boom and bowsprit at St. Georges de Didonne, making a mile Due East as stays'ls, the forecourse and fore tops'l, and the big main tops'l filled with wind. The continuous gunfire from Commodore Ayscough's two-deckers had subsided to a desultory thumping, the cloud of spent powder smoke had thinned, and, beyond HMS Lyme's bows, rowing boats were swarming shoreward like a colony of scuttling cockroaches. For all that Lewrie could see with his day glass, all return fire from the fort had ceased.
'Haul our wind, Mister Gamble,' Lewrie said, now they had enough offing from Pointe de Grave. 'We shall wear about to Sou'east by South.'
'Aye, sir.'
'And we shall finally get a good look beyond the river narrows,' Lewrie gleefully exulted to one and all on the quarterdeck. 'Much like followin' an ancient sea-chart into waters marked 'Here be dragons'!'
'Or, discovering the Land of the Lotus Eaters in a portion that bears the caution terra incognita, Captain,' Mr. Winwood solemnly said. He might be making a quip, but with Winwood it was always hard to tell.
Once worn about, and a mile inside the inner river past Pointe de Grave, the Gironde widened to nearly six miles across, a vast glittering expanse. The small town of Meschers sur Gironde lay two points off their larboard bows, and Tal-mont, the hidey-hole for ships running the blockade, much on the same bearing, but further away. The shallow bay above Le Verdon was to starboard, and was disappointingly empty of shipping; only some light rowboats were drawn up on the beach by some small huts.
Commander Hogue's Mischief was off their larboard side, bearing down on a three- masted merchant ship anchored close ashore just above Talmont, one with no national flag flying at the moment, and the crew huzzahed her, for their frigate was 'In Sight,' and any money Mischief made off her prize, was she 'Good Prize,' that is, they would share, no matter if that resulted in less than a pound apiece.
Kenyon's Erato was just off the 'dragon's muzzle,' about to enter the small harbour of Le Verdon, and the three cutters were further South of her, angling almost Due West in pursuit of something. Even as Lewrie eyed them with his telescope, tiny puffs of powder smoke burst from Penguins bow-chasers, and the sound of her light guns came as a pair of distant dog-barks.
'There's nothing for us to do, sir,' Lt. Gamble commented, one hand fretting fingers on the hilt of his sword. 'No French warships, no prizes in sight to be taken, but for Mischief *'s…'
'Success doesn't always come with close broadsides, sir,' Lewrie told him with a faint smile and a shrug of his shoulders. 'Both the fort and the battery will be destroyed, and the French will wear out a thousand pairs o' shoes marching and counter-marching. And, whatever re-enforcements they'll have to send to prevent a second beating will be just that many less available to Bonaparte for any future adventures of his, God rot the little bastard. Met him once, ye know.'
'Indeed, sir?' Gamble marvelled.
'Toulon, in late '93,' Lewrie said, explaining how his temporary command of a razeed French two-decker, Zele, fitted with two heavy mortars, had been exploded and sunk by Napoleon Bonaparte's guns, and how he and the survivors had made their way ashore to become Bonaparte's prisoners, 'til rescued by a troop of Spanish cavalry, and how he could not give his parole and keep his sword, not with French Royalist sailors helping man his artillery, and sure to be shot down instanter as traitors to the Revolution, right there on the beach. 'The man still has my sword, damn 'is eyes. Besides, it would've cut rough, to live comfortably, waitin' t'be exchanged, while my people would've ended chained up in some French prison-hulk, starvin', and dyin' of sickness. But, I hope t'get it back, someday,' Lewrie concluded, rocking on the balls of his feet with his hands in the small of his back. 'Go to Paris, once we've beaten 'em, dig round in some palace, and find it.
'Uhm… what is he like, sir?' Lt. Gamble asked, eyes wide with curiosity, and a certain amount of new admiration for his captain.
'Well, he's a short'un, a minnikin, and a fellow with an eye for gaudy uniforms, as I…,' Lewrie began to say, but Midshipman Dry cried out that Erato had just fired off four signal rockets; the signal that denoted French opposition in the village of Le Verdon.
'Alter course, Mister Gamble,' Lewrie snapped, putting reveries aside, and stalking to the hammock nettings overlooking the waist and gun-deck. 'Bring her round to Sou'Sou'west. Mister Adair! It seems we've more 'trade' for you, sir! Re-fit the strikers, and prepare the starboard battery for action.'
'Four more rockets, sir!' Midshipman Dry reported, unable to be as stoic as a Sea Officer should be before the hands. 'This time, it's from Penguin, sir!'
'What was it you said about nothing to do, Mister Gamble?'
'Nothing, sir,' Gamble replied with an avid smile.
'Be careful what you wish for,' Lewrie gently chid him.
Two very large guns erupted in the cove below the tiny seaport, the sound like the slamming of iron oven doors, followed by the barks and raspy Woofs! of the 6-pounders of all three of the cutters, as if they had formed line of battle to engage something substantial, powder smoke beginning to wreathe the cove, the British guns stuttering bow-to-stern as they bore. A minute later, Erato's 9-pounders bellowed, too, as she penetrated the harbour, A quick look showed her beam-on to the village and piers, a look that forced Lewrie to choose which fight he should support. 'Depth in the harbour, Mister Winwood?' he demanded.
'Two fathom or less, sir,' the Sailing Master said from memory, after all his months of glooming over his charts.
'Erato will have t'deal with things on her own, then,' Lewrie muttered, peering intently through his telescope. 'Aloft, there! Any French warships in the harbour?'
'Barges, sir!' the main-mast lookout shouted down, cupping hands about his mouth. 'No warships! They's a gunboat South of th' port, firin' on th' cutters… three point off th' stah'bd bows! An oared gunboat!'
'Stand on into the cove, Mister Gamble. What's the depth there, sir?' Lewrie asked Winwood.
'Four fathom within five cables of the shore, sir,' Mr. Winwood once more recited from memory, even before he could confirm that from a much-marked-upon chart spread by the binnacle cabinet. 'But, it turns very shoal very quickly, sir. Even at the top of the tide, there isn't a whole fathom by three cables' distance.'
'Warn us when you think we're close as we dare, sir. Leadsmen to the fore-chains, and have 'em sing out regular,' Lewrie said, eager to get to grips with something besides dead stone walls.
But, by the time Savage had come to the aid of the cutters, it was apparent that her help was no longer needed. Penguin, Banshee, and Argosy had closed with a very old-fashioned oared galley, blasting off her sweeps with solid shot and grape, ducked out of the way of a pair of wicked 32-pounder bow guns, and had smashed alongside of her, crushing and splintering the last of her long oars to grapple to her. Men from all three cutters were swarming aboard the river galley, and the French Tricolour had already been hauled down and replaced by a British flag. Far off in the shallows, two small boats full of French sailors were rowing for the beach like the Devil was at their heels, and there were even a few more swimming to escape capture.
'My word, sir… an ancient lateener,' Mr. Winwood said after a long look with his glass. 'Good for going close to the wind in the Gironde, where the winds are mostly Westerlys, but their like has not been seen in real combat since Don John of Austria beat the Turks.'
'Worth a penny or two… with a museum, perhaps?' Lewrie japed. 'I very much doubt it, sir,' Mr. Winwood soberly replied. 'Mister Gamble? Swan us about into the river, again, 'til we may come hard on the wind, and stand in to see what Erato's up to,' he ordered. 'Sorry, Mister Adair. Have your gunners stand easy.'
Erato no longer needed help, either, for Lt. Aubrey, his loaned Marines, and armed
