The Captain`s Vengeance

CHAPTER TWENTY

Another day, another guided tour, Lewrie thought.

They'd not found Lanxade or Balfa; indeed, they'd been rumoured to have departed New Orleans for parts unknown. Even with Toby Jugg, the only witness they'd dared bring along on the expedition, wandering the port on his own for days on end, they'd not turned up one familiar face from the pirate ship's crew-or recognised a single one of the elegant young sprogs on the buccaneer schooner's deck the morning that Lewrie's prize-ship crew had been marooned.

So this morning involved "that other nonsense" that Lewrie and Pollock were charged to perform, and frankly, though Lewrie thought it a bootless endeavour, he had to admit that it was pleasureable work.

The morning was slightly overcast, but balmy. There was a faint breeze that felt refreshing, and it was not mosquito season, though a goodly tribe of flies were present round their horses.

He'd been shown the Cabildo and the cathedral their first days on foot, strolled the streets and pretended to shop… round the fort guarding the town centre and the levees, out Rue de l'Arsenal to the garrison barracks and the storehouses to count Spanish noses one day; rode to Lake Pontchartrain's shore through the reclaimed marshes that were now greengrocer produce plots to sniff round decrepit Fort Saint John, and the reeky Bayou St. John that threaded right into the city.

This morning Pollock suggested a brisk canter out to the east, along the Chef Menteur road towards Lake Borgne, across the Plain of Gentilly, near Bayou Bienvenu, with a promised alfresco dinner at the end of it. Lewrie was a good horseman, but it had been a while since he'd spent that much time astride. In point of fact, his thighs were chafing, and his bottom was stiff and sore!

"Damme, Mister Pollock, I didn't think you meant to emulate Alexander's march into Persia!" he griped at last, trying to rub his ass.

"Almost there, no worries," Pollock gaily replied.

"Almost where, the middle of another swamp?" Lewrie carped, as Pollock checked his horse to a slow walk from a canter in the shade of a tall cypress grove.

"What do you make of the country hereabouts, sir?" Pollock asked.

"Well, it's green, frankly," Lewrie said with a scowl as he cast his gaze about. "Hellish lot o' trees, and such. All these fields… the usual marshy sponges, I s'pose, 'neath the prairie grass?"

"Quaking prairie, such as we've seen before? No. Not quite," his guide told him, sounding a tad pleased with himself. "Take note of the variety of the grasses, the sandier nature of the soil. Oh, rainy season will turn the sand and clay into a perfect quagmire, but in the winter, or a warm and dry springtime, it's… passable. Grazeable."

Lewrie took note that their horses' hooves left fairly shallow prints and didn't throw up much mud, except for the lower places… but they'd crossed a fair number of rivulets and seeps.

"Not much quicksand out here, either, sir," Pollock mused.

"Nor much market for it, either, I'd expect," Lewrie quipped. "Bad for egg timers and watch-glasses, hey?"

"The bulk of the grasses here, Mister Willoughby," Mr. Pollock irritatedly explained, "are not marsh grasses, like those round rills and along the bayou channel. They're dry-land grasses. If the soil along Lake Pontchartrain won't support troops, artillery, or waggons, do you not think that this terrain might be more practicable? Please leave off your japing and take a good look, I conjure you!"

"Well, aye, I s'pose the land here is higher and dryer," Lewrie allowed, dismounting and squatting to dig up a handful to crumble in his hands, wondering again why anyone in his right mind would send a sailor on a chore like this, instead of a soldier… or a farmer! He was, at best, a "gentleman-farmer" on his rented acres in Surrey, one who might "raise his hat" but little else. That was his wife's bailiwick, what her experience and knowledge from an agricultural childhood in North Carolina had taught her; what their hired estate manager and day labourers tended to without Lewrie having to do much beyond shout encouragement, heartily agree like the Vicar of Bray, then toddle down to the Olde Ploughman tavern for an ale.

"Firm enough to support… things, perhaps?" Pollock hinted.

"Aye, I think it might be," Lewrie dumbly agreed.

