Reefs and Shoals (32 page)

“Quite the street raree,” Mr. Cotton commented, casting a last look down Broad Saint to assure himself that Mollien and his sailors were indeed gone. “One that redounded to Mollien’s loss, ha ha!”

“At the end of a successful performance, one usually rewards the juggler or singer with tuppence, or five pence,” Lewrie said, in good takings now that the fellow was gone. “Should I have tossed him something?”

“Oh, no more than a ha’penny, Sir Alan,” Mr. Cotton snickered. “It wasn’t all that good. Perhaps no more than … ha ha … a
groat
!”

As they were led to their table and took their seats, Lewrie did wonder if Mollien was cleverer at sea than he was at mockery, or quick-witted repartee. Had he goaded the man perhaps a tad too raw? And what would a clever Frog do to get his own back?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Boat, ahoy!” was the shout from
Reliant
’s quarterdeck.

“Aye aye!” the cutter’s bow man called back, showing four fingers in sign that a Post-Captain was aboard. It was absurd, really, for the boat was one of
Reliant
’s cutters, manned by Lewrie’s usual boat’s crew, and had left the frigate not half an hour before, and it would take a blind man not to see Lewrie seated aft by Cox’n Desmond in all his shore-going finery.

The bow man hooked onto the main chain platform with his gaff, and the oars were tossed vertically, then boated. Lewrie carefully made his way to amidships, stood on the gunn’l briefly, seized hold of the after most stays, and stepped aboard by the chain platform, then up the boarding battens. Bosun Sprague’s silver call piped, the crew on watch faced the entry-port and removed their hats in deference, a side-party of seamen and Marines greeted him … and the ship’s dog, Bisquit, went mad with joy, barking, yipping, and dancing about, daring to stand on his hind legs and put paws on Lewrie’s midriff, his tail whipping like a flag in a full gale, and his tongue lolling.

“Welcome back aboard, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, doffing his hat in salute, and trying not to laugh out loud.

“Thankee, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said, ruffling Bisquit on his head and neck with his left hand and doffing with his right. “I
would
stand upon my dignity,… if I could find it. Now, now! Get down, sir, and behave yourself.”

“My apologies for cutting your time ashore short, sir, but, the French schooner began preparations to sail, and—” Westcott began to explain.

“And, you’d’ve preferred to go after her, instanter, but thought leavin’ me behind’d look bad?” Lewrie interrupted, grinning.

“Something like that, sir,” Westcott replied, shrugging. “She made up to a single bower, and hauled in to short stays, beginning about an hour ago. She’s just taken a pilot aboard, and looks ready to weigh, sir.”

“You sent for a pilot, sir?” Lewrie asked, removing a telescope from the compass binnacle cabinet, and going to the larboard side for a closer look at the French vessel.

“I did, sir, but so far—” Westcott said.

“But none have responded, so far, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie posed, sounding tongue-in-cheek and more idly amused than upset. “And, ain’t that just uncanny!”

“Aye, sir.”

“As I suspected,” Lewrie told him over his shoulder, his attention focussed on the activity aboard Mollien’s schooner. “Do we confer with the Sailing Master, I believe we’ll find that she’ll be crossin’ the Charleston Bar just at the peak of high tide, right at slack-water, and, by the time a harbour pilot responds to our request, the tide’ll be on the ebb. We
might
squeak over the bar … not that Mollien
needs
that much depth under his keel, but we
do,
more’s the point. Captain Mollien will think himself a ‘sly-boots’ … but, he ain’t.”

“Mollien, sir? Is that the French captain’s name?” Lt. Westcott asked.

“Aye,” Lewrie told him, shutting the tubes of the telescope and turning in-board to face his First Officer. “Met him last night, him and a brace of his
larger
sailors. He almost ruined a most pleasant and congenial supper party,” Lewrie said with a laugh, filling Lieutenant Westcott in on the confrontation, and on how Mollien had had to slink away with his tail between his legs, fuming. “Lieutenant Gordon of the United States Navy contingent, and his wife, accompanied Mister Cotton and me back to the Consul’s residence afterwards, just in case Mollien felt pettish enough t’waylay me, but nothing happened. I had a good night’s sleep, after that.

“Damme, what’s the dog doin’ on the quarterdeck, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie demanded of a sudden, noting that Bisquit had slunk from the sail-tending gangway to shelter by one of the 32-pounder carronade slides.

