Troubled Waters l-14

by Dewey Lambdin

  "Bottle o' rum in my cabins, Aspinall," Lewrie casually ordered. "Same as usual. And lay out my coin purse. You know the drill."

  "Aye, sir. I'll have a glass o' tea poured fer you, too. Th' same colour, p'raps this Frenchie won't know th' diff'rence, an' won't be insulted," his shrewd cabin servant replied. "Long as ye just sip at it slow, Cap'm," he cheekily added, "an' don't give the game away."

  "Point taken, Aspinall," Lewrie laughed. "Off with you."

  Back came the launch, to the starboard entry-port this time, as a sign of "honour" rendered, even to a civilian Frenchman. Four hands and four Marines made the saluting-party, and Bosun's Mate Ellison did a pipe on his silver call worthy of a Post-Captain, though it looked wasted on the fellow who scrambled up the battens and man-ropes.

  "Capitaine… bienvenu a bord," Lewrie said, going so far as to doff his hat, and receiving a sketchy knuckle to the right brow below the burly Frenchman's knit cap. "Parlez-vous l'Anglais?"

  " Oui, I do," the husky fellow admitted.

  "Captain Alan Lewrie, His Brittanic Majesty's Navy."

  "Jean Brasseur, Capitaine," the fellow answered. "Long ago, we are nam-ed Brass. You' Commandeur Ho… Hogue, oui} … he speak to me, uhm… las' week? Does he mention zis?"

  "Not yet, no sir," Lewrie said, mystified. "Brass, did ye say your name was?"

  "Long ago, oui, it was Brass," the fellow said with a chuckle of faint amusement. "Now, we 'ave live here so long in Aquitaine, we are known as Brasseur. Long ago, we were English, but now Francais. You are serving ze rum, ze arrack, like ze ozzers, oui?"

  "Whatever you wish, Captain Brasseur," Lewrie told him, becoming both fascinated and wary. Was the man a French agent who hoped to dispel mistrust with such a tale, so the Frogs could spin him lies?

  "I adore ze fine brandy, Capitaine" Brasseur suggested, with a broader grin. "Aussi, uhm… also, I have ze fine fish to sell."

  "Then, pray join me below," Lewrie offered, "where you may have an excellent aged brandy, and we may discuss what you have to sell."

  Like all men who grow from boyhood to middle age in the fishing trade, Jean Brasseur was a weathered man, with exposed flesh seared to a dry, tanned leather. His hands were large and callused by nets and sail-tending lines, by oars and hard labour, his fingers blunt and his nails square-cut, with one or two missing. Like Papin and so many of the other fishermen that Savage had come across, Brasseur wore a loose serge de Nimes smock over a plain ecru shirt and faded dark blue slop-trousers.

  Unlike the others-perhaps for this meeting?-he was new-shaven, and his long, dark, and curly hair looked fresh-washed, too… and he didn't even half smell of fish!

  "Ver' good brandy, merci, Capitaine," Brasseur said with a grin of pleasure. "Zese days, good brandy 'ard to find."

  "More than welcome," Lewrie said, playing host and sipping at his tea- slowly, as Aspinall had directed. "You say your kin were once English?"

  "All Aquitaine own-ed by les Anglais, three century, Capitaine," Brasseur explained with a large Gallic shrug, hitching himself upright on his chair. "Is 1400s when France take it back, at last. Mafamille come as Anglais soldier… John Brass, peut-etre around ze 1390s? 'E marry local jeune fille, an' reside in Bordeaux for few year, but move to coast when France conquers. Zey change name to be more French, and, were always Catholique. End in ze quiet village Le Verdon sur Mer, away from trouble? And, even if Medoc an' Aquitaine is French, les Anglais come for wines, trade, ze claret, which you Anglais must 'ave, hein?" Brasseur said with a wry chuckle. "We are trade wiz ships coming an' going, last-minute purchases. Enfin, take up ze fishing, wi{small trade in Medoc wines, which are ze bon marche, not like Bordeaux merchant."

  "A quiet little place, indeed," Lewrie carefully began to ask, "at least 'til the war began. And, your army began to build the battery on the point."

  "Ah, mais oui," Brasseur grumbled, "is no more ze nice, quiet. Noisy worker from Bordeaux, chip-chip-chip on stone, dawn to dark, an' ze mule 'orse, an' ox make so much stink an' merde, oh la!"

