A Hard, Cruel Shore Read online

  Looking closer aboard, Lewrie could see that the cutter was well under way with her loose-footed sail bellied out, slowly making way towards the nearest fishing boat, whose crew was at least still hauling in their latest cast of their nets, perhaps more intent upon one last haul than a quick escape. There was Crawley at the tiller right aft, and Marine Lt. Roe next to him, in waistcoat and shirtsleeves with his collar spread sans neck-stock. Roe had put his hat on, but that was as militant and threatening as he went.

  After a time, Roe stood up with one hand on Crawley’s shoulder, and waving his hat with the other. How d’ye say it, Lewrie thought; Hola, senores? Hav-ee fresco pescados? Or, something like that. Damn all foreign tongues!

  The lugs’l was handed and the cutter coasted quite near the fishing boat while the fishermen strained to haul aboard what looked to be a promising weight of catch. They didn’t look up or pay Roe much attention ’til the last yard or two of their net was aboard, then stood up, merely looking curious.

  Now’s the crux, Lewrie told himself, even more intent on his telescope, seating himself on the flag lockers with his day-glass resting on the taffrail cap-rail, wishing he could hear what was being said even if Spanish wasn’t in him, wishing he was closer so he could detect any treachery, any ambush by Spaniards currying favour with their occupiers, like the anfresados in Madrid who had kissed Bonaparte’s arse and had sold out their wretched people.

  The better part of an hour passed, before Sapphire’s cutter could complete its two-way journey and return near the ship. At last, Lewrie closed the tubes of his telescope and stood up, thinking that it would be best if he did not appear too eager to hear the results. He trotted down to the quarterdeck and entered his cabins, quickly finding a half-read book, flung himself on the settee, and pretended to be engrossed and above it all.

  “Boat ahoy!” a Midshipman shouted, as if a Viking dragon boat had popped up, as if it was not plainly evident that it was theirs.

  “Returning!” he could hear Crawley bellow back.

  Navy ritual, my God, Lewrie thought, shaking his head.

  Sure enough, the Marine sentry at his door stamped boots and musket butt on the deck and shouted to announce Midshipman Fywell.

  “Enter!” Lewrie called back, striving for “unconcerned”.

  “Mister Harcourt’s duty, sir, and I’m to inform you that the cutter is coming alongside … with fresh fish, sir!”

  “My compliments to Mister Harcourt, and inform him that I’ll be on deck, directly, Mister Fywell,” Lewrie replied, fulfilling his own part in the ritual. “A lot of fish, is it?” he asked, marking the last page he had “read”, and getting to his feet.

  “Rather a lot, aye sir!” Fywell said with an impish grin.

  “Very well, you may go,” Lewrie bade him, snatched his old hat off a peg, and followed the Midshipman out to the quarterdeck.

  Lt. Roe had just scampered up the boarding battens and man-ropes to the deck, looking as pleased as punch.

  “Ah, Mister Roe, how did your negotiations go?” Lewrie idly asked him.

  “Quite well, sir … swimmingly well, if you will pardon the pun,” Lt. Roe boasted, “though my schoolboy Castilian Spanish gave me a bit of a problem, at first. The locals speak a Galician dialect, and one of them even spoke Basque, which is totally incomprehensible, another tongue entirely. I spent all your coin, sir, sorry, but I obtained quite a lot. Sea bass, I think some of them are, a basket of sardines…”

  “The French, Mister Roe?” Lewrie pressed.

  “There are three French merchantmen far up the bay between San Vicente and Comillas, even as we speak, sir!” Lt. Roe crowed. “The Spaniards say that they only put to sea just after sundown, and sail as far as they can before dawn, then put into shelter before we Anglais pirates snatch them up! It seems that someone frightened them out of their boots, hah hah!”

  “What sort o’ ships?” Lewrie gruffly pressed.

  “Uhm, I gathered that they were all brig-rigged, sir,” Lt. Roe replied, “and the Spanish fishermen said that they were not all that big. They say that large ships are rare along this coast since Spain got invaded.”

  “Hmm, about what we saw on our last cruise,” Lewrie surmised, rubbing his chin. “No escorts?”