“Well … I expect he followed you, sir,” Westcott replied. “He adores everybody, you included,… and has come to expect that anyone coming off-shore has a treat for him.”

“Well, I do,” Lewrie gruffly confessed, “but he’ll get it on the weather deck, not up here. Mister Munsell, attend me, if you please.”

“Aye, sir?” the Midshipman perkily replied.

“See that the dog gets this,” Lewrie directed, digging into his shore-going duffel, “but not on the quarterdeck, hmm?”

“Aye, sir.”

Too late! The aroma of fresh-fried ham on fresh-baked bisquits with gravy, carefully wrapped up in a packet of tarred sailcloth, got the dog to its feet. Instead of peeking longingly from the shelter of the carronade slide, Bisquit sprinted forward and began to prance and whine round Lewrie. Midshipman Munsell took him by the collar to tow him to the starboard ladderway and then to the main deck to feed him his treats.

“The rest of your time ashore went well, dare I ask, sir?” Lt. Westcott enquired.

“Main-well indeed,” Lewrie told him with a pleased expression, further explaining that their Consul, Mr. Cotton, and his supper guest, Mr. Douglas McGilliveray, from one of the great trading houses in the state, and a man who had his finger on the pulse of Charleston commerce, did not suspect that any aid and comfort was being provided to French or Spanish privateers, and that vessels such as Captain Mollien’s
Otarie
rarely called, at all. “No, I think we’ll have to search further South of here, Mister Westcott—Hilton Head Inlet, Stono Inlet, Port Royal, or Savannah, Georgia.”

“Beg pardon, sirs,” Midshipman Rossyngton intruded, “but, the French vessel’s anchor is free, and she’s hoisting sail!”

“Calmly, Mister Rossyngton,” Lewrie cautioned him. “There’s not a thing we can do to stop her. I meant to ask, Mister Westcott,” he went on, turning to the First Officer once more, “if there’s anything out of the ordinary to report whilst I was ashore?”

“Everything went well, sir, with nothing out of the ordinary,” Westcott told him. “Mister Cadbury did say that he and the working-party that went ashore with him
did
get some mild bother from some of the locals, and from a couple of seamen whom he suspected of being off the French schooner, sir, but, after getting a look at your Cox’n and Seaman Furfy, it came to nothing. Some foul looks and a comment or two about Mister Cooke, being Black and all, but Mister Cadbury said that there were many Free Blacks doing business who went about their trades un-molested.”

“Free Black sailors off American ships are one thing, sir, but, a Free Black in Navy uniform,
British
uniform, is quite another, I do expect,” Lewrie breezed off. “So! If we have to wait ’til the next high tide, what do ye suggest we do with the rest of this day, sir?”

“Uhm, there’s some minor painting, sir … touch-ups, mostly,” Westcott speculated. “Minor sail repair, some blocks aloft I’d desire to be greased, and one or two lines in the running rigging that need re-roving, that sort of thing.”

“Mister Cadbury saw to it that we took extra fresh water aboard yesterday?” Lewrie asked, itching to get out of his finery, and back to his usual sea-going rig.

“Aye, sir,” Westcott told him, “with more in the offing, if we desire.”

“Paint and mend, the rest of the Forenoon, then let the ship’s people do their laundry, and ‘Make and Mend’ ’til the end of the First Dog,” Lewrie decided. “I’ll be below.”

Before he could quit the quarterdeck, though, there was Mister Cadbury, the Purser, with his ledger book, and a list of the victuals he had purchased ashore.

“Turnips, Mister Cadbury?” Lewrie enthused. “I’d suppose that it’s too much to ask if ye found Swedes.”

“No Swedes, sir, sorry to say,” the Purser said with a moue of disappointment, “but your garden-variety ’neeps.
Garden
-variety, hah! Lashings of rice, of course, and I obtained field peas, in great quantity … odd ones called black-eyed peas for the black spots on them, along with sweet potatoes. Ehm…” Mr. Cadbury said more softly as he leaned forward, “Cooke tells me the reason they are in such quantity, and available at such low prices is that they, along with their rice, are considered
slave
food, sir. I’m not sure if the hands need to know that … might upset them that we feed them on such?”

