The King's Marauder

by Dewey Lambdin

“Not really, sir,” Elmes told him with a smile. “All in all I’d say they’re in fine fettle, what with the action with the French, the prospect of prize-money to come from it, and a run ashore. And more of that to come?”

  “So long as we’re working out of Gibraltar, aye,” Lewrie said.

  That promise pleased Lt. Elmes right down to his toes, for he and the rest of the wardroom had had much more free time ashore than the ship’s people. Over supper the first night out at sea, the conversations round Lewrie’s dining table had been rapturous and excited about exploring the many caves, touring the massive fortifications, the excellence of their meals and the wines, the abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables (some smuggled cross The Lines from Spain) and an expedition by donkey-back to the heights of the Rock, and their encounters with the filthy Barbary apes which ran wild up there. What else his officers and Midshipmen had done with the ladies of Gibraltar was anyone’s guess, and none of Lewrie’s business, but count on Lt. Geoffrey Westcott to smirk, wink, and grin in sign that he had managed to find himself a liaison, if no one else did. Among those hundreds and hundreds of foreigners that Mountjoy had mentioned who resided at Gibraltar, many were women; Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian, principally from Genoa, many of whom practiced their own version of “mercantile trade” with the soldiers and officers of the garrison, those merchants, and the crews of ships putting into harbour.

  Lewrie had taken Sapphire cross the Straits to look at Ceuta, the Spanish enclave in North Africa, and take a peek at the nigh-impregnable fortress there. There had been no shipping there, but he’d found it disturbing that there were no British blockading ships present, either. He’d trailed his colours only four miles offshore, one mile beyond the maximum range of the heaviest fortress guns, then had ordered the course altered to the Nor’east to begin prowling the coast of Spain.

  “Land ho!” several masthead lookouts shouted, almost as one. “Deck, there! Land ho, two points off the larboard bows!”

  The Sailing Master, Mr. George Yelland, popped out of his sea cabin on the starboard side of the quarterdeck, looking disheveled and unkempt, as if he had been napping in his clothes. “Landfall, sir?”

  “Mountaintops, most-like,” Lewrie commented. “Let’s look at the charts.”

  They crossed to the larboard side of the quarterdeck and went into the dedicated chart space. Yelland dry-scrubbed his face with rough-palmed hands, making a raspy sound against his unshaven cheeks, as if to rouse himself to full wakefulness, before leaning over the chart of the Spanish coast pinned to the angled tabletop. He checked their latest position from yesterday’s Noon Sights, followed the pencilled line of Xs which showed their hourly Dead Reckoning positions, and made some humming noises.

  “Mountaintops, certainly, sir,” Yelland opined at last. “The Andalusian coast possesses some truly magnificent ranges. From where we reckoned ourselves to be two hours ago, we are in sight of the Sierra Nevada range. Which particular mountains sighted is still moot, but … the shores I believe to be about eighteen miles off, and we should sight the port of Fuengirola in a while.”

  “No shoals reported?” Lewrie asked.

  “Not unless we proceed to within a mile or two of the coast, sir,” Yelland informed him, “where the soundings show six fathoms or less.”

  “Very good, sir,” Lewrie said. “We’ll stand on as we are, and see what turns up. With the coast so mountainous, and the roads tortuous-bad, as they usually are, we might stumble upon a fair amount of coasting trade. Sorry to have interrupted your nap.”

  “Not a nap, sir,” Yelland said, stifling a yawn. “Simply resting my eyes.”

  Lewrie went back out onto the quarterdeck, snatched a day telescope from the binnacle cabinet rack, and went up to the poop deck for a slightly higher vantage point. There were clouds to the North and East, but if there really were mountains up there, they were only darker, still indistinct smudges that could be taken for rain clouds beneath or ahead of the rest.

  There was a whine, and a pawing at his knee. Bisquit, wakened from a nap atop the aft flag lockers, had brought his newest, favourite toy, a length of old three-inch line whipped with twine to stiffen it, with a monkey’s fist fashioned at either end, and made tasty with some slush from the galley. The dog could gnaw on it like a bone or shake it like a snake in mock “kills”, with delighted yips and growls.

