When the pinnace came alongside the Spanish prize, he felt an even more stomach-chilling frisson of dread, for the boat was pitching, the Spaniard was rolling, and there were no orderly boarding battens and taut man-ropes, but only a pair of man-ropes dangling free and the mainmast shroud platform for an intermediate shelf. There wasn’t even an entry-port let into the bulwarks; he would have to crawl over!
He stood on the boat’s gunn’ls, balancing like a squirrel on a clothesline, a hand on the shoulders of a couple of sailors, ’til he felt the boat rise, saw the prize roll to starboard, and leapt for a death-grip on one of the dangling ropes, one foot scrambling against the hull for a terrifying second before getting the other onto the shroud platform. He clung to the stays, found a foothold on one of the dead-eye blocks, and could reach up to begin scaling the skinny ratlines, hoping that they were stronger and newer than they looked.
After a few cautious feet higher, he could swing in-board with a foot atop the bulwark cap-rail, then jump down to the deck, hiding a huge sense of relief.
“Ehm … welcome aboard, sir,” Marine Lieutenant Roe said.
“Mister Roe, Mister Britton,” he replied, tapping two fingers on his hat brim. “What is her condition?”
“Filthy and reeking, sir,” Roe replied, sounding chipper. “She trades out of Málaga, so far as I can make out from her papers, and is bound home … was, rather … with a general cargo of flour and un-ground grain, rice, and some sort of meal recorded as cous cous, whatever the Devil that is. She also carries cheese, sausages, wine, coffee beans, and sugar.”
“How many prisoners?” Lewrie asked, turning to his mid-twenties Midshipman Britton.
“Her captain, cook, one mate, four hands, and a couple of boys, sir,” Britton reported. “A scruffy lot.”
Lewrie looked over at the Spaniards who were huddled atop the midships cargo hatch gratings, surrounded by Roe’s Marines with their bayonets affixed to their muskets. At his glance, her captain and a couple of others began to gabble their distress at him, either begging or cursing for all that Lewrie could tell.
“If you’d be so kind, Mister Terrell, would you go below and see if our hit caused any major damage?” Lewrie bade.
“Aye, sir,” Terrell said, though sounding as if it was a fool’s errand. “You two lads, and you, Furfy, come with me to shift cargo so I can get to her planking.”
Britton and Roe told Lewrie that they had found only a few weapons aboard, some clumsy pistols, some rusted cutlasses, and personal daggers and work knives. From what Lt. Roe had been able to read so far, her ship’s papers were pretty straightforward, as were her cargo manifests that did not show anything other than innocent goods.
“Though, sir,” Lt. Roe sagely pointed out with one brow up in a smirk, “where they obtained their cargo is not mentioned, and I have not found any receipts from any sellers. Whenever I asked the master which port he’d recently left, he won’t give a straight answer, and starts wailing on how we’ve ruined him.”
“Sounds like he’s smuggling,” Lewrie determined. “Is there a working chart in his cabins, Mister Britton?”
“I’ll go look, sir,” the Midshipman said, and dashed below to a cabin right-aft, before he could be chided for being remiss. A minute later and he was back and unfolding a well-used chart.
“He sailed from Tarifa, did he?” Lewrie said. “Right past the Rock, and no one noticed!”
“In the dead of night, most likely, sir,” Britton supposed.
Patrick Furfy came up from the forward cargo hold bearing a few stiff paper tags. “Mister Terrell said t’ show ya these, sor,” Furfy announced. “They’s in English is what got his curiosity up. They was tied t’grain sacks an’ such.”
“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie exclaimed with a laugh. “The grain’s from a Gibraltar merchant! I heard that there was some trade cross The Lines, but…! Once back in port, we can report the bastard to General Dalrymple.”
“So that makes her Good Prize, sir!” Britton gladly said.
“Uhm … no, not quite, Mister Britton,” Lewrie had to tell him, dashing the Midshipman’s hopes for a few more shillings in his pocket. Lewrie handed the chart back to Britton and took a good look around. The Spanish coast was about three miles off, by a rough estimate. The port of Fuengirola could not be much more than twelve or fifteen miles to the East. He went aft to look at the boat that was towed behind the Spaniard, which was a 20-footer fitted with a single mast and gaff boom stowed fore-and-aft along her thwarts. It floated, and did not look as if it was too leaky.
