“Ah, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie said, acknowledging the Mids as they came to the quarterdeck. “What’s the count?”
“Formidable, sir,” Hillhouse reported; there was the word, again. “We counted over one hundred fifty guns, altogether, those that fired upon us, and lighter twenty-four-pounders on the upper parapets that could not range us. Fywell’s made a sketch—”
“I draw quite well, sir,” Fywell piped up, “or so my tutors told me,” he added with a blush.
“Indeed you do, young sir,” Lewrie congratulated him as he was handed a set of sketches of all three sides of the fortress which had engaged them, and a fourth—sideways view—of the West face and entry gates and the ground at the neck of the peninsula where an army would have to camp, along with the structures along the landing place.
“Sir Hew Dalrymple will be happy to have these, Mister Fywell, and if you hope to advance, would you please put your name on them in a prominent manner? Good,” Lewrie bade him. “He might mention you in despatches. I don’t know how many guns Ceuta had before, but we have rumours that it’s been re-enforced, and someone will know the original number. Thank you both, you’ve done good service.”
“Ehm, thank you, sir!”
“We won’t be going back to harbour, will we, sir?” Fywell had to ask. “Not right away?”
“Been anchored so long, sir, we’ve nigh lost our ‘sea legs,’” Hillhouse added.
“No,” Lewrie decided of a sudden. “We’ll stand off-and-on for the night, and see what the morrow brings. Carry on, sirs.”
“Enjoy,” Lt. Westcott added.
“Mister Yelland?” Lewrie called out.
“Still here, sir,” that worthy grunted in reply.
“Let’s take a look at your charts, sir,” Lewrie said. “Let’s see if we can discover where our soldiers could land and encamp.”
“Aye, sir,” Yelland said, heading for the larboard chart room.
Lewrie steeled himself for the stink.
It was late in the day, in the middle of the First Dog Watch, and Yelland lit a candle to see by. They pored over the chart for some time, but neither of them could admit to the slightest clue as to where Dalrymple thought to land his army.
“It looks to me, sir, that the coast is too much bluffs and too little beach,” Yelland said, scratching his chin. “The North shore is too open to weather, and the South’s not much better. Maybe they could go ashore far South of Ceuta, and march there.”
“What’s this little place?” Lewrie asked, pointing to a mote on the chart. “The Isla de … Perejil. What’s a perejil? It’s Spanish, but I wonder if it means something in Arabic.”
“I think it means ‘Parsley,’ sir,” Yelland supplied. “Parsley Island. Spanish, for certain.”
“D’ye think parsley really grows there?” Lewrie asked.
“Haven’t a clue, sir. If it does, some fresh, green parsley would be welcome,” Yelland said with a deep chuckle.
“We’ll stand off-and-on through the night, but in the morning, I want to take a look at Parsley Island before we head back to Gibraltar.”
“Very good, sir,” Yelland said, blowing out the candle.
Being out in the fresh, cool air again was very welcome, as was Lewrie’s joyful greeting from Bisquit, who’d been down on the orlop and shivering in fear. Whenever Sapphire went to Quarters, the poor dog no longer needed someone to lead him below to dubious safety; he dashed down the steep ladderways on his own. Now he was prancing on his hind legs, front paws and head on Lewrie’s chest, and his bushy tail a’wag, making happy little whines.
“Good boy! Want a sausage?” Lewrie cooed. Bisquit did!
CHAPTER FIVE
HMS Sapphire ghosted her way to Parsley Island just after dawn the next morning under tops’ls and jibs, with leadsmen in the foremast chain platforms sounding for the shallows. The only charts available were copies of very old Spanish charts—make that ancient Spanish charts—borrowed from the dockyard superintendent. Certainly, no Arabic seamen had made surveys or soundings in the time when the Moors held Spain, Portugal, or North Africa, and made their corsair voyages on “fishermen’s lore.” To make sure that the ship did not strike some submerged rock or shoal, one of the twenty-five-foot cutters led Sapphire by several hundred yards, under a lugsail, with two leadsmen in her bows, as well, and armed with a swivel gun to be fired should they run into any measure less than five fathoms. So far all was well.
“We’re really looking for parsley, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked between yawns. “It looks a damned dry place, to me.”
“I did a little fiddling over the charts last night,” Lewrie told him, “and it appears that this little island might not be visible from Ceuta … straight-line ruler, bulge of the mountains ’twixt here and there? But, still close enough to Ceuta to be able to take any approaching Spanish or French ship under fire, if there’s any way t’mount guns ashore.”
“If there’s any way to get guns ashore, sir,” Westcott countered. “It looks damned steep.”
The island was not all that big, really, and it put Lewrie in mind of a half-sunk scone, with bald rock cliffs all across the side that they were approaching. Atop of its ragged, erose surface there were hints of desert-like scrub and sere grass, but there didn’t seem a way up to the top. Africa, North Africa, he thought; who’d want it?
“Eight fathom! Eight fathom t’this line!” a leadsman wailed.
Sapphire drew nigh twenty feet right aft, slightly less at the bows, so he considered the going safe for a time more, but the best bower anchor was ready to be let go should the men in the chains call out five fathoms, crewmen stood by to seize upon the sheets and braces, and a pair of experienced helmsmen were prepared to put the ship about into the wind in a twinkling.
“The cutter is showing numeral flag Six, sir!” Midshipman Griffin shouted aft from the forecastle.
“We’re about half a mile off the island now, sir,” the Sailing Master, Mister Yelland, reported, after a quick peek with his sextant and some figuring on a chalk slate.
“Seven fathom! Seven fathom t’this line!” a leadsman called.
“Put the ship about, Mister Westcott, and prepare to let go the best bower,” Lewrie decided.
“Aye, sir. Hard down your helm, there! Topmen, trice up and lay out to take in sail!” Lt. Westcott ordered in his best quarterdeck shout. “Ready brace-tenders to back the fore tops’l!”
Sapphire slowly wheeled about to turn up into the wind, barely making four knots in the beginning, and starting to sag slower as the rudder was put over at such a great angle. The jibs began to flutter as the wind came right down the boom and bowsprit, the fore tops’l pressed back against the foremast, and the ship almost came to rest.
“Let go the bower!” Lewrie ordered, and the large larboard anchor dropped free from the cat-heads to splash into the sea, and the thigh-thick cable rumbled and roared out the hawsehole. Sapphire drifted shoreward for a time, ’til the anchor hit bottom and a five-to-one scope had paid out. Then she snubbed, groaned, and was still.
“We’ll take the second cutter and the launch,” Lewrie told his assembled officers. “Mister Roe, ten Marines into the launch, and I’ll take the cutter.” Lieutenants Westcott, Harcourt, and Elmes all peered at him, evidently disappointed. “What? D’ye think you’re to have all the fun? Pass word to my steward that I’ll need my brace of pistols, my Ferguson rifled musket, and all accoutrements. Crawley and his old boat crew to man the launch, and my boat crew to man the cutter. And Mister Fywell…”
“Sir?” the lad piped up.
“Go fetch your drawing materials and join me in the cutter,” Lewrie ordered. “We may have need of some more sketches.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Fywell said with a face-splitting grin before doffing his hat and dashing off below to the orlop cockpit.