Sling a few "handsome " boys over the side? Lewrie thought, finishing Cottle's dread for him; maybe Kenyon, to boot? Purge Erato like the Hermione mutineers did?
"As First Officer, you're there to spur him in the right direction, in action, at least," Lewrie told him. "As for his personal life, well. . . hiding what he is all these years is slowly killing him, we can see that. That, and the amount of drink he glugs down."
"We let it continue, sir?" Lt. Cottle goggled at him.
"No," Lewrie grimly said. "You brought the matter to a senior officer's attention, at long last. I will see that it is amended just as soon as I am able." Christ, listen t'me, prosin' like an Admiral! Lewrie marvelled at himself. "I can't do anything this instant since I may need Erato tomorrow morning, does the weather moderate. But, were you to write a report on it and send it to me, I'll pass it on to the Commodore . . . who will most-like pass it on to Lord Boxham as if it was a red-hot fire poker, as quick as dammit. Would you do that, sir?"
"Aye, sir, I shall," Lt. Cottle replied, sounding and looking much firmer in his resolves, with what might be called a relieved smile on his face; even a pleased one, in point of fact.
"Enjoy my improvised buffet, Lieutenant Cottle, and pray for a spell of good weather in the offing," Lewrie concluded, giving the man a last smile, and turning away to sample a few tasties himself.
But even a sweet apple turnover could not rid his mouth of the bad taste that lingered. Despite his unwillingness to involve himself in such sordid doings, he now knew that he must. There was no looking the other way in the stern world of the Royal Navy, and ending the illegality against Article the Twenty-Ninth: "If any Person in the Fleet shall committ the unnatural and detestable Sin of Buggery with Man or Beast, he shall be punished with Death by Sentence of a Court-Martial." And there was no ameliorating codicil that followed most other of the Articles of War, " . . . or such other Punishment as the Nature and Degree of the Offence shall deserve, and the Court-Martial shall impose."
No demotion, no cashiering without half-pay . . . death!
Lewrie built himself a ham "Shrewsbury" and stuck with mustard, not too sure if Aspinall had whipped up the eggy-lemony mayonnaise the right way, or how long ago. The sauce was like "made dishes," a foreign "kickshaw," which had carried more than a few trusting souls to join the Great Majority, over the centuries.
Which made him wonder, Is Kenyon really well enough to continue his command? He looks like Death's Head On A Mop-Stick, and his teeth are chalky-grey. How many times has he had a clyster full o' mercury shoved up his prick t'cure the Pox?
Live with the Pox long enough, and one's brain rotted away, and one's nose collapsed. Was that why Kenyon behaved so truculently with him . . . that the Syphilis had destroyed his higher functions to such an extent that he'd just blurt out his inner-most thoughts, was he angry enough? Spiteful and resentful enough? That could explain it.
God help us if that's so, Lewrie gloomed; I'm not countin' on a slender reed, at all. . . I'm forced t 'rely on a raddled, pus-spewin 'penis! Directed by a brain turned t'rotten Swiss cheese!
"God help the French!" Lt. Noble cried, posing a stand-up toast.
"Huzzah, confusion to the French!" Lt. Aubrey amended.
"Bugger all, sirs . . . death to the French, I say!" Lt. Ford proposed, which pleased them all much better.
"Death to the French," Lewrie echoed, and tipped his glass up.
Chapter Thirty-Two
What are they waiting for?" Major Loudenne, commander of Fort St. Georges, and the 26th Heavy Artillerie, groused, trying not to look too nervous before his anxious gunners, who lounged beside their pieces with slow-match burning, and had been on alert for more than two hours. "Surely, if they intended to attack, would they have not sailed in just at dawn, M'sieur Lieutenant? Yet they just sit there. And now, they seem to be signalling to someone ashore . . . so many signals."
"Those are not signals, Major," Lieutenant de Vaisseau Brasseur said with a telescope to his eye as they stood atop the ramparts; partially to hide his smirk at the Armée officer's nervousness, and also conceal his disgust at being dragged away from the first time of leisure he'd had in weeks. "Nor are they flags. Those are the Bloodies' laundry! They do their washing" he said of the anchored British warships, squatting about four miles from either shore, and two miles out of Major Loudenne's heaviest 18-pounders' range.