"Mount up, then, and we'll ride on to the end of the road and have our meal," Pollock suggested, pleased with Lewrie's opinion.

"Bring any liniment?" Lewrie asked with a grin, taking time to massage his buttocks, with the reins in his hands.

"Sorry, no… Said you were a horseman." Pollock snickered.

They dismounted and spread a groundcloth at the end of the Chef Menteur road, on a sandy, beach-dune hillock on the western shore of Lake Borgne. A vast expanse of open water-seawater-stretched out before them to the south and southeast, the lake's horizon mostly limitless, except for due east, where, cross a fairly narrow channel or river, the swamps began again and made a vast, reedy, and marshy island that blocked the view; here and speckled with a few straggling groves of scrub trees.

Once the horses had been hobbled and let to graze, once they'd been led to fresh water to drink, Pollock did provide a decent spread, Lewrie had to allow. There were crusty, fresh baguettes, mustard and butter in small stone jars, and pickles in another. A choice of roast beef or ham was wrapped in one cloth, and several pieces of crispily breaded and fried chicken were wrapped in another. A glass apothecary jar contained cold, cooked beans in oil and vinegar, and there were two bottles of imported hock. Pewter plates and utensils, spare chequered napkins, and proper wineglasses… Pollock had seen to everything.

Another thing Lewrie had to admit to himself as he concocted a thick, meaty sandwich (or was it, as his cabin-servant, Aspinall, had cheekily termed it, a "Shrewsbury," for the real lord who'd first built one at an all-night gaming table?) and took a bite: risky though this expedition might be, he was actually beginning to enjoy it!

A night or two in a comfy shore bed, with fine coffee or hot chocolate delivered to his bedside by one of his pension's servants; of sleeping lubberly, civilian "All-Night-Ins" with no emergencies to summon him on deck; and a myriad of coffeehouses, cabarets, wine bars, or eating places from which to choose had seduced him utterly. And the victuals, the viands, the delicious variety, all but a few low dives preparing piquant, unforgettable dishes, ah!

And Charite Bonsecours and her enthusiastic amour to savour… to contemplate another bout after the first and second, well! He was, but for a troop of nubile and nude nymphs feeding him ambrosia… or grapes… in the fabled Lotus Eater's Paradise!

"Out to the Nor'east, yonder, is Cat Island," Mr. Pollock intruded, rattling out the folds of his inevitable chart to lay between them as they dined. "Between Cat Island and the mainland is the inlet they call Pass Maria, ah… here, ahem." Pollock indicated with a forefinger, which left a dab of mustard on Lake Borgne. "There is deep water on the seaward side, you see. Near to Ship Island, as well. This swampy island before us, t'other side of this channel, has a fort at the north end, Fort Coquilles, to control the pass into Lake Pontchartrain, but… there's nothing to guard against ships entering Lake Borgne… coming right to the shore on which we sit, Willoughby! In your valued opinion, could Fort Coquilles prevent a landing here?"

"What calibre are their guns?" Lewrie asked, measuring distance 'twixt thumb and forefinger, and laying them on the chart's scale. It was a full five miles from the fort to the channel mouth.

"I've heard boasts that they're twenty-four-pounders," Pollock supplied. "Ships' guns, on naval carriages."

"They'd not have a hope in Hell," Lewrie told him, sure enough of artillery, one of his chiefest delights since his first experience of a broadside on the old Ariadne. "No mortars? No big'uns?"

"Only light Coehorn mortars on the landward walls, I have discovered, over the years," Pollock guardedly declared. "Our Spaniards are a boastful lot when shopping. Do you use my telescope, you can almost make out the fort to the north and east of us. It's placed on firm ground, so I'm told, at this island's tip. The Pass, the lakes, are too shallow for deep-draught ships, so I suppose the fort was set in place to counter small vessels and gunboats from getting past it."