“Ya saw those tags, sir,” Bosun Terrell said, coming back on deck and wiping his hands on his slop-trousers. “There’s Devil’s work in her. She won’t sink anytime soon, sir. The ball struck above the waterline, about three foot above, and there’s stove-in scantlings we can replace, if ya really mean to keep her, that is.” He still wore a skeptical look. “I thought we’d all be eaten by her rats.”
“Thankee, Mister Terrell, and I do,” Lewrie said, relieved to hear that. “Desmond, see that her boat’s hauled up alongside. Mister Britton, I’m going to allow the Spaniards t’go ashore. They can take their sea-bags and keep their clasp knives. We’ll put a bag of bisquit and a barrico of water in her. Mister Roe, do you see her captain below to his cabins and let him pack his traps, keepin’ a sharp eye that he doesn’t get away with anything else incriminating. Search all that he wants to take. And let him keep his passage money.”
“Aye, sir,” Roe replied.
“Tell ’em I’m settin’ ’em free before you go,” Lewrie added.
Roe rattled off some rapid Spanish, which prompted another bout of whining, cursing, insults, and perhaps a few sincere expressions of gratitude. They crossed themselves, pulled crucifixes from under their dirty shirts to kiss, the youngest ones bobbing their heads in thanks that they would not end up in Gibraltar’s prison hulk.
“Once they’re gone, we’ll send the Marines back aboard our ship,” Lewrie told Midshipman Britton, “and fetch the Carpenter and his Mate t’cobble up her planking. Care t’take command of her and see her safe to Gibraltar, sir?”
“Me, sir?” Britton exclaimed, much surprised. “Aye, I would!”
“Good man,” Lewrie said. “Go back aboard with the Marines, and pack your sea-chest. How many hands d’ye think you need to manage her? I can’t spare my Cox’n and my boat crew, mind.”
“Hmm, no more than eight, sir, in two watches,” Britton said after a moment’s thought. “I could use Crawley and his hands in the pinnace, they’re all good men. If I take the pinnace back, they can gather up their chests and sea-bags, too.”
“See to it, then,” Lewrie told him. “I can’t say how long you will be away from the ship, Mister Britton. Once in port, you will be livin’ aboard this barge ’til arrangements can be made for you.
“As soon as you get to Gibraltar, you’re to go ashore and see Mister Thomas Mountjoy, at the Falmouth Import and Export Company and turn the boat over to him. If I can find pencil and paper aboard, I’ll write you the address of his offices.”
“Not to the Prize-Court, sir?” Britton asked, confused.
“Definitely not to the Prize-Court, Mister Britton,” Lewrie insisted. “Trust me, it’s a Crown matter which requires a vessel such as this’un. The less said of it, the better.”
“I think I see, sir. Aye, I’ll see to it,” Britton replied, now more curious and bemused than mystified.
“Very good, then,” Lewrie told him with an encouraging smile. He turned to other matters with his Cox’n. “Desmond, did I hear Lieutenant Roe say that this wreck has sausages and coffee aboard?”
“Aye, sor, I believe he did,” Liam Desmond replied, grinning at the prospect of doing a little pilfering.
“Chalky and Bisquit need sausages, so they don’t run short, and I could use a sack o’ coffee beans,” Lewrie told him. “See if you can gather up some, and anything else ye come across that might be good.”
“M
ight be about all that’s good aboard her, sor,” Furfy said, with a grimace of distaste. “Spanish beer’s as sour’z horse piss, an’ th’ wine’z worse’un ’at cheap Blackstrap they sold us in th’ town, sure, sor.”
“Sampled it, have you, Furfy?” Lewrie asked in a purr.
“Uh, me, sor? Nossor, I’d never, arrah,” Furfy protested, hat snatched from his head and laid on his chest to prove his innocence.
“Does anyone know what ‘cous cous’ is? Anybody?” Lewrie asked.
“Ehm, permission t’speak, sir?” Ordinary Seaman Deavers spoke up. “I ate it ashore, on my liberty, sir. It’s a pasta, I was told, wee fine rolled beads smaller than bird shot. They give me a bowl of it, with a stew atop, On its own, it ain’t much, but with stew and gravy, it’s filling, sir. Cheap, too. Said it was like A-rab oatmeal, and comes from Tangier or Tetuán.”
