"I see," Lewrie said with a wry twinkle. "Source of claret, indeed. The Me-docs, Haut-Medocs, and Saint Emilions, the white Graves, and the sweet, white Sauternes, as well, Mister Urquhart?" he teased.
"All do come from here, sir," Urquhart gravely intoned, lifting his telescope as if it was his prime duty to peer at the southern shore by Pointe de Grave.
Poor, sober-sided bastard was Lewrie's thought; still and all, I could've gotten a "Merry Andrew "for a First Officer, who 'd run us ashore some dark night, and try t'make a jape of it.
He looked forward as Savage's bows were swung up into the wind… what there was of it. Besides the odd Lt. Urquhart and his wary ways, there were several more new faces aboard, despite the majority of Proteus's people turning over into Savage. Men holding Admiralty Warrant, once appointed into a warship, usually remained with her all their careers, unless they asked for transfer, even when their ships were laid up in-ordinary.
There was Bosun George Thomlin, for instance, a burly, balding older fellow who had come with Savage, as had his Mate, John Ellison, and the ship's Carpenter, Thomas Fisher. Along with them had come some replacement hands, strangers to one and all in the beginning, to fill the shoes of dead or crippled Proteus men.
There was a new Marine Corporal Dudley, a sour, taciturn, and so far thoroughly unpleasant ass. There were two new Surgeon's Mates now that Mr. Durant had finally gotten his long-delayed promotion; Arthur Ford, who had been seasick nearly half the time since they'd left Portsmouth, and a dark and heavyset "grump" by name of Harold Gaines. There was a new Gunner's Mate named Foster, a new Quartermaster by name of Raymund; a very gloomy new-come Yeoman of the Sheets named Orwell; an entirely new Purser's Assistant, the "Jack in the Breadroom," who was, wonder of wonders, both scrupulously honest (so far) and energetically aspiring. Well, he was very young! The Midshipmen, of course and at least a dozen fresh hands, most of them dredged up by the Shire Quotas Act, all rated Landsmen, and as clumsy as drunken steers, and Lewrie was still sorting them all out for strengths and weaknesses, and he and Lt. Urquhart had spent many hours going over the muster book and watch lists to sort out the chaff and re-enforce the weak with better help.
"'Ware, the point, sir!" Lt. Urquhart called out. "There is a fort of some kind on Pointe de Grave. Just there, sir… this side of the village. Le Verd… what the Devil it's named."
Lewrie raised his own glass and put it to his eye, trying not to look urgent or concerned, as a captain must; nothing good ever came of instilling panic. "Ah-ha, yes," he said instead as the place became steady in his ocular.
Can't sail closer t'the wind, inside two miles o'shore, we're in their range, and they'll shoot the shit out of us if we dawdle along on this next-t'nothin' wind! Lewrie thought, though; watched us sailin' in, the last hour/ Heated shot? Fourty-two-pounders? Christ!
"It looks to be just where a small stream splits and runs down to the sea in three rivulets, sir," Lt. Urquhart said with the proper amount of stoicism; perhaps the dull note to his voice came from a lack of Lewrie's fervid, dread-filled imagination. "No flag, though. Quite a lot of activity, but…"
"Well, damn my eyes, Mister Urquhart," Lewrie said with what a casual and objective observer might have called a giggle of relief. "I do b'lieve the place is still being built!"
I know I'm not livin' right t 'earn such luck, but just thankee, Jesus! he thought.
The fortification near Le Verdon sur Mer indeed was unfinished. There were no crenellations atop its low wall for guns, yet; in fact, it appeared that the sloped stone walls were still being erected, and were barely above the height of a tall man, so far. There were Frenchmen in uniform, but very few of them, all now engaged in using their telescopes to peer at Savage, waving their arms, and most-like blathering agitated Frog, with much use of "Sacre Bleu" "Mort de Ma Vie" "ZutAlors," and "Nom d'un Pipe!" Almost everyone else over there, now scuttling to the rear and into the shelter of the village, seemed to be civilian Frogs, and workmen!
"Make a note, Mister Winwood," Lewrie said, lowering his glass. " 'Til we know their weight of metal, once they get their fort completed we go no closer than three miles to the Pointe de Grave peninsula, either."
"I will see to it, sir," Winwood replied with a grunting moo. "Deck, there!" a lookout called. "Brig t'larboard! Three mile off, an' fetched-to! She's runnin' up 'er flag, an' makin' a hoist!"
"Midshipman of the watch?" Lewrie demanded, though still unsure of which of his new-comes would respond.
"Aye, sir!" Midshipman Dry, their youngest, piped up.
"Make our number to the brig, and conjure me who she is," Lewrie ordered. "And decypher her signal hoist from this month's book."
Midshipman Dry quickly referred to his loose bundle of private signals, and the Navy's list of ship names and numbers, then crisply announced, "She is the brig-sloop Erato, sir. Commander James Kenyon."
"Aha," Lewrie said, tensing up a little, for he had hoped that she would be Mischief, that he and Hogue could share a glass or two as they conferred, and re-lived old times. "And her hoist?"
"Her number and this month's recognition code, sir," Dry said.
"Very well," Lewrie said with resignation. "Any idea of how long 't will be before we crawl up abeam of her, Mister Gamble?"
"Half an hour, sir?" Gamble replied with a cock of his head and a shrug.
"Once we do stagger up abeam of her, Mister Gamble, we'll come about and fetch-to. Mister Dry, assumin' it doesn't take so long that the watch changes, be ready to hoist 'Captain Repair Onboard' to her. Just now, though, young sir, I'd admire did you pass word for my cabin servant, and inform Aspinall we'll have a guest, aft. Perhaps even two for supper."
"Aye aye, sir!" Dry chirped.
Assumin' I don't kill the bastard fore the soup! Lewrie thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
One could usually tell a lot about a sea-captain by how well his ship was kept, despite the ravages of sun, storm, or the inevitable depletion of Bosun's stores after a long voyage, or, in this case, a long time on-station. HMS Erato seemed at first to prove that truism, once Savage had fetched-to to seaward of her, about a cable to windward.
She was a trim little ship, perhaps 110 feet on the range of the deck, maybe 135 to 140 overall from taffrails to the tip of her bowsprit, about 30 feet abeam, and might draw no more than 12 feet. Lewrie could count eight gun-ports along the beam facing him, and pick out the light 18-pounder carronades she mounted in place of chase guns on her fo'c'sle and flush quarterdeck. Her masts were well painted, her spars oiled, but… her sails were the colour of ancient parchments. The running and standing rigging was geometrically taut, the standing well tarred, and the running looked fat and amply slushed with fats skimmed off the cauldrons as salt-meat rations were boiled up.
So far, so good, for no matter his dislike of Kenyon, the man had always been a proper sailor. Yet, it was the little things that made Lewrie wonder.
Erato's figurehead was not an approximation of a Grecian legend, but a simple, rather crudely chopped crowned lion torso, the sort that got churned out by indifferent woodworkers by the dozen, and bore not a single flake of gilt paint trim. The same went for Erato's beakhead rails, entry-port, quarterdeck bulwarks^ and counter. Lewrie had not kept track of Kenyon's career, but could only conclude that he either didn't care about the niggling details of decoration, or had no money beyond his naval pay, and could not afford such niceties.