Another day, another disappointment, Lewrie glumly decided, as HMS Savage sidled up alongside yet another French fishing boat, nearly five miles off Soulac sur Mer, now better known as “Soo-Lack.” He had met up with Capitaine Jules Papin and his Marie Doux several days past, but rencontre with that fish-smelly rogue had not exactly been all that productive in the way of information.
In other ways, Papin had proved true to his word, for his boat had produced nearly a sling-load of goodies from shore. Papin had promised cheeses and eggs, and he had come through, to the delight of the Midshipmen’s mess, and the officers’ wardroom, who had vowed to chip in and go shares. Navy-issue cheese came in two varieties; a Cheddar and something else unidentifiable, hard, and crumbly, both of which sprouted mould and simply oozed wormlets after a month or so at sea. These, though, were fresh, and as creamy, sweet, and soft on the tongue as pats of butter.
The eggs, several dozen of them, had probably not been candled to determine whether the shells hid tasty yolks or un-hatched chicks, but a quick inspection in front of a strong lanthorn could decide that, and, with luck, the broody hens already roosting in Savage’s forecastle manger would accept a few extras and keep them warm ‘til they hatched . . . resulting in a few more roast chicken suppers for the fortunates.
Papin had come through with several straw baskets of fruit, as well; apples, pears, and such. There had been middling sacks of sugar and flour, baskets of table grapes, and bags of raisins. Three young suckling pigs, two smallish turkeys, and a kid goat . . .
“And a par-tri-idge in a pear tree!” Midshipman Mayhall had caroled, to the amusement of all, as he seized a bag of fresh cherries.
Small baskets of peas and beans, for fresh soups, not the reconstituted “portable” soup the Navy issued in gangrenous-looking slabs; salad greens, carrots, cabbages, and onions, oh my, it was a Godsend!
And for Lewrie, along with some foodstuffs, had come a case of wine, a mix of Medocs, Sauternes, and white Graves, along with the reds of the region from Chateau Margaux, Chateau Latour, Brave-Mouton and Lafite. There were Batailleys, d’Issans, Loudennes, Paulliac and St.-Estephe, and, wonder of wonders, a one-gallon stone crock of American bourbon whisky, which bore the stencil-painted mark of the Evan Williams distillery in far-off Bardstown, Kentucky!
“Capitaine Papin, you are a miracle worker!” Lewrie had told him.
“Non, m’sieur, I am ze smuggler, miraculeux,” Papin had sourly rejoined. “I am ze smuggler ‘oo is to be paid, n’est-ce pas} Ze dry smuggler, in need of ze rum, hawn hawn.”
They had repaired below to crack a bottle for Papin, which he’d keep, and a second bottle for his crew, to keep them sweet and silent. Lewrie dug into his coin purse and laid out the reckoning, allowing the Frenchman to see the gold guinea coins that he had placed in it just for that purpose.
“You are successful in prize-money, Capitaine, hein}” Papin commented as Lewrie laid the purse out of reach . . . but still in sight. Papin licked his lips and gave the wash-leather draw-string purse sly side-of-his-eye glances, and rubbed his still unshaven chin.
“Rather well, in fact,” Lewrie told him. He thanked Papin for the delivery, striving to not sound too profusely grateful, hinting that a working arrangement, once a week or so, would be welcome.
“And . . . there is another matter, one you raised when we first crossed hawses, Capitaine Papin,” Lewrie said, striving, too, for off-handedness; idle curiosity, not avidity. “Concerning information?”
“Ah, oui, ze information, hawn hawn,” Papin said, a hand inside his coarse and filthy smock to scratch his chest. “I do not know zat much, but . . . “He tossed back a deep slug of rum, keeping his eye locked on Lewrie’s all the time. “What m ‘sieur wish to know?”
“Well, for one, do the gunners at Saint Georges de Didonne keep the guns manned round the clock? Damme, I must sail into the bay and keep watch, but I dislike being shot at all the time,” Lewrie said in a forced chuckle. “Savage is a stout ship, but not proof against their fourty-two-pounders.”
