Troubled Waters l-14

by Dewey Lambdin

  All the ship's boats were led from towing astern, or hoisted off the boat-tier beams that spanned the breadth of the hull, swung out by employing the main course yard as a crane, then loaded with the oldest water casks, the ones whose contents had gone whisky-tan and so reeky as to make the stored water a punishment to drink, and giving a sickly taste to any rations boiled up in it.

  From the first peek of dawn to long after the mid-day meal, the working-parties hewed and chopped wood, gathering dryer deadfall limbs and twigs for kindling, taking down manageable-sized younger trees for cordwood, hacking and splitting them to thigh-long lengths. The inside of each huge water butt was scoured clean of slime with salt water and beach sand, rinsed, then trundled inland to the freshwater creek and a spring that Jules Papin had vaguely pointed to on a chart, filled, and trundled back to the beach, to be rowed out to the frigate, then labouriously hoisted aboard for storage in the bilges, on the orlop, with the cordwood and kindling crammed between to keep them from shifting.

  Least the sea's kind, Lewrie thought as he took off his hat and mopped his brow on a shirtsleeve… then felt like spitting for luck. Though the skies had clouded over by mid-morning, and the height of the incoming waves breaking on the barren beaches had risen a foot or so, his frigate was not yet pitching, heaving, and rolling, and threatening to pluck her anchors from the sandy bottom and drive aground sideways. The ship's boats, working in Savage's calmer lee, made good time fetching their heavy cargoes back alongside, and the scend that rolled under the keel still allowed the landsmen doing the heavy pulley-hauley work to hoist the refilled butts up and over the side and into the holds.

  "Still no sign of trouble, Mister Devereux?" Lewrie asked of his Marine officer.

  "The sentries have yet to report any movement along the road, sir," Lt. Devereux replied. He had landed with two files of Marines, twenty men in all, leaving Sgt. Skipwith aboard with the other half of the Marine complement. Cpl. Plymouth, with ten Marines, was posted in a wide arc about two musket shots to the east of the spring, for a close guard over the working-parties. Cpl. Dudley, with another ten Marines, Devereux had posted even deeper into the woods to keep watch over the rough sand and dirt track that lay a mile further east, to alert them to any threat coming along that road. "I must allow, sir, that this is the most amazing thing, to actually be standing on the foes' home ground."

  "Pray God, sir, do we land in France again, we meet just as dull a reception," Lewrie joshed. "But, aye… it does feel daring, to be here."

  A proper Post-Captain would have remained aboard, pacing slowly and fretfully about, allowing his junior officers and Midshipmen opportunity for action, and "mention in despatches." A lazy Post-Captain most certainly would. By this point in his naval career, though, Alan Lewrie knew himself too well; he despaired of ever being proper, and, given his druthers, would be lazy, yet… the lure of walking on firm soil for an hour or so, the temptation to tread on French sand, gravel, pine needle beds, and grass to, in essence, stick his tongue out at the "snail-eatin' bastards" was simply too great to be denied. And, admittedly, the fretting about the rising of wind and sea, the arrival of a French column, a young peasant couple disturbed from their fornication in the shady groves by the spring, who'd leap up and away and raise the hue and cry, had driven him beyond distraction!

  So, once most of the water butts, most of the firewood, had been stowed below, he had ordered Lt. Urquhart to take charge of the frigate and had gone ashore himself; armed to the teeth with his pair of twin-barreled Manton pistols, his hanger, his Ferguson breech-loading rifle-musket slung over his shoulder, and an East Asian pirate's krees knife and scabbard jammed into one of his Hessian boots.

  The "knuckles" of the imagined "clenched fist" which the Cote Sauvage resembled (in Lewrie's mind, at least) ran north to south for seven miles or so and the charts did not show any settlements at all the whole way. At the bottom of the "fist," inside the hook of Pointe de la Coubre, lay the tiny village of La Palmyre; east of the "thumb" up north lay Ronce les Bains, cross the channel from the lie d'Oleron, and but one lonely track that squiggled through the forests from one to the other.

  "Might be a garrison at Ronce les Bains, d'ye imagine?" Lewrie asked.

  "To close the Pertuis de Maumusson channel, sir, I'd think there would be a battery near there, but… the closest garrison town would more likely be La Tremblade, or Marennes," Lt. Devereux speculated in a soft voice, his eyes fo-cussed more on the dense woods than Lewrie, on wary guard 'til back aboard the ship. "About five miles from here, as the crow flies, but eight miles by this road, Captain."