  “None that they’ve seen putting in anywhere along this part of the coast, so far, sir,” Roe told him, then blurted out, “They asked for arms, sir, anything we could spare. The French have gone through all the coastal towns and villages and rounded up all the weapons they could find, but the Spanish still find ways to ambush them or cut lone soldiers’ throats. I sense they’d rise up if they had the means.”

  “Well, arms’d do these poor Devils no good, Mister Roe. The French would slaughter them, and their families, if they did rise up, and that in short order,” Lewrie dismissed quickly. “There are organised bands inland who fare better, ’cause they can dash back into the mountains, but this lot … they wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “But,” he said, perking up, “we can always recommend the idea to Mister Mountjoy back in Lisbon, and see what he can make of it. As for us … hmm,” Lewrie said, looking up at the commissioning pendant, then out to sea to ascertain the weather and sea state. “We need to encourage those three brigs to set sail this evening, and to do that, we should sail on East, out of sight, first. Mister Harcourt? Get way on the ship, if ye please, course Due East, under easy sail.”

  “Very good, sir!” Lt. Harcourt piped up.

  “Well done, Mister Roe,” Lewrie said, “and I trust there’s a fine, fat fish in your ‘catch’ for my supper?”

  “Thank you, sir, and I’m certain that there is,” Roe replied, doffing his hat in salute, visibly pleased to be praised.

  Now, how to catch me three brigs, Lewrie thought as he went back to the poop deck and his collapsible chair as Lt. Harcourt issued orders for getting Sapphire under way.

  * * *

  Sapphire sailed on, slowly edging seaward ’til she was ten miles off Santander, then altered course Nor’easterly as the sun declined that late afternoon. Once at least twelve miles off the coast, she came back on the winds, bound West, on starboard tack, slanting back to where she had started, so that by half-past seven of the evening, swallowed by the darkness and with all lanthorns doused, she was off Comillas once more.

  Should’ve asked about semaphore towers, Lewrie fretted as he paced the poop deck, now and then stumbling over ring-bolts and the odd protuberance; The bloody French just love the bastards, and if Santander warned ports up and down the coast.…

  Sapphire’s re-appearance off Santander after a respite of at least a fortnight surely would have forced what French merchantmen were in that port to stay put for that night, but would the three brigs up that inlet near Comillas be that wary, or would they feel safe enough to put to sea and try to make it all the way to Gijon before dawn?

  Santander and Gijon, Viviero and Ortigueira were good places to land their supplies, before Cape Ortegal and the ports of Ferrol and Corunna, he reckoned; perhaps they didn’t have that much farther to go before reaching the end of their voyage. What if they were unloading that very hour up near San Vicente de la Barquera, and would not have to come out?

  Lewrie’s fingers flexed on the hilt of his everyday hanger. He ran a hand over the brace of double-barrelled Manton pistols in the band of his breeches. HMS Sapphire had gone to Quarters a bit after full dark, and the arms chests had been unlocked and opened. Gun crews stood or slouched at their pieces with the gun-ports still shut, and the red battle lanthorns lit. Lookouts were aloft, long after they should have descended to the deck, and more lookouts were posted along the bulwarks, peering into the darkness.

  Lewrie looked aloft, but the night was too dark to make out the commissioning pendant, or much of anything else. There was no moon, and an overcast had blown in from the Atlantic that masked the starlight, so that the only illumination was the tiny glim-like lights ashore in the small seaports, fishing villages, and farmhouses that
lay between them.

  “Well, if we can’t see them, they can’t see us,” Mr. Yelland the Sailing Master said in a stage-whisper to Lt. Westcott below on the quarterdeck. “There’s a hellish-small blessing, hah.”

  “On a night this dark, they must be at least twelve miles off the coast,” Lt. Westcott sourly grumbled in a matching loud whisper. “Where away now, Mister Yelland?”

  “By dead-reckoning, we must be off Llanes or Ribadesella by now,” Yelland told the First Lieutenant, between yawns. Over the sounds of the ship working and the wind in the rigging, Lewrie could make out their footfalls on the oaken deck, and the squeak of the First Officer’s new boots.

  “Ehm … somethin’ out there, sir,” a larboard side lookout near the main mast shrouds spoke up, sounding hesitant. “Somethin’ ’tween the shore lights, seven points off th’ larboard beam!”

  Several night-glasses snapped open, sweeping back and forth from the bow to almost amidships, looking for something that might occlude the wee lights ashore, for something darker than the night.

