Troubled Waters

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T he safe, and navigable, outermost reaches of the Gironde river estuary measured about twelve miles across on a line drawn from Pointe de la Coubre, the tip of a narrow, hook-shaped peninsula on the north shore, an appendage to a clenched-fist larger peninsula whose Atlantic face was labelled the Cote Sauvage-which Lewrie took as auspicious-to a seaside village south of Pointe de Grave on the southern Atlantic coast named Soulac sur Mer.

The south shore peninsula narrowed and bent back to the nor 'east at Pointe de Grave, near another coastal village called Le Verdon sur Mer, which actually lay on the inner river bank. From Pointe de Grave to the north shore, and the small town of St. Georges de Didonne just a mile or so south of the larger town of Royan, lay the narrows of the Gironde, which was only about three miles across; a short row for a determined boat crew, or an even shorter sail.

Temptingly beyond those narrows, the Gironde widened considerably, remaining deep and six miles across, only narrowing slightly until it reached the long and skinny river aits that Rear-Admiral Lord Boxham had mentioned, near Pauillac and Blaye. Any number of French warships or merchant vessels could be moored below those Pointe de Grave narrows, but as to the getting to them, or even sneaking a ship's boat up the river to spy them out, it just didn't look like it was do-able…

"Now in King Louis the Fourteenth's day, sir," Mr. Winwood said in his usual bleak manner, "the key fort guarding the river was on the eastern bank, 'bout twelve or thirteen miles up-river, ah… here, at Saint Fort sur Gironde. One might suppose they deemed fortifications by Le Verdon sur Mer, the tip of Pointe de Grave, and Saint Georges de Didonne too vulnerable to armed landings. Now, though… my word!"

Keeping a chaste three miles offshore as they cruised down the north bank past La Grande Cote, St. Palais sur Mer, and to within sight of Royan in case some monstrous 42-pounder coastal guns might lurk in the forests and bleak fields, they had not seen all that much sign of military preparations. They had not been fired upon… yet… Though, as they neared St. Georges de Didonne, they could finally espy a stout pile of stonework sited about halfway between the village and the town of Royan. It appeared to be no more than one hundred yards long overall, a place formed in a shallow, three-sided U, with the crenellations that served as gun-ports no more than sixteen or twenty feet above the shoreline; but, with an even lower water battery mounting lighter guns to deter an assault by boats at the foot of its centre face.

"I count only four openings atop the walls for heavy guns along the walls… well, four per face, sir," Lt. Urquhart pointed out. "It might be open on its land face."

"But, a landing-party would have to go ashore west of Royan," Lewrie replied, peering intently through his day glass, "then stumble their way to the fort, and, is Royan garrisoned, they might run into a stiff fight before they ever got to musket range of their objective."

It didn't help Lewrie's lingering hang-over, or his wariness of what might lay hidden, that the Sailing Master's glum prediction had come true; just past One Bell of the Day Watch, the wind had slackened and a sullen, steady rain had begun to fall, blurring the coastline so that, at a cautious three miles offshore, vital details they wished to see now lay partially veiled.

As they watched, a bright and fresh French Tricolour flag was run up the flagpole of the fort, and tiny blue-and-white uniformed figures could be seen scurrying like a disturbed ant hill.

"We'll come about, Mister Gamble," Lewrie told the officer of the watch. "Make course Sou-west by West… Half West, if she will allow. Full-and-by on starboard tack."

"Aye aye, sir. Mister Thomlin, pipe hands to stations to come about," Lt. Gamble ordered.

"Does that fort possess fourty-two-pounders, it could hurl shot as far as Pointe de Grave all by itself," Lewrie surmised aloud as the scurry of hands drummed upon his frigate's timbers. "Heated shot, as well, do they have enough warning."

"Even twenty-four-pounders, or eighteen-pounders, would serve, Captain," Mr. Winwood commented. "Is there a matching battery near the Pointe de Grave, the cross fire would effecively close the narrows."

"I'd wager on the lighter guns," Lewrie reluctantly had to agree. "Hell, even twelve-pounders could do the job… fire and be re-loaded quicker, and engage even rowboats. I don't see the French investing all that many expensive guns in a place like that, Old King Louie was right… a determined fleet of Third Rates, with the equivalent of a regiment or two of foot, could open the narrows in one day. Take Royan and Saint Georges, and all of Pointe de Grave right down to this Soulac 'By The Sea'.

"And, why in Heaven does a French town honour Saint George?" he concluded.

"Eleanor of Aquitaine, sir," Lt. Urquhart piped up. "All this once was English territory, when Henry Plantagenet, our good old King Henry the Second, married her, 'stead of King Louis the Seventh! We owned it 'til the 1450s. Where we get our best clarets. I believe, ah…," Urquhart said, beginning almost whimsically amused, but ending stiff-backed and ready to cough into his fist for slipping from his usual grim demeanour. "The city of Bordeaux was our capital of the province."

"I see," Lewrie said with a wry twinkle. "Source of claret, indeed. The Me-docs, Haut-Medocs, and Saint Emilions, the white Graves, and the sweet, white Sauternes, as well, Mister Urquhart?" he teased.

"All do come from here, sir," Urquhart gravely intoned, lifting his telescope as if it was his prime duty to peer at the southern shore by Pointe de Grave.