  "And, are our charts accurate," Lewrie also mused aloud, "about fourteen miles from Royan, unless there are more roads than the one I see that runs from La Tremblade to Saujon, with a secondary road from that good road at the crossroads, that turns south to the village of Saint Sulpice de Royan to the coast."

  Commander Hogue's Mischief, just days after Lewrie's encounter with Pa-pin and Brasseur, had stopped one of his regular fishermen, and had finally produced a slew of newspapers, and a rough chart of roads and settlements north of the Gironde, which Lewrie had ordered copied and distributed to all his commanders. How much trust he could put in it was still up in the air, but, at least it was a start. The papers, barely days old, were full of boastful malarkey and gasconade, but of much more evident value when it came to information about the state of things in France, and in the local area.

  "Last water butt is ready to roll, sir," Lt. Gamble announced. He looked quite pleased with himself, and a tad excited that they had snuck onto their enemy's shore, and seemed to be getting away unseen.

  "Very well, Mister Gamble," Lewrie said with a grin, feeling a sense of relief himself. It was one thing to dare, but quite another to linger too long. "Be sure we gather up all the axes and saws as we go. Mister Fisher, the Carpenter, would have our nutmegs off, did we lose a single honing stone."

  "I shall call in my sentries from the road, sir," Lt. Devereux said with a casual finger to the brim of his hat in salute.

  "I s'pose I should return to the beach," Lewrie told him, with a sigh of resignation. It had felt so good to get his boots dusty for a few hours! "You'll find me there, Mister Devereux."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  But, before Devereux could send a runner to Cpl. Dudley, a Marine private came panting out of the woods from the road, his musket unslung and held across his chest, ready for action. "French sodjers on th' road, sir!" he panted as he slammed to attention, lowering his musket to his side. " 'Bout 'alf a comp'ny, Corp'r'l Dudley says, sir! 'E thinks no more'n thirty'r fourty of 'em, sir! Sham-blin'along, 'e says t'tell ye, sir! From th' south, sir."

  "From Royan, most-like," Lewrie muttered. "But, why? Why now, and why here?" Damme, have we been betrayed?he furiously thought.

  "Do they seem to be looking for our presence, Private Langdon?" Lt. Devereux asked in a harsh rasp as he fiddled with the hilt of his small-sword, and the tightness of his blade in the scabbard.

  "Uh… shamblin', more-like, sir, like Corp'r'l Dudley said," Private Langdon repeated, bracing to stiffer attention. "Off'cer on a 'orse, coupla mules car-ryin' tents'r somethin'… goin' along at route step, an' gobblin' away in Frog, sir!"

  Lt. Devereux turned a wolfish look at Lewrie; Lewrie looked at him with a gleam in his eyes, and unslung his Ferguson. Lt. Devereux was all but wagging his tail and whining to be let loose, to be sicced.

  "Mister Gamble, un-armed men to get the water butt back to the beach… armed men to come with me," Lewrie growled. "Mister Locke will come with me. Sorry, Mister Gamble, but someone must command the others, this once."

  "Aye, sir," a let-down Lt. Gamble sighed, whilst Mr. Locke the Midshipman about hopped in joy.

  "Let's go and see if we can sting the bastards," Lewrie snapped. "First of the flea-bites, Mister Devereux."

  The coast road was a mile inland of the spring from which they had taken their water, and Lewrie's party of Marines and armed sailors wer
e shambling and panting by the time they reached it. Cpl. Dudley rose from a crouch behind a thick clump of bush and waddled, bent over, deeper into the forest to report to Lt. Devereux.

  Twenty Privates, one Corporal, one Lieutenant, Mister Locke, if he does know how t 'shoot, Lewrie toted up as he lingered further back in the woods waiting for Devereux's report; eight tars with muskets, and no marksmen either, and me. Hmmm. Damme, but all this runnin'…!

  "Corporal Dudley, here, spotted them down the road, sir, coming from La Palmyre, it would seem," Lt. Devereux whispered, after he had retreated to Lewrie's side. "The road is clear north of us, and he's seen no traffick other than these French soldiers. They're about half a mile down that way from us, at present, shuffling along slowly, sir."

  Lewrie looked about, wondering how the Devil they could hide an ambush with the Marines kitted out in their red coats and white pipe-clayed crossbelts his sailors mostly in calico shirts and white slop-trousers. "In your considered military opinion, Mister Devereux, any cover thick enough in which to hide our men 'til they get up to close musket-shot?" Shit! Was that grammatical? he. chid himself; sod it!

