Troubled Waters l-14

by Dewey Lambdin

  "Wouldn't dream of it, mon vieux," Lewrie casually shrugged off. "Mister Urquhart, his boat clean of arms and contraband?"

  "Completely, sir," Urquhart gravely replied. "Nothing but clasp knives. for sailors' work aboard, and no goods beyond their dinners and such, either, sir."

  "Very well, then," Lewrie said, turning back to Papin. "Sir, I will trouble you no longer. You are free to go about your fishing."

  "No good zat do, now, zis late in morning, pawh!" Papin growled, looking at Aspinall and the rum bottle, and his newly emptied glass in expectation of a "stirrup cup," and licking his lips.

  "Sorry 'bout that," Lewrie allowed. "Convey Capitaine Papin to his boat, um… Vappilation des votre bateau, Capitaine?" he asked, making Papin wince again, this time over Lewrie's lack of grammar, and his outlandish accent. "The Marie Doux, is it? Sweet Marie? Thankee. I shall know you and your boat in future. Perhaps…"

  Lewrie gave the man a sly look, nodded to Aspinall to pour him a third glass of rum, and posed the question.

  "I would appreciate an occasional bottle or two of good wine… perhaps a case at a time, as would my wardroom officers, I'm certain, Capitaine Papin," he posed. "And, as you say, lobsters and shrimp, a parcel of mussels or clams, are not your normal catch, but you could, are you reasonable, obtain such from the smaller boats to sell me. A decent brandy, hmm? American corn whisky, if you could get it, haw!" Lewrie concluded with a scoffing laugh at such an out-of-the-ordinary wish, as if asking for a slice of cheese off the moon.

  "Ze 'Merican whisky, ze… bourbon, m'sieur}" Papin said with almost a wink, slyly scratching at his week's worth of grey stubble as if considering such a request, and what he might charge for it. "Mais oui, Capitaine Le… Luur… m'sieur. Ze 'Merican ships still come to Bordeaux… get pas' you' blockade, all ze time, hawn! You wish ze whisky, peut-etre ze 'Mericans sell d moi. Ze res', is tres easy to sell you. Non ze bank note! Mus' 'ave silver coin."

  "Uhm… chickens?" Midshipman Mayhall muttered nearby. "Eggs?" "Ze lad wish ze fresh omelette, oui}" Papin asked with a greasy laugh of his own. "Difficile, m 'sieurs, for ze gendarmerie punish ze smuggler 'oo trade with you 'Bloodies.' See ze livestock be loaded on boat, et voild, I am lose my boat, and be in ze prison. Peut-etre, ze small parcels, hein} Non ze cow and sheep, hawn hawn hawn!"

  "Lots of American ships up-river, are there, sir?" Lewrie asked, trying to sound off-handed and not too interested.

  "Ze few, Capitaine," Papin replied, a sly smile on his face, and a brow cocked as if they were getting to the main trading points. "You wishing to know when zey sail, hein} Ze… information}" he added in a much softer, conspiratorial voice. "Peut-etre you wish to know of ze forts, ze navire de guerre} Warships?"

  "Hmm," Lewrie replied in like voice, daring another sip of his rum, finding it easier on his stomach this time, and taking another. "That might prove… useful. For such, of course, one must expect to be rewarded."

  "Oh, mais oui, Capitaine Lurr… m'sieur, hawn hawn!" Papin chuckled, in the fashion of a pimp or tout who'd just landed a customer to enter his brothel. "I 'ave nozzing to tell you now, but…!"

  "Oh, but surely our ships will meet again, Capitaine Papin… soon," Lewrie said to that, a smug and satisfied grin on his face as they all but clasped hands and shook on the bargain. "Care for another glass of rum, sir?"

  "Give me ze bottle," Papin insisted. "I curse you."

  "Eh, what?" Lewrie asked, suddenly befuddled.

  "Mes hommes see us," Papin said with a shrug as he accepted the re-corked bottle and tucked it into the large cross-wise pocket of his rough smock. "Zut alors, I curse you, I look like patriot. Zey will non mind I sell food an' drink, but ze information? Non!"

  "Ah," Lewrie said with a nod. That was all he had time for, for Papin suddenly went into a ranting screech, like to pull his hair out, stamping about the quarterdeck, hocking up a glob of spit as he cried "Jamais!" or "Never!"… along with a rich store of invective about the English, poverty, Lewrie's doubtful ancestry, the piratical Royal Navy, syphilitic kings and queens, the Battles of Agincourt and Crecy, the burning of Joan of Arc at the stake, that thieving foutre Henry the Fifth, the English language, Anglican Protestant heretics, invaders and chicken thieves, and the filthy English habit of bathing too often! He concluded with a dramatic, arms-akimbo, aggressive stance so he could hock up another large glob of spit, and shout "Pawh!"