"That makes no sense, Lieutenant Brasseur," Loudenne spat. "To wash, do they not need fresh water? Even at the low tide, they would have to come up beyond the narrows to dip up water, and that would be brackish, even then."
"They anchor, and do their laundry with water from their own stores, to taunt us, Major," Lt. Jean Brasseur replied, collapsing the tubes of his telescope and turning round. "The dossiers which we were sent from Paris told of this Capitaine Lewrie's capability to make the grand jest. There are other ships with his, though . . . which tells me that his superiors also possess his sense of humour. This is a feint, a distraction from the Anglais' true aim."
"Before you arrived, I sent gallopers to General Fournier, asking for re-enforcement," Major Loudenne said with a grunting sound; he had overreacted, and General de Division Fournier, and his infantry, would not thank him for a fruitless march of fifteen miles. "But, he still commands three demi-brigades, so, perhaps . . . ?"
The Major of Artillerie abruptly waved for his orderly, in desperate need of a calming smoke. The orderly produced two Spanish cigars and a tinder-box. Flint was struck several times 'til the rag caught fire, and both men bit off the ends, spat them over the stone wall of the fort to the stone-flagged "deck" of the water battery below, then bent over to light their cigars.
"Merci," Brasseur said, before turning back seaward and opening his telescope once more, resting it on the parapet, and taking a better look at the anchored British ships. "Savage, there, M'sieur Major . . . the brigs Erato and Mischief . . . in our service she would be named the Espieglerie. These you know, hein? The cutters you see daily, as well. Poor fellows, no 'laundry day' for them, for they still plod back and forth on their usual patrols.
"The larger ships . . . that one is the Lyme, which has been seen further North, off the lie d'Oleron . . . borrowed, no doubt, to make us think the invasion would strike here," Brasseur casually pointed out, "the two next largest are sixty-four-gunned ships, which I do not recognise, neither the two biggest, which are seventy-four-gunned ships of the line. Off-hand, I would say they carry four hundred and fifty Marines, and could muster half-again that number in armed sailors, before reducing their ability to fight and sail their ships."
"You do not reassure me, Lieutenant Brasseur," Major Loudenne growled, spitting a loose, wet shred of leaf off his tongue. "I have less than one hundred fifty men here, and my last twelve infantry were taken back into their regiment and sent to the Cote Sauvage."
"But that is where the 'Bloodies' will attempt to strike, Major," Lt. Brasseur cajoled. "After the tale I told their Capitaine Lewrie of our fictional readiness here at the narrows, the fool let slip that. .. my family and I in Le Verdon would be safe, and that the blow would be elsewhere . . . on the coast. And besides, Major," Lt. Brasseur added as he turned about, to loll against the cool stonework of the parapet and grin, "part of my tale is true. There are two companies of soldiers in Le Verdon, and the Pointe de Grave battery, and the artillery has come up from Bordeaux, and will be installed as soon as the battery is completed, oui? Where else might the British land, with the best hopes of success, than the Cote Sauvage, hein? Hardly any inhabitants there, non? Before their raids, no defences, and no sentinels, either. Once ashore, they could march on La Tremblade by the coast road, and spread smirmishers through the forests to delay our own troops. I suspect we will see Anglais warships in the Pertuis de Maumusson to cut General Fournier off, and take Marennes. Then, they isolate your garrison and fortress troops on the lie d'Oleron, and attempt to take Rochefort."
"Even the stoutest of their ships could not get pas
t the forts guarding those approaches, Lieutenant Brasseur," Major Loudenne scoffed, a bit rankled to hear a sailor speculate on military matters. "And we are prepared to meet them if they land on the Cote Sauvage, now that General Fournier has arrived. I only wish that, during the planning, a regiment might have been posted to Royan."
"Well, Major, you have requested re-enforcements, and, with the presence of 'Bloody' warships offshore, surely you will get them, oui?" Lt. Brasseur assured him with a breezy smile. "Even if nothing occurs here today, most likely they will remain, making your position here and over the river even more secure, n'est-ce pas?' This demonstration they make will only amount to an al fresco meal, here on the walls."
"Speaking of . . . Alphonse. The coffee is still hot?" Loudenne asked his orderly. "Then bring us two cups. I must apologise, m'sieur. . . for calling you from your well-deserved rest, but I needed the experience of our Navy in this matter."
