Troubled Waters

fact, Capt. Lockyear and his tiny squadron of cutters and schooners saw as little activity as Lewrie's, and, frankly, were beginning to make a few forays onto the beaches, just to break the monotony! At least in Lockyear's area of operations, there were several thin rivers, or wide creeks, that fed directly to the sea below Arcachon, where they watered without opposition!

Just Lewrie's luck, though… the only freshwater streams he'd spotted so far were near the tip of Pointe de Grave, that split into three rills by Le Verdon sur Mer, right by that bloody a'building gun-battery, and the closest freshwater lake, 'twixt Hourtin and Maubuisson, lay more than two miles behind the beach, the dunes, and the sea! But, the idea of armed landing-parties was tempting.

'Have you ever heard an estimate of how many French troops there are in Medoc, or cross the river in Saintonge, sir?' Lewrie asked one day over dinner when Commodore Ayscough, as weary of offshore plodding as he, had brought HMS Chesterfield to within five leagues of the shore, and had stumbled upon Savage first.

'Can't say that I have, sir,' Ayscough had to admit, frowning. 'Your cutters do you proud, by the by, and I am grateful for your kind offer of all this fresh butter. Goes well with the equally fresh rolls. Though, I'd adore did you fetch off a sheep. Why do you ask, Lewrie?'

'Sheer, jaw-cracking boredom, sir,' Lewrie said, chuckling. 'I spoke Captain Lockyear, and-'

'Told you you'd like him!' Ayscough jovially interrupted. 'Got on like a house afire, I'd wager?'

'Aye, sir, we did, indeed, but…,' Lewrie began again, explaining the watering and shooting parties that Lockyear was performing upon his own beaches and streams, supplying his crews with fresh game meat as well as potable water. 'He reported very little opposition, almost next to nothing, sir. Surely, there's more we might be doing than just… swanning about and stopping the odd fishing smack. There is that battery being built on Pointe de Grave, for one. I'd dearly love to have a go at it before it's completed. Several kegs of powder, all of my Marines, and a boat or two of armed seamen from each brig or cutter to run off the few French troops we've seen, and we could blow it sky-high.

'But, there's no peeking round the point into the two shallow bays east of Le Verdon sur Mer,' Lewrie complained, 'not with t'other fort cross the river able to fire completely across the Gironde.'

Pointe de Grave tapered to the nor'east; immediately to the east was a wide, sweeping, but small bay where all sorts of shipping, or gunboats, might lurk. In fact, after peering over the charts for hours on end, Lewrie had come to think of Pointe de Grave as a dragon's head… the point itself was an erect crest, the shallow bay below it on the river was the slope of its snout, and, below that, he could imagine the mouth and fangs, for a very narrow small peninsula dashed due south as a natural breakwater very much like a long fang to protect the harbour of Le Verdon sur Mer, which looked like an opened mouth, with another equally narrow peninsula or breakwater jutting East like a thin lower jaw. Below that, where a stout neck would meet an upper torso, lay one more cove, which the charts indicated had sufficient depth for lighter coastal shipping… and all of it as unknown as the blank swathes of an unexplored continent; terra incognita, indeed.

'We've not learned all that much about the fort by Saint Georges de Di-donne, either, sir, the weight of its artillery, or the strength of its garrison,' Lewrie explained, 'whether there's a rampart on the land face, or whether it's an open, three-faced lunette. Before hostilities commenced, the French guarded the Gironde with Saint Fort sur Gironde, far up-river, and most-like maintained a substantial garrison at Bordeaux, but now… who knows? That they're building these two forts or batteries may indicate they've stripped Saint Fort of troops, powder, shot, and heavy artillery, and have elected to defend closer to the sea.'

'Doubtful we'd ever muster sufficient forces to raid that deep up the Gironde, really,' Ayscough mused aloud, knife poised ready for a thick smear of mustard on his mutton chop, 'not after the debacle of the Vendee landings. Trusted Royalist Frogs to raise their commoners, what, and spring to arms with Great Britain? Thank God we didn't lose all that much when it failed… prestige notwithstanding.'