"Could I get some bomb-ketches in here, within three miles of the place… shallow, improvised bombs up this channel a little way, with ten-inch sea mortars, I could pound it into ruin," Lewrie stated, standing and peering through the borrowed telescope. "Buoyed up with 'camels' to either beam, to get 'em up this slough. Wood-based light Coehorn mortars in launches and pinnaces to sail right up the island's west side, that 'd keep their heads down and their buttocks clenched!" he hooted in anticipatory mirth. "Two… three combined companies of Marines from off a few ships of the line could go with the small boats and assault it from the rear. Landward walls of a sea fort aren't designed against a strong assault." He lowered the glass and looked down at the channel.

"Though I don't much care for the current. Looks fast to me," he said, frowning at the eddies, swirls, and bent-over reeds. "Take a slack tide, and how long that'd last… else the mortar boats could not breast the tides under sail, and rowing'd be sheer buggery. Make less than a mile an hour, slower than a man could walk it."

"Or Fort Coquilles could be ignored, if it can't reach to this shore with its guns," Mr. Pollock mused as Lewrie sat back down, handing him the glass to stow away. "Then… in your professional opinion, could a large force be landed here? Where we now sit? It's not over thirteen miles from here to New Orleans, over a fairly good road, too. Mister Peel, being a cavalryman at one time, suggested that this might prove the best route, when we talked before leaving Kingston."

"Beats sailing an hundred miles up the Mississippi River from the Gulf," Lewrie cautiously allowed, "or God knows how far down from from Canada, aye. How large a force could be landed here, though…" Lewrie mused, shrugging. He fixed Pollock with a sharp, leery eye and grinned. "And did Mister Peel drop a few hints, hey, Mister Pollock, as to what he thought the size of the force required could be?"

"Well, ahem! … he did mention a squadron of horse, merely in passing, d'ye see," Pollock responded.

"Oh, I'm sure he did!" Lewrie said, laughing. "Old habits die hard. Tarra-tarra… 'draw sabres and charge'! Peel, no matter his influence in London or Kingston, no matter his knowledge of any secret plans already drawn, Mister Pollock, ain't a sailor. He and his Army contacts see the problem from this hillock inland, with nary a worry 'bout how they're t'be gotten here. He really should've chosen an infantry officer in disguise for this part of our mission, not me."

"Mister Peel, ah…" Pollock hesitantly explained, "said that the crux of the matter was the getting ashore, and that you, sir, had the wits to solve it, or, ahem!… Scotch it, should it not prove to be practical."

"Mine arse on a band-box! Peel said that?" Lewrie gawped. "It is news t'me that… hmm. Well, well!"

And all this time Peel's good as told me I'm an idiot! Lewrie thought; A useful idiot, now an ' again, but… hmm, well, well!

"Horse transports are even rarer than hens' teeth, sir," Lewrie laid out to his guide, suddenly in much better takings, even finding professional delight in sketching out a plan on the chart. "I expect only one or two might be

available on short notice, so… let's say no more than two or three troops of cavalry, not an entire squadron. A couple of batteries of horse artillery, nothing heavier than four- or six-pounders, too. Troop transports aren't that common, either, so… no more than three or four regiments of foot, with their four-gun batteries of equally light artillery pieces."

He'd anchor the invasion fleet off Cat and Ship Islands in deep water; sail or row barges, launches, pinnaces, and Coehorn mortar boats from there into Lake Borgne… dead of night, all that!… even tow some astern of the extemporised bombs, which could fire far inland to suppress any opposition as the troops were going ashore. Light infantry, fusiliers and such, ashore first to scout and skirmish their way west to protect the fairly small landing ground, which was not quite as big as a cricket pitch, really. Some light regimental guns next, their limbers stuffed with cannister and grape, not solid shot. Then cavalry and horse artillery, followed by the rest of the regiments… the line companies and grenadier companies, the Marines for the Bayou Bienvenu, near where they sat.

Aye, the bayou, by God! A Heaven-sent highway in its own right, that (so Mr. Pollock assured him) meandered right into the northern suburbs of New Orleans itself, fed the Marigny Canal, hard by the many farm plots and cart paths behind Fort St. John and the shore of Pontchartrain!

