Since Brasseur didn't usually put in on the north shore of the river Gironde he knew little of the doings at the St. Georges fort or the weight of its guns he had seen the artillery barged in over the last year, and thought they might have been long eighteens, or twenty-fours, but could not say with certainty.
Yes, barges laden with Dordogne stone put into his home port of Le Verdon sur Mer, and he had never seen an escort, and it was a rare thing to see a sail-driven or galley-style oared gunboat near Pointe de Grave, nor many light warships, either.
And, yes, Brasseur had sometimes sailed along "the Savage Coast" to go up to Marennes or La Tremblade on the far side of the peninsula, mostly to trade for salt so he could preserve some of his catch, but he had never overnighted on the windward beaches, so could not confirm the presence of a freshwater stream or pool. Pine trees for firewood? But, of course there were! he had assured Lewrie.
Lewrie could barely contain his rising excitement 'til Papin, or Brasseur, or both, fetched back news from shore. Newspapers! Lewrie chid himself again, though he'd all but tied a string round his finger to recall the need for recent French papers, and what they might inadvertantly reveal.
No more, just these two, Lewrie silently decided as HMS Savage slowly loafed her way seaward for the night, into the beginnings of a spectacularly fiery sunset. Too many pointed questions of too many of the local fishermen, and suspicions would be roused with the local authorities; too much coin doled out, and just one drunken fisherman who had cooperated, and Savage would be swampedby others eager to earn a golden guinea with just any sort of fantasy or moonshine!
If Papin and Brasseur brought back good tidings, he could come up with a workable plan to lay before Ayscough, who was always ready for a good scrap; perhaps a good-enough plan to entice Rear-Admiral Lord Boxham to participate, too, before he died of boredom out beyond the horizon, yearning with drawn daggers for the French to sortie.
Jules Papin; could he trust him? So far, he'd proved greedily honest, and what little he had related was true. An amoral man without a jot of patriotism, with his eyes ever on the main chance.
Jean Brasseur? Lewrie wondered. A fellow in need of money, but a disappointed patriot, as well. At least Brasseur had not attempted to spin a fool's tale, had freely admitted what he did not know, and could not say with assurance. Take what both say with a grain o'salt, aye, Lewrie speculated; that'dbe safest.
They agree, all well and good. Their accounts vary too much, then… Christ, what'll I do, then?If they do, though … !
Lewrie resisted the urge to chew on a thumbnail as he pondered what he wished to accomplish, clapping both hands in the small of his back and rocking on the balls of his booted feet, instead; wondering if he might be aspiring to too much.
Not just a landing by the Pointe de Grave battery to drive off the workers and officers, so he could blow it apart, no; there was the completed small lunette fort by St. Georges de Didonne, too. With any luck at all, there might be barges in Le Verdon's harbour to take or burn. With enough force devoted to the endeavour-and he'd have to talk a blue streak to see that there was!-a landing could be made by Royan. A quick march behind the St. Georges fort, an assault from the unguarded land side (pray God that Papin could tell him for sure!) so he could spike all those guns, as well, lay charges to topple those ramparts, rout both garrisons, and sail out with prisoners… perhaps-peut-etre\- even stay ashore long enough to barge the artillery out to sea and scuttle them, or have enough Marines to meet any relief column on the shore road from Tal-mont and give them a bloody nose, to boot?
Hopeless/ Bloody daft.1 Lewrie irritably thought, reining in his galloping imaginings;yet… it beats waitin't'hear 'bout my legal troubles, or a recall t'face trial!… don't it bloody-just!
There was also a nagging qualm that would not stay tamped down; am I doin' all this 'cause it needs doin'? Or, am I so desp 'rate for glory t 'keep me from the hangman?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The task of wooding and watering at Papin's indicated spring required a good part of the day, with Savage anchored half a mile offshore of the lonely and heavily forested Cote Sauvage, parallel to the beaches with the best bower and heaviest stern kedge anchor down, with springs on the cables. The starboard side guns were manned, and, by tightening or loosing the spring-lines, HMS Savage could be swung to bring fire against any threat that emerged from the woods.
All the ship's boats were led from towing astern, or hoisted off the boat-tier beams that spanned the breadth of the hull, swung out by employing the main course yard as a crane, then loaded with the oldest water casks, the ones whose contents had gone whisky-tan and so reeky as to make the stored water a punishment to drink, and giving a sickly taste to any rations boiled up in it.
From the first peek of dawn to long after the mid-day meal, the working-parties hewed and chopped wood, gathering dryer deadfall limbs and twigs for kindling, taking down manageable-sized younger trees for cordwood, hacking and splitting them to thigh-long lengths. The inside of each huge water butt was scoured clean of slime with salt water and beach sand, rinsed, then trundled inland to the freshwater creek and a spring that Jules Papin had vaguely pointed to on a chart, filled, and trundled back to the beach, to be rowed out to the frigate, then labouriously hoisted aboard for storage in the bilges, on the orlop, with the cordwood and kindling crammed between to keep them from shifting.
Least the sea's kind, Lewrie thought as he took off his hat and mopped his brow on a shirtsleeve… then felt like spitting for luck. Though the skies had clouded over by mid-morning, and the height of the incoming waves breaking on the barren beaches had risen a foot or so, his frigate was not yet pitching, heaving, and rolling, and threatening to pluck her anchors from the sandy bottom and drive aground sideways. The ship's boats, working in Savage's calmer lee, made good time fetching their heavy cargoes back alongside, and the scend that rolled under the keel still allowed the landsmen doing the heavy pulley-hauley work to hoist the refilled butts up and over the side and into the holds.
"Still no sign of trouble, Mister Devereux?" Lewrie asked of his Marine officer.
"The sentries have yet to report any movement along the road, sir," Lt. Devereux replied. He had landed with two files of Marines, twenty men in all, leaving Sgt. Skipwith aboard with the other half of the Marine complement. Cpl. Plymouth, with ten Marines, was posted in a wide arc about two musket shots to the east of the spring, for a close guard over the working-parties. Cpl. Dudley, with another ten Marines, Devereux had posted even deeper into the woods to keep watch over the rough sand and dirt track that lay a mile further east, to alert them to any threat coming along that road. "I must allow, sir, that this is the most amazing thing, to actually be standing on the foes' home ground."
"Pray God, sir, do we land in France again, we meet just as dull a reception," Lewrie joshed. "But, aye… it does feel daring, to be here."