Kings and Emperors (10 page)

“Let's go aft,” Lewrie suggested to them.

Fywell had made a rough chart of Tetuán's docks, with pointed ovals to represent the vessels in port. “Here, sir,” Lt. Harcourt said, tapping the biggest with a forefinger. “That's an armed ship, a Barbary Corsair, sure as Fate. I counted at least eight gun-ports, and a crew of at least sixty. Dirty looks they gave us, from one and all.”

“And a flood of threats and curses in their tongue, too, sir,” Midshipman Fywell stuck in.

“Along here and here, the vessels are mostly
feluccas,
lateen-rigged, filthy, and begging for paint, crewed by locals, or traders from Tangier,” Harcourt went on. “Further up the inlet beyond the quays, there are some clutches of much smaller boats, all drying their fishing nets. But over
here,
though … there are two good-sized lateeners,
but,
they've European crews, not a Arab in sight aboard them.”

“And they were
very
shy of the sight of us, sir,” Fywell said with a laugh. “They
must
be Spaniards.”

“Were they taking on cargo?” Lewrie asked.

“Sacks of grain, sheep and goats, dried fruit, and sugar, is what it looked like, sir,” Harcourt said, sounding very sure. “They may even grow coffee round here, so they may have bought that, too.”

“Some bigger slabs of meat, wrapped in cloth, don't forget, Mister Harcourt,” Fywell said. “If they had no room aboard for live cattle, it looked like they were taking on whole sides of beef.”

“I need no prompting, Mister Fywell,” Harcourt snapped. “I was about to mention them.”

“Aye, sir,” Fywell replied, blushing and shrugging into his coat to be chid before Lewrie.

“Two of 'em,” Lewrie said. “Makin' a weekly run? Or, do the Dons have four or more, alternating supply runs, not wishing to risk all of 'em bein' snapped up in one go, I wonder? Hmm.”

“We could take them, sir, soon as the sun's down,” Lt. Harcourt eagerly suggested.

“Not in a sovereign, foreign port, no,” Lewrie dis-agreed. “Not if Dalrymple needs friendship with the Sultan at Tangier. Why, he'd have our heads on pikes if we upset the Moroccans! No, we'll wait 'til they're at sea, no matter
how
close they hug the coast. And they won't dare sail 'til we're gone and out of sight. Mister Fywell, did you go to the markets with the Purser?”

“No sir, I kept a close eye on our hands, at the cutter,” Fywell replied. “Mister Harcourt told me to keep them out of trouble.”

“I'd admire did you pass word for the Purser to come to see me, at once,” Lewrie urged the Midshipman. “Off you go!”

“The Purser, sir?” Lt. Harcourt questioned.

“Well, he obviously bought the ship
something
whilst ashore, Mister Harcourt,” Lewrie said in a biting drawl. “How much, and when it is to be delivered will depend on how long we must stay at anchor.”

“Oh, I see, sir,” Harcourt said, crestfallen at the delay.

He's a damned good sailor, a good officer, but my
Lord,
he's a dullard!
Lewrie thought.

“The Spanish have long experience with lateen-rigged vessels,” Lewrie said to fill the time 'til the Purser arrived. “Picked 'em up from the Moors, and built their war-galleys on the designs of
xebecs.
When we were chasin' privateers off Cuba a couple of years ago, they were a common sight along the coast.”

“Indeed, sir,” Harcourt said, with a brow up as if he felt that his leg was being pulled. “But only 'til they learned the advantages of square-rigged ships, I'd imagine.”

“You've never seen a lateener thrash to windward, closer than any of our ships could sail,” Lewrie countered.

Thump-crash
of musket butt and boots. “Th' Pusser t'see th' Cap'm, SAH!” from the Marine sentry.

“Enter!” Lewrie called out, glad of the interruption.

“You sent for me, sir?” Mister Cadrick, their paunchy Purser, said, stepping inside with his hat in his hands. He was as well-fed and sleek as a tavernkeeper, and had always made Lewrie think that he ran a prosperous “fiddle,” no matter how well his books balanced.

“What did we buy ashore, Mister Cadrick?” Lewrie asked. “And, do we have to await delivery?”

