And, Lewrie could savour one good that had come from the action; the French had reacted to his recent ambush and the slaughter of their soldiers over-reacted, really, and had committed about a half of a regiment and, what Lt. Deveroux told him was the entire artillery complement of that regiment. What little joy the French might have taken from their clever ambuscade, he had dashed by decimating the soldiers and artillery pieces assigned to it!
So, what'll they do, next? Lewrie asked himself, his lips curling up in a secret smile; after they 're done with cursin' andpulhn' their hair out? Call for more troops, aye, but… where 'II they put 'em, I wonder?
Lewrie could fantasise a host of barges coming down-river from Bordeaux, the Frogs in a fury to complete the Pointe de Grave battery, and transport another company of troops to guard it, faster than they could march. Another company to the St. Georges fort, perhaps? With another taut grin, he could imagine a whole string of hidden batteries down the Cote Sauvage; by the tip of the Maumusson Channel, the one by the creek and spring re-established, this time with even more troops and guns, guns heavy enough to deal with a frigate. And, might they also try to defend every point? St. Palais sur Mer, Soulac, Royan, and the "hook" of Pointe de la Coubre? Might they also fear that a British expedition might sneak past the guns of St. Georges and go for Meschers sur Gironde, or even Talmont, where the blockade runners supposedly put in, in hopes of a dark, moonless night?
God A'mighty! Lewrie suddenly thought; Papin told me the fort by Saint Georges has 12- and \%-pounders, nothing heavier, so… right now, they can't span the river narrows, not 'til the battery at Pointe de Grave's finished! Oh, scurry, scurry, scurry, Froggie!And, who tries t'defendev'rything, ends defendin'nothing!
Why, a few more of those "flea-bites" of his, and they might end up transferring an entire brigade to the mouth of the Gironde, robbing Peter to pay Paul.
Lewrie turned to pace back to the forrud end of the quarterdeck, hands behind his back, yet with a spring to his step. He knew he had two things to do, immediately; one would be to speak to Kenyon and ask of his losses, try to atone for them, without admitting that he'd been wrong. The second would be to run down Papin and Brasseur, some other fishermen, and get a sense of what the local reaction was, and… shell out a guinea or two for what information those two had gathered.
No, a third thing to do; compare what Papin said to Brasseur's version, and determine which of the bastards was telling the truth!
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Welcome aboard, Captain Lewrie," HMS Chesterfield's First Lieutenant bade him with a smile as Lewrie doffed his cocked hat. "Commodore Ayscough awaits you."
"Thankee, sir. Who's the new arrival?" Lewrie asked, pointing with his chin towards the strange new 64-gunner that cruised astern of the flagship.
"Oh, that's he. Jersey, sir," the First Officer confided as he walked Lewrie aft towards'the poop himself. "Captain Edward Cheatham. She joined us only three days ago."
"And most welcome, I'm bound," Lewrie said, "after the Commodore has requested, begged, and God knows what else to get her."
"She brought mail, sir," Chesterfield 's First Officer said with glee. "First we've received, the last two months. Commodore Ayscough's clerk is holding yours, and your other vessels'."
"I'd admire did you sack it all up and hand it to my Cox'n for delivery aboard Savage, if ye'd be so kind, sir," Lewrie asked, partly delighted, and partly fearful of what dire news from his barrister the mail might contain.
"I shall see to it directly, Captain Lewrie."
A Marine in full kit guarding Ayscough's great-cabins under the poop deck raised his musket in salute, then returned it to his side to slam the butt on the oak deck with a loud cry of "Cap'm Lewrie… SAH!"
"Enter… but he'd best have a sheep with him!" came a muffled shout from within.
"A prime sheep, aye, sir!" Lewrie called back before he entered, "bleatin' on. the starboard gangway!" Commodore Ayscough, being a Scot, was hellish-fond of roast mutton or lamb, and obtaining one from French smugglers was a standing request of any warship coming off the blockade.
"Captain Lewrie, give ye joy, sir!" Ayscough beamed as he rose from one of his collapsible leather-covered chairs in his day-cabin. "Ye'll stay aboard to dine upon it with us, I vow." His hand was out, and a glad smile was on his face. "I swear, you're a terror, Lewrie. Went at 'em like a 'Ram-Cat,' hey? Take a pew, sir, and accept a glass of this lovely claret. Captain Cheatham, may I name to you one of my most energetic officers, Captain Alan Lewrie of the Savage frigate… leads our close watch of the Gironde mouth. Lewrie, this is Captain Edward Cheatham of the Jersey, sixty-four, recently come to join."
"Your servant, sir," Lewrie said with a bow of his head.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Captain Lewrie," Cheatham replied. He was an older fellow, approaching fifty, grey-haired, and one who still wore his hair in a mid-shoulder long queue, rather than the neat, wee sprig just barely atop the uniform coat collar that most officers now sported, or the younger ones, who eschewed the queue altogether. Cheatham was lean, leather-faced, and tanned the colour of golden walnut. "The Commodore has imparted to me the inner squadron's most recent exploits, for which I offer my congratulations, Lewrie."
"Thankee kindly, sir," Lewrie replied, feeling the need to go "modest" and self-deprecating. "Just keepin' Monsoor Frog on the hop?"
"One does wish to be a frigate man again," Cheatham wistfully said. "They seem to have all the fun."
"Perhaps we may yet have some fun of our own." Ayscough grinned as he summoned a cabin servant, so Lewrie could get a glass, and the others could get a top-up. "Depending on what Lewrie here has gleaned from his sources 'mongst the French fishermen, that is." Ayscough tapped the side of his nose, as if to preface great revelations, looking at Lewrie like a tutor at his best scholar, about to do his Latin recitations before the rest of the faculty.
"Well sir, what I've been told since our raid is contradictory," Lewrie had to admit, after a sip of wine, wondering if it was a Lafite or Brave-Mouton. His time off the Gironde had done wonders for his palate, and thank God for clever smugglers. "What we've seen, sirs, is quite another matter. After our second raid upon the Savage Coast… Cote Sauvage, rather… the French have begun some new emplacements along it. There's one at the base of Point Coober… pardons, again, sirs. The lesser ships have simplified local place names, for their ease of understanding. As I said, at the base of the 'hook'…"
"Chart," Ayscough impatiently ordered, and they ended leaning in over a chart laid atop the table 'twixt the chairs and the settee.
"One here, to close the Maumusson Channel to Rochefort, Marennes, and La Tremblade," Lewrie pointed out. "One by the creek and the spring where we watered, and one here, where the Pointe de la Coubre peninsula begins, right where the coast road curves sou'east to Royan, sirs."
"Captain Charlton told me of this'un," Ayscough said of the one furthest north. "Pity he can't get to grips with it as you did, Lewrie. The fort cross the Channel on Ile d'Oleron prevents him. Else, he'd give it a daily bombardment, as I expect you treat these others."