  "You're quite a way from Le Verdon this morning, though, sir," Lewrie pointed out (rather cagily, he thought to himself). "Do you always fish this far from home waters? "

  "Oh, we 'ave more zan enough, before worker and soldier comes," Brasseur breezily dismissed, "ze mussel, s'rimp an' lobster, ze clam? Wiz zo many now 'oo wish, ze beds grow thin, an' I must sail far out for big fish, an'…'ow you call, poach ze beds of La Palmyre for ze oyster, lobster, an' mussel. 'Ave you ever had ze mouclade, Capitaine, ze fresh mussel in white wine? Mmm, mag-nifiqueV Brasseur said, with a kiss of his bunched fingers as he made yummy sounds. "O la, chatsl" he cried as he espied Toulon and Chalky, who had come to see the new cabin guest, slinking almost to scratching range. "Boris amis, les chats. 'Ave some, moi. What fisherman does not, hein? Hawn hawn hawnf Id, minets… ici, venei," Brasseur coaxed, puckering his lips and making "kiss-kiss" enticements, even essaying a meow. And Toulon and Chalky got up enough courage to sniff at his trousers. After that, it was instant adoration, for the man's clothes did bear a faint reek of fish.

  "The big black-and-white'un is Toulon. Where I got him," Lewrie told his guest, to answer Brasseur's raised brow. "In '94, at the siege. The littl'un, that's Chalky… Crayeux? Came off a French brig in the West Indies in '97."

  "When young man, I am in West Indies," Brasseur declared with a broad grin of pleased surprise as he stroked both cats, who found the aromas on his fingers as tantalising as his trouser legs. "Was in ze Navy wiz Admiral, Comte de Grasse. Battle of ze Chesapeake… zen at Yorktown. Malheureux… unfortunate, was axissi at ze Battle of ze Saintes, where you' Admiral Rodney defeat us." "/was at Yorktown!" Lewrie exclaimed in like enthusiasm to meet a veteran from the opposite side of his early adventures. "We got out the night before the surrender. So, you were French Navy," Lewrie said, with an idle thought in the back of his mind that the man might still be.

  "To end of Americain war, oui, Capitaine. Come 'ome, sail wiz merchant trade a few year, but… I visit Le Verdon, 'ave ze rencontre wiz jeune fille I know of old, we marry, an'… she wish zat I no more go away so long, so… give up sea, buy boat, an' fish wiz mon father.

  "Brother a moi," Brasseur said, turning sad, "was Navy, aussi. Stay in, make…'ow you call.. .petty ojficier? Helas, at ze Battle of Nile, nous a quitte. .,'e is gone away from us."

  "My condolences for your loss, m'sieur," Lewrie dutifully told Brasseur, topping off the man's brandy.

  "Was time I think to go hack to Navy," Brasseur said, "when ze Revolution just begin, but…" He heaved a sigh and stuck his nose in his glass for a deep sip. "Many good people 'ere in Medoc are for ze Assembly, end of King Louis's rule, an' become free Republicains like America, but zen…"

  Brasseur laid out a litany of woe, as the initial high hopes of a reasoned, logical, and bloodless call for change had become a revolution, turning more violent and capriciously murderous with each passing month. Locals in the Medoc, in Saintonge cross the Gironde, were torn 'twixt monarchy or its complete eradication. The provinces of Vendee and Charente, not so far north of Medoc, had risen in counter-rebellion in favour of the King, in defence of the Catholic religion, which the revolutionaries had banned and stripped of its riches, which brought blood, murder, plunder, and no-quarter combat, and the people of Medoc had shivered in dread of their own neighbours as the armies of the Directory marched closer, with their drum-head courts and guillotines in tow like siege-artillery. After King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette were executed in '93, and the madmen of the Terror had begun to lop the heads off anyone even slightly ennobled (or who had worked for the monarchy, even serving girls who had styled the hair of the rich and titled!), the Medoc had turned on its own, and long-term spites, grudges, envies, or debts had turned to accusations of being monarchist reactionaries. True enthusiasm for the Revolution had gone away, replaced by fear for one's own safety, and dread of neighbours!

  Then had come conscription to raise the world's first enormous army of citiz
en-soldiers from every class, the levee en masse, so the frontiers could be defended against what had felt like all the rest of Europe.

  The levee had swept up Brasseur's eldest son, his younger brother, and both his in-laws' sons. One died in Alsace under Kellerman, one died of the Black Plague near Gaza under Napoleon Bonaparte, one had come home half-blind and crippled from Bonaparte's first Italian Campaign, and… Brasseur had not heard from his son, posted on the Savoian border, in months, and feared the worst.

