Troubled Waters

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

As you bear, Mister Adair… you may open!" Lewrie shouted to the waist of the ship.

"Starb'd battery!" Adair cried out. "As you bear… fire!" All of Savage's boats, and the ones borrowed from the same 74-gunned Third Rate that had loaned Lt. Ford's Marines, were in the water and stroking hard for the beach. That was the first flaw that Lewrie had found in his plans; with hundreds of extra men aboard, it would be impossible to take the fort under fire with them crowded behind recoiling pieces. It had been difficult enough to drop a kedge anchor from the stern, take in all sail, and snub the frigate to a stop two cables from the point, with all squares'ls bat-winged up snug in the centres in sloppy-looking "Spanish Reefs." He could feel the anchor dragging a little, turn and see the stern cable judder, slacken, then go taut; good enough, though, to place them within very short gun-range, giving the boats a short row to the shore, and, most important, not tiring the rowers to return to the ship and pick up the second half of the invasion force. Now, at least, they could muster the other half of the Marines and armed sailors on the larboard gangway, out of the way, and fire over the heads of the men already on the water.

For long moments, Lewrie's view of the unfinished battery went as opaque as the wintertime coalsmoke fog in London, as quarter-gunners directed gun-captains' aiming points, then allowed them to jerk trigger lanyards on the flintlock strikers, delivering a slow and deliberate series of hammer blows of double-shotted iron. Bow to stern, HMS Savage shuddered and groaned to each discharge.

Still un-named, and thankfully unfinished, the small battery's walls bore no artillery with which to return fire. Soil and sand had been piled up in a wide, flat-topped base to support the weight of the completed fortification, and made a shallow berm under the base of the walls. Lewrie doubted the stonework had yet to reach much above a tall man's head, and the top of the uppermost course of stone blocks was yet level and even, with not a sign of an embrasure for guns.

There were soldiers in the fort, Lewrie could see after the fog of powder smoke drifted eastward on the moderate wind; shakoes, ashen faces, here and there a bicorne hat worn sideways in the French fashion, at least two senior officers under enormous cocked hats adorned with an even larger egret plume… dashing from one of the three walls of the shallow U-shaped redan to observe and order their troops about.

"Not much damage done, even with doubled round-shot, Captain," Lt. Gamble pointed out. "A nibble, here and there."

"The base of the wall is stout," Lewrie supposed aloud, "but the uppermost courses of stone are new-laid… done so recently the mortar hasn't hardened? They must have finished the parapets, but have yet to raise but the outer-most blocks to support the embrasures. Else, we'd not see heads and shoulders."

"As you bear.. .firel" Lt. Adair shouted after the guns were re-loaded, run out, and the recoil tackles overhauled.

Lewrie looked beyond the point to see Erato and Mischief come to anchor by their sterns, streaming Sou'east, their own boats rowing hard for the shore, and their 9-pounders barking away. The cutters had run on round the point, and only their mast-tops were visible as they entered the wide, shallow bay above Le Verdon sur Mer. Above the thunderous, ear-splitting roar of cannon, Lewrie fancied he could hear Bongs/ as round-shot struck stone, and the splintering of shaped rock blocks; each strike raised large clouds of stone shards and showers of sparks like flints in titanic tinder-boxes.

No, it was the four 32-pounder carronades of the starboard battery that were doing the most damage. Their massive round-shot might be slower-flying, and they could not reach out much beyond four hundred yards, but when they hit the battery's walls, they dished out bites the diametre of serving platters, and the depth of soup tureens, shifting stone blocks inwards, and causing miniature avalanches of stone chips to dribble down the face of the walls.

The boats were ashore, bows grinding into the shingle! Sailors were leaping out to steady them, knee deep in the light surf; Marines and armed tars were flooding ashore, and officers with drawn swords, a sergeant or two with their ceremonial half-pikes, were sorting men out into skirmishers and two ragged lines. As quickly as the boats were emptied, their crews were shoving them off, going up to their waists before leaping back aboard even as oarsmen were stroking "back-water" to fend them further off the beach, crabbing them round once in deep water, and returning to the frigate for their next load.