  "Does this mean we won't get any fresh cheese?" Mayhall asked in a wee voice, which quite destroyed the spirit of the thing.

  "Cheese, oui…plus tard. Later," Papin rasped from a corner of his mouth, looking like an actor whose grand soliloquy had been interrupted and ruined by an unruly drunk in the cheap seats.

  "Au revoir, Capitaine Papin," Lewrie said, not sure whether to applaud, or laugh. " 'Til we meet again. A tout a l'heure."

  With a final, broad obscene gesture, Papin went to the entry-port and scampered down the battens and man-ropes as agile as an ape.

  "See him back to his boat, Mister Urquhart, and recall our men," Lewrie ordered. "And have someone swab… that, up."

  "Secure from Quarters, sir?" Lt. Adair, the Second Officer, asked.

  "Half the quarterdeck nine-pounders, and the carronades, aye," Lewrie decided. "I don't see any boats as large as Papin's out this morning, so the swivels, and muskets, would suit just as well."

  "There do seem to be a fair number in the offing, Captain," Lt. Adair pointed out.

  "Christ, we stop and search 'em all, we'll be at this 'til sundown," Lewrie said with a scowl. "No, we'll not waste our time on 'em. We'll hunt up Argosy and Erato first, and get the lay of the land from their captains, before we try on anything else. After all," he said with a chuckle, "they're the ones t'do the stopping and searching. We are here t'back them up."

  "Odd fellow, this Papin, sir," Lt. Adair commented, as close as he could come to initiate a discussion of what had just transpired. "I… pardons, sir, but I would not trust him with much. He's French!"

  "Well, as Commodore Ayscough and Captain Charlton told me last night, Mister Adair," Lewrie responded, quite pleased with his initial dealings with the French fishermen, "a great deal of useful information is had from the locals, once cordial relations are established by dint of paying good prices for their catches, then for their smuggled goods. The old Directory of Five in Paris, now Bonaparte, are bankrupting the country with their endless wars upon the rest of Europe. Their trade with the rest of the world is cut to the bone… our doin', that… and, I doubt ev'ry Frog is in love with the Revolution. This Papin, some of his fellow captains, may prove extremely informative."

  Some shillings here, a guinea or so there, and these impoverished Frogs 'II most-like sell their dead mothers' hair! Lewrie cynically thought; fed up with war and shortages… sons conscripted, or already dead or crippled on battlefields from here to the Alps… why wouldn't they play spy, if there's some money in it, and get a bit o' their own back on the damned fools in Paris?

  He was quite pleased with himself, all but rocking on the balls of his feet and whistling a merry tune. Oh, perhaps Papin couldn't deliver the best information, but surely he could come through on the wine, cheese, eggs, fresh-baked baguettes and boules… the bourbon whisky? If not Papin, some other of these fishermen, in almost daily contact with British warships, could. A cornucopia of fresh seafood, surely!

  Newspapers! Lewrie thought of a sudden, feeling remiss that he had not mentioned them. French newspapers, half lies though they might be, could still provide a treasure trove of information; mostly unintentinally, for not every pa-per could be pored over by government censors.

  "Uhm, sir…," Lt. Adair spoke up again, all but muttering confidentially, "I noted that, whilst that Papin fellow was doing his rant and dance, he, well… from the first moment he came aboard, he kept darting rather shrewd eyes about our ship. Counting our guns and such? And, we haven't seen a single other fishing boat as large as his quite this far out near the mouth of the Gironde. Perhaps there
are others, but… why would this fellow dare the blockade, sir? Might Papin be spying for his own Navy, sir? Or, passing information to us as quick as he passes observations to shore? Playing both ends against the middle?"

  "Oh, fu…!" Lewrie began to blurt with a yelp of dismay, but quickly substituted "Mine arse on a band-box!" instead. The son of a bitch was spyin on me? he had to recognise.

  "Didn't notice his demeanour," Lewrie huffed, "and thankee for keepin' your own eyes on him, Mister Adair. And, for your suspicions. Papin may be only the first middlin'-sized boat we've come across. It may be that others sail out this far on a regular basis. We're so new t'these waters, we've no idea, at present. We find Erato or Mischief, one of the cutters or sloops, and speak their captains, we'll have a better idea of what t'look out for… and who… Whom, rather."