"And, the bounciest wench I've met in months, Major." Brasseur drolly leered. "It feels so good to be back in proper uniform, but it is also good to be out of it, hawn hawn!"
Delicate bone china cups and saucers were given them, the fresh-brewed Arabic coffee that Major Loudenne's brother had brought back to France from the Egyptian debacle as he had escaped on the same warship that had fetched the new First Consul, Napoleon Bonaparte, was poured from a matching china pot. The sugar was from Spanish Louisiana, off a neutral Danish merchantman. The spoons, though, were humble brass, the same sort Bonaparte was reputed to use, and both Major Loudenne and Lieutenant Brasseur approved of their plebeian, Republican presence.
Brasseur admired the cup and saucer in his hands. In the old Royal French Navy, he had risen no higher than quartier-maitre en second, and would never be promoted beyond Quartermaster. The Revolution had changed all that; he enjoyed becoming an officer, and the genteel life that came with it, as comfortable and clean as a minor "aristo" in the old days. If his recent covert work was not as pleasing as he wished, promises had been made that he could return to his native Marseilles, and serve at sea, haunting the sea lanes of the Mediterranean. "You have had your breakfast, Lieutenant?" Loudenne enquired. "A hurried one, M'sieur Major," he replied.
"Please, allow me to offer a second, more substantial one, As you said, we will set up a table here on the battlements, alfresco, as you also said, and enjoy this fine, clear morning."
"I would be . . . ," Lt. Brasseur began to say, but stopped, turning to look west, and cocking his ears. Major Loudenne frowned, and turned his head that way, too. He scanned the sky, looking for a hint that he was mistaking the sound he heard with a storm on the far horizon, but.. . "It begins," the Major softly said.
"Heavy gunfire, oui," Lt. Brasseur agreed, for in his time, he had heard the faint thunder of far-off fleets duelling broadside to broadside. "Look there, m'sieur. . . ," he eagerly pointed out, raising his telescope once more. "The colour of the haze above the Pointe de la Coubre, oui? It must have begun minutes ago, and the sound is just reaching us."
"More, and heavier, artillery than we possess behind the beaches of the Cote Sauvage, hein? Those are British guns," Major Loudenne gruffly commented. "There is little we may do about it now. Let us have our second breakfast, oui, Lieutenant? Alphonse, set the table."
The Major thought it would stiffen his anxious-looking gunners' nerves to see him and the naval officer enjoying themselves, as phlegmatic as artillerymen were supposed to be.
Before they could sip their second cups of coffee, and before a fresh tablecloth could be spread on the collapsible campaign table, a gunner on the western face alerted them to the galloper spurring down the coast road from Royan. "He will kill that horse . . . poor beast," Loudenne said with a sniff.
Within minutes, the galloper, a young officer of General Fournier's staff, rounded the end of the western third of the fort and came into the grassy courtyard between the ramparts, and the buried magazine and forge, reining in dramatically and leaping down to let his exhausted mount stumble on as a gunner took its reins.
The aide dashed up the long ramp to the central wall where the Tricolour flag flew from a tall pole, a white leather despatch case on a matching baldric over one shoulder spanking his hip. He was immaculate in fore-and-aft bicorne hat, natty blue uniform coat with a heavy gilt epaulet; he even wore white gloves! But the young aide's trousers were soaked in horse sweat, and reeked of ammonia. With a youthful sense of importance, though panting in his haste, the aide opened the despatch case with a flourish, and tossed off a salute. "General de Division Fournier sends word, M'sieur Major. . . eight British ships of the line came in sight, between the Pertuis de Maumusson, and Pointe de la Coubre . . . two groups of four."
"When was this, Lieutenant?" Loudenne gruffly asked.
"Over three hours ago, M'sieur Major," the aide breathlessly related, his chest still heaving. "I was sent with a message immediately, but . . . it is twenty kilometres, so . . . "
"Bon," Loudenne grumbled, reading the despatch quickly. "Four at the north end of the Cote Sauvage, it would seem, another four near the base of the Pointe de la Coubre peninsula, the general says."
"Pardon, Major," the young officer interjected, "but the group to the north took our entrenchments and batteries under fire, just as I was sent away."
"Did they anchor?" Lt. Brasseur demanded.
