to put a bumptious clown such as Finney to shame, even in what passes for Bahamian society, haw haw!"

"He went into our house, though?" Lewrie frowned suddenly.

"When he saw his plans had gone for nought, he did, and she…"

"He persisted?" Lewrie shouted. "He attempted force, after she spurned him? Force enough for her to shoot at him?"

"I fear he did. I ran him off at gun-point."

"I'll have his heart's blood, swear to God!" Lewrie said, with a sincerity that gave the pacific and elegant Peyton Boudreau chills. "Let's go, Mister Boudreau. I have to sail. There's not a single minute to waste, now!" he said, setting off at a faster trot once more.

But there was. For at the foot of the hill, at the landing quay on Bay Street by the Vendue House, sat a carriage which contained Mrs. Heloise Boudreau, and Caroline.

She alit from the equipage and ran to him, holding up her long skirts with one hand, hair flying behind her beneath a sunbonnet He turned his course and met her, shouting her name as he lifted her into his arms and twirled her around as she collided with him, so fierce was her greeting. Snickering watchers bedamned, he kissed her in public; she returned his kisses just as ardently.

"Oh, God, at last!" she breathed against his cheek.

"Damned right!" he growled, laughing as he trembled with relief to see her well. Not only well, but as slim as he remembered her, just as lovely as before. And alive and hale! "Lord, you're beautiful! I missed you so much!"

"I love you so much," she echoed, "Alan, come see our son!"

He went to the carriage, where Heloise Boudreau held up a baby in swaddling clothes for him to see. Caroline took him and turned to show him off, cradled in her arms.

"Sewallis Alan Lewrie, this is your father," she said proudly.

Poor little bastard, Alan thought: what a horrid name! Well, he ain't rightly a bastard, is he? Not like I was. He has a father, and a mother. Godparents and grandparents, and all! Ugly, though, I must admit. S'pose all babies are.