  "Hmm," Devereux speculated, going on tiptoe to the verge of the road and peeking up and down its length, then coming back. "There is a copse of secondary growth about two musket-shot to the south, Captain. Quite thick, it looks to be. Do we order the men to lie prone 'til the last moment, it should serve quite well. They would march past us as near as ten yards, sir. Hats off, of course."

  "But of course, Mister Devereux!" Lewrie agreed with a twinkle. "Let's sneak our people down there whilst we can."

  "Prime firelocks, now… carefully, ye ign'rt maggots," Dudley hissed at his Marines. "Once primed, slowly ease yer pieces off cock, an' God 'elp th' man discharges 'fore the Leftenant saysta, for ye'll git no 'elp from me, hear me?"

  "Mister Locke, our men are primed?" Lewrie asked.

  "Um, I, uh… don't know, sir," the eager Midshipman answered.

  "Christ!" Lewrie spat. Sailors were trained in the use of muskets and pistols, but were nowhere near as well drilled as the Marines. "They even loaded, ye wonder, Mister Locke?"

  The lad turned red as Lewrie went to see for himself. No, not a single piece was loaded, so he saw to supervising loading himself, after they got into cover. "Half-cock… good. Prime. Good. Now, close yer frissons. Now, very carefully, or you'll give the game away and we won't get a chance t'kill any Frogs… firm thumb on the lock, sneak the triggers, and ease 'em down… slow, slowly. Everyone off cock? Thankee, Jesus. Now, don't get the damn' things hung up in the bushes as you lay down, with yer hats off, and lie quiet as the grave."

  Lewrie drew both his pistols and placed them on the ground for easy grabbing, took off his cocked hat and lay down with his long-arm by his side. "You must be skilled in weaponry, Mister Locke," Lewrie whispered to the Midshipman, who had come to lie prone by his captain's side, looking miserable. "More than the hands, so you may be the tutor, the master at everything that our sailors must know, d'ye see. It was my fault their muskets weren't loaded, since we were countin' on our Marines to guard us, though I imagined that Mister Gamble had ordered them loaded and safely set aside before they began work. My fault to assume. Use me as an object lesson, if you will, young sir, how not to fart about," Lewrie concluded with a wry grin.

  "Aye aye, sir," Midshipman Locke whispered back, gulping in awe that a post-Captain, the fearsome "Ram-Cat" Lewrie, would admit to his mistake.

  "And, when the time comes, rise up when ordered, pick a target, keep yer eyes open 'stead o' shuttin' 'em, aim for the belly, a little below your fellow's breast plate, or the Vee of his crossbelts, then gently squeeze the trigger, and take the frog-eatin' sonofabitch down," Lewrie instructed, grimly this time. "No false sentiment, no shootin' wide or high 'cause it don't seem Christian t'kill a man, unawares and unready. There's nothin' fair 'bout what we're about t'do, so don't bother looking for 'fair.' Better him than you, what?"

  "Aye aye, sir," Locke mumbled, his face now pinched and paler than before, as the enormity of what they were about to do struck home.

  "Hist, now, lads. Quiet as mice" was Lewrie's last whisper.

  They heard the French coming; the clop of the officer's horse, the dull plopping of the pack animals' hooves, and the shuffle and drum of un-synchronised, out-of-step infantry boots on the soft dirt and sand of the road. It might once have been "planked" by laying trimmed tree trunks either end to end or crosswise, with soil, sand, and stabilising gravel, but, from what little Lewrie had seen of the road, it had been a long time ago, and the handiest trees beside the planned road had grown back into a tangle of secondary growth and thick bushes not six feet beyond the verges. The pines and mixed hardwoods beyond easy cutting stood nigh an hundred feet tall, with adult boughs interlaced together overhead, so that the road resembled a narrow but deep tunnel through a very dark green and gloomy thicket.

  Laughter; someone was telling a joke; another Frenchman related his need for a loan 'til the end of the month; one bitched about that whore who'd cheated him at the bordello in Royan. A sergeant was down on the typical ne'er-do-well lack-wit soldier, whose pack straps were chafing him, whose musket showed sign of rust round the firelock, and "Bernard, you skin-flint, hand me your tobacco pouch," and "Go foutre yourself, Alphonse, you never pay me back, you sorry beggar," from the fellow named Bernard.