  Lewrie took it from his jaws, even if it did stink like so many badgers and was greasy and wet with saliva, got the dog dancing right and left, then threw it back to the flag lockers. Bisquit chased it down, gave it a shake, and brought it back, to do it all again. That went on for a full five minutes before a lookout high atop the mizen mast cried out, “Sail ho!”

  “Carry on, Mister Fywell,” Lewrie said, tossing the toy to one of the youngest Midshipmen who had been practising his mathematics on a slate. “Just don’t toss it overboard by accident. Bisquit’d be heartbroken.”

  “Where away?” Lt. Elmes shouted aloft with a speaking trumpet.

  “Two points off the larboard quarter!” was the bellowed reply. “Two-masted, and hull down!”

  Lewrie took his telescope aft to stand atop the flag lockers, clinging to the larboard taffrail lanthorn to steady himself. He had just the slightest hint of two wee parchment-tan ellipses on the horizon, like the upper halves of two close-set commas.

  “Eight or nine miles off?” he muttered under his breath, “and how’d she get this close without the lookouts spottin’ her?”

  He would have to have a sharp word with his watch officers, so that sort of inattention didn’t happen again! Let Westcott, Harcourt, and Elmes pass the grief along to those deserving.

  His perch was rather precarious, so after a minute or so, he clambered down and depended on the shouts between Lt. Elmes and the lookouts aloft.

  The strange sail was two-masted, proceeding on a mostly Easterly course, and appeared to be about eight miles astern of Sapphire, though almost keeping up with the much larger ship because she was on a bee-line, whilst the two-decker was angling inshore.

  “Whatever she is, she appears to be coasting from either Estepona, Puerto Banús, or Marbella, on a direct course for Fuengirola or Málaga, sir,” the Sailing Master said after Lewrie returned to the quarterdeck. “Blind as bats, or un-caring, for she’s surely spotted us by now, sir.”

  “Thankee, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie replied. “How far offshore d’ye reckon her to be?”

  “Five or six miles, sir,” Yelland guessed.

  “Very well,” Lewrie said, looking up and aft.

  When Lewrie had taken command of Sapphire, she had been a part of a squadron commanded by a Rear-Admiral of The Blue, and had flown that ensign, and she had kept that colour when escorting her convoy to Gibraltar. Once there, though, Lewrie and Sapphire operated under Admiralty Orders as an independent ship, and now flew the Red Ensign, which stood out more distinctly at greater distances.

  Bisquit’s toy came bumping down the starboard ladder from the poop deck, followed by the dog a moment later. Midshipman Fywell, at the head of the ladder, looked sheepish and embarrassed.

  “Mister Fywell, instruct Mister Spears to strike our colours, and hoist those of the Spanish Navy,” Lewrie told him of a sudden.

  “Spanish, sir?” Fywell gawped.

  “The one with the crowned oval with all the shit in it, mind,” Lewrie said with a grin. He looked aloft to the commissioning pendant to judge the direction of the winds, and made another decision.

  “Mister Elmes, I wish t’close that sail, and take her if she’s worth it. Alter course two points to larboard, and make her head Nor’-Nor’east.”

  “Nor’-Nor’east, aye, sir,” Elmes replied, turning to shout directions to the brace tenders and sheetmen. That change of course and the sighting of a strange sail several minutes before drew the attention of the on-watch hands, and those off-watch who had come up from below in anticipation of the first daily rum issue at Seven Bells of the Forenoon. Chuckles and murmur
s could be heard as Sapphire’s men contemplated even more prize money in their pockets.

  “Sir,” Lt. Harcourt reported himself on deck and ready for any duty, though Quarters had not been called for.

  “Sir,” Lt. Westcott performed the same duty a moment later. “A possible prize?”

  “Perhaps,” Lewrie told him.

  Westcott had a quick look about, spotted the Spanish Navy Ensign flying in place of their own, and could not help chuckling.

  “Should we have Carpenter Acfield fashion a crucifix and hoist it onto the face of the main tops’l, sir?” he teased.

  “A crucifix?” Lt. Harcourt asked.

  “Last year off the Plate Estuary, when we fought the San Fermin frigate, she had a big one on the front of her fore tops’l,” Westcott explained. “Didn’t do the Dons much good, though, for some of our bar-shot decapitated Jesus, and she burned to the waterline, poor devils.”

