“Good enough, sir,” Lewrie said, satisfied. “One more carrot for our ‘Rock Soup’.”
“A beggarly way of going about things, though,” Westcott said, still amused by the term.
“Since we can’t be choosers, and plain begging won’t get us anywhere, what’s left?” Lewrie replied. “It feels … piratical.”
“More sly than piratical, sir,” Westcott softly objected.
“Arrhh, me hearties!” Lewrie hooted in a theatrical growl. “I will have me a sit-down on the poop deck, and admire the sunset, if there’s a good’un. I do believe I’ve earned it!”
He barely set foot on the poop deck, greeting Bisquit with jaw rubs as the dog put his paws oh his chest, before being interrupted.
“Your pardons, sir,” Midshipman Hillhouse called from the foot of the larboard ladderway. “Permission to speak, sir?”
“Aye, come up,” Lewrie said, feigning openness, and once more wondering why such a “scaly fish” as Hillhouse, with years of experience at sea, had yet to pass the oral examinations for promotion to Lieutenant.
Hillhouse trotted up the ladderway, doffed his hat, and made a brief bow from the waist before speaking. “Beg pardon, sir, but I was hoping that you would consider me to take charge of the next prize we take. I am senior to Mister Britton, and the rest, after all.”
“Britton was there, which is why I chose him, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie told him, concealing his sudden irritation. “It was not a matter of seniority. If it’s any comfort, Britton won’t prosper from it. That barge won’t be bought in, nor will she even see the Prize-Court, and he’ll be back aboard as soon as we return to Gibraltar. I know you’re ambitious for promotion, as are your mess-mates, but taking that shabby scow into port, then idling for weeks, is not a way to get it.”
“I have no patrons, sir, no ‘interest’,” Hillhouse baldly confessed, seeming irked by that fact. “Beyond Captain Insley…”
“Were we assigned to the Mediterranean Fleet, or the blockade squadron off Cádiz, there would be enough Post-Captains to conduct an examination board. Being a Passed Midshipman’d stand you in better stead, and when we did take a substantial prize, especially a Spanish or French National ship, I would then consider you the senior-most to take charge of her, but … we sail under Admiralty Orders, separately, and for as long as that lasts, I fear you may not gain what you desire from temporary duties, Mister Hillhouse.” Lewrie laid it out for him to digest. “I don’t play favourites. Nor do I deny anyone their chance t’shine for personal reasons.”
“I would still request to be considered, should the opportunity arise, sir,” Hillhouse stubbornly said, looking like a bulldog in a pet.
“Then you will be considered, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie promised. “Is that all, sir?”
“It is, sir, and thank you for allowing me to speak,” Hillhouse said, doffing his hat once more, performing another un-necssary bow from the waist, and departed back to the quarterdeck, then the ship’s waist.
I don’t play favourites, Lewrie told himself; But I can take a hellish ‘down’ on the likes o’ you! What a beef-to-the-heel buffoon!
Lewrie flung himself into his collapsible canvas deck chair, a frown on his face, and a sour taste in his mouth. Bisquit nudged him with his muzzle, whining for fresh attention, and Lewrie petted and stroked him ’til he sat on his haunches and laid his chest and legs in Lewrie’s lap, making wee, happy whines as he laid his head down, too.
“Now who said you could get that familiar, hey, dog?” Lewrie muttered, ruffling Bisquit’s head, ears, and neck fur, which brought forth a tongue-lolling grin to the dog’s face.
Insley played cater-cousin to Hillhouse, did he? Lewrie thought; To Lieutenant Harcourt, too? How many others, I wonder? No wonder he feels cheated. Good God, though, a man grown, twenty-five years or so, and still can’t stand before a promotion board?
Lewrie sincerely hoped that the coming sunset would be a spectatular one, if only to make up for the upset that Hillhouse had engendered!
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next month at sea entire was spent close along the coast of Andalusia, chasing after anything that dared put out. Sapphire sailed as far East as the approaches to Cartagena, delving into the seas off Murcia. Standing in within three miles or less of major ports, some tempting three-masted ships could be seen that could have served as their transport, but they were all well-guarded by massive shore fortresses and heavy coastal artillery. Equally tempting was the chance that a well-armed cutting-out party might steal into harbour and take one by force, and sail her out in the dead of night, but, whenever they showed up, guard boats full of soldiers appeared, scuttling like cockroaches cross the mouths of those harbours, and close round the ships.
Lewrie could at least take a little comfort from the fact that those ships sat cringing at anchor, unable to carry on any trade, for fear of his ship’s presence. And, in performance of the brief that Thomas Mountjoy had given him, to raise chaos and mayhem, he could also feel some satisfaction that he had terrified the Spanish by going after anything that floated, from coasting trader to fishing boats.
None were suitable to qualify as Good Prize, but they could make grand warning pyres, once overawed and forced to surrender, then taken in close to the coast by temporary prize crews, their masters and sailors freed to make their way ashore in their own boats, then set afire, by day or night. Admittedly, Sapphire pursued more than she caught, and many Spaniards out-ran them, but at least they ran into port to carry the tale of a merciless Inglese warship prowling for prey, which they only escaped by the skin of their teeth, by God’s Mercy. One of their last captures, an old lateen-rigged merchantman that they ran down off Almeria, carried a crew that wailed in terror that el diablo negro, “the black devil”, had caught them!
And Lewrie’s cook, Yeovill, had finally discovered the right amount of water and cous cous to boil up for an edible dish!
* * *
HMS Sapphire stood in towards shore yet another morning, just before dawn. The lower decks had been swept, the upper decks sluiced with water and holystoned, and the wash-deck pumps had been stowed as the hands were released for breakfast. The weather had turned rough, the last two days, with strong winds and high seas that had churned and foamed greenish-white, so it was with a sense of relief that the morning presented light winds and long-set rollers not over five or six feet high.
“Near due West, and we’ll make landfall a bit West of Estepona, sir,” Sailing Master Yelland estimated, bent over the chart, working a pair of brass dividers over it. “About … six miles offshore?”
“At least ’til Noon Sights, Mister Yelland, and then we’ll alter course to Sou’west, or thereabouts,” Lewrie agreed, “and make our way toward the Straits, and into port.”
He stifled a yawn, for he’d slept badly as the rough weather had eased, snatching less than an hour between urges to go on deck to respond to the now-and-then lurches, rolls, and louder groans from the hull. He’d only had time for one cup of coffee, too.
“Sail ho!” came an electrifying shout from the mastheads.
“Another fire, huzzah!” said some sailor on the larboard sail-tending gangway forward of the quarterdeck and the chart room laughed aloud.
Lewrie excused himself to go to his great-cabins and fetch his telescope, then trotted up to the starboard side of the poop deck for a look-see.
“One point ahead o’ th’ starb’d bows, hull-down!” a lookout on the foremast cross-trees shouted down. “Nigh bows-on!”
“Bound for Estepona?” Lewrie heard Lt. Harcourt speculate on the quarterdeck below him.
“She won’t live long enough to make it, sir,” Midshipman Leverett boasted. “We’ll cut her off, if she doesn’t go about and run.”