  "Wait… wait… wait!" Lt. Devereux was mouthing under his breath, rising to one knee, then… "Up! Cock yer locks! Aim, and firel"

  The range was about ten yards, as the Brown Bess muskets levelled in rough aim. The French soldiers froze for a second, their shambling march halted. Lewrie saw one fellow with his shako on the back of his head, his musket borne behind his shoulders, and probably unloaded, to boot. Before he could free a hand to swing it down from behind his neck, a musket ball thrummed dirt and dust from the white facing of his tunic, and replaced it with a bright splash of blood just above the man's brass breast plate and crossbelts!

  Lewrie cocked his Ferguson, took aim at an older soldier with a single diagonal chevron on his lower sleeve, fired, and knocked the man off his feet with a ball in his stomach. Kneel! Pick up one of the double-barreled Mantons. Cock! Aim, and fire the right barrel. Down went a hatless soldier who had turned to run into the woods on the far side of the road, and Lewrie took him just below his knapsack. Scream of a horse as it toppled over! The officer with his sword half-drawn, twisting in agony from bullet wounds as it fell on him, pinning him beneath its kicking, thrashing weight!

  Left barrel, and a Frenchman trying to load his musket howled in instant pain and terror as Lewrie's ball shredded his lower throat!

  Less than five seconds of the initial volley, a few follow-up shots from Lewrie's, Devereux's, and Midshipman Locke's pistols, and it was over in an eye-blink! There were four or five French soldiers still on their feet, haring back down the road to La Palmyre, or all the way to Royan were they terrified enough, their heavy knapsacks stripped off for more speed, and their muskets thrown away.

  The rest of the French unit-perhaps as many as twenty men-lay where they had fallen, only a few of them able to writhe as the pain of their wounds forced them to stir. One knelt on splayed knees, puking blood; another tried to crawl away, leaving a gory stream in his wake. The officer was screaming as loud as his horse, and one of the Marines went to him. He took his time reloading, then stuck the muzzle of his musket to the horse's temple and fired. Again, he took his time to bite cartridge, pour powder in the pan, the rest down the barrel; spit the ball down; draw the ramrod to tamp it down; return the ramrod to its brass pipes, then ease the firelock from half-cock to un-cocked, each motion as smart as parade drill. Then the Marine muttered "poor bastid," performed "Right About," and marched away from the dying officer. It was Lt. Devereux who approached him with pistol drawn, and gently spoke to him in French, before leaning down to give the unfortunate fellow the requested coup de grace.

  Lewrie strolled out into the
road, amazed and appalled, but in secret glee that none of his own had even gotten a scratch. Mr. Locke staggered out to look down on one of the Frenchmen who lay on his side but was struggling to roll over onto his back, as dying men will do. Locke turned away and fell to his knees, throwing up.

  "You well, Mister Locke?" Lewrie asked as he re-loaded and re-primed his pistol. Brutish as it was, both Marines and sailors pawed over the dead and the dying for tobacco, coins, pipes or clasp knives, breast plates, and shakoes for souvenirs, crowing with triumph.

  "My God, sir!" Locke stuttered, "It's… horrible!"

  "It's war, Mister Locke," Lewrie grimly told him. "You think this is bad? Worse things happen at sea, when ships come to 'pistol-shot' range and flail away at each other. Chearly, now, young sir… the men are watchin'. You're blooded, you marked your man and lived t'tell of it. Here. Take his shako. The rest of the Midshipmen in the cockpit'll be green with envy, and, after a rum or two, you might feel like braggin' of it."

  "Aye aye, sir," Locke said with a gulp and a final retching noise as he got to shaky feet; but he accepted the shako, and even found the courage to pick up an infantry hanger, as well.

  "Quite useful in close combat, a hanger, Mister Locke," Lewrie told him as they began to stroll away from their massacre. "I prefer its shorter length, stoutness of blade, and the slight curve, which'll let you get in a slash or drawin' stroke, when a small-sword'll be hung up, and all you have is the point t'work with. Lighter than our brute cutlasses, too, you'll find. Quicker in the hand, and in riposte."

  "I… I wondered why you wore one, sir, but could not dare to enquire," Midshipman Locke said, trying to play up game in his captain's esteem. He went back to strip the baldric and scabbard from the nearest dead Frenchman, for later.

  Why the Devil'd I do this? Lewrie asked himself as they tramped back to the spring, loose-hipped and cocksure, even loaded down with a pile of booty and French weapons. He had had no motive for ambushing those pitifully unprepared French soldiers, beyond the fact that they were there, his people were there, and the opportunity had presented itself. What t'make of it, then, he mused as they followed the creek to the beach; and, what II the French make of it? Have I ruined any chance t'take those forts because of it? Will they re-enforce, now we gave 'em my "flea-bite"? And… where might they re-enforce?