  “Now we are ze grandees of Espagna,” Lewrie played along with a bad attempt at a Castilian lisp accent, “we do not do battle weez zose heretical Engleesh, we do weezout ze Holy Presence.”

  For the first time, Lt. Harcourt looked as if he was amused, and honestly so, instead of giving an impression of smirking.

  “Deck, there!” a lookout alerted them as Sapphire completed her alteration of course and settled down on Nor’-Nor’east, picking up speed on a broad reach and a leading wind. “The Chase is bearing off for shore! Six points off the larboard bows!”

  “Or one point ahead of abeam,” Westcott grumbled.

  Lewrie went to the laboard bulwarks to take another look with his telescope. Their strange sail was not quite hull-up yet, but he could determine that her two masts sported large lugsails suspended from gaff booms, with what looked to be a single jib sail up forward. The scend from one of the sea’s long rollers lifted Sapphire a few feet, another far off lifted the stranger a few feet, and he got the impression of a sliver of hull. They were closing on her!

  “If she’s a Spaniard, and we’re flyin’ Spanish colours, then why the Devil is she tryin’ to run?” he grumbled.

  “General distrust, sir?” Lt. Elmes, who was within ear-shot and assumed that he was being addressed, piped up. “After three years of war, and so many ships taken by our Navy, her master must be wary of any other ship that heaves up in sight.”

  “No matter,” Lewrie decided. “We’ve a much longer waterline and scads more sail. Unless she tries t’put about, into the wind, or run herself aground, I think we’ve a good chance of taking her.”

  “Hull-up, sir!” Midshipman Carey, in charge of the signalmen on the poop deck, cried, forcing Lewrie to lift his glass once more for another look at her.

  No more than five miles off, now, he told himself, juggling the odds of interception; And I still can’t make out the coastline, which means she can’t get into shoal water before we fetch her up. And she’s slow. Wallowing!

  “Mister Elmes, beat to Quarters,” he snapped at the officer of the watch. “The upper-deck guns, the bow chasers, and the larboard twelve-pounders only.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  A Marine drummer began the long roll, petty officers began to bellow orders, and Lieutenant Westcott took over for Elmes, freeing him to go below. Harcourt departed to take charge of the upper gun deck 12-pounders, and Marine Lieutenant Keane turned up with Lt. Roe in tow, hastily chivvying their men into full kit of waist-coats and red coats and crossbelts, which were only worn when standing sentry duty or for battle when at sea.

  “We’ve a Spanish speaker aboard?” Lewrie asked the people on the quarterdeck.

  “I do, sir,” Lt. Roe said.

  “Should I have need to hail her, do you stand by here on the quarterdeck ’til she’s struck, Mister Roe,” Lewrie said to him, “then I’d admire did you go over to her with the boarding party.”

  “Very good, sir!” Roe replied, looking eager for any fight.

  “If she strikes, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie went on, “I wish my boat crew to bring the launch up from towing, and ferry the boarding party over to her.”

  Bisquit knew what the long roll meant, by now, and recognised the loud noises associated with battle, and the roar of the guns. He came down from the poop deck in a rush, scampered down to the waist, and disappeared down a hatchway, bound for the safety of the orlop.

  Pettus came out of the great-cabins with Chalky in his wicker cage. “Strip your cabins, sir?” he asked.

  “Not unless yon ship turns herself into a ship of the line, no, Pettus,” Lewrie told him with a wee chuckle. “I don’t see us takin’ damage from the likes of her.”

  After a few minutes, Sapphire had strode up a mile closer to the stranger, which was now four points off the larboard bows, a sure sign that they were overtaking her at a good clip. A few minutes more and their Chase loomed larger, at three points off the bows, altering course more Northerly to string out the pursuit into a stern chase.

  “Colours!” was the general cry on the quarterdeck as a faded Spanish merchant flag, a “gridiron” of two horizontal red stripes on a gold field, jerkily went up her stern gaff.

  At least she’s declared herself, Lewrie thought; But she ain’t slowin’ down, or lookin’ relieved that we’re both Spanish.

  Sapphire, so the Sailing Master estimated, was within four or five miles of the coast, and the narrow band of plains and foothills were in plain sight, sprinkled with woods, pastures, and cropfields, with hamlets and villages set back from the sea easily made out from the deck. He also stated that they were within two miles of their Chase.