"Frog infantry! There, sir!" Lt. Gamble was pointing.

"See the French, Mister Adair? Serve 'em grape!" Lewrie yelled.

Second 18-pounder balls were set back in the shot garlands and racks; powder-monkeys scrambled below to the magazine, returning with flannel cartridge bags that held wooden top and bottom discs inside, and inch-round, plum-sized lead balls between. A pause in the firing to ram them down atop round-shot; the strain of running out the heavy artillery pieces, right to the port-sills; some toil with crow-levers to shift aim, some fiddling with elevating quoin-blocks to ensure the spread of grape-shot went over the heads of the shore parties… "As you bear, on the French, mind! Fire! " Lt. Adair bellowed.

An officer was chivvying thirty or fourty shakoed soldiers into a rough line two ranks deep, flooding from the western face of the battery, though clinging nervously close to it.

"Man's bloody daft," Lewrie grumbled. "What does he think he's facin'… big damned muskets?"

Lt. Ford's Marines were already firing, the first rank kneeling and the second waiting to fire 'til the first rank had discharged their muskets, catching the French soldiers at long range, not doing much to harm them, but quite a lot to daunt them and make them shrink back to their rear, and cram themselves elbow-to-elbow, as if that was shelter, even as their officer and their sergeants were shoving and cursing for them to open up their formation.

When the heavy round-shot howled through them, and when a cloud of loose-spaced grape-shot-a thousand or more balls-spattered sand and dirt round them, hammered bodies, smashed musket-butts, tore off limbs and heads, and cut a few of them in two at the waist, they simply melted away… dropped to the ground as if they'd never been there! The survivors, a sad few number, dropped their muskets and ran round the western end of the battery and took off in terror, leaving their formerly elegant officer on his knees, his sword broken, and his entrails spread before him as he vomited up blood on his white facings and waist-coat.

Lt. Ford's Marines and sailors gave out a great, jeering roar, and began a quick advance on the battery, muskets held extended, with fresh-ground bayonets winking wicked in the sunlight, at the "Quick." Before the boats had gotten back alongside under the now-silent mouths of the guns, they were in the battery, behind the walls, and into the courtyard, then appearing atop its firing platforms. To the east, Lt. Noble's men appeared atop that wall, too, with British colours waving bravely, even if the flag was only a small boat-jack mounted on a boarding pike.

"Hold fire, hold fire!" Lt. Adair cautioned his gun-captains, "Don't hit our brave fellows, yonder!" Flintlock strikers were taken away from the vents, discharged guns were re-loaded with single solid shot, and the guns were run in and bowsed down securely.

"Well, damme," Lewrie heard a faint, disgusted voice say. Lieutenant Urquhart, Midshipman Grace, and Midshipman Carrington stood on the larboard gangway's after end; looking as downcast as tots who had discovered lumps of coal in their Christmas stockings.

"Lots t'do yet, Mister Urquhart," Lewrie encouraged. "Ford and his lot can stand guard, up the point, whilst you and your lads place the explosive charges, and blow this place to flinders, hey?"

"But of course, sir," Urquhart replied, eyes almost glazed by how quickly the battery had fallen; no glory for him, poor fellow.

"Do you and your party man the boats, sir, and see to the loading of the powder kegs and fuses," Lewrie directed. "Quickly, Mister Urquhart. We must get under way and support the cutters, should they have run into trouble."

Lewrie looked out over the larboard bows, scenting for a threat, but Erato's and Mischief's guns had also ceased firing, and both brigs were shortening their stern cables and preparing to get under way, too. Abeam to larboard, nearly four miles across the Gironde, Commodore Ayscough's two-deckers had come to anchor just off Fort St. Georges, guns pounding by broadsides, deck at a time, and were wreathed in gunpowder smoke. Now and then, a stab of flame revealed a surviving French artillery piece responding… almost lost in the hot iron sparkles as the place was being pounded into ruin by heavy, impacting shot. The sound of 24-pounders and 32-pounders bellowing came faint cross the river, an over-the-horizon, stuttering series of thuds and thumps, and the echoey rumble of distant thunder.