“An hundredweight of flour, sir,” Cadrick easily ticked off, “two bullocks, four sheep, a dozen chickens, and small lots of goods for the wardroom, mostly coffee beans, spices, and fruit. Neither your cook nor your steward made any requests, else I would have gotten some items for your needs, sir.”

“How long before the goods come aboard, Mister Cadrick?” Lewrie asked him.

“A-rabs have their own sense of time, sir,” Cadrick said with a dismissive laugh. “
Inshallah,
they say, ‘God willing,' which I took for sometime in the afternoon, perhaps by the start of the First Dog.”

“Stringy bullocks, most-like?” Lewrie wondered aloud. “That means those two will only make one meal for a crew this size. Hmm, slaughterin' 'em, carvin' 'em into eight-pound chunks for each mess, and the pumpin' and sluicin' the decks clean, after … We'll remain at anchor overnight, then, keepin' a close-eyed watch on those Spanish boats in the harbour, and that damned Corsair.”

“Very good, sir,” Cadrick said, bobbing his head. “Would you be interested in some of the goods, sir? There are dates, honey, and coffee beans, some of that
couscous
—”

“A bit of each, sir … along with a good-sized beef steak,” Lewrie said, perking up.

“A pound of dates, a crock of honey, and say, a five-pound bag of coffee beans, for … oh … two pounds, sir?” Cadrick said, looking crafty.

“Sounds good, Mister Cadrick,” Lewrie agreed, sure that he was being over-charged, even so. “You may go, and thankee. Don't forget the steak!”

“We won't act tonight, sir?” Lt. Harcourt asked, disappointed.

“If the winds allow, we'll up-anchor round two in the morning, hopefully as quiet as mice, Mister Harcourt,” Lewrie told him. “And hope to be off Ceuta's piers, close to the coast, just before dawn.”

“
Then
the boat-work, and cutting-out parties, sir?” Harcourt asked, perking up at the hint of action.

“Hopefully, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Once the bullocks've been slaughtered, and the decks are clean, I'll send for all officers, and we'll thrash things out together.”

“Very good, sir!” Lt. Harcourt said, taking his leave.

Lewrie bent over the desk, ready to go to the chart room for another peek at the old chart of the North African coast, but halted. Something in Midshipman Fywell's rough sketches caught his eyes, something he'd missed the first time round.

“Just damn my eyes!” he spat as he shuffled through them.

Fywell's quick pencilled impressions of the suspected Corsair showed a three-masted
xebec,
and the two Spanish “boats” that Harcourt had described as
feluccas
were not small single-masted lateeners, but two-masted
dhows,
much bigger than little
feluccas!
The figures that Fywell had shown on their decks made him think that both were about sixty or seventy feet in length, which left bags of room aboard for crews large enough to put up a stiff resistance to any attempt at boarding them, even in the wee hours.

It was like mistaking a brig for a gig!

Scheme yer way outta
this,
ye damned fool!
Lewrie chid himself.

He'd promised action by dawn, and should it have to be abandoned, or attempted and result in failure, he'd look like the biggest idiot in all Creation!

 

CHAPTER NINE

He'd dined alone after the long meeting with Lieutenants Westcott, Harcourt, and Elmes, and Marine Lieutenants Keane and Roe. The steak was fresh and juicy, though a bit tough going. Yeovill found some wrinkled old potatoes, had cut out the bad bits, and made him a spicy hash, with some chick peas and flat local bread, all sloshed down with a very passable Spanish red. Yeovill had done an appetiser with the chick peas, sesame oil, lemon juice, and garlic in which he could dip shreds of the bread, something Arabic he called
hummus.
A few of the preserved pitted dates made a superbly sweet pudding, too.

Chalky was not deprived, either, getting hashed potatoes along with some steak ground after roasting to manageable bites, while Bisquit got strips of meat, and a meaty bone to gnaw after, so he didn't go after Chalky's bowl.

After a turn on deck in the cool darkness, a look at the sky, and an observation of the night's moon, Lewrie determined that their attempt
might
be disguised 'til the last moment. The moon had risen just at dusk, and would be almost below the horizon by three in the morning. There was a slight overcast by the end of the First Dog Watch at 6
P.M.
, which might thicken during the night. The Sailing Master, Mr. Yelland, had cautiously concurred.

