Troubled Waters

'No… not yet,' Kenyon said with the same sort of easy smile that Lewrie could recall. 'What's the old saying, 'marry in haste, repent at leisure'? Besides,' he simpered, crossing his legs and shifting rather uneasily in his chair, 'between the Navy, and merchant service, and long spells of half-pay ashore, I never seemed to be able to amass the wherewithal to set up a proper household, and it always felt wrong to me to force a trusting lass to share my poverty, hah hah!'

Same old Kenyon, Lewrie thought whilst keeping a straight face; still playin' the upright, rugged sort o' man, knowin 'just the right dissemblin' blather t 'say.

'You, though, Lewrie,' Kenyon continued in a jovial manner, 'I must imagine you're rolling in prize-money by now, and have got right famous, to boot, so. maintaining a household for wife and kiddies is no bother. Pocket change, what? Though, your recent legal matter is…'

'Tell me all you know of the fort by Saint Georges de Didonne, Commander Kenyon,' Lewrie coldly rejoined. Damme, does he imagine I'm still his raw 'Johnny New-come 'Midshipman? 'And, tell me all you know of a French fisherman name of Jules Papin… or any others of his ilk. Who you think are spyin' on us, who you think are disaffected, and a reliable source of information. Give me all the cautions.'

It was as if he'd reached over and slapped the man in the face! Kenyon recoiled, and for a revealing second, allowed his face to slip from that taut, self-controlled bemused expression to one of hot, slit-eyed hate! Which was as quickly erased; with a step between anger, and the requisite subordinate's blandness, that came across as stunned and blank as that worn by someone head-butted and concussed!

'I see,' Kenyon at last said, nodding slowly in recognition of his place in the universe, as if he'd expected better, but Lewrie (the top-lofty, lucky bastard!) would always be a disappointment. 'Papin, well… he and four or five others dare to fish almost out of sight of land, sir. Most are to be distrusted, really, for anything beyond wines, or fresh victuals from shore. I've attempted to vary my routes about the estuary, the times I appear, and the boats I stop, so, are any of them passing information to our opposition in the French Navy… to a merchantman wishing to slip past the blockade, Erato, and the cutters, are unpredictable.

'It may make no difference, though,' Kenyon continued, shaking his head in the negative, 'for any fool with a telescope may lurk atop the dunes, back in the shadows of the pine forests, up in any church's bell tower, and take our daily measure. For all the famous vineyards, and the great chateaux up-river, this portion of Medoc, or Aquitaine, is a bleak and grim place, near the sea. Rather boring, I expect, in peacetime, for blockading it is boring enough now.'

'My first impression of this coast does put me in mind of the American Car-olinas, aye,' Lewrie cautiously allowed, squelching anger at the recent lack of respect and proper deference; but, ready to slap Kenyon down sharply if he presumed again. 'Pine forests, settlements miles apart, and barrens between… salt pans and salt works?

'What of the small-boat fishermen, then?' he asked. 'Any o' them t'be trusted?'

There were a few, Kenyon informed him, but they knew little and did not come far out to sea; one had to go to them, sometimes in one's jolly boat, launch, or oared cutter, and even then, they didn't venture far from their seaside villages, and rarely went up-river, so they had little of value to impart.

The fort by St. Georges de Didonne? It had only been completed the year before, and was reputed to be thinly garrisoned, with only the French equivalent of British 18-pounders and 24-pounders, perhaps no more than nine guns altogether atop the main ramparts, with about half a dozen 6-pounders and swivels in the sea-level water battery. Kenyon had heard rumours that the French had re-enforced the place with a few 32-pounders so they could close the narrows, but no one really knew if that was true, or what the French wished the British to think.

The smaller fort on Pointe de Grave, less a fort than a battery, really, had been under construction only a few months before Erato had come to the Gironde, and the work seemed to be going slowly. Certainly the French were even more months away before any artillery was put in place, or its magazines filled with powder.