Half an hour later, and the kegs of black powder had been slung over the side into the boats, and Lt. Urquhart and Marine Lt. Devereux and their people could at last debark.

"Signal rocket, sir!" Midshipman Dry announced, pointing with an extended telescope cross the point. "A single one, sir… no opposition found."

"Very well, Mister Dry. Mister Adair, clear away, the larboard gangway, and reply with one signal rocket," Lewrie ordered, extremely pleased that no French warships were in the bay North of Le Verdon… but, chiding himself for thoughtlessness. If Lt. Bartoe in HMS Penguin had found opposing forces, Savage's, reply would have been fired whilst the kegs of gunpowder were still on deck, and he winced and sucked his teeth to imagine how large the blast would have been, if only a trickle of powder had caught a spark, for wooden kegs could never be completely spill-proof!

"Ready to proceed, sir," Lt. Gamble told him at last, touching the brim of his hat in salute. "Hands to the after capstan?"

"Suits me right down t'me toes, sir," Lewrie said with a grin.

A half an hour more to haul Savage to short-stays to her kedge, for Mr. Win-wood's worry of obstructions on the bottom had proven true, and one of the anchor's flukes had fouled on something. The tide had gone slack an hour before and was just beginning its long ebb, taking Savage sternward, about ready to tuck the cable under her counter, and possibly damaging the rudder. The weakly ebbing tide took the frigate like a folded-paper boat, though, aslant the wind, and quickly hoisting the spanker and the inner and outer jibs gave her just enough way to stand out from the beach into the river and re-orient the anchor cable round so they pulled slantwise, from dead astern to the larboard quarter, and, at last, the fluke was freed, the hands breasting to the capstan bars could almost trot about, and the pawls clacked rapidly, 'til the anchor was up-and-down again, and just coming awash.

"Now, get way on her, Mister Gamble," Lewrie said, with an impatient sigh of relief. Erato and Mischief had rounded the point long before, and only their tops'ls and top-masts were visible above the low land.

HMS Savage stood out into the river, wind abeam for a time and pointing her jib-boom and bowsprit at St. Georges de Didonne, making a mile Due East as stays'ls, the forecourse and fore tops'l, and the big main tops'l filled with wind. The continuous gunfire from Commodore Ayscough's two-deckers had subsided to a desultory thumping, the cloud of spent powder smoke had thinned, and, beyond HMS Lyme's bows, rowing boats were swarming shoreward like a colony of scuttling cockroaches. For all that Lewrie could see with his day glass, all return fire from the fort had ceased.

"Haul our wind, Mister Gamble," Lewrie said, now they had enough offing from Pointe de Grave. "We shall wear about to Sou'east by South."

"Aye, sir."

"And we shall finally get a good look beyond the river narrows," Lewrie gleefully exulted to one and all on the quarterdeck. "Much like followin' an ancient sea-chart into waters marked 'Here be dragons'!"

"Or, discovering the Land of the Lotus Eaters in a portion that bears the caution terra incognita, Captain," Mr. Winwood solemnly said. He might be making a quip, but with Winwood it was always hard to tell.

Once worn about, and a mile inside the inner river past Pointe de Grave, the Gironde widened to nearly six miles across, a vast glittering expanse. The small town of Meschers sur Gironde lay two points off their larboard bows, and Tal-mont, the hidey-hole for ships running the blockade, much on the same bearing, but further away. The shallow bay above Le Verdon was to starboard, and was disappointingly empty of shipping; only some light rowboats were drawn up on the beach by some small huts.

Commander Hogue's Mischief was off their larboard side, bearing down on a three-masted merchant ship anchored close ashore just above Talmont, one with no national flag flying at the moment, and the crew huzzahed her, for their frigate was "In Sight," and any money Mischief made off her prize, was she "Good Prize," that is, they would share, no matter if that resulted in less than a pound apiece.

