Troubled Waters

'Oh, indeed, sir!' Lewrie told him. 'Savage, and all the rest of the innermost blockaders, land on Pointe de Grave to demolish the unfinished battery, with as many Marines and armed sailors available from the ships of the line. It was my intention that you, sir, with Chesterfield, now with the welcome addition of Jersey, perhaps with Captain Chaxltons Lyme to re-enforce you, sail in and engage the Saint Georges fort… with additional re-enforcements of more Marines and armed sailors from the line-of-battle ships, which, I hope, will make a grand diversion, a… demonstration, on the new French batteries near the spring, and the base of the 'hook' of Point Coubre… so the French will be distracted long enough for us to destroy both emplacements on the narrows, sirs.'

Capt. Cheatham was all ears to hear the nature of the various fortifications, nodding eagerly as an old cavalry mount might when the bugle notes of 'Form Ranks by Squadrons' sounded.

'Just as well Lord Boxham's seventy-four gunners will only make a noisy demonstration, Captain Lewrie,' Cheatham finally said. 'Sand, earth, and log ramparts, built low, with gun embrasures protected with gabions, 'til ready to be run out, are almost impossible to defeat. As the palmetto log and sand fortification at Charleston, South Carolina, defeated us… Fort Moultrie, aye. When I was a lad, a lowly Lieutenant 'board a Third Rate, in the first year of the American Revolution, we sailed in, expecting to sweep all aside and take the city, one of the richest ports in America, but Fort Moultrie, constructed as it was, simply swallowed everything we fired at it for most of a day, and was mostly undamaged when we'd run out of shot and powder, and had to sail away with our tails 'tween our legs. When may we begin, sir?'

'Well…,' Lewrie hedged. 'That'd be up to Rear-Admiral Lord Boxham, sir, for he's not seen a bit of this yet, Captain Cheatham.'

'I'll see to that, no fear,' Ayscough assured them, eager for a chance to do something other than cruise and plod.

'He'll surely ask what gems of intelligence lead me to assume it'll work, Commodore Ayscough,' Lewrie had to impart. 'And… I still don't possess solid information. As I said in the beginning of our meeting, what I've been told is contradictory, sir.'

'Ahem,' Ayscough soured. 'Indeed,' he added, frowning; giving Lewrie the sort of look a drunken, blank- minded student who'd flubbed his walking-out recitations might get from the aforesaid hopeful tutor.

'I'm told encouraging things by one of my principal informants, sir, bleaker tidings by the other, and frankly, I'm not sure which of 'em to believe,' Lewrie had to admit. 'After the wooding, watering, and massacre, most of the fishermen have turned surly on us. After the second incident, surly turned to hatred, and even our ships longest on-station… Commanders Kenyon and Hogue, and our Lieutenants' commands, can't get a kind word from the Frogs who seemed the friendliest, and most informative.

'They've become uncooperative, even when it comes to selling us victuals and wines, sirs,' Lewrie bemoaned. 'Nothing is available, of a sudden, or if it is, the price has climbed higher than that fellow's, Montgolfier's, hot-air balloon. Best make the best of your sheep, sir, for I fear we'll not see its like anytime soon.'

'And, 'til you discover which of them is truthful, your planned operation cannot be advanced, Captain Lewrie?' Capt. Cheatham asked.

'No sir, it can't,' Lewrie confessed. Going even further, he also said, 'Now, were one of our Foreign Office agents here, one experienced at sifting truth from fiction, and able to see through the duplicity of the French, well… frankly, I feel a tad out of my depth, Captain Cheatham.'

'Well, damme,' Ayscough gravelled, slumping in his chair, and profoundly disappointed by the situation; looking askance at his 'star pupil,' too, as if profoundly let down by him, as well.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mine arse on a band-box, Lewrie grimly thought, all but wringing his hands in frustration; who 'd trust me t 'scheme this out?

After dining aboard HMS Chesterfield, Commodore Ayscough said in parting that he should go ahead and sketch out his plans for presentation to Rear-Admiral Lord Boxham, on the off chance that he could find a way to discern which of the fishermen was telling the truth, which to trust. For the moment, though, he didn't even know where to begin!

Lewrie sat at his desk in his day-cabin as HMS Savage groaned, creaked, and gently shuffled along under reduced sail for the night. Before him on his desk lay tide tables, ephemeris, and personal charts, now much doodled-upon, which agreed with the Sailing Master's. A pair of metal lanthorns, hung from an overhead deck beam, slowly swept back and forth, as regular as metronomes, throwing meagre pools of light on the problem before him.

Pre-dawn was always the preferred choice for attacks; that, or the wee hours of the night, was there enough of a moon to prevent confusion and dread among one's own forces. Low tide for a firm beach on which to ground, or high tide, so the ships' boats had a shorter row, less time for the enemy to react, and fetch the supporting warships' guns into closer range? Which, which, which? Tides, the stage of the moon, time of sunrise, nothing seemed to concur to guarantee success.

And damn Kenyon's blood/ Lewrie found himself fuming, which was a grand distraction from his contretemps, almost a welcome one.

'A last matter, Lewrie,' Commodore Ayscough had imparted, after Capt. Cheatham had departed for his own ship. 'Commander Kenyon sent me report of your most recent action, and I must tell you that he is… wroth with you. He does not quite accuse, but I gather from his tone that he feels you forced him to trail his coat to draw fire from the French, which resulted in the loss of three hands killed, five men wounded, and minor damage to his vessel. I gathered he thought you'd done it from spite… to work off some long-standing grudge.'

'I told him he was bait, sir,' Lewrie had angrily countered, 'I surely did. Was Hogue and Mischief the brig appointed to watch over the northern approaches to the Gironde, I'd have used him and his ship instead! Kenyon's instructions were to demonstrate, not make an actual landing, sir. His boats were all but in the surf before the foe opened upon us.'

'But, was there some incident in your past with him, Lewrie?'

'He thought me dishonourable, once,' Lewrie had weaseled. 'Lured a Frog privateer close aboard by pretending to strike, then firing upon them, and setting them on fire with fire arrows. Kenyon was down with the Yellow Jack, as was half our crew, and it was our only chance. We re-hoisted colours a second before we opened, sir, burned her to her waterline, and saved our important passengers, secret despatches, and our lives. I s'pose he's resented me since, though I've quite put it out of my mind years ago. I've also made 'Post,' whilst Kenyon's still commanding below the Rates, so… is there any spite involved, sir, I suggest it is he who holds the grudge.'

'Plausible,' Ayscough decided, stroking his chin while they stood on the starboard gangway, waiting for Lewrie's boat to arrive. 'I must confess, I've had my doubts of the man ever since he arrived on-station, Lewrie. Drinks far too much… slovenly in his personal habits. Uhm… the one time I was aboard Erato, I was struck by the, ah… strange aura about her, the mood of her crew, and the lack of uniformity in how they were accoutred, as if Kenyon plays favourites.'

'Well, perhaps some of his killed or wounded were better-dressed, sir,' Lewrie suggested with a bland face, 'his favourites.'

'Good God, you're not suggesting…!' Ayscough had blanched.

'Have no idea, sir,' Lewrie had told him, hoping that Ayscough might figure it out on his own, without having to recount what he had witnessed all those years ago,… which would sound like spite. There they had left it.

Lewrie rolled his shoulders and leaned his head far back to ease the onset of a crick, before forcing his attention back to the charts and tables.

'Don't have a bloody due!' he whispered. 'They'll find me out at last. 'Oh, that bloody Lewrie, what a fool he was,' they'll say.' Ever since being all but 'Pressed' by his