  “I think…” Lewrie muttered, cursing the night-glass for its tendency to show everything upside-down and backwards. “I’ve got one, two points abaft amidships! And close, by God!”

  The watch officers swung their telescopes abaft to confirm, and after a long moment, Lewrie could hear grunts of surprise.

  “No more than two cables off, I think, sir,” Lt. Westcott announced, “two points off the larboard quarter. The trailer? And, there’s another, seven points off the larboard bows. Black as my boots, but they’re there. Now, where’s the third one?”

  “Crack on a bit more sail, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie snapped, “I wish to fall down on the one almost abeam, and cut her off.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Westcott eagerly said. “Pass word aloft to shake out the reefs in the fore and main tops’l’s!”

  Slowly, slowly, Sapphire began to gather a bit more speed over the ground, edging ahead of the leading shadow, out-footing it and laying it one point, then two points aft of abeam.

  “Helm up, Quartermasters,” Lewrie called down to the men at the helm, “ease us down on her. Mister Westcott, pass word to the gun decks to be ready to run out. I want t’hammer this’un, and put the fear o’ God in ’em.”

  Once one knew that they were there, they were easier to make out, those two brigs, darker-than-night blobs. One could almost slap one’s forehead and go “Duhh!” for being so blind before.

  “A cable, I make it, sir,” Westcott reckoned at last after a long look with his night-glass, “two points aft of abeam.”

  “Order the ports opened and the guns run-out,” Lewrie snapped, grinning evilly at how the French would react when two rows of reddish light suddenly appeared like the eyes of a pack of demons.

  “Upper deck ready … lower deck ready!” was shouted up from below.

  “By broadside … fire, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie yelled, and quickly shut his eyes to preserve his night vision.

  Twenty-two guns, 12-pounders and 24-pounders, erupted with a titanic roar to shatter the peace of the night, amber jets of flame stabbing outward through fire-lit clouds of powder smoke and swirling bits of burning lint from the cartridge bags and wadding. Above all that, a second or two later, came the welcome sound of shot striking wood, punching holes into the French brig with the shrieking sounds of terrified parrots.

  The guns were sponged out, gun-captains’ leather thumb-stalls placed over the touch-holes to prevent air entering the gun tubes to make a flash burst among the smouldering remnants of wadding, cartridge bags, and any remaining powder. Once done, fresh cartridges were fetched up and inserted, then wadding, then roundshot, then more wadding. Before HMS Sapphire could start to rumble and shake as the carriages were run back up to the port sills, there was a new parroty screech off their larboard side, a longer, wrenching sound of wooden agony, and the dim shape of a blackened ship against the lights ashore changed, losing part of itself. Her foremast had been shot clean through, and was falling into the sea alee, slowing her so quickly that it seemed that Sapphire dashed past her like a race horse.

  “Hold fire!” Lewrie yelled, looking for the trailing ship, but could not find her. He swung his telescope back in search of their first victim, just in time to see her taffrail lanthorns and deck lamps springing to life, enough light for everyone to make out the large white sheet being stretched from her mainmast shrouds as she struck.

  “Helm up, give us three points alee,” Lewrie ordered, “ease sheets and braces!” and Sapphire turned shoreward, sweeping past the bows of the crippled brig by at least a full cable, leaving her to wallow astern.

  “There she is, sir!” Lt. Westcott shouted, pointing off the larboard quarters. Yes, the suddenly bright lights of their first target’s taffrail lanthorns threw just enough light to make her out, frantically wheeling about off the wind to perform a panicky wear-about to get shoreward, perhaps get into Rebadesella before the terrible Anglais “Devil ship” got her.

  “Two cables off, d’ye make it, sirs?” Lewrie demanded.

  “About that, sir,” Mr. Yelland opined.

  “Give her fire, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie ordered, his blood up.

  “Aye, sir. Pass word below,” Westcott snapped to the Mids waiting nearby, “tell them to aim small, and fire as they bear, bow to stern. Run, lads!”

  “Another point alee, quartermasters,” Lewrie called out as the second brig began to become indistinct once more, wearing out of what light there was. “Thus! Steady!”

  “As you bear … fire!” Westcott howled.