Kenyon's Erato was just off the "dragon's muzzle," about to enter the small harbour of Le Verdon, and the three cutters were further South of her, angling almost Due West in pursuit of something. Even as Lewrie eyed them with his telescope, tiny puffs of powder smoke burst from Penguins bow-chasers, and the sound of her light guns came as a pair of distant dog-barks.

"There's nothing for us to do, sir," Lt. Gamble commented, one hand fretting fingers on the hilt of his sword. "No French warships, no prizes in sight to be taken, but for Mischief *'s…"

"Success doesn't always come with close broadsides, sir," Lewrie told him with a faint smile and a shrug of his shoulders. "Both the fort and the battery will be destroyed, and the French will wear out a thousand pairs o' shoes marching and counter-marching. And, whatever re-enforcements they'll have to send to prevent a second beating will be just that many less available to Bonaparte for any future adventures of his, God rot the little bastard. Met him once, ye know."

"Indeed, sir?" Gamble marvelled.

"Toulon, in late '93," Lewrie said, explaining how his temporary command of a razeed French two-decker, Zele, fitted with two heavy mortars, had been exploded and sunk by Napoleon Bonaparte's guns, and how he and the survivors had made their way ashore to become Bonaparte's prisoners, 'til rescued by a troop of Spanish cavalry, and how he could not give his parole and keep his sword, not with French Royalist sailors helping man his artillery, and sure to be shot down instanter as traitors to the Revolution, right there on the beach. "The man still has my sword, damn 'is eyes. Besides, it would've cut rough, to live comfortably, waitin' t'be exchanged, while my people would've ended chained up in some French prison-hulk, starvin', and dyin' of sickness. But, I hope t'get it back, someday," Lewrie concluded, rocking on the balls of his feet with his hands in the small of his back. "Go to Paris, once we've beaten 'em, dig round in some palace, and find it.

"Uhm… what is he like, sir?" Lt. Gamble asked, eyes wide with curiosity, and a certain amount of new admiration for his captain.

"Well, he's a short'un, a minnikin, and a fellow with an eye for gaudy uniforms, as I…," Lewrie began to say, but Midshipman Dry cried out that Erato had just fired off four signal rockets; the signal that denoted French opposition in the village of Le Verdon.

"Alter course, Mister Gamble," Lewrie snapped, putting reveries aside, and stalking to the hammock nettings overlooking the waist and gun-deck. "Bring her round to Sou'Sou'west. Mister Adair! It seems we've more 'trade' for you, sir! Re-fit the strikers, and prepare the starboard battery for action."

"Four more rockets, sir!" Midshipman Dry reported, unable to be as stoic as a Sea Officer should be before the hands. "This time, it's from Penguin, sir!"

"What was it you said about nothing to do, Mister Gamble?"

"Nothing, sir," Gamble replied with an avid smile.

"Be careful what you wish for," Lewrie gently chid him.

Two very large guns erupted in the cove below the tiny seaport, the sound like the slamming of iron oven doors, followed by the barks and raspy Woofs! of the 6-pounders of all three of the cutters, as if they had formed line of battle to engage something substantial, powder smoke beginning to wreathe the cove, the British guns stuttering bow-to-stern as they bore. A minute later, Erato's 9-pounders bellowed, too, as she penetrated the harbour, A quick look showed her beam-on to the village and piers, a look that forced Lewrie to choose which fight he should support. "Depth in the harbour, Mister Winwood?" he demanded.

"Two fathom or less, sir," the Sailing Master said from memory, after all his months of glooming over his charts.

"Erato will have t'deal with things on her own, then," Lewrie muttered, peering intently through his telescope. "Aloft, there! Any French warships in the harbour?"

"Barges, sir!" the main-mast lookout shouted down, cupping hands about his mouth. "No warships! They's a gunboat South of th' port, firin' on th' cutters… three point off th' stah'bd bows! An oared gunboat!"

"Stand on into the cove, Mister Gamble. What's the depth there, sir?" Lewrie asked Winwood.

"Four fathom within five cables of the shore, sir," Mr. Winwood once more recited from memory, even before he could confirm that from a much-marked-upon chart spread by the binnacle cabinet. "But, it turns very shoal very quickly, sir. Even at the top of the tide, there isn't a whole fathom by three cables' distance."