“As they say in the Bahamas, though, Mister Cadbury, ‘it eats good’,” Lewrie said with a chuckle. “With fresh butter, baked sweet potatoes will be a treat, and with ham hocks or salt pork, the boiled peas will be hot and filling.”

“Very good, sir,” Mr. Cadbury agreed.

The French schooner’s fore-and-aft sails were fully hoisted by then, and she was beginning to make a slow way, with some musicians aboard her skreaking or thumping out their revolutionary anthem once more, and her crew roaring the words,
hurling
the bellicose words, at HMS
Reliant.

On-watch or off-watch,
Reliant
’s people would not stand for it, and began to jeer and hold up their fingers aloft in insult, shouting a cacophany of curses across the cable that separated their ships.

Lewrie would
not
dignify her departure with the use of a telescope, though he did stand and watch her go, with his hands clasped in the small of his back.

“
Au revoir, sangliants!
” came a shout from
Otarie
, amplified through a brass speaking-trumpet. Captain Mollien was having the last word.

“Oh, sir!” Midshipman Rossyngton gasped. “
Sangliant
refers to womens’, ladies’ … monthly…!”

“The French are crude, sir,” Lewrie stiffly told him. “And I’m surprised ye know of such.”

“
Au revoir
,
Capitaine
,
vous salaud
!” Mollien shouted. “
Pédale
!”

“Trumpet, Mister Rossyngton!” Lewrie snapped, and one was fetched from the binnacle cabinet.

Up forward, Lt. Spendlove and Lt. Merriman were beginning to lead the crew in a lusty, though not very musical, rendition of “Rule, Britannia”. Lewrie hoped that Mollien could hear him over that din.

“Hoy, Mollien!” Lewrie shouted to the schooner, “
Vous absurde petit bouffon
 …
vous ridicule petit merdeux! Va te faire foutre!
”

Midshipman Rossyngton burst into peals of laughter, though his cheeks and ears turned red from shock; it was not every day that one heard a dignified senior officer call someone “an absurd little clown” or “a ridiculous little shit”, and certainly not telling another—even a Frenchman—to “Go fuck yourself!”

“Ye see, Mister Rossyngton,” Lewrie said with a feral smile as he handed the speaking-trumpet back, “sometimes ye
have
t’match crude with crude.”

Didn’t know I could string that much French together
, Lewrie congratulated himself.
And when we
do
run him down and take him, I’m going to ram those insults of his down his God-damned throat!

“That’s enough,” Lewrie ordered as the French schooner sailed beyond easy earshot. “That’ll do, Mister Westcott. Let’s get people back to their duties.”

“Very good, sir,” Lt. Westcott crisply responded, though still grinning over the crew’s response, and Lewrie’s surprising outburst.

Lewrie went down the starboard ladderway to the main deck, and turned aft to enter his cabins, already tugging at the knot of his neck-stock. Bisquit leaped to his feet, his feast done, looking for more, for Lewrie still had some sliced ham in his duffel for the cats. He planted himself in front of the door, tail thrashing, and Lewrie took time to pet his head and shoulders, and ruffle his neck fur, before reaching for the door. The Marine sentry presented his musket as Lewrie opened it, and the dog darted in in an eye blink.

“Oh no, dog, that’s off-limits!” Lewrie snapped, pursuing him inside. “That’s quite enough! Pettus, catch him and shoo him out!”

Bisquit did a quick trot round the forbidden cabins, sniffing at everything, as if he knew his time was limited; the carpets atop the chequered deck canvas, the canvas itself, the desk in the day-cabin, the hanging bed-cot, the upholstery on the transom settee and the starboard-side settee and chairs, then into the dining-coach, where Lewrie’s cats had dashed in panic to take shelter atop the side-board and hiss and spit. When the dog paused long enough to put his paws on the side-board and utter playful noises to entice the cats, Pettus caught him by the collar and led him, only a bit unwillingly, to the door. Damned if the silly beast wasn’t
grinning
, tugging towards Lewrie and looking up at him with mischief, and gratitude perhaps, for his shore treat, before Pettus put him outside and shut the door.

“He likes you, sir,” Pettus said with a lop-sided grin.

“He likes everybody,” Lewrie growled, “the Bosun, the Master-at-Arms, the ‘duck fucker’ of the manger, even the Purser’s Jack-In-The-Breadroom—anybody who’ll give him the time o’day.”