Papin smiled back, saying nothing; a particularly greasy smile.
“Mean t’say . . .,” Lewrie had gone on, feeling lame, “do they have enough troops t’maintain three watches?”
“Give me guinea, m’sieur,” Papin soberly said, holding out his hand, palm up. “Garrison is small. Non ‘ave ‘eavy guns. Dix-huit, ze eighteens, et ze douze? Ze . . . twelves? Only ze six six-pounders in water battery, below, an’ ze swivels. Non as much as you fear. Ze guinea . . . vite, vite}” he insisted, snapping his fingers.
Lewrie handed over a guinea coin, still unsure if he was being twitted and taken for a fool; it sounded too good to be true. “Not as many as I fear, is it? How many of the heavier guns, Capitaine}”
“I see zem drill, I ‘ave count, Capitaine Lirr . . . m’sieur,” Papin growled as he slipped the coin into a slop-trouser pocket. “Mon Dieu, keep Marie Doux at Royan dock, ‘ave home in Royan, an’ when zey practice, zey keep all awake!
“Each face ‘ave ze four openings, oui}” Papin explained, leaning forward. “Fort ‘ave two of ze twelves, only one of ze eighteens, each face, comprendre} Only ‘ave men each gun require, plus ze dozen more for keep watch, hein} Old navire de guerre at Bordeaux, rotted at piers, zey strip an’ bring ici by ze barges. Ozzer old ships zat cannot sail, I’Armee strip, aussi, tak mos’ guns to forts on Channel, to I’Est . . . on German frontier, m’sieur.”
“As they bring the stone for the Pointe de Grave battery walls?” Lewrie asked, pouring Papin another dollop of rum.
“Oui,” Papin agreed, leaning back in his chair, legs extended. “Stone mus’ come from ze Dordogne, zere is beaucoup trop sand in zis part of Medoc, an’ Saintonge, cross river.”
“Many barges?” Lewrie prompted. “Are they ever escorted}”
“ Une more guinea,” Papin tantalised, hand out once more.
“When you can tell me how many, and when they come,” Lewrie said instead, slyly chuckling. “And, if they’re escorted. I assume they put into that wee harbour behind Le Verdon sur Mer?”
“Sometime,” Papin slowly allowed, with his own sly laugh.
“What does lie behind the point? In the port, bay, and cove?”
“M’sieur, you do not pay, I do not remember,” Papin replied with an avaricious, oily grin. “Wish to know, I mus’ go see. Zen you mus’ pay me ‘nozzer guinea. I do not go to Le Verdon zat often.”
“Try this, then,” Lewrie wheedled, handing over two shillings. “Where could I land boats and gather firewood and water without a risk of being attacked?” He spread a chart for Papin to look over.
Papin took the silver coins and shoved them into his pocket. “I wish wood an’ water, m’sieur, I go ashore on La Cote Sauvage. Spend night, sometime, off beach . . . here. Get to fish before ozzers ‘oo ‘ave sleep in port. Fresh stream, beaucoup trees . . . almos’ no one live zere, an’ no soldier. Presque jamais,” he concluded with a shrug.
“Hardly ever, hey?” Lewrie translated, aloud, finding it droll. “Very well, then, Capitaine Papin. Fair enough. Merci for what you have told me so far. And, for all the wine, bread and butter, and the whisky. We must meet again . . . soon. Perhaps then, you will have learned more, and another guinea’d be a fair trade. Perhaps more, if you could learn how many troops there are here, say . . . within twenty miles of Royan or Pointe de Grave?”
“Bon!” Papin cynically cried, “I ‘ave ze devoirs, ze a-sign-e-ment? I am good boy, I win ze prize, hein} Oui, I do zis pour vous . . . even if you are cursed Anglais sanglant, hawn hawn!”
Papin had thrown back the last of his rum, tucked the bottle in the large chest pocket of his smock, grabbed a second to take for his small crew—felt in his trouser pocket to re-count his money for a brief half-hour’s work—and had gone on deck for his boat.