"Warn us when you think we're close as we dare, sir. Leadsmen to the fore-chains, and have 'em sing out regular," Lewrie said, eager to get to grips with something besides dead stone walls.

But, by the time Savage had come to the aid of the cutters, it was apparent that her help was no longer needed. Penguin, Banshee, and Argosy had closed with a very old-fashioned oared galley, blasting off her sweeps with solid shot and grape, ducked out of the way of a pair of wicked 32-pounder bow guns, and had smashed alongside of her, crushing and splintering the last of her long oars to grapple to her. Men from all three cutters were swarming aboard the river galley, and the French Tricolour had already been hauled down and replaced by a British flag. Far off in the shallows, two small boats full of French sailors were rowing for the beach like the Devil was at their heels, and there were even a few more swimming to escape capture.

"My word, sir… an ancient lateener," Mr. Winwood said after a long look with his glass. "Good for going close to the wind in the Gironde, where the winds are mostly Westerlys, but their like has not been seen in real combat since Don John of Austria beat the Turks."

"Worth a penny or two… with a museum, perhaps?" Lewrie japed. "I very much doubt it, sir," Mr. Winwood soberly replied. "Mister Gamble? Swan us about into the river, again, 'til we may come hard on the wind, and stand in to see what Erato's up to," he ordered. "Sorry, Mister Adair. Have your gunners stand easy."

Erato no longer needed help, either, for Lt. Aubrey, his loaned Marines, and armed sailors were already ashore on the piers of the seaside village, and her guns had fallen silent. Close off the breakwater Lewrie could see other sailors aboard several large sailing barges near the jetties, and the only resistance seemed to come from within a maze of small shops and houses, and even then the expected, burning-twigs-crackle of musketry had subsided to an occasional pop.

Across the river, the tall pall of gunpowder smoke had mostly thinned and blown away up the Gironde, its large, wispy haze drifting over the chimneys and church spire of Meschers sur Gironde, where bells still pealed in alarm. Near "Mashers," HMS Mischief was standing out for the narrows, her prize close astern of her, and flying the Royal Navy ensign over a Danish flag. Lewrie pursed his lips, worried that taking a neutral, even one caught red-handed in enemy waters, and full of French export goods, would tie young Commander Hogue up for years in Admiralty Court, and end with the prize restored to her owners, with all expenses of the proceedings, and the years of the owners' loss while the merchantman was tied up in port in custody, on Hogue's shoulders.

I'd've burned her, and called it their fault, Lewrie decided; a drunken mate, an overturned lanthorn… woops! But, I doubt Ayscough will let him keep her past sunset, so all may be well.

If the Commodore didn't say anything, then he would warn Hogue, himself, and strongly suggest he let her go… after her cargo was put over the side of course. No sense in letting blockade runners profit.

"The cutters are coming out, sir," Lt. Gamble pointed out, "with the galley in tow. No value to her, unfortunately. Bless me if Erato isn't tied up along the piers, though!"

"Bring us up within five cables of the harbour mouth, and we'll send a boat in to find out what they're up to," Lewrie said, idling his way to the larboard bulwarks. "Fetch-to when in close, sir. It seems all the excitement is over, and there's no need for our services. Do you inform Mister Adair to secure the guns and stand down from Quarters… I haven't the heart t'be the one t'tell him it's over." "Aye aye, sir," Lt. Gamble said with a twinkle in his eyes. By the time they had fetched-to, though, a rowboat was coming to them, with Erato's Second Lieutenant of Marines aboard. She had barely touched the main-chains when the young fellow scrambled up the side as agile as a teenaged topman. "Lieutenant Thurston, sir, perhaps you do not remember me," he said, doffing his hat in salute. "Lieutenant Aubrey begs me report, Captain Lewrie, that we shall be ashore a while longer. We've discovered nigh a ton of gunpowder aboard one of those barges we captured, and there's heavy drays in the village, and teams of oxen, so… Lieutenant Aubrey wondered if it might he needed at the battery… to help blow it up, sir! Take a few hours to load it all up, and take it to the point, sir, but there's no more opposition."