“And used like one would rice, I see!” Lewrie said. “Thankee, Deavers. Desmond, best fetch off a large sack or two. I’m certain that Yeovill can find a way t’use it.”
“Comin’ right up, sor,” Desmond told him with a sly grin. He had just given Desmond and Furfy a license to steal, so long as their pockets didn’t come away too full!
* * *
It was late afternoon before the Spanish two-master got under way, bound West, and tacking to make headway into the wind, against the current. HMS Sapphire was back under full sail, too, heading out to the open sea for the night to come. Come dawn, Lewrie intended to turn Northerly, again, and haunt the Spanish coast closer to Málaga, looking for the next item on the list, a large merchantman suitable to serve as a troop transport.
“Not a bad day, all in all,” Lewrie told Geoffrey Westcott on the quarterdeck.
“Aye, sir,” Westcott agreed. “By the way, I’ve spoken with the forecastle Quarter Gunner, and he’s had a word with the gun-captain of the six-pounder. Wiggins has caught enough grief from the others already, but, a chiding never hurts. He’ll take more care with his aim next time.”
“Good enough, sir,” Lewrie said, satisfied. “One more carrot for our ‘Rock Soup’.”
“A beggarly way of going about things, though,” Westcott said, still amused by the term.
“Since we can’t be choosers, and plain begging won’t get us anywhere, what’s left?” Lewrie replied. “It feels … piratical.”
“More sly than piratical, sir,” Westcott softly objected.
“Arrhh, me hearties!” Lewrie hooted in a theatrical growl. “I will have me a sit-down on the poop deck, and admire the sunset, if there’s a good’un. I do believe I’ve earned it!”
He barely set foot on the poop deck, greeting Bisquit with jaw rubs as the dog put his paws oh his chest, before being interrupted.
“Your pardons, sir,” Midshipman Hillhouse called from the foot of the larboard ladderway. “Permission to speak, sir?”
“Aye, come up,” Lewrie said, feigning openness, and once more wondering why such a “scaly fish” as Hillhouse, with years of experience at sea, had yet to pass the oral examinations for promotion to Lieutenant.
Hillhouse trotted up the ladderway, doffed his hat, and made a brief bow from the waist before speaking. “Beg pardon, sir, but I was hoping that you would consider me to take charge of the next prize we take. I am senior to Mister Britton, and the rest, after all.”
“Britton was there, which is why I chose him, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie told him, concealing his sudden irritation. “It was not a matter of seniority. If it’s any comfort, Britton won’t prosper from it. That barge won’t be bought in, nor will she even see the Prize-Court, and he’ll be back aboard as soon as we return to Gibraltar. I know you’re ambitious for promotion, as are your mess-mates, but taking that shabby scow into port, then idling for weeks, is not a way to get it.”
“I have no patrons, sir, no ‘interest’,” Hillhouse baldly confessed, seeming irked by that fact. “Beyond Captain Insley…”
“Were we assigned to the Mediterranean Fleet, or the blockade squadron off Cádiz, there would be enough Post-Captains to conduct an examination board. Being a Passed Midshipman’d stand you in better stead, and when we did take a substantial prize, especially a Spanish or French National ship, I would then consider you the senior-most to take charge of her, but … we sail under Admiralty Orders, separately, and for as long as that lasts, I fear you may not gain what you desire from temporary duties, Mister Hillhouse.” Lewrie laid it out for him to digest. “I don’t play favourites. Nor do I deny anyone their chance t’shine for personal reasons.”
“I would still request to be considered, should the opportunity arise, sir,” Hillhouse stubbornly said, looking like a bulldog in a pet.
“Then you will be considered, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie promised. “Is that all, sir?”
“It is, sir, and thank you for allowing me to speak,” Hillhouse said, doffing his hat once more, performing another un-necssary bow from the waist, and departed back to the quarterdeck, then the ship’s waist.
I don’t play favourites, Lewrie told himself; But I can take a hellish ‘down’ on the likes o’ you! What a beef-to-the-heel buffoon!
Lewrie flung himself into his collapsible canvas deck chair, a frown on his face, and a sour taste in his mouth. Bisquit nudged him with his muzzle, whining for fresh attention, and Lewrie petted and stroked him ’til he sat on his haunches and laid his chest and legs in Lewrie’s lap, making wee, happy whines as he laid his head down, too.