"Takes most of the supply waggons or pack-mules off the single road," Lewrie said, chuckling. "Supply boats, gigs, launches, cutters… shallow-draught stuff off every vessel can get up Bayou Bienvenu. Pole 'em if they can't be rowed! Cuts down on the number of draught animals to transport or feed, too! Less hay and oats, more shot and powder, more troops. Who are fed worse than horses, really. Hmmm, swivels and two-pounder boat-guns on the bayou boats, to keep the Dons well back, and up to their necks in muck."

Seven miles from New Orleans, the chart showed a large tongue of higher, dryer ground to the north of the Chef Menteur road, framed by great groves of cypresses. The surprised, scurrying Spanish garrison would, in his limited military judgement, think that the perfect place to rally, to form a defence line and fight. Firm ground on which to emplace heavier guns than the landing force could boast, and Lewrie couldn't see a way round it without a thrust into Lake Pontchartrain in boats to land infantry behind that 'solid ground, to take the Spanish in flank or rear before they could get sorted out and unlimber their artillery pieces… or just after, and sweep them up, thereby shattering the frantic resistance even further? Or could cavalry do it on their own, unsupported? Lewrie grimaced as he imagined that it might take a whole squadron of horse to be landed, after all!

"It's… feasible," Lewrie said at last, grimacing with doubt, despite his tentative statement of approval, "with a brigade of foot, a battalion of Marines, and Peel's damned squadron of cavalry. One day to land, sort out, and march past here. Fight a battle here, on this firm ground, if cavalry can't seize it right off, then… whistle up the bandsmen for the march into New Orleans. Land a second brigade?"

"Once New Orleans falls, a second or third brigade could sweep up the forts down the Mississippi, one at a time," Pollock contributed.

"Whilst a squadron of frigates sails up to help reduce them by direct fire," Lewrie supposed.

"Then what small, wretched garrisons there are at Mobile and Pensacola could be overwhelmed?" Pollock asked. "Nor more than fifty or an hundred men to each, really. Mounting guard over the mosquitoes and the mildew, heh heh!" Pollock scoffed.

"A touchy endeavour, even so, Mister Pollock," Lewrie counselled. "Where do we get that many tropic-seasoned troops, and transports in sufficient number? If they come from England, it would depend on whether it's hurricane season or not, or how long they have to languish aboard their ships and still be healthy, whether they go ashore on Jamaica for long during Fever Season before the Army has things done all 'tiddly,' and Yellow Jack kills two-thirds of them. You have pen and paper?"

Lewrie sat cross-legged and jotted. Four brigades, say, and 12,000 infantry; average transport 300 to 350 tons with two men per ton of displacement; 600 to 700 men each-say, no more than 500 to 600 for health reasons in the tropics… It would take twenty-four transports, with another dozen for supplies. Nearly 500 cavalry mounts plus artillery nags (assume a quarter died or broke legs on-passage) so plan on seven or eight rare, specialised horse transports, and an equal number just for fodder and oats, and the light artillery could have eight animals per gun, not the usual six, in case the soil was soggy…

He broke off and gazed out at Lake Borgne and the open sea, in disgust. "Hundreds of barges and cutters, all coming t'this wee patch o' mud. And our Army in charge of it? Hmmm, I don't know…"

"Something wrong?" Pollock asked, taking fret from his tone.

"Anchored so far off, bloody miles of choppy, shallow sea they must cross," Lewrie gloomed. "Unless it's flat calm, it'd take days to land them, and the Spanish would have time to react. Our wonderful Army just doesn't have 'quick' in its vocabulary, Mister Pollock. A large force would hamper itself, a small, quick'un could be knackered. Saw at at Toulon in '93 and '94, and that was a proper harbour, with wharves, cranes, and all. This sand spit ain't! It'd be treacly chaos to get 'em landed and sorted out quickly, then march them west… up a single sandy track, one weeded bayou. Did we get a regiment ashore per day, I'd be very much surprised. I'd be surprised all the more did the general in charge dare lurch into motion before a week'd passed!"