  “We’ll stand on a bit more,” Lewrie announced as he rocked on the balls of his boot soles.

  Three miles from shore, within a mile of the straining Spanish ship, and Lewrie decided that it was time to end the charade.

  “Mister Westcott, a shot under her bows, and strike our false colours, and run up the Red Ensign!” he barked.

  One of the forecastle 6-pounders barked, hurling a shot that did not quite deliver the traditional warning; it struck the sea short of the Spanish vessel, caromed up from First Graze, and raised a great feather of spray right along her starboard side. Charitably, it did hit her forward of amidships; more near her bows than under.

  Have the foc’sle Quarter Gunner tear a strip off that gun-captain’s arse, too, Lewrie added to his to-do list; He’s damaged her, he pays for the bloody repairs!

  “Ah, hmm, sir,” Lt. Westcott muttered, shaking his head. “Bad show, that.”

  “Let’s hope no one who matters is watching, then,” Lewrie told him, grimacing. “Is she going to strike, or do we have to shoot her to kindling?”

  The Spaniard still stood on, even bearing up more towards the coast, as if she would run herself aground rather than be taken, showing a bit more of her stern transom to them.

  “The first two twelve-pounders of the larboard battery, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie snapped. “Convince the bastards!”

  The order was passed by Midshipman Ward, who darted down from the quarterdeck to the waist, then to the upper gun deck. Nigh one minute passed before the gun-ports were opened and the black muzzles of the 12-pounders appeared. There was another pause as gun-captains waited for the ship to roll upright and poise level, on the up-roll. The first gun erupted, followed a second later by the next, masking Sapphire’s bows in a cloud of rotten-egg, yellow-grey smoke.

  Lewrie lifted his telescope to look for the fall of shot, and felt like whooping aloud as one tall feather of spray heaved upwards within fifty yards of the Spaniard’s larboard quarter, and the second hit the sea short and skipped, punching a neat hole in her foresail.

  “That’s more like it, sir,” Lt. Westcott said with glee as the ragged and faded Spanish flag was not simply struck, but cut clean away to flutter down into the two-master’s disturbed wake. Halliards were freed, and her gaff booms sagged, as her sails were lowered in quick surrender.

  “Take in sail and fetch-to near her, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “R
eady the boarding party. Secure from Quarters.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, and both vessels were lying still near each other, bows cocked up to windward and slowly drifting on wind and currents. Marine Lieutenant Roe, with five private Marines, and a boarding party under Midshipman Britton, secured their prize and searched her, and her crew, for weapons, and her master’s cabin for incriminating documents.

  Lewrie paced the quarterdeck and the poop deck in mounting impatience, waiting for a report. The Spaniard seemed about right for Mountjoy’s covert work; she was about fifty feet on the range of the deck, filthy-looking, outwardly ill-maintained, and utterly unremarkable if she was seen anywhere along the coasts of Andalusia, even if she sailed right into Málaga, Cartagena, or the Spanish naval port of Cádiz in broad daylight. But, if the lone accidental hit by a six-pound roundshot had caused damage below her waterline, or right on it, she might sink before she could be gotten back to Gibraltar, and the day’s work would be for nothing.

  Even if we do get her back to Gibraltar, I can’t declare her as a prize, so Captain Middleton can’t get any money from the Prize-Court to make repairs, Lewrie fretted; She’s completely off the books!

  “The Devil with it!” Lewrie growled, then went down to the quarterdeck. “Mister Westcott, a boat crew for the pinnace, and pass word for Bosun Terrell. I’m going over to her.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He tried to appear calm and patient, but it was difficult as he stood by the larboard entry-port waiting for the pinnace to be towed up from astern, a boat crew assembled under former Cox’n Crawley, and the Bosun to be filled in.

  “She ain’t much of a prize, sir,” Terrell commented, shifting his quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other. “No great loss if she goes down.”

  “She could be useful, even so, Mister Terrell,” Lewrie told him, mystifying the Bosun even more.

  * * *

  Lewrie did not relish small-boat work, and it was not the preservation of the dignity of his office and rank that made every embarking and departure from ship to shore, from ship to ship, a slow and careful evolution. Alan Lewrie could not swim!