King, Ship, and Sword

Capitaine, how small a boat might he need to sail it himself cross the Narrow Sea?'

'Every second day, the straits are so boisterous that anyone trying to cross in a small boat would be swamped and drowned, and if he managed to get far enough offshore, the swift tide race would take him either into the North Sea or halfway to Le Havre before turning,' Choundas was quick to say, drawing on his nautical experience, which was long and expert. Choundas paused though, his evil sword-ravaged lips curled in sourness anent the first part of Fourchette's question.

Was Lewrie a good small-boat man? With a crew, even Choundas had to cede him tactical skill, and… daring, damn him! But he'd only seen Lewrie handle a jolly-boat, gig, launch, or cutter on his own once, so he did not know. His natural hatred of the man made him wish that he could say no, yet… the British Royal Navy was a demanding and hard school, and Lewrie had come up in it, successfully. Choundas could not let him make his escape this time by underestimating him or deprecating him.

'He has spent twenty years in their navy, most of that at sea, Citoyen Fourchette,' Choundas slowly and carefully said, at last. 'He most certainly can 'hand, reef, and steer' as they say, as good as any matelot. If he obtains a boat, then he could sail it to England.

'But…,' Choundas added, holding up his one hand and arm, 'he would need a decent-sized boat, of at least ten metres' length, with a single mast… a typical fishing boat… to survive the crossing in any sort of rough weather. Such a boat would be hard for one man to handle without help. His wife could toss free the dock lines, while he could hoist the single lugsail. A woman might have the strength to hoist the much smaller jib for him while he mans the tiller. Your small rowing boat, your small ship's boat, would not avail him.'

'Such are more likely to be found in the smaller harbours then?' Fourchette asked, looking pleased with Choundas's answers.

'In all harbours, citoyen. Unfortunately,' Choundas told him.

'What if he travels with this mysterious second couple?' Charitй fretted, though relieved that Fourchette had turned his mind to ideas other than bedding her behind Denis Clary's back. 'How big a boat can two men handle?'

'If the seas are rough, as I just said, Citoyenne de Guilleri,' Choundas told her with his mildest manners, 'any boat much larger than ten metres would be too much for two men to handle. For two men and two women… if we now believe that Lewrie and his wife travel with help… anything with more than one mast would also be hard for them to sail.'

'We can send riders to alert the Guard Nationale and the local gendarmes to keep a closer watch on such boats, and pass word among our fishermen to guard their livelihoods from theft,' Fourchette said.

'Hah!' Choundas scoffed with a mirthless laugh. 'You might as well tell them to lock up all the smugglers 'til we've caught them, too, Fourchette! Our smugglers, who would drown their children for a purse full of coin, or the Anglais smugglers, who come and go as free as the wind and brazenly walk the streets of Dunkerque and Calais in full view, with the winking knowledge of police and customs men! How do plotters against the Republic enter France or escape back to England, like will-o'-the-wisps? On smugglers' boats, I tell you!'

'What of smugglers further down the Narrow Sea?' the policeman pressed, suddenly unsure of his clever idea.

'Our entire coast, their entire coast, is as infected with smugglers as this inn is full of bed-bugs,' Choundas sourly replied. 'In my own Brittany, in Saint Malo, the heroism and patriotism of my glorious Celts is corrupted by the lure of quick money. Brittany, where one may find the bravest, most skillful seafarers in all Europe since the days of Julius Caesar and-'

'Yes, yes, Capitaine, as you have told us,' Fourchette said with a wave of his hands. Ever since this foul creature had joined their expedition, they all had been subjected to Choundas's tales of Breton derring-do and pagan myths and sagas. More than enough of it! 'This Lewrie, though, stands a better chance from Calais and Dunkerque?'

'He does,' Choundas sulkily said, nettled that no one would appreciate his people's glories.

'Then we shift to the Calais coast,' Fourchette decided.

'God,' Charitй softly groaned, not looking forward to another long, hard ride on a reeking horse, in her reeking clothes.

'We will coach to Calais, mademoiselle' Fourchette informed her. 'Once there, in more comfortable lodgings, we will wait for the quarry to come to us, instead of haring all over France as we have. And I think that Minister Fouchй would not deny us clean clothing, barbers, or hair dressers, n'est-ce pas? It will be my treat to reward your cleverness, ma chйrie.'

Oh, gag me! Charitй thought; I'll owe him gratitude? A debt?

The ladies went off deeper into the woods atop their rise just before bedtime, a last moment of modesty. Sir Pulteney Plumb produced a pint bottle from a side pocket of his coat, pulled the cork, and had a brief taste, then waved it to draw Lewrie down-slope northwest once more. 'Will you partake, Captain Lewrie, as we give our good ladies a touch more privacy, what?

'Not a bad tipple, does one prefer apples to grapes. So near Normandy, their calvados, an apple brandy, is easy to find.' He handed the bottle over to Lewrie, then tended to his trouser buttons for his own ease.

'Mmm, tasty,' Lewrie had to agree after a taste.

'Whilst we're here, sir, in private… so we do not alarm the womenfolk, there is something that has been nagging at me this past day or so…,' Plumb hesitantly began.

Him? Worried 'bout somethin'? At this late stage? How far up Shit's Creek are we, then, for him t'look worried? Lewrie cringed.

'Since crossing the Thйrain river, no one has given us even the slightest looking-over,' Sir Pulteney said, sounding fretful and sombre. 'What I took for success at eluding them may have been that they have guessed our final objective, the coast and the seaports, and have set watchers in place… so we stumble into their spider- webs.'

Oh, just bloody grand! Lewrie sourly thought; ye didn't think they wouldn't? He took a goodly slug of the calvados before he gave in to the urge to curse, loudly.

'They'll guard the cross-Channel packets, the good-sized boats we could steal,' Lewrie said. 'But we ain't plannin t'sail ourselves over, are we? Your schooner, waitin' off some beach t'take us off… like you told me, right? We do have a plan, hey?'

'Of course, Captain Lewrie,' Sir Pulteney was quick to assure him; perhaps reassure himself on that head. 'There's the very place I had in mind… a very lonely wee beach where we may hide in a maze of rocks above a small inlet 'til the schooner arrives. Used it in the past… though… '

'Though?' Lewrie felt like screeching.

'Ten years ago, it was totally abandoned,' Sir Pulteney said in reverie. 'There were some fishermen's shacks atop the cliffs, and the path down so steep and convoluted that hardly anyone even knew there was a shallow inlet, and a beach, at the foot of it. The shacks were falling in on themselves, un-used for years, as well, and, did a lone gendarme happen by and see activity, what could one man do, with help miles away at the next post? Then, at any rate. But, as you say, the French have thousands more police and army patrols now. And… now I can cannot say with any certainty whether it is unhabited, still.'

Just bloody, fuckin great! Lewrie gawped; you clueless…!