"I thought of launchin' things t'other way round, but it would take too long for Commodore Ayscough's force to sail in as far as the town of Royan, and what they might have despatched to the coast up here to the Nor'west could have time t'march back," Lewrie explained, with a wave of his hand over the chart towards the Cote Sauvage. "This way, we show them what they expect t'see, and get their pockets picked… as I did in London by a girl by name of 'Three-handed Jenny.'"
"So, all that's wanting is a spell of good weather, sir?" Hogue asked, looking as if he wanted to go back aboard Mischief, now that the plan had been thoroughly laid out.
"Yes, and pray God that's soon, before we roll our guts out on this half-gale," Lewrie agreed. "So, gentlemen… as my Cox'n and my cabin servant serve out glasses, I'd like to propose a toast to success to our landings… and, confusion to the French, of course, for this will be the last get-together before Lord Boxham deems the weather suitable.
"And, since I cannot dine you all in as I most certainly should, given the size of my cabins… and the state of my purse," Lewrie went on, tongue in cheek "which a barrister in London seems to have seized… allow me to offer you all a stand-up meal… such as you would see at a drum or rout at home… minus the musicians, sorry t'say…'less I could borrow Commodore Ayscough's bagpipers…? "We have the makings for hearty sandwiches, though… or, as my man, Aspinall, always tells me, should be-called 'Shrewsburys,' since it seems that worthy called for sliced tongue and bread, whilst Lord Sandwich was too intent on a losing hand to enjoy eating? "
Each statement brought a slightly bigger chuckle, then a laugh.
"Do not, though, sirs, be entreated into slipping my cats a bit on the sly," Lewrie cautioned, "for the little buggers are already well fed, as fat as badgers, and, as my clerk, Mister Padgett yonder, may attest, they'll only go for yer fingers, after."
The charts were rolled up, the slivers of wood discarded, and a brace of seamen from Lewrie's boat crew brought in heaping platters of sliced roast beef or ham, pots of mustard or fresh-whipped sauce a la mayonnaise, with a large stone jar of gherkins in vinegar, roasted potatoes sliced in half and sprinkled with bacon and cheese, and day-old loaves of bread, fat baguettes already quartered and ready for piling on ingredients. Jams, jellies, and apple turnovers occupied another platter, and, for the abstemious after the toast, Aspinall's blackened gallon pot of coffee.
"To us, sirs," Lewrie said, raising high his glass of Pomerol, "none like us, in the whole wide world. Success when the day comes."
"And, confusion to the French!" Commander Hogue completed, and, with fierce growls of agreement and a "Huzzah" or two, they tipped the wine back and drank it down to "heel-taps."
Those few officers who been seated round the dining table were forced to rise and queue up, by seniority, to get at the food laid upon it, Kenyon included. With a loud scraping of his chair on the canvas deck chequer, and a ponderous old man's shuffling, he slipped back, his buttocks brushing hard on the sideboard, almost stumbling. His face was no ruddier that it had appeared when he was seated, and his long, thin, combed-across hair looked even wispier and more pathetic. Kenyon made his way to Cox'n Desmond, who was refreshing glasses, poured one down his gullet, and demanded a top-up before he wandered away from the victuals.
Kenyon stopped and peered at Lewrie, who had retreated aft to his day-cabin's desk for a moment to stow the charts away, and Lewrie saw his slit-set eyes, and the nigh-lipless hardness of his expression, as if Kenyon had bit into a sour citron.
"Sorry I could not seat a round dozen, but…," Lewrie said with a shrug of apology; he meant to be civil.
"It is of no matter to me, Lewrie," Kenyon grumbled.
"Come aft, sir," Lewrie replied, making it a firm and whispered order. "There's fresher air by the transom windows. You are firm in your understanding of your role, Commander Kenyon? When the time comes, that is?"
"Of course I am… sir," Kenyon remembered to add. "I must hope that you will play your part… as you did before."
There it was again, that slightly lop-sided, mocking half-smile, which was so irksome! Why can't 7just knock him silly? Lewrie thought.
"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on the day," Lewrie tried to jape off, "as our Yankee Doodle cousins say of eager readiness. Your part is most important, 'til I may land the powder kegs for demolition, and cover the landing-parties with fire."
"As you did for me, sir? Well, I'm sure you will fulfill that task… elegantly!" Kenyon answered with a soft voice for only them, but his mouth screwing up his smirk into a sour and resentful rictus.
"Your First Officer didn't have t'go right into the surf, and I ordered a play at landing on the beach,… sir!" Lewrie snapped back at him in an equally soft, but harsh, tone. "The Frogs waited us out too long, and you lost some hands, and for that I'm sorry, but, was I given the task again, I'd do it the same way… with you, or Hogue, Bartoe, or whoever was handy! Despite your long-standing grudge with me, that is, or should be, put aside so we may do our duty. Sober… flinty-eyed… duty, sir!" Lewrie pointed out, noting that Kenyon's glass was suddenly empty, and could not recall him sipping at it that quickly.
At last, Kenyon's face took on a healthy colour, though it was more suffused with stifled rage than a sudden healing. He puffed up, almost a'tiptoe, as if he wished to strike out with his fists.
"Those men you cost me, Lewrie…!" he gravelled in a rasping rattle in his throat, "my brave, fine lads… you…!" And he almost teared up, making Lewrie feel embarrassed to see such a display of emotion; like watching a proud steed expire on a fence post, one wished to look away, but it was too lurid not to watch. "Been with me for years, some of them, so promising, so lively and… and…"
"Pretty?" Lewrie snapped, and Kenyon recoiled, deflating into his loose uniform coat as if he was a petty thief nabbed in the taking of a silk handkerchief.
"How dare you, Lewrie, I…!"
"I-will-not-warn-you-again, Commander Kenyon," Lewrie measured out in heat, "you say Captain Lewrie, or sir when you address me. And-you-will-do-so-with-the-proper-deference. Hear me, sir? I have never made mention of your particular… proclivities, but…! Do ye fail me in your part of our coming assault, by God I will! You've already sent the Commodore a letter of complaint, you were the one who said a grudge lay between us… that I sent you inshore to spite you, and I do believe that Ayscough… or a board of five Post-Captains, may see who it is acted from spite."