Poor, sober-sided bastard was Lewrie's thought; still and all, I could've gotten a "Merry Andrew "for a First Officer, who 'd run us ashore some dark night, and try t'make a jape of it.

He looked forward as Savage's bows were swung up into the wind… what there was of it. Besides the odd Lt. Urquhart and his wary ways, there were several more new faces aboard, despite the majority of Proteus's people turning over into Savage. Men holding Admiralty Warrant, once appointed into a warship, usually remained with her all their careers, unless they asked for transfer, even when their ships were laid up in-ordinary.

There was Bosun George Thomlin, for instance, a burly, balding older fellow who had come with Savage, as had his Mate, John Ellison, and the ship's Carpenter, Thomas Fisher. Along with them had come some replacement hands, strangers to one and all in the beginning, to fill the shoes of dead or crippled Proteus men.

There was a new Marine Corporal Dudley, a sour, taciturn, and so far thoroughly unpleasant ass. There were two new Surgeon's Mates now that Mr. Durant had finally gotten his long-delayed promotion; Arthur Ford, who had been seasick nearly half the time since they'd left Portsmouth, and a dark and heavyset "grump" by name of Harold Gaines. There was a new Gunner's Mate named Foster, a new Quartermaster by name of Raymund; a very gloomy new-come Yeoman of the Sheets named Orwell; an entirely new Purser's Assistant, the "Jack in the Breadroom," who was, wonder of wonders, both scrupulously honest (so far) and energetically aspiring. Well, he was very young! The Midshipmen, of course and at least a dozen fresh hands, most of them dredged up by the Shire Quotas Act, all rated Landsmen, and as clumsy as drunken steers, and Lewrie was still sorting them all out for strengths and weaknesses, and he and Lt. Urquhart had spent many hours going over the muster book and watch lists to sort out the chaff and re-enforce the weak with better help.

"'Ware, the point, sir!" Lt. Urquhart called out. "There is a fort of some kind on Pointe de Grave. Just there, sir… this side of the village. Le Verd… what the Devil it's named."

Lewrie raised his own glass and put it to his eye, trying not to look urgent or concerned, as a captain must; nothing good ever came of instilling panic. "Ah-ha, yes," he said instead as the place became steady in his ocular.

Can't sail closer t'the wind, inside two miles o'shore, we're in their range, and they'll shoot the shit out of us if we dawdle along on this next-t'nothin' wind! Lewrie thought, though; watched us sailin' in, the last hour/ Heated shot? Fourty-two-pounders? Christ!

"It looks to be just where a small stream splits and runs down to the sea in three rivulets, sir," Lt. Urquhart said with the proper amount of stoicism; perhaps the dull note to his voice came from a lack of Lewrie's fervid, dread-filled imagination. "No flag, though. Quite a lot of activity, but…"

"Well, damn my eyes, Mister Urquhart," Lewrie said with what a casual and objective observer might have called a giggle of relief. "I do b'lieve the place is still being built!"

I know I'm not livin' right t 'earn such luck, but just thankee, Jesus! he thought.

The fortification near Le Verdon sur Mer indeed was unfinished. There were no crenellations atop its low wall for guns, yet; in fact, it appeared that the sloped stone walls were still being erected, and were barely above the height of a tall man, so far. There were Frenchmen in uniform, but very few of them, all now engaged in using their telescopes to peer at Savage, waving their arms, and most-like blathering agitated Frog, with much use of "Sacre Bleu" "Mort de Ma Vie" "ZutAlors," and "Nom d'un Pipe!" Almost everyone else over there, now scuttling to the rear and into the shelter of the village, seemed to be civilian Frogs, and workmen!

"Make a note, Mister Winwood," Lewrie said, lowering his glass. " 'Til we know their weight of metal, once they get their fort completed we go no closer than three miles to the Pointe de Grave peninsula, either."

"I will see to it, sir," Winwood replied with a grunting moo. "Deck, there!" a lookout called. "Brig t'larboard! Three mile off, an' fetched-to! She's runnin' up 'er flag, an' makin' a hoist!"

"Midshipman of the watch?" Lewrie demanded, though still unsure of which of his new-comes would respond.

"Aye, sir!" Midshipman Dry, their youngest, piped up.

"Make our number to the brig, and conjure me who she is," Lewrie ordered. "And decypher her signal hoist from this month's book."

Midshipman Dry quickly referred to his loose bundle of private signals, and the Navy's list of ship names and numbers, then crisply announced, "She is the brig-sloop Erato, sir. Commander James Kenyon."

"Aha," Lewrie said, tensing up a little, for he had hoped that she would be Mischief, that he and Hogue could share a glass or two as they conferred, and re-lived old times. "And her hoist?"

"Her number and this month's recognition code, sir," Dry said.

"Very well," Lewrie said with resignation. "Any idea of how long 't will be before we crawl up abeam of her, Mister Gamble?"

"Half an hour, sir?" Gamble replied with a cock of his head and a shrug.

"Once we do stagger up abeam of her, Mister Gamble, we'll come about and fetch-to. Mister Dry, assumin' it doesn't take so long that the watch changes, be ready to hoist 'Captain Repair Onboard' to her. Just now, though, young sir, I'd admire did you pass word for my cabin servant, and inform Aspinall we'll have a guest, aft. Perhaps even two for supper."

"Aye aye, sir!" Dry chirped.

Assumin' I don't kill the bastard fore the soup! Lewrie thought.