"My brief ends at the beach, Mister Thurston," Lewrie allowed. "But my First Officer is already laying charges, and he might go ahead with the kegs of powder we've already landed."

"No worry on that score, Captain Lewrie," the young fellow said. "Lieutenant Aubrey sent a party of runners to Lieutenant Ford, on the point, and they will delay the demolition until our powder is added to theirs."

"Oh, a bigger bang," Lewrie chuckled. "Just at sunset, like a Germanic opera, I take it, sir? "

"Wouldn't know about operas and such, sir," Lt. Thurston said with a briefly furrowed brow and a shrug of indifference. "It will be spectacular, is all I know, Captain Lewrie."

"Much of a fight ashore, sir?" Lewrie asked.

"For a bit, sir, aye," Thurston explained with recalled relish. "Short, sharp, but all in our favour… there were about an hundred French infantry in the village, but we routed them right-sharply, and the ship's guns and swivels took the fight out of them." There came a few more faint pops from muskets, perhaps a faint, distanced scream as someone saw his death-wound, or got bayonetted, then it was quiet again.

"We've taken five barges, sir!" Lt. Thurston happily related. "Four filled with stone and mortar mixings, the last'un loaded with the powder, and the artillery pieces that were to go in the battery. Lieutenant Cottle says he'll scuttle or burn four in the deep river channel, but wishes to tow out the fifth as prize."

"I doubt a sailin' barge'd survive her first deep ocean storm," Lewrie speculated. "But, does Mischief's prize prove legitimate, they could be placed aboard her, and sailed to the nearest Prize-Court."

"Oh, goody… that would be excellent, mean t'say, sir," Lieutenant Thurston amended, blushing at his youthful slip. "Lieutenant Cottle bade me say that he will sail out with the barges, once we have the waggons on the way out of town, sir, and Lieutenant Aubrey's men to escort them. My Marines and our sailors will be coming back aboard Erato, soon as they set off."

"And what does Commander Kenyon say, Mister Thurston?" Lewrie enquired, mystified by the absence of his name in the proceedings. He join the Great Majority, pray Jesus? he thought, with imaginary fingers crossed for good luck.

"Uhm… Commander Kenyon fell, sir," Thurston reported, going solemn for a very brief moment. "Right as he stepped ashore upon the town piers… he and several of his boat crew, all at once. A French volley," the Marine officer offered as the cause, though looking a tad cutty-eyed, to Lewrie's lights. "About the only casualties we had, sir."

"I see," Lewrie intoned, with a grave nod of his head, though feeling he'd break out in maniacal cackles and do a little jig of mourning if he didn't get below in private… soonest. Couldn't happen to a nicer fellow, he thought, biting the lining of his mouth to prevent a broad smile. And there's that problem solved, for good an' all by God!

"My most utter condolences, Mister Thurston," Lewrie managed to say with a straight face, and a brief semblance of sorrow, himself. "Pray, do you relate to Lieutenant Cottle that I shall take Savage to anchor off Pointe de Grave, for the nonce, and wish him to join me as soon as he may be able… so we may take all our people off before the battery goes up. And, my congratulatons to Lieutenant Aubrey, and Mister Cottle… to you, as well, sir, on your quick victory."

And, just at sunset, after all the surviving sailors and Marines were back aboard their respective ships, the stone-bearing barges had been torched and sunk in mid-river, and all the two-deckers, cutters, and brigs had made their crawling way back into the estuary against the wind, but with a falling tide, there came two spectacular explosions. Fort St. Georges split apart in a titanic, roaring fireball first, and stout stone walls collapsed in a roar as the magazine blew, then kegs of powder at each wall. Heavy artillery pieces, already slighted by having their trunnions sawed off, and their muzzles packed over-full with powder and round-shot, then choked with mud, burst apart as fuses set off by the initial explosions reached the touch-holes, shattering hard iron like papier-mache. And the rubble from the walls came down like an avalanche on the flagstone "deck" of the water battery, just as the charges laid underneath it went off as well, blasting parapet and embrasures into the river, and littering the beach.