"Our soldiers can't be that slow, can they?" Pollock asked with a crushed look on his ill-formed phyz. "Wolfe… Montreal…"

"A fluke," Lewrie spat. "Hah! You know, Mister Pollock… it might be better did we just slip the Dons a note and ask 'em what they'd take for Louisiana. Cheaper in the long run, especially when it comes to the lives of our soldiers, ha ha! Trade 'em Gibraltar or something?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Lewrie!" Pollock grumped, so nettled that he quite forgot the agreed-upon alias.

"I'll write Admiral Parker, and Mister Peel, an appreciation," Lewrie promised, digging into their food basket to build a roast beef sandwich. "This is the quickest, easiest route to the city's conquest, though I will have to include its warts… and my reservations."

"That is, after all, one of the reasons Captain Nicely, Mister Peel, as well, insisted on your presence," Pollock told him. "Sooner or later, we must have New Orleans. Louisiana and Spanish Florida, too. To keep the Americans hemmed in and humble, on their side of the Mississippi. To pay the Spanish back for switching sides and taking hand with the French in '96, to boot!"

"Well, that'd be sweet, I grant you." Lewrie chuckled. "Damme, is that a twist of ground pepper by your leg? That's what's missing on this beef!"

Pollock handed the paper twist over, then picked up the sheet on which Lewrie had marked his figures. He carefully tore it to bits, as fine as confetti, then let the soft breeze scatter it.

"Put nothing more on paper," Pollock warned him. "Trust all to your head, or let me, ah… translate the numbers into innocent debits and such in a ledger book. Things to be ordered, shipped, sold, or as items in stock. Harmless code words, d'ye see."

"Whatever you wish, Mister Pollock," Lewrie happily agreed, in thrall to crunchy bread and succulent meat zested with mustard. "You do a lot of business in codes?"

"Commerce is a, ah… cut-throat business, Mister Willoughby," Pollock said with a cryptic smile. "Ahem!"

They rolled down the sloppy streets along the waterfront levee, once they'd returned their hired mounts to the stablery, savouring the sunset and the cool, river-sweet air. A trifle stiff-legged, it must be admitted, from spending nigh the whole day in the saddle, and their fundaments, chafed thighs, and challenged leg muscles complaining.

Watching their passing image in one of the rare, large, glass storefront windows, Lewrie was put in mind of a brace of virgin girls toddling homeward after their first experience at "All-Night-In"!

"And, there's your men, Mister Willoughby!" Pollock pointed out as Rue Toulouse dead-ended at Levee Road.

"Drunk as lords, I'll warrant," Lewrie growled to see them all asprawl at their ease in cane-bottom chairs round a rickety table by the entrance to a lowly sailors' cafe. "Damn 'em, I warned 'em to stay sober! Much good that does, with sailormen," he despaired.

"They look fairly sober to me, Willoughby," Pollock countered, back in his fully civilian and "innocent" role once they had returned to civilisation.

"Hoy, Cap'm Willoughby!" Quartermaster's Mate Toby Jugg lazily called, lifting a wooden piggin by way of salute, without rising or doffing his hat; playing his own role to the hilt, and loving every second of it, Lewrie was mortal-certain.

"Aye, Cap'm L-" Landsman Furfy, that dim but capable Irish side of beef began to say, just before his mate Liam Desmond kicked him beneath the table. "Ow, Liam, whad'ye do 'at… oh."

Neck burning at Jugg's impertinence, but knowing that he would have to play up game, Lewrie only sauntered to their table, his hands jabbed deep into his trouser pockets most unlike naval officer fashion to join them. Clenched into fists, but jabbed deep.

"Havin' a free day, are we, lads?" Lewrie casually enquired of them, rocking on his heels with his wide-brimmed "wide-awake" hat far back on his head, and with a faint grin on his face. "Not gotten all 'three sheets to the wind' yet today?"

"Oh, nossor," Jugg idly replied with a smile. "For I e'spect th' last few days o' sportin' done 'em in for a bit. 'Make an' Mend' it 'tis, t'day, sor. 'Caulk or Yarn' an' all."

"Short o' th' 'blunt' today, sor," Desmond added.