  "Well, there is that, sir," Adair replied, unsure whether to be eased of his suspicion, or not.

  "Rather like Mister Winwood and his fear of where the driftwood logs lurk on the tides hereabouts, Mister Adair," Lewrie tried to make a jest of it. " 'Til he's secure in his mind, he'll spend all night on deck, lookin' out-board for ship-killin' trees."

  Adair doffed his hat and returned to his duties, leaving Lewrie to pace the length of the quarterdeck nettings and railings, hands in the small of his back, head down, and his neck burning in embarrassment.

  Spied on? he chid himself; just let the bastard aboard t'see any thing he wished? Gawd, which o' these Frogs can ye trust? This whole endeavour could turn out t'be a rare shitten business!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  T he safe, and navigable, outermost reaches of the Gironde river estuary measured about twelve miles across on a line drawn from Pointe de la Coubre, the tip of a narrow, hook-shaped peninsula on the north shore, an appendage to a clenched-fist larger peninsula whose Atlantic face was labelled the Cote Sauvage-which Lewrie took as auspicious-to a seaside village south of Pointe de Grave on the southern Atlantic coast named Soulac sur Mer.

  The south shore peninsula narrowed and bent back to the nor 'east at Pointe de Grave, near another coastal village called Le Verdon sur Mer, which actually lay on the inner river bank. From Pointe de Grave to the north shore, and the small town of St. Georges de Didonne just a mile or so south of the larger town of Royan, lay the narrows of the Gironde, which was only about three miles across; a short row for a determined boat crew, or an even shorter sail.

  Temptingly beyond those narrows, the Gironde widened considerably, remaining deep and six miles across, only narrowing slightly until it reached the long and skinny river aits that Rear-Admiral Lord Boxham had mentioned, near Pauillac and Blaye. Any number of French warships or merchant vessels could be moored below those Pointe de Grave narrows, but as to the getting to them, or even sneaking a ship's boat up the river to spy them out, it just didn't look like it was do-able…

  "Now in King Louis the Fourteenth's day, sir," Mr. Winwood said in his usual bleak manner, "the key fort guarding the river was on the eastern bank, 'bout twelve or thirteen miles up-river, ah… here, at Saint Fort sur Gironde. One might suppose they deemed fortifications by Le Verdon sur Mer, the tip of Pointe de Grave, and Saint Georges de Didonne too vulnerable to armed landings. Now, though… my word!"

  Keeping a chaste three miles offshore as they cruised down the north bank past La Grande Cote, St. Palais sur Mer, and to within sight of Royan in case some monstrous 42-pounder coastal guns might lurk in the forests and bleak fields, they had not seen all that much sign of military preparations. They had not been fired upon… yet… Though, as they neared St. Georges de Didonne, they could finally espy a stout pile of stonework sited about halfway between the village and the town of Royan. It appeared to be no more than one hundred yards long overall, a place formed in a shallow, three-sided U, with the crenellations that served as gun-ports no more than sixteen or twenty feet above the shoreline; but, with an even lower water battery mounting lighter guns to deter an assault by boats at the foot of its centre face.

  "I count only four openings atop the walls for heavy guns along the walls… well, four per face, sir," Lt. Urquhart pointed out. "It might be open on its land face."

  "But, a landing-party would have to go ashore west of Royan," Lewrie replied, peering intently through his day glass, "then stumble their way to the fort, and, is Royan garrisoned, they might run into a stiff fight before they ever got to musket range of their objective."

  It didn't help Lewrie's lingering hang-over, or his wariness of what might lay hidden, that the Sailing Master's glum prediction had come true; just past One Bell of the Day Watch, the wind had slackened and a sullen, steady rain had begun to fall, blurring the coastline so that, at a cautious three miles offshore, vital details they wished to see now lay partially veiled.

  As they watched, a bright and fresh French Tricolour flag was run up the flagpole of the fort, and tiny blue-and-white uniformed figures could be seen scurrying like a disturbed ant hill.

  "We'll come about, Mister Gamble," Lewrie told the officer of the watch. "Make course Sou-west by West… Half West, if she will allow. Full-and-by on starboard tack."

  "Aye aye, sir. Mister Thomlin, pipe hands to stations to come about," Lt. Gamble ordered.

  "Does that fort possess fourty-two-pounders, it could hurl shot as far as Pointe de Grave all by itself," Lewrie surmised aloud as the scurry of hands drummed upon his frigate's timbers. "Heated shot, as well, do they have enough warning."