Major Loudenne, his two Captains, and four Lieutenants, standing by the bulwarks of HMS Chesterfield as prisoners to watch the ending of his fort, all were later reported to be in tears at the sight.

Then… just as the sun touched the horizon, the Pointe de Grave battery exploded, too. Rectangular stone blocks went soaring into the sky, silhouetted against the livid blue-white blast of exploding gunpowder smoke, lit from within almost pale yellow for a moment, before turning ruddy amber, and all the waggons, all the construction timbers and scaffolding, all the out-of-town workers' huts piled in the centre of the battery's future courtyard, caught fire… helped along by the barrels of lamp oil, resin, turpentine, pitch, and tar that Lt. Urquhart had "borrowed" from bosun's stores to help things along… and torched upwards in an instant, volcanic plume of flames that lit up the night, and glowed like a lighthouse long into the evening, visible at sea for over ten miles 'til the wee hours just before dawn.

"Damn' good work, Mister Urquhart," Lewrie told him. "Simply damned fine! Pass word to all your people, they did grand work today."

"I suppose I must feel gratified by it, sir, if there was little combat," Urquhart bemoaned. "Still… it does feel some satisfying."

"As I told Mister Gamble, not all victories involve blood and thunder," Lewrie cajoled. "Well, we did make thunder, at least, but we accomplished what we came to do, and hardly any of our men were hurt, and none killed, while the French lost hundreds."

"Well, there is that, sir." Lt. Urquhart seemed to brighten as he absorbed that concept. "The greater good, as it were."

"Exactly, so, Mister Urquhart," Lewrie said with a sage nod… though, in point of fact, the "greater good" was rather hard for him to swallow, too; especially the part where the more senior he rose, the smaller role he might play when his beloved great-guns roared. Oh, it was all very fine to plan something, then watch as it unfolded successfully, but… all he'd done this day was stand round like a fart in a trance and observe the derring-do of othersl

"You did obtain some rather fine remembrances, sir," Devereux said from the side. Lt. Urquhart had at least come offshore in possession of an elegant French infantry officer's bicorne hat, and that poor fellow's excellently crafted Solingen sabre, scabbard, and snake-clasp belt. Well, he'd had to pay Landsman Newcastle, one of their "volunteer Black" sailors, three shillings for the hat, and Able Seaman Bannister a crown for the sword… a fact that would be conveniently forgotten in a year or two, once they were hung on his parents' walls.

"Lord, Cocky, don't nip my boots, ye daft little bugger," Lieutenant Devereux griped as the Marine complement's pet, the champion rat-killing mongoose that had simply turned up after a drunken night ashore in the West Indies, pounced and tried to gnaw on his new-blacked leather. "Private Cocky, M." was distracted from his mischief by Lewrie's cats, which resulted in a three-way tail chase round the quarterdeck.

"You may thank me later, Mister Devereux," Lewrie chuckled as he turned to look out-board to the ruined forts. St. Georges was now but a massive, light-coloured pall of smoke, the broad base of the cloud ruddy with subsiding fires, and the cloud drifting eastward towards Meschers and Talmont like a slowly twisting, towering phantom. Off the larboard quarter, though, the battery they had destroyed still burned as bright as the fabled Egyptian Pharos, with tall flames licking and forking at the sunset sky, turning the waters of the Gironde narrows and the estuary astern to a rippling sheet of brass, or polished copper. "Commodore Ayscough did well, today, gentlemen," Lewrie drolly said as he stretched and yawned, "no doubt of it, and all credit to him and the ships under his command, but…"

He was more than ready to get off his feet, pull his boots off, and delight in what might prove to be his last fresh-fish supper, for the locals would be a long time forgiving the destruction they'd caused along the river's shores; perhaps two bottles of excellent French Bordeaux with it, too… the Brave-Mouton would go well.

"Just you look at what we wrought today, sirs," he went on after another yawn. "No matter what anyone says by comparison… our boom was a whole lot bigger than theirs!"