A proper Post-Captain would have remained aboard, pacing slowly and fretfully about, allowing his junior officers and Midshipmen opportunity for action, and "mention in despatches." A lazy Post-Captain most certainly would. By this point in his naval career, though, Alan Lewrie knew himself too well; he despaired of ever being proper, and, given his druthers, would be lazy, yet… the lure of walking on firm soil for an hour or so, the temptation to tread on French sand, gravel, pine needle beds, and grass to, in essence, stick his tongue out at the "snail-eatin' bastards" was simply too great to be denied. And, admittedly, the fretting about the rising of wind and sea, the arrival of a French column, a young peasant couple disturbed from their fornication in the shady groves by the spring, who'd leap up and away and raise the hue and cry, had driven him beyond distraction!
So, once most of the water butts, most of the firewood, had been stowed below, he had ordered Lt. Urquhart to take charge of the frigate and had gone ashore himself; armed to the teeth with his pair of twin-barreled Manton pistols, his hanger, his Ferguson breech-loading rifle-musket slung over his shoulder, and an East Asian pirate's krees knife and scabbard jammed into one of his Hessian boots.
The "knuckles" of the imagined "clenched fist" which the Cote Sauvage resembled (in Lewrie's mind, at least) ran north to south for seven miles or so and the charts did not show any settlements at all the whole way. At the bottom of the "fist," inside the hook of Pointe de la Coubre, lay the tiny village of La Palmyre; east of the "thumb" up north lay Ronce les Bains, cross the channel from the lie d'Oleron, and but one lonely track that squiggled through the forests from one to the other.
"Might be a garrison at Ronce les Bains, d'ye imagine?" Lewrie asked.
"To close the Pertuis de Maumusson channel, sir, I'd think there would be a battery near there, but… the closest garrison town would more likely be La Tremblade, or Marennes," Lt. Devereux speculated in a soft voice, his eyes fo-cussed more on the dense woods than Lewrie, on wary guard 'til back aboard the ship. "About five miles from here, as the crow flies, but eight miles by this road, Captain."
"And, are our charts accurate," Lewrie also mused aloud, "about fourteen miles from Royan, unless there are more roads than the one I see that runs from La Tremblade to Saujon, with a secondary road from that good road at the crossroads, that turns south to the village of Saint Sulpice de Royan to the coast."
Commander Hogue's Mischief, just days after Lewrie's encounter with Pa-pin and Brasseur, had stopped one of his regular fishermen, and had finally produced a slew of newspapers, and a rough chart of roads and settlements north of the Gironde, which Lewrie had ordered copied and distributed to all his commanders. How much trust he could put in it was still up in the air, but, at least it was a start. The papers, barely days old, were full of boastful malarkey and gasconade, but of much more evident value when it came to information about the state of things in France, and in the local area.
"Last water butt is ready to roll, sir," Lt. Gamble announced. He looked quite pleased with himself, and a tad excited that they had snuck onto their enemy's shore, and seemed to be getting away unseen.
"Very well, Mister Gamble," Lewrie said with a grin, feeling a sense of relief himself. It was one thing to dare, but quite another to linger too long. "Be sure we gather up all the axes and saws as we go. Mister Fisher, the Carpenter, would have our nutmegs off, did we lose a single honing stone."
"I shall call in my sentries from the road, sir," Lt. Devereux said with a casual finger to the brim of his hat in salute.
"I s'pose I should return to the beach," Lewrie told him, with a sigh of resignation. It had felt so good to get his boots dusty for a few hours! "You'll find me there, Mister Devereux."
"Aye aye, sir."
But, before Devereux could send a runner to Cpl. Dudley, a Marine private came panting out of the woods from the road, his musket unslung and held across his chest, ready for action. "French sodjers on th' road, sir!" he panted as he slammed to attention, lowering his musket to his side. " 'Bout 'alf a comp'ny, Corp'r'l Dudley says, sir! 'E thinks no more'n thirty'r fourty of 'em, sir! Sham-blin'along, 'e says t'tell ye, sir! From th' south, sir."
"From Royan, most-like," Lewrie muttered. "But, why? Why now, and why here?" Damme, have we been betrayed?he furiously thought.
"Do they seem to be looking for our presence, Private Langdon?" Lt. Devereux asked in a harsh rasp as he fiddled with the hilt of his small-sword, and the tightness of his blade in the scabbard.
"Uh… shamblin', more-like, sir, like Corp'r'l Dudley said," Private Langdon repeated, bracing to stiffer attention. "Off'cer on a 'orse, coupla mules car-ryin' tents'r somethin'… goin' along at route step, an' gobblin' away in Frog, sir!"
Lt. Devereux turned a wolfish look at Lewrie; Lewrie looked at him with a gleam in his eyes, and unslung his Ferguson. Lt. Devereux was all but wagging his tail and whining to be let loose, to be sicced.
"Mister Gamble, un-armed men to get the water butt back to the beach… armed men to come with me," Lewrie growled. "Mister Locke will come with me. Sorry, Mister Gamble, but someone must command the others, this once."
"Aye, sir," a let-down Lt. Gamble sighed, whilst Mr. Locke the Midshipman about hopped in joy.
"Let's go and see if we can sting the bastards," Lewrie snapped. "First of the flea-bites, Mister Devereux."
The coast road was a mile inland of the spring from which they had taken their water, and Lewrie's party of Marines and armed sailors were shambling and panting by the time they reached it. Cpl. Dudley rose from a crouch behind a thick clump of bush and waddled, bent over, deeper into the forest to report to Lt. Devereux.
Twenty Privates, one Corporal, one Lieutenant, Mister Locke, if he does know how t 'shoot, Lewrie toted up as he lingered further back in the woods waiting for Devereux's report; eight tars with muskets, and no marksmen either, and me. Hmmm. Damme, but all this runnin'…!
"Corporal Dudley, here, spotted them down the road, sir, coming from La Palmyre, it would seem," Lt. Devereux whispered, after he had retreated to Lewrie's side. "The road is clear north of us, and he's seen no traffick other than these French soldiers. They're about half a mile down that way from us, at present, shuffling along slowly, sir."
Lewrie looked about, wondering how the Devil they could hide an ambush with the Marines kitted out in their red coats and white pipe-clayed crossbelts his sailors mostly in calico shirts and white slop-trousers. "In your considered military opinion, Mister Devereux, any cover thick enough in which to hide our men 'til they get up to close musket-shot?" Shit! Was that grammatical? he. chid himself; sod it!
"Hmm," Devereux speculated, going on tiptoe to the verge of the road and peeking up and down its length, then coming back. "There is a copse of secondary growth about two musket-shot to the south, Captain. Quite thick, it looks to be. Do we order the men to lie prone 'til the last moment, it should serve quite well. They would march past us as near as ten yards, sir. Hats off, of course."
"But of course, Mister Devereux!" Lewrie agreed with a twinkle. "Let's sneak our people down there whilst we can."
"Prime firelocks, now… carefully, ye ign'rt maggots," Dudley hissed at his Marines. "Once primed, slowly ease yer pieces off cock, an' God 'elp th' man discharges 'fore the Leftenant saysta, for ye'll git no 'elp from me, hear me?"