“If you’d be so kind, Mister Terrell, would you go below and see if our hit caused any major damage?” Lewrie bade.
“Aye, sir,” Terrell said, though sounding as if it was a fool’s errand. “You two lads, and you, Furfy, come with me to shift cargo so I can get to her planking.”
Britton and Roe told Lewrie that they had found only a few weapons aboard, some clumsy pistols, some rusted cutlasses, and personal daggers and work knives. From what Lt. Roe had been able to read so far, her ship’s papers were pretty straightforward, as were her cargo manifests that did not show anything other than innocent goods.
“Though, sir,” Lt. Roe sagely pointed out with one brow up in a smirk, “where they obtained their cargo is not mentioned, and I have not found any receipts from any sellers. Whenever I asked the master which port he’d recently left, he won’t give a straight answer, and starts wailing on how we’ve ruined him.”
“Sounds like he’s smuggling,” Lewrie determined. “Is there a working chart in his cabins, Mister Britton?”
“I’ll go look, sir,” the Midshipman said, and dashed below to a cabin right-aft, before he could be chided for being remiss. A minute later and he was back and unfolding a well-used chart.
“He sailed from Tarifa, did he?” Lewrie said. “Right past the Rock, and no one noticed!”
“In the dead of night, most likely, sir,” Britton supposed.
Patrick Furfy came up from the forward cargo hold bearing a few stiff paper tags. “Mister Terrell said t’ show ya these, sor,” Furfy announced. “They’s in English is what got his curiosity up. They was tied t’grain sacks an’ such.”
“Mine arse on a band-box!” Lewrie exclaimed with a laugh. “The grain’s from a Gibraltar merchant! I heard that there was some trade cross The Lines, but…! Once back in port, we can report the bastard to General Dalrymple.”
“So that makes her Good Prize, sir!” Britton gladly said.
“Uhm … no, not quite, Mister Britton,” Lewrie had to tell him, dashing the Midshipman’s hopes for a few more shillings in his pocket. Lewrie handed the chart back to Britton and took a good look around. The Spanish coast was about three miles off, by a rough estimate. The port of Fuengirola could not be much more than twelve or fifteen miles to the East. He went aft to look at the boat that was towed behind the Spaniard, which was a 20-footer fitted with a single mast and gaff boom stowed fore-and-aft along her thwarts. It floated, and did not look as if it was too leaky.
“Ya saw those tags, sir,” Bosun Terrell said, coming back on deck and wiping his hands on his slop-trousers. “There’s Devil’s work in her. She won’t sink anytime soon, sir. The ball struck above the waterline, about three foot above, and there’s stove-in scantlings we can replace, if ya really mean to keep her, that is.” He still wore a skeptical look. “I thought we’d all be eaten by her rats.”
“Thankee, Mister Terrell, and I do,” Lewrie said, relieved to hear that. “Desmond, see that her boat’s hauled up alongside. Mister Britton, I’m going to allow the Spaniards t’go ashore. They can take their sea-bags and keep their clasp knives. We’ll put a bag of bisquit and a barrico of water in her. Mister Roe, do you see her captain below to his cabins and let him pack his traps, keepin’ a sharp eye that he doesn’t get away with anything else incriminating. Search all that he wants to take. And let him keep his passage money.”
“Aye, sir,” Roe replied.
“Tell ’em I’m settin’ ’em free before you go,” Lewrie added.
Roe rattled off some rapid Spanish, which prompted another bout of whining, cursing, insults, and perhaps a few sincere expressions of gratitude. They crossed themselves, pulled crucifixes from under their dirty shirts to kiss, the youngest ones bobbing their heads in thanks that they would not end up in Gibraltar’s prison hulk.
“Once they’re gone, we’ll send the Marines back aboard our ship,” Lewrie told Midshipman Britton, “and fetch the Carpenter and his Mate t’cobble up her planking. Care t’take command of her and see her safe to Gibraltar, sir?”
“Me, sir?” Britton exclaimed, much surprised. “Aye, I would!”
“Good man,” Lewrie said. “Go back aboard with the Marines, and pack your sea-chest. How many hands d’ye think you need to manage her? I can’t spare my Cox’n and my boat crew, mind.”
“Hmm, no more than eight, sir, in two watches,” Britton said after a moment’s thought. “I could use Crawley and his hands in the pinnace, they’re all good men. If I take the pinnace back, they can gather up their chests and sea-bags, too.”
“See to it, then,” Lewrie told him. “I can’t say how long you will be away from the ship, Mister Britton. Once in port, you will be livin’ aboard this barge ’til arrangements can be made for you.
“As soon as you get to Gibraltar, you’re to go ashore and see Mister Thomas Mountjoy, at the Falmouth Import and Export Company and turn the boat over to him. If I can find pencil and paper aboard, I’ll write you the address of his offices.”
“Not to the Prize-Court, sir?” Britton asked, confused.
“Definitely not to the Prize-Court, Mister Britton,” Lewrie insisted. “Trust me, it’s a Crown matter which requires a vessel such as this’un. The less said of it, the better.”
“I think I see, sir. Aye, I’ll see to it,” Britton replied, now more curious and bemused than mystified.
“Very good, then,” Lewrie told him with an encouraging smile. He turned to other matters with his Cox’n. “Desmond, did I hear Lieutenant Roe say that this wreck has sausages and coffee aboard?”
“Aye, sor, I believe he did,” Liam Desmond replied, grinning at the prospect of doing a little pilfering.
“Chalky and Bisquit need sausages, so they don’t run short, and I could use a sack o’ coffee beans,” Lewrie told him. “See if you can gather up some, and anything else ye come across that might be good.”
“Might be about all that’s good aboard her, sor,” Furfy said, with a grimace of distaste. “Spanish beer’s as sour’z horse piss, an’ th’ wine’z worse’un ’at cheap Blackstrap they sold us in th’ town, sure, sor.”
“Sampled it, have you, Furfy?” Lewrie asked in a purr.
“Uh, me, sor? Nossor, I’d never, arrah,” Furfy protested, hat snatched from his head and laid on his chest to prove his innocence.
“Does anyone know what ‘cous cous’ is? Anybody?” Lewrie asked.
“Ehm, permission t’speak, sir?” Ordinary Seaman Deavers spoke up. “I ate it ashore, on my liberty, sir. It’s a pasta, I was told, wee fine rolled beads smaller than bird shot. They give me a bowl of it, with a stew atop, On its own, it ain’t much, but with stew and gravy, it’s filling, sir. Cheap, too. Said it was like A-rab oatmeal, and comes from Tangier or Tetuán.”
“And used like one would rice, I see!” Lewrie said. “Thankee, Deavers. Desmond, best fetch off a large sack or two. I’m certain that Yeovill can find a way t’use it.”
“Comin’ right up, sor,” Desmond told him with a sly grin. He had just given Desmond and Furfy a license to steal, so long as their pockets didn’t come away too full!
* * *
It was late afternoon before the Spanish two-master got under way, bound West, and tacking to make headway into the wind, against the current. HMS Sapphire was back under full sail, too, heading out to the open sea for the night to come. Come dawn, Lewrie intended to turn Northerly, again, and haunt the Spanish coast closer to Málaga, looking for the next item on the list, a large merchantman suitable to serve as a troop transport.
“Not a bad day, all in all,” Lewrie told Geoffrey Westcott on the quarterdeck.
“Aye, sir,” Westcott agreed. “By the way, I’ve spoken with the forecastle Quarter Gunner, and he’s had a word with the gun-captain of the six-pounder. Wiggins has caught enough grief from the others already, but, a chiding never hurts. He’ll take more care with his aim next time.”