'Saint Fort sur Gironde,' Lewrie speculated over a second glass of Rhenish,; 'up where the river isles split the channel, and force any ship into close range… might they be stripping it of guns and shot, Commander Kenyon? After all, it's not all that likely that our Fleet'd barge that deep towards Bordeaux, and surely the Frogs can see that it doesn't serve 'em any use. Move its guns and garrison up here to the bay, instead… shift some warships up from Bordeaux to… what the Devil's its name? Talmont, that's it. Cutters, gunboats, or galleys into the shelter of the cove in the lee of Le Verdon sur Mer? That'd provide a quicker response. You ever see any Frog warships this far down-river, sir?'

'Very rarely, Captain Lewrie,' Kenyon replied, almost wincing as if using the younger, but senior, officer's rank galled him. 'And, if a merchantman is trying to thread through the blockade, they, or so I have been told by local fishermen… so I you may put as much stock as you may in the truth of it… anchor under the battlements of Saint Fort sur Gironde itself, and let slip round ten o'clock of an evening… and only on nights when it's as black as a boot, sir.'

'Do we get all that many 'runners,' Commander Kenyon?'

'Not really, sir,' Kenyon told him, musing nose-deep over what had to be his third glass of brandy since coming aboard. 'The French need so much of their own produce or manufacture to support their wars that they cannot spare much to export, beyond their wines and brandies. The bulk of the ships we've seen and made prize… or frightened off… have been so-called neutrals trying to get in'

And, so Kenyon informed him, while the French still built ships of war at the Bordeaux yards, and refitted and maintained a substantial number of older and lighter frigates, corvettes (the French term for sloops of war) and gunboats for local defence, there didn't seem to be good odds for that glorious yardarm-to- yardarm battle of which Admiral Lord Boxham had spoken so longingly.

'Not a promising place to reap a pot of prize-money, here, sir,' Kenyon said with a sullen sigh. 'One hopes…,' he trailed off, deep in his cups of a sudden, as if the brandy had snuck up upon him like a pick-pocket. 'The outer squadrons catch most. We're nigh pointless.'

'Well, if the French won't amuse us, we'll just have to amuse ourselves,' Lewrie determined with a chuckle, and thanking his stars that Kenyon was sinking so fast that it would be impossible to offer him supper, else he'd be charged with drowning the bastard in the aforementioned soup course, as he went face-down in it, and utterly comatose. 'Raise some mischief… keep our hands in, hey? What operations have we conducted against them, since you've been on-station, Commander?'

'Huh? Oh, we… keep our eyes peeled,' Kenyon replied with a sleepy slur 'stop fishing boats and do inspections, don't ye know… ask questions of 'em and confiscate any contraband. Things like that.'

'That's about t'change,' Lewrie declared. 'Now I've been put in command of the close blockade, hereabouts, we'll come up with some devilment for the Frogs.'

'You in charge?' Kenyon blurted out, sounding stunned, again; or sarcastic, it was hard to discern which. 'Thought Lord Boxham or Commodore Ayscough'd sent you in to… snoop about, make a report…?'

'Yes, Commander. I am in charge,' Lewrie took great delight in telling the man.

'Always were a lucky bastard,' Kenyon could barely be heard to mutter under his breath.

'I will call for your boat, Kenyon,' Lewrie snapped, getting to his feet, and if that wasn't a bald hint for Kenyon to stir himself as well, he didn't know what it was. Kenyon slurped down the last of his current brandy to heel-taps, throwing his head far back to get it all, then shambled to his own feet, reeling on the gentle scend and roll of the frigate as she drifted. 'Look at me, sir! In the eyes, sir!'

Kenyon tried, though his own gaze wandered rather wide-about.

'Do not make the mistake of familiarity with me again, hear me? Do not appear before me reeking of spirits again, either, Commander!' Lewrie barked, and, truth be told, greatly enjoying himself. 'You are supposed t'be an experienced Commission Sea Officer, entrusted with the command of a King's ship, but believe me, Kenyon, that can be subject to change, do ye cross me, again! Un-der-stood, sir?' Lewrie shouted, so loud that anyone on the quarterdeck could hear him. 'Aspinall,' he said in a much calmer taking. 'Pass the word for my Cox'n, that he is to help the Commander to the deck, and see that the Commander's boat is called alongside to bear him back to Erato.'