By nine in the evening,
Sapphire
went dark. Her Master-At-Arms, Mr. Baggett, and his Ship's Corporals, Wray and Packer, had gone round ordering the extinguishing of all candles, lanthorns, and glims belowdecks, and the soft amber glows from the gun-ports opened for fresh air disappeared. Below the thick bulwarks, and hopefully out of sight, there remained one tiny glim up by the forecastle belfry so a ship's boy could see his sand-glasses and ring the bells at the proper time, and one glim in the compass binnacle cabinet. Out of the ordinary, and also hopefully un-noticed by anyone ashore, the large taffrail lanthorns were not lit.
Sapphire
was a black mass in a night as black as a boot.

Lewrie napped in his darkened cabins, fully-clothed upon his settee, not
sleeping
exactly, for his mind was going like a galloping Cambridge coach. He might have drifted off for ten minutes at a stretch, at best, before a new worry arose, snapping him back awake. Midnight's Eight Bells were struck, beginning the long, dark Middle Watch. He did drift off and missed the single stroke of half-past midnight, but came round as Two Bells was struck at 1
A.M.
A moment later, and there was a knock on his door.

“Midshipman Hillhouse, sir!” the Marine sentry called out, much softer than usual.

“Enter!” Lewrie called back, rising from his impromptu bed.

“Sir, those two Spanish boats are moving!” Hillhouse said in an excited rush as he entered the cabins. “The lookouts spotted them just this instant, coming down the inlet from the quays against the few lights burning in the town.”

“No pipes, Mister Hillhouse,
pass
the word for All Hands, and take stations to raise the anchor!” Lewrie told him in a conspiratorial whisper. “Off ye go, instanter!”

“Aye aye, sir!”

Belowdecks, the Bosun and his Mates would be rousing sailors from their hammocks and urging them to the fore capstan, where the long bars had been shipped in place before Lights Out, surely a give-away to one and all that something out of the ordinary would happen; else, hunting them up and shipping them into the pigeon-holes and the drop-bolts fitted, and the light “swifter” line passed through the outer ends of the bars, much less finding the mauls to fleet the messenger cable round the capstan drum, would have been chaos in the dark.

“Fore capstan manned and ready, sir,” Lieutenant Westcott reported a few minutes later. “Messenger's fleeted, and the nippers are standing by.”

“Very well, Mister Westcott, let's have 'em breast to the bars at once. Once the bower's free, I'll have spanker, all jibs, and all stays'ls set t'get a way on her.” Lewrie ordered, “No music, mind! Let's keep it as quiet as possible.”

There was
supposed
to be good holding ground off Tetuán, according to the Sailing Master's books, so
Sapphire
had come to anchor in six fathoms of water, and had paid out a five-to-one scope, meaning the men at the capstan bars only had to haul in 180 feet of cable. It would not be noiseless, though. The capstan pawls clanked as loud as pistol-shots, the thick cable groaned as it came slowly in against the hawsehole's lower rim, and even horny bare sailors' feet drummed on the decks. Despite the need for quiet, the ship's boy “nippers” just
had
to stumble and argue with each other as they dashed back and forth to nip the lighter messenger line to the cable, follow it near to the drum of the capstan, then dash to nip on again to seize onto a freshly-revealed length of cable. And the drumming of the mauls fleeting the messenger up the capstan drum put Lewrie in mind of a dance among the Muskogee Indians in Spanish Florida ages before!

“Short stays!” the word came from the forecastle, followed a very long moment later by “Up and down!” and a harsh voice up forrud calling for the Heavy Haul, for the hands to stamp and go!

“Anchor's free, and haul away!” the Bosun cried.

“Make sail, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “Hands aloft to the tops'l yards.”

The stock of the bower anchor was snagged and “fished,” a fluke “catted” and men on the forecastle and weather deck walked away with the “fish,” then the “cat” to ring the anchor up to the out-jutting cat-head beam and swung it up for stowage, even as the ship began to get a slight way on her.

“No bite, sir!” Senior Quartermaster Marlowe reported from the double-wheel helm, turning spokes either way. “Her head's fallin' off to starboard. Sou'east.”

Aloft, tops'ls were being loosed and let fall, clew lines sang in the blocks to draw them down, and brace lines groaned through theirs. The wooden parrel balls squealed as the yards were braced round to cup wind in the sails, impossible to see, and only imagined in the mind by the sounds of sails pivotting on the masts, and the rustling of canvas.