Troubled Waters

or gunnery was in Apple-Pie Order. Paint? Kenyon did not seem to care, though.

And the crew… either beggars in rags, or fresh as Sunday Divisions, and that seemed to depend on how young and fetching the sailors were. They had mustered to doff hats and welcome Lewrie aboard, but it had been a sullen endeavour, dutiful but lacklustre.

Well, I ain 't a famous actress, nor a Nelson, but still… / he had thought at the moment.

And, with so many smugglers eager to sell, and the prices so low on their goods, the dinner was excellent. A French onion soup loaded with fresh cheese and shredded bread bits; de-boned chicken breasts in wine and cream sauce, a fresh, picked-that-day salad to clear the palate, followed by boiled, unshelled shrimp with horseradish sauce, then medallions of veal with haricot beans, upon which they fed, that moment. Lewrie was sure that a pear or apple confection would follow that, and another exquisite choice of wine. Kenyon did not dine 'Spartan'!

'I'm troubled by the presence of French soldiers, when I landed for wood and water,' Lewrie said after a bite or two more of the veal.

'To be expected, though, sir,' Kenyon said back. 'The presence of a British frigate so close ashore simply must have drawn their attention.'

'I don't think so,' Lewrie countered. 'Oh, it could have been a company sent out t'shake off the barracks dust and sloth, I do allow, but… it happened just days after I enquired of our smugglers or our informants of a place to water. Jules Papin…'

'That rogue!' Kenyon scoffed, cynically amused.

'Or Jean Brasseur. Know of him, sir?' Lewrie asked.

'We might have come across him and his boat a time or two, sir,' Kenyon hesitantly supplied, rubbing his chin as he tried to remember.

'I suspect one of those two passed word to the French army, so they could lay an ambush, Commander,' Lewrie told him, setting aside his knife and fork for a while. 'Too few men to spare… doubts that his information was true… for whatever reason, something put a half-company of infantry on the coast road. And, I could not have alerted them to my intentions, for I closed the coast from the North, so no one watchin' for us on the South shore would have seen our approach, like I was from Captain Charlton's flotilla, come t'poach on my area. Thank God our sentries along the coast road spotted 'em before they were up level with the spring, and we could lay our ambush well short of where they might have been put on the qui vive by their officer.

'Try to recall what impression this Jean Brasseur made on you, sir,' Lewrie pressed. 'Or, whether you think Papin is the culprit.'

'Well, I still think it mere coincidence, sir, but…,' Kenyon said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, and taking another deep drink from his glass. 'Brasseur, hmm… Brasseur, oh! Fellow who claimed'his family was once English?'

'That's the one,' Lewrie answered as Kenyon summoned his cabin steward for another refill of wine. Kenyon this day had a close shave, had taken pains with his appearance, but could not hide his thirst for very long, making Lewrie wonder how long the meal, and their conversation, would continue before he went face-down in the apple pie.

'Didn't really make much of an impression on me, at all, sir,' Kenyon said, after smacking his lips. 'Just another hulking, ignorant Frog fisherman… all brawn and 'beef to the heel.' '

Didn't ask d'ye find him fetchin'; Lewrie thought, but kept his face neutral.

'Gloomy sort… sort of hang-dog,' Kenyon went on, waving his glass about slowly. 'Eager enough when it came to selling us something, but… he made no impression, sorry.'

'Didn't offer you any information, then?' Lewrie enquired.

'Can't recall, sir. But then, I don't remember asking for any.' 'No sad tale about suff'rin' under the Terror? No fears expressed 'bout his sons conscripted into their Army?' Lewrie prodded.

'Don't think he did, no,' Kenyon said. 'Sir,' he added. 'Well, for a thinly populated piece of coast, I don't think it coincidental that troops were there the very day that we were, sir,' Lewrie objected. 'And, to smoak them out, here's what I wish you to do tomorrow… or, weather allowing, Commander Kenyon,' Lewrie told him.

Mr. Winwood, his ever-cautious Sailing Master, had expressed doubts of how closely they could lurk off a lee shore, now that the seasons were changing, and a more boisterous Autumn was advancing. 'The next clear and calm-ish day, I wish Erato to close the coast, 'bout four miles to the South of the Maumusson Channel 'twixt 'the Savage Coast' and the lie d'Oleron…'bout where we anchored… and pretend to go ashore for a few kegs of water, and a cord or two of firewood.'

'Pretend,' Kenyon said, blankly goggling at him.

Lewrie went back to his veal and beans for a bite or two, then a sip of wine. 'If the French now guard the spring, and that stretch of beach and forest, I wish to know it,' he told Kenyon. 'So far, I don't know the strength of the local garrisons, but I do desire to discover whether the local commanders have posted troops and guns there to prevent future landings, and a rough idea of in what strength, d'ye see.'

'Uh, aye, sir,' Kenyon replied.

'Close the coast,' Lewrie instructed. 'Savage and I will stand off a mile or so further out. Come to anchor, or fetch-to, whichever you deem the weather will admit of, put down all your boats, and act as if you're sending an armed party ashore for wood and water. This side of the estuary is yours, and Erato's movements are, by now, mostly taken for granted by the Frogs. Do you make your approach from the North, as I did, and there is no response, then I may assume there aren't any Argus-eyed watchers lurkin' in the woods… clingin' t'tree tops like Red Indians?' he japed, after another sip of wine. 'Do you provoke a response, though, then we'll know for certain that the French now have a guard over the creek and the spring, and that that half-company was sent out there a'purpose, after one of 'em, or both Papin or Brasseur, played us false.'

'But, Lew… but, sir… after you massacred those soldiers t'other day, of course they'd be guarding the springs,' Kenyon pointed out, much like a tutor exasperated with a particularly dull student. 'Revenge… 'once bitten, twice shy'… call it what you will. They see an opportunity to get their own back, assuming we're silly enough to try it on again, well… I don't think their presence now will be enough to prove your assumption of betrayal.'

'Humour me, Commander Kenyon,' Lewrie told him with a wink and a nod. 'Do they shift troops and guns there, that's a few less round Royan, the Saint Georges fort, and Pointe de Grave. Fifteen miles of hard, quick march from where they skouldbe, when the time comes, hmm?'

'I should see whether the French are there… and what their strength is,' Kenyon grumbled, not quite finished chewing on a clump of fresh, buttered shore bread. 'Because you envision an assault upon the forts, eventually?' He looked slightly aghast.

'Exactly so, sir,' Lewrie gladly told him. 'If the Frogs don't shift troops, I'd be very much surprised… but we must know. And… I still hold that they had no business being there in the first place, unless I was directed to the spring on purpose, and set up for killing.'

'Uhm… how much of a charade must I play, then, sir,' Kenyon asked, sounding loath to even go through the motions, and looking sick. 'Should I actually land on the beach? March inland a ways, sir? And, how far? All the way to the spring? How close to shore do you wish?'

'There's enough depth for a brig-sloop to come-to within a half-mile offshore. Savage fetched-to that close, certainly. A short row for your boat crews, and an even quicker return aboard should the Frogs be tempted to fire upon you. If they're there, of course. Lay on yer oars within musket-shot of the beach, if you wish, as if you were wary, and lookin' the place over right-sharp, before committing. I surely do not wish you to really land, unless, in your considered opinion at the moment, the French aren 't there. Your judgement, completely, sir.'

'Trail my skirts… serve as 'bait'!' Kenyon gravelled sourly, and all but spat 'bait' like a piece of gristle. He shot Lewrie a dubious and bleak look for an unguarded second, before passing a hand over his face, which had broken