The King's Marauder

The Marine sentry who guarded the cabin doors stamped boots, slammed his musket butt on the deck, and bawled, “Midshipman Harvey, SAH!”

“Enter!” Lewrie called back.

“Ehm, Mister Harcourt’s duty, sir, and I am to say that the strange sail is still bows-on to us, and shows no sign of fleeing us.”

“My compliments to Mister Harcourt, and he is to stand on. Have the hands eat, Mister Harvey?” Lewrie asked the young Mid.

“I believe they have, sir,” Harvey replied.

“The last look I had of our odd stranger, she’d didn’t appear t’be much of a threat, but I’d admire did Mister Harcourt lead and prepare the six-pounders on forecastle and quarterdeck, and have the Marines turned out under arms.”

“Very good, sir!”

“Bless me, Mister Harvey,” Lewrie brightened, peering closely at the Midshipman’s face, “but do I note that you are in need of a shave?”

“Ehm, yes, sir!” Harvey proudly admitted, stroking his upper lip with a finger.

“A trim of your locks might not go amiss, either, Harvey,” Lewrie said. “Carry on.”

“Aye, sir!”

“Ye wouldn’t have one o’ Chalky’s wee sausages t’spare, do ye, Yeovill?” Lewrie asked, enviously eying the cat at the foot of the table with his head deep in his food bowl.

“Always, sir,” Yeovill said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Happily chewing away, Lewrie returned to the quarterdeck with his telescope to look outboard at their strange, fearless oddity which was now only about two miles off, and still coming on as bold as a dog in a doublet.

“Damn my eyes, but I could swear she looks familiar,” the First Officer, Lt. Westcott, who had come up from the wardroom, vowed. “Now where…?” he wondered.

“She appears just another of the typical coasters hereabouts, Mister Westcott,” Lt. Harcourt said with a shrug, “though her wish to be captured is odd.”

But, by the time that both ships had closed to within one mile of each other, Lewrie had a sneaking feeling that they had seen her once before, too.

“What’s that?” Harcourt barked, lifting his glass to give her another close look. “God’s Teeth, there’s someone waving a British Jack over yonder!”

In Lewrie’s ocular, there was a Red Ensign being wig-wagged at them by someone amidships of her starboard rails, and other people on her decks were waving hats, coats, and shirts at them as if very glad to see them! A moment later, and the strange vessel handed her foresail and began to round up into the wind, hauling her mainsail taut and setting her jib cross-sheeted to fetch-to.

“Damned if we haven’t seen her before,” Lewrie exclaimed. “We took her a month ago. It’s that same filthy old grain barge! Close her near as you may, Mister Harcourt, and prepare to fetch-to.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Harcourt replied, sounding even more perplexed.

*   *   *

Within a quarter of an hour, both ships were cocked up into the wind, and a rowboat ma

“Side-party to render honours, sir?” Lt. Harcourt enquired.

“They don’t exactly look Navy t’me, sir,” Lewrie said, looking the newcomers over. “Let’s wait ’til we know who they are.”

The rowboat hooked onto the mainmast cha

“Hola, señores!” the first aboard gaily called out, sweeping off a shapeless felt hat to make an exaggerated low bow. He wore a cracked pair of buckled shoes with no stockings, grease-stained and tar-stained slop-trousers, an equally-dirty shirt and a waist-coat made of tan leather. “Hola, amigos! I, Vicente Rodriguez … better known as John Cummings … greet you. I am master of the Gallegos, the splendid ship you seized for me!” He did so in a Spanish accent, then in an accent that put Lewrie in mind of Kent. “And you there on the quarterdeck, I assume would be the gallant Captain Lewrie? Greetings from Mister Thomas Mountjoy, who also expresses his thanks for his fine new vessel!”

“Has the circus come to town?” Lt. Westcott grumbled under his breath.

“I’d wait for the jugglers, first,” Lewrie muttered back, then stepped forward to greet Rodriguez/Cummings. “Welcome aboard, sir. However you name yourself,” he said, offering a hand.

“Allow me to name to you my compatriot, sir,” Rodriguez/Cummings a

“Honoured t’make your acquaintance, sir,” Mr. Marsh said in a clench-jawed Etonian accent, the sort that usually got right up Lewrie’s nose. Marsh offered his hand, then quickly switched to a Bow Bell’s Cockney, “an’ ’aven’t I ’eard o’ you, your ’onour, sir, hah hah!”

“Mister Mountjoy sent for assistance to expand the reach of his posting, sir,” Cummings elaborated. “We arrived at Gibraltar only one day after you left port.”

Lewrie only half-heard that; he was still goggling at Marsh, who had just as quickly turned Spanish and was singing some song with a daft grin on his face, lisping away like the haughtiest Castilian.

Bloody lunaticks, the both of ’em! Lewrie thought.

“Ehm … shouldn’t we be discussing such in private, Mister Cummings?” Lewrie asked. “‘Under the rose’, all that?”

“Well, we shouldn’t stay too long in company with your ship, lest watchers ashore associate Gallegos with the Royal Navy,” Cummings said, “but, perhaps a few minutes, over a glass of something?”

“That great American, Benjamin Franklin, once wrote that ‘wine is God’s way of telling us that he loves us, and wishes us to be happy’,” Romney Marsh cited, turning his face angelic. “Yes, make us happy, please do, Sir Alan!”

“This way, then, gentlemen,” Lewrie bade. “Mister Harcourt, we will remain fetched-to a while longer. Alert me does a strange sail turn up.”

“Aye, sir,” Lt. Harcourt replied, trying not to laugh at the continuing antics of the mysterious Mr. Marsh, who was practising some dance steps, and humming to himself.

*   *   *

“Wine, Pettus,” Lewrie requested once they were all seated in the starboard-side settee area. “Tea for me.”

“Oh, but the sun is below the yardarm, Sir Alan,” Marsh said, “since it has just arisen. Ah, you have a cat! Hallo, puss. Venir, el gato bonito!” he crooned with his head over to one side.

Chalky would have none of it; he crouched down with his tail tucked round his front paws near the wine-cabinet.

Someone in here’s got some sense, Lewrie amusedly thought.

“You’re re-enforcing Mountjoy, you said, Mister Cummings? He said he had a man coming to command his boat, should I be able to get him one,” Lewrie asked, by way of begi

“And, you did a splendid job of it, sir,” Cummings replied as Pettus fetched a bottle and two glasses of a smuggled Spanish white. “Yes, I’m to play-act a local trader, bearing goods smuggled out of Gibraltar, which as you know, thrives despite the regulations against it. I’ve always played around boats, I’ve always had a good ear for languages, and especially for Spanish and Portuguese, and the regional dialects. Nowhere near Marsh’s talents at it, but I cope. We’re to enter Spanish ports all along the Andalusian, Murcian, and Catalan coasts, ostensibly to trade, but also to pick up reports from agents in place, along with tavern talk. Carry instructions from Mountjoy, that sort of thing, find answers to questions, and fill in the gaps in what we know, and don’t know.”