“Now who’s this’un?” Lewrie asked as they sidled up near another decent-sized boat, out fishing beyond the hook of Point Coober.”Have we seen her before, Mister Urquhart?”
They both peered at a single-masted boat of about thirty feet or so, rigged with a small jib and a gaff-hung mains’l. She was worn and shabby, and held but three crew, none of whom seemed alarmed by a British frigate. She and HMS Savage were four miles to seaward of the coast, so there could be no escape for her. Oddly, though, she steered towards the frigate, putting Lewrie in mind of a similar boat full of maniacs and powder kegs, who had tried to blow HMS Proteus out of the water off St. Domingue’s north coast during the British invasion of that gory French possession, and the slave-army’s rabid resistance. Lewrie almost felt an urge to steer away, let this one go, just in case the Frogs had gotten so frustrated by the loss of commerce that a screeching, hair-pulling official in Bordeaux had asked for volunteers full of patriotism and hatred who’d take a British warship with them!
By the prickin o’ me thumbs, somethin wicked this way comes? Lewrie thought.
“I believe I’ve seen her before, sir,” Lt. Urquhart carefully ventured. “Something ‘bout her sail patches, but . . . much closer down to Soulac than here, I think it was.”
Lewrie peered at her with his telescope a piece more, then took a look about Savage’s decks. The swivel guns were manned and ready in the iron stanchion mounts atop the bulwarks, and at least ten Marines and a Corporal were in full kit and red uniforms, following his standing orders for dealing with so many inspections and searches.
She comes alongside, an 18-pounder ball dropped overside would sink her in a blink, he decided.
“She looks as if she wants t’be stopped, Mister Urquhart, so . . . we’ll oblige,” Lewrie said. “Fetch the ship to, if you please, sir. Cox’n?” he called out.
“Aye, sor!” Liam Desmond piped up from below the quarterdeck in the waist, where he had been idly chaffering with his mates in Lewrie’s boat crew.
“Bring the launch round from towing astern, and be ready to inspect yon fishing boat, Desmond. The usual drill . . . Marines and a Midshipman . . . this morning it’s . . . Mister Mayhall,” Lewrie ordered.
“Aye, sir!” the Midshipman cried, eager for something to do.
It took only minutes to swing Savage up to the wind, haul round the launch to the larboard entry-port, and get Desmond’s oarsmen and a quartet of Marines and Midshipman Mayhall aboard. For a minute or so, it looked as if the fishing boat might try to come alongside, but just as soon as they saw the launch being manned, her captain took in sail and let her rock and toss on the ocean’s scend to await a boarding.
“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. “Parlei~vous I’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-être 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, magnifique!” Brasseur said, with a kiss of his bunched fingers as he made yummy sounds. “O la, chats!” he cried as he espied Toulon and Chalky, who had come to see the new cabin guest, slinking almost to scratching range. “Bons amis, les chats. ‘Ave some, moi. What fisherman does not, hein} Hawn hawn hawn! Ici, 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 aussi at ze Battle of ze Saintes, where you’ Admiral Rodney defeat us.”
“I 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 officier} Hélas, 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 back 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 Republicans 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 citizen-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 il-logical 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-être, 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-être}” Brasseur rejoined, smiling in a world-weary manner. “An’, peut-être, France must be beaten, for example, ‘ow not to become ze Republic.”
Here now, that sounds intriguin 7 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 Piedmontese, 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 bastardfrom plannin an invasion of England, certain!’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-être, a flea-bite ‘ere, m’sieur!” 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’d be safest. They agree, all well and good. Their accounts vary too much, then . . . Christ, what ‘11 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-être!—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 Talmont and give them a bloody nose, to boot?
Hopeless! Bloody daft! Lewrie irritably thought, reining in his galloping imaginings; yet . . . it beats waitin’ t’hear ‘bout my legal troubles, or a recall tface 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?