“Now who said you could get that familiar, hey, dog?” Lewrie muttered, ruffling Bisquit’s head, ears, and neck fur, which brought forth a tongue-lolling grin to the dog’s face.
Insley played cater-cousin to Hillhouse, did he? Lewrie thought; To Lieutenant Harcourt, too? How many others, I wonder? No wonder he feels cheated. Good God, though, a man grown, twenty-five years or so, and still can’t stand before a promotion board?
Lewrie sincerely hoped that the coming sunset would be a spectatular one, if only to make up for the upset that Hillhouse had engendered!
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next month at sea entire was spent close along the coast of Andalusia, chasing after anything that dared put out. Sapphire sailed as far East as the approaches to Cartagena, delving into the seas off Murcia. Standing in within three miles or less of major ports, some tempting three-masted ships could be seen that could have served as their transport, but they were all well-guarded by massive shore fortresses and heavy coastal artillery. Equally tempting was the chance that a well-armed cutting-out party might steal into harbour and take one by force, and sail her out in the dead of night, but, whenever they showed up, guard boats full of soldiers appeared, scuttling like cockroaches cross the mouths of those harbours, and close round the ships.
Lewrie could at least take a little comfort from the fact that those ships sat cringing at anchor, unable to carry on any trade, for fear of his ship’s presence. And, in performance of the brief that Thomas Mountjoy had given him, to raise chaos and mayhem, he could also feel some satisfaction that he had terrified the Spanish by going after anything that floated, from coasting trader to fishing boats.
None were suitable to qualify as Good Prize, but they could make grand warning pyres, once overawed and forced to surrender, then taken in close to the coast by temporary prize crews, their masters and sailors freed to make their way ashore in their own boats, then set afire, by day or night. Admittedly, Sapphire pursued more than she caught, and many Spaniards out-ran them, but at least they ran into port to carry the tale of a merciless Inglese warship prowling for prey, which they only escaped by the skin of their teeth, by God’s Mercy. One of their last captures, an old lateen-rigged merchantman that they ran down off Almeria, carried a crew that wailed in terror that el diablo negro, “the black devil”, had caught them!
And Lewrie’s cook, Yeovill, had finally discovered the right amount of water and cous cous to boil up for an edible dish!
* * *
HMS Sapphire stood in towards
shore yet another morning, just before dawn. The lower decks had been swept, the upper decks sluiced with water and holystoned, and the wash-deck pumps had been stowed as the hands were released for breakfast. The weather had turned rough, the last two days, with strong winds and high seas that had churned and foamed greenish-white, so it was with a sense of relief that the morning presented light winds and long-set rollers not over five or six feet high.
“Near due West, and we’ll make landfall a bit West of Estepona, sir,” Sailing Master Yelland estimated, bent over the chart, working a pair of brass dividers over it. “About … six miles offshore?”
“At least ’til Noon Sights, Mister Yelland, and then we’ll alter course to Sou’west, or thereabouts,” Lewrie agreed, “and make our way toward the Straits, and into port.”
He stifled a yawn, for he’d slept badly as the rough weather had eased, snatching less than an hour between urges to go on deck to respond to the now-and-then lurches, rolls, and louder groans from the hull. He’d only had time for one cup of coffee, too.
“Sail ho!” came an electrifying shout from the mastheads.
“Another fire, huzzah!” said some sailor on the larboard sail-tending gangway forward of the quarterdeck and the chart room laughed aloud.
Lewrie excused himself to go to his great-cabins and fetch his telescope, then trotted up to the starboard side of the poop deck for a look-see.
“One point ahead o’ th’ starb’d bows, hull-down!” a lookout on the foremast cross-trees shouted down. “Nigh bows-on!”
“Bound for Estepona?” Lewrie heard Lt. Harcourt speculate on the quarterdeck below him.
“She won’t live long enough to make it, sir,” Midshipman Leverett boasted. “We’ll cut her off, if she doesn’t go about and run.”
Lewrie’s telescope revealed what appeared to be a two-master under gaff-hung lugs’ls and a large jib, all winged out to starboard to cup the dawn’s shore breeze. He looked aloft past the brailed-up main course to the commissioning pendant and how it streamed, judging the direction of the wind, and thinking that if Sapphire came about to Nor’west by West, he could block the two-master’s course for the obvious refuge of Estepona, drive her closer inshore, or force her to go about and attempt to run away to the West, where the only safe haven might be the mouth of a minor river.
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