CHAPTER
10
"Signal is down, sir!" Spendlove shouted.
"Maintain course, Quartermaster," Lewrie ordered. "And God help the French. It's going to be a lovely day. What little joy of it they'll have. Buggered 'em, by God!"
"If only we were in on the buggering, sir." Knolles laughed.
It was, indeed, a lovely morning, for late August in the Ligurian Sea. There was a noticeable swell, now and then the hint of some foamy chop to the folding wave tops, and a decently brisk breeze for a change. All under a brilliant blue sky, wisped with benign clouds.
Fremantle's Inconstant led, breaking away westward, accompanied by the Tartar brig to cover the westernmost small town of Languelia, in the Bay of Alassio. Meleager and Speedy went more easterly, to tackle one of the warships at anchor, what looked to be a French corvette. While Nelson in Agamemnon, being handled like a frigate instead of a tired sixty-four-gunner, Southampton and Ariadne charged directly for the clutch of merchant ships.
Jester stood on, tail end of the informal battle line that had approached the coast, to remain offshore as the seaward guard for the rest, as they achieved their victory. She stayed on course, alone.
" 'Least we'll be in-sight, sir," Buchanon grumbled. "Share in the take."
"There is that, Mister Buchanon," Lewrie smirked. "Though, we could wait till hell freezes over before the Prize Courts approve those shares. Easy money, today. Ah, well."
No sign of Guillaume Choundas, either, Lewrie was more than happy to note, which partly explained his sense of content. Rumor had it that "Le Hideux" had a corvette as his flagship, and there were two of them anchored in Alassio Bay this moment, caught napping and facing the heavier twelve-pounder guns of Southampton, Inconstant, and Meleager, those crushing heavy guns aboard Agamemnon's lower deck. If he was there in Alassio Bay, and someone else stopped his business, then… Facing the wily Frenchman, who'd had the Devil's own luck, was someone else's joy, and Lewrie wished them well of it. Ever since Twigg had come aboard with his disturbing news, Lewrie had felt a distinct twanging of nerves.
Only sheer, dumb luck had saved Lewrie's bacon in the Far East, when he'd gone up against Choundas before; only desperate derring-do, and neck-or-nothing chance had kept him alive. Why, the bastard would have slain me, if I hadn't kicked him in the "wedding tackle," Lewrie thought with a queasy feeling. Could one divide a single second… that was how close he had been to being spitted on the man's sword! A normal foe, now… but Choundas? Again? he shivered. Sorry, but the Navy don't pay anyone near enough to tackle that clever fiend!
He raised his telescope to watch, glad to be an observer, as the squadron stood into the bay, creating as much confusion and fear aboard the French convoy as a fox might among the chickens. His lips curled in silent delight. They'd made it to Alassio, the destination Twigg and Drake had discovered; dropped their "hooks" and prepared to carry their cargoes ashore, certain that the British squadron was far away to the west. On that shore, he could see tiny antlike figures in the dark blue-and-white uniforms of the French Army, the colors adopted from their old second-line National Guard. Thousands of Frogs, foot, horse, and perhaps some light artillery. Rather a lot of cavalry, he surmised; or draught animals assembled to tow the heavy wagons that the convoy's goods would have filled?
Cannon fire, now; blooms of smoke staining the oaken sides of Agamemnon and the rest. Even upwind, the slamming and drumming boom of artillery was lung-rattling. Some scattered return fire from shore, or from the armed ships that had escorted them in. For show, Lewrie thought smugly; a broadside or two so their captains could claim that resistance had been offered, but then…
Neither of the French corvettes appeared to be trying to hoist sail, or save their anchors. The dull glint of iron upon their forecastles. Cutting cable? Yet, so slowly, so raggedly.
"He's not here," Lewrie muttered, lowering his glass, and gnawing on the lining of his mouth in disappointment that Choundas had not been caught with his trousers down. And worry. That he was still out there, somewhere. And that Twigg would arrange for him to fight him. "Damme, I could have thought…"
"Let this be a lesson to you, Hainaut," Le Hideux grumbled, as he awkwardly paced his quarterdeck in bleak fury. "Never believe what is offered to you too easily."
"Citizen Pouzin thought it was authentic, so…" the lanky midshipman shrugged. He looked a little better. The British had been so good as to present him with a pair of slop trousers, which fit better than his old castoff breeches. A gift, that civilian clerk had told him.
"Ah, Citizen Pouzin, oui." Choundas scowled, lifting the good corner of his mouth in a brief grin. "So easily gulled, that one. I will make sure Paris knows of his gullibility. Should he have gotten the timing wrong, we sail for nothing. But, if this is a ploy to expose the convoy, then he will pay for it."
So many places to cover; Nice, Sam Remo, Cagnes, Antibes, and Cannes. Martin had yet to send him his needed ships, so he could not hope to cover them all. Nor hope to stand out to sea, but not so far out that he could not espy signal fires to alert him where the British might strike. Nor hope to confront them in equal combat, ship against ship, either.
He glanced at Hainaut, wondering…
Never believe what is offered me too easily, either, Guillaume Choundas frowned. So quickly exchanged, bearing his cunningly gathered information about the British squadron. And the greatest news of all! That Jester, and that bastard Lewrie who'd maimed him, were one and the same!
When the British did not appear on the horizon, where he'd been assured they would, he'd begun to fret. First in anger, that a chance for revenge was delayed, that he'd have to wait to capture Jester, and carve her smirking bastard Englishman into stew meat, as he had lusted to do these past nine years! So close at hand, yet…!
Anger had cooled, replaced by trepidation; that he'd been told a lie, a cunning English lie, that someone was in league with them and had passed the lie on. Who would wish him humiliated? Pouzin? Yes, that could be it. He'd seemed so anxious to know the date of sailing, so he could make his arrangement, he'd said, but that could have been his way of getting what he needed to know, which he'd told the enemy! There might never have been a smuggled letter from Genoa, at all! It could have been Pouzin's fabrication.