"No, sir," the aide replied, "nor did the second group of four ships near the peninsula, which I saw for myself as I rode along the coast road. They were bombarding the entrenchments there, as well, and that was over two hours ago, by now, m 'sieurl"
"And which way were they sailing, Lieutenant?" Brasseur asked. "Uhm . . . oh! The northern group was pointing South, and their southern group was sailing North, sir," the aide told him.
"To meet off the beaches where all eight may open fire upon the defences near the creek and the spring, which the 'Bloodies' have already scouted, aha!" Brasseur concluded with a triumphal smile. "They fall into your general's trap, Major Loudenne!"
"Uhm, where did those come from, may I ask, m'sieurs?" the aide asked. "And what are they doing?" he added, pulling his own telescope from his over-shoulder case.
"Eight ships of the line, eight hundred Marines," Lt. Brasseur told Loudenne, "and four hundred sailors, against General Fournier and his six thousand? Hah! It will be a slaughter!"
"Sang-froid, jenne homme." Loudenne was chiding the aide to be cool-blooded and cool-headed. "Toujours le sang-froid. Such excitement on your part un-nerves others. Always keep your demeanour calm, no matter how urgent the situation."
"Oui, M'sieur Major," the aide-de-camp replied, though thinking that artillerymen were perhaps too phlegmatic, like turtles.
"And did you meet any troops coming this way, on your ride?" Major Loudenne queried. "I had requested re-enforcements, as soon as those Anglais ships turned up."
"Indeed, Major," the aide reported. "The Fifty-seventh of the Line, all six companies. I met them about five kilometres north of Saint Palais sur Mer, but, I also had orders for them from mon general . . . to turn about and march back to the Cote Sauvage. They might have made it back to La Palmyre by now, M'sieur Major."
"Damn!" Loudenne spat, warily eying the anchored warships. "You return to your general, young fellow?" Brasseur enquired.
"Oui, M'sieur Lieutenant! I hope I am not too late to see the battle," the aide told him with a broad, eager grin.
"As little as I am used to horses, I will ride with you, oui!" Brasseur instantly decided. "What a grand sight, to see these Anglais salauds bayonetted into the surf, and slaughtered by their boats!"
"I will ride fast, I warn you, m'sieur," the aide cautioned. "If you are not a strong horseman . . . but, we will need fresh mounts."
"There are many in Royan," Brasseur told him with a shrug. "What are they doing here, though?" Loudenne still fretted, concerned about his lack of re-enforcements. "What are they doing?" he snapped, raising his telescope and resting it atop the parapet.
All
three officers turned their glasses seaward; all three saw hundred of enemy sailors clambering up the rigging, standing atop the stout oak bulwarks and lining gangways of the anchored warships. Some were lowering . . .
''''Mon Dieuf" the aide primly gasped. "They show their arses to us? Les Anglais . . . the 'Bloodies' are an uncouth people! Swine!"
"They mock us," Brasseur said with a snarl. Even though what the British were shouting could not carry that far, he could imagine what came from those widely opened mouths. "They think they have deluded us, and played their part in the charade. Oui, let us get fast horses, Lieutenant. We must get to your general, vite, vitel These ships hold nearly seven hundred potential fighters, and I think I know what they plan. That regiment you encountered must be alerted."
"M'sieur?" the aide asked with a raised brow; Loudenne was not the only one who thought a sailor spouting land tactics presumptuous.
"Their main landing is on the barren coast, oui?" Brasseur impatiently snapped, jutting one arm to the nor'west. "But, if the enemy lands behind your general's main line, up the coast from here . . . !"
"There is a road from La Palmyre to Arvert, on the northern side of the Cote Sauvage," Major Loudenne all but gasped, and sang-froid bedamned. "From there to La Tremblade it is less than four kilometres."
"Your general masses to contain them, let half get ashore before his riposte, hein? But, if there is a force in his rear.. . ? It may not cause our defeat, but. . .," Lt. Brasseur pointed out with another of his iffy shrugs. "And, who knows how many more Anglais ships lurk offshore, to follow up on their initial lodgement, messieurs?"
"Warn that regiment, Lieutenant, the Fifty-seventh?" Loudenne sternly ordered. "They must keep watch near La Palmyre for movement by these ships. Vite, vite! Take my horse, Capitaine Dournez's, too! Go, mes enfants! By sunset, we can stain the sands red with British blood!"
Troubled Waters Page 32