He took a bite of his mustardy mutton, chewed blissfully for a moment, then took a sip of wine. 'Aye, it is possible that the French have shifted troops and guns nearer the estuary. The risk to our own side in sending Third Rates and frigates up-river, with the Westerly winds square in their teeth in a narrowing stream should they be deterred, would be too great. Take whole regiments.. . perhaps an entire brigade of Army troops, as well. And, you and I know for certain that such an undertaking would have to be schemed and planned in London at Horse Guards, which might take two years before a decision was reached, then shuffled over to Admiralty, where another two years of muddling would be necessary. Hmmpf! Wish we could do something active, though. Your French fishermen… they've related nothing of value?'

'Some of the larger boats, and some middling-sized, do venture out past Pointe de Grave or Pointe de la Coubre, sir, and they've come to accept Savage's presence as a minor nuisance, not a threat to their livelihoods or boats.. and, a source of coin for whatever they might smuggle out. All our vessels hereabouts are reckoned good customers.'

'As I told you, ha ha!' Ayscough rejoined as he buttered a new roll. 'A few silver shillings go a long way.'

'They're locals, though, sir,' Lewrie bemoaned, 'and never get up-river, so they know nothing of note about Bordeaux, or the condition of the old fortress. They've no reason to enter the local forts… or, the French Army won't let 'em, for fear of what they'd see. A few of the captains sound'like they'd sell information, if the reward was big enough, but… I'm still not sure which of 'em I can trust.' 'Well, there is that,' Ayscough said with a wry rolling of his eyes over the perverse slyness of the French. 'Damme, though, Lewrie… wouldn't it be fine to put together an expedition to both of these pesky fortifications! Recall our assault on the pirate lair and fort in the Spratly Islands, or our two-pronged attack on Balabac, in the Spanish Philippines, where we ran that fiend, Guil-laume Choundas, to earth, at last, ha ha! What grand times those were!

'What sort of force might you muster for the landing?' Ayscough suddenly demanded, intrigued, and savoury mutton chops bedamned.

'My own Marine complement would amount to fourty-three, and off the brig-sloops, another fifty-six, sir,' Lewrie told him, having done some preliminary scribblings over the last few days of ennui. 'About ninety to an hundred armed sailors off all six vessels, before our artillery and sail-tending suffer. Not nearly enough, sorry t'say.'

'No Marines aboard your cutters and such, aye,' the Commodore grumped. 'But! Should you smoak out the particulars anent what force the French own, and does it sound feasible, I have seventy-odd Marines aboard Chesterfield. Perhaps in a month or two, the second sixty-four I requested may turn up, with a matching number of Marines available, and,, with two sixty-fours, I might be able to assemble about an hundred and fifty sailors to go ashore with them- And, bring both liners inside the estuary to take the lunette fort by Saint Georges under my fire, to boot. My God! Charlton!'

'Sir?'

'I'd wager a rouleau of gold guineas Charlton would leap at the chance, and be heart-broken to be left out!' Ayscough hooted. 'That'd add another fourty Marines and perhaps fifty sailors to the endeavour. And, does your plan seem intriguing to Lord Boxham, I might be able to convince him to close the coast with two or three of his Third Rates, and add his own Marines and tars to the landings. Lewrie, you dog! A man after mine own heart! A glass with you, sir, and success to you in discovering all needful facts.'

Cabin stewards refilled their glasses from a bottle of Chateau d'Issan Bordeaux, a splendid little wine from a local seventeenth-century vineyard little known beyond the Medoc region so far, but one that both Ayscough and Lewrie thought a treasure that went well with the mutton.

While it was more than pleasant to have Commodore Ayscough toast him, and declare him an aggressive and active fellow possessed of such uncanny wit and wile, Lewrie thought there was one niggling hitch to such praise… he would now have to deliver.

It was one thing to speculate idly, and quite another to enter into a thorough investigation, which would require long hours questioning French fishermen; cajoling, getting drunk, bribing, and playing a spy's game to determine whether he was being told the truth, the half-truth, or having his leg pulled, and two out of three could prove fatal.