  "May be good, zat zose fools in Paris 'ave been swept aside," Brasseur morosely stated. "All pomp an' silliness, ze men of ze Directory. Revolution counter-coup, fighting among zemselves? Ze new calendar, which make no sense. Centimetres, metres, an' kilometres, ze gram, centigram, an' kilogram bah! Still 'ave church in village, still 'ave priest, but, when fort is finish, an' garrison come, will zey allow notre church stay open? Or, turn it to Temple of Reason !" Brasseur sneered.

  He thought it was good that General Napoleon Bonaparte was now First Consul, after his successful coup d'etat that had removed the tyrannical and illogical Directory. Maybe Bonaparte would abandon his military career and sue for peace, then concentrate on righting many wrongs to set France to rights. But Brasseur also thought that the crowned heads of Prussia, Austria, and Great Britain could not tolerate revolutionary, Republican, and successfully militant France… not for very long, if they wished to keep their own citizens in line and docile. Too many cast-iron Liberty Trees had been set up across Europe. With America, now France, to emulate…

  "Peut- etre, Capitaine, what 'as 'appen in France will be good."

  "So long as France doesn't feel duty-bound to spread revolution round the globe," Lewrie countered.

  " Cork is out of bottle, peut-etre?" Brasseur rejoined, smiling in a world-weary manner. "An', peut-etre, France must be beaten, for example, 'ow not to become ze Republic."

  Here now, that sounds intriguin'! Lewrie thought; what's this man offerin ?

  "How so, Capitaine Brasseur?" he asked.

  "Do ze Dutch need guillotines to be ze Batavian Republic? Or, ze Piedmon-tese, Venetians, ze ozzer states in Italy? Zey depose ze royalty, but not behead, or purge zeir peoples, m'sieur. If France is no more aggressive, if France 'as more care for things at home… if France 'as to look West to protect ze coast, au lieu de… uhm, 'ow you call…?"

  "Instead of?" Lewrie supplied, wishing he could cross fingers, for his French was awful.

  "Ah, oui, instead of, ah… looking to expand east, comprendre?"

  "Perhaps a flea-bite along the Biscay coast, every now and then, a repeat of the Franco-British expedition on the Vendee coast," Lewrie carefully posed, "might keep Bonaparte looking over his shoulder, not looking for new conquests into the Germanies?"

  Keep the bastard from plannin' an invasion of England, certain.1'Lewrie grimly thought.

  "Ze… flea-bite, oui, M'sieur Capitaine," Brasseur gravely replied, with a slow, sage nod of his head. "Ze many flea-bite, hein}"

  "Hellish-hard, that," Lewrie told him, " 'less sufficient forces could be scraped t'gether, and a good place discovered to strike, with no intelligence of local sentiments, opposing forces available… all that. One would require a great deal of factual information, m 'sieur."

  Brasseur left off petting the cats and leaned forward, elbows atop his knees, and rolling his glass between his hands. "Such facts could be found out, Capitaine," he said in a soft, guarded voice, and with a sly glare in his eyes. "All I suffer… all neighbours suffer… I owe la Revolution nozzing, m 'sieur. Last son a moi is sixteen. Revolution take my eldest… do zey take him, aussi? 'E become gunner at Pointe de Grave fort, or march away to die in faraway Prussia ? Bah! Peu! Peut-etre, a flea-bite 'ere, m'sieurl" Brasseur declared in heat, before calming, and, still hunkered over, sipped at his drink.

  "I speak of zis to votre Commandeur Hogue," he added. " 'E say 'e must speak to you, or I speak to you myself."

  "If," Lewrie cautiously supposed aloud, "if you were to supply the information which made a 'flea-bite' here possible, might you and your family require a means of escape, M'sieur Brasseur… Jean?"

  "It is possible, if ze authorities discover 'oo talk to you," Brasseur cagily allowed, rubbing his chin and shrugging. "But, zere are so many fishermen you stop each day, 'oo is to say which man tell you? What is it you need to know before the flea bites, hein?"

  "Your village," Lewrie said, daring to trust him, at last. "I can't see round the point, so… your little harbour, the bay north of Le Verdon, the cove south of the mole. How far along the construction of the battery, how many troops already there… and, how many troops on the south side of the Gironde there are within two hours' march. When you have discovered all I ask of you, stray out to sea again, and… hoist a long pendant from your mast-tip. I note you have none now. I shall pay guineas for what you learn, Capitaine Brasseur. Say, a guinea now, as well?"

  "Non, m'sieur," Brasseur replied. "Non ze guinea. Better ze silver shillings. Spend gold coin, an' ze gendarmerie take notice of zis, and suspect. Besides, I 'ave not yet sold you my fish, hein?" Brasseur said with a wide smile and a laugh.

