replied with an avaricious, oily grin. 'Wish to know, I mus' go see. Zen you mus' pay me 'nozzer guinea. I do not go to Le Verdon zat often.'
'Try this, then,' Lewrie wheedled, handing over two shillings. 'Where could I land boats and gather firewood and water without a risk of being attacked?' He spread a chart for Papin to look over.
Papin took the silver coins and shoved them into his pocket. 'I wish wood an' water, m'sieur, I go ashore on La Cote Sauvage. Spend night, sometime, off beach… here. Get to fish before ozzers 'oo 'ave sleep in port. Fresh stream, beau-coup trees… almos' no one live zere, an' no soldier. Presque jamais,' he con-I eluded with a shrug.
'Hardly ever, hey?' Lewrie translated, aloud, finding it droll. 'Very well, then, Capitaine Papin. Fair enough. Merci for what you have told me so far. And, for all the wine, bread and butter, and the whisky. We must meet again… soon. Perhaps then, you will have learned more, and another guinea'd be a fair trade. Perhaps more, if you could learn how many troops there are here, say… within twenty miles of Royan or Pointe de Grave?'
'Bon!' Papin cynically cried, 'I 'ave ze devoirs, ze a-sign- e-ment? I am good boy, I win ze prize, hein? Oui, I do zis pour vous… even if you are cursed Anglais sanglant, hawn hawn!'
Papin had thrown back the last of his rum, tucked the bottle in the large chest pocket of his smock, grabbed a second to take for his small crew-felt in his trouser pocket to re-count his money for a brief half-hour's work-and had gone on deck for his boat.
'Now who's this'un?' Lewrie asked as they sidled up near another decent-sized boat, out fishing beyond the hook of Point Coober.'Have we seen her before, Mister Urquhart?'
They both peered at a single-masted boat of about thirty feet or so, rigged with a small jib and a gaff-hung mains'l. She was worn and shabby, and held but three crew, none of whom seemed alarmed by a British frigate. She and HMS Savage were four miles to seaward of the coast, so there could be no escape for her. Oddly, though, she steered towards the frigate, putting Lewrie in mind of a similar boat full of maniacs and powder kegs, who had tried to blow HMS Proteus out of the water off St. Domingue's north coast during the British invasion of that gory French possession, and the slave- army's rabid resistance. Lewrie almost felt an urge to steer away, let this one go, just in case the Frogs had gotten so frustrated by the loss of commerce that a screeching, hair-pulling official in Bordeaux had asked for volunteers full of patriotism and hatred who'd take a British warship with them!
By the prickin' o' me thumbs, somethin' wicked this way comes? Lewrie thought.
'I believe I've seen her before, sir,' Lt. Urquhart carefully ventured. 'Something 'bout her sail patches, but… much closer down to Soulac than here, I think it was.'
Lewrie peered at her with his telescope a piece more, then took a look about Savage's decks. The swivel guns were manned and ready in the iron stanchion mounts atop the bulwarks, and at least ten Marines and a Corporal were in full kit and red uniforms, following his standing orders for dealing with so many inspections and searches.
She comes alongside, an 18-pounder ball dropped overside would sink her in a blink, he decided.
'She looks as if she wants t'be stopped, Mister Urquhart, so… we'll oblige,' Lewrie said. 'Fetch the ship to, if you please, sir. Cox'n?' he called out.
'Aye, sor!' Liam Desmond piped up from below the quarterdeck in the waist, where he had been idly chaffering with his mates in Lewrie's boat crew.
'Bring the launch round from towing astern, and be ready to inspect yon fishing boat, Desmond. The usual drill… Marines and a Midshipman… this morning it's… Mister Mayhall,' Lewrie ordered.
'Aye, sir!' the Midshipman cried, eager for something to do.
It took only minutes to swing Savage up to the wind, haul round the launch to the larboard entry-port, and get Desmond's oarsmen and a quartet of Marines and Midshipman Mayhall aboard. For a minute or so, it looked as if the fishing boat might try to come alongside, but just as soon as they saw the launch being manned, her captain took in sail and let her rock and toss on the ocean's scend to await a boarding.
'Bottle o' rum in my cabins, Aspinall,' Lewrie casually ordered. 'Same as usual. And lay out my coin purse. You know the drill.'
'Aye, sir. I'll have a glass o' tea poured fer you, too. Th' same colour, p'raps this Frenchie won't know th' diff'rence, an' won't be insulted,' his shrewd cabin servant replied. 'Long as ye just sip at it slow, Cap'm,' he cheekily added, 'an' don't give the game away.'
'Point taken, Aspinall,' Lewrie laughed. 'Off with you.'
Back came the launch, to the starboard entry-port this time, as a sign of 'honour' rendered, even to a civilian Frenchman. Four hands and four Marines made the saluting-party, and Bosun's Mate Ellison did a pipe on his silver call worthy of a Post-Captain, though it looked wasted on the fellow who scrambled up the battens and man- ropes.
'Capitaine… bienvenu a bord,' Lewrie said, going so far as to doff his hat, and receiving a sketchy knuckle to the right brow below the burly Frenchman's knit cap. 'Parlez-vous l'Anglais?'
' Oui, I do,' the husky fellow admitted.
'Captain Alan Lewrie, His Brittanic Majesty's Navy.'
'Jean Brasseur, Capitaine,' the fellow answered. 'Long ago, we are nam-ed Brass. You' Commandeur Ho… Hogue, oui} … he speak to me, uhm… las' week? Does he mention zis?'
'Not yet, no sir,' Lewrie said, mystified. 'Brass, did ye say your name was?'
'Long ago, oui, it was Brass,' the fellow said with a chuckle of faint amusement. 'Now, we 'ave live here so long in Aquitaine, we are known as Brasseur. Long ago, we were English, but now Francais. You are serving ze rum, ze arrack, like ze ozzers, oui?'
'Whatever you wish, Captain Brasseur,' Lewrie told him, becoming both fascinated and wary. Was the man a French agent who hoped to dispel mistrust with such a tale, so the Frogs could spin him lies?
'I adore ze fine brandy, Capitaine' Brasseur suggested, with a broader grin. 'Aussi, uhm… also, I have ze fine fish to sell.'
'Then, pray join me below,' Lewrie offered, 'where you may have an excellent aged brandy, and we may discuss what you have to sell.'
Like all men who grow from boyhood to middle age in the fishing trade, Jean Brasseur was a weathered man, with exposed flesh seared to a dry, tanned leather. His hands were large and callused by nets and sail-tending lines, by oars and hard labour, his fingers blunt and his nails square-cut, with one or two missing. Like Papin and so many of the other fishermen that Savage had come across, Brasseur wore a loose serge de Nimes smock over a plain ecru shirt and faded dark blue slop-trousers.
Unlike the others-perhaps for this meeting?-he was new-shaven, and his long, dark, and curly hair looked fresh-washed, too… and he didn't even half smell of fish!
'Ver' good brandy, merci, Capitaine,' Brasseur said with a grin of pleasure. 'Zese days, good brandy 'ard to find.'
'More than welcome,' Lewrie said, playing host and sipping at his tea- slowly, as Aspinall had directed. 'You say your kin were once English?'
'All Aquitaine own-ed by les Anglais, three century, Capitaine,' Brasseur explained with a large Gallic shrug, hitching himself upright on his chair. 'Is 1400s when France take it back, at last. Mafamille come as Anglais soldier… John Brass, peut-etre around ze 1390s? 'E marry local jeune fille, an' reside in Bordeaux for few