  Blam-Boom! First the upper gun deck 12-pounder would fire, quickly followed by the lower deck 24-pounder below it, marching the full larboard broadside down the ship’s side, and Lewrie just had to trust that his gunners were taking time to aim and adjust their elevation with the quoin blocks in their own eagerness to hit the foe.

  Almost like firin’ blind, Lewrie despaired, slamming a hand on the cap-rail of the larboard bulwark; Shootin’ at spooks!

  The night winds were not all that strong, though as any night wind was, it was steady, which meant that the vast bank of powder smoke took ages to blow clear, a fog in which the French brig might yet escape, lost to view completely.

  “Lights, sir!” Westcott yelled. “She’s lit her taffrail lanthorns! She’s showing a white flag of some kind, and she’s lowered her Tricolour! By God, she’s struck, too!”

  “Secure the guns, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie called down to the quarterdeck, ready to titter with glee despite the damage it might do to his dignity. “Get the way off the ship, fetch us to, haul up boats for boarding parties, quick as you can. Let’s light all our lanthorns, too. Before the bastards think to change their minds!”

  “What did you say the last time, sir?” Lt. Westcott called up from the quarterdeck. “Two out of three ain’t all that bad, was it?”

  “Birds in the hand, sir,” Lewrie chortled, “birds in the hand.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “All in all, it’s quite a haul, sir,” Lt. Elmes said as he reported the results of his search of the captured ships’ manifests. “The Arabelle, yonder, is full of foodstuffs, salt-meats, bisquit, flour, and the usual bottled soups and sauces, along with tentage, blankets, leather goods, and several thousand pairs of boots and shoes.”

  “Let the bastards hobble in their stocking feet,” Lewrie said with a firm nod of his head.

  “Barefoot, more like, sir,” Lt. Elmes cheerfully told him, “for there are bales and bales of stockings aboard her, as well. Shirts, trousers, uniform coats, winter greatcoats…”

  “Naked and barefoot, hah!” Lewrie chortled. “Better and better!”

  “The other brig, sir,” Elmes went on, “the Cheval Rouge, has a dozen twelve-pounder artillery pieces, their limbers, caissons and gun-tools stowed below, along with two armourers’ forges, uhm … several sets of spare wheels,” Elmes added, consulting the captured ships’ papers for a second, “dozens of sets,
rather, and the bodies of six field waggons, along with all the harnesses.”

  “And gunpowder?” Lewrie asked.

  “Ah, no sir, nothing kegged,” Elmes told him, “though there are at least two thousand muskets in crates, and about eighty thousand rounds of pre-made paper cartridges. And, there’s tobacco. At least three tons of cake, twist, shag tobacco for pipes, and cases of cigarros … uhm, marked as American or Spanish exports.”

  “Cigarros, did you say, sir?” Lt. Westcott piped up, looking delighted at the un-looked-for chance to replenish his thin stock of smoking materials. “I doubt the Prize-Court would miss a box or two.”

  “Three tons!” Lewrie marvelled, “that’ll make the Purser a very happy man. Even the dead men will be pleased.”

  British sailors were not big on cigarros, but a fair number of any ship’s crew would have clay pipes, and aboard Sapphire, even the ship’s boys chewed when they could afford Mr. Cadrick’s prices. And Pursers were always suspected of padding the accounts of men who were Discharged, Run as deserters, or Discharged, Dead with spurious purchases to skim a few more shillings of profit.

  Hmm, which to burn, or sink, Lewrie thought as he strolled off a few paces with his hands in the small of his back; Our Army, or the Portuguese, would find both cargoes useful. Fetch a pretty penny at the Prize-Court, too. They’d snatch everything up in an eyeblink!

  Keeping both prizes, though, would rob Sapphire of at least two dozen hands, several senior petty officers, and two Midshipmen.

  This early into the cruise, one of them would have to go.

  Lewrie looked aloft then seaward to gauge the weather and the sea state, then gave both prizes a long look.

  “Mister Westcott, we’re going to sink the prize with all the artillery and such aboard,” Lewrie announced, turning back to face his officers. “Before we do, though, I wish some of her cargo to be shifted to the other prize, the muskets and cartidges … and, all of the tobacco. Most especially the tobacco. I wish some of it, the shag, and the chewing tobacco, brought aboard Sapphire. Send for Mister Cadrick.”