  "Done, and done!" Lewrie declared, reaching for his coin purse.

  Lewrie ended up with another basket full of a medley of oysters, clams, mussels, and shrimp, along with Brasseur's wife's recipe for the famous Biscay mussel dish, mouclade, which he would serve his officers that very evening. Brasseur had also sold the wardroom and the Midshipmen's cockpit some large fish he had trawled on his way out to sea.

  Since Brasseur didn't usually put in on the north shore of the river Gironde he knew little of the doings at the St. Georges fort or the weight of its guns he had seen the artillery barged in over the last year, and thought they might have been long eighteens, or twenty-fours, but could not say with certainty.

  Yes, barges laden with Dordogne stone put into his home port of Le Verdon sur Mer, and he had never seen an escort, and it was a rare thing to see a sail-driven or galley-style oared gunboat near Pointe de Grave, nor many light warships, either.

  And, yes, Brasseur had sometimes sailed along "the Savage Coast" to go up to Marennes or La Tremblade on the far side of the peninsula, mostly to trade for salt so he could preserve some of his catch, but he had never overnighted on the windward beaches, so could not confirm the presence of a freshwater stream or pool. Pine trees for firewood? But, of course there were! he had assured Lewrie.

  Lewrie could barely contain his rising excitement 'til Papin, or Brasseur, or both, fetched back news from shore. Newspapers! Lewrie chid himself again, though he'd all but tied a string round his finger to recall the need for recent French papers, and what they might inadvertantly reveal.

  No more, just these two, Lewrie silently decided as HMS Savage slowly loafed her way seaward for the night, into the beginnings of a spectacularly fiery sunset. Too many pointed questions of too many of the local fishermen, and suspicions would be roused with the local authorities; too much coin doled out, and just one drunken fisherman who had cooperated, and Savage would be swampedby others eager to earn a golden guinea with just any sort of fantasy or moonshine!

  If Papin and Brasseur brought back good tidings, he could come up with a workable plan to lay before Ayscough, who was always ready for a good scrap; perhaps a good-enough plan to entice Rear-Admiral Lord Boxham to participate, too, before he died of boredom out beyond the horizon, yearning with drawn daggers for the French to sortie.

  Jules Papin; could he trust him? So far, he'd proved greedily honest, and what little he had related was true. An amoral man without a jot of patriotism, with his eyes ever on the main chance.

  Jean Brasseur? Lewrie wondered. A fellow in need of money, but a disappointed patriot, as well. At least Brasseur had not attempted to spin a fool's tale, had freely admitted what he did not know, and could not say with assurance. Take what both say with a grain o'salt, aye, Lewrie speculated; that'dbe safest.

  They agree, all well and good. Their accounts va
ry too much, then… Christ, what'll I do, then?If they do, though … !

  Lewrie resisted the urge to chew on a thumbnail as he pondered what he wished to accomplish, clapping both hands in the small of his back and rocking on the balls of his booted feet, instead; wondering if he might be aspiring to too much.

  Not just a landing by the Pointe de Grave battery to drive off the workers and officers, so he could blow it apart, no; there was the completed small lunette fort by St. Georges de Didonne, too. With any luck at all, there might be barges in Le Verdon's harbour to take or burn. With enough force devoted to the endeavour-and he'd have to talk a blue streak to see that there was!-a landing could be made by Royan. A quick march behind the St. Georges fort, an assault from the unguarded land side (pray God that Papin could tell him for sure!) so he could spike all those guns, as well, lay charges to topple those ramparts, rout both garrisons, and sail out with prisoners… perhaps-peut-etre- even stay ashore long enough to barge the artillery out to sea and scuttle them, or have enough Marines to meet any relief column on the shore road from Tal-mont and give them a bloody nose, to boot?

  Hopeless/ Bloody daft.1 Lewrie irritably thought, reining in his galloping imaginings;yet… it beats waitin't'hear 'bout my legal troubles, or a recall t'face trial!… don't it bloody-just!

  There was also a nagging qualm that would not stay tamped down; am I doin' all this 'cause it needs doin'? Or, am I so desp 'rate for glory t 'keep me from the hangman?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The task of wooding and watering at Papin's indicated spring required a good part of the day, with Savage anchored half a mile offshore of the lonely and heavily forested Cote Sauvage, parallel to the beaches with the best bower and heaviest stern kedge anchor down, with springs on the cables. The starboard side guns were manned, and, by tightening or loosing the spring-lines, HMS Savage could be swung to bring fire against any threat that emerged from the woods.