"Enjoy my improvised buffet, Lieutenant Cottle, and pray for a spell of good weather in the offing," Lewrie concluded, giving the man a last smile, and turning away to sample a few tasties himself.
But even a sweet apple turnover could not rid his mouth of the bad taste that lingered. Despite his unwillingness to involve himself in such sordid doings, he now knew that he must. There was no looking the other way in the stern world of the Royal Navy, and ending the illegality against Article the Twenty-Ninth: "If any Person in the Fleet shall committ the unnatural and detestable Sin of Buggery with Man or Beast, he shall be punished with Death by Sentence of a Court-Martial." And there was no ameliorating codicil that followed most other of the Articles of War, "… or such other Punishment as the Nature and Degree of the Offence shall deserve, and the Court-Martial shall impose."
No demotion, no cashiering without half-pay… death!
Lewrie built himself a ham " Shrewsbury " and stuck with mustard, not too sure if Aspinall had whipped up the eggy-lemony mayonnaise the right way, or how long ago. The sauce was like "made dishes," a foreign "kickshaw," which had carried more than a few trusting souls to join the Great Majority, over the centuries.
Which made him wonder, Is Kenyon really well enough to continue his command? He looks like Death's Head On A Mop-Stick, and his teeth are chalky-grey. How many times has he had a clyster full o' mercury shoved up his prick t'cure the Pox?
Live with the Pox long enough, and one's brain rotted away, and one's nose collapsed. Was that why Kenyon behaved so truculently with him… that the Syphilis had destroyed his higher functions to such an extent that he'd just blurt out his inner-most thoughts, was he angry enough? Spiteful and resentful enough? That could explain it.
God help us if that's so, Lewrie gloomed; I'm not countin' on a slender reed, at all… I'm forced t 'rely on a raddled, pus-spewin 'penis! Directed by a brain turned t'rotten Swiss cheese!
"God help the French!" Lt. Noble cried, posing a stand-up toast.
"Huzzah, confusion to the French!" Lt. Aubrey amended.
"Bugger all, sirs… death to the French, I say!" Lt. Ford proposed, which pleased them all much better.
"Death to the French," Lewrie echoed, and tipped his glass up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
What are they waiting for?" Major Loudenne, commander of Fort St. Georges, and the 26th Heavy Artillerie, groused, trying not to look too nervous before his anxious gunners, who lounged beside their pieces with slow-match burning, and had been on alert for more than two hours. "Surely, if they intended to attack, would they have not sailed in just at dawn, M'sieur Lieutenant? Yet they just sit there. And now, they seem to be signalling to someone ashore… so many signals."
"Those are not signals, Major," Lieutenant de Vaisseau Brasseur said with a telescope to his eye as they stood atop the ramparts; partially to hide his smirk at the Armee officer's nervousness, and also conceal his disgust at being dragged away from the first time of leisure he'd had in weeks. "Nor are they flags. Those are the Bloodies' laundry! They do their washing" he said of the anchored British warships, squatting about four miles from either shore, and two miles out of Major Loudenne's heaviest 18-pounders' range.
"That makes no sense, Lieutenant Brasseur," Loudenne spat. "To wash, do they not need fresh water? Even at the low tide, they would have to come up beyond the narrows to dip up water, and that would be brackish, even then."
"They anchor, and do their laundry with water from their own stores, to taunt us, Major," Lt. Jean Brasseur replied, collapsing the tubes of his telescope and turning round. "The dossiers which we were sent from Paris told of this Capitaine Lewrie's capability to make the grand jest. There are other ships with his, though… which tells me that his superiors also possess his sense of humour. This is a feint, a distraction from the Anglais' true aim."
"Before you arrived, I sent gallopers to General Fournier, asking for re-enforcement," Major Loudenne said with a grunting sound; he had overreacted, and General de Division Fournier, and his infantry, would not thank him for a fruitless march of fifteen miles. "But, he still commands three demi-brigades, so, perhaps…?"
The Major of Artillerie abruptly waved for his orderly, in desperate need of a calming smoke. The orderly produced two Spanish cigars and a tinder-box. Flint was struck several times 'til the rag caught fire, and both men bit off the ends, spat them over the stone wall of the fort to the stone-flagged "deck" of the water battery below, then bent over to light their cigars.
"Merci," Brasseur said, before turning back seaward and opening his telescope once more, resting it on the parapet, and taking a better look at the anchored British ships. "Savage, there, M'sieur Major… the brigs Erato and Mischief… in our service she would be named the Espieglerie. These you know, hein} The cutters you see daily, as well. Poor fellows, no 'laundry day' for them, for they still plod back and forth on their usual patrols.
"The larger ships… that one is the Lyme, which has been seen further North, off the lie d'Oleron… borrowed, no doubt, to make us think the invasion would strike here," Brasseur casually pointed out, "the two next largest are sixty-four-gunned ships, which I do not recognise, neither the two biggest, which are seventy-four-gunned ships of the line. Off-hand, I would say they carry four hundred and fifty Marines, and could muster half-again that number in armed sailors, before reducing their ability to fight and sail their ships."
"You do not reassure me, Lieutenant Brasseur," Major Loudenne growled, spitting a loose, wet shred of leaf off his tongue. "I have less than one hundred fifty men here, and my last twelve infantry were taken back into their regiment and sent to the Cote Sauvage."
"But that is where the 'Bloodies' will attempt to strike, Major," Lt. Brasseur cajoled. "After the tale I told their Capitaine Lewrie of our fictional readiness here at the narrows, the fool let slip that… my family and I in Le Verdon would be safe, and that the blow would be elsewhere… on the coast. And besides, Major," Lt. Brasseur added as he turned about, to loll against the cool stonework of the parapet and grin, "part of my tale is true. There are two companies of soldiers in Le Verdon, and the Pointe de Grave battery, and the artillery has come up from Bordeaux, and will be installed as soon as the battery is completed, oui? Where else might the British land, with the best hopes of success, than the Cote Sauvage, hein? Hardly any inhabitants there, non? Before their raids, no defences, and no sentinels, either. Once ashore, they could march on La Tremblade by the coast road, and spread smirmishers through the forests to delay our own troops. I suspect we will see Anglais warships in the Pertuis de Maumusson to cut General Fournier off, and take Marennes. Then, they isolate your garrison and fortress troops on the lie d'Oleron, and attempt to take Rochefort."
"Even the stoutest of their ships could not get past the forts guarding those approaches, Lieutenant Brasseur," Major Loudenne scoffed, a bit rankled to hear a sailor speculate on military matters. "And we are prepared to meet them if they land on the Cote Sauvage, now that General Fournier has arrived. I only wish that, during the planning, a regiment might have been posted to Royan."