  "Even twenty-four-pounders, or eighteen-pounders, would serve, Captain," Mr. Winwood commented. "Is there a matching battery near the Pointe de Grave, the cross fire would effecively close the narrows."

  "I'd wager on the lighter guns," Lewrie reluctantly had to agree. "Hell, even twelve-pounders could do the job… fire and be re-loaded quicker, and engage even rowboats. I don't see the French investing all that many expensive guns in a place like that, Old King Louie was right… a determined fleet of Third Rates, with the equivalent of a regiment or two of foot, could open the narrows in one day. Take Royan and Saint Georges, and all of Pointe de Grave right down to this Soulac 'By The Sea'.

  "And, why in Heaven does a French town honour Saint George?" he concluded.

  "Eleanor of Aquitaine, sir," Lt. Urquhart piped up. "All this once was English territory, when Henry Plantagenet, our good old King Henry the Second, married her, 'stead of King Louis the Seventh! We owned it 'til the 1450s. Where we get our best clarets. I believe, ah…," Urquhart said, beginning almost whimsically amused, but ending stiff-backed and ready to cough into his fist for slipping from his usual grim demeanour. "The city of Bordeaux was our capital of the province."

  "I see," Lewrie said with a wry twinkle. "Source of claret, indeed. The Me-docs, Haut-Medocs, and Saint Emilions, the white Graves, and the sweet, white Sauternes, as well, Mister Urquhart?" he teased.

  "All do come from here, sir," Urquhart gravely intoned, lifting his telescope as if it was his prime duty to peer at the southern shore by Pointe de Grave.

  Poor, sober-sided bastard was Lewrie's thought; still and all, I could've gotten a "Merry Andrew "for a First Officer, who 'd run us ashore some dark night, and try t'make a jape of it.

  He looked forward as Savage's bows were swung up into the wind… what there was of it. Besides the odd Lt. Urquhart and his wary ways, there were several more new faces aboard, despite the majority of Proteus's people turning over into Savage. Men holding Admiralty Warrant, once appointed into a warship, usually remained with her all their careers, unless they asked for transfer, even when their ships were laid up in-ordinary.

  There was Bosun George Thomlin, for instance, a burly, balding older fellow who had come with Savage, as had his Mate, John Ellison, and the ship's Carpenter, Thomas Fisher. Along with them had come some replacement hands, strangers to one and all in the beginning, to fill the shoes of dead or crippled Proteus men.

  There was a new Marine Corporal Dudley, a sour, taciturn, and so far thoroughly unpleasant ass. There were two new Surge
on's Mates now that Mr. Durant had finally gotten his long-delayed promotion; Arthur Ford, who had been seasick nearly half the time since they'd left Portsmouth, and a dark and heavyset "grump" by name of Harold Gaines. There was a new Gunner's Mate named Foster, a new Quartermaster by name of Raymund; a very gloomy new-come Yeoman of the Sheets named Orwell; an entirely new Purser's Assistant, the "Jack in the Breadroom," who was, wonder of wonders, both scrupulously honest (so far) and energetically aspiring. Well, he was very young! The Midshipmen, of course and at least a dozen fresh hands, most of them dredged up by the Shire Quotas Act, all rated Landsmen, and as clumsy as drunken steers, and Lewrie was still sorting them all out for strengths and weaknesses, and he and Lt. Urquhart had spent many hours going over the muster book and watch lists to sort out the chaff and re-enforce the weak with better help.

  "'Ware, the point, sir!" Lt. Urquhart called out. "There is a fort of some kind on Pointe de Grave. Just there, sir… this side of the village. Le Verd… what the Devil it's named."

  Lewrie raised his own glass and put it to his eye, trying not to look urgent or concerned, as a captain must; nothing good ever came of instilling panic. "Ah-ha, yes," he said instead as the place became steady in his ocular.

  Can't sail closer t'the wind, inside two miles o'shore, we're in their range, and they'll shoot the shit out of us if we dawdle along on this next-t'nothin' wind! Lewrie thought, though; watched us sailin' in, the last hour/ Heated shot? Fourty-two-pounders? Christ!

  "It looks to be just where a small stream splits and runs down to the sea in three rivulets, sir," Lt. Urquhart said with the proper amount of stoicism; perhaps the dull note to his voice came from a lack of Lewrie's fervid, dread-filled imagination. "No flag, though. Quite a lot of activity, but…"

  "Well, damn my eyes, Mister Urquhart," Lewrie said with what a casual and objective observer might have called a giggle of relief. "I do b'lieve the place is still being built!"