Damned if they weren't drunk at all; tiddly, perhaps; "groggy" for certain, but no "groggier" than they'd be by the Second Dog Watch and the second rum issue aboard Proteus/

"Toby… Mister Jugg's been keeping a weather eye on us, sor," Clancey, the youngest lad in his party, good-naturedly griped, lifting his own pig-gin in Jugg's direction in mock salute. "Too damn' good, beggin' yer pardon, sor."

" 'Sides, our money goes fur'der with th' doxies, we don't drink it all up, sor," Furfy dared to contribute with a childish enthusiasm.

"An' would ya be carin' for a 'wet' o' yer own, sor?" the irrepressible Jugg solicitously enquired. "For 'tis good Dublin stout, as sure as yer born, so 'tis."

Lewrie goggled at him for a moment, nigh apoplectic at Jugg's effrontery, fighting the urge to A. jerk hands from pockets, B. curl into vises, C. leap, D. strangle.

"French beer?" Lewrie scornfully managed to croak at last.

"Faith, but that's filthy muck, sor!" Jugg hooted in mirth as he finally got to his feet and came within arm's reach, showing Lewrie the yeasty contents of his piggin. "No, 'tis real Irish stout, brung upriver on good Mister Pollock's little brig, sor, an' not so horrid dear, e'en then, agin wot th' Frogs an' Dons charge fer their piss. Want a sip from mine, sor?"

"Christ, no I… "

"Need a private word, sor," Jugg muttered from the corner of his mouth, darting his eyes at Pollock to include him. "Been aboard our prize, sor, and I knows for sure about her, beg pardon."

"Aha!" Lewrie barked, stepping to the table to pour himself a glass of vin ordinaire from an earthenware jug. "Aye, Jugg, we should take a short stroll with Mister Pollock."

All three took a few paces apart from the rest of the crewmen, facing south across the river to the prize ship and the emporium hulks, where belfry and taff-rail lanthorns-oil lights or candles-were now cheerfully aglow for late shoppers, casting long, dancing glades across the Mississippi, which itself had put on its gay blue-grey nighttime masquerade, instead of its daytime muddy-brown.

"She's our prize, sure 'nough, Cap'm… Mister Pollock," Jugg imparted, rocking on his heels and wearing a grin as he lifted his mug to take a leisurely sip, using that gesture to point at the hulk. "We went aboard her this mornin', so we did… Cap'm Coffin and th' First Mate, Mister Caldecott. Actin' like we might buy her, like." "Absolutely certain," Lewrie stated.

"Oh aye, sor," Jugg said with a snicker, turning to look at him. "For I'd left me mark on her, by way o' speakin'. When we woz anchored at Dominica an' sleepin' aft in th' mates' cabins for a spell, I carved me name in her fancy overhead woodwork, right above 'er master's bed-cot… me name an' Erin Go Bragh, sorta. 'At woz still there, plain as anythin', sor. Down below, when soundin' her well, I found Mister Towpenny's cribbage board, too, wot he woz so proud of and missin' so sore after they marooned us. One he shaped hisself, sure, sor. Foot o' th' orlop ladder, t'woz."

"Any clue as to who claims her ownership, then, Mister Jugg?" Pollock asked in a side-mouthed mutter, looking outward, and to an idle observer merely engaged in casual banter.

"Slow-coach ol' feller in charge o' her Harbour Watch, Mister Pollock, sor. He said t'ask for a merchant name o' Basternoh, or some such, who bought her, recent. I 'spect yer Cap'm Coffin kin tell ya more about that, since 'twas 'im did th' bulk o' th' talkin', but… seems I do recall a banker feller name o' Merrypaws was tied up innit, too, mebbe bought inta her as a 'ship's husband'… even help with th' financing did anyone buy her, sure."

"Bistineau, and Maurepas, was it?" Pollock pressed, perked up as sharp-eyed as an owl.

"Aye, 'em names sound more like it, certain, sor!" Jugg agreed.

