"You may thank me later, Mister Devereux," Lewrie chuckled as he turned to look out-board to the ruined forts. St. Georges was now but a massive, light-coloured pall of smoke, the broad base of the cloud ruddy with subsiding fires, and the cloud drifting eastward towards Meschers and Talmont like a slowly twisting, towering phantom. Off the larboard quarter, though, the battery they had destroyed still burned as bright as the fabled Egyptian Pharos, with tall flames licking and forking at the sunset sky, turning the waters of the Gironde narrows and the estuary astern to a rippling sheet of brass, or polished copper. "Commodore Ayscough did well, today, gentlemen," Lewrie drolly said as he stretched and yawned, "no doubt of it, and all credit to him and the ships under his command, but…"
He was more than ready to get off his feet, pull his boots off, and delight in what might prove to be his last fresh-fish supper, for the locals would be a long time forgiving the destruction they'd caused along the river's shores; perhaps two bottles of excellent French Bordeaux with it, too… the Brave-Mouton would go well.
"Just you look at what we wrought today, sirs," he went on after another yawn. "No matter what anyone says by comparison… our boom was a whole lot bigger than theirs!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
W hat marvellous good fun, ah ha!" Commodore Ayscough chortled as the plates, dishes of removes, and the tablecloth were borne away, and the fruit, nuts, cheeses, and port bottle were placed before them. "Haven't had such a run ashore in years!"
"Took his pipers with him," Captain Charlton dryly added. "Made a fearsome racket. Put the French off, I will gladly allow, though. And, the extra colours proved useful."
"Borrowed a page from young Lewrie, here," Ayscough said as he used a pen-knife to pare an apple. "His father, Sir Hugo Saint George Willoughby, rather. Clean and un-used mooring jacks to serve as King's Colours, and a few sheets of our lightest sailcloth painted to represent Regimental Colours, so the French would think we landed three regiments, 'stead of the equivalent of one. Just as we did at Balabac in the Far East, so long ago.
"This time," Commodore Ayscough gaily related, "one set daunted a French company, come from Cozes… that, and our musketry. Two of them caused the fort to surrender, once we flanked round its open end, and when a French regiment did turn up, as we were re-embarking on the beaches, they sat down on their heels, a bit south of Royan, and never advanced another foot."
"Well, covering fire from our ships made that stretch of road a charnel house, and they'd not have charged into that!" Capt. Cheatham of HMS Jersey added with a merry chuckle. "They'd been marched pillar-to-post already, and were dragging their feet and their musket-butts by the time they arrived, with their tongues lolling out, haw haw!"
"Colours fooled 'em, I grant ye, sir," Ayscough tut-tutted. "I do imagine, though, 'twas the sight and sound of my pipers in full regalia that put 'em off. There's not a Frenchman born who'd tangle with the Highland laddies. Aye, 'twas a grand day, indeed!"
"Wish I could have gone ashore," Lewrie faintly complained.
"You could not, laddy," Ayscough told him, snickering. "There were five other Post-Captains under me, all competent, and chafing at the bitt to take over should I fall, certain they could do it better! Why else do we toast to 'A Bloody War or a Sickly Season'? Surest way to promotion! You, however, were, under the circumstances, indispensable to your small squadron, Lewrie. Oh, Hogue might've taken charge, he's an energetic lad, but he was round the point with his own duties whilst you and Savage were the vital backbone of the entire endeavour, landing the bulk of our forces, the powder… it would have taken hours for a small boat to carry word to Hogue, Kenyon, or Bartoe, and hours more to accomplish the task and withdraw in good order."
"It just feels that command of distant others, not just your own deck, is… like laggin' back, somehow, sirs," Lewrie told them.
"Comes with seniority," Captain Charlton imparted, giving Lewrie a sympathetic look. "In the Adriatic in '96,1 spent most of my time envying you and the others, Lewrie. All I did was despatch you to a chore, then sit back and fret. What senior officers are paid to do. Mind, though, gentlemen… then-Commander Lewrie kept me up nights, in frets of what mischief he'd been up to lately!"
"I mentioned Commander Kenyon," the Commodore said, turning grave. "Do you gentlemen not object to the discussion of a professional matter or two… none? Good. Who should replace the late Commander Kenyon? Lewrie, you worked closer with Erato… what of her First Officer as a replacement?"
"In an acting command, sir, I s'pose he'd do main-well," Lewrie replied, "but Lieutenant Cottle is in his first posting, second in command of anything. He's promising, but young and green."
Gawd, you call someone else young? Lewrie flinched inside; poor trustin' bastards, lookin' at me like an equal? A senior officer, with wit enough t' judge… me?
"Ahem," both Captain Charlton and Captain Cheatham said at the same time, for both men had First Lieutenants aboard their ships whom they thought more than worthy of promotion onto "their own bottom" and independent command. Most such promotions on foreign stations, even if both Lord Boxham's and Commodore Ayscough's ships were officially under the authority of far-off Channel Fleet, were accepted by Admiralty, and were as good as permanent.
Lewrie found the silent interplay amusing, as both turned their eyes to Ayscough, who would have the final say; which of the two prospective Lieutenants had the better record; or, to whom did Ayscough owe more favour, or "interest"? The Royal Navy sailed on a sea of "interest" and patronage. Which candidate might earn him future favours?
"Damme, and I have a fellow of mine own in mind," Ayscough craftily told them, opening the silent bidding, and teasing them something horrid. "Or, Rear-Admiral Iredell, Lord Boxham, commanding over us all, might wish to put a name forward.
"In point of fact, sirs," Commodore Ayscough went on, carefully cutting a long spiral of apple skin, which was beginning to resemble a very loose red spring, "Lord Boxham is quite taken by Commander Kenyon and his brave, but tragic, end… and the capture of the artillery intended for the Pointe de Grave battery. He intends, I believe, for them to go to London for display. Hyde Park or Saint James's was cited, as well as the Strand embankments. In tribute, he said."
"In tribute to whom, sir?" Lewrie slyly japed.
"Why, to Kenyon, and Erato, Lewrie, of course," Ayscough replied, allowing sarcasm free, but subtle, rein. "The 'Kenyon Guns,' the 'Erato Guns,' something along those lines. Our war with France drags on with so few victories since the Battle of the Nile, and the last time that our Army took a hand, it was a disaster. We shove mountains of money at weak and disappointing allies, and are at present without any. The people at home need something to make the struggle feel worth it.
"Though," Ayscough sourly mused, dancing the coils of his apple peel like a spring atop the table, "given the late Commander Kenyon's, ah… peculiarities, 'Erato's Guns' might be best."
"Peculiarties, sir?" Capt. Cheatham enquired with a sharp look.
"Health was failing fast," Ayscough almost grunted, "and he was a horrid drunkard, and… as Lewrie here gathered from Erato?, surviving officers, Kenyon favoured… 'the windward passage,' " he concluded in a conspiratorial whisper. "Preyed on his most fetching seamen."