“Whoo!” Yeovill shouted, some hundred yards away. “Parsley!”
At least someone’s pleased, Lewrie sourly thought.
He turned about to see Midshipman Fywell sketching madly away, unsure what he’d depict first, but eager to limn it all.
Close to the North bluffs, Lewrie stopped and looked right and left, speculating on how much loose rock, some of it large slabs or boulders, there was, and how hard and dense was the soil. A sly grin arose on his face as he imagined several gun emplacements dug into the edge of the bluffs, screened with piles of rock before each for make-shift parapets. He drew his hanger and probed the ground, bringing up little mounds of gravel, sand, and dirt, and smiled some more.
“It’s a stone ship of the line,” he whispered. “Half a mile long, un-assailable, and the Dons can’t see it from Ceuta. Hah!”
He walked back towards the top of the notch, found Lt. Roe, and had him blow the recall signal. “Back to the ship, lads! Rally here!”
Desmond and Furfy were the last stragglers to return, blowing with their exertions. “They’s no other way up, sor,” Desmond said. “It’s nigh vertical bluffs right down t’th’ tip of th’ island.”
“Anybody wish t’live here, they’d best bring a water hoy, for they’s no water anywheres, sor,” Furfy added, licking his lips.
“We’ve five-gallon barricoes in both boats?” Lewrie asked, and looked at Desmond and Crawley for confirmation. “Good. As soon as we’re at the boats, we’ll all have a ‘wet.’ Careful where ye place your feet on the way down, lads, and don’t trust the hand-holds. I’d not like any broken bones or heads.”
“Ah, but a sprain, sor!” Furfy enthused. “Light duties for a week, that!”
“Take a tumble on purpose, and it’ll be bread and water with no rum for those ‘light duties,’” Lewrie warned. “Let’s be on our way. Clear the pans of your weapons before we do.”
He blew the priming powder from his own pistols, eased them off cock, and stowed them in his coat pockets.
* * *
Some of the landing party did slide and stumble on the way down, but there were no injuries beyond some scrapes and bruises. They boarded the boats and shoved off, after a break for water, and rowed back to the ship.
“No dancing girls, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked, looking disappointed when Lewrie got to the quarterdeck.
“Only dancing gulls, sorry,” Lewrie quipped. “Morrocan fisherman, or Barbary Corsairs, might put in here, but it’s un-inhabited.”
“Ah, well,” Westcott said with a large sigh.
“Mister Fywell?” Lewrie called down to the ship’s waist, where the Midshipman was sorting through his sketches.
“Aye, sir?”
“Once we have got the ship back under way, I’d admire that you bring all your drawings of the island to my cabins,” Lewrie said.
“Very good, sir!”
“Back to Gibraltar, and our damned gunboats, I suppose, sir?” Westcott asked. “So much for freedom, however short.”
“Aye,” Lewrie told him, with a grunt of displeasure at the prospect. “Hmm … you can’t see Ceuta from the quarterdeck, can you?”
“No, sir, there’s a young mountain in the way,” Westcott said.
“Masthead!” Lewrie bawled up to a lookout in the main mast cross-trees. “Can you see the fort from up there?”
“Nossir! It’s b’hind a lotta bluffs!” the lookout reported.
“Excellent!” Lewrie exclaimed. “Hands to the capstan, Mister Westcott, and let’s get under way!”
CHAPTER SIX
“These are quite good,” General Sir Hew Dalrymple said as he looked over Midshipman Fywell’s sketches in his offices at the Convent the next morning. “That many guns, though, Captain Lewrie? Damn.”
“Those mounted atop the walls, the lighter twelve-pounders and eighteen-pounders, didn’t have the range to engage us, sir, and the lightest cannon that protect the West face, where any land attack would come, couldn’t fire on us, but we think the count’s right,” Lewrie said.
“That confirms that the rumours of re-enforcement are true,” Sir Hew said with a sigh. “We must assume that the troop re-enforcements are equally true, and that Ceuta now has two more full regiments to defend it. It’s much too formidable to be attempted. It would have been a tough nut before. Now … ah well.”
“It has to be supplied, sir,” Lewrie pointed out, “and, did my ship stand off-and-on so no supplies could reach it, and the Isle of Perejil would be occupied, with some artillery emplaced, the Spanish would be cut off and starved.”
“Perejil?” Sir Hew said with a scowl, glancing over to his large map.
“This little dot here, sir,” Lewrie said, crossing to the map and tapping at it. “There’s nobody there. The Spanish named it, so they may claim it, though it’s close to the border with Morocco, so they may claim it, too, but the Dons’ve never done a thing with the place. Look at the chart we made, sir. There’s two roomy bays either side of this headland, only one steep path up this notch to the top, and plenty of rock and sand for emplacements. Fifty men could guard the landing place against hundreds. No timber or water, though.”
“Fywell?” Sir Hew said. “Peter Fywell? From Hampshire, is he?”
“Ehm, I don’t know, sir,” Lewrie replied, perplexed.
“Knew a fellow at Eton named Fywell, and this one could be his kin,” Sir Hew said, maundering. “Oh, well. Didn’t stay long, it was the Army for me, don’t you know, and I was with my regiment when I was thirteen. My dear old regiment, ah!”
“One battery, six twenty-four-pounders, could keep the Dons from fetching supplies to Ceuta from Cádiz, sir,” Lewrie strongly hinted, before the Dowager could launch into humming his favourite regimental march. “The Dons can’t see Perejil from Ceuta, so they wouldn’t know what we’re up to ’til it’s too late.”
“Hmm, what if it’s really Moroccan territory, and only named and claimed by the Spanish, unlawfully?” Sir Hew quibbled. “I have established good relations with the Sultan at Tangier, and I’d not wish to endanger them. They’re touchy enough about Spanish Ceuta.”
Why, you just have so many friends, everywhere! Lewrie thought, wondering when the Dowager would see his point, if ever.
“Captain Middleton’s yard has scads of timber, and we could establish a regular supply of rations, ammunition, and water for the garrison you put on Perejil, or Parsley, Island, sir,” Lewrie pressed on.
“Is there any parsley?” Sir Hew asked, as if it was vital.
“Very little, so late in the year, sir, and bitterer than the usual,” Lewrie replied. “I didn’t care for it as garnish.”
Hands t’yourself, and don’t pound his desk! he chid himself.
“I’d like to go back and sound the two bays, sir, determine the depth—,” Lewrie tried again.
“And so you should, Captain Lewrie, at once!” Sir Hew woke up and urged him. “I will send along an officer of the Royal Engineers to determine the suitability of the island for artillery, and siting any guns. There’s a Naval Captain available, too, a Captain Ussher, at hand with nothing to do so far. He’ll go along with you, too.”
Someone who could take charge of the damned gunboats, maybe? Lewrie thought in sudden hope; Can I cozen the man into the job?
If Perejil was garrisoned, it would be under the command of an Army officer, surely, with Royal Artillery supported by as much as a half-battalion of infantry, and no place for a sailor.
“Once I drop them off with sufficient supplies, and chart the bays, sir, ’til the island’s garrisoned, I can blockade Ceuta from re-supply from Cartagena, Algeciras, or Cádiz,” he suggested, crossing the fingers of his right hand for luck.