Damme, that sounds devilish promising! Alan thought with delight at the admiral's praise. Singled out for hazardous duty 'cause I made a name for myself? Won't that look good in the London papers.
He shared a quick glance with Lilycrop, who was beaming and nodding his head as he digested the fine assessment the admiral had made of his recent record, looking pleased as a pig in shit.
"No red coats," McGilliveray said in caution. "Your men should wear buff or green anyway. Have some linen hunting shirts run up. And I quite agree with Lieutenant Lewrie about the type of men to go ashore. It would be best if we could procure irregulars, people with some woods-craft. More than one British general has come to grief, tramping about the back-country with line troops, Colonel."
"Well, that lets out Walsham and his Marines," Lilycrop said. "And if this mission is to be secret-I do take it to be secret, hey-then why advertise our presence by wearin' uniform at all?"
"A good point, sir," Cowell spoke up, feeling left out on all the martial planning. "Mister McGilliveray, I doubt they could pass at close muster as natives, but clothes do make the man, do they not, ha ha?"
"A most sensible suggestion, honored sir," said McGilliveray, bowing to his mentor. "Perhaps pack uniforms for the negotiations, to appear more impressive to my people, who are delighted by a fine show. But on the march hunting shirts, leggings and moccasins might escape notice by any Spanish patrol we happen onto. Better to be ignored than have to fight, unless it's absolutely necessary."
"You could supply troops, Colonel?" Cowell almost demanded from his enthusiasm and excitement at getting to dress up like a Red Indian.
"I still hope to honor your requests, sir." He frowned, not liking his unit to be slighted so easily from a grand adventure. "There are no riflemen on Jamaica. No Fergusons, either. Well, I could assign men from my regiment, even so. From the light company, practiced as skirmishers. Remnants of a fusilier battalion. I assure you they know their way around in the mountains and forests hereabouts, milord. They're acclimated to Yellow Jack and the other fevers by now as well, after chasing after rebellious slaves during the last revolt."
"God. Cashman," Captain Eccles whispered bitterly, aghast at being left out.
"Cashman, did you say?" Admiral Rowley prompted, cocking an ear in Eccles' direction. "And who is that, sir?"
"The captain of our light company, milord," Peacock replied, trying to keep a sober face. "A bit… eccentric, but a good man in a fight, I assure you, milord."
If this ass Peacock doesn't like him, then he'll probably be just our sort, Alan thought. Doubt if I could have stood this catch-fart Eccles for more'n a week without callin' him out. And damned if I'd trust one of those battalion-company stallions to guard me out in those swamps.
Alan took it for a given that, as first officer, he would be called upon to guide the little sloop inshore; that's what first officers were for, to risk their arses while their captains stood off and chewed their furniture with worry. It was a rare captain who would give his first lieutenant command of his precious ship and go off on some deed of derring-do just to satisfy his blood-lust. By the time a man had made post-captain, he mostly had blood-lust out of his system, anyway, and was glad to make way for a younger, and more expendable, man.
The conference lasted several more hours, determining that the Spanish sloop would be the only vessel to go inshore, towing a single ship's boat. She could make her way at high tide as far as two miles up the Ochlockonee River with her topmast struck. The two twelve-pounder guns on her fo'c'sle would be dismounted for a brace of four-pounders to ease her sailing qualities. The ship's boat, a standard twenty-five-foot launch, would step a single mast, and would need only six oarsmen due to her shallow two-foot draft. She would also get a couple of swivels should they run into trouble.
This meant that another half a dozen hands had to come along, leaving half a dozen soldiers free for lookouts and protection. Once they left the sloop, six men would stay behind under a quartermaster's mate, with another half a dozen soldiers.
Shrike would never close the coast, but would stand off out of sight of land, and would wait two full weeks from the night the San Ildefonso left her and went inshore. If she did not show up within three weeks, they would come into the bay and search for them.
Shrike would not go ashore for good reason; she would be carrying the bulk of the arms. Cowell didn't want to risk everything in one small ship. The sloop would carry fifty muskets, one thousand rounds of pre-made cartouches and musketeers' equipment such as cartridge boxes, fine priming powder bottles, bayonets, swords and baldrics enough to make a fine show, along with knives, pots, blankets, etc., as samples of England's largesse. There would be bolts of cloth and blankets for presents, and all the usual trade goods, but only enough to whet their appetites for more. McGilliveray argued against this, assuring Cowell that he knew best when dealing with his own people in good faith, but finally relented.
"Well, I think that about covers it, gentlemen," Admiral Rowley said with a yawn. "Shrike is provisioned for a cruise already. All that remains is loading the cargo, bringing the troops aboard the sloop, and readying her for sailing. Her repairs are complete, and she has been provisioned as well. Lieutenant Lewrie, you had best go aboard her at first light with your selected crew. Mister McGilliveray is going to take care of the disguises for the shore party. Have we forgotten anything? Mister Cowell? Mister McGilliveray? Captain? If anything springs to mind between now and sailing date… say two days from now… send me a sealed note, or better, bring it yourself to my flag-captain. And I must warn you, not a word of this among your men until you are at sea. You know how fast rumors fly on the lower deck, hey?"
"If they wonder, we'll let out we're goin' to raid the Cuban coast, milord." Lilycrop chuckled, almost leaning on his hand, propped up from the table and looking far past his bed-time. The continual supply of drink hadn't helped. "They'll believe that, and be glad it's the Army goin' ashore 'stead o' them. That'll explain the sloop, too."
"Excellent subterfuge, Captain. Excellent. Well, I'm for bed."
When they emerged on the quarterdeck of the 2nd Rate flagship, it was blessedly cool, and a refreshing little breeze was blowing to remove the funk of the closed cabins. Their boat was brought round, after the crew was awakened, and they rowed back to Shrike, keeping an enigmatic silence. It was only after they had gone to Lilycrop's cabin that they could talk freely. Lilycrop stripped out of his uniform and knelt to pay attention to his many cats, who blinked and stretched and made much ado over him after such an uncharacteristically long absence.
"Cats et, Gooch?"
"Aye, sir." Gooch yawned. "Will there be anythin', sir?"
"No, go back to sleep. Bide a moment, Mister Lewrie."
"Aye, sir."
"Wine?"
"Thankee, sir."
"Pour me one, too, whatever you're havin'."
They sat down together at his desk, leaning forward into the pool of light from a single overhead lantern that swayed softly as the hull rode the slight harbor ruffles stirred up by the gentle breeze.
"You feel comfortable with this idea, Mister Lewrie?" Lilycrop asked, his features heavily shadowed by the light.
"Comfortable enough, sir, I suppose." Alan shrugged. "It's a devilish grand opportunity for us, stap me if it ain't. If McGilliveray knows half of what he says, we should be alright once we're ashore. But I worry about the sloop and the men we leave behind. Not just about the Spanish running across 'em, but discipline while we're gone."
"Take Svensen, the quartermaster, as your senior hand," Lilycrop suggested. "That square-headed Swede'd put the fear o' God into artillery. There'll be no nonsense with him in charge. And he's a right clever'un, too."