"Aha!" Pollock chortled half aloud, rubbing dry palms together. "Now we're talking. Now we're in business at last, gentlemen! For I am familiar with both those worthies. Monsieur Bistineau is as crooked as a dog's hind leg, a right 'Captain Sharp.' He'd steal the coins off his dead mother's eyes, and Maurepas! Monsoor Henri Maurepas, he's rumoured to have been involved in some shady dealings in the past. The plantations he's scooped up for a song off people who fell behind with their loans… I imagine either, or both, can provide us valuable information, do I put the thumbscrews to 'em."

"Ye would, sor?" Jugg asked, surprised. "Fer real, an' all?"

"Manner of speaking," Pollock off-handedly quibbled.

"Aww," Jugg rejoined, sounding hellish disappointed.

"She's floating high above her waterline," Lewrie said. "So I s'pose her cargo's long gone?"

"Ev'ry stick gone, sorry I am t'say, sor," Jugg told him with a mournful look. "Her holds're as empty as an orphan's pantry. Not just her holds, neither, Cap'm, sor. 'Er second bower an' least kedge ain't there no longer, an' all her spare spars an' sails've been sold away. Cable-tiers are empty, too. Though, I 'spect 'at had more t'do with a need t'lash her bow, stern, breast an' spring-lines t' th' shore t'keep her moored agin th' river currents."

"Then who do they expect to buy her, I wonder?" Lewrie said with a snort, recalling again his one reading of the prize's manifest, imagining middling-sized bags of prize money winging away.

"Most-like, that bastard Bistineau would be more than happy to play ship chandler and sell you her own fittings back as spanking new… at a hellish-dear cost," Mr. Pollock sneered with a matching snort. "Yes… Captain Coffin and Mister Caldecott could tell me more, well… a bit more, and for your sharp eyes and, ahem… sagacity, I thank you, Mister Jugg. I do b'lieve I should look them up at once. After your trip aboard her, Jugg, I do believe we have a lead at last!"

"Thankee kindly, sor," Jugg replied, doffing his hat from long practice; though peering quizzically at Lewrie for the meaning of the word "sagacity."

"Good, clever work, Jugg," Lewrie congratulated.

"Er, ah… thankee, Cap'm, sor," Jugg said to him, plumbing to the approximate meaning of his praise. "Hoy, ain't she a handsome wee thing there, sors? 'At cutter comin' upriver."

They all turned to gaze upon a smallish single-masted craft not so far downriver, coming up slowly against the relentless current with all her fat jibs and huge gaff mains'l winged out into a starkly white cloud of canvas against the blue of the river, and twilight. She flew a Spanish flag, and Mr. Pollock cupped his eyes with his hands to peer hard at her, even without the aid of a telescope.

"Spanish Navy cutter," Pollock announced at last. "An aviso … a despatch boat. From Havana or Veracruz, most-like, making the round with the latest mails. Though they do have a few like her at Mobile and Pensacola for guarda costas."

"A problem for us, is she?" Lewrie fretted half aloud.

"Oh, I rather doubt it… Mister Willoughby," Pollock amusedly dismissed. "Had the Dons tumbled to your presence, you'd have been in cells in the calabozo days ago, hah hah… ahem. Had the Spaniards a single clue about our business, they'd have sent a frigate!"

"Well, that's reassuring," Lewrie said, scowling at the man.

"Being Spaniards, they won't land the mails 'til next morning"-Pollock chuckled-"after a good supper and a run ashore. As well known as I am, no one'll think twice of me wandering over to the Cabildo and asking the latest news in the Place d'Armes. It's what everyone else does, God knows. Tonight, though… ahem. It might be a good idea if you and your hands, being strange new faces, didn't do their drinking and carousing near yon cutter's crewmen, hmm? Make it an early night?"

"Aye, I'll see to it," Lewrie vowed. Though, after his carouse with Charite Bonsecours, even an orgy in the Pigeon Coop cabaret would prove anti-climactic, and making it an early night held no charms whatsoever. Twiddle his thumbs in his rooms alone? Polish his boots and bed down by ten? It sounded like a hellish-dull evening.